by Dave Keane
Chapter Sixteen
Running on Empty
Our next three stops are my best chance to find a diamond in the rough. But each stop will gobble up precious time—and time is something I just don’t have time to waste.
I notice immediately that Walt’s Old-time Barber Shop has a very hairy floor. Three old men with extremely short hair just stare at my head with dreamy, milky eyes. The one who I assume is Walt lets me quickly sweep the floor, which I think might uncover something. It doesn’t. I leave before the trio of barber zombies can attack my hair with their gleaming snippers.
After Walt’s Old-time Barber Shop, we hit the Sock Barn. Unfortunately, today is their Annual Barn-burner Sock Blowout. The crowd is enormous, and I am just glad to get out of there alive. While I’m talking to the manager, Earl manages to buy a six-pack of dress socks for the price of a slice of cheese pizza. As you can imagine, I have trouble getting as giddy as Earl seems to be about his big sock score.
Helga’s Palm Reading Shop is next. This place makes me so uneasy that I start murmuring like a crazy violin teacher. Helga’s eyes widen when she sees me. I must look like the ultimate client. Let’s face it, with my preshrunk suit covered with gray hair, a lumpy forehead, no tie, a moist shirt, and a cornered-hamster look in my eyes, Helga’s just licking her chops to see what bad things await in my future. I feel my internal creepometer blow a gasket. After a speedy look around, I burst out the door, despite Helga’s offer of a “freebie” look into my future.
“Just one more stop,” Earl says as we pull away from Helga’s.
Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that a groom on his wedding day could be so busy. As I slump all alone in the limo’s elegant rear cabin, I stare at my now detailed time line and can’t help but feel my confidence drain away.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this business. Maybe my teacher, Miss Piffle, is right; she says I should just give up on all this detective nonsense.
This case feels like a treasure hunt without the big red X at the end. It’s like playing hide-and-seek when you don’t realize that your friends have already gone home for dinner. It’s like spending all day trying to find your favorite T-shirt, not knowing your dad used it to put out a kitchen grease fire.
I stare out the window and watch the homes and shops of Baskerville zip by. I must have missed something.
I flip the page in my notebook and write a list of all the places I’ve been. I review it carefully and wait for something to jump out at me. Nothing does. I make a list of all the people who have seen the ring today. There’s not a likely thief among them.
I’m haunted by the fact that the ring was right under my nose at some point during this crazy chase, and I missed it. I have a nagging suspicion that the ring is not lost or stolen, just misplaced—and that’s a significant difference. Still, a nagging suspicion isn’t enough to solve a case.
I rest my lopsided forehead on the cool window and run the whole day through my head again and again. It’s a lot like watching someone fall down a flight of stairs over and over.
“Last stop, Mr. Sherlock,” Earl says, leaning through the door and tapping me on the shoulder. I’m so wrapped up watching my confidence plunge into a death spiral, I haven’t even noticed that we’ve stopped.
I can tell some of the spring has gone out of Earl’s step. His suit seems a little less starched. Even the mirrors of his sunglasses seem to have dimmed. “This is the end of the rainbow, I’m afraid,” he says with a crooked smile.
Well, there’s either a pot of gold waiting for me, or a pot of beef stew with lima beans and broccoli.
Chapter Seventeen
Last Chance for Gas
“You’re on your own,” Earl tells me, looking around at the quiet neighborhood we find ourselves standing in.
“I understand,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for the ride.”
“I’ve only got seven minutes to pick up the bride and the bridesmaids and rush them to the Castros’ house. But after that I can swing by here and pick you up, if you’d like. Here’s my cell number. It’s not a problem.” Earl hands me his business card with his cell-phone number written in pen on the back.
When I look up from his card, Earl is gone. The limo suddenly rockets away from the curb and roars down the street.
I’m standing in front of Herbert Junior’s tiny, empty home. It’s on Doyle Street. It’s only about half a mile from my house. I know this because there’s a girl in my class named Sharon Sheldon who lives a few doors down from this house. But that’s a whole other ball of earwax.
After we left Helga’s Palm Reading Shop, I’d asked Earl to slow down to the legal speed limit for a few minutes so I could look around the back of the limo in case the ring was somehow stuck in the seat or under the carpet. Nothing.
While I searched, Earl told me that Mr. Castro and his son spent about twenty minutes at this house. Earl explained that the two men went into the kitchen for only a few moments. Then they briefly played catch on the front lawn to work off some anxiety.
Now Earl is gone, and I’m alone.
I spend a few moments crawling around on the grass like a guy who lost a contact lens—while praying that Sharon Sheldon doesn’t happen to come wandering by.
I also search every inch around the small front porch, since Earl said the two men draped their coats on the porch’s railing while they tossed the ball around. I even examine the two baseball gloves still resting on the porch. Nothing. Zippo. Nada.
I can’t see into the front windows because of the closed curtains, so I decide to jump the fence and get a look into the kitchen through the side window.
Little do I know that my fence-hopping stunt will almost turn me into a missing-person case.
Chapter Eighteen
Squeeze Play
I’m too short to see through the kitchen window—just one of the many drawbacks of being a kid detective.
In the tall weeds I find a rusted-out bucket, which I drag over to the kitchen window. Stepping up on the bucket, I peer inside. The house is completely empty and scrubbed clean. The only things I can see are two half-empty bottles of soda sitting near the kitchen sink. As I pull on the window’s screen to see if it will come loose, I hear a noise behind me that turns my brain to jelly.
GRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
Without turning to look, I know the growl I hear belongs to Mr. Castro’s monstrous, man-eating dog, Ranger.
He said Ranger was at a relative’s house! And sure, his son is a sort of relative, but there is nothing more dangerous to a detective than fuzzy information. I close my eyes and realize this must be Mr. Castro’s final curveball.
For as long as I can remember, I have feared Ranger like a tree fears a wood chipper. This dog would like nothing more than to eat my legs and save my arms for dessert.
Before my jellied brain can even consider my options, my legs take charge. They jump off the bucket and race through the dry weeds so fast, I think the sparks flying out of my heels might light them on fire.
I nearly clear the top of the fence before Ranger’s teeth snap onto the sleeve of my coat like a bear trap. The fence wobbles as the weight of Ranger’s immense body catches up with his teeth.
And for the first time today, luck is on my side.
The mother of all burfs explodes into the back of my throat. It’s a biggie. A whopper. The rotten gas rushes almost directly from my mouth into the beast’s snarling snout. Jinxed by his highly tuned sense of smell, Ranger lets me go with a yowl, and I drop safely onto the other side of the fence.
He’s taken half the right sleeve of my suit. As I listen to him tear the fabric to bits on the other side of the fence, my eyes fall onto the front porch—where Mr. Castro and his son hung their jackets while they tossed the ball around and worked off a little nervous energy.
Then, as if by some unseen magical fairy dust, I unexpectedly have a good idea where the ring is. It’s only a hunch. An inkling. A deep pass into the back of the end zone with n
o time left on the clock. But it’s all I’ve got.
Perhaps the fall from the fence has jarred the idea loose in my head. Maybe it was coming just inches away from becoming a pile of dog bones. I don’t know. All I know is, I’m about to break the world record in the half-mile sprint.
Chapter Nineteen
The Flying Detective
As I turn onto Baker Street, there’s no doubt in my mind that my mini-man pants are cramping my style. Or maybe it’s the added wind resistance of my lumpy forehead. Heck, it could be that my near-death experience at the jaws of Ranger has drained some of the jet fuel from my legs. Whatever the reason, I’m setting no world records today. But I am still making pretty good time.
My legs are flying on autopilot. I let them do what they do best and focus my mind on what I’ll have to do upon reaching the Castros’ home.
I blaze past my house and see my parents and sisters waiting for me in our driveway. My mom is holding my violin case. My dad is on his cell phone, probably calling the Castros’ house to find out what happened to me. “There he goes!” I hear Hailey exclaim as I sprint past them. “He looks crackers!” she shrieks.
As I approach the Castros’ house, I see Earl leaning on the trunk of the limo. He pops up when he sees me, but I am past him before he can think of anything to say.
I take the stairs of the Castros’ front porch in a single bound and come through the open door at full speed.
In an instant, I take in the scene.
I hear elegant string music. I smell roast beef. Through the open back door, I see the glum-looking groom and his groomsmen in the backyard, waiting for the bride in front of a large crowd. Irene Adler is walking down the center aisle flinging flower petals all over the place like a nutcase.
Without slowing down, I aim toward Mr. Castro, who is on the other side of the room. He has pulled a woman in a puffy white dress to the side. The bride! Her bridesmaids nervously huddle just a few feet away. “I have some bad news to tell you about the ring,” Mr. Castro says to the bride just before I crash every ounce of myself into his shoulder.
The weight of my body is only a tiny fraction of Mr. Castro’s massive frame, but I have the element of surprise going for me. Not only that, I am easily moving faster than a speeding bullet. Plus, I give my launch a little extra oomph because I know that if the bride hears about the missing ring, she’ll start to blubber all over the place. I don’t want to be responsible for that.
Mr. Castro and I go down in a heap of legs and arms. The bride yelps. A few of the bridesmaids gasp. Mr. Castro makes a noise that sounds like somebody just got kicked in the bagpipes.
Before he can sit up, I stuff my hand deep into the giant breast pocket of Mr. Castro’s tuxedo jacket. When I pull my hand out, the diamond ring gleams at the end of my trembling fingers. The diamond is as big as a monkey’s eye!
Mr. Castro is so shocked by the ring’s sudden appearance that he can’t speak. He looks like he’s just been hit in the head by a flying detective.
“After you and your son played catch earlier, you must have taken his jacket by accident,” I wheeze, trying to catch my breath. He doesn’t react to the news. “You and your son simply switched jackets without knowing it. It’s so simple, it’s complicated.”
“I had the ring?” Mr. Castro whispers, gazing bug-eyed at the sparkling ring.
“It was an honest mistake, Mr. Castro,” I say. “Now snap out of it! There isn’t a moment to lose.”
I snatch a pillow off the couch, place the massive ring on it, and hobble out the back door. For pete’s sake, I’m the ring bearer after all!
As I teeter down the center aisle, it’s clear from all the “ooohs” and “aaahs” that Mr. Castro’s guests have never seen anything like me at a wedding before. I hear Irene Adler burst into laughter somewhere.
Before I know it, the openmouthed groom is taking the ring slowly off the pillow like he can’t believe his eyes—or his luck.
I think he’s too stunned and relieved to say anything. And honestly, I’m just glad to save this case at the buzzer.
As I make my way back toward the house, I pass the bridesmaids, who have started filing down the aisle. I slip past Mr. Castro, who just stares at me. He looks like he’s starting to cry—I’ve heard weddings do that to people.
I’d love to stick around and get lots of handshakes, pats on the back, and carrot cake, but I have a violin recital to go to.
Chapter Twenty
Rolling to the Rescue
Earl insists on driving my family to my recital in style.
I agree, on the condition that he lock the ice bucket in the trunk.
My family asks me lots of questions about what happened. But I’m too tired to give the details of how I located the missing monkey-eye diamond. Besides, I’m not sure if they’d even believe me.
My dad slips off his tie and ties it around my neck in something he calls a double Windsor knot. I like the name because it sounds like the kind of knot Sherlock Holmes would use.
My mom insists that I not wear my too-tight coat. She takes it from me and examines the ripped end of the sleeve with a puzzled look on her face. But thankfully, she doesn’t ask me about it.
I’m no longer worried about my upcoming performance. I’ll just do what I can do. Besides, I’m more certain than ever that I wasn’t born to be a violinist; I was born to be a detective.
About the Author
DAVE KEANE has been an avid Sherlock Holmes fan since he was a kid. He even insisted on going to the Sherlock Holmes Museum while on his honeymoon in London, England. Today he lives in Northern California with his wife, Christine, and their three junior detectives. He now solves everyday mysteries like “Where are my car keys?” and “Who left the garage door open?” The Joe Sherlock series is his debut in children’s books.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
JOE SHERLOCK, KID DETECTIVE MYSTERIES
Case #000001: The Haunted Toolshed
Case #000002: The Neighborhood Stink
Credits
Cover art © 2006 by David J. Keane
Cover design by Christopher Stengel
Copyright
JOE SHERLOCK, KID DETECTIVE, CASE #000003: THE MISSING MONKEY-EYE DIAMOND. Copyright © 2006 by David J. Keane. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Dave Keane, The Missing Monkey-Eye Diamond
