My kitten isn’t used to dogs yet, and hisses. But the dogs are too busy tail-wagging to notice. She’ll have to get used to dogs, because my family has a fabulous golden-whip (golden retriever plus whippet) named Handsome. Unfortunately, due to the no-pets rule in our apartment, Handsome is living with my grandmother for now. But I hope we’ll all be living together again eventually.
Becca flops on her bed, patting the larger dog with one hand and plopping the smaller dog on her lap. She turns to me. “So what were you saying? You found out something?”
“Did I ever! I’m still in shock.” I pull up a chair and sink onto the hard seat. “It doesn’t really matter … It’s just hard to believe that he isn’t …” I shake my head.
“Go on,” Becca urges with a flick of her hand. “Who did what?”
The words are like grenades ready to explode if I don’t say them. But my mouth dries up. Leo’s secret isn’t mine to share. As much as I want to tell Becca, it feels wrong. She’s staring at me, leaning forward like she’s poised to catch whatever I toss at her. I have to tell her something.
“It’s about … about my brother.” I shift my thoughts in a new direction. “He was acting suspicious at breakfast and carrying a mysterious box, so I followed him.”
Becca strokes the little dog in her lap as I talk, never taking her gaze off me. When I get to the part where Kyle bikes down the shadowed alley and vanishes, her eyes spark with curiosity.
“Any idea where he went?” she asks.
“Nope,” I answer. “But I think he was delivering something in the box.”
“I know! He went to the sheriff’s office to report a crime.” Becca taps her purple-tipped fingernail on her chin. “And the box contained evidence.”
I consider this, then shake my head. “I doubt it. Kyle only leaves the house for school or the library.”
“But you don’t know that for sure. Did you check inside the sheriff’s office?”
“No.”
“Well, you should have.”
Becca’s right. I assumed my brother went somewhere else, so I didn’t investigate. What kind of spy gives up so easily? Like the book Spy Now, Die Later says, “Assumptions are roadblocks to discoveries.” I have to stop making assumptions or I’ll never discover anything.
“I bet something supersecret was in the box.” Becca twirls the end of her long ponytail. “Maybe your brother is a courier for the CIA.”
I laugh. “Kyle’s not that interesting.”
“But he’s up to something sneaky.” Becca shifts so she’s sitting cross-legged.
“I’m sure of it,” I agree. “I’ll keep a close eye on him and try to search his room. If he still has the box, I’ll find out what’s inside.”
We try to guess what could be in the box (jewels? money? love letters?), and then we discuss ideas for the Sparkler booth. The Humane Society fund-raiser is just a week away, so we have to work fast. “We have plenty of ideas,” I say. “The problem is getting five girls to agree on one—”
“Especially when one of the girls is Tyla.” Becca slumps against a pillow. “Tyla’s so sure her ideas are the best—even when they aren’t—that it’s hard to tell her no. And usually I get stuck with the work because the others are too busy. That’s why I wanted you in our group, even if it’s only for a week.”
“I’m not into sparkly stuff, but I’m all for helping the Humane Society.”
“I hope we can come up with a fabulous idea. If not, Tyla will get her way and we’ll have a face painting booth.” Becca groans. “Again.”
We brainstorm great and terrible ideas—popping balloons, fishing for prizes, karaoke, beanbag toss, fortune-telling—until Becca remembers she has to go check on a bear cub named Fuzzy Wuzzy. The poor orphaned cub was found wandering alone with burn scars after a forest fire.
I love walking with Becca through the sanctuary, surrounded by so many amazing animals. After I help her feed the bear cub, I pet a fawn and cuddle long-haired bunnies. The only creature I avoid is the alligator that snaps loudly when we walk by his enclosure.
At almost noon, we climb the path to meet Leo.
The Skunk Shack, our CCSC clubhouse, is hidden by overgrown bushes and towering trees on Becca’s hilly property. We cared for the kittens here until Leo took his kitten home and Becca moved our two into her house. More than anything, I wish I could take Honey home, but I can’t while we’re living in an apartment that doesn’t allow pets.
Leo is already inside the Skunk Shack, reaching high to polish the glassy face of a grandfather clock. When we fixed up this shack, we were surprised to find the broken clock in jumbled pieces. Leo was determined to repair it, and he’s done an amazing job. A brass pendulum swings behind a glass box, and the clock chimes on the hour. It’s still a mystery though—why a grandfather clock was left in a shack once used for stinky animals. The only clue we have is an old black-and-white photograph of a little boy riding a tortoise.
“Nine, eight, seven, six …” Leo counts down. “Listen for it!”
The grandfather clock starts to chime, a sweet sound that echoes in our clubhouse. I’m not watching the clock though; I’m studying Leo. When we first met, I thought he was arrogant, stubborn, and annoying. He is—but I quickly learned he’s also clever, kind, and loyal. Now we’re good friends.
How can he be only eleven? He talks like a dictionary and wears formal slacks with a button-down shirt under a vest like a teacher. But when the clock chimes for the twelfth time, he breaks into a boyish grin that shows his true age.
His secret, I remind myself, and shove it to the back of my mind.
“Leo, I stopped by your house a few hours ago, but no one answered the door.” I pull out my chair from our table and sit so I’m facing Leo. “Where were you?”
“I was with Frankie.” Leo sits down too, sitting straight with his head held high. “We were calculating variances of movement and adjusting gears on a warthog.”
Becca looks up from where she’s sorting through our snack box, her black brows arched. “A warthog?”
“A mechanical version of the fictional character from the Lion King.”
“Oh, for the drama club,” Becca says.
I nod, understanding. Frankie is Leo’s new friend. Leo met Frankie, the set designer for the school drama club, when we were searching for a zorse’s mask. Since then Leo has been skipping club meetings to help Frankie.
“It’s abnormal for Mom not to answer the door.” Leo taps his finger to his chin thoughtfully. “She and Aunt Joanne may have gone shopping.”
Or into the backyard to share tea and secrets, I think.
Leo tilts his head at me. “Why did you come over?”
“I was following a suspect.” I smile mysteriously. “But I lost him near your house so I stopped by to see you.”
His blond brows rise. “What suspect?”
“First tell us why you called this meeting,” I counter. “Your email was very cryptic.”
“What mystery did you solve, Leo?” Becca asks as she rips into a bag of apple chips.
“All will be revealed in the due course of our meeting.” Leo folds the dust rag and puts it away on a shelf, then sits at the table.
“Tell us now,” I demand, leaning forward in my chair, which causes it to wobble so I sit on the edge to even it out.
Leo ignores me. He thuds his fist on the table. “I hereby call our CCSC meeting to order.”
“I second that,” Becca and I say at the same time to hurry him up.
Leo gives his detailed (boring) treasurer’s report. We’ve received reward money for returning lost pets, which pays for our kitten supplies like food and litter. We haven’t spent much lately so our treasury is looking good.
Next is old business, and Leo gets an excited gleam in his blue eyes. “I solved a cryptic clue.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the old photo he found in the grandfather clock.
I’ve seen the photo before, but it’s
really cool so I look again. The boy is about three years old with either black or brown hair; color is impossible to tell in a black-and-white photo. He wears old-fashioned suspenders, dark shoes, and pleated slacks. And he’s riding a giant tortoise.
“According to my research, this tortoise is an Aldabra, the world’s second-largest tortoise species,” Leo says in his usual know-it-all way. “Aldabra tortoises can live over two hundred years. At first I thought this photo was from the 1800s because 1897 was scribbled on the back. But I was wrong.”
“You? Wrong?” I can’t resist teasing.
“It’s a rare occurrence,” he admits in total seriousness. “But 1897 isn’t a date. The clothing and photo paper prove the picture was taken in the 1950s.”
Becca plops an apple chip in her mouth. “So what do the numbers mean?”
“I considered a phone number, because back then some phone numbers only had four digits with a location like Lincoln-5641,” Leo says as he crosses the room to get a magnifying glass from his toolbox. He holds the glass over the photo so Becca and I can get a closer look. “Only the numeral sequence didn’t correlate.” He points to the back of the phone. “Notice the space before the seven and the smudge afterward like faded writing? Under microscope examination, that smudge turned out to be letters s and t.”
“The abbreviation for street,” Becca guesses.
“Affirmative.” Leo nods. “I checked a map, and 189 Seventh Street is a real address. It’s 1.3 miles from our current location.”
“That’s great!” I jump off my chair. “Someone there might know about the grandfather clock.”
“And the tortoise,” Becca adds.
“What are we waiting for?” Leo is already across the room and opening the door. “Let’s go sleuthing.”
- Chapter 3 -
The Long Secret
Leo hops on his robotic gyro-board, clicks the remote control, and zooms off. Becca and I have to pedal our bikes fast to keep up.
As I bump down the dirt trail, I inhale crisp piney air, feeling excited and lucky to be in the CCSC. Becca, Leo, and I never would have become friends if we hadn’t rescued the kittens from a dumpster. Since then we’ve solved two mysteries, and if we find out who left the grandfather clock in our shack, that will make three.
We leave the rustic woods for a paved road, then coast downhill into downtown Sun Flower. There are only three streets of businesses surrounded by older neighborhoods. After a few turns, we’re on Seventh Street where single-storied houses all have the same L-shaped design—except for the towering home at 189 Seventh Street. It looks like a mini-castle with stone walls, turrets, green hedges, and cobbled paths circling a pond with a stone frog fountain.
“I always wondered about this house.” Becca stares up in awe. “Whenever I ride by, I imagine there’s a princess trapped inside the turret.”
“Kidnapped by a fire-breathing dragon who is really an enchanted prince,” I say, playing along.
“The princess’s kiss will turn him into a prince,” Becca adds, “but his fire breath could kill her, and he loves her too much to risk her life.”
I sigh. “Poor dragon.”
Leo looks at us like we’re crazy. “It’s physically impossible for a reptile to breathe fire,” he says. “And a dragon is a mythological creature.”
“But dragons are cool,” I say, winking at Becca. I spin my bike around and point down the block to a street corner with a bench. “Let’s get to spying. That bus stop will make a good stakeout location.”
“I didn’t bring my surveillance drones,” Leo says. “But my phone has a spy app with flashlight, sonic alert, voice disguise, zoom cam, and voice recorder.”
“I have my spy pack.” I reach up to pat my backpack. “I’ve added disguises—a wig, a hat, dark glasses, and a fake mustache.”
“A mustache would look a little silly on me.” Becca giggles as she puts her finger under her nose to demonstrate. “And Leo is too young for facial hair.”
Younger than you know, I think.
“Disguises are useful surveillance tools.” Leo nods at me approvingly. “We may have to wait all day for someone to enter or exit the house.”
“Or we could knock on the door and ask about the photo,” Becca suggests.
I grin. “That could work too.”
We park our bikes in the driveway, then follow the cobbled path around the frog fountain and up the steep front steps. Instead of a doorbell, there’s a dragon-head door knocker.
“A dragon guards the door,” Becca teases, then thuds the door knocker.
I draw back, almost expecting a fiery roar, but nothing happens … until the door opens.
Standing in front of us is a movie-star gorgeous guy. He’s college-aged and looks familiar. When he smiles, his teeth are white enough to sell toothpaste.
“May I help you?” he asks in a British accent.
I glance over at Becca, expecting her to do the talking since she’s our club’s social operative. But she’s staring like she’s been hypnotized.
I must be staring too, because it’s Leo who speaks up.
“Good afternoon,” he says with a formal nod. “I’m Leopold, and these are my friends Kelsey and Becca.”
“My mates call me Reggie. I do hope you’re selling something edible. My cupboards are quite bare.” He looks at my backpack hopefully. “Do you have biscuits, I mean, cookies?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “We’re not selling anything.”
“My bad luck,” Reggie says lightly. “So what can I do for you?”
Becca snaps out of her trance and flashes a sweet smile. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions. We’re doing a school project on—”
“Unique architecture,” Leo says.
“And we’re interested in your house,” I finish.
“Happy to oblige,” Reggie says cheerfully. “Go on.”
I zip open my spy pack and take out a notebook, a pen, and a granola bar. “Here, this should help your hunger.” I offer him the granola bar. “I hope you like peanut-butter caramel.”
“My new favorite food,” he says, ripping off the wrapping.
“Your house is amazing—like a suburban castle.” I flip open the notebook official-like. “When was it built?”
“Let me think …” He gulps down half of the granola bar in one bite. “1957.”
I jot this down in my notebook. “How long have you lived here?”
“Ten years,” Reggie says.
Drats. That’s not long enough to know about our photo. I’m ready to give up, but Becca steps forward.
“Do you know who lived here before you?” she asks.
“I certainly do.” Reggie nods. “My granddad built this house. He’s gone now, and Grandmum lives in Arizona. You’d do better to interview her. I don’t know much about architecture.”
“Do you know about this?” Leo reaches into his pocket and pulls out the boy-with-tortoise photograph.
“Blimey, it’s Granddad. My sister’s youngest boy is the spitting image of him.” Reggie pushes back his hair as he leans in for a closer look. “Where in the world did you get this?”
“Inside a clock,” Leo says. “It slipped out when the clock chimed.”
Reggie gasps. “Not a grandfather clock?”
“How did you know?” Leo’s blond brows arch like question marks.
“I haven’t seen the clock since I was a child, but I’ve always wondered what happened to it. I don’t know if I’m more astonished that you found this photo or that you got Grandfather’s blasted clock to work properly.”
“It was a challenge,” Leo admits. “The clock was dismantled and had more broken parts than working ones.”
“But Leo put it back together.” Becca gestures proudly at Leo and he blushes. “We found it in an old shack on my property. Any idea how it got there?”
“I do indeed,” Reggie surprises me by saying. “Regretfully, I can’t tell you because it’s a dusty skeleto
n in my family closet, and the truth would hurt people I love.”
“Keeping secrets isn’t easy,” I say, my spy pack heavy on my shoulders.
“But won’t you tell us, please?” Becca asks in a cajoling voice. “Leo worked so hard to fix the clock, and we’re dying of curiosity. We won’t tell anyone.”
“The margin of risk is slim since we don’t know your family,” Leo adds.
“We’ll cross our hearts and promise to keep your secret.” I make a solemn cross gesture over my heart. “We just want to know how the grandfather clock ended up in an old shack.”
“And why the boy—your grandfather—was riding a turtle,” Becca says.
“Not a turtle,” Mr. Know-It-All Leo corrects. “An Aldabra tortoise.”
“A tortoise is still a turtle,” Becca argues.
“You’re both right.” Reggie nods approvingly. “Contrary to popular belief, tortoises are turtles rather than a separate group. The tortoise in this photo is an Aldabrachelys gigantea—commonly known as an Aldabra.”
“I’ve only seen them in zoos.” Becca’s voice rises with her passion for animals. “My mom runs Wild Oaks Sanctuary, and we’ve had box turtles but never a giant tortoise.”
“Renee Morales is your mother?” Reggie asks, surprised.
“You know Mom?” Becca’s ponytail dangles over her shoulder as she leans forward.
“I saw her in a TV interview about Wild Oaks Sanctuary and called for information on becoming a volunteer. She set up an appointment for me, but I got a call back for a commercial and had to cancel. I have mad respect for the work your mother does at Wild Oaks. I’m all for helping animals.”
“We are too,” I say with a fond look at my club mates.
“I’m amazed that you tracked me down from just an old photo.” He rubs his stubbly chin thoughtfully as he stares at us. “You kids worked so hard that you deserve to know the whole story. I’m a good judge of character and feel I can trust you with a secret I’ve kept for a long time. Here’s what really happened to my grandfather’s grandfather clock …”
Kelsey the Spy Page 2
