by Dan Poblocki
The group all glanced at one another. That was a strange thing for the man to say. Curious, Viola spoke up. “We haven’t learned anything else about the Timekeepers. Why do you ask? Do you know anything else about them?”
Phineas’s smile flickered for a moment. But just for a moment. He considered Viola’s question, and just as he looked like he’d decided to shake his head, he nodded instead. “Some people believe that there’s more to the Timekeepers than what was mentioned in your little article,” he said.
Woodrow’s mouth went dry. He sipped his water, then asked, “Like what?”
Before he had a chance to answer, Phineas spun around, revealing Mr. Cho. Sylvester’s father had tapped the man’s large shoulder.
“I hope my son and his friends weren’t bothering you,” said Mr. Cho, with an edge of suspicion in his voice.
“Your son?” said Phineas, peering back at the group. The smile had disappeared from his face. “Oh. No. No bother at all. I, uh, should be heading out.” He pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his coat and tossed a few crumpled bills onto the table where he’d been sitting. Before anyone could say another word, the man pushed past Mr. Cho and out the door into the night.
The memory of the man from the diner followed the Question Marks for the next few days, like a shadow trailing them from class to class, from school to home and back again. None of them could stop thinking about what he’d said—that there was more to the Timekeepers than they knew. The unfinished conversation had left them curious, determined, and freaked-out all at the same time.
As a result, during free moments that week, Viola scoured the Internet for any more information about the Timekeepers of Moon Hollow. Unfortunately, she found nothing more than she had the first time she’d looked. Rosie was drawn to research too, but instead of going after the supposed secrets of the town’s secret society, she decided to try to find out more about the man they’d met at the diner. Phineas Galby had mentioned he was traveling upstate to visit family, but Rosie found no evidence of any Galbys anywhere in New York. The man had either made up the name, or he had virtually no Internet presence. Staying off-line, Woodrow and Sylvester did field work instead, literally, by going out into their yard, revisiting the spot where someone had dug a hole a couple weeks prior. On hands and knees, they picked through the grass, trying to find a clue they might have originally missed. But other than a weird-looking snail shell, they too turned up nothing.
If Mr. Galby had intended to stir the Question Marks’ curiosity, he’d succeeded entirely. But it was difficult to know exactly what the man had intended, because he’d left no evidence of himself behind. None of them had even seen what kind of car he drove. They figured that he’d parked around the corner from the diner, leaving in the opposite direction of the window in which they’d been sitting.
When the four met later that week to share their lack of findings, they asked one another whether they believed Galby had actually been passing through town as he’d claimed or if maybe he’d sat at that table near them on purpose to listen in for a reason to approach them. Option two was obviously much creepier, but if that was the case, they knew that chances were high they might see him again. What they didn’t know was whether or not that would be a good thing.
They played the Strangers Game using details of the man’s appearance. His clothes had been worn-out and dirty—his fingernails too. Sylvester thought this might indicate that he didn’t have a lot of money, but Viola wasn’t so sure—the clothing itself had looked expensive. He’d even worn a tie. She imagined it was possible that Mr. Galby may simply have been out of his element. Maybe he wore dress clothes all the time, but had been digging around in filthy places and messed up his outfit. If that were the case, Rosie suggested, then he could have been looking for something; and if that were true, Woodrow added, maybe he’d sought them out hoping to learn if the Question Marks had the information he needed to find it.
“I’ll bet anything that Mr. Galby was the one who dug up our backyard,” said Woodrow. “If only we could prove it.”
Viola was relieved on Friday night when her father came home from his office with a very cool mystery to share with her. And the group was excited the next morning, when she invited them all over to help her solve it. A new mystery is always a great distraction—especially from another, more difficult mystery that has you stumped.
18
THE CRIME OF THE FIGURINE THIEF
(A ????? MYSTERY)
“Someone broke into my dad’s office this week,” said Viola. She was perched on her bed. Her friends surrounded her, lounging on the floor.
“Whoa,” said Sylvester. “Is he okay?”
“He wasn’t there at the time, thank goodness. But of course, he was freaked out when he discovered he’d been robbed.”
“Robbed?” Rosie asked. “What kinds of things does your dad have in his office that someone would want to take?”
“Antiques,” said Viola. “I love hanging out in there because there’s always something to look at. His shelves are full of weird old books with gross pictures of medical oddities. There are relics from archaeology digs that he keeps underneath bell jars. He’s also got a whole bunch of plants sitting on the windowsill, where they soak up the sun. But unfortunately the one really valuable item was the object the thief had set his or her sights on.”
“What was it?” Woodrow asked.
“An old stone figurine of a goddess from ancient Mesopotamia.”
“No way!” said Sylvester. “That’s so cool … and terrible that someone stole it.”
“It stands about a foot tall and weighs about twenty-five pounds. My dad kept it on a shelf behind his big oak desk, next to a few other cool artifacts. He figured it was safe there, because of all the security.”
“Like the officers in the gatehouse at the campus’s entrance,” said Sylvester. “The one across the street from the Clintock Clock.”
“Right,” said Viola. “There’s also a guard who sits at a desk just inside the entrance of my dad’s building. There are cameras in all the hallways. And you have to have a key to get into any of the offices, like the one my dad uses.”
“If the security is so high,” Rosie said, “then how did someone manage to break in?”
“That’s the big question,” said Viola. “My dad was astounded when he went to work yesterday morning. He used his key to unlock the door. Inside, he didn’t immediately notice anything wrong. He said he grabbed his watering can from the windowsill because his plants were looking thirsty. He noticed that all their leaves had turned away from the glass. But before he had a chance to fill the can, he realized that the figurine was gone. After a quick search of the room, he realized that someone must have taken it.”
“So, what’d he do?” Sylvester asked.
“His teacher’s assistant, a girl named Mallory, is the one other person who has a key to the office, so the first thing he did was call her to see if she knew anything about it. Mallory was as shocked as my father. She said that she’d finished up her work the night before and had locked the door on her way out. My dad knew that was true because he’d unlocked the door on his way in. Next, my dad went to the college security office and reported the incident. The officer in charge, this guy named Stu, seemed pretty confident that they would be able to catch the thief immediately.”
“Why was Officer Stu so confident?” asked Sylvester.
“Every hallway has a security camera in it,” said Woodrow. “The officer probably thought that if someone had come in after Mallory had left for the night, it would be caught on video.”
“Right,” said Viola. “So the officer pulled the footage from the night before. The video showed Mallory leaving around eight o’clock, just like she’d said. My dad said she was only carrying a few file folders, and he was sure that she wasn’t hiding the figurine under her coat—it was too big. Not that he believed she would have been capable of stealing.”
“I’m guessing
the video didn’t show anyone else coming in or out of your dad’s office,” said Rosie.
Viola shook her head. “Nope. My dad cleans the office himself. Other than Mallory, no one else has access. And that’s the real mystery. How the heck did someone get in and steal the figurine without being caught on tape?”
Sylvester, Rosie, and Woodrow squirmed on Viola’s bedroom floor as they tried to work out an answer. After a few seconds, Woodrow spoke up. “Maybe the thief somehow messed with the camera? Could they have broken into your dad’s office, then found the security footage and somehow destroyed the evidence of the crime?”
“That sounds really complicated,” said Rosie. “I have an idea that seems much more plausible. A way that someone could steal the figurine, but still manage to stay out of view of the hallway camera.”
“Yeah, but how?” asked Sylvester.
“Through the office window,” said Rosie.
“That’s what my dad came up with,” replied Viola. “In fact, after Officer Stu ruled out the door entry, my dad remembered something he’d seen in the room earlier that clued him in that a window had been opened. Can you think of my dad’s clue?”
Rosie nodded. “You mentioned that when your dad came into the room, the leaves on his plants were turned away from the glass. But you also said that the plants usually like to soak up the sunlight. Most plant leaves will turn toward their light source, so if they were facing away from the glass, that would indicate that someone had moved them. The thief needed access to the window, and the plants were in the way.”
“You’re right,” said Viola. “And that was the story my father told me last night when he came home from work. The police are still unsure of who did it.”
“So, your dad asked you to help him figure out who the thief was?” said Sylvester.
Viola smiled and nodded. “He knew we might be able to help him out.”
“Ha!” said Woodrow. “Your dad’s so cool. Did you give him an answer?”
“Not yet. I wanted to get everyone else’s input. So what do you think? Do we have enough information here to figure out how to catch the thief and maybe find my dad’s artifact?”
“I think so,” said Rosie. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I know who the thief is.”
Viola sat up. “Really? Who?”
“Mallory,” said Rosie, keeping her voice low.
“No way,” said Sylvester. “The video showed that she was innocent.”
“The video showed that Mallory didn’t leave the office with the figurine,” said Rosie. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t take it.”
“If I tell my dad that Mallory is the main suspect, he’s going to want proof.” Viola frowned. “So, what’s the proof that Mallory is our villain?”
“Can I give it a try?” said Woodrow. Rosie waved at him to continue. “Mallory was the only other person with a key to your dad’s office. She was the last one to leave the office last night. The video proves that. We also know that she didn’t leave with the figurine — the figurine had to have left via the window. But I don’t think our thief actually came in through the window.”
“What?” asked Sylvester. “How do you figure that?”
“Viola’s dad or the police would have noticed if the window had been broken … or if it had been unlocked,” Woodrow continued. “And although the plants had been moved, they were still on the windowsill when Mr. Hart arrived in the morning. So, they’d been moved—but they’d also been moved back. And the window had been unlocked—and then locked again.”
“Which could only have been done from the inside,” Rosie added.
“Right,” said Woodrow. “Mallory must have unlocked the window, moved the plants out of the way, and then dropped the figurine out onto the lawn. Then before leaving, she replaced the plants on the windowsill, locked both the window and the door, and strolled out of the building … and around the corner, to where her prize was waiting.”
“Wow,” said Viola. “I wonder why she did it. Money? I bet if we tell our theory to my father, he’d confront her. Maybe he can even get the figurine back!”
“Either that,” said Sylvester, “or he could just tell the police.”
“I guess so,” answered Viola. “But knowing my dad, he’ll probably want to take care of the situation himself. Threat of a ruined reputation may inspire Mallory to do what’s right. Right?”
19
THE SORROW OF HAL-MUH-NI
(A ??? MYSTERY)
By mid-December, the Timekeepers hullabaloo had nearly died out, and the Question Marks finally felt like their lives had gotten back to normal—as normal as their lives could be. The mystery of Phineas Galby still hung above them like an icicle waiting to fall, but they’d heard nothing more from him since the night at the diner.
Little things came up—like locating a classmate’s missing pencil and guessing who passed gas during math class—but the group agreed that instances like these weren’t worth a serious club meeting.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, Sylvester’s grandmother took a bus trip across the state to visit her sister in Buffalo. After a couple days, Sylvester realized that he missed having her around. And missing her had nothing to do with the money she kept slipping him. Sylvester put it all in his sock drawer, but he couldn’t bring himself to spend it. It didn’t really feel like his money at all.
Several days after she’d left on her trip, Sylvester woke in his basement bedroom while it was still dark out. He felt especially itchy. After turning on the lamp next to his bed, he flipped the covers away to see strange bumps all over his stomach. They looked like bites, similar to the ones that he’d discovered on his ankles a few weeks earlier. Little red dots were lined up in rows, as if some insect had made its way along his skin, chomping every few steps. The sight disturbed him so much that he ran upstairs and woke his parents.
When his mother saw the marks, her eyes widened. They all paraded back downstairs. His parents pulled the bottom sheet from the mattress. Looking closely at the stitching along the edges, they recoiled, gasping and stepping quickly away from the bed. “Oh my gosh,” said his mom.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sylvester.
“Oh, honey,” she answered, “you can’t stay down here.”
Sylvester knew it had something to do with what they’d found on his mattress, or in his mattress. His stomach went sour. Still, he managed to ask, “Why not?”
“Bedbugs!” Woodrow cried, immediately scooting away from Sylvester at the lunch table. It was the same reaction Sylvester had had the night before, when his parents finally told him what had invaded his bedroom. “That’s so creepy!”
“Yeah,” said Sylvester, red-faced. “I know that.”
“Where did they come from?” said Viola.
“Funny you should ask,” said Sylvester. “Because my parents wondered the same thing. We’ve never had bedbugs in our house before. So they probably weren’t just hanging out in my basement, waiting for me. Where do you think they came from?”
“They must have hitched a ride on your grandmother’s stuff,” said Rosie, tugging at her braids with worry. “The Oriental rug doesn’t seem to have enough crevices for the bugs to hide in … so it might have been the yellow couch that your grandmother seems to love so much. Once down there, they migrated to your bed … and to their food source. You!”
“Yup,” said Sylvester. “That’s what my mom figured out last night. She did a quick search of the couch and found the creepy little monsters all along the cushion seams. So nasty. I couldn’t shower enough last night, or this morning. But my parents don’t think the bugs have spread outside of the basement yet.”
“I didn’t know they really existed,” said Woodrow. “I thought they were imaginary creatures from that old nursery rhyme: Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Oh, they’re real all right,” said Sylvester. “And let me tell you straight up: That nursery rhyme does not work. If the bedbugs want to bite
, there’s nothing you or I can do to stop them.”
“But what are you going to do about it?” asked Viola. “I heard that bedbugs are really hard to get rid of.”
“My parents already called an exterminator. And we’re going to wash all our clothes. But most important, my parents called the dump to take away my grandmother’s yellow couch.”
“But your grandmother was so attached to that couch,” said Rosie. “What did she say when they told her they had to trash it?”
“I don’t know. They were going to call her this morning. I wasn’t around to hear the fallout.” Sylvester shuddered. “I don’t want her to be upset or anything, but there is no way I was spending one more night in that basement knowing little bugs were sucking my blood.”
“Really?” said Woodrow. “Sounds like the kind of thing you’d enjoy.”
Sylvester squinted, then punched Woodrow in the shoulder.
Woodrow glanced at the girls for support. Viola replied, “Sorry, but you pretty much deserved that.”
When Sylvester got home from school that afternoon, he quickly checked the basement. The couch was gone. “Sylvester!” his mother called. “I’m in the laundry room.”
He came back upstairs, peeked in at her, and said, “Need help?” His mother was frantically folding clothes in the small room off the kitchen where the washer and dryer hummed.
She shook her head. “Yes, but not with this stuff. When your father called Hal-muh-ni this morning to tell her what happened, she went ballistic.”
“Ballistic? That sounds bad.”
“She insisted that your father retrieve the couch immediately. He told her that was impossible. Honestly, I can’t understand her attachment to this piece of furniture.” Mrs. Cho shrugged. “But it’s undeniable. I’d like you to be here this evening when she gets home so you can help us try to calm her down.”
