“Owwwwwww,” Frank wails. “My ears!”
“INTRUDER! INTRUDER! INTRUDER!”
It could be ten minutes or ten hours—but sometime later, the police (wearing noise-canceling headphones) knock down the door and take us to the police station for breaking into Patty’s house. Let’s just say my mom is not happy to get my phone call from jail.
The caption on my mug shot? Carlos Serrano: Criminal, Failed Detective, and Son of a Banana Factory Inspector.
You heard me right: after I ruined Mom’s life, she had to take the first job that came along, and now she inspects the fruit at a banana-ripening factory. The only mystery that comes Mom’s way: why is this banana less ripe than the others? Real inspiring stuff, I know.
CASE CLOSED.
“WE’RE GOING TO look in the desk drawers. I have a good feeling about that.”
“HOW DARE YOU!” Frank shouts, swashbuckling his invisible sword. “DO AS YOUR CAPTAIN SAYS, OR I’LL . . . I’LL . . . FEED YOU TO THE SHARKS!”
“Shhhhhh, Frank! Calm down!” Eliza says, patting his shoulder.
He responds by trying to bite Eliza’s hand.
“Frank!” she cries.
They start bickering, like always—but I can’t pay attention to them. I have to find something important in Mr. LeCavalier’s desk.
I pull open the top drawer, but it’s only office supplies. I pull open the middle drawer, and same thing. Then I open the bottom drawer, and it’s full of papers with gibberish on them. They’re all full of random numbers and shapes, written in black ink. It looks like incomplete homework.
“Eliza, come help me read this.”
She studies a stack of papers with me and sighs. “Carlos, this is junk. Just doodles and math problems . . . it’s all useless.”
“AHA!” Frank jumps in, and he rips the papers out of our hands and crumples them.
“Frank!” I shout.
He grins wickedly as he picks up a paper off the floor and tears it into three pieces.
“Frank!” Eliza scolds.
Frank starts pulling more papers out of the desk drawer and shredding them.
Rrrrip! Rrrrip! Rrrrip!
“This is fun,” Frank says. “I like destroying things!”
“Stop!” I holler.
“Frank, no!” Eliza yells.
“Aha!” Smythe roars from the doorway. Uh-oh. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” Smythe leaps into the room and points at the ripped-up papers all over the floor, his face as red as a cooked beet.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say quickly, even though it’s exactly what it looks like, down to the last piece of paper mid-rip in Frank’s hands.
“I knew I couldn’t trust you in my employer’s house,” Smythe says. He bends over and starts collecting the little bits of paper, cradling them all to his chest. “You’ve ruined Mr. LeCavalier’s files, you little monsters!” He sneers at us. “You’ve broken your promise, but I’ll keep mine. . . . Out, out, out!!!”
Smythe chases us out of the house and slams the door in our faces. We knock for hours and hours and hours, but he never lets us back in.
CASE CLOSED.
I PICK UP the notebook. It’s so old and crusty that I have to pry it open. And it has a strange smell. Usually I like the smell of new books and old books, but this one smells like it’s been dipped in vinegar.
“Ewwwwwww. IT SMELLS LIKE FOOT!” Frank shouts.
The handwriting is faded, and I can barely make it out in the candlelight. I pass the book to Eliza to read aloud.
Dear Diary,
My family is falling apart. Guinevere gave Ivy an ultimatum today
“What’s an old tomato?” Frank asks.
“Ultimatum,” Eliza explains. “It’s a demand. A final offer. Like ‘If you don’t do this, then this terrible thing will happen.’”
“Kind of like a threat!” I realize. Then I cover my mouth because I don’t want to admit that I didn’t know what an ultimatum was either.
Eliza nods and continues reading.
Either she breaks up with Walter Kramer and receives our inheritance money, or she stays with him . . . in which case we would write her out of our wills. Neither option seems ideal, for I love my daughter, and I wish her to have my fortune. I keep trying to talk to my dear Guinevere, but she won’t listen. She is afraid the boy might be marrying Ivy for her money. Of course, just one look at them, and you can see they’re moony for each other.
Must continue to work on Guinevere. I fear what will
Eliza looks up. “The rest of it’s all faded. I can’t see it.”
“Make up the rest,” Frank says. “It was a good story so far.”
“We know the rest of the story,” Eliza says. “Obviously, Ivy and her mom got in a fight about all this. Then Ivy ran off and married Walter Kramer, and the LeCavaliers wrote her out of the will. Years later, she’s having money problems.”
“Well, at least we know what the fight’s about now,” I say. “She has motive—to find the treasure and to threaten her mom. Payback, right?”
“Piggyback?” Frank says, perking up.
“No, no, payback. It means revenge!”
Eliza flips through more pages in frustration. “I just wish we could read the rest of the diary. Mr. LeCavalier must have spilled something on it—the pages are all waterlogged and faded.”
“We still have the letters,” I tell her.
* * *
TO READ THE LETTERS, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE CAN’T TELL Otto details about the case, but maybe he knows something about Ivy. It doesn’t hurt to ask.
I shield my eyes as I look at Otto—the setting sun is right behind his head. Now’s the time I wish I hadn’t accidentally stepped on my five-dollar flea-market sunglasses.
I clear my throat. “What do you know about Ivy?”
“So she seems suspicious, huh?”
Eliza opens her mouth to answer, but I jump in first. “That information is classified.”
“CLASSIFIED!” Frank echoes from right behind Otto.
Otto jumps up and holds his heart, looking as though he might pass out.
“You can’t just go sneaking up behind people and scaring them!” Eliza lectures.
“Why nottttttt?” Frank whines.
I roll my eyes and turn back to Otto. “So what do you know about Ivy?”
“Not much,” Otto says, “since she lives in Wichita. But I’ve seen her around today, and she doesn’t seem happy to be home. The thing is . . .” Otto drops his voice and leans in. “I don’t want to speak ill of my employer’s family. Or betray their trust. I’m a little nervous to tell you. . . .”
“You can trust us,” I say, and Eliza nods in agreement. Her eyes are eager and wild, though, like she knows he’s about to tell us something juicy, and she can’t wait to hear.
“Okay, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone you heard it from me.”
Suddenly Frank inserts himself into the middle of our group huddle. “Secrets are no fun unless they’re shared with FRANK!” Eliza puts a hand over his mouth to quiet him down, but Frank squirms out of her grip.
“No . . . I’m sorry, kids. I just can’t say.”
I stare into Otto’s ice-blue eyes, searching for a clue. But the only thing I walk away with is an instinct that it’s time to go home. I have to check in with Mom before she catches on to what we’re doing.
We will pick this up tomorrow.
* * *
GO HOME FOR THE DAY. CLICK HERE.
* * *
AFTER THINKING FOR a moment, I decide to listen to Eliza’s weird eye cues. “Could we hear more about Preston?”
Guinevere wrinkles her nose. “Why?”
“It can’t hurt!” I say. “Everything is important.”
“All bits of information can lead to clues,” Eliza says.
Frank makes a giant raspberry with his mouth. “All clues lead to BORING!” he whines.
Guinevere raises her eyebrows. Her mouth scrunches tighter, like she just ate something sour. “How dare you bring up Mr. LeCavalier’s most indecent history? You are disrespecting him! Disrespecting me!”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
Eliza stands up. “Stop being so oversensitive.” I kick Eliza, but she continues. “It would help us if we knew more about Mr. LeCavalier’s first family—”
Guinevere points at Eliza wildly. “There! You said it! First family! With that judgmental tone!”
Eliza furrows her brow. “What are you talking about? I’m just trying to collect important information here. I’m not judgmental. You’re the one being overly defensive.”
I groan and sink down into the couch. “I’m sorry!” I shout, trying to correct Eliza’s error, but it’s too late. Ivy cringes like she’s waiting for her mother to explode, but instead Guinevere sniffs.
“I’m done with your distastefulness.” Her voice is as sharp as an icicle. “Smythe!”
Smythe hustles into the room.
“Please escort these rotten detectives off my property. And inform them that their services are no longer needed.”
Smythe turns to us, but before he can say anything, I talk directly to Guinevere. “Please! We’re just trying to be thorough!” I think of my mom in panic. Her agency—and happiness—is on the line! “Please, please, pleeeeeease!”
“Smythe! Inform the detectives that we are done here.”
“YOU FART FACE,” Frank says, pointing at Guinevere.
“Smythe! Please tell the detectives that a proper lady never does anything so indecent as passing gas.”
Smythe turns to us and opens his mouth.
“LIAR!” Frank shouts, and Smythe deflates, clearly disappointed we’re not giving him a chance to do his job. “GIRLS DO FART! I’VE SMELLED ELIZA’S!”
“Frank!” Eliza says, mortified. She hides behind a couch pillow.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Guinevere says, her face twisted into a scandalized expression, her eyes glinting with fury. Ivy trembles beside her mother.
“No! I already called you a fart face!”
Guinevere turns as purple as an eggplant. “Smythe! The door!”
Smythe grabs us in his arms as easily as if we were three melons. Then he drags us down Guinevere’s fancy hallways and shoves us out the door.
“And don’t come back!”
No no NO!
In baseball, I’m so used to the whole three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule, but with Guinevere LeCavalier, it was one strike and the whole game is over. I know Eliza wanted me to push our witness, but maybe I should have trusted my gut after all.
Just thinking about losing this case makes me want to cry. I’ve ruined Mom’s career, her passion, her chance at happiness.
How am I possibly going to explain this to her?
CASE CLOSED.
“IT’S MADE OF ham!” shouts Frank. “No, spider webs! No, wait, baby teeth!”
Eliza frowns. “Hmmm . . . what does it mean?”
“Well,” Guinevere LeCavalier says, sipping a cup of her disgusting jelly-bean tea. “This is the only thing my daughter, Ivy, and I were able to figure out . . . before she left me to go marry that man. I haven’t seen her in five years! I’ll never see her again!” Guinevere howls.
“Isn’t she coming to visit tomorrow?” Smythe says from the corner of the room, and I jump. I forgot that he’s popping in and out of the room—he’s so quiet, like a giant spider you never hear coming.
Guinevere dabs her face with a napkin. “Oh, yes, I forgot. Anyway,” she says, picking up the parchment with the clue on it. “The answer is glass. A greenhouse is made of glass.”
“Oh! Of course!” Eliza cries. “It’s a trick! It’s trying to get you to answer that it’s made of green bricks, but really, the riddle is referring to a greenhouse, which is a building made of glass!”
“I still think it’s made of artichokes,” Frank says.
I roll my eyes. Frank definitely didn’t inherit the puzzle-solving gene.
“Okay, glass,” I say. “But what’s that supposed to tell you?”
Guinevere shrugs. “I can’t help you there. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. Feel free to check all the glass and kitchenware in the house. I’ve torn this place apart, and I’ve found nothing.”
“Is that what happened to the library?” I ask.
Guinevere snorts mid-sip, and tea spurts out her nose. “None of that was me!” she says, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief. “The torn books and toppled shelves were all the handiwork of our perpetrator.”
Frank belches.
“Excuse him,” Eliza says sharply, and Frank sticks his tongue out at her.
“The library was the second threat on my life.”
* * *
TO ASK GUINEVERE WHO KNOWS ABOUT THE TREASURE, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK GUINEVERE ABOUT THE DEATH THREATS, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK GUINEVERE MORE ABOUT IVY, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE RUN AFTER the noise, bounding down the hallway like three dogs off their leashes. We round the corner and see the source of the crash—a knocked-over table with hundreds of dead flowers all over the floor. There’s also a stuffed bear in the center. Only . . . I should say, it’s an unstuffed bear. The bear has a knife in its stomach, and stuffing is coming out of it. And it seems to be holding an envelope.
But most surprising of all—in the middle of the whole mess is a woman I don’t recognize. She has thin lips, puffy hair, and makeup that gives her raccoon eyes.
She looks at me in panic. “I—I didn’t do this! It wasn’t me!”
“A LIKELY STORY,” Frank yells, walking up to her and pointing his finger so close to her nose that he’s practically picking it.
“What are you doing at this crime scene?” I say, edging closer to the stuffed bear. My shoes crunch on the dead flowers.
The second I swoop down to pick up the envelope in the bear’s arms, the woman tries to run, but Frank grabs her around the middle. “Got her! Got her!”
Moments later, footsteps come pounding, and Guinevere, Smythe, Maddock, and Ivy run into our hall.
“Patty Schnozzleton?” Ivy says. “What are you doing here?”
P. Schnozzleton! The lady who’s obsessed with getting revenge on Guinevere LeCavalier! The lady who was creepily watching us from her window! This is her? At the scene of the third death threat . . .
“ARREST HER!” Guinevere LeCavalier howls. “Call the police! Call the FBI! Someone lock up this maniac!”
“I didn’t do this!” Patty says insistently. “I just heard a noise and came running.”
Eliza folds her arms. “You heard this all the way from your own house? I find that unlikely.”
Patty blanches.
“Aha!” Guinevere says. “Smythe! Get the police!”
“Hold on,” Eliza says. “Let’s open the letter.”
I open the letter and read it aloud:
To Guinevere,
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
These flowers are dead.
And soon you’ll be too.
Love,
Twenty-Four Hours Left
I gulp.
“Y-you!” Guinevere says, pointing at Patty. “YOU MENACE TO SOCIETY!”
Guinevere keeps shrieking, and I wring my hands. The letter is frightening. I don’t even want to think about what might happen in twenty-four hours. . . .
Patty Schnozzleton does seem awfully guilty. She was at the scene of the crime immediately after it happened. But we can’t just call the police on Patty before we even listen to her side of the story. After all, if Patty didn’t do it, maybe she saw something. There’s a lot at stake here, now that we only have one day left. Mrs. LeCavalier and my mom could both be in deep trouble if we don’t solve the case—and fast!
We need to give Patty a chance to explain. But Guinevere LeCavalier won’t like that.
�
�You evil woman!” Guinevere shrieks.
“You old hag!” Patty screams back.
“I’m going to get you for this!”
“Well, I can’t say that I’m going to get you, because I don’t want to incriminate myself, so I am definitely not going to get you back!”
“Sarcasm!” Guinevere hollers. “That’s sarcasm!”
“Hey!” I say. “Quiet!”
But they keep screaming over me.
“Quiet!” Eliza and I shout. “Quiet!” Smythe, Maddock, and Ivy chime in.
Suddenly Frank puts a hand on my arm. “Let me handle this,” he says. Then he takes a deep breath and hollers, “QUIIIIIEEEEEEETTTTTT!!!!!!!!”
Guinevere and Patty shut right up.
“Thank you, Frank,” I say. “Mrs. LeCavalier, with your permission, I’d like to interview Ms. Schnozzleton before we call the police. After all, no one saw her set up this threat. She might be telling the truth.”
“I am! I am!” Patty nods.
“Can’t you just continue your investigation with Patty behind bars?” Guinevere complains.
Eliza shakes her head no.
“Fine,” Guinevere LeCavalier says, “but I want to witness the interrogation.”
This time I shake my head no. “We can’t allow that. Detective-suspect confidentiality.”
“In the meantime,” Eliza says, “you’re clearly not safe here. I think you should pack your bags and go to a hotel—”
“Leave? Are you sure?”
“Better safe than sorry,” Eliza says, which gives me prickles on my arms. Suddenly I feel the urge to investigate fast! Like there’s a fire within me. I have to move on this case!
Guinevere frowns, and she looks like she’s going to refuse, but finally she nods. “Okay, I’ll relocate to a hotel. But you detectives call me the moment you have this all figured out. I’m counting on you to solve this within twenty-four hours.” She puts her hand on her forehead dramatically. “I can’t live like this anymore. All this worrying has been putting a damper on my daily afternoon massages at the spa. I’ve suffered so much.”
Mystery in the Mansion Page 10
