“It’s okay, Carlos. We’ll figure it out.”
“Figure it out how?” I yell. “We’re locked in a tiny closet in an enormous mansion, and nobody knows to look for us. Otto could escape, and time is running out.” I think of Mom, and I start to get choked up.
“Carlos?” Frank says, poking me in the side. “Are you crying?”
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Eliza finally says. “Why did we take this case? Why are we really here?”
Every time I think about telling her, the words fizzle out in my throat.
“We’re in a lot of danger, Carlos,” she says. “I have to know it’s for a good reason.”
“Mom,” I say. “She isn’t . . . we aren’t . . .” Eliza grabs my hand, and it steadies me. I take a deep breath. “Mom’s last case went belly-up. And she hasn’t been able to get work for a while. Six months. If Mom loses this case, her career is over. We’ll lose everything: her job, the house, the car. I’m trying to save her . . . and myself, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I don’t know,” I say, except I do know. I could only admit this in the dark. Just imagining her face, full of pity, makes me flush with shame. “I guess,” I finally say, “I didn’t want you to look down on me.”
“Look down on you?” Eliza says. “I could never!” She pauses before saying firmly, “Real friends don’t care about that stuff.”
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe again. I had no idea how hard it was to keep a secret like that—and how much worry I was carrying on my shoulders.
“And this is not the end,” she says. “I’ve thought of two possible ways out of this closet. We can bang on the door and hope someone comes to rescue us. Or we can look for a vent.”
“A vent?”
“Frank can crawl through it, get to another room, then unlock this door from the outside.”
Frank begins to cheer. “HOORAY! I LOVE CRAWLING!”
* * *
TO BANG ON THE DOOR FOR HELP, CLICK HERE.
TO LOOK FOR A VENT FOR FRANK TO CRAWL THROUGH, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I ADD UP the numbers in the octagon, with Eliza checking my work, of course, and I get ninety-eight. And so I punch in the number on the box’s buttons, and it opens up with a click.
Inside is not at all what I expected. I thought there’d be treasure, like gold or silver or diamonds. But there are just old photographs that are faded and brownish. There’s a picture of Mr. and Mrs. LeCavalier holding a baby. There’s one of their wedding. A whole bunch of Ivy at different ages.
And at the very bottom of the box, there’s a picture that’s turned around. Facedown. On the back it says: Winston, Alaina, and Preston (age 10).
“Preston!” I say excitedly. We can finally put a face to the name.
I turn the picture around. It’s weird to look at a picture of Preston when he was my age, knowing that he’s now in his thirties or forties. In the picture, Mr. LeCavalier is in the middle—I recognize him immediately from all the portraits around the house. The woman—Preston’s mom and Mr. LeCavalier’s first wife—is holding on to Mr. LeCavalier’s arm, and Preston is looking up at his father adoringly.
I squint at Preston. He has blond hair and bright blue eyes and a dimpled chin. . . .
My stomach plunges. No, the whole world plunges out from under me. I accidentally drop the picture.
My heart is thrumming. It’s all making sense—it’s all coming together. There’s only one suspect I know with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a butt chin.
“It’s Otto!”
“What?” Eliza says. She and Frank both dive for the picture at the same time and knock heads. “Oooooowwww!” they groan.
“Preston . . . is Otto! Otto is Preston! They’re the same person. The same person.”
“NO WAY!” marvels Frank. “Wait, what does that mean?”
Eliza picks up the picture and stares at it for a second. Then she looks up at me, her eyes twinkling. “He would have known about the treasure if he was Mr. LeCavalier’s son!” she says. “And he would have hated Guinevere LeCavalier for breaking up his family—”
“He has access to the house,” I say. “He has free rein of the garage to store his tools!”
“He always is asking us about the case,” Eliza recalls. “Always wanting to know how much we know.”
“What a meanie!” says Frank.
“We have to get out of this room,” I say, suddenly feeling more claustrophobic and panicked than ever. “As long as we’re locked in here, no one else knows! We have to stop him!”
Suddenly there’s a rattling noise and the sound of rushing air. And a voice—Otto’s voice—coming through the vent, saying, “You shouldn’t have taken this case. Good-bye, little detectives.”
The sound of Otto’s voice coming through the vent gives me shivers.
“Otto!” I shout. “Preston!”
“Get us out of here!” Eliza cries.
“OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE!” Frank hollers. “NO, WAIT! OTTO OTTO OXEN FREE!”
But it’s no use. Otto doesn’t say anything, and I have a bad feeling that he’s no longer on the other side of the air vent.
But, well, if he knows we know he’s guilty, then I’m really afraid of what he’ll do. Because there’s no way he’ll just let us tell Guinevere.
I have to stay calm . . . like Mom would be. Stay calm . . . think this through . . . don’t panic. But I can’t get my body to listen to me. I am getting really hot and sweaty. My shirt is soaked through, and I feel almost lightheaded.
Eliza sits down on the desk, and she’s panting something fierce. Frank has shed both his shirt and shorts—he’s down to just his boxers.
“Why?” I wheeze, pointing at Frank.
“I’m sweatyyyyyy,” he whines. “And hot.”
Eliza picks up a letter and fans herself. “I’m exhausted. Quick nap,” she says with a yawn.
I yawn too.
My eyes start to shut. . . .
“WAIT!” I shout. “This room! It’s getting hotter and hotter by the second! Otto’s turned the heat on!”
“He’s smoking us out . . . literally!” Eliza gasps.
“I’m thirsty,” Frank complains.
“That’s the point, Frank!” Eliza says. “Otto wants us to get dehydrated so we pass out. Then he can . . . er . . . get rid of us.”
I gulp, and I don’t want to know what “get rid of us” even means.
“We have to get out of here!” I say. My shirt is sticking to my back.
We begin searching again—this time, for another exit, or something to help us get out of the room. For a second, I think about having Frank crawl through the air vent to get help, but then I remember that the hot air is coming from the vent. There’s no way I can send Frank in there.
The panic is rising in my throat. This room is so small—we’re going to burn up in no time! We have to get out of here.
I climb onto the desk and reach up to the ceiling, feeling around for anything that will help. Nothing—just old peeling wallpaper. I can barely breathe, and I sway on the spot. I’m going to faint.
I reach out to the wall for support, and my palms smack against a piece of the wall that feels different than the rest. “Help!” I shout to Eliza. My tongue feels weird . . . like it’s a useless worm lolling in my mouth.
Eliza climbs onto the desk with me. Only, when I look at her, it’s not Eliza—it’s Frank!
“Frank to the rescue!” he croaks.
I try to lift him up, but he’s so sweaty that he’s slippery.
“Pyramid!” Eliza pants. “Carlos! Get down!”
I know exactly what she means. I get down on the desk on my hands and knees, and Frank uses my back like a stepladder. He starts knocking on the wall, banging on it like crazy. And I’m one second away from yelling at him to get serious, when he hits a hollow part and—POP! It opens like a mailbox flap.
Frank hops of
f me, and I stand up to look at Frank’s handiwork. Inside this piece of wall is a thermostat . . . an old-fashioned one, with buttons instead of a screen.
I start pressing the down button, but nothing happens. Then I press a whole bunch of random buttons, but nothing happens when I do that either.
I start to sweat even more.
“What’s wrong?” Eliza calls from the floor.
“The buttons on the thermostat aren’t working!” I gasp. “But they’re flashing when I press them, so I know it’s on.”
“Otto probably tampered with the wiring!” Eliza says. “Open up the back of the thermostat!”
I do what she says, and there’s a whole bunch of tangled wires.
“Eliza! Help!” I say. “There are three wires, but they’re all tangled!”
“Just keep calm,” she says. “Unplug the wire that hooks up to the air vent. But be careful not to unplug the wrong wire—we don’t know what those other wires might be connected to. One wrong move, and . . .”
“KABOOM!” says Frank.
I gulp.
* * *
TO UNPLUG WIRE A, CLICK HERE.
TO UNPLUG WIRE B, CLICK HERE.
TO UNPLUG WIRE C, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE MUST FACE Smythe sooner or later. I pick sooner.
The whole room shakes as Smythe comes lumbering toward us.
“You kids!” pants Smythe as he steps into the room. “Are in . . . so much . . . trouble . . .”
Frank moves so close to me, he’s practically a leech on my side. And Eliza cowers.
Smythe’s jowls wobble as he stomps even closer to us; beads of sweat drip down his face.
“Please!” I say. “We just want to solve the case! Don’t you want that too?”
“Obviously he wants that,” Eliza says, folding her arms. “Because otherwise he’d be the perpetrator.”
“The POOPINATOR?” says Frank.
“No, the perpetrator! It means the culprit!”
“The armpit?”
“The criminal, Frank!” Eliza sighs. “It means criminal. If he doesn’t want to help us, then he’s against us. And if he’s against us, then he’s probably the one behind the threats.”
“Maybe I don’t want to help you because I don’t believe you can help,” Smythe says. “I don’t know why Guinevere brought kids in to deal with an adult matter.”
“Because people underestimate kids,” I say, my voice steely. “And you wouldn’t believe some of the information we’ve found out.”
“Like?” Smythe says.
“Like we can’t tell you.”
“NAH-NAH-NAH-NAH BOO-BOO!” Frank adds.
Smythe rolls his eyes.
“How about you try helping us?” I say. “Because we’re solving this case with or without your help.”
Smythe glares at me, and his eyes get all thin and slitlike. The longer Smythe stares at me, the twistier my stomach gets. But I just frown back at him. It’s like a staring contest. Don’t blink! Don’t blink! Don’t blink!
Smythe blinks. “Fine,” he says. “Ask me a question, and I’ll answer this time. For real.”
There’s a lot I could ask Smythe about—like why he’s been so angry and sulky with Guinevere LeCavalier—but if he’s finally being cooperative, I don’t want to offend him. I know from experience that he can be . . . touchy. And something I am very curious about is the death threat that appeared last night—the one that drove Guinevere and Ivy from the house.
But on the other hand, if the threats are getting scary enough to force Guinevere to leave, then maybe I should skip questioning Smythe and go straight to investigating. After all, we may not have much time left to figure out who’s behind all this! Seems like the criminal is moving in!
* * *
TO ASK SMYTHE ABOUT THE DEATH THREAT THAT APPEARED LAST NIGHT, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK SMYTHE WHERE TO LOOK TO INVESTIGATE NEXT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“YOUR MOM MAKES a lot of enemies,” I begin. “So who do you think is threatening her?”
Ivy shrugs. “It could be anybody.”
“Well, if you had to make a guess,” Eliza prompts.
“I suppose our butler, Smythe, has been acting rather suspiciously. He could easily be terrorizing my mother from the inside.”
I nod. That makes sense.
“But Maddock is a proven liar. Six years ago, my mom was getting sued for slander—”
“WHAT’S LANDERS?” Frank shouts.
“It’s . . . er . . . when someone says something bad and untrue about someone else,” Ivy says. “Mom spread a rumor about Patty Schnozzleton, the lady who lives across the street and Mom’s ex-friend. Mom said that every day Patty ate puppies for breakfast, kittens for lunch, and hamsters for dinner. The rumor actually got around with many high-society types, and poor Patty was the butt of everyone’s joke.”
“Butt.” Frank snickers.
“Someone was watching us from the Schnozzleton house yesterday,” I tell Ivy.
“If someone was watching you from that house, it was Patty,” Ivy says. “She lives alone. And she’s obsessed with getting revenge on my mom. Yet another of my mom’s enemies.”
Frank slinks off the couch, crawls across the floor, and stops when he gets to the fireplace. Then he starts building a pyramid—one log on top of the other.
“Wait!” Eliza says. “I’m confused. What does any of this information about Patty have to do with Maddock? You said Maddock was the liar.”
“Right. Patty was trying to sue my mother over those nasty rumors, and Maddock submitted falsified billing records.”
I scratch my head. “Er, can you explain that . . . for Frank?” I don’t want to admit that I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Frank blinks at Ivy, and she talks slowly at him. “Maddock told my parents he worked more hours on their case than he did. Which means Maddock got paid for hours he didn’t work. He lied to steal money from them.”
“What?” I say. In my head, warning signals are flaring! Maddock is a crook! A thief! A criminal! If he could cheat Guinevere out of money, surely he could threaten her too, right?
Eliza can’t hide her shock either—her eyebrows are so far up her forehead, they’re practically part of her hair. “What did your parents do when they found out?”
“They didn’t even fire him,” Ivy says with a bitter laugh. “I wonder if Maddock is weaseling more money out of my mom now, by setting up these threats and hunting after our family treasure. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s intruded in my family’s affairs.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Only that he was very opinionated when my mom and I were having a . . . disagreement. And his two cents did not belong in our business. It was a matter that was between family—and should have stayed in my family,” she says.
“So, just to make sure I understand this right,” Eliza says, “you think Maddock is suspicious because he lied and stole money from your family in the past. Patty might have done it because she’s obsessed with getting revenge on your mom. And Smythe seems to be miserable for some unknown reason—and he has access to the house. Do I have that right?”
Ivy nods vigorously.
Eliza looks at me like she’s waiting for me to finish the conversation, so we can get back to investigating someone else. But I’m actually wondering about this mysterious fight between Ivy and her mom. Could Ivy be pointing the finger at these other people because they’re guilty? Or because she’s guilty?
* * *
TO ASK IVY MORE ABOUT THE DISAGREEMENT BETWEEN HER AND HER MOTHER, CLICK HERE.
TO END THE CONVERSATION, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“OH NO!” I groan. “I don’t understand math with letters!”
Eliza brings the flashlight closer to the puzzle. “We can do this. Together.”
A plus A equals B.
F divided by 3 is C.
C times A is D.
D times A is G.
H minus G equals D.
B plus B plus B equals E.
“All right, Eliza,” she mutters to herself, talking out her puzzle again. “Put your thinking cap on. B is four. And F is fifteen.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but that’s all we know. How are we supposed to figure out the others?”
Eliza points to the reminders. “Our clues are right here. And the first one is that A plus A equals B. So double A, and we get B. Since we already know that B is four, what can we double to make four?”
“Even I know that!” Frank boasts. “It’s SEVENTEEN GAZILLION!”
I snicker. “It’s two,” I say.
Eliza fills in the number two.
“And if F divided by three is C,” she mumbles. “Then C is—”
“Five!” I say.
Eliza nods and writes a five in the C wedge. “C times A is D. Which means two times five is—”
“ONE THOUSAND!” Frank shouts.
“Ten,” I say over him.
Eliza smiles. “Carlos, you’re crushing this one! You don’t even need me.”
REMINDER
A plus A equals B.
F divided by 3 is C.
C times A is D.
D times A is G.
H minus G equals D.
B plus B plus B equals E.
* * *
IF YOU KNOW THE ANSWER, ADD UP A, B, C, D, E, F, G, AND H.
ADD ONE HUNDRED TO THAT ANSWER.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 198, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 175, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“WE THINK YOU may be right about Patty Schnozzleton,” I say.
Eliza nods. “We found red paint in her house. The same red paint that was used for the death threat in the library.”
Mystery in the Mansion Page 12
