Mystery in the Mansion

by Lauren Magaziner

  I gasp.

  “Look at this!” I shout. And Eliza yelps from surprise and nearly drops the candle. Ooops! I lower my voice and say, “Look at this picture of the second death threat—on the wall of the library. It’s the same cursive that’s in these letters from Preston!”

  “Let me see!” Frank yelps, pulling on my shirt. “Let me see!”

  She and Frank bend over the letter. “You’re right,” Eliza whispers. “They do look similar.”

  “So,” I say excitedly, my hands shaking, “do you think that Preston is the one behind—”

  KA-THUNK.

  The bookshelf closes completely.

  Eliza and I look at each other for a second. Then we both run to the door.

  It’s locked.

  “Locked!” I’m trying not to panic, but I can barely breathe. Will someone discover the secret entrance in fifty years and find our skeletons in here? Will we have to eat old letters to survive? Is it possible to survive on old letters?

  “This is both terrifying and interesting,” Eliza says, her voice quiet.

  “Interesting how?”

  Eliza drops down to her knees and pats her brother’s head, but Frank is totally fine. He doesn’t seem freaked out at all.

  “Smythe,” I choke. “Smythe is the only one who knows we’re in here. Do you think . . . do you think he led us into a trap?”

  “It’s possible,” Eliza says.

  “Anything is possible if you just believe!” Frank says. “That’s what Walt Disney taught me!”

  I try the door again. The bookshelf won’t budge. “Well, I believe we’re in huge trouble.”

  “Dream it and believe it!” Frank replies.

  Eliza grabs my arm. “You know what this means, right?” she says. “Someone doesn’t like what we’re finding. We—we must have stumbled upon something important. Something incriminating.”

  I lean against the small desk. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Hey!” says Frank. “Look at this!”

  Eliza looks at me with a knowing smile. “Clearly someone—”

  “Smythe,” I interrupt.

  “—is watching us.” Eliza lowers her voice. “Someone—”

  “Smythe,” I say.

  “—wants to know what we’re finding.” Eliza chuckles. “That always happens when there’s an ongoing investigation! Criminals often get very nervous when people get too close to the truth. And they always get antsy being far away from the action. So they keep close tabs on the investigation, and when it starts going sour . . . bam! They attack.”

  “Look at this!” Frank yells.

  “But what did we find that could make someone panic?” I wonder aloud. “Nothing that solves the case, right? Let’s take another look at the letters—”

  “NO!” Frank shouts. “NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOOO.”

  Eliza and I exchange a glance—then we look at Frank, who’s pounding his fists on the floor.

  Oh boy. Here comes a tantrum.

  “What’s wrong?” Eliza says quickly.

  “You aren’t LISTENING to me! I said LOOK!” And he reaches under the desk—where it’s too dark to see in the candlelight—and pulls out a small box.

  “Is this . . . the treasure?” I say. Could this small thing really be it?

  “It’s got a puzzle on it,” Frank says. “And I. HATE. BORING. PUZZLES. BLECH.”

  On top of the box, there’s a dial with two numbers filled in. I feel around the box, and underneath, I find a taped piece of paper with some sentences on it.

  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.

  TO GET A HINT FROM ELIZA, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I LOOK BETWEEN the books and my scrap of paper. I tap my forehead with my pencil. I just don’t get this.

  “Eliza, can you help?”

  She grabs the pencil and paper from me.

  Frank tries to crawl onto my lap, but I push him off—so he hangs on my other shoulder.

  “Hmm,” she says. She always talks through puzzles out loud, even when we’re in school. She says it helps her think better. “If we write down the first letter of each book title, we have . . .”

  She scribbles down:

  RUDOHDNEEN

  “So all we have to do is unscramble this, Eliza?”

  “It says BUTTERNUT SQUASH!” Frank cries.

  “That is a great effort, Frank,” Eliza says.

  “I see the word ONE in there,” I say.

  “Yes, I see that too. In fact . . . I think I see an even bigger number hidden in these scrambled letters.”

  * * *

  THE SOLUTION TO THE PUZZLE WILL LEAD YOU TO YOUR NEXT PAGE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS ONE HUNDRED, CLICK HERE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS TWO HUNDRED, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “WHY WERE YOU bullying Guinevere? What has she ever done to you?” I say through the crack at the bottom of the door.

  “Hehehehehe!” Otto wheezes, and it sounds like a squeaky squirrel choking on an acorn.

  “I don’t get it,” Frank says. “What’s so funny?”

  “The idea that I’m the bully and Guinevere is the victim!” He snortles again and explains. “I used to live in this house with my mother. When my parents separated, my mother and I were thrown out like garbage. We had to find another place to live. When Guinevere moved in less than a year later, suddenly my father didn’t return my calls or lett—”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Mr. LeCavalier is my father.”

  My mind is spinning, and I think back to the first conversation we had with Guinevere. She did mention that Mr. LeCavalier’s first wife and son had sent him threatening letters in the past. Only she hadn’t heard from them in years. Or so she thought!

  Otto sniffs. “I hadn’t talked to my father since I was your age, all because of Guinevere.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say.

  “Of course it’s terrible!” Otto snaps. “That’s why Guinevere deserves to be hurt. Just like I was hurt!”

  “No one deserves that,” Eliza says. “Yes, Guinevere treated you horribly, but you shouldn’t be horrible back.”

  “The Golden Rule!” Frank says, perking up. “Treat others the way you want to be treated!”

  “Hehehehehehe!” Otto giggles again. “How naive! But I couldn’t expect anything less from children!”

  I fold my arms. “So you’re mad at Guinevere. She treated you badly, and she cut you out of Mr. LeCavalier’s life. That’s why you threatened her.”

  Otto coughs. “Yes. That’s true. But also, I need her to hand over the treasure. My father told me about a secret treasure beneath the house, long before he even met Guinevere. It belongs to me. I know—in my heart—that my father would’ve wanted me to have it.”

  “If he wanted you to have it,” Eliza says, “wouldn’t he have left it to you in his will?”

  “For years,” he growls, “I knew the day would come when I could return to my house, collect my treasure, and get my revenge. I wish I had time to answer more of your pointless questions, but I have a treasure to collect. Bye-bye!”

  His footsteps get more and more distant, and then he is gone.

  * * *

  CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “CAN WE SEE the first clue of the treasure?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Guinevere says. “We’ve figured out what it means, but we don’t know what to do beyond that. Smythe! My lockbox!”

  Smythe storms off, grumbling under his breath. I remind myself to tal
k to Eliza about questioning him later.

  He returns with a little safe, and Guinevere LeCavalier opens it up with a key hanging around her neck. She pulls out a crumpled-looking loose-leaf paper that reads:

  The red house is made of red bricks.

  The blue house is made of blue bricks.

  The white house is made of white bricks.

  The gray house is made of gray bricks.

  What is the green house made of?

  * * *

  IF YOU KNOW THE ANSWER TO THE CLUE, CLICK HERE.

  IF YOU CAN’T FIGURE OUT THE CLUE, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  AS SUSPICIOUS AS Patty and Maddock are, I shouldn’t accuse them yet. We still don’t have hard proof that they did it.

  “We don’t know who’s guilty yet,” I say to Ivy.

  “Well then, what are we paying you for?” Ivy cries.

  Eliza puts her hands up peaceably. “We don’t want to jump to—”

  “I’ve seen what my mom is planning to pay you,” Ivy interrupts, “and it’s more than I got from my own father’s will! But you’re not even doing your job. You play tag, wrestle with Maddock, run giggling through our house—”

  “Hey!” I say. “Wait a min—”

  “No,” Ivy says. “You are done here. Take your things and leave.”

  My stomach drops. Is she . . . is she really firing us? This can’t be happening! “Ivy, no! Please—”

  “GET,” she breathes, “OOOOOUUUUTTTTTTT!”

  Her voice is like an earthquake, a tornado, a hurricane, all rolled up into one massive force.

  I plant my feet on Patty Schnozzleton’s floor and say, “We’re not going anywhere.”

  But then Smythe takes two lumbering steps toward us, picks us all up in his arms like a bouquet of three wriggling flowers, and tosses us onto Patty’s lawn.

  “And good riddance,” Smythe gloats as he slams the door in our faces.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “LET MRS. LECAVALIER go!” I demand. “RIGHT. NOW.”

  Otto laughs, and it sounds like a whoopee cushion filling up with air. “Oh, that’s rich! Let her go! Oh boy, you are the funny one, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Frank says, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m the funny one. And the smart one. And the nice one. And the one who hates vegetables—”

  “Okay,” Eliza says to Frank. “We get it.”

  I glare at Otto. “Seriously! Let her go!”

  “Never,” he says. “I’ve waited more than twenty years to get my revenge on Guinevere, after she stole my father from us. My mom and I were kicked to the curb, and my father cut me off from his life completely.”

  Eliza gasps. “You’re Preston LeCavalier, aren’t you? Mr. LeCavalier’s son from his first marriage?”

  “Very smart,” Otto says. “You’ve always been very smart. Anyone can see you’re the brains of this little team. And it just so happens, we’re stuck on this next puzzle.” Otto’s eyes shine with an evil twinkle. “Come here and help me solve this next puzzle.”

  “No!” I shout.

  Eliza doesn’t budge.

  “Maybe you didn’t understand. That wasn’t a question. Help me solve this next puzzle, or say good-bye to Guinevere.” He tightens his grip around her neck, and Guinevere winces.

  We have no choice. Guinevere’s life is in Otto’s hands . . . literally. And we can’t risk her melon being squashed in Otto’s grip.

  Eliza helps Otto with the next puzzle, and the wall opens up. He forces us to go with him, puzzle after puzzle, until we finally reach a treasure chest. He tosses Guinevere LeCavalier at us, picks up the chest, and bolts away before we even realize what’s happening.

  We search the caves for him, but he and the treasure are long gone.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “NOTHING!” I SAY quickly. “Never mind!”

  “Seriously,” Otto says. “I want to help.”

  How do I know that’s true? I can’t just go around discussing the case with anyone who comes by.

  I frown. Eliza folds her arms.

  “Eliza! Carlos! COME PLAY!” Frank shouts from across the yard.

  But I ignore him and look up at Otto. “You should mind your own business,” I say.

  Otto frowns. He seems hurt, and for a second I feel bad. He has been nice to us. But as Mom likes to say, we have to hold our cards close to the chest. Which I think is a poker reference. But I don’t know for sure, because the only card game I know how to play is 52 Pickup.

  At long last, Otto walks away, leaving us to whisper about Ivy and the treasure until we’re ready to walk home.

  * * *

  GO HOME FOR THE DAY. CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I ENTER THE number one into the keypad on the bottom of the drawer. With a click, the bottom of the drawer pops up, and I reach into the false bottom. But there’s only one thing in this secret compartment: a letter addressed to Patty . . . from Smythe:

  To Patricia Nicole Schnozzleton,

  I am writing in the hopes that you’ll hire me to be your butler. I am looking to leave Guinevere LeCavalier’s service due to egregious dissatisfaction and irreconciliable differences. As I’ve been with the LeCavaliers for thirty years, I know you have been looking for a way to get revenge on Guinevere, and I think stealing her butler might be the perfect solution.

  Please let me know if you are interested in my services, and we will discuss my salary and start date.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel S. Smythe

  I read over the letter a few times, tripping over some words I don’t know. What is egregious dissatisfaction? Irreconciliable differences? What good is finding a secret letter if I can’t even understand what it says?

  I need to share it with Eliza. I bet she’ll know what it means.

  “Eliza!” I shout, running through the house. “Where are y—”

  I turn a corner and collide with Frank, who falls to the ground and skins his knee. His eyes fill with tears.

  “Oh no! Frank, please don’t cry!”

  But it’s too late; he starts to howl.

  I scoop him up in my arms and carry him around. “Eliza?”

  “In the living room!”

  Living room? That wasn’t one of the places we agreed to search.

  I find Eliza with her knees on the couch, staring out the window with Patty’s binoculars.

  “Come look at this, Carlos!”

  I put Frank down, hop onto the couch, and look through the binoculars—but I don’t see anything unusual. Just Otto in the yard and Smythe in the window.

  “I don’t get it. What were you looking at?”

  “Patty can see everything. Every little detail—she has the perfect spying view of Guinevere’s house. And look at this!”

  She kicks her foot toward a can sitting on the carpet . . . a can of deep red paint.

  “Paint?”

  “Don’t you remember, Carlos? Red paint was used to write the death threat in Guinevere’s library. Suspicious, right?” she says.

  I pull the photo of the crime scene out of my pocket and look at it. Could it be the same paint? And if it is . . . we’ve solved our case! “We have to compare this paint to the threat on Guinevere’s wall.”

  “I found the jackpot,” Eliza brags.

  “Maybe. But look what I found.”

  I hand Eliza the letter from Smythe, and she reads it aloud. Her eyes grow wider and wider as she reads, and by the time she finishes, her mouth is a perfect round circle.

  “Do you understand it?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know all the words, but I get the point. Clearly, Smythe is miserable working for Guinevere and was looking to leave. He wanted to work for Patty. If Smythe is unhappy with Guinevere—”

  “You think he could be mad enough to send her death threats?”

  “It’s possible,” Eliza says, her eyes twinkling with the thrill of a good mystery. “This is our best clue yet!”

  “They both a
re,” I say, jerking my head toward the paint can. Should we compare the paint in Patty’s house with the paint at the crime scene? Or should we go straight for Smythe?

  * * *

  TO COMPARE THE PAINT COLORS, CLICK HERE.

  TO CONFRONT SMYTHE, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  AFTER MUCH THINKING, I decide we should investigate Ivy.

  We find her lounging in the lounge. Then we stick to her like tape, like glue, like gum that gets tangled in your hair. We follow her like a shadow. We track her like a bloodhound.

  “Are you following me?” Ivy says at last, as we try to get into her car with her.

  “No,” I say too quickly.

  “Please get away from me.”

  “No can do,” Eliza says. “This is our job.”

  “Fine!” Ivy huffs. Then she drives and drives. From the time I started paying attention to the clock until now, it’s been at least two hours. It’s like the car ride that never ends! Where could she possibly be going?

  I’m just about to complain when Ivy finally stops at an open field with lots of big red tents.

  “HOORAY!” says Frank. “You brought us to the circus!”

  “Actually,” Ivy says, “I enrolled you in clown school. At least now when you pester someone, you’ll get paid for it. Or not. I don’t know the rules of clowning.”

  Then she rolls off in her car, leaving us behind.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “THE RED DOOR!” I shout. “It’s the only one that makes sense!”

  Eliza hums. “I haven’t finished solving it yet.”

  I tap my foot impatiently. “Eliza, come on! We don’t have time! I promise—I solved it!”

  “Let’s GOOOOOO!” Frank hollers, and he hops through the red door.