Mystery in the Mansion

by Lauren Magaziner

  ELIZA, FRANK, AND I refuse to move. As Otto crashes into us, he knocks us over like bowling pins. We fly off the bridge and plummet down into the netting above the alligator pit.

  Only this time, the netting doesn’t hold up. It sinks down so low that the alligators get a good bite out of it, and we go rolling into the pit.

  The last thing I see is the pink inside of an alligator’s throat . . . before it swallows me whole.

  CASE CLOSED.

  THERE ARE MANY screams now. Echoing all through the halls.

  We sprint to the source of the sound: the foyer of Guinevere’s enormous house. When we arrive, I gasp at the scene.

  The chandelier has shattered all over the floor, with sharp glass pieces everywhere. In the middle of the circular room is a giant doll, dressed up in necklaces and gems. It’s made to look like Mrs. LeCavalier, I think. But the scariest part is that the doll’s eyes have been scratched out, and there’s a knife in the doll’s heart.

  For the first time since we stole this mystery from my mom, I think that maybe we should have let adults handle it. This is really, really scary.

  Everyone is statue still. Smythe is on the other side of the foyer, openmouthed. Guinevere is standing near the front door with a woman who looks exactly like a younger version of her. It must be her daughter, Ivy.

  And standing in the shadows is a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before. He has dark, slicked-back hair and a greasy goatee.

  “Detectives!” Guinevere cries. “Thank goodness you’re here!”

  “Who’s that?” I say, pointing to the oily man.

  The man smirks at me. “Joe Maddock, attorney-at-law.”

  Right. Guinevere’s lawyer.

  “Carlos, look,” Eliza says in my ear. “What’s around the doll’s neck?”

  I take a tiny step forward. Then another. Then another—

  “STEP ON THE GLASS AND YOU BREAK YOUR MAMA’S BACK!” Frank calls.

  “That’s crack, not glass,” Eliza corrects, and Frank just sticks his tongue out at his sister.

  When I reach the doll, its scratched-out eyes make me shiver. Around its neck is a tiny bottle with a note inside. I tip the bottle, and the note flutters into my palm.

  LAST CHANCE.

  ALTHOUGH . . .

  DEATH LOOKS GOOD ON YOU, GUINEVERE. ☺

  A chill prickles up my spine. Creepy!

  “What happened here?” I ask Guinevere.

  Guinevere clutches her daughter. “As soon as we walked in the door, the chandelier came crashing down.”

  “Mrs. LeCavalier,” Maddock says. “My legal advice is that you should prepare to meet this criminal’s demands.”

  Guinevere wails, “I would . . . if only I knew how to find the treasure!”

  “I could help you, Mom,” Ivy says, patting her mother’s shoulders. “We could search the house together again.”

  “What we need,” Smythe grumbles from across the room, “is to catch the culprit. What have you kids—I mean, detectives—found? Anything useful?”

  Eliza gulps and looks at me, and I know she’s waiting for me to speak. It’s weird and new and different to be the leader.

  We have two major suspects, and all I have to do is accuse one. But which one?

  * * *

  TO SHARE SUSPICIONS ABOUT SMYTHE, CLICK HERE.

  TO SHARE SUSPICIONS ABOUT PATTY SCHNOZZLETON, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “I CAN’T THINK of any more questions,” I say.

  “Good, then am I free to go?” Patty says, looking longingly at her own house. “My wittle doggie-woggies are waiting. They probably miss me oodles.”

  “If we have any more questions—” I start to say.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ll come find me,” Patty says. “But the more you investigate me, the more Guinevere’ll be in trouble. . . .” She pauses. “On second thought, come over for as long as you want!”

  “GOOD-BYE!” Frank shouts as he tackle-hugs her around the middle.

  “Oh dear!” she says, patting Frank on the head. “Get off now, that’s a good boy.”

  “Frank!” Eliza says—and it takes both her and me to pull Frank off.

  The moment she’s free, Patty walks the length of the bushes and waddles down Guinevere LeCavalier’s lawn.

  “Adults are weird,” I say when Patty is out of earshot.

  Eliza nods. “What are we going to do now?”

  But then Frank tugs on her shirt. “Aren’t we going to look at this?” He holds out his hand. In his palm is a bright pink phone.

  “Whose phone is this, Frank?” I ask, even though I already know what he’s going to say.

  “Patty Schnozzlepoop’s, duhhhhhhhhh! I stole it!”

  I look at Eliza. “Should we?”

  “On the one hand, a person’s phone is very private . . . on the other hand, we have to look.”

  I peer over the bushes, and Otto is nearby, mowing the lawn. “Come on,” I hiss, and we crawl along the hedge—once we reach the very end, we turn right, so that we’re hiding near the garage. We’re covered by the shade from the house’s enormous shadow, which is nice because it’s sticky hot outside, and even hotter on the blacktop.

  I peer around, just to make sure we’re alone. The garage doors are open, but there’s no one around, and we can’t see Otto anymore from this angle.

  Okay, phone time!

  I pull the phone out of my pocket and try to wake it up, but there are some weird boxes on it with some numbers and blank spaces. I’ve never seen a password like this before!

  “What in the world is this?” I ask Eliza, passing her the phone.

  “Sudoku!” Eliza exclaims.

  “And . . . how do we solve it?”

  Eliza points to the screen. “Each column and each row must contain the numbers one through four. But you can’t repeat any of the numbers in the same row or column.”

  “Okay?”

  “Take the first column. There’s a three at the top corner and a four at the bottom corner. We know the remaining two numbers in this column have to be one and two.”

  I nod. I think I’m getting it so far.

  “So then we look at the rows. Since there’s a one in the second row, we know we can’t repeat it in the same row. So that box has to be for the number two.” She types it into the box.

  “Okay, I think I got it now!” I grab the phone from her. Then I bite my lip and think. Every row and every column has to contain a one, two, three, and four. So if we already have two, three, and four in the first column, then the last number has to be . . . “One!” I say out loud. “We’ll crack this in no time, Eliza!”

  * * *

  WHEN YOU HAVE SOLVED THE PUZZLE, ADD UP THE NUMBERS IN THE HIGHLIGHTED BOXES AND MULTIPLY THE SOLUTION BY TWO.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 40, CLICK HERE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 60, CLICK HERE.

  TO GET A HINT FROM ELIZA, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I UNPLUG WIRE C, and immediately the air vent goes ka-thunk and turns off.

  “HOORAY! YOU DID IT!” Frank and Eliza shout, and they both start dancing around the tiny room, linking elbows.

  I wipe my wet forehead with my wet T-shirt. I think I’d be drier if I’d just taken a dunk in a swimming pool.

  Eliza coughs, clearly trying to get my attention. When I look at her, she seems nervous. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she whispers. “We don’t know whether Otto—I mean, Preston—is lurking outside the room. He could attack again.”

  Now that the heat is off, we could send Frank through the air vent to go get help. Or we could search for a key. Or maybe we could just scream until, hopefully, Smythe hears us.

  * * *

  TO SEND FRANK THROUGH THE AIR VENT, CLICK HERE.

  TO SEARCH FOR A KEY, CLICK HERE.

  TO SCREAM FOR HELP, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “QUICK, IN HERE!” I wheeze, and I pull Eliza and Frank into Ivy’s closet with me. I shut t
he door just in time.

  “I know we need the money. I know we’re broke! Don’t you think I know that?” Ivy’s voice shouts. “I’m working on it!”

  I almost gasp. Her voice isn’t the sweet, soft voice that it was before. Now her voice is loud, angry, and bossy.

  “Look, Walter!” she says, and I realize she’s talking to someone on the phone. “I will get us the money for your restaurant. But Mom still refuses to give me a dime unless I divorce you, just like last ti—NO! Walter! That would never happen, baby! I love you!”

  Silence . . . except for the sound of Ivy pacing the room. Frank starts to fidget behind me, and Eliza holds him tight.

  “Walter, she cut me out of her will. Remember how she threatened to do it when I married you? I thought she was bluffing, but she really did cut me out. And even now, when I’m pretending to make up with her, she’s not letting me touch any money.”

  A pause.

  “Walter . . . I’m figuring it out! My only chance is to find the treasure before anyone else does. Mom will never know it went missing, since she doesn’t even know how to get it.”

  The floorboards creak under her feet.

  “Of course I didn’t tell those kids where the entrance to the tunnels is,” she says.

  I freeze. She knows where the entrance to the treasure tunnels is? And she lied to us!

  “Don’t worry, baby,” Ivy says. “I got this. Love you! Bye!”

  My brain is shouting. She’s after the treasure! It’s her! It’s her! It’s her!

  * * *

  TO HIDE IN THE CLOSET UNTIL IVY LEAVES, CLICK HERE.

  TO FACE IVY NOW, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “WHAT WAS THE fight between you and your mom about?”

  Ivy’s hands tremble around her teacup, and it clatters against the saucer.

  “When I said . . . I didn’t mean . . .” She coughs, very daintily, into a handkerchief she’s pulled from her pocket. “Let’s not dwell on the past.”

  “No, we should dwell,” I say. Judging from her response, it seems like she wants to hide something. And it’s my job to find out what that is. “Take me down memory lane,” I say. “After all, you have nothing to hide, right?”

  “Of course not!” she says. Her eyes dart to the door, and then she looks back at us with a half-hearted smile. “I . . . uh . . .”

  “So the fight with your mom,” I remind her. “What happened?”

  She squirms on her chair like a wiggly worm. Eliza, Frank, and I spent our whole spring rescuing worms when it rained. They’d be all wriggly on our driveways, and we’d dig holes in the mulch and bury them again before the birds could swoop down and eat them.

  That’s exactly what Ivy looks like now. A worm about to get eaten.

  “Oh, well, nothing really happened. Nothing interesting, anyway.” Ivy titters. “Long story short? Mom and I just don’t talk much anymore.”

  “Why?” Frank asks.

  “Well, she didn’t really like my boyfriend—now husband—at the time.”

  “Why?” Frank asks.

  “B-because he isn’t very wealthy.”

  “Why?” Frank asks.

  “Because he is unemployed, and his mom is a receptionist, and his dad is a plumber.”

  “Why?” Frank asks.

  “I suppose . . . because they like it?”

  “Why?” Frank asks.

  “Okayyyyy!” Eliza interrupts, putting her hand over Frank’s mouth. “That’s enough of the why game.”

  “I—I just can’t discuss this anymore,” Ivy says dramatically, putting her hand on her forehead. “It’s very upsetting.”

  I don’t know. It seems phony to me. A well-rehearsed act . . .

  I’m not sure what to do next. On the one hand, this is important. What if the fight contains a clue to the mystery?

  Then again, I have the same feeling now that I did when we were deciding whether to question Guinevere LeCavalier about her husband’s son, Preston. I have a sneaking feeling that this fight is something I shouldn’t bring up with Ivy, even if I want to. Ivy might get mad or shut down. And sometimes, Mom says, knowing when to step away from a suspect is just as important as knowing when to trudge on.

  * * *

  TO ASK IVY MORE ABOUT THE FIGHT BETWEEN HER AND HER MOTHER, CLICK HERE.

  TO END THE CONVERSATION, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I DON’T THINK I should try anything.

  A moment later, the opportunity passes. When Otto looks up from the treasure chest, he is mad. Steaming mad. Head-in-the-broiler mad. He turns kind of purplish.

  “WHAT IS THIS?” he roars.

  He kicks the treasure chest across the cave, and hundreds of feathers fly out of it, along with a single piece of paper. I pick it up and read out loud:

  Congratulations! You’ve solved the treasure hunt! In this chest, you have found my collection of the best tickling feathers in the world. Trust me, they’re ticklelicious!

  I snort.

  “Well, Guinevere did say her husband was eccentric,” Eliza groans.

  “Still,” I say. “At least we caught the culprit.”

  “You haven’t caught me yet,” Otto growls. “In fact—I’ll catch you first!”

  He lunges, grabs my head like a football, and runs down the hall with me. My arms and legs are flailing behind. We run through caves and caverns I’ve never seen, with wet, drippy walls and slimy ceilings. I squirm, but Otto’s holding me too tight.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He doesn’t answer; he just yanks me around a corner. My head is going to pop off my neck if he doesn’t let go soon.

  We finally reach a long ladder that goes so high, I can’t even see the top. Otto pulls me up the ladder by my neck. I swear, by the end of this day, I’ll be a giraffe.

  The exit leads right into a toolshed . . . I think. It’s a tiny one-room space with gardening tools littered everywhere. The walls are covered with pictures of Guinevere—some with her eyes scratched out, some with devil horns, some normal, but they cover every single space on the walls in a creepy collage.

  Otto’s level of obsession is clearly unhealthy. And terrifying.

  “Let me go!” I shout, hoping someone from Guinevere’s house will hear.

  But Otto opens a drawer and stuffs something into my mouth . . . marshmallows! And . . . yes, peanut butter! It’s so sticky and fluffy that I can’t talk.

  Otto hides me under a blanket and carries me. I try to kick, but it doesn’t work, and when he finally takes the blanket off me, I’m in the passenger seat of a car. Otto hops into the driver’s seat, presses the gas, and we zoom down the road.

  By the time my mouth gets unstuck, we’ve arrived at Otto’s house. Or as I like to call it: his EVIL LAIR.

  I spend the next two years being Otto’s evil minion, doing all sorts of wicked super-villain tasks. By the time I’m finally reunited with Mom and Eliza and Frank, I don’t even know how not to be evil anymore. Otto has passed on all of his dastardly ways. Muahahahahahahaha.

  CASE CLOSED.

  I ENTER THE words in the keypad, and the box clicks open. Inside, there’s a diary.

  Eliza opens the diary to the first page and begins skimming. She’s turning the pages so fast it’s like she’s playing with a flip-book, not reading the words.

  “Anything interesting?” I prod.

  “She keeps talking about her secret lover schmoopsie-poo—her words, not mine—but she doesn’t actually name him. Useless. And she has two entries in here about soap. Useless and boring— Wait!”

  Eliza pauses and pulls the diary closer to her face. As her eyes go back and forth across the page, they grow wider and wider.

  “What? What did you find?!”

  “GIMME!” Frank says, yanking the diary out of her hands. It flies across the room.

  “Frank!” Eliza and I cry.

  Eliza retrieves the diary and places it gently back in the box. “You’ll never guess,” she say
s, sounding all excited. “But Patty has an entry about Smythe.”

  “Smythe! Is he her secret boyfriend?”

  “Ewwwwwwww, cooties!” Frank says.

  “I don’t know. But Patty says Smythe is so mad at Guinevere that he wants to leave her employment, after thirty years of working with her. Smythe asked Patty to hire him as a butler!”

  I blink, which is not the reaction Eliza wants, because she sighs loudly.

  “Carlos! Smythe taking a job with Patty would be, like, the ultimate slap in the face to Guinevere.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Patty says Smythe feels mistreated by Guinevere.”

  We knew Smythe was mad, but mistreated? I wonder what that means. Did something happen between the two of them? Did they get in a fight?

  “We have to get more information out of Smythe,” I say. “This feels like a big clue!”

  “At least now we know that he’s mad for a reason. We just need to find out what that reason is!” Eliza says. “We should go confront him.”

  “Fight, fight, fight!” Frank chants.

  “Or . . . ,” I say, and I tell Eliza and Frank all about the paint I found in the garage. How it looks exactly like the paint used in the second death threat. Patty looks just as suspicious as Smythe with this new clue.

  So which lead do we follow up on?

  * * *

  TO EXAMINE THE SCENE OF THE SECOND DEATH THREAT, CLICK HERE.

  TO CONFRONT SMYTHE, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “CAN WE TALK about the death threats, Mrs. Guinevere LeCavalier madame ma’am your highness?” I say, trying to be as respectful as possible.

  “Of course. The first threat was made from cut-up magazine letters. Hold on . . . Smythe! THE FIRST THREAT!”