“Are all those keys accounted for?” I said.
“Yes,” said Zoe. “Every last one, we’ve checked. Next door’s set are kept in a safe.”
“Could someone from outside have made copies?”
Zoe shrugged. “‘I don’t see who, or why. Or when. In any case, why go to the trouble? An outsider would just break in.”
“Which brings us back to the uncomfortable conclusion that it’s what you might call a family matter.”
“Here,” said Zoe, stepping through the mush and heading for the area behind the shop’s sales counter. “The rain the other night washed away the footprints that were outside, as well as the sign on your shed, but we’ve left this one untouched.”
She led me over to a wide, deep staircase that led up to the apartment above the shop, the steps covered in tightly fitted, dark blue carpet. On the bottom step, in mud that was the same grungy color as that patch beside the back door, was the clear imprint of a shoe, heel to the back of the step, toe pointing toward me.
“See there,” said Zoe. “On the heel.”
I peered down at the imprint. Sure enough, there were three little gaps in the dried-up mud, three letters set backwards: B-R-A.
“Bra?” I said, wrinkling up my nose.
“Barry Robert Albieri,” said Zoe. “He’s one of those people that puts his initials on things he owns. Books, clothes, MP3 players, everything. A couple of birthdays ago, someone bought him this sort of little metal stamp thing that indents letters into hard surfaces, and since then he’s even stamped his shoes—though of course the writing’s reversed on the footprint.”
“Good grief,” I murmured. “You’d think that’s a habit he’d want to avoid, with initials like that.”
“He’s always done it, apparently. He used to get into trouble at school for writing BRA in library books. But at least it lets us know for sure it was him who stepped in the muddy patch out the back.”
“Yeeees,” I said. “Very convenient. This is the only footprint?”
“Yes. As I said, the ones outside got washed out in the rain.”
“This staircase is definitely as it was when you found it, when you got back late Saturday night?” I said.
“Yes,” said Zoe. “We haven’t so much as dusted it, and we’ve stepped carefully around that print.”
I only needed to take a brief look at that dried-out footprint to realize the truth. It may have been Barry Albieri’s shoe that made the print, but I seriously doubted his foot had been in it at the time! I had two reasons for thinking that the print had been placed there deliberately, and that Zoe’s Uncle Barry was being framed.
Can you spot them?
* * *
Reason 1: If that shoe had picked up mud from the muddy patch at the back of the shop, how come there was only one footprint to be found? Surely, he’d have left a whole trail of them?
Reason 2: That print was positioned with the toe facing me. In other words, it appeared to have been made by someone coming down the stairs. Not coming from the back door, or from the front of the shop, but coming down from the apartment above. (In any case, the where’s-the-mud problem still applied—if the culprit had come in and gone upstairs first, then how could they possibly have left this one footprint on the way down, and not muddier ones on the way up?)
* * *
“Well?” said Zoe hopefully. “What do you think?”
I didn’t want to say. Once again, Zoe’s mom was Suspect No. 1! Luckily, at that very moment, Suspect No. 1 Mary Rogers called down the stairs to Zoe. The two of us made our way up to the upstairs apartment.
“Zoe, have you done your homework?” said Mary Rogers, emerging from the kitchen with a tea towel in her hands. “Oh, hello, are you Saxby?”
“That’s me,” I said with a grin.
You could tell that Mary Rogers and Barry Albieri were brother and sister: she had the same slender build and, once again, that woomph of hair.
I have to say, Zoe Rogers’s apartment was the messiest place I’d ever seen. And I’ve seen Muddy’s workshop! There were overflowing shelves, things on the floor, stuff draped across the sofa, boxes, piles of books, and a coffee table that looked like it was about to collapse under the weight of odds and ends that were stacked on top of it. The apartment wasn’t dirty, or anything like that, just very, very untidy. My horror must have registered on my face.
“It’s always like this,” said Zoe. “My room’s spotless, but Mom can’t live in anything less than total chaos.”
“It’s not chaos, I know where everything is,” said Mary Rogers.
“It’s a family trait,” said Zoe. “Uncle Barry’s place is even worse. And Auntie Sally’s is even worse than that.”
“Ah, well, Sally does live in chaos,” said Mary Rogers. “No wonder I picked up the wrong box of books the other week.”
“Is that the box that caused an argument?’ I asked. (I was referring to the box Zoe had mentioned in my shed.)
“Shh,” whispered Zoe. “That’s still a sore subject. By the time it was realized what had happened, the books were scattered all over the shop. Sally went ballistic.”
“She didn’t try to get them back?” I whispered.
“No, I don’t think they were valuable or anything, just ones she’d wanted to keep,” whispered Zoe. “But goodness knows why, she couldn’t even remember what the titles of those books were. It would have taken weeks to find them again, in among the thousands. All a bit pointless now, of course. They’re lost forever.”
What Zoe had just said suddenly set me thinking. However, before my thoughts could turn into definite ideas, they were interrupted by a high-pitched voice calling up the stairs.
“Hellooooo? Anyone home?”
“We’re in here!” called Mary Rogers.
A moment later, Zoe’s Auntie Sally (ooooh, the same Sally Albieri whose Inspector Rumbelow books I’d read, ooooh!) appeared, holding a large cardboard box filled with paperbacks.
Sally was, just like Mary and Barry, easily identifiable as one of the Albieri triplets: yup, same build, same hair. However, she wore a fluttery style of clothing that was entirely her own, all frilly bits and swooping lengths of brightly colored material.
“I’ve brought you these,” she said to Mary. “There are only a few dozen, I’m afraid, but I guess you’ll need to start restocking the shop somehow.”
“Thanks, Sal.” Mary hugged her sister, and Zoe’s bottom lip started to go wobbly again.
“Hi!” I piped up. “I’m a great fan of your books.”
“Really?” said Sally, aiming a smile at me that was so utterly lovely I think my insides actually went pop.
“Yes, hello, I’m Saxby Smart, I’ve read all your Inspector Rumbelow books, I thought they were really good, I’ve just finished Inspector Rumbelow Catches the Train, and it’s honestly the…”
Blah blah blah, I think I may have gone a bit gushy at that point. I do apologize.
For some reason, I can’t quite remember the details of the hour or so that followed. This may be because it all passed in a whirl of conversation with Sally Albieri about our favorite crime novels, but I have a feeling it also had something to do with those devastatingly brown eyes of hers. Ahem, ahem.
Anyway…
I suddenly realized I was running late. I’d promised Izzy I’d be at her place before six-thirty.
Before I left, Zoe asked me if I was confident that I’d soon discover the truth about what had happened on Saturday night. At that moment, I couldn’t help noticing her mom’s jacket, the distinctive black and white one, hanging on a peg at the top of the stairs which led back down to the shop.
“Er, yes,” I said, lying. “Pretty confident.”
Chapter Five
“Okay, Izzy,” I said, sinking rapidly into one of the pink beanbags that were dotted around her room. “What y’got for me?”
Izzy spun around on the groovily shaped swivel chair beside her desk, scooping up a handful of pr
intouts as she turned to face me. Specks of light from the glitter ball attached to her ceiling flicked across the floor.
“How’s the investigation going?” she said.
“Not too well,” I said. “Absolutely everything points to Mary Rogers trying to pull off an insurance scam and framing her brother, Barry, into the bargain. And yet she’s got a perfect alibi. I’ve never come across anything quite like it.”
“I’ve found some interesting stuff about Mary Rogers’s brother and sister, the other two thirds of the triplets,” said Izzy. “Barry Albieri has been in trouble with the police.”
“Really?” I said, tapping my chin in the style of a detective. “I thought he had a sketchy vibe about him. What’s he done?”
Izzy handed me some printouts of old newspaper reports. “He used to run a secondhand car business. A few years ago, he was fined for selling a load of stolen vans. Then, just eighteen months ago, his car lot ‘accidentally’ caught fire. He was trying to rip off an insurance company, and he got fined again.”
I tried to sit up straight, but ended up just flopping over to one side. You just can’t sit up straight on a beanbag.
“So,” I said, “in the past he’s done exactly what Mary appears to have done on Saturday night.”
Possibilities raced through my head: Was Barry Albieri the arsonist after all? Was that muddy footprint some sort of bluff, to mislead me? Was Joe involved?
“What about Sally?” I said. “Oh no, don’t tell me she’s been in trouble too?”
“Nope,” said Izzy. “As far as I know, she’s never had so much as a parking ticket.”
I let out a long breath. “Oh, thank goodness for that. I met her earlier on, at Zoe’s place. She’s a fascinating woman, actually, knows almost as much about crime fiction as I do, very intelligent and well-read, it’s a pleasure to talk to someone like her. I’ve just finished reading Inspector Rumbelow Catches the Train, and when I asked her about—”
“Do I detect a hint of lovesick puppy dog in your voice?” said Izzy, barely able to contain a smirk and arching an eyebrow as only Izzy can.
“What?” I cried. “Don’t be ridiculous! It is possible to admire someone without going all mushy, you know.” I tutted loudly. Honestly! Girls! “Come on, then, what have you found out?”
“Just that there’s something about her lifestyle that doesn’t add up,” said Izzy.
“Her lifestyle?”
Izzy gave me another handful of printouts. “Among that lot there’s an article from a magazine called Literature Analysis Today. Unbelievably boring, but also unique.”
I fished out the article. There were several pages of tiny print, broken up by pictures of Sally Albieri standing around in various very large (and very cluttered!) rooms and on a long, wide driveway.
“Unique, how?” I said.
“Because she never normally gives interviews. She never signs books, she never goes on talk shows, she doesn’t have a Web site.”
I shrugged. “She’s a very private person.”
“And apparently a very rich one. Look at those pictures again.”
I peered closely at them. “I see what you mean. This is her house? Good grief, is that her car? They must have cost a small fortune. No, a large fortune. No, a large fortune with an extra giant-sized stack of cash on top!”
“And yet,” said Izzy, “she’s only written six books in the last fourteen years, five of which are no longer available because they sold so badly, including four Inspector Rumbelow mysteries.”
“Maybe she’s a good saver?” I muttered.
“Most writers can barely make a living. For her to have funded all that, plus the holidays in the Caribbean that the article mentions, she’d have to be one of the biggest names in books ever! And she isn’t.”
“Zoe said the tickets for last Saturday night had cost a lot,” I said.
“Ah! I looked that up too,” said Izzy. “Judging by various Web auction sites, Zoe’s auntie must have parted with over a thousand pounds for those tickets.”
“You’re kidding!” I gasped.
“It was the Dance Insanity semifinals, for goodness sake!” cried Izzy. “If I’d had a spare thousand, I’d have bought those tickets!”
“Speaking of Dance Loopy,” I said, “it’s time I got a look at Zoe and the others on last Saturday’s show.”
Izzy suddenly bounced to her feet. “I thought you’d never ask! Come on!” She skipped out of the room like an electrified gazelle.
We hurried downstairs, to the whopping great TV in the living room. Izzy had the entire Dance Insanity competition saved on disk!
“It was sooo exciting this week,” she nattered. “There were just three points in it! The only ones left in now are that really lovely girl who does the weather and the dude who plays the pub owner in Deerpark Drive.”
“Mmm,” I mumbled, totally unimpressed. “I heard.”
Izzy fast forwarded to the start of the main Dance Insanity show. As the theme music ended, an announcer started exclaiming, and the audience started yelling and waving their arms around. Sure enough, just as Zoe had described, the camera made a slow whoosh across the crowd.
“There they are!” said Izzy. “Ohhhh, Zoe’s so lucky!”
On the screen, a shape-zipping-past that looked like it was probably Zoe was sitting in the seat behind a shape-zipping-past that looked like it was probably her mom, Mary Rogers. They were both yelling and waving their arms along with everyone else. Izzy slowed the picture down. In short, jerky movements, the camera tracked away from Zoe and over hundreds more grinning faces and arms being waved, until Zoe’s aunt, Sally Albieri came clearly into view at the other end of the audience. Also yelling and waving her arms. She was in one of her flouncy, frilly outfits.
Izzy ran the picture back up to normal speed. “Those are the only shots of them you get. You can see them flash by in the background here and there, but nothing definite.”
“And you see them again at the start of the results show?” I said.
Izzy skipped ahead to the live 9:55 p.m. results show. Once again, the crowd went wild as the theme music faded. And again, there were Zoe, her mom, and her aunt, exactly as before.
“Wait!” I cried. “Go back a bit!”
Izzy rewound the picture frame by frame.
“Stop there! Look! Do you see?”
“What?” said Izzy. “All I can see are people yelling and waving their arms about.”
“Sally’s shirt,” I said quietly. “The cuffs have gone. She had those big, frilly cuffs on her shirt in the last shot, and now they’re gone.”
Izzy went right up to the screen, squinting at it. “Oh yes. The rest of the shirt is the same, though.”
Something clanged in the back of my mind, like a gong…
“Can we rewind now,” said Izzy, “and watch the really lovely girl who does the weather dancing her waltz? Ohhhh, she’s like a fairy-tale princess. I don’t know why you don’t like dance, Saxby, it takes great skill and split-second timing.”
Split-second timing…
Something else clanged in the back of my mind, only this time even louder.
Suddenly, everything fitted together.
“I think I know what happened!” I cried. I jumped up, ran for the front door, then ran back into the living room. “Izzy, can you get me a timetable for trains between here and London last Saturday?”
“Yes, I can e-mail it to you, but why—?”
“Thanks!”
I ran for the front door, then ran back into the living room again.
“Bye!”
Then I headed straight for my friend Muddy’s house. I phoned him on the way.
“Meet me on the pavement outside your house in ten minutes, with a stopwatch, or something similar.”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” he said. “I’m in the middle of dismantling my bike.”
“No it can’t,” I cried. “Ten minutes!”
Nine minutes and forty
seconds later, I was outside Muddy’s. Muddy emerged from his workshop in the garage (or, as he likes to call it, his Development Laboratory), his hands splattered with oil. He handed me what looked like an alarm clock.
“That’s my Mega-Timer 3000,” he said. “Specially adapted. The minute hand counts seconds and the hour hand counts minutes.”
“Right,” I said doubtfully, scraping some of the oil off it. “I need you to walk up and down the street several times as quickly as you can. There’s something I need to check.”
“Why?” he said, folding his arms. He didn’t like being disturbed in the middle of dismantling his bike.
“Would you believe me if I said it was the key to a mystery surrounding a burned-out bookshop and last Saturday’s semifinal of Dance Insanity?”
“Dance Insanity?” cried Muddy, suddenly perking up. “Oooooh, why didn’t you say so? I never miss it! Have you seen that really lovely girl who does the—?”
“Yesyesyes,” I grumbled. “Not you too!”
“Do you want me to dance along the street? I can!” said Muddy.
“No. Walk. Like you’re in a hurry.”
A few minutes later, my worst fears were confirmed. When I finally got back home, I did two things. First, I arranged a meeting at Zoe’s apartment for after school the following day. Second, I printed out the railway timetable that Izzy had emailed me. Here it is:
Pay careful attention to this timetable. The entire case rested on it. Piecing together clues from what I’d heard and seen, as well as from something I’d recently read, I had uncovered a plot that was as cruel as it was devious.
How much of the jigsaw can you assemble?
Chapter Six
The five faces staring back at me had one thing in common: a look that clearly said, “None of us are comfortable being here like this, so you’d better be right, or else!”
The Pirate's Blood and Other Case Files Page 7
