by Casey Lyall
“What?” Miles sauntered over to pluck the card out of Carl’s hand. “I don’t get a sticky note?”
“They’re business sticky notes, and no, you don’t. Nobody needs to hear from you.” I jerked a nod over to the gate, and Ivy and I headed out. We were halfway down the block when the thumping picked up again.
“Well, that was informative,” Ivy said.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm my pounding heart. Inwardly, I was cursing Marvin for getting us wrapped up in this case. If we kept running into Miles like this, I’d be cursing him outwardly soon enough.
Time to focus on the positive. I jotted down notes while we walked along and hummed in agreement with Ivy’s statement: “It’s one step closer to being done.”
“More importantly,” Ivy said. “Now we’re a step closer to lasagna.”
Chapter Seven
Back at home, Ivy and I got to work in the garage. We were using it as a temporary office since the shack Pops and I built in the backyard would probably cave in if we tried to winterize it. I hung up our coats and Ivy switched on the space heater. Blue creaked in appreciation from her corner.
“Hey, girl.” I patted her handlebars on my way to the desk. Ivy flopped down in the ugly, comfy chair as I got settled. We’d brought the essentials over for the winter move: filing cabinet, town map, resource library. My framed pictures of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade and Philip Marlow had made the trip as well. Pops had set up a couple of hooks so we could hang our hats underneath them.
Ivy reached out and grabbed her charcoal-gray fedora, plopping it on her head as she put her feet up on the arm of the chair. I followed suit, setting mine at a low angle, the brown brim resting on my ears. Nothing like a good hat to get the brain juices going.
Spinning around in my chair, I looked at the map. A pin marked Carl’s house, and that was about it. “We know how they got in but have no clue where they went.”
“It’s still more than we knew yesterday,” Ivy said.
I snagged a pack of Juicy off the desk and tossed a piece in my mouth.
“Ooh, me, me.” Ivy held out her hands.
“Remember that time when you were supposed to supply your own gum?” I lobbed the pack over to her. She grinned as she popped out two pieces.
“Nope.”
Ah, partners. “Okay, case file,” I said. “Let’s write up what we got. Maybe if we’re organized, we’ll have this sorted out sooner rather than later.”
Ivy and I flipped open our notebooks, writing up what we had gathered over the last couple of days. She jumped up when she was done, ripping her pages out and waving her hand in the air for mine. I passed the pages over and she shoved them in the filing cabinet.
“Did you put those under C for Carl or D for Dean?”
“Mine are under P for Pain in the Butt Pug Case, and yours are under M for Miles is a Jerk.”
I supposed that made as much sense as any.
“Lasagna time?” Ivy did a little jig on the spot.
“Not yet.” Something had been nagging at me since we left Carl’s. “What was Miles talking to you about?”
“Hm?” Ivy busied herself with settling her hat back on the hook.
“When we were finishing up on the scene, Miles had you off to the side, yacking your ear off. What was that all about?”
She fiddled with her sleeve and turned to face me. “He wants to help.”
I snickered, stopping when Ivy failed to join in. “Why aren’t we laughing? This could only possibly be a joke.”
“He knew you wouldn’t listen to him, so he was trying to talk to me,” she said. “Carl’s his friend, and he wanted to see if he could help with the case. He doesn’t want Carl booted from the team forever.”
“I wouldn’t trust anything Miles has to say.” I tossed my own hat onto the desk and ran a hand through my hair. “There’s always an angle,” I said. “Only a matter of time before you figure out what it is.”
“I told him we had it covered, but . . .” Ivy trailed off.
“But what?”
“He seemed really serious about it. I kind of wanted to believe him.”
“Shades of old Miles rearing its head,” I said. “Trust me, it won’t last.” I had a year’s worth of anecdotal evidence to back that up. Everything from broken promises and radio silence to hallway taunts and bathroom swirlies. My friend as I had once known him was gone. Anything indicating otherwise meant trouble. “Steer clear of him, if you can. The sooner we finish this case, the sooner we can go back to avoiding Carl and pretending Miles doesn’t exist.”
“You don’t think he could be for real?” Ivy played with the pens on the desk. “Maybe this is his way of trying to patch things up?”
“Ivy, Miles doesn’t do a single thing without it suiting his own purpose. He’s not trying to patch things up. If he is—” There was a thought too bizarre to wrap my head around. I wasn’t about to try. “If he is, that’s too bad. The damage is done.”
“You wouldn’t want to give him a chance, if he was?” Ivy looked up. “Trying to reach out, I mean?”
I shook my head. On my list of priorities, focusing on reality was definitely higher than waiting for Miles to come around. “He can help Carl if he wants, but he’s on his own. And he’d better stay out of our way.”
“So, you’re firmly Team No Forgiveness then. Shut the door and move on?” It was faint, but I caught the tiniest tremor in her voice.
“Are we still talking about Miles?”
“Mostly.” Ivy sighed. “Kind of not,” she said. “There was no phone call this week.”
“Ah.” Now I understood. Ivy’s mom left her and her dad last year. That was one of the main reasons they moved to Grantleyville. Ivy had been getting into trouble, and her dad thought they needed more support, so they came to stay with her grandma. Ivy heard from her mom off and on, but things were rocky at best. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Whatever. My dad wanted me to call her, but I said no.” Ivy scrunched her eyebrows together. “If she wants to call, she’ll call. I’m not putting anything out there.”
With some people, the lone guarantee was that they were going to disappoint you. “Know what I think?”
My partner looked up from the stain on the concrete floor she was attacking with the toe of her boot. “What do you think?”
“We have positively, absolutely, one-hundred-percent earned ourselves some lasagna.”
Ivy rubbed her belly and let out a growly laugh. “I agree.”
Grabbing our coats, I flipped off the heater, and we ran inside the house. Pops looked up from the stove as we stomped our boots on the rug. A delicious cheesy tomato smell filled the air.
“Excellent timing, kids,” he said. “Supper’s almost ready.”
Ma came into the kitchen, a smile lighting up her face when she caught sight of Ivy. “Hi, sweetie! Are you staying for dinner?”
“If that’s okay.” Ivy paused in taking off her coat.
“Of course,” Pops said. “You’re always welcome here.”
My partner grinned as Ma took her arm, towing her over to the kitchen table. “You’ve both been running around all weekend. We want to hear what you’ve been up to.”
“Not so fast,” my old man said as he pulled on his oven mitts. “Skip any of the bits that’ll make us accessories.”
“Why bother asking then?” Eileen sauntered into the kitchen and pulled up a chair.
“We can tell you a bit,” Ivy said, settling in at the table. “It all started when I was at the bakery. Let me back up for a second. Has Howard told you his ridiculous policy on tackling?”
I made a mental note not to let Ivy be in charge of any future case recaps.
Chapter Eight
The next morning slunk in, dragging a drizzly, snowy rain along with it. Typical Monday dramatics. “It’s not like anybody asked you to come,” I muttered out the bedroom window. “You just show up.” Digging through the clothes on my ch
air, I found a relatively clean shirt and grabbed last night’s half-eaten apple off my bookshelf. Doors slammed as everyone rushed around getting ready for work and school. I wandered down to the kitchen.
“Can I get a ri—” No point in talking to an empty room. I peeked out the kitchen door in time to see my folks drive away. Rotten timing all around. My lunch and an umbrella sat on the counter. Message received. Slipping into my lucky coat, I rolled up the bottom and tied it around my waist. It’d only taken one outing to learn that in this kind of weather, floor-length, absorbent outerwear was not my friend. I threw a jacket on over it, grabbed my stuff, and ran out the door.
Ivy was waiting for me at the corner. “You look cozy.”
Any retort I had fell from my lips as I gave her umbrella a once-over. “Is that a flamingo?”
“Mm, yes, it is.” She twirled the pink monstrosity by its beaky handle. “Thank you for noticing.”
“I think people in the next county noticed.”
“I’m not explaining fashion to you again, Howard,” Ivy said, turning to start the climb up Maple Street.
“Well, thank goodness for that.”
We tilted our umbrellas against the elements and forged ahead. A frigid gust of wind whipped through the street, knocking us together and tangling our spokes. I sorted my umbrella out from Ivy’s and looked up to see a dark figure standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Augh!”
“What?” Ivy whipped around. “Augh!”
Carl, dripping wet and unamused, held out a soggy piece of paper. “Suspects.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed the list. “Could’ve done without the heart attack, though. I thought it was the off-season for lurking.” Tim and Carl staked this corner out all fall, relieving us of lunch items and spare change—usually by force. Winter had driven their enterprise indoors. Now they accosted kids in the school’s hallways and bathrooms. Although since they’d parted ways, who knew if Tim would continue on without a heavy at his side?
Scanning through the slightly blurred names quickly, I passed the page over to Ivy. “Pretty broad pool here. Your coach. Rest of the team. Miles know he’s on the list?”
“He suggested it,” Carl said, holding me in a steady gaze. “Said you’d probably put him on there, anyway.”
I couldn’t deny it and I wasn’t about to argue. Typical of Miles to take away the pleasure I’d get from writing his name down myself. “We do need to eliminate everyone,” I said.
“Stoverton Stallions.” Ivy looked up from the paper. “Who are they?”
“Team from the next town,” Carl said. “They’re our biggest rivals. Wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to mess with us.”
“Okay,” I said. “This is a start. We’ll let you know what we find out.”
We took a step forward, but Carl stayed rooted in place, his wide frame blocking any exit. I glanced at Ivy and she shrugged. “Was there something else?” I asked him.
Carl shuffled his feet, rain rolling down his nose as he checked around for witnesses. Nervousness tickled the back of my neck. I didn’t know whether to hear what he was leading up to or to make a break for it.
“Keep it discreet, okay?” He pulled on his ear, pained by the length of our conversation. “I don’t need this all over school.”
That irked me. Sure, clients did the hiring, but that didn’t mean they got to dictate how to run the job. Especially when they weren’t paying me. Any indication I would put in less-than-stellar work was unacceptable.
“Look, Carl,” I said. “You guys came to us. We’re going to run this case how we see fit. Trust us to do our job.”
“Just try and stay subtle,” he said, edging past us to walk down the sidewalk.
“I promise you’ll get what you paid for.”
Carl froze and glared back at me. “You’d think a discounted rate would mean you’d talk less.”
“You know what they say: talk is cheap.” I grinned and Ivy groaned.
“Quit while you’re ahead,” she muttered.
“We’ll let you know when we have updates,” I said, waving Carl away.
He stalked off toward school and we followed at an amiable pace. Ivy scratched her nose, shooting me a look. “You know, he has a small point.”
“How so?”
“We’re going to have to be superstealthy with this case. Have you forgotten that we’re banned from investigating on school grounds? Or during the week, for that matter?”
I opened up the side door to the school and frowned as we entered the hallway. Right. That was going to make things interesting. The first case we’d worked together had gotten a little out of hand, and the school administration had overreacted. To me, it was Detection 101—if you want to solve a case, you’re going to have to do a little breaking and entering. Our principal, Mrs. Rodriguez, disagreed, and parents had gotten involved. Strictly speaking, the hours of operation for Wallace and Mason Investigations were Saturday, Sunday, and every other Friday. But special cases called for special circumstances. I considered this to be emergency overtime.
“We’re P.I.s,” I said, heading into our classroom. “If we can’t get away with a secret investigation, we should turn in our detective cards now.”
Ivy and I had barely made it into our seats when the loudspeaker crackled to life. As soon as morning announcements were done, there was a knock at the door. Ms. Kowalski, our homeroom teacher, scowled as she answered it: “May I help you?”
Mr. Williams stepped into our classroom. “Hey, Ms. K,” he said, scanning the room. “I’m looking for two of yours. Howard Wallace and Ivy Mason?”
“What business do you have with my students, Mr. Williams?” Ms. Kowalski spat out the name like it burned her tongue. There was only one reason Carl’s coach would be asking to see us. I risked a peek back at Ivy. She was studiously pretending to read a book while attempting to listen in on the conversation.
“I have something urgent that I need to speak with them about,” Mr. Williams continued. “They’ll be back soon. Don’t fret.”
“We’re in class, Mr. Williams. Surely this can wait.” Ms. Kowalski moved to close the door.
“Afraid I have to insist,” he said. “Got permission from Mrs. Rodriguez. Won’t take a minute. Honest.”
Ms. Kowalski sniffed and snapped her gaze back at the class. “Howard Wallace and Ivy Mason. Mr. Williams would like to see you.”
Unbelievable. That had to be some kind of record-breaker for getting busted.
“So,” my partner leaned across the aisle, “where do we turn our cards in?”
Ivy and I followed Mr. Williams to his office, our steps echoing in the silent hallway. He strode ahead like a man on a mission, forcing us into a near run to catch up.
Mr. Williams had a tiny space tucked away beside the locker rooms. It once was used for equipment storage, but the balls and bats had been moved to the new and improved equipment shed. The coach was not so lucky.
He fought with the wire caging that served as his door before wrenching it open and waving us in. After a quick look around, I had to give the man his due. He’d done what he could with the little he had.
Motivational posters lined the walls as well as a small shelf filled with trophies. A few framed newspaper clippings dotted the wall behind his desk—mementos of his brief college basketball career. The bit of greenery on his desk did nothing to compensate for the lingering scent of old sweat and aging rubber.
Ivy wrinkled her nose as we took our seats across from the coach. I snuck a piece of Juicy Smash from my pocket. Maybe my taste buds could distract my nose for the duration of our visit.
“Wallace, Mason,” Mr. Williams began, “thank you for coming. I have something very important I need to talk to you about.”
We sat tight. Rule number eight of private investigation was never tip your hand. Better to find out what he knew before spilling our guts on the whole operation.
“This is going to come as a shock, so prepare yourse
lves.” He took an ill-advised deep breath. “Spartacus has been kidnapped.”
I blinked. “Spartacus? Who’s Spartacus?” The ability to play dumb was one of the P.I.’s greatest weapons.
“Someone named their kid Spartacus?” Ivy cocked her head, playing with her hair.
Mr. Williams’s jaw dropped. “He’s not a kid. He’s a pug.”
“Oh,” said Ivy. “Someone took your dog?”
“Not just my dog,” Mr. Williams sputtered. “The team’s dog. Our school’s dog. Bred from a long line of Grantley family dogs and part of this town’s rich history.”
“Glad we narrowed that down,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.” The coach leaned forward in his chair, hovering his hand over the desk. “You’re here, and I need you to be up here.” He held his hand up near his head.
“With all due respect, sir,” I said, “we’re sorry to hear about Spartacus, but what does that have to do with us?”
“I want you to find him,” he said. “I know you kids solved the student council thing back in October. I think you can handle this job.”
Obviously, word of our previous engagement with this case hadn’t spread yet. At least he hadn’t called us down to ream us out for investigating on school property. That solved the first of our problems.
“We did solve that case, Mr. Williams—”
“Call me Coach.”
“We solved it, Mr. Williams,” I said. “But we’re also banned from investigating at school. I don’t see how we can help you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ve already cleared things with Mrs. Rodriguez. But you have to keep it quiet. Try not to let any of the other students or teachers see you investigating. We don’t want a scene.”
“You want us to investigate without looking like we’re investigating,” Ivy said slowly. “And Mrs. Rodriguez said this was okay?” I couldn’t wrap my head around it either.
Mr. Williams nodded. “You have the full support of the faculty. They want this wrapped up quick. Before Saturday.”
