Who Stole New Year's Eve?

by Martha Freeman

  PYB is Pennsylvania Youth Baseball, the league I play with.

  “That’s interesting,” I said, even though it wasn’t that interesting. All I really cared about just then was the case. And while Coach Hathaway had been talking, I had noticed a wad of gray something that looked a little like sawdust on the ground by the DOLLAR SIGN sign. Could it have been dropped by the thief?

  I bent down for a closer look and found—ewww—that whatever it was had been chewed up.

  “What are you examining, Sherlock?” Coach Hathaway asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I bent closer. “Oh! Sunflower seeds. Do you know anyone who chews sunflower seeds?”

  Coach Hathaway laughed. “Me, for one. You know that, Alex. We played ball all season together.”

  I stood up again. “You didn’t happen to steal Ice Santa and spit this here for me to find later, did you?”

  Coach Hathaway laughed. “If I had, would I be reminding you about my sunflower seed habit? More likely I’d be trying to stomp on the evidence.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Coach Hathaway went with me to look at a few more empty spaces where ice sculptures used to be. There were no more spit-out sunflower husks, and no other clues. I didn’t feel like I was being followed anymore, either. But maybe that was just because I had company.

  As we were walking back toward the police station, Coach Hathaway stopped and pointed at a clean, shiny pickup truck parked on the street. “Here’s my ride,” he said. “Can I take you somewhere?”

  I looked at the truck. “No way that’s yours! It doesn’t even sag!”

  Coach Hathaway laughed. “But it’s got my bumper stickers, right? I just had it overhauled is all—and washed it, too. Gotta get the road salt off in winter or it’ll rust.”

  “Now you sound like Coach Banner,” I said.

  Coach Hathaway grinned. “Next I’ll be cutting off my ponytail. Hop in if you want a ride.”

  I explained about my mom, and he said I could use his phone, so I called her. As usual, she still had work to do.

  “Coach Hathaway has seat belts in that thing, doesn’t he?” she wanted to know.

  I pantomimed putting on a seat belt, and Coach Hathaway nodded.

  “Yeah, he does,” I said.

  “Thank him for me, then,” Mom said.

  “Wait, Mom—one more thing,” I said. “You need the results of my investigation, don’t you? I found a wad of sunflower crud—the husks? It was by Knightly Bank, where the dollar sign was.”

  “So we might be looking for someone who chews sunflower seeds,” Mom said. “Okay, it’s better than nothing. Sophie and Eve phoned in, too. The neighborhood kids put up those flyers for you, so who knows? Maybe someone will call. And the girls found a few neighbors at home to interview. Several people were awakened around three-thirty, but nobody saw anything.” She sighed. “We may just have to wait till somebody talks and word gets back to us here at the PD. It’s bound to happen.”

  On the way to my house, Coach Hathaway told me more about his interest in green technology. It turned out that when the Banner family sold their lawn care business last year, they made some money, and they were planning to invest it in grassoline.

  “Lawn care . . . grassoline. It fits, right?” he said. “I don’t have money like the Banners do, but as I said, PYB might also get involved. Your average baseball field produces a high volume of grass clippings a year, clippings that have the potential to be made into—”

  “Grassoline?” I picked up my cue.

  “Exactly,” said Coach Hathaway. “So PYB and Professor Henry are talking about a partnership, provided his project extends through baseball season.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” I asked.

  Coach Hathaway turned the truck onto Groundhog Boulevard and looked at me sideways. “There’s a rival project at Professor Henry’s old college. They’re trying to do the same thing, so it’s kind of a race. Whoever wins gets the prize, the right to make and sell grassoline. It should mean a lot of money to investors and the college that backs the project.”

  “A race—wow. That’s pretty exciting for something scientific,” I said. “But what happens to the loser?”

  Coach Hathaway made the last turn, onto Chickadee Court. “I don’t think anyone can say for sure. But if it goes the wrong way for the home team, I wouldn’t count on your friend Eve being around till baseball season, either.”

  Inside, I ditched my boots but didn’t bother to take my coat off. I only had a few minutes before I was supposed to meet the girls at Sophie’s. I could hear Dad in the kitchen, so I went in and explained that Coach had brought me home because Mom was working late.

  “On her day off, no less—what else is new?” Dad was sweeping. “Did you find anything out downtown?”

  “Lots, but not much about who stole the ice sculptures.” I explained as quickly as I could—including the part about the costume parade. “Anything new here?” I asked. “Like a piece of pie I could grab before I head out again?”

  “There’s a piece of peach you can have. The filling didn’t gel. Oh, and Yasmeen stopped by. She needed Luau for something.”

  “What?” I asked.

  Dad emptied the dustpan into the trash. “I didn’t ask questions. They were only gone a few minutes.”

  Yasmeen had borrowed Luau? Why?

  I skipped the peach pie and went to find Luau. He was draped across the back of the sofa in the den, looking out the window at the six geese a-laying. In Luau’s opinion, there is always the chance one will get up and run for it. If it does, Luau will be ready.

  “Where’d Yasmeen take you, anyway? Are you okay?” I scratched him behind the ears.

  Luau squinched his eyes, then bumped his nose against my palm. So many questions, so few kitty treats.

  “If I give you one, will you tell me where you were?”

  Luau attempted to roll over so I could scratch his belly, but he miscalculated and rolled off the top of the sofa, and then . . . down, down, down, bump—onto the seat cushion. On the way he scrabbled for a foothold, which looked as if he was doing kitty bicycle exercises in the air.

  Luau looked surprised when he landed—whoa! Then he did a quick face wash to recover his dignity. I meant to do that.

  “Sure you did,” I said, and went to get him a kitty treat.

  When I got back, he was curled up on an orange-and-black afghan on the sofa.

  “So, you’ve been hanging out with Yasmeen, huh?” I dangled the treat over his head.

  Luau rolled over on his back. She needed help, and you were downtown with your new best friend.

  I remembered what Mrs. Miggins had said—that Yasmeen was afraid she might be replaced. “Did Yasmeen say Eve’s my new best friend?”

  For a fat cat, Luau can be surprisingly quick. Now he flipped over and swiped at the kitty treat, knocking it out of my hand. Then, before the treat knew what hit it, he pounced and soon was chewing contentedly. Thanks, Alex. Yummy!

  “Oh, fine.” Without another bribe, I’d never get more information out of him. And he so didn’t need another bribe—not with that belly of his.

  I went to get my coat. I’d be late to Sophie’s, but I had to know. Why had Yasmeen borrowed my cat?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jeremiah was frowning when he opened the front door. This was not a surprise. But was I crazy? Or did he look even more sorrowful than usual?

  “Hey, bud, how you doin’?” I said. “Is Yasmeen home?”

  Jeremiah nodded. “It’s bad.”

  “What’s bad?”

  “The la-la-la,” he said. “Listen.”

  We were quiet for a second, and from somewhere at the back of the house I heard the sound of a piano, and with it a voice singing what was probably supposed to be scales but sounded more like off-key yodeling.

  I winced. “That’s how she practices?”

  Jeremiah nodded. “For hours. I’m not sure I can stand it much longer.” Then he brightened. �
�But she can’t practice while she talks to you, right? So come on in. Stay awhile. I can make you a peanut butter sandwich with any kind of jelly or jam you want.”

  “I can’t stay,” I said, “but I do need to talk to her.”

  Jeremiah said, “Wait right here. I’ll get her.” Then he disappeared.

  The Popps are neat and tidy people, but this time of year their front hall was cluttered like everybody else’s—with coats, scarves hanging from hooks, gloves, and snow boots. I tried to stay on the mat by the door so I wouldn’t track melted snow inside, but there were already puddles on the floor by Yasmeen’s boots.

  As an experienced detective, I knew those puddles meant she had been outside recently. Otherwise the water would have dried up in the warm house. Also, she must not have stayed on the sidewalk when she was outside. The sidewalk was mostly dry. At some point, she’d been walking in somebody’s yard or another place where there was still some snow. But where had she gone? And had she taken Luau with her?

  I took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, then bent down to examine one of Yasmeen’s boots. On the sole were a layer of melting ice, a few salt crystals, mud, blades of grass, and a tiny clump of something else, something gray-brown like sawdust . . . sunflower husks!

  “Alex, what are you doing?” Yasmeen had come into the hall.

  As I stood up, I felt myself blush. “Oh, hi. How’s practicing coming?”

  Yasmeen opened her mouth to answer, but at the same time her mom appeared in the hall behind her. “Alex, it’s so nice to see you,” she said. “Won’t you come in for a minute? We have a guest who would like to meet you.”

  “Uh . . . okay,” I said, thinking this was pretty weird. “But I have, uh . . . a meeting I have to go to. So I can only say hi.” I slipped off my snow boots and left them by the door. Then I followed Yasmeen and Mrs. Popp.

  The Popps’ living room is all cream-colored—the walls, the sofa, and the carpet. Every time I go in there, I’m terrified I’ll leave a smudge. Sitting on a cream-colored chair by the fireplace was the bearded man from the Jensens’ disaster party. I remembered his name at the same time he stood and introduced himself: “Professor Enzo Olivo.”

  I said, “Very nice to meet you, Professor,” and tried to think what I knew about him. He had had the fight with Professor Henry at the party, plus he was the petroleum guy quoted in Tim Roberts’s story about grassoline—the guy who didn’t believe grassoline would ever work.

  “In fact, I believe we’ve met before,” Professor Olivo was saying. “But you were only a very small boy.”

  “We got to know Professor Olivo at church shortly after we moved here from Trinidad,” Mrs. Popp said. “We’ve been friends all this time.”

  “It’s nice to see you again,” I said. “But . . . well, I have this meeting to go to now, and—”

  “Actually, Alex,” Professor Olivo said, “there was something in particular I wanted to say to you.”

  This was getting weird. What could Professor Olivo possibly have to say to me? “Uh . . . , okay. Go ahead.”

  “It’s a bit awkward,” said Professor Olivo. “The thing is, I was hoping you could ask your mother, Detective Parakeet, to meet with me.”

  At least it wasn’t me he was interested in. “Sure,” I said. “No problem. But you could ask her yourself. She works at the police department. The number is—”

  “Two three five—nineteen fifty-two.” Professor Olivo finished my sentence for me. “I know it very well, and in fact we have even had one meeting. But for some reason, she seems to be reluctant to meet again, and it is quite important.”

  I said, “Oh, okay. Then I’ll deliver your message.”

  That’s what I said, but at the same time, I knew if my mom didn’t want to talk to someone, no message from me would change that. In fact, he must really have been bugging her. I mean, who knows the police department phone number by heart?

  Only someone who calls it all the time, and . . .

  Wait a minute.

  For the next few seconds, I must’ve stood there frozen like an idiot. Because finally Mrs. Popp’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Alex? Professor Olivo said thank you.”

  Professor Olivo’s face came back into focus. He looked puzzled.

  “What?” I said. “Oh! I’m sorry. You’re welcome. And now”—I looked over at Mrs. Popp—“I hope you don’t mind, but like I said, I’ve got to get going.”

  Five seconds later I had said goodbye and was in the front hall stepping into my boots. Yasmeen was right behind me. “So, Alex, what was it you came over for?”

  Since by then I was really late, there was no time for what Sophie would call chitchat. “Where did you take my cat?”

  “Who says I took him anywhere?” she said.

  “Uh . . . my dad,” I said.

  Yasmeen backed down. “Okaaay. And how come you’re in such a hurry?”

  “I’m going over to Sophie’s. We’re detecting. You know, I think we’re just about to crack the case.”

  This was a total exaggeration. But I was irritated.

  “So I guess the new girl’s detecting with you?” Yasmeen said.

  “Yeah, she is, and she has a name, you know—Eve.”

  Yasmeen frowned. “So ask Luau, if you want to know where we went. Or don’t you talk to your cat anymore?”

  I finished Velcroing my boots and got to my feet. “He said to ask you.”

  Yasmeen rolled her eyes. “Oh, puh-leez, Alex. This talking to your cat thing was cute when you were little, but you’re a big boy now. Isn’t it time to grow up?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  That last comment, as my mom would say, was uncalled for, and I left the Popps’ house without either getting an answer or saying goodbye to Yasmeen. All down the front walk I was thinking she would yell after me to apologize.

  But she didn’t.

  There was one good thing. I hadn’t had to explain why I was examining her snow boot. What were sunflower husks doing on the sole, anyway? I had seen that other sunflower crud downtown, but Yasmeen and Luau wouldn’t have had time to go downtown.

  At Sophie’s house, her mom answered the door. Mrs. Sikora is tall and wears pink lipstick, sparkly rings on every finger, and pink nail polish. She’s always going to either the spa or the salon. Like Sophie, she talks a lot. Also like Sophie, she’s not as dumb as you first think she is. “Alex, sweetheart, nice to see you. Did you have a good holiday? I don’t think I’ve seen you since the disaster party at the Jensens’.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Sikora. I did have a nice holiday, thank you. How was your holiday?”

  Mrs. Sikora waved me inside and led me downstairs to the family room, all the time describing her Christmas, with emphasis on presents. It was like listening to one of those shopping shows you see while you’re flipping channels.

  “Mom!” Sofie was sitting on a plaid sofa with Eve. “You’re talking his ear off!”

  Mrs. Sikora has had plenty of practice ignoring her daughter. Now she winked at me and Eve before heading back upstairs. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  I was planning to tell Sophie she ought to be nicer to her mom—but first there was something else I wanted to say. See, for once I was kind of proud of myself. I had figured out who Mom and Ms. Price’s persistent tipster was: Professor Olivo.

  It had to be!

  And that meant he was the one worried about poison bombs on the highway, not to mention his funding at the college. I didn’t know what any of that meant, but I did remember that Ms. Price had slipped and said “Professor” when she was talking about whoever it was that was calling my mom. This town is full of professors. But professors who have the police department phone number memorized?

  Eve and Sophie listened patiently while I explained. When I was done, Sophie said, “Very smart, Alex. And what does it have to do with the missing sculptures?”

  “Uh . . . well, Professor Olivo doesn’t like Professor Henry—and Eve is Prof
essor Henry’s daughter, and her birthday present was stolen. So that’s kind of a connection, right?”

  “Okaaay,” Sophie said. “But even if a grown-up college professor would steal a kid’s ice sculpture just to be mean—he wouldn’t steal a whole bunch of other ice sculptures, would he?”

  “Well,” I said, “yeah. I’m not saying he’s necessarily the thief.”

  “Good try, though, Alex,” Sophie said. “But now we need to tell you what we’ve been doing all afternoon. We’ve been busy, haven’t we, Eve?”

  Eve nodded, but I noticed she looked a little traumatized. Hours alone with Sophie will do that to you.

  Sophie started listing accomplishments. These included posting the particulars of the costume pet parade on the Web, then designing and sending e-mail invitations to everyone in their contact lists. Most kids RSVP’d right away.

  That was the pet parade part of their assignment. As for detecting, I already knew from Mom that Sophie and Eve had interviewed the neighbors on Chickadee Court. Now Sophie filled in the details.

  “The crime must have happened around three-thirty a.m.,” she said. “Mrs. Snyder, Mr. Blanco, and Mrs. Swanson all heard someone driving on Chickadee Court at around the same time. Mr. Blanco figured it was the newspaper being delivered early. But then, when his dog kept barking, he went downstairs and saw somebody driving down Chickadee toward Groundhog Boulevard. There was no moon, but he thought it was a pickup truck, an old one with the round kind of bumpers. And he thought there was only the driver, no passengers.

  “I asked him if there was something in the back—like a kid-sized ice statue of a girl—and he said he couldn’t be sure but it was possible,” Sophie concluded.

  Now it was Eve’s turn. She might be a little traumatized, but she definitely liked this detective thing. “The pickup truck didn’t have any lights on!” she said. “Mr. Blanco thought that was strange, but he was half asleep so he didn’t do anything about it, just went back to bed.”