Or “Lovely evening,” he’d say. “But could you keep it lovely and not talk on your cell phone so loud? Some of us appreciate peace and quiet.”
Mr. Getzler scowled at Uncle Jim and jerked his thumb at the baseball diamond.
“Well, hurrah for you,” he said. “But FYI, that isn’t an airport. Didn’t you notice that your No-O-Possum-Plane or whatever is squashing the pitcher’s mound?”
Uncle Jim slowed to glower at Mr. Getzler. It was a good glower, too. Janet had seen it strike fear into the hearts of hardened criminals. But Mr. Getzler didn’t even blink.
“That field’s township property,” he said. “My tax dollars pay for that.”
Uncle Jim broke off his glare.
“I’ll send a check,” he grumbled.
He pushed a button on his Possum Belt, and a ramp lowered from the Night Glider. He led Janet and Albus up it as Amy the Chihuahua continued to yap at them.
“Bye, Mr. Getzler!” Janet said.
“Tell your buddy to use Uber next time!” Mr. Getzler called back.
Uncle Jim, Janet, and Albus stepped onto the flight deck of the Night Glider, and the ramp started to pull itself up.
“Prepare for takeoff,” Uncle Jim said.
He sat in the pilot’s seat, buckled himself in, and started pushing buttons and flipping switches.
Janet walked to the copilot’s seat and found a neatly folded unitard and goggles sitting on the cushion. It was an outfit just like Uncle Jim’s, except that the tail was fluffy with black rings and there were two red initials on the gray fabric: RG.
“What’s this?” Janet asked.
“Your new costume,” said Uncle Jim, “Raccoon Girl.”
Janet heaved a sigh. At least it was an improvement over the last name Uncle Jim had come up with. For months, he’d tried to convince her to be “Trash Panda”—even after she’d refused to wear anything with “TP” written on it.
Janet picked up the new costume, put it on the floor, and sat down.
“So . . . where to this time?” she said as she strapped herself in.
Uncle Jim looked down at the Raccoon Girl outfit. Albus pawed at it, then curled up on it as if it were a dog bed.
“The Museum of Art,” Uncle Jim said. “There’s been a robbery.”
“Wow,” said Janet. “Shocker.”
She was being sarcastic. When Uncle Jim came to her dressed as Possum-Man, it wasn’t to go get pizza.
The Night Glider rose over the suburbs where she lived and streaked toward Cleveland.
Ten minutes later, the Night Glider landed on the museum roof. It was hard to get Albus to stay—he kept running down the ramp beside Janet—but finally Uncle Jim remembered that he had some Possum Bars, and he broke two into pieces and scattered them across the flight deck floor. (The “Possum Bars” were just Pop-Tarts, Janet knew, but she didn’t contradict him.)
Uncle Jim and Janet hurried out and retracted the ramp while Albus happily snorked up Possum Bar bits.
“Now,” said Uncle Jim, “to the scene of the crime.”
He was still using his Possum-Man voice, which sounded like someone with laryngitis impersonating Darth Vader.
He led Janet to a hole in the roof. It was about eight feet across, and far below it, on the museum floor, was a pile of rubble.
“Subtle,” Janet said.
“It worked,” said Uncle Jim. “They were able to get in and disable the alarms. Only one thing gave them away.”
“The big hole in the roof?” Janet said. “Which you happened to see when you flew by on patrol?”
Uncle Jim gave her his Possum-Man nod: a single, brusque, downward jerk of the head. “Exactly. You have a sharp mind, Raccoon Girl. That’s why I—”
“Janet,” Janet corrected. “Just Janet.” She pointed down into the museum. “Could we move this along, please? Test in the morning, remember?”
There was a loud, deep woof behind them, and they turned to see Albus watching them from the pilot’s seat of the Night Glider.
“You don’t want to leave him alone in there long,” Janet said. “We’d just started our walk when you showed up, know what I mean?”
Albus barked again and wagged his tail.
“Right,” said Uncle Jim.
He drew his Possum Gun from his Possum Belt, shot a Possum Hook into the roof, and tossed the attached Possum Cable into the hole.
He held an arm out to Janet. She gritted her teeth but stepped forward and let him wrap his arm around her and take her down the cable to the museum floor.
Uncle Jim wasn’t the world’s greatest superhero, but he was really good at dropping dramatically through rooftop holes.
He swung them out past the debris as they descended, and they landed on the marble floor of a long, dimly lit hall. Uncle Jim let Janet go, and she turned to find a gleaming silver figure looming over her.
She froze.
Killer robots? she thought. Again?
She quickly realized her mistake: It was just a suit of armor. There were more scattered throughout the hall, along with sculptures and vases and pictures.
“Over here,” said Uncle Jim.
He led Janet around the rubble to a display case against one wall. The top of the case had been shattered, and all that was in it now were bits of broken glass. Hanging on the wall to the left of it was a painting of a man with horns and hairy legs and hooves lounging on grass beside a flute. To the right of it was an old tapestry showing a bunch of dudes in tights trying to capture a horse with a long horn growing from its forehead. Under the tapestry, beside the display case, was a sign. Written on it was this:
HOLY CROWN OF HUNGARY
A.D. 1000
ON LOAN FROM THE HUNGARIAN PARLIAMENT BUILDING
Janet only glanced at the sign. She was more interested in the note affixed to the wall beneath it.
It’s stolen, and I’m to be blamed
I’m guilty, and yet I’ve been framed
To find where I’ve gone
Just look to the faun
And find who you seek clearly named.
“So . . . he’s back,” Janet said.
Uncle Jim gave her another Possum-Man nod. “That’s right. The diabolical Haiku Master has returned.”
“Haiku Master?” said Janet.
Uncle Jim threw her a nervous look out of the corners of his eyes.
“Uhh . . . Sonnet Lady?” he said.
Janet shook her head.
This was why Uncle Jim needed her. He was great at the physical superhero stuff. Appearing out of nowhere. Crouching dramatically on gargoyles. Beating people up. Even foiling nefarious schemes, so long as they were really, really obvious. But actually following clues and solving mysteries? Not so much.
“Da-da da-da-da da-da-da-bay,” Janet said. “Da-da da-da-da da-da-kay. Da-da da-da-bee. Da-da da-da-tee. Da-da da-da-da da-da-fay.”
“Raccoon Girl!” Uncle Jim cried. “Are you having a seizure?”
Janet groaned and dropped her face into her hands.
“Don’t try to talk anymore—you might swallow your tongue!” Uncle Jim said, fumbling with his Possum Belt. “Hold on while I get you a Possum Tranquilizer!”
Janet lifted her head and shook it. “I’m not having a seizure. I’m trying to remind you how a limerick works.”
“A limerick?” said Uncle Jim.
Janet pointed at the note. “That’s from Limerick King.”
Uncle Jim’s eyes narrowed behind his Possum Goggles.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s been a while since we last heard from that madman. Now he’s back to steal himself a crown—but like always he felt compelled to leave us clues in verse.”
Janet nodded, appreciating another of her uncle’s superhero skills: exposition.
“This one’s really obvious, too,” she said.
“It is,” said Uncle Jim.
Janet waited for him to say more.
After a long moment of silence, he said it.
>
“Um . . . it is?”
“‘It’s stolen, and I’m to be blamed / I’m guilty, and yet I’ve been framed,’” Janet said. “Get it?”
There was another moment of silence.
Janet waved at the wall before them—and the artworks hanging there.
“Like a picture frame?” she said.
“Oh! Right!”
Uncle Jim stepped forward and reached for the tapestry.
“What are you doing?” Janet said.
“‘To find where I’ve gone / Just look to the faun,’” her uncle said. “Like you said: It’s obvious. There’s another clue behind this thing.”
Janet pointed at the tapestry. “That’s not a faun.”
“I know. But it’s the closest thing in here to a baby deer,” said Uncle Jim. “And anyway, what rhymes with unicorn? Limerick King must have been stumped.”
Janet fought the urge to bury her face in her hands again.
“It’s not fawn, F-A-W-N. It’s faun, F-A-U-N.” She nodded at the painting on the other side of the smashed display case: the one of a half-man, half-goat lying in the grass. “As in the mythological creature?”
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” said Uncle Jim. He squinted at the painting. “I thought that was what’s-his-name. The god of sheep or flutes or whatever. Flan?”
“Pan,” Janet corrected. “And that might be him, I don’t know. But he looks the same as a faun. So—”
“Right!” said Uncle Jim.
He moved over to the painting, lifted one side and peeked behind it.
“A-ha!” he said.
He slid his other hand behind the picture and pulled out a sheet of paper. He handed it to Janet, who read what was on it out loud.
Good work! You’ve found my next note
But you’ve no time to stand there and gloat
To send me to the jailer
Don’t look to a tailor
Though I’ve gone where there’s millions of coats.
Your pal,
Limerick King
“Millions of coats, eh?” Uncle Jim mused, rubbing his square jaw. “JCPenney?”
“Uh . . . no,” said Janet.
“Goodwill?” said Uncle Jim.
“You’re being too literal,” said Janet. “It’s probably a pun.”
“No,” said Uncle Jim. “That’s the Punster. He’s still in prison. The fiend.”
“Trust me. Limerick King uses puns, too,” Janet said. “His hideouts are usually in old factories and warehouses, right? Is there anything like that around here?”
Uncle Jim went back to rubbing his jaw. “Well, there’s the Bakedwell cookie factory. No coats there. The Grass Devil lawn mower factory. No coats there. The Spreadz-Easy paint factory. No coats there. The Ties-Rite shoelace factory. No coats—”
“Hold on,” said Janet. “There’s a paint factory?”
“Yeah. Over in the Flats. But you don’t paint coats.”
“No,” Janet said. She spun her hands slowly in the air. “But you do use . . .”
She kept spinning her hands as she waited for her uncle to finish her sentence.
He just stared at her.
“. . . coats of . . . ,” she prompted.
She kept spinning her hands.
“Wool?” said Uncle Jim.
Janet dropped her hands.
“Paint,” she said. “Coats of paint. It is a pun. He’s at the Spreadz-Easy factory.”
“Good work, Raccoo . . . uh, Janet! To the Night Glider!”
Uncle Jim sprinted to the Possum Cable and hooked it to the Possum Spool on his Possum Belt.
Janet reluctantly shuffled over to join him. Coming down on the Possum Cable could be daunting, but going up was worse.
Uncle Jim wrapped an arm around her and hit a button on the Possum Belt. The Possum Spool activated, whipping them off the floor. Janet squeezed her eyes shut as they shot upward. Just when she would have expected them to flatten their heads on the ceiling, she felt Uncle Jim swing to the side so they’d pop through the hole in the roof. A second later they landed on their feet with a thud, and her uncle let her go.
“Now how did that happen?” she heard him say.
There was a rhythmic squeaking sound she didn’t recognize. When she opened her eyes, she found herself momentarily blinded by a bright light.
It was the Night Glider. The spotlights running along the front had been turned on. The windshield wipers were going, too—that’s what was squeaking.
As Janet’s eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out a large white-and-black shape leaping and wriggling inside the Night Glider. It started barking.
“Albus!” Janet called out. “Calm down!”
It had the same effect telling Albus to calm down always did: He started barking louder and jumping higher. His paws smacked onto the control panel in front of him.
The windshield wipers turned off, but something else turned on—a black panel that slid aside beneath the cockpit to reveal four red-tipped tubes.
“He’s armed the Possum Rockets!” Uncle Jim gasped, sprinting toward the Night Glider.
“Possum Rockets?”
Janet never knew her uncle was flying around with rockets.
She really, really, really wished she were home in bed.
Uncle Jim hit the button on his belt that dropped down the ramp into the Night Glider. Albus bounded out, his leash dragging beside him, and bolted toward a silver ventilation duct sticking out of the roof.
“What is it, boy?” Uncle Jim asked as the dog streaked past. “Someone hiding there? You see a clue?”
Albus stopped by the metal duct, sniffed it, and lifted one of his hind legs.
“Oh,” said Uncle Jim.
“I told you we weren’t done with our walk,” Janet said.
Uncle Jim coughed.
“OK, well, get him back on the Night Glider,” he said. “We don’t have a moment to lose.”
He whirled around and jogged up the ramp.
Janet hurried to Albus and picked up his leash.
“Sorry, Al,” she said as she tugged him away. “Maybe when we get to the paint factory . . .”
The second the Night Glider was parked on the pavement beside the Spreadz-Easy plant, Uncle Jim broke up another “Possum Bar,” threw it on the floor, and ran down the ramp.
“Time to knock Limerick King off his throne!” he said.
Janet sighed and started after him.
“Sorry,” she said to Albus as he sucked up Pop-Tart crumbles. “We’re almost done . . . I hope.”
When she was outside in the chilly night air, Uncle Jim hit the button on his belt that retracted the ramp. He’d already reached a side door into the factory, and he knelt in front of it and pulled out a slender silver tool. After some fiddling, he pushed the door open and rushed into the dark hallway beyond.
Janet didn’t follow.
“That was easy,” she said.
“The Possum Pick opens anything,” said Uncle Jim, already so deep in the darkness Janet couldn’t see him.
“Those limerick riddles were easy, too, now that I think about it,” she said.
“Limerick King isn’t as clever as he thinks,” said Uncle Jim.
“Or he’s more clever than we think. What if this is a trap?”
Janet heard her uncle scoff.
“There isn’t a trap on earth,” he said, “that can catch Possum . . .”
There was a swirl of movement in the blackness in the factory, followed by a bonk and an oof. Then everything went still and silent beyond the door.
“Uncle Jim? You alright?”
A new voice came from the shadows—one Janet hadn’t heard in a long time.
“I’m afraid it’s just as you thought,” it said. “You’ve stumbled right into my plot.”
The sound of slow, steady footsteps echoed out of the hallway, and Janet could make out a gray silhouette moving toward her.
“Your uncle’s knocked cold,” the voice said, “s
o it’s time you were told.”
A man stepped into the moonlight. He was wearing a crown and a long red robe trimmed with white fur.
Limerick King.
Someone flicked on a light behind him, and Janet saw a pair of burly women dressed in fancy coats and tight trousers and powdered wigs like eighteenth-century dandies. She remembered them well. They were Punk and Skunk, two members of Limerick King’s “royal court.”
Uncle Jim was crumpled on the floor by their buckled black shoes.
Janet turned to run and found three more henchwomen—Thug, Mug, and Lug—lined up behind her.
“This was a trap, kid,” Limerick King said. “And you’re caught.”
Punk and Skunk picked up Uncle Jim. Thug and Mug grabbed Janet. Lug turned to look at Albus, who was barking wildly in the Night Glider.
“Uhh . . . want me to get the dog, boss?” Lug asked.
“No,” Limerick King said. “What I’m going to do to these two I wouldn’t do to a dog.”
He cackled and swept back into the factory. His flunkies followed with Janet and Uncle Jim in tow. Limerick King led the procession down the hallway, through another door and onto the factory floor.
A huge silver tank loomed before them, fifty feet across and thirty high. A hatch-like door in the side was open, and Limerick King and Lug stayed back while the rest of the gang went through it.
Thug and Mug shoved Janet toward the far side of the tank. Punk and Skunk dumped Uncle Jim on the floor. Then the four lackeys marched off. When they were out of the tank, they took up position just beyond the door.
Uncle Jim stirred.
“Why yes, I’d love to see the Batcave,” he muttered. “Can I call you Bruce?”
He reached back groggily, pulled the tail of his Possum Suit over himself like a blanket, and curled into a ball.
Janet knelt and gave him a shake. “Uncle Jim. Wake up.”
“Huh? Wha’?”
Uncle Jim sat up and looked around.
“Darn,” he mumbled when he registered where he was. “So . . . a trap, huh?”
Janet nodded. “A trap.”
Uncle Jim slowly pushed himself to his feet. Janet helped him. When he was standing straight, he took a wobbly step toward the doorway.
“Oh,” he said to Thug, Mug, Punk, and Skunk. “Hello, ladies.”
Super Puzzletastic Mysteries Page 3
