I found an old pin board filled with old-fashioned metal thumbtacks and used one to pin up the mug shot.
“So what other evidence do we have?” I asked.
Mr. Griffin flipped through the file. “Well, the burglary took place on a Sunday morning, March tenth. Mrs. Cumberland was hosting a brunch at her mansion—her annual Spring Fling. Once a year, she’d ‘fling’ open her doors and let folks tour her mansion. It was an annual charity event. People were coming and going all morning.”
“So anyone could have stolen the stuff,” said George.
“Not anyone,” said Mr. Griffin. He pulled out a paper with names written on it. “It was a ‘by invitation only’ event. Here’s her guest list and the names of the catering staff.” He gestured toward the mug shot. “The brunch and open house were scheduled for ten a.m. to noon. Petey Miller was a waiter at the mansion that day.”
There were about thirty names on the guest list. Half a dozen with the catering company.
“That’s a lot of suspects.” I used another thumbtack to pin the lists next to Miller’s mug shot.
“Mrs. Cumberland went up to her bedroom a little before noon,” said Mr. Griffin. “She took off her diamond necklace and went to the bathroom to freshen up. When she came back to her bedroom, the necklace was gone.”
“So the burglar struck at noon!” I said.
Mr. Griffin nodded. “At least that’s when he or she stole the diamond necklace.”
There were some other pictures in the file folder: the mansion, its luxurious rooms, the empty jewelry cases, the blank spots on the wall.
“Mrs. Cumberland is elderly,” said Mr. Griffin. “She was only able to give us a partial inventory of what was missing.”
There was another photo in the file, but it didn’t look like it was taken at the mansion. It showed some rich-looking guy in a tux holding a fancy-looking pocket watch, standing in what appeared to be a hotel ballroom.
“Who’s he?” I asked Mr. Griffin.
“Meet Mr. Charles Cumberland, Mrs. Cumberland’s only grandson. This photo was taken a month after the burglary, at another charity gala—downtown at the Reed House Hotel. Charles, of course, wasn’t talking to his grandmother at the time. In fact, he hadn’t talked to her since New Year’s Day when she informed her one and only grandson that she’d rewritten her will. Suffice it to say, Charles wasn’t thrilled with what she had decided would be his inheritance.”
“Maybe he’s the thief,” George said, saying what I was thinking.
“Totally,” I said. “I mean, he definitely had a motive. If his grandmother wasn’t going to leave him stuff in her will, maybe Charles just decided to grab as much as he could at the Spring Fling.”
“Not possible,” Mr. Griffin said. “Charles was out of town on the day of the burglary.”
“Where?” George and I asked at the same time.
“France.”
“Oh.” George sat back in his chair. “Bummer.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Griffin said. He still pinned the photo to what was becoming our evidence wall. “Anyway, a couple weeks after the burglary, we caught Petey Miller with about a third of the stolen jewelry. He was trying to sell it to a local pawnshop.”
“Busted,” said George. “Hey—how do you know some outsider who wasn’t on the guest or catering list didn’t just break in when nobody was looking to steal stuff?”
“The mansion had a security team monitoring every entry and exit that Sunday,” said Mr. Griffin. “And there are video cameras outside the mansion, recording everybody in and everybody out.”
“What about inside the mansion?” I asked.
Mr. Griffin shook his head. “No cameras. At the time, Mrs. Cumberland thought that would just be extravagant.”
“I bet she wishes she had them now!” blurted George.
Mr. Griffin actually smiled. George will do that to you.
“So it had to be someone at the party,” I said. I looked at some more pages in the file. There were notes on interviews and grainy security camera stills of guests entering and exiting the mansion.
Mr. Griffin pulled a photo from the file and pinned it to the workbench wall.
“This is a shot of the catering van being loaded after the party,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that’s how they escaped with the loot. There’s Petey Miller. Who knows what he has hidden inside that butler’s trolley? And this shadowy figure here, we thought that might be Petey’s girlfriend—Shana Cooper. The photo is too fuzzy to make a positive ID.”
“Doesn’t that solve your case then?” asked George. “She probably has the rest of the loot in that covered rubber tub she’s carrying.”
Mr. Griffin shook his head. “Shana had an airtight alibi. See the time stamp in the corner? That photo of the catering van was taken at twelve p.m. And Shana was seen going to church that Sunday—precisely at noon.”
“Says who?” I asked. “Maybe the person who gave her the alibi was lying.”
“It wasn’t one person. More than a dozen people saw her walk up the church steps at noon. Ms. Cooper was wearing a bright red dress—she was hard to miss.”
“Bummer,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, there were a lot of bummers in this case,” said Mr. Griffin, getting up from his chair. “We searched Shana Cooper’s apartment and just about anywhere she could have hidden her share of the treasure. We even looked inside the church.” He shook his head. “I told you kids: it’s a cold case for a reason.”
George and I were both silent. This really was a cold case. Maybe even frozen. Despite our enthusiasm, I wasn’t sure we could help Mr. Griffin solve it.
We all stared at the evidence wall for about a minute.
Then, frustrated, we went back to shredding papers.
Maybe an hour later, George glanced at his watch.
“I have to get home—Dad was making cookies for us when I left, Frankie. Can you come?”
I looked to Mr. Griffin.
He waved his hand in dismissal.
“Go, go. Maybe you can help me finish this up another day.”
“I’d like to.” I looked at the cold case evidence wall one more time. I was actually sorry to go. This was just the kind of puzzle I liked: one that seemed to stump everyone, but you knew there was an answer to it. You just had to know where to look.
“Let it go, Frankie,” said Mr. Griffin. “I worked on this thing for months. It can drive you crazy. And make you cranky.”
No lie. Mr. Griffin was about the grumpiest guy I’d ever met.
George and I took off on our bikes and retraced my usual route to his place. We went down the hunter’s path and past the Cumberland Mansion, which looked extra mysterious now that we knew about the cold case hanging over it.
George followed my gaze as we pedaled down the path. “Makes you look at that place in a whole different light, huh?”
I nodded. My eyes went from the mansion’s grand entry down to the road. “What if Shana Cooper took our dirt path instead of the road to get to church?” I said. “That would be fast, right?”
“You’re forgetting that she has an alibi for exactly noon. Remember?” said George as we pedaled past the church. The clock stood high in its tower and was, of course, set to the correct time.
“There has to be a clue we’re missing here,” I said. I stopped, and straddled my bike.
The answer was right there in front of me. But I just couldn’t see what we were missing.
“Um, there are chocolate chip cookies waiting for us,” said George. “Triple chocolate chip. Your favorite?”
“What was the date of the burglary again?” I asked George.
George thought for a second. “Mr. Griffin said Sunday, March tenth. Why?”
It was like a coin dropped, an alarm bell dinged, and a lightbulb went off over my head at the exact same time. “Let’s go back to Mr. Griffin’s. I think I know how to solve the mystery!”
“I knew it!” George said. “I knew you’d crack th
e case! Woo-hoo! This is better than cookies!”
A few hours later, Mr. Griffin’s former colleagues on the police force arrested the grandson, Mr. Charles Cumberland. “I was in France at the time of the burglary,” he argued.
“But you’re the mastermind,” said Mr. Griffin. “We have proof.”
Thirty minutes later, the same police officers arrested Shana Cooper. They even gave retired Detective Griffin the honor of cuffing her.
“But I have an alibi!” Shana exclaimed. “I couldn’t have been at the mansion—I was at church.”
Mr. Griffin grinned. “Actually, Ms. Cooper, it’s your perfect alibi that did you in.” He nodded to George and me. “And you can thank these kids for cracking the case.”
For the solution to this story, please turn here.
Three Brothers, Two Sisters, and One Cup of Poison
by Lauren Magaziner
There was poison inside the vial. It was tasteless, odorless, and disastrously deadly if ingested.
The vial rested on the countertop for a solid hour. Waiting to be found, waiting to be used. Then, quietly, someone tipped it into a goblet.
Six hours earlier:
Hannah Friedman looked in the mirror. “I’m a cupcake,” she groaned, looking at her very frilly dress. It was pink with ruffles up the front, bows down the back. It cinched at the waist, which was a fancy way of saying that it pulled her lungs so tight she could barely breathe. She looked at her grandmother, and said, “Bubbie, I’m literally a cupcake.”
“I think you look very nice,” her bubbie replied.
From the doorway, Hannah’s brother, Isaac, tugged at his collar. “At least you don’t have this thing choking you!” He tried to loosen his tie, but he pulled it just a bit tighter. “Dressy clothes! Are torture machines! For children!”
“Your great-aunt Bea will love it.”
“If she’s our aunt,” Isaac said, “then why haven’t we met her before?”
“My sister and I have not spoken for over twenty years. We are estranged.”
“You’re not that strange, Bubbie,” Isaac said.
“Estranged, not strange.” Hannah groaned. “It means they’ve been fighting. There’s been a rift between them.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Bubbie.
“What caused the fight?” asked Isaac.
Bubbie didn’t respond.
“Well . . . why are we going to see her now?”
At that, Bubbie smiled, showing off every one of the big teeth in her dentures. “I have to deliver a message.”
“What message?” Isaac said.
But Bubbie shook her head. Her meaning was clear: the only person who would hear the message was Great-Aunt Bea herself.
They piled into the car. When they left, the day was clear, and the sky was bright. But the more they coiled around mountains and through valleys, the more the air around them became thin and foggy. Before too long, it was getting dark.
Isaac fell asleep right away, as he often did in cars. But Hannah was too uncomfortable to nod off.
Something was troubling her. Bubbie had a telephone. She had a computer. She had all the conveniences of modern technology, which included a hundred different ways to call, email, video chat, text, and more to reach her sister. What sort of message needed to be delivered in person? Why was Bubbie making them drive three hours to say something? What couldn’t be written down?
It was all very suspicious.
When, at last, Hannah thought she was about to burst, the car approached an iron gate. A camera zoomed in as Isaac popped up from his armrest pillow. “Where are we?”
“Here,” Hannah said as the gate swung wide to let them in.
“And where is here?” Isaac asked, surveying the stark mountains, the low-hanging moon, the dusky evening sky.
It was like driving into a movie, really. The dirt driveway—which curled through evergreen trees—was ridiculously long. There was no end in sight; for all they knew, this was the road to infinity.
Then, at last, there was a light ahead. A cottage, hidden in the shadow of the mountains, beside a very still lake. Great-Aunt Bea’s cottage was the only house on the lake.
“Aunt Bea likes her privacy,” Bubbie said as she parked.
The cottage was small, but fancy. Through the windows, Hannah caught a glimpse of a house that was dressed to impress: a dining room table with very ornate chinaware, napkins folded into the shape of swans, and golden goblets—except for one special silver one sitting at the head of the table.
The door knockers were lion-shaped and made of iron. “Can I?” Isaac asked, and without even waiting for an answer he slammed the knockers over and over again. Hannah rolled her eyes. She knew this was inevitable. Isaac had a bad habit of wanting to touch everything.
The door swung open.
“Come in,” said a man.
In the light of the lobby, they could see he had a head of curly brown hair and dark eyes that danced behind round glasses. His smile wide, his face round, and his chin clean-shaven.
And there were three of him.
“Twins!” Isaac gasped. “Three identical twins!”
“Or . . . ?” Hannah said. “Triplets?”
“Oh. Right.”
The men all frowned in the same exact way, at the same exact time. They were all dressed in the same dark blue suit, with the same light blue tie, with the same black loafers, the same horn-rimmed glasses. Not a single curl on their head was unalike. Hannah could already tell it was going to be a nightmare, trying to tell them apart.
“Hello,” they said together. “Our names are—”
“Huey, Dewey, and Louie!” Isaac shouted.
“Wow! How did you know?” said the triplet on the left, with an enormous grin. A dimple dotted his left cheek.
“Wait . . . really?”
“No. Not really,” said the triplet in the middle. He was neither smiling nor frowning. He was perfectly even-keeled.
Meanwhile, the triplet on the right stared at Isaac with deep disdain.
“I am Blake,” said the triplet on the left.
“I am Jake,” said the triplet in the middle.
“And I am—”
“Let me guess! Cake?” said Isaac.
“Fake?” ventured Hannah.
“Drake,” the angry triplet said sourly.
“Welcome to our lake,” said Jake.
Hannah shook her head. This was getting ridiculous.
Blake smiled and gestured to the kitchen. “I hope you like steak.”
“For goodness’ sake.” Bubbie groaned.
“This is giving me a headache,” Isaac said, grinning.
“You’re all Aunt Bea’s children, yes?” Bubbie said, before anyone else could rhyme again. “Which one of you lives here and takes care of your mother?”
“We do,” said Blake and Jake.
“And which one of you wrote me about my sister’s failing health?”
“I did,” said Jake, the bland triplet. He was as exciting as a cream-colored wall.
Bubbie frowned. “Hmmm.”
Hannah looked between the triplets and her bubbie. Something was going on here. Was anyone going to clue her in?
“What do you do?” Hannah asked Drake. “If you don’t take care of Aunt Bea here?”
Drake’s frown got even deeper. “I moved to Los Angeles.”
“To become an actor?”
“To become a life coach, happiness guru, and motivational speaker.”
Hannah and Isaac exchanged a glance.
“You? An expert on happiness?” Hannah said, trying very hard to keep the skepticism out of her voice.
“I am a very happy person,” Drake said with a glower.
“Oh . . . yes. Totally. I see it now,” Isaac lied.
Jake, the middle-of-the-road triplet, held out his arms. “Can I take your coats?”
Bubbie placed her coat in his hands, and Hannah and Isaac followed her lead. Then Bubbie glided
between Blake and Drake, waltzing into the dining room like she’d been here a million times before—and maybe she had, for all Hannah knew.
At the head of the table was Great-Aunt Bea herself. She looked ill. Her skin was sallow, and her eyes were sunken. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, like she was in great pain. Hannah thought she looked like she would much rather be lying in bed than sitting rigid in her dining room chair, in fancy earrings, with her hair piled atop her head.
Bubbie hugged her sister, but Aunt Bea did not hug back. Instead, she feebly patted Bubbie’s back.
“How are you feeling?” Bubbie asked.
“Perpetually ill,” Aunt Bea said with a weak smile. “Thank goodness I have Blake and Jake with me. Although . . . not all the time. They rotate.”
“Why, where are they when they’re not with you?”
“Blake works part time at an auto repair shop, and Jake works part time at a soup restaurant.” Aunt Bea looked down at her feet. “I didn’t expect to see you again . . . not after our last argu—”
“Let me introduce you to my grandchildren,” Bubbie interrupted. “Hannah, she’s twelve, and Isaac is ten.”
“Hi,” Hannah said shyly.
Isaac burst forward. “Nice to meet you, GAB. Can I call you GAB?”
“Gab?”
“Great-Aunt Bea!”
“Bea or Aunt Bea, will do just fine.” She turned to Bubbie with a glare. “I expect you want a slice of my inheritance now that you’ve shown me these adorable children?” Adorable was dripping in sarcasm.
“Hey!” Hannah said. “We’re pretty cute!”
“Really cute!” Isaac said, and he let out a toot accidentally. “Oops.”
Bubbie leaned forward, nose to nose with her sister. “It’s not your inheritance, Bea. It was supposed to be our inheritance. And besides, that’s not why I’m here.”
Aunt Bea raised her eyebrows. “It’s not?”
“No. I have a message. I needed to deliver it in person. I couldn’t risk it getting intercepted.”
“And what is this critical message?”
“Despite our feud, despite everything that’s happened,” Bubbie said, “I came to tell you, you’re in terrible da—” She stopped and looked up at the doorway. There stood Blake, Jake, or Drake, a curious expression on his face.
Super Puzzletastic Mysteries Page 7
