“Um . . . hi?” I said. Sofia and I were in the same sixth grade class, but it wasn’t like we were friends. She was talkative and popular. And I was, well . . . me. Sofia and I had been partners during a social studies lesson, but we didn’t hang out at recess. And she’d certainly never been to my house before.
“Hi, Theodore,” she said. “This is kind of awkward, but . . . I’ve heard things about you.”
I tilted my head curiously. “Like what?”
“That you’re smart,” Sofia said. “Good at figuring things out.”
Jules and I glanced at one another. “Where did you hear such things?” I asked.
“Weren’t you the one who found Erica Powell’s birthday present when it went missing?” Sofia asked.
“Technically, I found the birthday present,” Jules cut in. “Theo didn’t think to follow the footprints in the dirt by the porch.”
I spun on her. “They were hoof prints. I wasn’t expecting our thief to be a goat!”
“Goats will eat anything,” Jules said. “Even birthday presents.”
“And you discovered that Cooper Mahoney was the one who’d been sneaking into the teachers’ lounge and drinking their sodas,” continued Sofia.
So she’d been following my career.
“That was me,” I admitted. “But my sister and I usually work together.”
“Julia and Bro. Detective Agency,” Jules declared.
“We’re still working on the name.” I cleared my throat. “But the Smetler siblings are here to help. What do you need?”
Sofia Diaz swallowed hard. “It’s my dad’s job.”
I knew Mr. Diaz was the director of the Felding Public Library. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you hear about the Young Writers Contest the library was sponsoring?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“My dad was in charge of it,” Sofia said. “Kids from all over town could submit short stories. The grand prize was a hundred dollars.”
“Let me guess,” I cut in. “Someone stole the prize money?”
“I’m afraid it’s much more complicated than that,” said Sofia. “My dad has all the details. That is . . . if you think you can help.”
I glanced at Jules, but she was absently picking at the dried dough on her hand.
“We’ll take the case,” I answered.
Sofia’s face cracked into a relieved smile. “Thanks,” she said. “We should head over to the library. You can talk to my dad.”
I pulled off my apron. “Let’s do it.”
“What about our cookies?” Jules whined, looking up sharply. Sometimes I had to remember she was only nine.
“We can put the dough in the fridge and bake them later.”
Jules folded her thin arms stubbornly. “I’m staying with the cookies. Besides, someone has to clean up this kitchen before Mom gets home from yoga or we’ll never be allowed to bake again.”
“Thanks,” I said. Since when was Jules the responsible one?
My sister shrugged. “You can fill me in on the details of the case when you get back.”
I turned to Sofia. “Let’s go.”
I knew the Felding Library almost as well as my own house, but I had never been behind the checkout desk before. Sofia led me back to her dad’s office, where Mr. Diaz was rubbing his tired-looking eyes. His desk was strewn with papers and his shoulders were slumped in discouragement. He pasted on a smile when we stepped in, and Sofia quickly introduced us.
“Have a seat.” Mr. Diaz gestured to a little sofa against the wall. I plopped down on one cushion, Sofia beside me.
“Thanks for reaching out to me,” I said. It was always a little awkward doing business with adults. They often didn’t take Jules and me seriously.
“That was Sofia’s idea,” Mr. Diaz said. “I’m doing plenty of investigating on my own.”
“What exactly are you investigating?” I asked, getting down to business.
“Last night was the award ceremony for the library’s third annual Young Writers Contest,” Mr. Diaz began. “The evening was going well until I finished reading aloud the winning story. At that point, I asked the author of the story to come forward and claim the prize money. At first, no one moved. And then three kids came forward at the same time.”
“They wrote the story together?” I wondered.
Mr. Diaz sighed. “Actually, that’s the issue. Each of these kids claims to be the true author.”
“Whose name matches the one on the story?” This seemed simple enough.
“None of them.”
“Then they are all lying?”
Mr. Diaz shrugged. “All three claim to have used the same pen name—the name that was used on the story.”
“What’s the name?” I asked.
“Tucker Murphy.”
“The name sounds familiar,” I said. But I couldn’t remember exactly who or why. “What else can you tell me about this contest?”
“Anyone age ten to twelve is allowed to submit a story,” said Mr. Diaz.
“How many entries did you have this year?”
“Eleven,” he answered.
“Hmm. Not very many,” I muttered.
“We didn’t do a lot of advertising,” replied Mr. Diaz.
“Did the three kids who claimed to be Tucker Murphy also submit stories under their real names?”
“They did,” he said. “But contestants aren’t allowed to submit more than one story.”
“Then that explains why they might have tried to use a pen name,” I said. “Double their chances of winning.” I scratched my chin in thought. “What was the story about?”
“It was a mystery story,” he answered. “The Case of the Stolen Painting.”
“Would you mind if I inspect the pages?”
“Be my guest.” Mr. Diaz slid a few papers across the table toward me.
I stood slowly. Careful examination was a crucial part of my job. I was usually pretty good at noticing details other people missed.
The pages in front of me were lined papers, the left edges tattered from being torn out of a notebook. There was a staple in the top left corner and two horizontal folds, dividing the pages into thirds.
The story was written in thick strokes from a dull pencil, and the text looked smudged off to the right. That could have been from folding the pages, the pencil graphite smearing as the papers rubbed together. But why would it only smear in one direction?
“That’s some strange handwriting,” Sofia commented, inspecting the pages over my shoulder.
It certainly was. Whoever had written the story had used a strange combination of uppercase and lowercase letters throughout the sentences.
“Why would they write it like that?” asked Sofia.
“Obviously, they don’t want to be identified by their handwriting,” I said. “It makes sense if they were trying to illegally submit a second story.” I looked up at Mr. Diaz. “How were these stories submitted?”
“We provided specific envelopes,” he answered. “The kids were supposed to come to the library, grab one from the stack on the help desk, and drop their stories in a submissions box.”
“No stamps, addresses, or names, then?”
He shook his head. “It was all done right here.”
“Do you have the envelopes?”
It only took him a second to find one amid the clutter on his desk. “I believe this is the very one our mysterious story was delivered in.” He handed it to me.
It was a large orange manila envelope with a label printed across the front that read, “Young Writers Contest.” Other than that, there were no markings or clues. But one thing seemed strange to me. The envelope was definitely large enough to fit a full sheet of paper. So why was the story folded?
“Do you mind if I take the story home?” I asked, picking it up and thumbing through it. Just seven pages long.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” answered Mr. Diaz. “Those papers are the only
clues we have. Better to keep it safe here at the library.”
I nodded. “Understood. I’ll just need a moment alone to read it.”
“Of course.” Mr. Diaz and Sofia stood to leave.
“Before you go,” I said. “I’ll need the names of the three kids claiming to be the author. My sister and I will question the suspects and see if it turns up anything new.”
“Sure.” Mr. Diaz took a moment to write three names on a piece of paper.
Cassandra Coleman
Nathan Hansen
Randall Jones
“Everybody wants that hundred-dollar prize,” Mr. Diaz said. “These three kids got pretty upset at the awards ceremony. Lots of yelling—each one calling the other a liar. Be careful if you go sniffing around.”
I took the paper. “Sniffing around . . .” I repeated, as something clicked inside my brain. “I know who the real Tucker Murphy is!”
Mr. Diaz didn’t look too convinced. He shook his head and sighed. “I checked through the whole list of library patrons last night. There’s nobody in this town named Tucker Murphy.”
“That’s because he’s not a person,” I said. “He’s a dog.”
“You’re saying that a dog wrote the winning story?” Sofia cried. I could tell by the look on her face that she was having second thoughts about hiring me.
“Of course not,” I answered. “But I do know a dog named Tucker. And he’s owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Murphy that live on Foothill Street. My sister and I will begin our investigation there. After all, there might be a connection between the pen name and the dog.”
“It’s actually a really good story,” I told Jules as we rode our bikes toward Foothill Street. “I can see why it won first place.”
“What’s it about?” she asked.
It hadn’t been easy to convince her to join me. Jules had finished baking the cookies, but I’d found her curled up on the couch with her latest book—Goldilocks: A Retelling. I’d practically had to drag her outside.
“The story is about this fancy vase worth thousands of dollars because the clay was flecked with gold,” I explained. “The owner was a rich lady that told the detective exactly how her day had gone. She woke up, had a cappuccino, and took her dog for a walk. When she got home, she exercised while the maid started cleaning the house. Her personal chef made lunch and went home because the lady was going out to shop and have dinner at a restaurant. When the woman came home at nine o’clock, the vase was on the floor, broken into a hundred pieces.”
“Easy,” Jules said. “Sounds like the maid was the only one home. She bumped the vase while she was dusting.”
“That’s what the detective thought at first, but the maid had proof that the vase was still intact when she locked the house to leave.”
“So no one was home when the vase broke?” Jules said, pedaling hard. “No, wait! The dog was home! I bet the lady’s poodle bumped the vase and it shattered.”
I shook my head. “Actually, it was the chef. He had propped the kitchen door open so he could slip back into the house after the maid locked up. He knocked over the vase on purpose.”
“Why?” she asked as we coasted up to the Murphys’ house.
“The detective reassembled the vase and discovered that one of the broken pieces didn’t match the rest of the pottery,” I explained, hopping off my bike. “The chef had stolen one of the gold-flecked pieces and replaced it with a fragment that he had sculpted and baked in the kitchen oven. But the detective realized that the piece was fake because it hadn’t been fired in a kiln. There were a bunch of clues, but ultimately, our genius detective recognized the lingering smell of baking clay in the kitchen oven and figured out it was the chef.”
“Wow,” Jules said. “That is a clever story.”
“And whoever wrote it did a good job disguising their handwriting,” I said, heading up to the front porch. “They used uppercase and lowercase letters to throw us off.”
Jules rang the doorbell.
“Wait!” I whispered. “What are we going to say?” I could hear the dog barking inside.
She shrugged. “I thought you knew these people.”
“Not any better than you do,” I said.
Mom had worked with Mr. Murphy before he took an early retirement because of some health problems. Last fall, we’d spent an afternoon raking the Murphys’ leaves. Mostly, that meant I had raked, and Jules had jumped in the piles with the dog. We didn’t really know the Murphys. They probably wouldn’t even remember us.
The door opened and Mrs. Murphy appeared. She sort of reminded me of my grandmother—short and plump, with hair dyed jet black.
“Down, Tucker!” she called, pushing back the small white pug that was jumping excitedly.
“Umm,” I stammered. “We have some questions . . . about your dog . . .”
“Smetler Detective Agency,” Jules took over. She was young enough to get away with that kind of talk. Most grown-ups probably thought she was cute. This was confirmed by the broad smile that spread across Mrs. Murphy’s face.
“What can I help you with?”
“I’m wondering if you recognize any of the names on this list,” I said, handing her the note that Mr. Diaz had written for me.
She squinted down at the square paper, glancing at it from three different angles before answering. “Why, yes! Randall Jones lives just down the street. He takes care of our dog when we go out of town.”
I shared a victorious glance with Jules. “Anyone else?” I asked.
“Cassandra Coleman,” Mrs. Murphy muttered. “Isn’t that Jeremiah Coleman’s daughter? His lawn company takes care of our yard.” She handed back the note.
Two leads. Two connections to Tucker Murphy.
This was good.
“Can I ask what this is all about?” said Mrs. Murphy.
“Nothing serious,” I said. “Just a case of stolen identity.”
“One last question,” Jules added. “Has your dog been writing stories lately?”
“Randall Jones?” I said when the boy opened the door. I had to be sure I was talking to the right person even though I recognized him from school—he was a year younger than me.
“Yes?” he said suspiciously, twirling a blue mechanical pencil between his fingers.
“We’re here to talk to you about the Young Writers Contest,” I continued.
He grinned. “You’re here to bring me the prize money?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Does the name Tucker Murphy mean anything to you?”
“Of course. It’s my pen name. I used it when I wrote ‘The Case of the Broken Vase.’”
“How long did it take you to write that story?” Jules asked.
“About two weeks,” he answered.
“You wrote it here?” I asked. “At your house?”
“Here and there,” he said. “I take my notebook with me everywhere I go.”
“Would you mind if we take a look at it?” I asked.
“So you can steal my ideas?” Randall cried. “No way!”
“At the very least, we’ll need a sample of your handwriting to compare to the original story.”
“Are you serious?” Randall disappeared into the house for a moment. When he returned, he had a lined page torn from a notebook, the left edge tattered. On it he had scribbled:
I wrote the story, so the money should be mine.
I studied the sample. The pencil strokes were thin, and the letters stayed neatly between the lines on the paper.
“Of course, I didn’t use this same handwriting on the story,” Randall explained. “I was trying to be secretive.”
I frowned. “How did you write this?”
“Uh . . . With my hand,” he said slowly.
I rolled my eyes. Obviously.
“I was guessing you used your feet,” Jules snapped.
“I mean, what kind of paper and pencil did you use?” I tried again.
“Same as all my stories,” answered Randall. “From my not
ebook with my lucky pencil.” He lifted his mechanical pencil and clicked the eraser twice.
“Well . . .” I sighed. “Thanks for your time.” Jules and I turned away.
“Come back when you have the prize money!” Randall called after us.
We found Cassandra Coleman sitting under a tree in her front yard, her backpack open in the grass in front of her.
“Writing a story?” I asked as we drew closer.
She glanced up from her three-ring binder. “Yes, actually.”
“Will you be using your own name this time?” I asked. “Or the dog’s?”
Cassandra narrowed her eyes at me. “You know Tucker Murphy?”
Jules and I nodded. “He’s quite the poetic pug.”
Cassandra shrugged. “It wasn’t against the rules to use a pen name. The Murphys’ dog was the first one I thought of.”
“But it is against the rules to submit more than one story to the contest,” said Jules. “So, even if you did write ‘The Case of the Broken Vase,’ you can’t claim it without getting disqualified.”
“Who says I submitted two?” she asked.
“Mr. Diaz told us you submitted another,” I replied.
Cassandra shook her head. “That could have been anyone.”
“Your name was on it.”
She shrugged. “Maybe somebody used Cassandra Coleman as a pen name.”
Ooh. That was devious and clever. I didn’t believe her for a moment, but she’d clearly thought this through.
“Can you tell me exactly how it went the day you submitted your story?” I asked.
“Sure,” answered Cassandra. “I went to the library, took my story out of my binder and stuffed it into one of those big orange envelopes. Then I dropped it in the box and walked out.”
“Would you be willing to give us a handwriting sample?” I asked.
Cassandra thought about it for a second before writing something down on a piece of paper. Then she popped open her binder rings and handed me the page. It was a simple sentence:
I aM tHe ReaL AuTHor of ThE STOry.
Just like the mystery story, some letters were big and some were small.
“This is very helpful,” I said to Cassandra as I passed the note to Jules. “Thank you for your time.”
“Why did she write it like that?” Jules asked once we were out of earshot.
Super Puzzletastic Mysteries Page 24
