Super Puzzletastic Mysteries

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Two possible reasons,” I said. “Maybe Cassandra doesn’t know what the writing is like on the real story, so she was trying to disguise her handwriting for us.”

  “And she ended up matching the real story by coincidence?” Jules said. “That doesn’t seem likely. What’s your other idea?”

  “Or Cassandra Coleman is the real author and she wrote this sentence to match the handwriting on purpose.”

  “If that’s true,” said Jules, “then she still cheated by submitting two stories. She just thought up a way to lie about it.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s it for today.”

  “What about our last suspect?” Jules asked. “Nathan Hansen?”

  I waved my hand. “He had no connection to Tucker Murphy.”

  “No known connection,” she corrected. “Besides, we might as well pay him a visit. Unless, of course, you already know who the real author is.”

  I didn’t. And I felt like Jules was just rubbing it in.

  Mrs. Hansen led us into her dining room, where we found Nathan seated at the table. Before him was a large mound of clay that he was shaping into a bowl.

  “We’re here with the Felding Library,” I explained as his mom stepped out of the room. “Did you submit a story to the Young Writers Contest?”

  “Yep,” he said, opening another package of air-dry clay and adding it to his bowl. “And I won, too. Except they won’t give me the prize money for some reason.”

  “They’re just having trouble proving who actually wrote the story,” I said. “Why did you decide to use a pen name?”

  “Some of my friends don’t think writing stories is cool,” he answered. “But it would have been worth it if I won a hundred bucks.”

  “How did you choose the name Tucker Murphy?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It sounded like the name of a tough guy.”

  “Or a dog,” Jules added.

  Nathan laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I want people to think that a dog wrote my story?”

  Okay. So Nathan Hansen clearly didn’t know about the Murphy dog. But there was another clue right before our eyes. Whoever wrote ‘The Case of the Broken Vase’ clearly knew a lot about clay and pottery.

  “That’s a nice bowl you’re making,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he muttered. “Almost finished. Then I just need to glaze it and fire it.”

  “When did you submit your story?” Jules asked.

  “About three weeks ago,” Nathan answered. “But I wasn’t the only one to turn mine in early.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “After I dropped my envelope in the box, I hung around so I could see who my competition would be. A few minutes before the library closed, somebody ran up to the help desk and grabbed one of the big envelopes. I tried to follow them, but they lost me in the bookshelves.”

  Now that was interesting! I gave my sister an excited glance before asking Nathan my next question. “What did this person look like?”

  He shook his head. “I was too far away to tell. They were wearing a big jacket with the hood up. But it was definitely a kid.”

  “Did they have their story with them?” I followed up. “Any papers that you could see?”

  “Nope,” said Nathan. “Now that I think about it, that’s kind of weird. The only thing they had was a book.”

  “What book?”

  “I couldn’t see the title,” he said. “But I thought I saw a couple of grizzly bears on the cover.”

  As soon as Nathan Hansen said those words, everything started falling into place.

  “Come on,” I said to Jules. “We’ve got to get back to the library!”

  I had solved the case. I knew exactly which kids hadn’t written the story. But more importantly, I knew exactly which kid had.

  For the solution to this story, please turn here.

  TRICKED!

  A Framed Story

  by James Ponti

  Can you keep a secret?

  I hope so, because I’ve got one that’s totally hush-hush.

  My name’s Florian Bates and I’m a seventh grader at Alice Deal Middle School in Washington, DC. Okay, so that’s not secret. All you have to do is open up a yearbook to find that out. No, the secret part is that when I’m not in school, riding my bike, or doing other typical twelve-year-old stuff, I’m a consultant with the FBI.

  Yes, that FBI.

  My best friend Margaret and I are part of the Bureau’s top-secret Special Projects Team. We’ve recovered priceless masterpieces stolen from the National Gallery, rescued a classmate who’d been kidnapped by foreign agents, and even exposed a deep-cover Russian spy. But for our most recent case we weren’t on assignment for the bureau. We were just trying to tape a segment for the afternoon announcements.

  “Hello, I’m Margaret Campbell, reporting from backstage at the Alice Deal Auditorium,” she said holding a microphone and doing her best impression of a news reporter. “Dating back to 1893, the Stanley Cup is the oldest professional sports trophy in the world.”

  “Cut!” I called out from behind the camera.

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “You need to speak up,” I said. “It’s really loud in here.”

  She cleared her throat, double-checked her script, and nodded when she was ready. I pressed the record button and signaled her to start.

  “Hello, I’m Margaret Campbell, reporting from backstage at—”

  “Cut! Still too quiet.”

  She gave me a look. That Margaret are-you-just-messing-with-me-or-are-you-being-serious look. “Any louder and I’ll be yelling,” she said. “That’ll look ridiculous.”

  “How do you think it’ll look if it seems like your lips are moving and nothing’s coming out?”

  Our problem was on the other side of the curtain. The entire student body had filled the auditorium and was now stomping to the beat coming from a band made up of sousaphones, trumpets, and drums.

  They also chanted, “Rock the red! Rock the red!”

  We weren’t the only ones battling the noise. A woman nearby had to practically yell into her phone just to be heard, and a reporter from the local news huddled with her producer and cameraman to figure out how to set up a shot.

  I spied on them to see how they solved the problem.

  “Try standing closer,” I said motioning Margaret to step toward me. “And lean forward when you speak. Look how she’s doing it.”

  Margaret moved closer and I had to adjust the focus. Once I was ready, I signaled her to start. But she just stood motionless.

  I figured she’d missed my signal, so I exaggerated it.

  Still no response.

  Finally, I whisper-shouted, “Go!”

  Frozen like a statue.

  That’s when I realized Darius King, all-star center forward of the Washington Capitals, was walking right toward us. His nickname was Deke, and Margaret was one of the hard-core super fans who called themselves “Deke’s Geeks.”

  She could tell you all of his stats and accomplishments. She knew the name of his dog (Puck) and his birthday (November 20). She even knew that he ate grilled chicken, brown rice, and steamed broccoli before every game. There wasn’t anything about Darius King that Margaret didn’t know.

  Except how to talk to him.

  She was totally fangirling as he walked up wearing his red number 42 jersey with a blue C on the upper left signifying his role as team captain. He flashed a huge smile and said, “Hi, I’m Darius.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied shaking his hand. “Florian.”

  We turned to Margaret, but all she did was nod. Repeatedly. Like a bobblehead. After an awkward silence, I nudged her with my elbow. “And you are . . .”

  “Oh . . . yeah,” she stumbled. “I’m . . . Margaret Campbell reporting from backstage at the Alice Deal Auditorium . . .” She froze again, totally mortified. “I mean, I’m Margaret and I’m a geek, Deke . . . no, wa
it . . . A Deke Geek.”

  Darius totally ignored the stumbles and said, “So nice to meet you.”

  She went to shake his hand, which might’ve gone better if she hadn’t forgotten she was holding a microphone. By the time he walked over to the woman on the cell phone, Margaret was trying to disappear into the folds of the curtain.

  “Tell me the camera wasn’t running,” she said desperately.

  “Oh, no. It was running. The whole time.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe I told him I was a geek.”

  I laughed. “I can’t believe you think that was the worst part.”

  Margaret had been a fan ever since Darius joined the Caps. Part of that may have been because, like her, he was African American, not too common in professional hockey. He also led the team in scoring, just like Margaret was the top scorer on our school soccer team. Mostly, though, she admired all the work he did in the community.

  Darius ran street hockey clinics all around the district. He sponsored a citywide book club with the DC Public Library. And he did whatever he could to connect with local schools, which is why he was at Deal. Just five days after winning the Stanley Cup, he’d brought it to our campus so we could see it up close.

  The Stanley Cup was the oldest professional sports trophy in the world. It was silver with a bowl at the top, stood just under three feet tall, and was awarded every year to the champions of the National Hockey League. According to tradition, each player on the winning team was given temporary possession of the cup to celebrate as they wished.

  As a result, it’d been drunk from and eaten out of, dropped and dented, misplaced and mishandled. One time it was even left in a snowbank on the side of the road when some players changed a flat tire on their car and forgot to put it back in the trunk.

  It had also been stolen.

  Multiple times.

  In 1970, someone nabbed it from the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. And, not long after Margaret got all tongue-tied and called herself a geek, someone snatched it from Deal Middle. Although we didn’t learn that until later in the day.

  First, there was an assembly. Darius gave an inspirational talk. He showed hockey highlights on the screen. And he opened a large black case to reveal the Stanley Cup. The crowd roared. The Capitals’ pep band, which had come along for the fun, started playing, and Darius carried the trophy up and down the aisles so that everyone could take pictures. It was beyond cool!

  Next, we went out in groups to the parking lot, where Darius led street hockey clinics. Margaret redeemed herself during one of these by putting three straight slap shots into the goal. Each time Darius yelled, “AND SHE PUT THE BISCUIT IN THE BASKET!”

  Finally, he got a break while preparations were made for an after-school parade. It was scheduled to start in our parking lot and go down Nebraska Avenue to Wilson High. This was during sixth period, which is when we heard our names over the loudspeaker.

  “Will Florian Bates and Margaret Campbell please come to the office? Immediately.” It was our principal, Mr. Albright, and it sounded urgent enough that Coach Latham told us to forget about our algebra quiz and go.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Margaret asked as we walked down the hall.

  “Maybe Mr. Albright saw the video of you with Darius and wants to know if you’d like to transfer to a different school.”

  She gave me a look. “I’ll remember this the next time you do something foolish. Which probably won’t be too long from now.”

  “I know,” I said, still laughing. “That’s why I’m making the most of this while I can.”

  We were surprised to find Mr. Albright waiting for us in the hall outside of the office. He appeared more frazzled than usual. “I’m sorry to put you two on the spot like this,” he said, looking around to make sure no one could hear us. “But we have something of an emergency.”

  “Okay,” said Margaret. “Why call us?”

  He took a deep breath and dived right in. “I don’t know what you do for the government,” he replied. “I just know that from time to time the FBI comes for you. And when they do, I don’t ask questions.”

  “We’re not allowed to talk about it,” I said.

  “I understand and I’m not asking you to. It’s just that we have a puzzling situation and I thought with your experience and skillset . . .”

  “You need us to solve a mystery?” asked Margaret.

  “Exactly,” he said. “And preferably without involving the authorities.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I replied, intrigued.

  He sighed and said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  We bypassed the front desk and went straight to his office, where there were already two people waiting: Darius King and the woman we’d seen backstage talking on her phone. They looked extremely troubled.

  Mr. Albright introduced us. “Florian, Margaret, this is Darius King, as I’m sure you know, and Juliette Tremblay. She’s with the community relations department for the Capitals.”

  “Who are they?” demanded Juliette.

  “They’re here to help,” said Mr. Albright as we took our seats.

  Juliette frowned. “But they’re kids. You said you had experts.”

  “They’re the experts,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “This just keeps getting worse,” she said, resigned.

  “What keeps getting worse?” I asked. “What’s the problem?”

  “This,” said Darius. Between them was a large black case. He opened it to reveal foam padding with a cutout where the Stanley Cup was supposed to be.

  “Where’s the cup?” asked Margaret.

  “We don’t know,” answered Darius.

  I quickly shifted into detective mode. “Then tell us everything you do know.”

  “Why?” asked Juliette. “How can two kids help?”

  “By using TOAST,” I answered.

  “TOAST?” she said.

  “TOAST stands for the Theory of All Small Things,” said Margaret. “It’s how we solve problems like this.”

  “The idea is that big things can be misleading,” I explained. “So we focus on the little details. The ones that get overlooked. If you add them up, they lead to big answers. Like where the trophy is.”

  “I’m sorry but this isn’t going to work,” she said. “I need to call the team and let them know what happened. Even if it means losing my job.”

  I needed to convince her, which meant I needed to show her how TOAST worked. I studied her as quickly as possible. She looked to be in her late twenties and was dressed in a red business suit with a blue blouse. She had a Capitals lapel pin and the wallpaper on her phone was a picture of her holding the Stanley Cup. Everything about her was neat and tidy, except for the pencil she nervously wiggled between her fingers. It was covered in bite marks.

  That’s when I knew how to get her.

  “Look,” I said. “I know you’re stressed. You’re worried about your job and the cup. And that’s on top of everything to do with your wedding. But give us a chance before you give up.”

  She gave me a perplexed look. “My wedding?”

  “Aren’t you getting married this weekend?”

  “Yes,” she said incredulous. “But how did you know that?”

  “Watch this,” Margaret whispered to Darius.

  “First of all, you’re wearing an engagement ring,” I said.

  “That doesn’t tell you I’m getting married on Saturday.”

  “No. But your fingernails do.”

  She gave me a confused look.

  “Everything about you screams Washington Capitals team spirit,” I said. “Your clothes are team colors. You’re wearing a Caps lapel pin. And in this picture your nails are red and blue as you hold the Stanley Cup.”

  I pointed to the photo on her phone.

  “That couldn’t have been taken more than a few days ago,” I continued. “But in the middle of all the madness that’s followed the team winning the
championship, you’ve already had your nails redone a subdued shade of ivory.”

  She reflexively checked her fingers as I talked.

  “You’ve also stopped biting them,” I continued. “Probably so they’ll look good in the pictures. Now you bite your pencil instead. You know, the pencil with the logo of the bridal shop in Georgetown.”

  She went to interrupt, but I just kept going.

  “Earlier, when we were backstage, you made two phone calls.”

  “You were eavesdropping?” she said.

  “Not on purpose. But you were talking pretty loudly. The first call was to check on the weather forecast for this weekend. My guess is that the wedding is outside. The second call was about seating arrangements.”

  “That call was to my mother,” she said. “We were speaking French.”

  “I speak French, too,” I answered. “I lived in Paris for three years. Although, judging by your accent, I’d guess you’re French Canadian. Montreal, maybe?”

  There was stunned silence around the room until Margaret turned to Darius and said, “See what I mean? TOAST is freaking awesome.”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Darius. “But I think we should give them a chance.”

  “Definitely,” answered Juliette. “What’s our first step?”

  “Let’s go back to the auditorium,” I said. “That’s where this all started.”

  Moments later, we stood on the stage and looked at a sea of brown wooden seats. “We have to establish a timeline of events,” I said. “First the curtains were closed, the band was playing, and everyone was chanting ‘Rock the red.’ We were backstage when Darius walked in and Margaret made a fool of herself.”

  “Hey!” Margaret said as she gave me a sharp jab in the side.

  “Just re-creating the scene,” I said. “Facts are facts.”

  Darius leaned over to her and said, “You didn’t make a fool of yourself at all.”

  “Darius talks,” I continued. “We see highlights from the season, and he unveils the Stanley Cup. Did I miss anything?”

  “No,” said Darius. “So far, so good.”

  “What did you do with the cup after that?” asked Margaret.