Super Puzzletastic Mysteries

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Did you know it was Mr. Yancy?” asked Mrs. Herzog.

  “Well, he was one of our top suspects—” Benny began.

  “But we didn’t know it was him,” I interrupted. We’d agreed it was better not to name our other suspects and risk flunking gym and Spanish. “We didn’t know for sure until he came to get the banks from his hiding place.”

  “We couldn’t figure out how anyone could have taken the banks out of the school building during the fire alarm. They’re too heavy to carry easily,” added Benny. Once again, he flexed his biceps. “Even if you’re really strong.”

  “So then we thought they might be hidden in the school,” said Kasey. “It was really Jill who figured out the rest.”

  “We all worked on the problem and all those thoughts together just . . . gave me an idea,” I said. “If the banks were hidden in the school, then the window wasn’t open for someone to escape. Then why?”

  “Misdirection!” Benny flung out his hands. “Alakazam!”

  I ignored him. “And I thought of the messed-up books on the windowsill, like they were pushed aside to make room for someone to go through the window or get up on the windowsill!”

  “But that didn’t explain how all the paper cranes got knocked down,” said Kasey. “The thief might have gotten tangled in a few, but why so many? Tell them, Jill!”

  I picked up one of the slightly squashed cranes from the table. “What if they weren’t knocked down by someone going through the window, but fell down when someone lifted up the ceiling tiles? I thought there might be enough room above the drop ceiling to conceal the banks! They seem heavy to us when we hold them, but they’re not too heavy for the ceiling tiles to support their weight—especially the way Mr. Yancy spread them out on the crosspieces of the grid.”

  “And she was right!” Kasey was so excited she almost levitated. “After school, we waited outside the window, and we saw Mr. Yancy sneak into the classroom behind the custodian and hide in the cloakroom.”

  “By the time Kasey and Benny got Mr. Diallo from the office, he was up on the windowsill, in the dark classroom, trying to recover the banks,” I added.

  “Serves him right to get conked on the forehead by Jonah and the Whale,” said Benny. He turned to Mrs. Herzog. “That knocked him off the windowsill, too, so Mr. Diallo and the custodian could hold him till the police came.”

  “I’ve known Mr. Yancy for years. I just can’t imagine why he would steal these banks from me!” Mrs. Herzog stroked a finger over the Trick Dog bank with the clown.

  “For the money, of course!” said Benny. “We figure he meant to sell them online to a wealthy collector.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Herzog. “I thought he knew. I thought everyone knew. My father didn’t collect the originals. These are replicas, copies made much later! All six together are worth less than two hundred dollars.”

  I laughed. “Someone should have told Mr. Yancy to just save his pennies, because crime doesn’t pay.”

  Solution for The Scary Place

  Min and the Geeks 4 Science had all the information needed to explain the “ghost” right at their fingertips, especially Min, who had been studying meteorology! (Meteorology: the branch of science that deals with weather.) Min noted the temperature outside plus the temperature inside the wine cellar. She even wrote down the humidity, which—clue!—was very high. The only thing Min had not written down was the fact that two rocks had been wedged, one each against the front door and the other against the cellar door (in case members of the Ghosts Were People 2 needed a fast exit). The opened doors allowed the one hundred–degree hot, moist air to creep inside. It swept into the basement of the Scary Place and hit a cold, damp area. Once cooled, the humid air reached its dew point. When this occurs, something called advection fog forms, especially when there is dust present.

  It’s easy to solve this using a super simple logic puzzle! Put an O for Yes (when the ghost was seen) and an X for No (when the ghost wasn’t there). Same thing for the rock. Now check for the only times the “ghost” didn’t show up—the days when the Geeks 4 Science shut the doors! And there you have it—logic wins!

  As for the pebbles hitting the Geeks’ shoes, well, that’s another story . . .

  Easter Egg Bonus:

  GEEKS 4 SCIENCE Names and Their Meanings

  Min Shishi: (Chinese) Intelligent Fact

  Derrick Klar: (German) Direct Clear

  Jayid Kafir: (Arabic) Good Unbeliever

  Easter Egg Bonus:

  GHOSTS WERE PEOPLE 2 Names and Their Meanings

  Brian Sehen: (Dutch) Honorable Belief

  Amanda Estrella: (Spanish) Love Star

  Ike Kai: (Hawaiian) Ghost Seer

  Solution for Ottonetics

  Hernando began laughing. “It is not a grock. It is a G rock!”

  A couple more minutes revealed another one—two old granite stones with the letter G chiseled onto them.

  “G for Geheimnis . . .” Lizzie said.

  Together we edged our fingers around the rocks and pulled upward. I kept a wary eye on the road. It took about twenty minutes, but the rocks came out of the ground like stuck Legos. Under them, wrapped in old, decayed burlap, was a small box.

  None of us breathed until Lizzie said, “You do it, Jake. I think I might throw up from the tension.”

  Carefully I lifted the object out. The burlap fell away, disintegrating into dust. The box was shut tight, with a combination lock.

  “Oh, great,” Lizzie said.

  “Otto always gives you everything you need . . .” Hernando reminded us.

  I took a deep breath. I needed a combination, and so I dialed the only thing I could think of.

  Pi.

  3 . . . 1 . . . 4 . . . 1 . . . 5 . . . 9.

  I heard a click. The lid moved. I pulled it open.

  Inside was an oval-shaped object wrapped in moldy velour that may have once been red. But what was inside that looked like it hadn’t ever been touched.

  The egg was cool and heavy, about the size of my palm. As I held it toward the sun, it glinted red, gold, and blue—rubies the size of fingernails, clusters of tiny sapphires, gold leafing like snakes. At one end of it was a tiny gold clasp.

  Lizzie’s mouth was hanging open. Hernando’s eyes, which were always watery, now sent thick tears down his cheeks.

  I flipped the clasp. Inside, a clear diamond seemed to pulse with its own light. Its edges were razor-sharp, and it sat in a bed of soft, thick crimson padding.

  “That thing could make engagement rings for all of Queens,” Lizzie said.

  I shut the egg, gently putting it back into the box, which I slipped into my backpack. Looking up at Hernando, I smiled. “Dude, where would you like to live? East Side or West? I’m buying you an apartment.”

  Hernando threw his head back with a laugh. “Teeth first, then apartment!”

  “Teeth first,” I said.

  “You always were a good boy.”

  He held up his hand as if to wave goodbye. This time I noticed his left pinky, bent at a forty-five-degree angle. “Camptodactyly,” I said.

  He smiled. “It is genetic.”

  Now I started to cry. I should have known it from the start. Hernando had been looking out for me—not only because of Otto. He knew he couldn’t give me the life he wanted me to have. He knew he had to get through his own problems. But he had stayed near. He had made sure I was in good hands.

  My dad was the Santa Claus of the Ramble.

  “Helll-oooooo!” came Harriet’s voice from up the path.

  Lizzie ran toward her, jabbering away with the news.

  I smiled. I sat on a discarded grock. Hernando sat with me.

  There would be so much to tell.

  Solution for Gridlock Jones Cracks the Case

  Mrs. Dunbarton gasped. Mr. Langley’s eyes narrowed.

  Clenching a fist, Mr. Shamoon said, “Are you really going to listen to this little twerp?”

  Gabe kept his cool. “W
e invited you here because all four of you—even you, Principal Braxton—had motive and opportunity to commit this crime.”

  All the adults began talking at once. Gabe just held up a palm and waited. When they paused for breath, he said, “You, Ms. Braxton, have mortgage troubles and a key to this office.”

  The principal drew herself up, brown eyes fierce. “True, but you can’t possibly—”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Mr. Shamoon.

  “And you,” I said, turning to him, “also have keys. Plus, you believe gambling is wrong.”

  He glowered. “It is!”

  Mrs. Dunbarton put her hands on her hips. “Surely you can’t believe I did it. That money was my responsibility. And besides, I don’t have a key to the office.”

  “You didn’t need one.” Gabe spun his chair to face her. “You had the money all to yourself before you gave it to Ms. Braxton.” Glancing at the principal, he asked her, “Did you actually see the cash?”

  She frowned. “No, just the box.”

  “So it could have been stuffed with cut-up comic books, as far as you knew.”

  After a long look at the treasurer, Ms. Braxton said, “That’s right.”

  Over Mrs. Dunbarton’s protests, Gabe said, “Plus, she had her own financial troubles and a grudge against the author whose visit that money was going to fund.”

  “That jerk!” snapped Mrs. Dunbarton.

  “But what about Mr. Langley?” I asked Gabe. “He didn’t have an opportunity or a motive.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “Oh, come on,” said the teacher.

  Gabe asked Mrs. Dunbarton, “When you gave him the money to recount it, was Mr. Langley ever out of your sight?”

  A vertical line creased her forehead. “Uh, yes, he took it backstage to count. He said he didn’t feel safe, flashing all that money in front of people.”

  “That’s opportunity,” said Gabe.

  Mr. Langley spluttered, “But what earthly reason would I have to steal it? I love this school, and I inherited enough to make me comfortable.”

  Gabe spread his hands. “You said it yourself—that money wasn’t nearly enough for our needs. I think you took a little trip with it and tried to turn it into big money.”

  The teacher’s jaw dropped.

  I flashed back to the contents of Mr. Langley’s satchel. “The airline itinerary!”

  “Precisely,” said Gabe. “LAS is the airline code for McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. You flew there this weekend, hoping to use your poker skills to win big. But you lost, didn’t you?”

  Mr. Langley looked stricken. His hand scrubbed at his face, and his eyes grew moist. “I-I’ve never lost before. All that money . . .”

  “Jason.” Ms. Braxton’s eyes reflected hurt, anger, and sympathy, all at once. “Oh, Jason.”

  “I think the police will want to know about this,” said Mrs. Dunbarton, pulling out her cell phone.

  “No! Please!” said the teacher. “I can break into my retirement savings. I’ll . . . pay it all back.”

  Crossing her arms, the principal said, “Why don’t you and I and Mrs. Dunbarton sit down and discuss this.”

  Mr. Langley sagged into one of the visitors’ chairs like a deflated balloon. With a triumphant glare at all of us, Mr. Shamoon said, “Gambling. I told you!” and marched out of the office, head held high.

  Ms. Braxton turned to Gabe. “Thank you, Grid—uh, Gabriel. You’ve done this school a great service.”

  “It’s okay, you can call me that.” My friend grinned. “Solving mysteries is all in a day’s work for Gridlock Jones.”

  Solution for The Case of the Mysterious Mystery Writer

  “I hope you were more successful than me,” said Mr. Diaz. Sofia and I were in his office again, this time with Jules. “I talked to all the other contestants,” he continued. “None of them wrote our mystery story. So I’m hoping it was one of your three suspects.”

  “Let me tell you what we learned.” I stood up to present my facts. “It wasn’t Nathan Hansen. He had no idea that Tucker Murphy was a dog, while both of our other suspects had connections to the pug.”

  “What about the clay Nathan was using?” Jules asked.

  “Air-dry clay,” I answered. “He said he was going to glaze it and fire it, but that’s not the right kind of clay. He clearly doesn’t know as much about pottery as he wanted us to think.”

  “Go on,” said Sofia.

  “Randall Jones didn’t write the mystery story, either.” I clasped my hands behind my back. “He claims to have written it with a mechanical pencil, but ‘The Case of the Broken Vase’ was written with a regular wooden pencil.”

  “How do you know?” Sofia repeated skeptically.

  “A mechanical pencil always stays sharp, making very thin lines,” I said. “But our story was written with a dull pencil.”

  “Then it was Cassandra Coleman?” said Mr. Diaz.

  I shook my head. “It couldn’t have been her. Cassandra told us that she’d written the story in her three-ring binder. But our mystery pages were clearly torn out of a notebook.”

  “Who was it, then?” cried Sofia. “Who wrote ‘The Case of the Broken Vase?’

  I sighed heavily. “I’m afraid we’ll never know. I have disproven the imposters, but it seems this case has finally bested me. It is my recommendation that the library keep the prize money and run the Young Writers Contest again next year.”

  Mr. Diaz’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Thanks anyway,” he said, as Jules stood up. We exited the library and rode our bikes home in silence.

  “How about we try some of those cookies to celebrate the case,” I said to Jules once we were back in our kitchen.

  “Celebrate?” she cried, putting a few cookies on a plate. “We failed!”

  “Did we?” I pulled the jug of milk from the fridge and poured us both a glass.

  The cookies were delicious, and I took a big swig of milk. “Your story was really good,” I finally said. “And you almost got away with it, sister.”

  Jules stopped chewing and looked up. “How did you figure it out?” she finally asked through a mouthful.

  “Too many clues,” I said. “Starting with the handwriting.”

  “But I disguised it.”

  “The pencil graphite was smudged,” I explained. “All of the letters were smeared to the right. That’s what happens to left-handed people. Their hand drags over the letters and smudges the text.”

  “That wasn’t enough to go on,” she said.

  “You also had a connection to Tucker Murphy from the time we raked leaves,” I said. “But the biggest clue came from Nathan Hansen. He saw you at the library three weeks ago, turning in your story. You wore Dad’s jacket as a disguise, but you were carrying a familiar book with three bears on the cover.”

  “Ah,” said Jules. “What does Goldilocks have to do with this?”

  “You used the book to smuggle the papers into the library so no one would see you. That’s why the papers are creased, even though the envelope was big enough for a full page. You had to fold the story to hide it inside your book.”

  She chewed her cookie in silence, so I decided to go on.

  “Last, but not least, was the topic of the story. The author had to know a lot about pottery and you have a ceramics class every Thursday night. And when I was telling you about the story, you accused the poodle of knocking over the vase.”

  “So?” she asked.

  “So I never mentioned that the lady’s dog was a poodle. The only way you could have known that detail was if you’d read the story . . . Or written it.”

  She took a long swig of milk. “You’re probably wondering why I did it.”

  “Nope,” I replied. “I know exactly why. The Young Writers Contest was only open to kids age ten to twelve. You weren’t old enough to submit a story, but you wanted to see if you could win anyway.”

  “I didn’t care about the money,” she admitted. “I knew I cou
ld win and not get caught.”

  “Except, you did get caught.” I took another bite of cookie. “By me.”

  “Why didn’t you turn me in?” she asked.

  “Because next year, you’re going to write a story even better than ‘The Case of the Broken Vase,’ I said. “And then you’ll win two hundred dollars. Fair and square.”

  My sister smiled.

  Solution for TRICKED! A Framed Story

  The parade was about to start as I led the others out to the parking lot. I still hadn’t told them the solution to the mystery. I wanted to run it through my head one more time to make certain I had it right.

  I scanned the cars and floats waiting in line. I heard the band warming up. And I saw Kinzly Vance and her cameraman getting ready. I headed right for her.

  “Are you sure about this?” Darius asked.

  I looked over my shoulder and nodded.

  Margaret saw my face and smiled. “He’s sure. I call that his Sherlock look.”

  Kinzly saw us coming and told her cameraman to start rolling. She hurried into position to interview Darius while he was walking.

  “Darius, can we get a few questions?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” Juliette said, stepping between them to block the interview. “We’re busy at the moment.”

  “I just want to know if there’s any truth to the rumors that the Stanley Cup is missing,” Kinzly said with a devilish smile. This was her gotcha moment.

  Darius stammered and Juliette jumped in to rescue him. “Where’d you hear a rumor like that?” she asked.

  “A reporter never reveals her sources,” Kinzly answered smugly.

  “You don’t have to,” I said taking over the conversation. “We know you got an anonymous phone call and rushed back to cover the story. And we know who made that call.”

  “We do?” asked Margaret surprised.

  I shot her a wink. “Yes. We do. It was Robert Besserer.”

  The others had been so focused on Kinzly that they hadn’t noticed we’d stopped at the band’s trailer, which is where I was headed the whole time.

  “Go ahead,” I said to Darius. “Unlock it.”

  Robert Besserer, meanwhile, had seen this going on and rushed over from the band’s position. He ran as fast as he could while carrying a sousaphone.