I follow him, dragging Eliza behind me. It’s really dark, but as soon as the lock from the red door clicks behind us, the room lights up.
My eyes bug out. “What the . . . ?”
We’re in a room exactly like the one we came from. With four doors and the same message:
ON EACH DOOR, THERE IS A SENTENCE.
THREE OF THE SENTENCES ARE FALSE, AND ONLY ONE IS TRUE.
But the sentences on the doors are different. And when I read them, my stomach drops like a stone:
YOU ARE ON YOUR WAY TO THE TREASURE.
ALL OF THESE DOORS AREN’T FAKE DOORS THAT HAVE BRICK WALLS BEHIND THEM.
YOU SUCCESSFULLY SOLVED THE PREVIOUS PUZZLE.
YOU HAVE FAILED THE PREVIOUS PUZZLE.
CASE CLOSED.
“WHEN’S THE LAST time you saw Ivy?” I ask.
“It’s been too long,” Guinevere says, flicking her wrists.
“Could Ivy be sending you the death threats?” Eliza says.
Guinevere laughs. “Tee hee! Ivy? My Ivy? That’s a preposterous suggestion! She positively adores me!” She scrunches her face, like she’s about to say something else, but then she looks up and blinks. Her cheeks are a little flushed.
It doesn’t seem like she’s lying. But then again, she’s definitely holding something back.
“If Ivy adores you,” I say, “why haven’t you seen her recently?”
Guinevere scowls into her tea. “Her husband.”
“You don’t seem to like Ivy’s husband very much. What’s his name?”
“Walter,” Guinevere says distastefully. “And you’re correct. I don’t like him very much.”
“Why not?” Eliza asks.
“Well, I don’t see how this is relevant, but if you must know, it’s because he took my Ivy away from me. And because he can’t seem to hold down a job, because he keeps having lofty ideas about opening a ridiculous restaurant called Noodles, Strudels, and Poodles—”
Frank’s eyes grow wide. “They don’t eat poodles, do they?”
“Of course not,” I say. I elbow Frank, then look at Guinevere. “Er . . . they don’t eat them, do they?”
“No, no! It’s some silly restaurant that serves noodles and strudels . . . and allows you to bring in your poodles. But no other dog. Only poodles. Ivy and Walter keep asking me to fund this bizarre project of theirs, but I refuse to waste my money on that.”
I glance at Eliza, and she quickly raises and lowers her eyebrows. I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing. Ivy and Walter are asking for money. Maybe they want the treasure. Maybe they’re mad Guinevere won’t fund their restaurant and are sending threats!
Eliza twists the ends of one of her pigtail braids. “Do you think Walter is sending you these threats?”
Guinevere sniffs. “I suppose it’s possible, but I highly doubt it. He lives very far away. Whoever’s sending the death threats is close by. Close enough to destroy my library, anyway.”
* * *
TO ASK GUINEVERE WHO MIGHT BE SENDING HER THREATS, CLICK HERE.
* * *
THE TOOLSHED IS small and rickety. The green paint is all speckled and flecked. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine Mr. LeCavalier spending a lot of his time in this dumpy little shed when he has a beautiful mansion right across the yard. I mean, if I had a mansion, I’d never leave it!
Eliza is leading the charge into the shed, and she pushes on the door.
“Locked,” she says.
Ivy shakes her head. “Knowing my father, there must be some trick here.”
“Mmmm,” Smythe grunts in agreement, and he stands on his tiptoes so that he can peer in through the one tiny window.
“Do you see anything?” I ask.
“No . . . too dark.”
“Let’s take a lap around,” Ivy suggests. “Maybe we can find a way in.”
All of us start circling the toolshed, looking for any signs of a puzzle or a secret door or something . . . but I don’t see anything other than the shed itself.
“We could lift Frank up through the shed’s window, and he can open the door,” I suggest.
“And put him in danger? All by his lonesome?” Eliza says.
Fair point.
“Knock knock knock!” Frank says, pounding on the door. “LITTLE PIG, LITTLE PIG, LET ME COME IN!”
“Stop it, Frank!” Eliza says, wrenching Frank away. “Oh no! Frank! Look at your hands!” His palms are covered with some sort of chalky green paint. Eliza groans. “Mom’s going to kill me when she sees what you’ve done to your shirt.”
“But I was playing,” Frank says, like that solves the matter.
Suddenly Smythe taps my shoulder. “Look!” he growls, his droopy eyes growing wide. “Where he was playing!”
There’s something written on the door . . . something that had been covered up by chalk or clay or something. Smythe and Ivy dive forward to wipe off the gunk so we can see what’s written underneath.
In my garden:
All but two of my flowers are roses.
All but two of my flowers are tulips.
All but two of my flowers are lilies.
How many flowers do I have in my garden?
Ivy scratches her head, and she hums softly. “Daddy was very proud of his garden. He had prize-winning tomatoes for many years. I could count the flowers in Daddy’s garden—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Eliza says. “This is a logic puzzle. Plain and simple. All the information we need is right here on this door.”
* * *
ADD ONE HUNDRED TO THE ANSWER OF THE PUZZLE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 103, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 127, CLICK HERE.
OR TO ASK ELIZA FOR A HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“LET’S SEARCH THE study,” I say.
Eliza folds her arms and turns to Smythe. “Will you cooperate with us? Let us look around?”
“PLEASE!” Frank yells. “PRETTY PLEASE! PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON TOP?”
“Fine,” Smythe mumbles. “I’ll let you look around. But the second I hear you making a commotion, I will kick you out of this house.” Then Smythe trudges away.
I look around at the study again, and it seems pretty standard. A desk in the center, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves all around, and a ladder for climbing up.
“Where should I search first, Eliza?” I ask. “Eliza?”
She’s holding four books in her hands and smiles guiltily. “They were upside down,” she says. “I have to rearrange them.”
“Now?” I say, exasperated. “Can’t we do that later? We have clues to find! I think I want to search the desk drawers.”
Eliza shrugs. “Sure, that sounds good.”
“Noooooooo, up!” Frank says, pointing at the ladder. “Up like a plane! Up like a rocket! Up like a push pop!”
I hesitate. Should I listen to my gut? Or follow Frank?
* * *
TO SEARCH THE DESK DRAWERS, CLICK HERE.
TO SEARCH UP HIGH ON THE BOOKSHELF, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“CAN YOU TELL us more about these death threats?” I ask.
Guinevere LeCavalier strokes her chin and stares at Frank, who is now trying to balance a silver spoon on his nose. Eliza elbows him.
“I’m bored,” Frank complains.
Eliza elbows him even harder.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say. “Now, about that first threat.”
“Right,” she says. “Hold on. . . . Smythe! The first threat!”
Smythe folds his arms. He does not look happy. He stomps over to a drawer that Guinevere LeCavalier easily could have reached herself.
Smythe grunts, glaring at his employer. I can practically see the lasers coming out of his eyes. He lays the paper on the table, then storms off.
The threat is made of cut-up magazine clippings. I read it aloud.
“The treasure does not belong to you.
It belongs to me.
Or else.”
“Yikes,” Eliza says. “Can we keep the note? For reference?”
Guinevere nods, and Eliza tucks the note into the front pouch of her backpack.
“What about the second threat?” I ask Guinevere.
“Three days after that dreadful letter, I found a message in red paint on the wall of my library. It said, ‘You are running out of time. Find that treasure, or MEET YOUR DOOM. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHA.’” I can’t remember how many HAs there were, but it was at least seven.” Guinevere pauses to dig in her pocket. “Here—you can have this picture of the crime scene, too. For your records.”
Eliza slips the picture into her bag.
Guinevere looks between me, Eliza, and Frank with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip. “These threats . . . they’re serious, yes?”
I nod. “Someone really wants that treasure.”
* * *
ASK GUINEVERE WHO KNOWS ABOUT THE TREASURE. CLICK HERE.
* * *
I HAVE TO KEEP questioning Maddock myself, without Guinevere LeCavalier around. I know I can get him to give me more information.
“What do you know about Mrs. LeCavalier’s treasure? Do you plan to steal it?”
Maddock’s eyes bulge. Eliza gasps. And Frank sniffs his armpit.
“Steal it?” Maddock snorts. “Kid, I know you just arrived on-scene yesterday, but I’ve been the LeCavaliers’ lawyer for twenty years. And I have no interest in some elaborate scavenger hunt that Mr. LeCavalier set up. The man was a kook! Who knows if there’s even a treasure?”
“What do you mean?” Eliza asks.
“I mean the man was a jokester. I wouldn’t put it past him to tell the world about a secret treasure but then not have one at all. I have no interest in things that may not even exist.”
“So what are you interested in?” Eliza says.
“I have three words for you kids. Money, money, and—” He cocks his head to the side with a fake smile. “Hmmm,” he feigns. “What’s the last word?”
“POTATOES!” Frank shouts.
Maddock looks at Frank like he’s stupid. “No, money!” Maddock rises from the couch, and the cologne wafts my way again like a giant gas cloud. “Mysterious treasures don’t have any value unless you know what’s inside. But money always has value, and I always know exactly what that value is. Can your little child brains grasp that concept?” he sneers.
I do not understand everything he just said, but he’s acting snotty about us being “just kids” again, so I nod and pretend I get it.
“Besides,” Maddock continues with a grin, “you’re missing the bigger picture here.”
“What’s the bigger picture?”
“Say cheese!” Frank says idly, running his fingers across the piano. He doesn’t know how to play, though, so it sounds like a horrible mishmash of notes.
Maddock drops his voice and leans in close to us, and we all ignore Frank as he continues to pound his fist on the piano. “As the executor of Mr. LeCavalier’s will, I can tell you things that will make your jaws drop.”
“Try us!” I say.
“Let’s just say there were many amendments made to the will, just before Mr. LeCavalier’s death. One final change eliminated his daughter from the will.”
“He . . . he cut Ivy out?” I say.
“On the request of Guinevere LeCavalier.”
I gasp. “So . . . you’re saying . . .”
Eliza jumps in. “Mr. and Mrs. LeCavalier removed Ivy from their will, just before Mr. LeCavalier died? And it was Mrs. LeCavalier’s idea!”
Maddock smirks. I can tell he loves being able to hold information like this over our heads, the slimeball. “If you ask me, there’s old bitterness there,” he says. “And speaking of bitterness, have you, for one second, stopped to consider why our dear butler is so angry?”
I try to catch Eliza’s eye, but she’s not looking my way.
“Of course you haven’t,” Maddock says. “Because you’re just children. But before accusing an innocent lawyer, maybe next time you should stop to consider the people who openly resent Mrs. LeCavalier.” He sighs. “Oh dear, now I’m late for my appointment with Mrs. LeCavalier. I shall have to blame you. Good day,” he says.
Then he rustles his papers together, shoves them into his briefcase, and walks out.
I turn to Eliza, whose round cheeks are all flushed. She huffs furiously. “I hate the way he talks to me! Like he thinks I’m stupid or something. But I understand you perfectly, Mr. Snobbish, thank you very much!” Eliza sticks her tongue out in the direction where Maddock left, but he’s long gone.
Then she sighs, and in that one breath, all the anger leaves her body.
“So,” I say, “he actually gave us a lot of important information.”
Eliza nods. “Well, Maddock says he’s not interested in a treasure because he doesn’t know what’s inside and he doesn’t want to waste his time. He seems to think Mr. LeCavalier would send people on a wild goose chase for nothing.”
“Would he do that?” I say. “Could he do that?”
Eliza shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Then there’s Ivy,” I say, my head still spinning with new knowledge. “She was written out of her parents’ will! She didn’t tell us that!”
“Why would she?” Eliza says. “It makes her look really suspicious. She could still be mad at her mom. I mean, she did seem to be mad at her mom this morning.”
“And then Smythe—we already knew he was angry and bitter. But why?”
Frank burps. “Can we do something fun nowww?” he groans.
“Fun like what?” Eliza says.
“FUN LIKE CRAWLING! FUN LIKE SNEAKING!”
Eliza grins. “Do you want to sneakily search someone’s room, Frankie? Maybe Smythe’s or Ivy’s?” she says with a pointed look at me.
Frank’s eyes grow really wide, and he starts to hyperventilate with excitement. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
The only question is, whose room do we search? The daughter with the case of lost inheritance? Or the butler with the case of the mysterious grumpy grumps?
* * *
TO SEARCH SMYTHE’S ROOM, CLICK HERE.
TO SEARCH IVY’S ROOM, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“HAVE YOU SEEN anything suspicious around the house?” I ask.
“Suspicious like what?” Smythe asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, since you’re the butler, I’m sure you see lots of suspicious things.”
“I haven’t seen anything.”
Oh. I can’t really come up with a good question to get information out of him. Not without making him mad.
“I find that hard to believe,” Eliza says, jumping in to fill my pause. I smack my head. Most of the time, you shouldn’t accuse your suspects of lying; they just get angry and defensive.
Smythe folds his arms and scowls. His arm muscles look so huge, bulging out of his suit like that. And when he steps toward us, it takes a lot of effort to stand and face him.
“Are you implying that I’m bad at my job? Or do you think I’m guilty?” he growls.
Eliza realizes she’s offended him, and she squeaks, “N-neither.”
Smythe glares at us. “Maybe it’s time for you kids to go home today.”
“What?” I say. “But we still have more detective work to do!”
“YEAH! YOU POO-POO BRAIN!”
Smythe glares, his face growing redder and redder by the second. “That’s it. You’re done for the day.”
Smythe escorts us down the hall and shoves us out the front door. Then he slams it in our faces. “Hey!” I shout through the door. “You’re getting in the way of our detective work!” But Smythe doesn’t respond. How rude!
In defeat, I trudge down Guinevere LeCavalier’s front steps and onto the grass. Immediately my feet get wet with sprinkler water, and I realize I forgot my shoes inside!
“My shoes,” I say to Eliza. “I left them in the hallway when I was sliding around the floor. I can’t walk home in my socks!”
“At least you’re not barefoot,” Eliza says. “You can get them tomorrow.”
I shake my head. I have to get my shoes. It’s a half-hour walk back to my house, and I can’t do it in socks. It’ll kill my feet—and I won’t be able to do great detective work tomorrow with blisters!
I turn back toward the door to ring the bell.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says Otto, examining a tree on Guinevere’s lawn. “Smythe looks mad. Best to wait until he cools off. Now, what did you kids do to get him so angry?” He chuckles.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Some friendly advice? If I were in your shoes—well, socks—I’d listen to the young lady and head home.”
He really seems to want us to go home. And if we’re home, we’re not investigating. Is he trying to get us to leave on purpose?
With all our investigating of Maddock and Smythe, I forgot that Otto is a suspect too. After all, he is always around the house.
“Are you sure you haven’t heard anything about Mrs. LeCavalier’s treasure?” I ask him.
“There’s a treasure?” he says. “I just thought there was a threat on her life! That’s what you said before, right?”
Eliza nods. “That’s what we said, yes.”
“So there’s a threat and a treasure? Oh! Is the treasure the reason why there’s a threat?”
“Duhhhhhhhh.” Frank puts his hands on his hips. “You don’t know anything, do you?”
Otto shrugs. “I guess I don’t.”
It’s hard to get a read on Otto. His face is as expressive as a brick wall.
“Maybe we should go home, Carlos?” Eliza says. She looks tired, and even Frank yawns, but we made no progress today. We aren’t any closer to figuring out who is sending the death threats. I’m wondering if we should go back inside. After all, my mom’s fate depends on us!
Case Closed #1 Page 18
