The Secret of the Shadow Bandit

by Singleton, Linda Joy

  “I-I was looking for Honey and saw a-a—” I point, my hand shaking.

  “What?” Leo looks around curiously. “I don’t see anything.”

  “But there was—” I stop because now there’s only an empty black hole.

  The eyes are gone.

  “It was probably just a rat,” I say, calmer now and embarrassed I freaked out over a harmless rodent.

  “Kelsey!” My father’s voice echoes in the distance. We have to get out of here before he discovers the tree house!

  Quickly, I follow Leo down the tree. Guess who’s waiting for me at the bottom? Honey’s whiskers twitch as if to say, “What took you so long?”

  I scoop up my kitten and invite my friends inside to see my new home. The word “home” sounds yummy, sweeter than Dad’s fudge cream doughnuts. I used to have an empty place inside me, a sadness I guess, after our home was foreclosed and we moved into an apartment that didn’t even allow pets. But this home is a new start and I’m proud to give my friends a tour.

  “Mr. Bragg calls it a cottage,” I explain as I show them the kitchen. It’s twice as big as the one we had in our apartment. As good sleuths we stop to investigate the honey-crumble cookies Dad left out for us. We conclude that they are delicious.

  I put on an Australian accent like a tour guide I saw on TV. I lead them upstairs to my room, which is kind of messy so I just give them a quick look.

  My brother’s door is open but his room is empty. It’s tidy as usual like a bedroom in a catalog. He got the neat-freak gene in our family.

  Next are my sisters’ rooms. I hear voices and music inside, but I don’t knock because I’m still annoyed with Kiana because I’m sure she let Honey out of my room. She’s the only one with a motive.

  I lead my friends downstairs and show them the family room with its sunny yellow walls, a fire place, and a large picture window overlooking the backyard.

  Becca stops walking and cups her ear. “I hear a dog whining.”

  “Handsome wants to play.” I point to a golden-furry nose pressed against the sliding glass back door and a battered Frisbee in his mouth.

  I step out on the patio to pat my sweet dog. He’s too energetic for me to let in. “He loves his new yard. When we brought him home from Gran Nola’s, he was so excited, he ran circles and sniffed every weed and bush. This yard is even bigger than my grandmother’s.”

  “He wants to play Frisbee.” Becca grins and tosses the Frisbee for him.

  I glance back through the glass door into the house and notice Dad sitting on the couch. I tell my friends I’ll be right back and go inside to ask him an important question.

  My father has a steaming cup of coffee within reach on an end table. He leans back and flips through his favorite culinary magazine Adventures in Taste. He glances up. “There you are, Kelsey. I was looking for you a while ago.”

  “Oh?” I act surprised like I didn’t hear him calling me. “What did you want?”

  “To give you this,” he says as he pulls out a folded paper from his pocket. “Memorize it so you’ll be prepared for Mr. Bragg’s dinner tonight.”

  “I have to study to eat dinner?” I ask, not sure whether to be insulted or amused. “Will there be a pop quiz? Will I be graded on my eating skills?”

  “This isn’t a joke. It’s my insurance that nothing will go wrong tonight. Being the personal chef to Mr. Bragg comes with a lot of responsibilities. He’s meeting you all for the first time and you kids need to be on your best behavior. Here.” He hands me the paper. “Your sisters and brother already have their rules.”

  BRAGG DINNER RULES

  Only talk to Mr. Bragg when he speaks to you first.

  Say please, thank you, and excuse me.

  If you don’t like the food that’s served, eat it anyway.

  Do not spill, spit, drop, break, burp, or fart.

  Use the proper silverware, and keep your napkin in your lap.

  No arguing, hitting, or insulting one another.

  Do not touch anything without permission.

  Follow all these rules and you’ll be rewarded.

  “Rewarded? Like with money?” I ask hopefully.

  “Your siblings asked the same thing.” Dad grins. “I was thinking more of a special meal or dessert, but if tonight is a success without any embarrassing moments, we can negotiate the reward.”

  “I like the sound of that,” I say, sitting on the couch. “Dad, I’ve been wondering about our house. Do you know anything about the kids who used to live here?”

  “Mr. King never mentioned any kids.” He scratches his head. “The cottage has been empty for a while.”

  “At least three months,” I say.

  “Yeah, that sounds right.” Fortunately, Dad doesn’t ask how I know this. He’s pressing his lips together as if thinking. “Mr. Bragg’s assistant Angel mentioned that the last chef lived here. I found cookbooks in the kitchen with Deidra written inside. When I asked Mr. Bragg about her, all he would say is she was fired. He seemed upset, so I didn’t ask again.”

  Is that why the ARC kids left the tree house so suddenly? I wonder. Their mother lost her job?

  When I return to the backyard, Becca is flinging the Frisbee into the air. Handsome springs up to catch it in his mouth.

  “I can throw higher than that.” Leo tries to take the Frisbee from Handsome but my playful dog won’t give it up. When Leo gives a big tug, Handsome suddenly lets go and Leo flies backward, landing on his butt.

  “Do not laugh,” Leo says, brushing grass from his slacks.

  “Too late.” Becca laughs so hard she doubles over, and I start to laugh too.

  We play Frisbee a little longer until we give Handsome a bone and he retreats to his dog house with it. We relax in the metal patio chairs, and I tell my friends about my talk with Dad. “He says the last chef lived here but she was fired.”

  “Why?” Becca pushes a strand of pink-black hair from her dark eyes.

  “Dad didn’t know. But she must have done something really bad.” I frown. “Maybe she gave Mr. Bragg food poisoning and almost killed him. Dad said Mr. Bragg didn’t want to talk about her.”

  “So Mr. Bragg probably won’t tell you either,” Becca warns.

  “I’m not going to ask about the chef,” I say. “Just about her kids.”

  “Assuming she had any,” Leo points out. “Don’t jump to conclusions before researching the facts.”

  “If I can’t find out from Mr. Bragg, I’ll ask someone else.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Dad mentioned an assistant.”

  “Angelica Hampton-Kensington is his executive assistant,” Leo spouts off like his brain is wired to the Internet. “I searched online and found out Angelica and Mr. Bragg’s nephew, Irwin, live in the castle. There’s a housekeeper too, but I’m not sure where he lives.”

  “Any mention of a cook?” I ask, curious about who Dad replaced.

  “No. But I read a fascinating article on the architecture of Mr. Bragg’s house—it was designed after a Scottish castle.”

  “I call it Bragg Castle, but I won’t tell him that,” I say. “Of course I’m not even allowed to talk to him unless he talks to me first.”

  “Why?” Leo asks.

  “Dad gave me Dinner Rules.”

  I read the rules out loud to them. When I get to number four (Do not spill, spit, drop, break, burp, or fart) Becca brings her arm to her mouth and makes a farting noise. Leo is so startled he topples back in his chair, almost falling off. Instead of complaining, he starts to laugh.

  We’re all so different but we’ve become best friends, I think, smiling to myself. Becca is creative, outgoing, and the kindest person I know; Leo is logical, loyal, and brilliant with robotics; and I’m quiet, watchful, and good at solving puzzles. Sometimes differences pull people apart, but ours bond us together.

  I continue reading the Dinner Rules to my friends. I’m on number six when Becca gets a text from her mother. “She wants me to come home to bottle-fee
d a baby monkey,” Becca explains.

  “What do you feed a baby monkey?” Leo asks, raising his brows.

  “Special monkey formula. Juniper is so tiny, I have to feed her with a syringe.” Becca slips her phone back into her pocket. “Never a boring day at the animal sanctuary. I have to go.”

  Leo and I walk with her around to the front yard. Sunlight shifts to shadows as we pass under the towering oak tree. I look up into the thick green leaves, smiling at my secret knowledge of plastic leaves, a trapdoor, and a hidden tree house. I can’t wait to add this new secret to my collection.

  As Becca wheels away on her bike, I peer through the branches for a ropy gray tail and beady eyes. What sort of animal was staring at me?

  “Kelsey,” Leo says, tapping my shoulder.

  I give a start and turn to face him. “What?”

  “I’m eager to study the photos and debris I collected from the tree house,” Leo says. “I’m going home too.”

  “Wait, Leo. Didn’t you want to ask me something?”

  “No.” He walks over to get his gyro-board from my porch.

  “Yes, you did.” I dodge around to face him. “Something you didn’t want to ask me in front of Becca?”

  He looks down at the remote and shakes his head.

  “What was it?” I persist.

  Leo hops on his board like he’s eager to get away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I watch Leo zoom away, wondering why he just lied.

  - Chapter 7 -

  Bragg Castle

  A disembodied hand beckons to me.

  Not a flesh and blood hand but a brass one attached to a heavy door. The curled fingers look so real—like they could reach out and grab me. I think of horror movies where teens creep into a haunted castle even though they know they may never come out alive.

  Could Bragg Castle be haunted? I wonder as I stand at the marble entrance of the home of Dad’s new employer. It looks even more like a medieval castle up close, with gray stone walls like a fortress, turrets, and a front door large enough to welcome a dragon. All that’s missing is a moat with hungry alligators chewing up unwanted guests.

  I clasp the brass hand but don’t knock yet because I’m waiting for my family. I’m the only one that ran up all twenty-six steps. (Yes, I counted.)

  Mom and Dad climb slowly, and when I glance down at them, I can tell Dad is nervous. He doesn’t officially start work until tomorrow, so tonight he’s a guest instead of the chef.

  I was surprised when Dad insisted we drive to Bragg Castle when it’s just across the trees from our cottage. Driving the short distance seemed strange, but I have a feeling this is just the beginning of strange events tonight.

  When my sisters, brother, and parents finally join me at the top of the staircase, I lift the brass hand and knock. A thud reverberates through the door.

  “Wicked sound,” Kyle says. It’s nice to see him dressed up in black slacks and a buttoned blue shirt instead of sport tees and khakis. “Most houses have doorbells.”

  “This isn’t like most houses—oh!” I jump back when the door abruptly swings open.

  I was expecting a proper butler in a formal suit, but a purple-haired woman grins at us. She’s wearing jeans and a lacy blue blouse with angel wing designs across each shoulder. She has an earpiece in one ear and wears a gold-chain necklace and gold hoop earrings. She’s my height but I can see maturity in her silver-gray eyes that hints she’s closer to twenty than thirteen.

  “Welcome to the castle!” she chirps in a cute voice that reminds me of a Muppet. “You all look fabulous and I’m so glad to meet you. Of course I already know our brilliant new chef. I’m Mr. Bragg’s executive assistant, Angelica Hampton-Kensington, but everyone calls me Angel. Follow me.”

  She leads the way in a skippy stride, her hoop earrings swinging. Everyone else hurries to follow her but I lag behind, admiring the fancy furniture and landscape paintings. Mr. Bragg is famous for his resort hotels around the world, so the exotic paintings are probably from his travels.

  The house glows with crystal lamps and chandeliers, but there are shadowy corners that remind me of castles with dungeons and ghosts. So when I suddenly see a bulky metallic shape against a wall, my first thought is—a suit of armor! But as I get closer, I don’t see arms or legs. It looks like a machine made of chrome with mirrors and glass tubes.

  “That’s a Seeburg Jukebox, circa 1952. It plays up to fifty records and has rotating animation.”

  I whirl around and see the cheerful caramel-brown eyes of the king himself! Mr. Bragg wears casual black jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt. I know he’s at least sixty but his face is smooth and there’s no gray in his raven-black hair. I shift my feet, always a little shy with adults I don’t know well, especially someone so famous.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a jukebox?” He straightens his bright yellow and black tie. When I look closer, I realize the yellow designs are bananas.

  “Um…yeah,” is all I can say, my mouth going dry.

  “You must be the youngest Case.” He turns to caress the silvery chrome jukebox like it’s a favorite pet. “The Seeburg is the jewel in my collection. Isn’t it a beauty?”

  “Uh…well it’s not a suit of armor.” I slap my hand over my mouth. Did I seriously just say that? What is he going to think of me? I may have just blown my chance to ask him about the tree house kids.

  Instead of frowning, he tosses back his head and laughs. “Never had anyone compare a jukebox to armor.”

  “Your home is like a castle so I expected a suit of armor,” I explain. “But your jukebox is really cool.”

  “There’s at least one jukebox in every room,” he says proudly. “I also have a suit of armor, but it’s in the toy room.”

  “Toy room?” I perk up. If there are toys, there could be kids—maybe the same ones who met in the tree house.

  “Not toys for little kids.” He chuckles. “Vintage games for big kids.”

  “I love all kinds of games.” I pause, working up my courage. “I was wondering if I could ask you—”

  “Sorry, but the answer is no,” he cuts me off with a stern headshake. “Children are not allowed in the toy room.”

  Children! As if I’m a toddler instead of a teenager!

  I press my lips together tight so I won’t say anything rude. I wasn’t going to ask to see his vintage—a word that just means old—games anyway. I want to know about the kids who might have lived here.

  He turns back toward his jukebox, smoothing his fingers across the chrome. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he says in an almost apologetic tone. “After dinner I’ll give you and your family a personal tour of my jukebox collection.”

  “That would be great,” I say, relieved he’s smiling again.

  “So how are you settling into the cottage?” he asks.

  “I love it.” Especially the tree house, I think. Does he know about it?

  “That’s great to hear. It wasn’t easy to find a chef willing to move onto my estate. The cottage isn’t fancy, but there are ample rooms for a big family.”

  “It’s perfect for us,” I say enthusiastically. “Has it been empty long?”

  “Too long.” A pained look creases his face as he stares at his reflection in the jukebox. Before I can ask him who lived there before us, he abruptly turns away. “We should go to the dining room. You can see the Wurlitzer jukebox there,” he adds. “The others are probably wondering where we are.”

  He moves quickly, and I have to hurry to keep up.

  When we enter the dining room, he points out the jukebox, its burgundy wood gleaming under the light from the chandelier. He takes a seat at the head of the formal dinner table, and everyone else sits down too. I’m not quick enough to choose my seat, and instead of sitting close to Mr. Bragg, I’m at the far end of the table beside my sisters.

  I look up when Mr. Bragg taps his spoon against his wine glass.

  “Welcome, Case family,” he
booms across the table. “I’m honored to have you here tonight. My poor overworked housekeeper, Sergei, has been doing double duty taking care of the castle plus cooking, so he’s overjoyed we have a new chef.”

  “I’ve already planned my menu for tomorrow,” my father tells his boss, looking tense. I want to tell him not to worry so much. Mr. Bragg is lucky to have such a skillful chef. But it took Dad so long to find a new job that he lost some of his confidence.

  “Before we eat, some introductions,” Mr. Bragg says. “You’ve already met my lovely and competent assistant, Angel.” Gold bracelets jangle as Angel lifts her hand to wave. “And this is my nephew, Irwin.” Mr. Bragg gestures to a lanky guy with tortoise-shell glasses that swallow his face. “Irwin is studying for a master’s degree while working for me. As my heir, he’ll be running the company one day.”

  “Not for a very long time,” Irwin says in a rush, his glasses slipping down his nose. When he pushes them up, his elbow bumps his water glass and splashes the white table cloth. His awkward blush reminds me of a grown-up Leo.

  “And this is my family,” Dad introduces us with a proud look. “My wife, Katherine; son, Kyle; daughters, Kiana and Kenya; and our youngest, Kelsey.”

  “That’s a mouthful of K names.” Mr. Bragg grins.

  “It just kind of happened,” Mom admits with a chuckle. “Since Kevin and I both have K names, we named our first child Kyle. When the twins came, we already had three K names in the family, so why not add two more? The whole K name thing was a family tradition by the time Kelsey arrived.”

  “I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Kelsey.” Mr. Bragg winks at me like we’re conspirators.

  Dad’s gaze narrows with suspicion at me. But I just smile because I didn’t break any of the dinner rules. Mr. Bragg spoke to me first.

  Sergei, a stocky, middle-aged man with a swatch of gelled green hair and piercings in his nose, lip, and ears, comes in carrying a tray of salads. He glowers like he’s in a bad mood.

  When he politely, but still not smiling, offers a choice of salad dressings, I pick raspberry-vinegar. As he pours it over my salad, I notice small black and gray hairs on his white pants. My clothes often have similar orange hairs from cuddling Honey, and I deduct that he has a cat or dog.