The Secret of the Shadow Bandit

by Singleton, Linda Joy

  Everyone settles into separate conversations. I stab a cherry tomato with my fork and listen and observe. It’s what I do best. But it’s hard to even hear my own thoughts over the din of voices so I resort to lip-reading and pick up fragments of conversations.

  “…switched my major to hotel management so I can help my uncle,” Irwin tells my brother.

  “…a gift from my grandmother.” Angel touches a gold chain around her neck.

  “…on a safari a ferocious rhinoceros suddenly charged and the tour guide ran away,” Mr. Bragg says.

  “…took some fashion design classes and was invited to compete on the Design Diva reality show,” Irwin continues.

  Dollar signs dance in Kyle’s eyes. “Did you win a lot of money?”

  Intrigued, I lean forward to hear Irwin’s answer. “My uncle needs me so I turned it down. I have bigger things going on in the resort hotel business.”

  If Becca had the chance to compete on a fashion reality show, she’d jump at it and probably win first place. She’s going to study fashion in college. I’ve never really thought much about what I’ll study in college. I wonder if they have spy classes.

  Mr. Bragg’s voice booms across the table—“knew not to mess with me, and the rhino ran away!”

  Mom, Dad, and Angel laugh. But Mr. Bragg is one of those talkers who never stops, even when he’s chewing.

  I turn to listen to the conversation between my brother and Irwin, something about dorm rooms and SAT scores. It’s boring until I notice how Irwin’s gaze keeps sliding across the table to Angel with a hopeful expression. Does he like her? If he does, poor guy has zero chance. She doesn’t even glance at him, all business while she talks about travel with my parents and King Bragg.

  By the time dessert is served (something like pudding with raisins that look like floating eyeballs), I’m fidgeting in my seat. I have to find a way to talk to King Bragg alone so I can ask about the ARC kids. But how can I ask with my family listening? My parents might think the tree house is unsafe and forbid me to go there. Or worse—my sisters will think it’s cool and take over, like the bounce house takeover on my tenth birthday.

  After Sergei collects the dessert dishes (mostly untouched), Mr. Bragg stands. “This has been a wonderful evening. Thank you so much for coming.”

  Are we leaving already? But I haven’t found out about the tree house kids yet.

  When everyone stands to leave, my hopes crumble like the napkin I take off my lap and toss on my chair.

  “The evening isn’t over yet,” Mr. Bragg declares, and my hopes rise again. “I’m giving your family a tour of my castle, including my vintage jukebox collection. We’ll start with the wine cellar.” He turns to me with a wicked grin. “Some people say it reminds them of a dungeon.”

  An almost real dungeon!

  I can’t wait and hurry out the door.

  We follow the king like we’re his royal procession, winding down halls and stairs until we arrive at an ancient-looking wooden door.

  “Angel, the keys please.” Mr. Bragg holds out his hand to his assistant.

  She reaches into a shoulder bag that seems much too big for such a petite girl. She fishes around for a few moments then holds out a jangling key.

  “Angel keeps me organized,” King Bragg explains as he fits the key in the lock. “I’m so busy traveling that I forget where I leave things. Last week I couldn’t find my eighteen carat gold-plated fountain pen—a gift from Britain’s former prime minister. I tore my office apart searching for it, but then Angel came to my rescue and found it right away like she’s psychic.”

  “Not psychic,” Angel chuckles. “It rolled under your desk. That’s an obvious place to look.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He pats her fondly on the shoulder then opens the door to the dungeon.

  Mr. Bragg plunges us down shadowed steps into a chilly dark cellar, which really does look like a dungeon. But instead of torture devices, floor-to-ceiling racks hold wine bottles, the glass glinting. But my gaze is snared by what lurks beyond the wine racks—a darkened room bolted with steel bars.

  “That’s where I store my finest wines,” King Bragg explains when he follows my gaze. “The best vintages in the country.”

  I force a smile to hide my disappointment. A dungeon prison with torture racks and chains would have been more exciting.

  King Bragg makes a big show of selecting a bottle then offering it to my father. “A thank-you gift to my new chef,” he says.

  “Thank you.” Dad looks impressed as he reads the label on the bottle.

  When we start back up the stars, King Bragg pauses to check a metal box on the wall. “Go on ahead, I just need to adjust the temperature.”

  My family follows Angel and Irwin upstairs, but I purposely lag behind.

  This is my chance to talk to King Bragg!

  I wait for him to adjust some knobs and shut the door on the temperature control panel. When he turns around, he looks surprised to see me.

  “Mr. Bragg,” I say quickly before I lose my courage, “Um…your wine cellar is really cool. Thanks for showing it to us.”

  “As cool as a dungeon?” he asks teasingly.

  “Well…almost.” I smile. “Your house is like a real castle.”

  “It should be. It was designed after the MacNobaill Castle in Scotland—minus the ghosts of course.” He laughs like this is a familiar joke, so I laugh too, although to be honest I wouldn’t have minded seeing a ghost. If ghosts are real, they’d make great spies.

  I walk with him up the stairs. “I don’t think our house has any ghosts either. It’s big and bright, with so much room inside and out. The last kids who lived there must have hated to leave.”

  “No.” Mr. Bragg stops abruptly, his smile sinking to a frown.

  “You mean they wanted to leave?” I ask, confused.

  “What I mean,” he says, his tone icy enough to give a skeleton goosebumps, “is that there weren’t any kids.”

  “Oh…it’s just that I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” he interrupts. “There have never been children living on my property.”

  - Chapter 8 -

  Game of Bones

  Mr. Bragg pushes open the door and strides away without another word to me. Lift foot. Jam it into my mouth. Choke.

  I’d been so sure RJ, Gavin, and Zee Zee lived in our cottage and that Mr. Bragg would tell me how to find them. But now I’m more confused than ever.

  I run to keep up with Mr. Bragg. Keeping up with his mood changes is even harder. He’s friendly and talkative one minute then the next minute, he has an expression that slams like a door with a Keep Out sign. As he continues the tour, he looks over my head as if I’m invisible. Why is he suddenly so unfriendly? All I did was ask a question.

  “Avoidance is a reaction to guilt,” I murmur, remembering this phrase from my Criminal Psychology book. I doubt King Bragg committed a crime, but I suspect he’s hiding a secret.

  Or he just doesn’t like kids.

  I hide my hurt feelings by pretending to be interested in a gilded painting of a fountain with creepy gargoyles spitting water. King Bragg moves on to talk with my parents while I’m counting gargoyles; eight gruesome monsters frolicking in spilling water. They’d almost be cute if they weren’t so hideous.

  I run my finger over the gold frame, thinking about RJ, Zee Zee, and Gavin. If they didn’t live in the cottage then why did they hold club meetings in the tree house? Bragg Castle is surrounded by woods where homes are few and far from each other. And the No Trespassing signs keep trespassers out.

  How do I find the ARC kids?

  Around me everything has gone quiet. Turning away from the gargoyle painting, I realize I’m alone. Oops. The tour continued without me. I make a few wrong turns until I hear voices. Hurrying down a shadowed hall, I find the others.

  “…extremely rare 1940 Gabel Kuro,” Mr. Bragg is saying, gesturing to a wood-paneled jukebox. “The last
Kuro that went up for auction sold for over $120 thousand dollars.”

  “No way!” Kyle gasps. “That’s a lot for a music box.”

  “My jukeboxes represent an era of rock & roll and drive-in movies. My collection isn’t about music, it’s about history and art,” King Bragg says, patting the machine.

  My sister, Kenya, takes out her phone, ready to snap a photo when Angel steps in front of her. “Please no photos of Mr. Bragg’s collection,” she says in her cute Muppet voice, which contrasts with her disapproving expression.

  “Sorry,” she says. Kenya frowns and I can tell she’s annoyed. My sister is obsessed with snapping photos to post online.

  “Angel is my watch dog, always protecting my interests.” Mr. Bragg turns to us with an amused expression. “She’s right about my not allowing photos of my collections. While I have a superb security system, secrecy is the best defense against thieves.”

  Thieves? I think, surprised that anyone would want to steal a hulking music box. I mean, why not just listen to music on a phone?

  As we tour the castle, Mr. Bragg lectures about his jukeboxes like we’re on a school field trip. He pats each jukebox fondly like it’s a beloved member of his family. He’s talking about a Rock-Ola jukebox when Angel suddenly interrupts, “Excuse me, Mr. Bragg.”

  “Yes, Angel?” He arches his thick dark brows.

  “You need to take this call.” She touches her earpiece then lifts a silver cell phone from her pocket and hands it to her employer. “It’s Mr. Rattanak.”

  Mr. Bragg snaps his shoulders back and his mouth hardens into a formidable line. It’s like watching a friendly cat turn into a fierce tiger. “My apologies,” he explains to us. “I’m in the middle of contract negotiations for a hotel on a Cambodian island. I’ll leave you in my nephew’s capable hands. Irwin, will you finish the tour?”

  “Of course, Uncle Franklin,” Irwin says with an obedient nod that causes his oversized glasses to slip down his nose. He pushes them up and turns to my parents. “Please, follow me.”

  I glance over at Dad, hoping he’ll say we don’t need to see any more jukeboxes because I’m not the only one starting to yawn. (Mom hid her yawn by faking a cough.) My sisters have resorted to stealth texting (probably each other) and my brother looks half asleep. But Dad simply smiles and thanks Irwin.

  So the tour-that-may-never-end continues. As Irwin talks, I marvel at how much he reminds me of Leo. They both speak with precise words and can rattle off dates and facts like their brains are online. But physically they’re nothing alike. Irwin has a beaky nose and is kind of homely—while Leo has a cute smile and nice blue eyes. (Not that I’d tell him that.)

  When Irwin announces the tour is over, I almost applaud.

  I feel like I’ve walked a marathon and am ready to go home—until I notice a door with a brass plaque engraved with the words Toy Room.

  “What’s that room?” I ask Irwin as if I don’t already know.

  “Mr. Bragg’s game collection,” Irwin says. “Antique chess sets and rare board games from around the world.”

  “There’s a suit of armor too,” I say.

  He blinks at me. “How did you know?”

  “Mr. Bragg told me about his Toy Room.” I flash a hopeful smile. “He knows I’m interested in medieval stuff. I’d really love to see the armor.”

  “Mr. Bragg has strict rules about who is allowed in the Toy Room.” Irwin glances at the door then back to me.

  My heart sinks. Is he going to call me a child and say I’m too young to see grown-up toys?

  “But since he told you about the Toy Room, he must have planned to show it to you,” Irwin adds with a smile. “It’s my favorite room in the castle. These collections are very old and valuable so be careful not to touch anything.”

  “I won’t leave a single fingerprint,” I promise.

  Mom and Dad stay behind to rest their feet and my sisters ditch the tour and wander down the hall with their cell phones.

  But my brother eagerly follows Irwin. Kyle loves all games; sports, electronic, and even board games. Monday nights at our house used to be game night and we’d pull out boxes of board games. My siblings always chose Monopoly, Risk, or Scruples. But when it my turn to choose we played my favorite board game Clue.

  The round turret room has a high curved ceiling and six huge windows, all but one draped closed with heavy curtains. The open window invites light into the room. Rays of sun shine across the polished wood floor and glint over a dozen glass cases. In one corner of the room are displays of chess sets under glass.

  Right away I spot the suit of armor gleaming in another corner. But when I draw closer, I’m surprised the armor is so small. I imagined knights as tall as basketball players, but this knight isn’t much taller than me.

  Were people short in the Middle Ages?

  I reach out to touch the armor then quickly pull back, remembering my promise to Irwin. I hear him across the room explaining antique games to my brother so I join them.

  “These are not toys to be played with but pieces of history, and many are centuries old,” Irwin lectures in a fond tone as if this is a topic he enjoys. “Since moving in with my uncle, I’ve gained an appreciation of antique games.”

  Kyle peers into a case holding a wooden board with two rows of holes. “What game is that?”

  “Pallankuzhi, or mancala in southern India,” Irwin adds. “The history of ancient games is fascinating. Have you heard of Chinese Checkers?”

  Kyle and I nod.

  “But you probably don’t know that Chinese Checkers has nothing to do with China or checkers, or that Parcheesi and Sorry! evolved from the game of pachisi.” He moves on to a smaller case. “This dice game appears in cave paintings and Indian mythology. But my uncle’s most treasured collection is showcased in his chess corner.” We follow him to the largest glass case. “This white and black Reykjavik chess set is crafted from camel and buffalo bone.”

  “Real animal bones?” I ask, frowning.

  He nods. “The earliest chess pieces were carved of bone, ivory, or wood. Ivory was the preferred material but bone was more economical,” he says then launches into a history lesson dating back to the Middle Ages.

  The games are interesting but when he spouts off dates and technical terms, my gaze wanders to the open window.

  What was that? I wonder, sure I saw something small and gray swoosh across the slanted roof. It was probably a bird, even though I didn’t see wings.

  Puzzled, I lean on a windowsill to peer down the steep roof. The view is amazing! I can see the cottage roof, treetops, ribbons of roads, a silvery winding river, and a cluster of dark houses like specks on the horizon. I didn’t realize there was a neighborhood so close and wonder if that’s where the ARC kids live.

  I turn away from the window—and smack! I bump my knee into a cabinet door. Rubbing my throbbing knee, I glare at the metal door like it purposely attacked me. Why was it hanging open? I lean over to shut it but pause when I notice something glimmering green from the top shelf.

  I have to look.

  Spy Strategy #2: A spy must always pay attention to her surroundings.

  Inside the cabinet is the most beautiful chess set ever. The pieces aren’t carved from dead-animal bones, but from dazzling gems. One set is green (maybe emeralds) and the other is red (rubies?). Each piece is smaller than my pinkie, as if they were created for a child. Did this set belong to a princess or prince from centuries ago?

  I know a little about chess because Leo tried to teach me once, but he kept beating me in a few moves, and that wasn’t fun at all. Still I know each set of pieces has eight pawns, two knights, two bishops, two rooks, one queen, and one king. The king is the most important piece. Not the most powerful though—that would be the queen. And sometimes even a lowly pawn can checkmate a king.

  But these pieces don’t look anything like Leo’s set. The two opposing armies ride elephants, horses, and camels, with pawns in gold uniforms.
r />   “Ready to go, Kelsey?” Irwin calls out.

  “In a minute,” I say, reluctant to leave the gleaming jewels.

  Why is this exquisite chess set hidden in a cupboard? It should be on display beneath a golden spotlight, not banished to a cabinet. Something else about the set bothers me. I’m not sure what—until I count the chess pieces.

  Sixteen rubies but only fifteen emeralds.

  The green king is missing.

  I open the cabinet door wider to see if the king was knocked over or rolled away. There are two shelves in the cupboard. The bottom is stacked with books about antiques and the top shelf holds only the jeweled chess set.

  “What are you doing in there?” Irwin snaps from behind me.

  I whirl around. Irwin’s hands are on his hips, and his scowl is a strong clue he’s annoyed. I consider acting innocent and pretending I wasn’t snooping. I should apologize, but that wouldn’t answer any of my questions.

  So I blurt out, “Where’s the green king?”

  “That cabinet is off limits,” he says. Worry lines crease his forehead.

  “The door was open and I bumped into it—which hurt.” I point below my dress to the tiny red mark on my leg.

  “I’m sorry you were injured,” he says in a kinder tone.

  “I’m not bleeding, but I’m curious.” I point inside the cabinet. “Are those really rubies and emeralds?”

  “Mr. Bragg wouldn’t display anything less than authentic,” Irwin says with an insulted purse of his lips. “The tour is over. Come away from there.”

  “What happened to the emerald king?” I persist. “Did it break?”

  Irwin frowns. “It isn’t my place to say…”

  “But you know who broke it,” I persist.

  “It wasn’t broken…I mean…it’s just…just…” He rubs his forehead like Leo does when he gets anxious. “I’d rather not talk about it.”