The Great Shelby Holmes and the Haunted Hound

by Elizabeth Eulberg

  Um, seriously? Shelby was commenting on someone else’s abrupt temperament.

  “Yeah, I was tired and out of sorts because I had a horrible night’s sleep. Well, Bryant has had three nights like that. In his own house. So try to put yourself in his shoes and tread carefully. What we need right now is to assure him that we’re going to figure this out and that he has nothing to worry about. No more tricks.”

  Shelby huffed. “Do you want me to solve this, or do you want me to be well behaved?”

  “Can’t you do both?”

  Her face turned up in such a scowl, I should’ve known better than to ask her that question.

  “It’s for a friend of mine,” I added. Yeah, she and Bryant might not get along, but he and I did. It’s the least Shelby could do for me after all I put up with being her partner. “You do things for your friends. I’d do whatever you needed. That’s what friends do: they help each other.”

  “I don’t need help,” Shelby said with a clenched jaw.

  Here’s the thing: sometimes the great Shelby Holmes did need help. She didn’t always understand how to behave around people, even if she wouldn’t admit it. I tried to guide her in the right direction, especially when it came to our clients.

  “Yeah, but some people do. Bryant needs our help. Friend to friend, can you please play nice?”

  “I’ll try,” she relented. “For you, Watson.”

  That was going to have to be good enough.

  “Although,” Shelby started, and I had to know it wasn’t going to be that simple. “You infer that I’m the only friend being difficult, yet have you ever thought about my point of view?”

  That stopped me in my tracks.

  Shelby continued, “Have you not observed how Bryant constantly glares at me? You’re not in our music class to see how agitated he gets when I’m asked to play a piece to demonstrate the proper technique. I’m able to put all of that aside to work on his case, so he should do the same.”

  Shelby had a point. I never really thought about how people treated her since I was usually too busy trying to make up for her behavior. It was true: nobody really talked to her unless they needed her help. That wasn’t fair to Shelby.

  “I’m sorry—” I began to apologize, but Shelby cut me off.

  “Watson, it is the reality of my school existence. This is why I don’t like to make any case personal or get involved with clients and suspects. Bryant’s case is one that has intrigued me. So I’ll work on it. I’ll play nice, but I’m solely doing it for you.”

  “Thanks, Shelby.”

  “Besides, friends seem to only take up time and bring a lot of dramatics to life, so I’m content with my current situation.”

  Ah, I think her current situation meant me. Yeah, Shelby could be a lot and that stunt she did in the cafeteria still wasn’t cool, but she was human. And my friend.

  Bryant came toward us down the hallway, a look of apprehension on his face. Shelby straightened up and attempted what I could only assume was a welcoming smile. Between the strain of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes, it looked as if the simple gesture of a smile was causing her pain.

  Still, she was trying.

  “Hey,” Bryant greeted us. He kicked the floor. “I, ah, got this for you, Shelby.” Bryant reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a candy bar.

  Oh! There may be hope for these two yet.

  Shelby’s face lit up with genuine happiness this time. “Splendid!” She unwrapped the candy bar as we began to walk out of school. “Bryant, this could be the start of a beautiful acquaintance.”

  Shelby had an extra skip in her step while we walked to Bryant’s apartment. Once the candy bar was finished (so, like, 2.4 seconds later), quiet descended on the group. It was awkward. I nudged Shelby. Bryant was nice enough to get her something, so it was now her turn to attempt to be civil to him.

  “Bryant, your martelé has much improved.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but Bryant seemed suspicious at Shelby’s now friendly behavior. “Ah, okay.”

  “I’m being serious. You must have been working on it.”

  “I have,” Bryant said as he walked just a tad taller.

  “I can tell.” Shelby then nodded at me. No doubt she wanted me to acknowledge that she could be human every once in a while.

  “Thanks,” Bryant replied. “So are you going to use one of those EMF meters?”

  Shelby looked confused. “Are you referring to an electromagnetic field meter? Why on earth would I use that?”

  She then did a full-on witchlike cackle.

  So Shelby and Bryant on friendly terms lasted ten seconds. Better than I expected.

  “It’s a reasonable question!” Bryant whipped his shaggy hair back. “It’s what people use on ghost shows.”

  “Ghost shows? Like a cartoon?” Shelby’s face scrunched up in disgust.

  Oh, come on. I made a note to ask Shelby’s parents about what cartoons Shelby watched as a kid, because there was no way she hadn’t watched a Disney movie or owned a stuffed animal. Just no way.

  Sure, the Holmeses didn’t appear to have a television in any of the rooms that I’d been in, but they could watch stuff on computers.

  “No, it’s a reality show”—Shelby snorted, but Bryant continued—“where people go to haunted houses to find ghosts. And the Ghostbusters used EMFs, too.”

  Shelby clenched her jaw a moment before taking a deep breath. “Electromagnetic field meters would certainly diagnose any electrical currents. Why they’d use one on those so-called reality shows is beyond me. Dare I even inquire who these Ghostbusters are?”

  “You know, the ones from the movies?”

  Shelby looked at Bryant blankly.

  I shook my head at him. “Shelby doesn’t really watch movies. Or TV.”

  Bryant’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

  Shelby shrugged. “I prefer to use my imagination while reading books instead of the passive entertainment you lot seem to favor.”

  I gave Shelby a warning look. Plus, movies and TV shows were awesome. I liked books, too. People could like more than one thing.

  An idea occurred to me. Maybe, just maybe, we could learn a few things from watching one of those ghost-hunting shows. Not sure how I was going to convince Shelby of that, but she had her ways of researching, and I had mine.

  We turned onto Bryant’s street and saw a group of people outside the building. They were looking up at the Baskerville Estates sign and taking pictures.

  “Is this a normal occurrence outside your building?” Shelby asked as she rubbed her hands together.

  “No,” Bryant replied.

  “Did something happen?” I asked with dread in my voice.

  “No, it’s a tour group,” Shelby stated. “Look at the people: comfortable walking shoes, various clothing accoutrements to show where they’re from, cameras dangling or pointed at the building. There are certainly a number of historical and city walking tours in Harlem. Does your building have any historic significance?”

  “Not that I know of,” Bryant said. “I’ve never seen a tour group outside our building before.”

  Shelby smiled. “Interesting. It appears the ruse is on.”

  Before she could explain more, Shelby started walking toward the group. A white guy in his early twenties, dressed in all black, with heavy black eyeliner, led a group consisting of about a dozen tourists who were rapt with attention.

  The guide dramatically swept his hand to the building. “This year marks the one-hundredth anniversary of when Hugo Baskerville met his untimely demise. Every year around Halloween, residents hear Hugo pacing around the building and the cries of his beloved hound. Legend has it that the soul of Hugo Baskerville will not rest until he can find peace in the home he so loved.”

  Yikes. Bryant’s apartment building really was haunted! And it was famous!

  But . . . ​Bryant had lived there for years. Mr. Mortimer has been there even longer. If this really was a hau
nting, why now? The anniversary? A hundred years did seem like a big deal, even for ghosts.

  Yeah, Shelby said that there was no such thing as ghosts and that she could figure out what was going on. But she still hadn’t proved it wasn’t a haunting, so I was going to proceed with caution.

  Just a day in and this case was throwing me for a loop. I’d get ready to think one thing, and then something else would change my mind.

  “Question!” Shelby said with her hand raised. She had inserted herself in the tour group. “We have sadly only caught the tail end of your presentation about this building. Are you giving another tour soon?”

  “Yes!” the guide said. “Every day during the week of Halloween, as that is when Hugo Baskerville makes his appearance.”

  “So it’s only this building on this tour?”

  “No, it’s haunted areas of Harlem,” the tour guide said in a deep voice that got louder with each word. “But if you’re interested in the legend of Hugo Baskerville, I have more information.”

  Shelby took the brochure from the guy. “I was certain you would.”

  “Now!” he exclaimed as he clapped his hands. “This is the time to take pictures of the building. Hugo lived in the apartment on the third floor, the two windows to the right.” He pointed at the windows directly above where Bryant and his mom lived.

  Uh-oh.

  It was official: I was creeped out.

  Shelby didn’t even glance at the piece of paper before handing it to me. It was a photocopy of an old New York Times article from November 2, 1919, featuring two pictures: one of the front of Bryant’s apartment building and one of a white guy with one of those old-timey handlebar mustaches. Bryant looked over my shoulder as I read it.

  REAL ESTATE MAGNATE HUGO BASKERVILLE MURDERED!

  By Mara I. Rhody

  Infamous real estate tycoon Hugo Baskerville was found murdered in his eponymous building in Harlem. A tenant in the Baskerville Estates alerted police when Baskerville’s beloved hound kept barking through the night. Authorities discovered the hound guarding Baskerville’s bloodied and lifeless body. Baskerville was bludgeoned to death by an unknown object.

  Baskerville, a trendsetter in building during the Harlem Renaissance, had recently been accused of scamming his tenants. Could it be a tenant who snapped? Residents of the building are currently being interviewed for any information leading to the capture of the murderer.

  Baskerville’s hound has refused to leave the apartment since the murder on Halloween and continues to howl through the night.

  Murder! I didn’t know he was MURDERED. I mean, dying was bad enough, but MURDER.

  Nope. I was done. Out. And I wasn’t ashamed.

  Before I could admit this to Shelby, she turned to the tour guide.

  “Excuse me,” Shelby cooed, which only meant one thing: this guy was in trouble. “I don’t mean to interrupt as I’m sure you have various other locales to show, but I’m Jenna Lee Miller. My mother is the Joanne Miller from Miller Casting. I think you have a wonderful presence about you that would be perfect for a television show she’s currently working on. Do you have your head shot on you?”

  The dude’s dark eyes got wide. “Yes!” he said in a chipper voice, very different from the somber tone he’d been using during his tour. “Listen, your mom is one of the best casting agents. I’d love for her to have my credentials!” He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a glossy photo of himself—without the eye makeup and slicked-back hair—and with text on the back.

  “Wonderful,” Shelby purred. “Thank you so much.”

  He gave her a big smile before he turned back to the group in a dour manner.

  Shelby looked like she’d won something.

  I was as confused as ever. “What was that? How do you know a casting director?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But he knew about her.”

  Shelby turned to Bryant. “I didn’t realize the great violin maestro Leonardo Pileggio lived down the street from you.”

  Bryant snapped out of his fog. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Have you had the pleasure of conversing with him?”

  What on earth did this have to do with this case? AND A MURDER!

  Bryant nodded. “A little. I don’t want to bother him.”

  “How considerate of you.” Shelby turned back to me. “People often pretend to know something in order to not feel foolish. Case in point: I made up Leonardo Pileggio, but Bryant wouldn’t want me to think he wasn’t aware of some great violin maestro, especially one who lived nearby.”

  Bryant looked like a deer caught in headlights.

  Shelby continued, “That guide wasn’t some horror expert. He was an actor. While you were reading that sham of an article, I asked him basic questions about Hugo Baskerville, and he stuttered. He stated that Hugo was born in 1912, which would’ve meant that he was seven at the time of his alleged murder. Actor? Yes. Good at improvisation? No.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked. So the guide was an actor. Big deal. I was pretty sure half the waiters in this city were actors. That didn’t mean anything.

  Right?

  “It signifies that this web is getting quite intricate, and I love a good puzzle.” Shelby patted Bryant on the shoulder. “Buck up, Bryant. This is getting fun!”

  “Fun?” Bryant said in a hushed tone. “How is any of this fun?”

  “Yeah, about that,” I tried to explain. “Shelby’s idea of what’s fun is very different from most people’s.”

  Bryant gulped. “No kidding.”

  Shelby clapped her hands excitedly. “Now let’s go inside!”

  CHAPTER

  8

  If I thought it was awkward when we were walking here, it was nothing compared to Shelby being in Bryant’s apartment.

  She immediately began crawling on the floor. She examined every crevice of the windows along the street side of the apartment before turning her attention to the living room–dining room–kitchen. Her eyes never more than an inch away from any surface.

  “Ah, Watson,” Bryant began. “What’s she doing?”

  “It’s just this thing she does,” I replied. I had no idea why she was doing it, but I knew to never question her methods.

  Shelby jumped up from the floor. She dusted off her knees, then clapped her hands. “Now to the bathroom and bedrooms.”

  Bryant didn’t look happy. “Why? Nothing has happened there. Is it necessary?”

  “Yes, I need to understand every inch of this apartment to deduce how this is transpiring.”

  Bryant reluctantly led us to the back of the apartment. First Shelby inspected the bathroom and Bryant’s mom’s room—under Bryant’s watchful and untrusting eye—before turning to Bryant’s room.

  “Oh, come on!” Bryant groaned as Shelby looked under his bed.

  “Nothing’s in there!” he protested as she opened his closet.

  “Unbelievable!” he said with a sigh as she opened his dresser. “I guess privacy means nothing to you?”

  I was pretty certain Shelby went over Bryant’s bedroom more closely. She was storing information in her brain attic about him. I just knew it.

  “Can you be careful with that?” Bryant said as Shelby picked up his violin.

  “I believe I am more than equipped to handle this instrument,” she said with a dismissive sniff.

  Shelby went over to his small wooden desk and moved it around.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked, hoping to ease Bryant’s nerves and, you know, also clue me in on what was going on.

  “I’ll know when I find it.”

  Yep. That was Shelby being super open about her process. To her partner. Because that’s to be expected.

  “Do you really need to do that?” Bryant asked while Shelby started opening his desk drawers.

  “You want answers? I’m trying to get them.”

  “Yeah, but, I mean—” Bryant started before Shelby smirked as she picked up a teddy be
ar dressed as a Mets fan, Bryant’s favorite team. “Okay! That’s enough!” He grabbed the bear from her and held it tightly to his chest. “Tour’s over.”

  “Yeah, Shelby,” I agreed. “I think you got enough information here.” I gave her that look that hopefully said remember what I said about playing nice.

  “Not yet.” Shelby pulled out her cell phone. “It is quite difficult to decipher infrasound because the human ear cannot detect it, which is the issue. I haven’t identified anything that could potentially emit an infrasound. I could put sheets of acrylic plastic on the windows as it would respond to infrasound, but that wouldn’t let us know where it was coming from. So this is the next best thing.”

  She stood on Bryant’s bed—despite his protest—with her phone held out, going over every surface on the wall, focusing on the vent. She then worked her way back through the apartment.

  As she was standing in the middle of Bryant’s shower, he finally had enough. “What are you doing with your phone?”

  “I’m using a condenser mic that is connected to an A/D converter, which can capture low frequencies as digital signals.”

  Bryant held up his hands. “Never mind. Sorry I asked.”

  I gave him an understanding pat on the back. I know, I know . . .

  After going over every surface in the apartment for a second time, first with her eyes, second with whatever microphone thingy she rigged up on her phone, Shelby stopped.

  She looked confused. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bag of M&M’s. She poured half of the bag into her mouth before closing her eyes.

  This meant Shelby was stumped. So, not a good sign.

  “No infrasound?” I asked.

  Shelby shook her head.

  Yep, this wasn’t good at all. AT. ALL.

  Because if it wasn’t this sound that was causing the ghost-like feelings in the tenants of the building, what was it?

  Yep. Like I said before, I was out. I signed up with Shelby to find dogs and cipher-sending bullies. Not to get involved in something where a murder was involved. Even one that was nearly a century old.

  Nope.

  Bryant gulped. “So, it’s really Baskerville’s ghost?”