by Bill Myers
“You’re right.” Sean nodded. “So it might strike again.”
“This could get serious,” Dad said.
Sean nodded even more eagerly. “I’ll say!”
Dad continued, “Serious enough that I hope you two will keep your noses out of it.”
“It could just be a prank,” Melissa offered.
Dad shrugged. “Prank or not, it sounds like Mr. Morrisey was in danger, and if you ask me—”
“We know, Dad.” Sean sighed. He then recited the lecture he and Melissa had heard a dozen times.“This is adult stuff, and the police should handle it.”
“That’s right,” Dad agreed.
“And they will,” Sean insisted. “But we’re a private detective agency. It’s our job to look into this sort of thing. Isn’t that right, Misty?”
Melissa, who appeared anything but excited, knew she was supposed to agree, so she gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah . . . sure.”
“Besides,” Sean turned back to Dad, “you knew there would be dangers when you let us start Bloodhounds, Inc.”
Dad took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “All right, I see your point. But be smart, okay? And if you stumble on something, be sure to bring in the police.”
“You bet!” Sean agreed enthusiastically.
“Yeah . . . sure,” Melissa repeated, not quite so enthusiastically.
“Now,” Dad started back into the broadcast booth, “I’ve got a commercial coming up. Did you do the list of chores I left on the counter?”
“Sure.” Sean nodded.
Melissa shot him a look.
“Uh . . . I mean some of them,” Sean hedged.
She gave him another look. “Well, we were thinking about doing them.”
“See to it that you do all of them,” Dad said. “With Mom gone we’ve all got to pull our weight around here.”
Sean and Melissa nodded slowly. It had been six months since Mom had died, and they were still adjusting. At times the pain was so heavy in their chests that if made it almost impossible to breathe. At other times it felt like she was away on some trip and would be coming home any day.
But of course she never did.
After saying good-bye to Dad, they headed for the door. Unfortunately, it was the same door that Herbie had chosen to reenter with a remake of his ham, tuna, and everything sandwich.
Not only was it the same door, but it was the same time.
Once again Herbie crashed to the floor, and once again his prized sandwich went airborne until it hit—you guessed it—the broadcast booth’s window . . . smearing it with sandwich parts and mayo.
FRIDAY, 12:55 PST
“Soon as we get these chores done,” Sean said, “we’ll head down to the museum and check out the exhibit on that Sir Richard Falcrest guy.”
“I doubt we’ll have time today,” Melissa said as she looked over the list Dad had left on the kitchen counter.
“Why not?”
“See for yourself.”
Sean grabbed the list and read:
Mop floor
Wash and dry laundry
Dust blinds
Do dishes
Mow lawn
“Wonderful.. .” he groaned. “We’ll be here forever.” With any luck, Melissa hoped that’s exactly where they would be. It’s not that she was afraid of this particular case. She just wished that their agency would spend a little more time finding cute kittens caught in trees and a little less time tracking down angry medieval ghosts.
At least for today it looked like she’d get her wish . . . until she heard that all too familiar squeaky little voice.
“Hey, guys, what’s baking?”
She gave a start, then looked around the kitchen. Of course she knew it was Jeremiah, and of course she knew he meant, “What’s cooking?” but at the moment she couldn’t find him anywhere. It was Sean who finally spotted him . . . in the clock of the microwave.
“Hey, Jeremiah,” he called. “We’ve got a ton of housework to do. Got any ideas on how we can get it done faster?”
“No problem-o,” Jeremiah chirped. “My memory banks have recorded every Brady Bunch, Leave It to Beaver, and I Love Lucy rerun ever made.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if they don’t have an answer, who does?”
Sean nodded his head thoughtfully.
Melissa hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”
“Don’t be such a worry callous,” Jeremiah squeaked. “Just follow my plans, and we’ll be done lickety-spit.”
“I think you mean worry wart” Melissa corrected. “And the term is lickety-split. L, not spit.”
“Good point,” Jeremiah agreed. “That will keep things a lot more sanitary.”
Melissa rolled her eyes. Sometimes working with six-month-old computer creatures can get on your nerves.
“Let’s hear what you’ve got!” Sean exclaimed.
Melissa rolled her eyes again. Sometimes working with older brothers can really get on your nerves.
Jeremiah quickly ran through his memory banks, and in a matter of seconds he had the answers.
First there was the floor.
“Just water it down and squirt soap on it,” Jeremiah suggested. “Then tie sponges to Slobs’ feet and turn her loose.”
“Are you sure that will work?” Sean asked.
“Absolutely. I saw it on some Saturday morning cartoon.”
His solution for washing the clothes wasn’t much better. Before Melissa could stop him, Sean had agreed to put all of their dirty clothes into the tub and fill it with soap and water. Now the two of them were jumping up and down on the clothes, squishing and squirting the water in every direction.
“Isn’t this cool?” Sean shouted to her. “This way we can get them all done in one load.”
“But what about drying them?” Melissa demanded.
Unfortunately, Jeremiah had a solution for that as well. In a matter of minutes every one of their ceiling fans had shirts, pants, socks, and underwear pinned to the blades, which spun around and around and around.
Mowing the lawn was no better . . .
Jeremiah wasn’t sure what show he’d seen this on. But since the mower was self-propelled, all Sean had to do was drive a stake in the middle of the yard, connect the mower to it with a rope, and let it go around the stake in tighter and tighter circles.
“A piece of pie!” Jeremiah chirped.
Finally, there were the Venetian blinds. Dusting them was always a chore. But not now. Not with the help of Clueless, their cat, and little Crash ‘n’ Burn, their hamster. “Just put Crash ‘n’ Burn on the top blind, where he’s nice and safe,” Jeremiah ordered. “Then tie a duster to Clueless’s tail and let her go.”
The rest, as they say, would be history. Clueless (who did not get her name by accident) would spend all afternoon running back and forth, jumping up and down, trying to reach little Crash ‘n’ Burn.
“By the time you get home.” Jeremiah beamed. “The blinds will be completely dusted.”
Sean nodded enthusiastically. “And the floor mopped and the lawn mowed and the clothes dried.”
“You hit the nail on the foot,” Jeremiah agreed.
Soon everything was set and they were heading for the door.
“Guys,” Melissa protested, “don’t you think we should stick around?”
“What for?”
“In case something goes wrong?”
“What could go wrong!” Sean exclaimed.
“That’s right,” Jeremiah agreed. He was now inside Melissa’s digital watch, talking from her wrist. “We’ve got all our bases smothered.”
Melissa could only shake her head. “Did you put soap in the dishwasher?” she asked.
“It’s in and running,” Sean called as he headed out the door. “Let’s go.”
Melissa gave a long sigh, then reluctantly followed them outside, onto their bikes, and off to the museum.
3
sir richard falcrest
Sean and Melissa stood shivering in the basement of the Middleton Museum.
“Don’t they ever heat this place?” Sean asked as he rubbed his hands together.
Melissa tired to ignore him. She knew if he didn’t have something to complain about, he wouldn’t be happy. That was his style. Some girls have brothers who are brains or artists or star athletes. Hers was a brother who would win a gold medal in the Olympics . . . just as soon as they created an event for bellyaching.
But Melissa was also shivering (though she doubted it had as much to do with the temperature as it did with the suit of armor looming in front of her). The two of them stood in the museum’s Medieval Exhibit. It consisted mostly of a long row of suits of armor lined up from the stairs and running across the room. The one that towered over them, the armor of Sir Richard Falcrest, was separated from the others. It was by far the largest . . . and the most foreboding. It stood at attention on a platform with its shield fixed across its chest.
Melissa was the first to spot a wooden plaque on the stand at its feet. She stooped down and began to read out loud:
“Sir Richard Falcrest,
the Lord of Duffington,
was a cruel feudal lord. He taxed his people
unfairly and treated them so poorly that
eventually he was overthrown by his own
peasants.”
“Nice guy,” Sean said.
“There’s more.” She went on to read:
“It is believed that many of the citizens of
Middleton are direct descendants of these
very peasants and—”
“Are you kidding?” Sean interrupted. His voice echoed loudly against the concrete walls. “It says that?”
Melissa cringed at Sean’s volume. She caught a glimpse of the museum’s curator, Mr. Jennings. The short little man had been giving them the eye ever since they’d approached the exhibit. Now he was frowning at Sean’s loudness.
But Sean didn’t notice. He never noticed that sort of stuff. “Where?” he demanded even more loudly. “Show me where it says that.”
Melissa pointed down to the plaque.
“That’s incredible!” he cried.
Melissa threw another look over at the curator. She hadn’t thought it possible, but the man’s scowl had actually grown deeper.
Now Sean was shuffling over to the display case beside the armor. “Hey, check this out!” he shouted.
“What is it?” Melissa whispered, hoping her brother would take the hint.
(But of course he didn’t.)
“It’s the replica of Sir Richard’s sword!” he cried.
Melissa crossed to join him. Sure enough, there inside the case was a model of a sword—the blade painted silver to look like steel, along with a fake gold handle embedded with cut red glass.
“Check out the fake jewels!” Sean exclaimed. “They’re supposed to be rubies.”
“So?”
“So rubies were exactly what the knight had set out to steal. This proves it really was him.”
“Why do you say that?” Melissa asked, swallowing back her rising fear.
Sean sighed his best Why-am-I-surrounded-by-such-ignorance? sigh. “If it were a regular burglar, he would have taken more stuff. Why didn’t he steal other jewels or diamonds or bracelets and necklaces? Why did he take only what the knight needs to make his sword?”
Melissa looked back at the fake sword and fought off a shiver. “But that’s impossible. He’s been dead for hundreds of years.”
“You tell him that.”
“All right, kids.” The curator’s voice made them both jump. Mr. Jennings was crossing the room, jabbing his finger at them. “You are far too loud. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“We’re sorry,” Melissa said. “We didn’t mean to be. We are just excited because we’re detectives and—”
“Detectives!” the short little man scoffed. “You’re just children.”
But Sean barely heard the put-down. “Is this sword an exact replica of the one Sir Falcrest had?”
“That’s what it says,” Jennings growled.
“Of the one he’s supposedly remaking?”
The curator seemed to grow just a little pale. “Who told you about that?”
“Our dad’s Robert Hunter, the owner of KRZY,” Melissa explained. “He read us the police report.”
Jennings looked a little more nervous and a lot more frightened. “That’s. . . that’s just an old wives’ tale,” he shuddered. “Falcrest has been dead for over five hundred years. He couldn’t possibly be alive. There’s absolutely no way.”
Brother and sister exchanged glances. “Okay,” Sean said slowly, “then maybe you could you tell us something about the curse.”
“Curse?” Jennings shifted even more nervously.
Sean nodded, keeping a careful eye on him. “Something about a curse on the descendants who overthrew his kingdom.”
Melissa nodded and pointed at the plaque. “It says here he would come after the peasants’ descendants and that many of them live right in this town.”
Jennings glanced about nervously. “As I said, I think it’s time for you two to go home.”
“But we’re just—”
“The museum is closing.”
“Not yet,” Melissa corrected. “We’ve got another five minutes—”
“We shut this exhibit down early,” the curator snapped. “That way nobody gets locked down here by accident.” He pressed his hands against both of their backs and ushered them toward the stairs. “And you would not want to get trapped down here at night, believe you me.”
“Why not?” Sean asked, still trying to get more information.
“Trust me,” Jennings said as he moved them up the steps. “You definitely don’t want to be down here in the dark.”
But Sean, who was always too curious for his own good (and for Melissa’s), turned back to Mr. Jennings with one last question. Unfortunately, it never quite got asked. It seems Sean’s foot did a little slipping off a step, which caused his body to do a lot of falling back into Melissa.
Not a big deal, except it sent Melissa falling back into Mr. Jennings.
Even that would have been okay if Mr. Jennings hadn’t lost his balance and started tumbling, head over heels, down the stairs.
Melissa and Sean stared in disbelief. But the gymnastics weren’t over yet . . .
When Mr. Jennings finally landed at the bottom, he slammed into the nearest suit of armor. Everyone watched in horror as that armor creaked, then slowly tilted until it fell into the suit of armor beside it . . . which creaked and fell into the one beside it, which creaked and fell into the—well, you probably get the picture.
creeeaak . . . CRASH!
creeeaak . . . CRASH!
creeeaak . . . CRASH!
On and on it went. Like a giant game of steel dominoes, one suit toppling into another. When they had finally finished and the dust had settled, only Sir Richard Falcrest’s armor, which stood out by itself, remained on its feet. Everything else lay in a scattered heap across the floor.
Mr. Jennings rose, trembling in rage. He slowly turned toward Melissa and Sean, his face the color of a blushing stoplight covered in tomatoes and given another coat of red paint just for good measure. “You . . .”
“I. . . uh . . .” Sean gave a weak little smile. “I think you’re right. We should probably be leaving now.”
“Get out!” the curator shouted.
“Shouldn’t we stay and help?” Melissa asked.
He turned to her in disbelief. “You’ve done enough already. Get out!”
“But—”
“GET OUT!”
“Uh, Misty.. .” Sean took her arm. “I think he wants us to leave.”
“GET OUT OF MY MUSEUM!”
Melissa got the point. The two of them scampered up the stairs and dashed for the exit as fast as they could . . . as Mr. Jennings’
voice continued echoing down in the basement.
“GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY MUSEUM!”
FRIDAY, 17:12 PST
As they rode their bikes home, Sean knew he and Melissa were thinking exactly the same thing. It wasn’t so much what had happened at the museum, but what they had discovered. Was it possible? Could the robber of the jewelry store really have been the knight? Could it really have been the ghost of Sir Richard Falcrest?
Sean had his doubts. But if it wasn’t the knight’s ghost, then why did it take only the jewels necessary to make the knight’s sword?
They rounded the corner, past Mrs. Tubbs’ house. She was out front, replanting her petunias. The very petunias they had accidentally destroyed in a race to the radio station less than a week ago.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tubbs,” Melissa called cheerfully.
But cranky old Mrs. Tubbs didn’t answer . . . unless you call grumbling and muttering an answer.
Not that Sean blamed her. No matter how careful they were, it always seemed the poor lady took the brunt of one of their accidents. (Hmm, maybe she and Mr. Jennings were somehow related.) The accidents were never on purpose (which probably explains why they’re called accidents), but it seemed that more often than not, when something went wrong, it included Mrs. Tubbs.
Sean’s mind drifted back to the knight. . . and the note it had left behind at the jewelry store. The note that said it needed two other items to complete the sword: gold for the handle and steel for the blade. Did that mean it was going to strike again? If so, where? Where would a knight go for gold . . . and steel? More important—
“Sean, look out!”
Melissa’s shout jarred him from his thoughts. He looked up just in time to see the family lawn mower roaring down the street toward him, dragging its stake and rope behind.
Sean veered hard to the right. . . which would have been a good idea, except that’s exactly where the mower swerved.
He veered hard to the left. Another good idea, except the mower had just bounced off the curb and was now heading in that direction.
In a final act of desperation, Sean yanked up his handlebars and popped a wheelie.
