The Copycat Caper

by John V. Madormo

  She shook her head. “Charlie, please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My dad leaned over. “Your little agency? I thought I made myself very clear that—”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “That’s not what we’re doing.” I turned to the others. “Scarlett, please inform my parents what’s going on here.”

  She strolled over to the open window. “I hope it’s okay, Mrs. Collier. We were just practicing for the school play. Charlie said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  My mom sighed. “It’s no problem at all, sweetie.” She glanced at my dad and smiled, then turned to us. “How come you kids are out here? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the house?”

  “Well,” I said, “you see, Gram’s watching TV . . . and she tends to crank the volume if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Tell me about it,” my dad said.

  My mom grabbed his arm. “Why don’t we park on the street so the kids can continue practicing.”

  Henry scooted over. “Oh, that’s okay. We were just finishing up. Weren’t we, guys?”

  We then proceeded to break down the lawn chairs and card table and waved as we exited via the side door.

  “That was close,” Henry said.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “We’d better break this thing up. I’ll talk to you at school on Monday.”

  By the time Henry and Scarlett had left the backyard, my parents had emerged from the garage.

  “How come you guys are back so early?” I said.

  “I learned tonight that sushi and I do not agree,” my mom said. “I wasn’t feeling well, and so I asked your dad to bring me home.”

  “How do you feel now?” I asked.

  “Better, thanks.” My mom put her arm around me. “I didn’t realize that Henry and Scarlett were in the play too.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s nice.” She grinned. “And to think that I share a last name with a handsome leading man.” She hugged me.

  It was right at that moment, when I saw how proud she was of me, that I thought I had better come clean.

  “Mom, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “About what?”

  We headed into the house.

  “You see, I may have jumped the gun the other day.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “I thought I had won the role of leading man . . . but it seems . . . I was wrong.”

  She appeared confused. “So, what role are you playing, then?”

  I started shuffling my feet. “I’m the understudy for the role of Nick Dakota. That’s the leading man character.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “So you won’t be onstage at all?” She was clearly disappointed.

  “Not unless something happens to Patrick Walsh. He has the role now.”

  My mom smiled. But I had seen that smile before. It was her way of trying to make me feel better . . . even though I had lost the race. I could tell that she was doing her best to console me, but it was obvious that she was the one who needed consolation. I wanted to say something that might make it easier for her to deal with it. Something warm. Something tender. Something that only a son would share with his mother.

  “We can always hope that Patrick breaks a leg or some other body part,” I said with a grin. It was the best I could come up with on short notice.

  “Let’s not wish that on anyone.” She patted the top of my head. “I’m going to lie down for a little bit.”

  I wasn’t sure if she needed rest because of the sushi or the egg I had just laid.

  • • •

  At school on Monday, things were relatively uneventful, if you don’t count a fire drill that turned out to be the real thing. Well, it wasn’t a fire, actually. The alarm was triggered when a carbon monoxide detector went off. Most of the kids were unaware of what that was and really didn’t care. They were more interested in the fact that our last period was shortened by about twenty minutes. We happened to be in Mrs. Jansen’s class when the alarm sounded. When we returned, she took the opportunity to teach us about this silent killer.

  Carbon monoxide, we soon learned, is a colorless, odorless, but highly poisonous gas. It’s most commonly found in the fumes produced by the exhaust system of a vehicle. But it can also be produced by a furnace that’s not running properly. It was a little scary to think that something we all have in our homes, something that provides warmth during the winter months, could malfunction and cause disastrous results. But in our case today, we soon learned that it had all been a false alarm caused by a momentary power outage. It was good information to store away nonetheless, although most of the kids paid little attention to the lecture.

  I made it a point to attend play practice that afternoon. Even though tonight was a big night—another Sam Solomon drama—I didn’t want to abuse the privilege that Mr. Miles had given me. I wanted him to know that I appreciated the fact that he was allowing me to miss rehearsals. So, every once in a while, I needed to show my face. I joined the other understudies in the front row and tried to stay awake. But that wasn’t a problem today. Practice actually proved to be pretty interesting. When Henry and Scarlett were engaged in a rather volatile scene where the police detective shows little mercy for the accused, Mr. Miles interrupted the rehearsal.

  “Henry, Henry, what’s happened to you? Where’s your fire? Where’s your passion?”

  Mr. Miles was unaware of the events that took place two days earlier when Henry and Scarlett finally settled their differences—at least temporarily.

  “Well, I thought that maybe I was too hard on her before,” he replied. “I thought I’d tone it down a little.”

  “Henry, you’re not listening to your inner voice. You’re a hard-nosed, streetwise, veteran cop. You scratch out a meager existence. And here’s this wealthy socialite who hasn’t worked a day in her life. She has no concept of earning a living. She’s everything that you hate.” He paused and smiled. “Does that help?”

  “Sure,” he said. But you could tell there was still something missing from Henry’s performance.

  When the scene continued, Mr. Miles stood off to the side of the stage and frowned. He knew that something had changed. Even Scarlett lacked the motivation that she had displayed so many other times. It was funny. It was almost as if Henry and Scarlett were better actors when they couldn’t stand each other. It caused Mr. Miles to end practice early, which was perfectly fine with me.

  At home that night, I had a hard time concentrating. I was antsy. I couldn’t wait for eleven o’clock to roll around, when the next episode of The Sam Solomon Mystery Theater would air. And like I was a week ago, I’d have to be discreet. No one could know I was up that late on a weeknight. Well, except for Gram. I wrote myself a note to set my alarm clock for morning. I couldn’t oversleep again.

  When it was time for bed, I set my alarm for 11 P.M. and hit the sack. But unlike last time, I never fell asleep. My eyes refused to close. I guess I was just too keyed up. I knew that as soon as the program ended, I would have to sneak down to the basement and call Eugene. I just prayed that my parents would be fast asleep. When eleven o’clock finally did arrive, I was ready. I had paper and pencil in hand. I planned to take notes during the broadcast. There was no room for error. I had to keep my ears open for words with double meanings. Then Eugene and I would have to quickly analyze our findings and try to determine the suspect’s next target.

  I slipped on my headphones, pulled the covers over my head, and immersed myself in the world of Sam Solomon for the next thirty minutes. This particular episode was titled “The Pitcher Frame Caper.” It all began, as many of Sam’s adventures do, when a mysterious woman walked into his office with a problem. She identified herself as Zelda Romanov, the girlfriend of a well-known major-league-baseball pitcher in Chicago by the n
ame of Tommy Griffin. Tommy had recently helped his team secure a play-off berth with an amazing 17–7 record. Zelda went on to explain that after yesterday’s game the ace pitcher had been approached by a notorious gambler who had offered him $25,000 if he would help fix the outcome of the opening play-off game. Tommy had been instructed to throw a series of meatballs to the opposing batters. (Meatballs, I learned, is a slang term for pitches thrown right down the heart of the plate and easy to hit.) When Tommy refused, the gambler threatened to ruin the pitcher’s illustrious career by sharing sensitive information with the press.

  The gambler produced a series of bank receipts that indicated that on the day following each of Tommy’s regular-season losses, a sum of $5,000 had been deposited into the pitcher’s personal bank account. Those receipts certainly made it look as if Tommy was in cahoots with gamblers to influence the outcome of games. Sam was certain that the records were fraudulent, but even a faithful teammate or a loyal fan would have a hard time believing that Tommy hadn’t accepted bribes to throw each of those games. Zelda pleaded with Sam to help foil the gambler’s evil plot and save Tommy’s career. It was obvious to Sam that the pitcher was being framed—hence the title of the episode. Well, it didn’t take the world’s greatest detective long to solve this caper. Within days, he had identified the frightened bank teller who had been forced to falsify documents that supported the gambler’s claim. And from there it was relatively easy to expose the leaders of the gambling ring and preserve Tommy’s good name.

  I jumped out of bed, slid over to my desk, flipped on a lamp, and stared at the pad of paper I had with me while under the covers. It was blank. I had gotten so caught up in the mystery that I had forgotten to jot down words that might have given us a clue to our suspect’s next move. There wasn’t much for me to do now but continue on with the plan. I tiptoed down the stairs, through the living room, past my parents’ bedroom, and down to the basement. I flipped on a light, picked up the receiver, and dialed Eugene’s office.

  “Eugene Patterson,” a voice on the other end answered.

  “Hi, Eugene, it’s Charlie,” I whispered.

  “You’re going to have to speak up a little, Charlie,” Eugene said. “My hearing’s not what it used to be.”

  I scooted over to the stairwell and looked up. I had to make sure no one could hear me.

  “Is that better, Eugene?” I said. I had raised my voice just slightly.

  “That’s fine. So, what’d you think of the show? Pretty good, huh?”

  “Classic Sam Solomon as always,” I said.

  I opened up a folding chair and sat down. I placed the pad of paper—the blank pad of paper—in my lap. I wasn’t sure what I’d say when Eugene asked what notes I had taken.

  “Let’s look at what we have here,” he said. “Major-league baseball . . . a star athlete . . . a pennant race . . . a gambling ring . . . a frightened bank teller . . . fraudulent receipts . . . a distraught girlfriend . . . and Sam. That’s about all I’ve got. Do you have anything else?”

  I was glad Eugene went first. I was basically off the hook. “That’s the same list I have.”

  “Let’s see if we can find a word with a double meaning or one that leads us to another word,” Eugene said. “Where do you want to start?”

  Before our analysis could begin, I suddenly felt this pain in my gut—the kind of pain you get when you’re scared senseless. I had heard a sound, and not just any sound. It was the sound of someone picking up the extension upstairs. Oh no, I was busted. I’d be grounded for a month or maybe worse. I held my breath and only hoped that Eugene would sense what was happening and would follow my cue. But it wasn’t to be.

  “Charlie, are you still there?”

  That was it. My life was over. It was nice knowing you.

  CHAPTER 15

  The High Steaks Caper

  I wasn’t sure if I should play dumb and say nothing, just hang up the phone, or run up to my room and hide under the covers. What would be the best move for a condemned man? And then I heard the mystery voice.

  “Charlie, it’s me, Gram. I know you’re on the phone in the basement.”

  Gram? Well, it sure could have been a lot worse. She might not be happy about it, but I knew she would never rat me out.

  “I’m sorry, Gram. I should have told you what Eugene and I were up to.”

  “I know exactly what the two of you are up to,” she said. “Eugene told me all about it. I was listening to the Sam Solomon program in my room. I’m here to help you guys figure this thing out.”

  What a relief! I couldn’t believe it. From execution to pardon in a matter of seconds. I had to give Eugene credit. Teaming up with my grandmother was a brilliant idea. Who better to help us solve a word puzzle than an official World War II cryptologist?

  “Eugene,” she said, “let’s get to work. Young Mr. Collier here has school in the morning.”

  And so for the next several minutes we put our heads together trying to figure out where our mystery man would strike. We began with the list that Eugene had suggested (major-league baseball . . . star athlete . . . pennant race . . . gambling ring . . . frightened bank teller . . . fraudulent receipts . . . distraught girlfriend). Then we tried to determine if any of the words or phrases had double meanings or might be a play on words. Nothing initially was jumping out at us. It was now close to midnight. I wasn’t that tired, but I knew that I’d be exhausted in the morning.

  “We have to figure this out, and fast,” Eugene said. “We’re losing time. He could be out there right now.”

  There was a short pause, and then I heard what sounded like a chuckle from my grandmother.

  “Let’s try this on for size, gentlemen,” she said. “The principal character in this story is a pitcher . . . a baseball pitcher. But there’s also another type of pitcher . . . a water pitcher. Let’s work with that.”

  We tried to imagine where someone might go to steal a water pitcher. If we were on the right track, we were in trouble. Every department store, supermarket, convenience store, outlet store, etc., would probably carry water pitchers. We’d need an army to stake out all of those locations.

  “Let’s narrow this down,” Gram said. “The main character in this story isn’t just a pitcher, he’s a famous pitcher. So where would you go to find a famous pitcher? But not of the baseball variety.”

  A longer pause followed. And then all at once, I could feel the wheels and gears and cogs spinning in my brain. This is what would always happen when I was on the verge of successfully solving a problem.

  “Gram, I think I’ve got it.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Last month we went on a field trip to the Oak Grove Natural History Museum. And there was this traveling exhibit. I remember it because it was so boring. You know—compared to the dinosaurs and mummies and all that.”

  “What was it?” Eugene said.

  “It was a display of pitchers . . . water pitchers . . . antique Victorian water pitchers.” I scooted over to the stairs just to make sure my parents weren’t standing there. “So, what do you think, guys?”

  “Well, those are certainly what you’d call famous pitchers,” Eugene said.

  “It works for me,” Gram said. “The entire plot of this story centered around the plight of the pitcher. It makes perfect sense that our suspect would choose a central theme as a trigger for his next crime.”

  “That’s it, then,” Eugene said. “Constance, can you meet me over at the museum in thirty minutes?”

  “Sure,” Gram said. “This is gonna be fun. An all-night stakeout. Just like the old days. I’ll bring the coffee. Hey, you plan to call in any reinforcements?”

  “Chicken Bone is waiting for my call,” Eugene said. “He’s champing at the bit for a little action.”

  I knew that name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure where I had heard it
before.

  “Chicken Bone?” I said.

  “You don’t remember Chicken Bone?” Eugene said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you oughta. He’s the one who helped us capture Rupert Olsen.”

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . I remember him now.” I wasn’t sure how I could have forgotten good old Chicken Bone—especially with a name like that. Of course, that wasn’t his real name. It was his CB handle—his citizens band radio nickname. Chicken Bone had helped us overpower Rupert Olsen on his farm a couple of months back when we went over there to rescue the stolen birds.

  “We’re all set then, Eugene,” Gram said. “Chicken Bone and I will meet you at the museum in thirty minutes. And Charlie, you’d better get to bed.”

  “I suppose I could do that,” I said. “But I sure wish I could help you guys out tonight. What do you say, Gram, can I join you on the stakeout? Mom and Dad’ll never find out.” I was fairly certain that I already knew the answer to the question, but I had to ask.

  My grandmother sighed. “It would be good training for you,” she said, “but the answer is an emphatic no. Now hang up and get to bed. I’ll fill you in tomorrow morning.”

  But tomorrow was already here. The clock read 12:05. I hung up the phone, tiptoed up two flights of stairs, and deposited myself in bed. The thought of joining the others on a surveillance mission sounded pretty exciting, but the thought of a good night’s sleep sounded even better. I fell back onto the pillow and closed my eyes. I couldn’t wait to talk to Gram in the morning to see if we had guessed right about the water pitcher. I was just about to enter dreamland when I suddenly sat up in bed. I reached over and reset my alarm. Couldn’t make the same mistake twice. And that was the last thing I remembered doing until morning.

  • • •

  I awoke to the irritating buzz of my clock radio. All I wanted to do at that very moment was to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. This P.I. business was starting to do a number on my body clock. I found myself thinking about how good it was going to feel to hit the sack tonight. I couldn’t wait. But I also couldn’t wait to talk to Gram at breakfast and see if our theory had been correct all along. I hopped out of bed, scooted into the bathroom for a quick sprucing up, and ran downstairs. My dad was reading the paper while my mom sipped coffee at the breakfast table.