“Not necessarily,” I said. “You know that play that Mr. Miles wrote and we’ve been rehearsing at school?”
He nodded.
“Well, I have this idea that if he were able to shorten it to thirty minutes—the length of the Sam Solomon dramas—and change the name of the private eye from Nick Dakota to Sam Solomon, then we might be able to drop key words into the production—and I actually have one in mind—that our suspect would hopefully use to identify the location of his next crime.”
Eugene dropped his feet to the floor and sat up in his chair. “Charlie, how do you propose creating a program that’s identical to the one already running? Peter Wentworth, the actor who played Sam, died a few years ago. If you used a different voice, the suspect would spot a phony in a minute. He’d know for sure it was a trap.”
“You’re forgetting one thing, Eugene,” Gram said. “Peter Wentworth may have passed away, but his voice lives on.”
Eugene scratched his head. “Constance, I’m not following you.”
“Our friend, Thad Miles? He’s the man of a thousand voices.”
“He can do that voice?” he said.
I slid my chair closer to Eugene’s. “Perfectly.”
“And he’d be willing to do it?” Eugene asked.
“I think I talked him into it,” I said.
Eugene stood up and began pacing. “But how are you going to pull this off? You have to find a place to record the new program and then figure out a way to substitute it for the original.”
“That’s where you come in, partner,” Gram said. “Since you and Ned Stewart are old pals, Charlie and I were hoping you’d be able to convince him to help us. If Thad and his actor friends could use one of the studios at Ned’s station, the recording part would be easy.”
“And then if you could ask him to run the new Sam Solomon program in place of the one that’s supposed to run,” I said, “we’d be in business.”
Eugene grinned. “You two have it all figured out, don’t you?”
Gram and I smiled at each other.
“Well?” she said as she glanced at Eugene. “Are you in?”
Eugene shrugged. “Why not? It sounds like fun. I’m proud of you, Charlie.” He turned to my grandmother. “And Constance, this whole thing was your idea. It’s ingenious.”
“I’m happy to defer to Charlie on this one,” she said. “This is his baby.”
Eugene reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and began looking for something. Seconds later he fished out a piece of paper. It was frayed and yellowed.
Eugene raised his eyebrows. “Home phone numbers.” He smiled as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 7:30. “It’s still early.” He picked up the receiver and dialed. He held up his hand with his fingers crossed.
“Rose? How are you? It’s Eugene Patterson. I was wondering if I could speak to Ned.”
My grandmother leaned over and winked.
“Hi, Ned,” Eugene said. “I apologize for calling you at home, but something’s up and we need your help.”
Gram and I listened as Eugene spent the next few minutes explaining our theories about the Sam Solomon radio series and the recent crime spree. Then once he had baited his line, Eugene set the hook. He told the station owner that without his assistance, another crime would undoubtedly be committed next Tuesday morning. The senior P.I. proposed having the new drama recorded at Ned’s studio and then being inserted in the eleven o’clock slot on Monday night. Although we were only listening to a one-sided conversation, we could sense that Mr. Stewart was slightly resistant.
“I understand,” Eugene said. “Can you call me as soon as you hear back?” He paused. “In the meantime, we’ll get to work on our end. And again, I don’t know how to thank you. So long.” He dropped the receiver onto the cradle and grinned. “Looks like we’re in business.”
“Was there a problem at one point?” Gram said.
“Getting permission to use one of his studios to record the program was the easy part,” Eugene said. “The problem has to do with substituting programs. It seems that Ned is contractually obligated to run the next episode. But what he’s thinking about doing is still airing ours this Monday at eleven o’clock. And while it’s running, his staff will be recording the old Sam Solomon program being fed by satellite. He’ll then wait a couple of days, long enough for us to execute our plan and capture our suspect, and then run the drama that was supposed to air in the Monday night time slot. He needs to check with the supplier to get permission to delay it. But he doesn’t seem to think it’ll be a problem.”
“That’s great,” I said. “So now what?”
Eugene sat back in his chair. “Now we move on to phase two. We contact Thad and tell him to get to work.”
“So, what are you waiting for?” Gram said.
Eugene studied the paper he had pulled from his wallet. He dialed Thaddeus Miles’s number and waited.
“Thad? How are you? It’s Eugene Patterson.”
After a cordial conversation with his old friend, Eugene explained why he had actually called. He told Mr. Miles that the “table was set” and that the safety of the citizenry of Oak Grove was in his hands. He related his conversation with Ned Stewart and asked if there was anything that either he or Gram could do to help out. It was a relatively short discussion. Apparently Mr. Miles had shifted into what Eugene later described as “panic mode.” It seemed that the drama teacher loved . . . what else, drama.
As I rode home with Gram, I couldn’t ever remember feeling more satisfied. It was as if everything was falling into place. Everyone who I had hoped would step up and help out had done so. You couldn’t ask for much more than that. I recalled another time when all the puzzle pieces fit neatly together. It happened for Sam Solomon in Episode #53—The Brass Tax Caper. In this particular story, Sam had been hired by a trumpet player with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra who claimed that his paycheck was short each week. It seems that the symphony director, who was responsible for the financial health of the orchestra, had fallen on hard times due to a gambling addiction. He had begun siphoning off symphony funds to finance his afternoons at the racetrack.
Sam immediately sought out the services of a financial advising group to determine how much money had been taken. The accountants at the firm were so meticulous in their investigation that Sam not only discovered where the trumpet player’s missing wages had gone, but he was also able to recover thousands of dollars for other musicians in the orchestra who had no idea they had been cheated. Each step of the investigation had been carried out in a flawless fashion. Every aspect of the case had fallen into place beautifully. It was one of Sam’s finest performances and one that led to many more assignments.
CHAPTER 18
The Rising Son Caper
I met up with Henry and Scarlett on the playground before school the next morning. I updated them on everything that had taken place the night before at Eugene’s office. Henry couldn’t get enough. He could feel the tension building and wanted to be included in every step of the action as things progressed. I wasn’t quite prepared for Scarlett’s reaction, though.
“So, what does that mean for our play?” she asked. “Is Mr. Miles just going to cancel it so he can work on some radio script?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought about that.”
“Even if he does, big deal,” Henry added. “This is a heck of a lot more important than a bunch of sixth-graders getting up on a stage and pretending they can act.”
Scarlett sneered at Henry. It was either because he had casually dismissed the production or because he might have implied that the entire cast, including Scarlett, was without talent. Apparently the truce was over.
“I don’t know why I ever thought being nice to you was a good idea,” she said.
Here we go again, I thou
ght. Well, it was fun while it lasted.
Scarlett glared at Henry, spun around, and headed into school. Henry just shrugged. He wasn’t what you would call overly sensitive.
“So, what’s my role on Monday night?” he asked. “A little surveillance work maybe?”
“I don’t really know yet,” I said. “Eugene and I haven’t discussed where we should set up a stakeout after the program airs. But don’t get your hopes up. Last Monday they wouldn’t take me with them because it was a school night. Eugene, my grandmother, and their friend Chicken Bone handled it themselves.”
“That’s not fair,” he said. “This is our case. They can’t just squeeze us out like that. If they won’t take us along, we’ll just have to get there ourselves.”
I wanted to agree with him, but there was one important factor that he wasn’t considering.
“Henry, the show ends at eleven thirty at night. As much as I’d like to work the stakeout, how can we go out on our own? It’s past curfew.”
“Oh, bummer,” he said. “You’re right.”
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that in the past I had simply ignored curfew. Like when we went to Rupert Olsen’s farm to save those birds. Or the time I snuck onto the Camp Phoenix compound. But somehow this seemed different. Before we were on our own. We were calling the shots. This time, however, we were working in tandem with Eugene and Gram. I knew it was best to fall in line and be a good soldier, but I really didn’t like the idea of missing another stakeout. Hopefully we’d be able to convince them to include us this time.
I fully expected the rest of the school day to drag on as usual, but for whatever reason, this one flew by. Before we knew it, we were all assembled in the auditorium after school waiting for Mr. Miles. I wondered if he’d tell the other kids about his new assignment. I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle both—directing the school play and adapting his production into a radio drama. It didn’t take long to find out. When Mr. Miles appeared for rehearsal, he would always have his copy of the play tucked under one arm. But when he arrived today, he wasn’t carrying a thing.
“Please gather round, cast. I have an announcement to make,” he said.
I could tell by the looks on the faces of the other kids that no one knew what was coming.
“As will sometimes happen in the theater,” he said, “I have been called away to help doctor up another script. But don’t worry, it won’t change things much for us. It will just delay things for a few days.”
“How long?” Stephanie said.
“What is today? Wednesday?” He seemed uncertain. “We will resume our regular rehearsal next Tuesday at this same time. And so, for the next few days, you’ll be on your own. If any of you care to meet here during this time to rehearse, you are more than welcome to do so. I can ask a teacher’s aide to supervise if necessary. Now I realize that this little interruption will give us one less week to prepare before opening night, but these things happen. Duty calls. And like good little thespians, we will make it work.”
“So what exactly will you be doing?” the hisser asked.
“Brian, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say at this time. I wish I could.” Mr. Miles thought for a moment. “Suffice it to say that by this time next week, you should all know why I had to take leave. My sincere apologies.” And with that, he exited the stage.
Scarlett wandered over. She folded her arms and began tapping her foot. This could only mean one thing—an unpleasant exchange was to follow.
“Charlie Collier, I hold you personally responsible for all of this. If we stumble and fall on our faces on opening night, it will be all your fault.”
Now that wasn’t very fair of her. If she wanted to blame me for losing a week’s worth of play practice, then she had better be prepared to thank me if we manage to catch the person responsible for burglarizing businesses in town.
“How is it my fault?” I said. “I’m just trying to help folks.”
“Why don’t you quit worrying about some two-bit school play and start thinking about how you’re going to help us solve this caper?” Henry said.
“I’m not sure I want to work on this one,” she replied.
Henry slapped me on the arm. “Looks like it’s just you and me again, partner.”
I knew that Scarlett would eventually rethink her last statement and rejoin us on this quest. That was her pattern. Henry would say something to upset her, and she’d want out. But as soon as he seemed happy about her departure, she’d suddenly want back in.
“C’mon,” Henry said. “Let’s get outa here.”
I reluctantly followed him out of the building and over to the bus stop, but I kept thinking about how things had ended with Scarlett. I was worried that if she sat this one out, she might consider dropping out of the agency altogether. And I was dreading that. I wanted as much time with her as possible.
On the bus ride home, Henry and I decided to head over to Eugene’s to discuss the case. Since Eugene wasn’t familiar with the plot of the play, we would need to fill him in. We also needed to identify key words from the production and analyze them in order to determine where the next crime might take place. Although that might have already been done for us. You just couldn’t ignore the obvious references to bookie throughout Mr. Miles’s production. For my money, it was the magic word. And I was hoping that our suspect would see things the same way.
Henry and I met up about a half hour later in a park about midway between our two houses. We pointed our trusty steeds—our bikes, that is—in the direction of Eugene’s office and headed out. We made it there in about forty minutes. We parked our bikes at the back of the building and climbed the stairs to Eugene’s office. About halfway up, Henry tapped me on the shoulder.
“With all the time we’ve been putting into play practice and now this case, I completely forgot about something.”
“What?”
He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
I knew what was coming—a brainteaser.
“A murderer is condemned to death,” Henry said. “He has to choose between three rooms. In the first one, there’s a raging fire. In the second, a dozen assassins with loaded guns. And in the third, there’s a group of lions who haven’t eaten in two years. Which room would you choose?”
“We don’t have a lot of time today,” I said. “Is this really necessary?”
“Did you ever notice that whenever you get stumped, you always come up with some lame reason why you shouldn’t have to answer the question?”
I grinned. “I’m just buying myself a little time. That’s all.”
He laughed. “I knew it. Now gimme an answer.”
I repeated the choices. “The first room has a raging fire. The second room is filled with assassins. And the third room has lions in it who haven’t eaten in two years.” I thought about it for less than ten seconds. This was an easy one. “I’ll take the third room.”
“Remember, those lions are pretty hungry,” he said. “They haven’t eaten for a while. You wouldn’t last more than a minute.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said. “If they haven’t eaten in two years? They’d all be dead.”
Henry let out a long, painful groan. “C’mon,” he said as he nudged me. “Let’s go.” He never was a good loser.
We continued up the stairway leading to Eugene’s office. And just as we were about to use the secret password to gain entry, the door opened. It was Eugene.
“Hi, guys,” he said.
“Hi, Eugene,” I said.
“Hi, Mr. Patterson,” Henry replied.
“It’s nice to see you again, Henry.”
“It looks like you’re on your way out,” I said. “We should have called first.”
Eugene opened the door and motioned us in. “Don’t worry. It can wait. So, are you here to discuss the cas
e?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Mr. Miles canceled play practice for the next few days to work on the radio drama. We just figured we could tell you the story and then try to figure out our suspect’s next target.”
Eugene sat down and pointed to a pair of chairs next to his desk. “Okay, let ’er rip. I seem to recall that you mentioned the plot briefly a few days ago. But why don’t you give me all the details.”
For the next couple of minutes, Henry and I relayed the entire story of Mr. Miles’s play along with plot and subplots. We offered brief character descriptions as well. We tried to share every aspect of the production that we could remember.
“It sure sounds like the bookie is the key to this story,” Eugene said. “You must have said that word twenty times.”
“I don’t think there’s any question about it,” I said. “Once Rebecca Ramsey is arrested, which happens in the first five minutes, the rest of the time they’re trying to find this bookie.”
Eugene folded his arms. “Okay, then, let’s assume that our suspect will focus on that word. He may try to find a double meaning for it. That seems to be his modus operandi.” Eugene thought for a minute. “So the key word is bookie. What can we do with that? What comes to mind?”
“How about gambler?” Henry said.
“And bookie is short for bookmaker,” I added.
“Good,” Eugene said. “And how about numbers runner . . . or tipster . . . or even tout. I’m afraid I’m dating myself with that last one.”
We all stopped to consider the list of words that had been tossed out. Within moments, it became clear that we had struck out. Nothing was coming.
“I think we’re trying too hard,” Henry said. “We’re ignoring the obvious. When you look at the word bookie, the first thing you see is the word book. Why don’t we concentrate on that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That makes perfect sense.”
“And if that’s the case,” Henry said, “we’d have to assume this guy’ll probably rob a bookstore, right?”
The Copycat Caper Page 16