Springtime Crime

by Carolyn Keene

  “They’re carnations,” Hannah replied. “A friend in my gardening club dropped them off this morning.”

  Hannah had been the Drews’ housekeeper since Nancy was only three years old. She made the best chocolate chip pancakes, helped Nancy with her homework, and gave the best hugs. To Nancy, Hannah was just like a mother—especially when she reminded her to clean her room.

  “Speaking of flowers, Hannah,” Nancy said, “Miss LaLa asked George to keep her flowered hat in the catering refrigerator.”

  “I hope no one eats it,” a voice called from the other room.

  Nancy turned to see her father walking into the kitchen. “Hannah just put out carnations, Daddy,” she said. “Don’t they look nice?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Drew agreed. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “It just needs a little something extra.”

  Mr. Drew looked around the kitchen. There was a bowl filled with apples, oranges, and grapes on the counter. He grabbed the colorful arrangement and placed it next to the vase. “There!” he said. “A masterpiece!”

  Chip barked her approval and Nancy smiled.

  “Awesome, Daddy,” Nancy said. “You’re not just a lawyer—you’re an artist, too!”

  She was about to grab an orange from the bowl, when the kitchen phone rang. The ID read Fayne.

  “It’s George. I’ll get it,” Nancy said. She picked up the phone, but before she could say hi—

  “Nancy, you and Bess have got to come over to my mom’s kitchen,” George’s frantic voice said. “Right away!”

  GLOOM IN BLOOM

  “Hurry, Nancy,” Bess said.

  “I’m hurrying,” Nancy said, walking as fast as she could. “George didn’t tell me why she was so upset. What do you think is wrong?”

  “Maybe her mom ran out of crunchy coconut peanut butter,” Bess guessed. “It’s her favorite.”

  “Coconut peanut butter?” Nancy asked as they turned the corner. “I never heard of—”

  WHAP!! Nancy and Bess grunted as they crashed into a large plastic bag. They took a step back to see who was carrying it.

  “Monsieur Pierre!” Nancy exclaimed.

  The bag had felt as soft as a pillow, and Nancy could see why. Several flower petals were spilling out from the top. Fluffy white flower petals.

  “Are those peony petals?” Bess asked.

  “I do sculpt peony poodles,” Pierre mumbled.

  He picked up the bag tie that had fallen off and quickly twisted it back on. He hugged the big plastic garbage bag to his chest and huffed away, saying, “Au revoir!”

  Nancy and Bess watched Pierre rush down the block.

  “Oh, well,” Bess said, “I guess he needed more petals for his poodles.”

  The girls hurried up the block to George’s house.

  But as they turned in to her front yard, they saw more peony petals on the ground. They seemed to form a trail leading toward the back.

  “Could Pierre have come from George’s yard?” Nancy wondered out loud.

  “It doesn’t matter, Nancy,” Bess replied. “We’re here to see what’s up with George, not Pierre.”

  The two friends walked around the house to where the kitchen trailer stood. Inside, they found George standing near the door. She was wearing Miss LaLa’s hat—and a huge frown.

  “Omigosh!” Nancy said when she saw the hat. “What happened to Miss LaLa’s hat?”

  “The flowers were all white and fluffy,” Bess said. “Now most are . . . brown and droopy. What’s going on?”

  “I came into the kitchen this morning to check on the hat,” George explained, “and when I opened the fridge and took off the cover—the hat looked like this!”

  “I don’t get it,” Nancy said. “The cold was supposed to keep the flowers fresh.”

  “Maybe the fridge wasn’t cold enough,” Bess said.

  “It was cold yesterday when we opened it,” Nancy said. “Maybe the refrigerator plug fell out?”

  Nancy, Bess, and George rushed to the side of the fridge. The cord was plugged firmly into the wall socket.

  “Any other ideas?” George sighed.

  “Maybe there was a blackout last night,” Bess suggested. “That would have turned off the fridge until the blackout was over.”

  “I know a way to find out,” Nancy said. She opened the fridge, then the freezer door. In it was a large container of vanilla ice cream.

  “You want to eat ice cream now?” Bess asked with a smile. “Great idea, Nancy!”

  Nancy shook her head and said, “I want to check out the ice cream.”

  She lifted the lid and peered inside. The ice cream was solidly packed with a smooth surface.

  “When ice cream melts and freezes again, it looks warped,” Nancy pointed out. “This ice cream looks fine.”

  “And yummy!” Bess exclaimed. “What are we waiting for? Let’s dig in!”

  “Let’s not,” George said. She took the container from Nancy and placed it back in the fridge. “That ice cream is for my mom’s catering job.”

  “We have a job too,” Nancy said. “To figure out how fluffy white peony petals could turn brown so fast.”

  “This might be a stretch,” George said as she placed the hat on the table, “but maybe somebody switched the fresh flowers on the hat with wilted ones.”

  “Switched?” Nancy said. “Someone would have had to sneak into the kitchen to do that.”

  “And how could that happen?” Bess asked.

  “Because,” George shouted, waving her arms, “I forgot to lock the kitchen door yesterday—that’s how!”

  Nancy and Bess stared at George.

  “You know, I can’t remember if you locked the door or not,” Nancy said.

  “Me either. We were too busy talking about Miss LaLa and saying goodbye,” Bess agreed.

  “I know I forgot,” George groaned. “When I got to the kitchen this morning, the door was unlocked.”

  “Maybe your mom unlocked it,” Nancy suggested.

  George shook her head. “She never leaves the kitchen without locking it,” she said. “Ever.”

  “And I never leave my house without this,” Nancy said, pulling a small book from her jacket pocket. “Ever!”

  “Your clue book!” Bess said with a smile.

  “You mean this is a mystery?” George asked.

  Nancy nodded. “If someone did sneak in to ruin Miss LaLa’s hat, the Clue Crew will find out whodunit.”

  She opened her clue book to a clean page. Tucked inside was a new pen with purple ink. Nancy used it to write on the top of the page: Who Did the Switcheroo?

  To figure out who could have done it, the girls first had to figure out a timeline.

  “If somebody did sneak into the kitchen,” Nancy asked, “what time do you think it happened?”

  “It must have been late last night or early this morning,” George said. “That’s when my family and I were inside the house.”

  Nancy was about to write, when something suddenly clicked.

  “George!” she said. “On the way here, Bess and I saw Monsieur Pierre carrying a huge bag of peonies!”

  “He sculpts peony poodles,” George said with a shrug. “So what?”

  “We found a trail of white peony petals in your yard,” Nancy explained. “They went through your backyard to the trailer.”

  “Monsieur Pierre was mad at Miss LaLa,” Bess said, “for being the star of the flower show on Sunday. Maybe he ruined her hat on purpose.”

  But George shook her head. “I’ve been inside the kitchen for almost an hour,” she said. “If Monsieur Pierre was in here, I think I would have known it!”

  “Unless he hid outside after the switcheroo,” Bess suggested, “waiting for a good time to make a run for it.”

  “Pierre also saw us drop Miss LaLa’s hat yesterday,” Nancy added. “So he knows we have it.”

  George shrugged again. “Okay, okay,” she said, “I guess Pierre is our first suspect.”

  N
ancy wrote Pierre’s name on her suspect list. She tapped her pen on the notebook, lost in her thoughts.

  “What’s that smell?” Nancy asked suddenly, sniffing the air. “It smells like flowers.”

  “The peonies on the hat?” Bess guessed.

  “No,” Nancy said, looking around the room, “I smell roses. And I know the smell of roses—Hannah’s garden is full of them.”

  “No roses in here,” George said. She nodded at the hat on the table. “Just a bunch of wilted peonies.”

  Wilted? The word made Nancy’s eyes light up.

  “You guys, I think I smell more than just roses,” Nancy declared. “I smell trouble!”

  NOSE FOR A ROSE

  “Trouble?” Bess asked. “I thought you said you smelled roses, Nancy.”

  “I did,” Nancy said. “Yesterday Madame Withers was wearing a perfume called Rotten Roses. And we know she has all kinds of wilted flower petals in her perfume factory.”

  “Maybe wilted peony petals!” Bess gasped.

  “Why would Madame Withers want to switch the fresh flowers with her wilted ones?” George asked.

  “Remember how angry Madame Withers was when Miss LaLa wouldn’t wear her perfume?” Nancy asked. “She saw LaLa’s hat in the bag and knew we were taking it here too.”

  “Thanks to Bess,” George muttered.

  Bess gave George a look as Nancy remembered something else.

  “We heard Madame Withers say she had an idea,” Nancy reminded them. “Maybe the idea was to ruin Miss LaLa’s hat.”

  “Okay,” George said, “but how do we know Madame Withers has wilted peony flowers in her factory too?”

  Nancy knew there was only one way to find out.

  “Let’s take another field trip,” Nancy said after adding Madame Withers’s name to her suspect list. “To the perfume factory.”

  George made sure to lock the door when the girls left the kitchen trailer. They knew exactly where to find the factory. It was on Main Street, right above a cool new all-day pizza parlor called 24-Hour Pizza.

  “I heard they have a chocolate pizza,” Bess said excitedly, “with mini marshmallows!”

  Suddenly the door to the adjoining building swung open. The girls stared wide-eyed when they saw who stepped out.

  “It’s Madame Withers!” George hissed.

  Yawning, Madame Withers didn’t seem to notice the girls as she began walking away up the block.

  “She looked so sleepy,” Bess pointed out.

  “It’s proof!” George exclaimed. “She was up all night switching fresh peonies with rotten ones!”

  Nancy looked up to the window of Madame Withers’s perfume factory. She knew it was on the second floor.

  “That’s not really enough evidence, George. Let’s go upstairs and look for wilted peonies,” Nancy suggested.

  “But the door is probably locked,” George said.

  “Unless Madame Withers forgot to lock the door.” Bess gave George a sideways glance. “Like somebody else I know.”

  “Ha-ha,” George said sarcastically. “Very funny!”

  Nancy, Bess, and George entered the building. They filed up a staircase leading to the factory and approached the door.

  “It’s unlocked,” George said, opening the door. “Are we lucky or what?”

  But when Nancy, Bess, and George walked into the factory, they saw they were not alone. A man sat behind a front desk. He had a short beard and curly hair. His nameplate read LANCE RIVERS.

  “Hi,” Nancy said nicely. “May we look inside the perfume factory?”

  “Sorry, girls,” Lance said. “We don’t give tours of Madame Withers’s perfume factory on Saturdays.”

  The girls traded worried looks. How would they get into the factory now?

  “Um . . . we were already on a class trip here,” Nancy said. “So—”

  “So I left something in the factory,” George cut in quickly. “By mistake.”

  “What did you lose?” Lance asked.

  Nancy, Bess, and George traded more looks. They would have to make up something that was lost—and fast!

  “Her sneaker!” Bess blurted.

  Lance leaned over his desk to look at George’s feet. “But she’s wearing two sneakers,” he said.

  “Those are her Saturday sneakers,” Nancy said, “not her school trip sneakers.”

  Lance wrinkled his brow. “How do you lose a sneaker?” he asked.

  “Who knows?” George said with a shrug.

  “We just know you wouldn’t want a stinky sneaker in your perfume factory,” Bess said. “Would you?”

  “My sneakers don’t stink, Bess!” George muttered.

  But Lance was already pointing to another door. “We certainly don’t want anything stinky near Madame Withers’s perfumes,” he said. “Go inside but be quick.”

  “Thank you!” Nancy, Bess, and George said at the same time. They then scooted through the door that led to the perfume factory.

  “It looks just like it did on the class trip,” Bess said as they looked around.

  There were dozens of baskets of dried flower petals. And glass jars of wilting flowers. Against one wall stood the big perfume distiller. It had two large tanks connected by a thick, clear glass tube. That was where the wilted flowers were turned into perfume.

  “How do we know which petals are peony?” Bess wondered, checking out the baskets. “They’re all brown and droopy.”

  Nancy was about to join Bess at the baskets, when she spotted a big white screen on one side of the room. What was behind it? She was about to walk toward it when—

  “You guys,” George called from a shiny white desk, “I just found the most awesome clue!”

  “Probably not a good idea to turn on Madame Withers’s computer, George,” Nancy warned.

  “It’s not on her computer,” George said, holding up a notepad. “My mom’s name and address are written right here!”

  Nancy hurried to the desk to look at the notepad. Sure enough, Mrs. Fayne’s name and address were scribbled on it.

  “This is an awesome clue, George!” Nancy exclaimed. “Check it out, Bess!”

  But Bess was too busy checking something else out—Madame Withers’s perfume distiller.

  “Bess, what are you doing?” George asked.

  “Trying to remember how this works,” Bess said. “Madame Withers told us there’s a button somewhere here.”

  She pointed to a button on the side of the tank. “There it is,” she said. But when Bess accidentally tapped it—

  WHIRRRRRRRRR!!!

  All three girls stood frozen, watching a colored liquid bubbling through the glass tube.

  “Oh, no, Bess,” Nancy cried. “You turned on the perfume machine!”

  “I know!” Bess wailed as a sweet-smelling liquid gushed from a spout onto the floor. “Now how do you turn it off?”

  WILT AND SPILT

  “Madame Withers showed us how it turns on,” Nancy said. “But she never showed us how it turns off!”

  George grabbed a fancy empty perfume bottle and stuck it under the spout. The perfume poured into the bottle but gushed so fast that it filled up in seconds!

  “More bottles, you guys!” George demanded.

  Nancy and Bess passed glass bottles to George, who filled them up one by one.

  “Pee-yew—this stuff stinks!” George complained.

  “Girls,” a voice said. “Try the switch underneath the red button.”

  Nancy, Bess, and George froze. It was the voice of Madame Withers.

  “Um . . . thanks,” Nancy said as she flipped the red switch down. The bubbling and gushing slowed to a stop.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Madame Withers asked as the girls turned to face her. Standing beside Madame Withers was Lance—looking very stressed.

  “Those girls tricked me, Madame!” Lance cried. “Something about a stinky sneaker!”

  “It’s okay, Lance, it’s okay,” Madame Withers said. “Wh
y don’t you make a fresh pot of herbal tea and I’ll take it from here.”

  Lance scowled at the girls before huffing out of the room.

  “The scent pouring out of the distiller is called Lifeless Laurel,” Madame Withers said as she walked toward the filled bottles. “Have you ever smelled anything so nice?”

  George folded her arms across her chest and said, “We’re actually here to talk to you about some wilted flowers. The peonies on Miss LaLa’s hat.”

  Madame Withers blinked, then said, “Wilted? I thought Miss LaLa said she didn’t like wilted flowers.”

  “She doesn’t,” Bess said. “Which is why we thought you made the switcheroo.”

  “Switcheroo?” Madame Withers repeated.

  “Fresh white peonies on Miss LaLa’s hat were switched with wilted ones,” Nancy explained.

  “So you thought I switched the flowers,” Madame Withers said. “Well, I did nothing of the kind.”

  “But you said you had an idea!” Bess said.

  Madame Withers blinked again. “Who are you girls?” she asked. “Some kind of kid detectives?”

  “Yes,” Nancy said. “We call ourselves the Clue Crew.”

  “And we’re wicked good,” George added.

  “Oh, I’ll bet you are,” Madame Withers said with a smile. “And I did have an idea. Follow me.”

  She led the girls over to the big white screen.

  “Ta-da!” Madame Withers sang out after she moved the screen aside. “What do you think?”

  Nancy, Bess, and George stared at what was behind the screen: a statue made out of wilted peonies. A statue of a woman wearing a peony hat!

  “That’s Miss LaLa, isn’t it?” Bess asked.

  “Correct!” Madame Withers said happily. “I worked all night on it for the flower show tomorrow. If Miss LaLa won’t advertise my new perfume, I figured this beautiful flower sculpture could!”

  “All night?” Nancy asked. “So you were here in the factory all that time?”

  Madame Withers nodded. “So I couldn’t have been anywhere else but here,” she said. “You detectives call that an alibi, right?”

  “Right,” Nancy agreed, “but it doesn’t explain why George’s kitchen smells like rose perfume all of a sudden.”