Mystery of the Phantom Heist

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Lindsay jutted her chin in the air. She appeared to say a few angry words to Colin before huffing off with her friends.

  “That girl Stacy was right,” Joe said. “Lindsay can’t stand Colin.”

  Colin glared icily at Lindsay until a slow smile spread across his face. Aunt Trudy would call it a “cat who swallowed the canary” type of smile. What was going on inside Colin’s head to make him grin like that?

  “We still don’t know why Lindsay hates Colin,” I said.

  “Frank, isn’t it a no-brainer?” Joe said. “The guy’s a creep.”

  “It might be more than that,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” Joe said. “He’s a major creep!”

  He reached over and blared the car horn. It caught the attention of Colin and practically all the other students.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Joe.

  “We came here to talk to Colin, remember?” Joe said. He then leaned out the window and shouted, “Hey, Sylvester! Can we ask you something?”

  Colin grinned nastily, then yelled back, “The answer is no! You cannot switch lives with me, even for a second!”

  Joe muttered something under his breath as he pushed open his door. I opened mine and stepped out too.

  As we headed toward the school, we could see Colin talking to a guard. Colin turned to leave, but the guard held up his hand and called, “Excuse me. Are you Bay Academy students?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Then you can’t be here,” the guard said.

  “If we need visitors’ passes, we’d be happy to get some in the office,” I said quickly.

  The guard shook his head. “Sorry, boys,” he said firmly. “You’ll have to leave now.”

  Colin was back with his friends, this time smiling slyly at us. Joe was right. Colin wasn’t just a creep—he was a major creep!

  “You know something, Frank?” Joe said as we trudged back to our car. “I have a feeling this is going to be a bummer of a day.”

  I thought so too—until my phone beeped with the text that changed everything. . . .

  “Okay, what’s her name?” Joe teased as I smiled at my phone.

  “Sierra just texted me,” I said.

  “She might have seen you here,” Joe said. “What does she want?”

  “She wants to meet me at the Meet Locker tonight,” I said, still smiling as I read the text.

  “You mean the coffee place?” Joe said. “I thought she didn’t drink coffee.”

  “They serve tea, too,” I said, texting back. “Twenty different kinds, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, what did you tell her?” Joe asked.

  “What do you think?” I said. “I said sure.”

  I pretended to be cool on the outside, but on the inside—cartwheels. As we stepped out of the car, Joe didn’t seem so stoked anymore. In fact, he looked pretty bummed out.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous!”

  “No!” he insisted.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “How did Sierra get your number?” Joe asked. “If I remember, she wrote hers on your hand. Not the other way around.”

  Joe had a point. How had she gotten my number? But after I thought about it, it clicked.

  “We filled out those job applications at the Peytons’,” I said. “We had to write our telephone and e-mail addresses on them, remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” Joe said, slapping his forehead.

  As I adjusted the rearview mirror, I thought about my date with Sierra. First dates usually meant small talk. But this date didn’t have to go that way.

  “I’m going to ask Sierra about Colin tonight,” I told Joe. “If she knows him from school, maybe she can give us some information.”

  “So this will be a working date?” Joe declared. He then smirked and said, “Yeah, right.”

  As I drove slowly away from Bay Academy, I took one last look at the school. Most of the kids were filing into the building, but Colin was still hanging with his friends. This time a dark-haired girl stood with them. Her back was to the street, so I couldn’t see her face. I just knew it wasn’t Lindsay.

  “Hey, Frank,” Joe said as I turned onto the highway. “I’m going to Chet’s house tonight, but I want a full report after the date.”

  “About Colin?” I asked.

  “About Sierra!” he said with a grin.

  It wasn’t easy focusing on school or our case the rest of the day. All I could think about was my date with Sierra. Maybe “date” was too strong a word. Maybe Sierra wanted to meet because she felt bad about what had happened at the Peytons’ . . . or maybe I was overthinking the whole thing!

  I got to the Meet Locker at seven forty-five and waited inside my car until four minutes past eight. Didn’t want Sierra to think I was too eager—even though I was.

  By the time I walked into the Meet Locker, Sierra was already there, sitting in a cushy chair and drinking a cup of tea.

  “Sorry I’m late!” I blurted out as I sank into the opposite chair.

  Sierra’s eyes sparkled over her cup as she said, “You’re not late—I’m early.”

  I ordered my usual iced caramel chiller. Sierra’s tea smelled like vanilla. Or was that her perfume?

  “This place is packed,” I said.

  “It usually is on a Friday night,” Sierra said.

  Glancing around, I wondered if there were any Scaredevils in the place. Probably not. They’d be out trashing Bayport, not sitting around sipping tea and coffee.

  I turned back to Sierra. She seemed relaxed for someone working on the biggest Sweet Sixteen of the decade in just two days.

  “I’m surprised you’re not running around for Lindsay tonight,” I said.

  “Who says I’m not?” Sierra asked with a smile. “Lindsay wanted me to order a ton of coffee for her party. That’s the reason I was here early.”

  She took another sip, then said, “So you and your brother are detectives? How did that start?”

  “Our dad is a private investigator,” I explained. “When Joe and I were kids, we asked a lot of questions about his cases. When he got sick of answering us, we decided to work on our own. We were only about eight and nine.”

  “Kid detectives?” Sierra smiled. “How sweet!”

  She called me sweet! As we talked about other stuff like movies, school, and favorite foods, I started loosening up. Turns out Sierra loved mac and cheese just like me. But by the time I was on my second chiller, I decided to switch from small talk to spy talk.

  “Do you know a guy at Bay Academy named Colin?” I asked.

  “Colin?” Sierra said with a shrug. “There are a few guys at school named Colin.”

  “Colin Sylvester,” I said.

  Sierra put her teacup down on a side table. “Yeah, I know that Colin,” she said. “He sits near me in math.”

  “So . . . is he bad news or what?” I asked.

  Sierra blinked in surprise. “Bad news?” She chuckled. “What makes you ask that?”

  I’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask me that.

  The friend part of me wanted to tell Sierra everything about our case—the viral videos, the vandalism. But the detective part knew not to share too much.

  “Joe and I think he might be up to something,” I said. “But that’s all I can say for now.”

  “Ooh,” Sierra said, her eyes flashing. “A man of mystery!”

  Man of mystery. I liked that.

  “Actually, Colin can be a jerk sometimes,” Sierra offered. “Truth is, I think his bark is worse than his bite.”

  “I doubt it,” I murmured, remembering the hurled soda can.

  “What?” Sierra asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “By the way,” Sierra chuckled, “you’ll be happy to know that Mr. Peyton found a solution to Lindsay’s keyed car. He bought her a new one!”

  “Surprise, surprise,” I laughed.

  “Mr. Peyton was going to give
Lindsay a new car for her sixteenth birthday anyway,” Sierra said. “And speaking of the Sweet Sixteen, I’d better call it a night. I’m going to be crazy busy tomorrow with last-minute prep.”

  “Sure,” I agreed as we stood up. “Um . . . can I call you again?”

  Sierra tilted her head at me and smiled. “If I may remind you,” she said, “I was the one who called you . . . so the next move is yours.”

  I offered to follow Sierra’s car home, but she refused. She didn’t seem worried about the pranks going on around Bayport. I guessed she was too busy with the party to worry about anything.

  “Okay,” Joe said after I picked him up at Chet’s house. “So how’d it go?”

  “Great!” I said as I drove the two of us home. “We talked about a lot of stuff.”

  “About Colin?” Joe teased. “Or about your future together?”

  “Will you quit it?” I said. “I did ask Sierra about Colin, but she didn’t have a lot on him. Just that he’s an idiot and not dangerous.”

  “Glad she thinks so,” Joe said. “And I’m glad you have a new girlfriend.”

  “Joe!” I sighed as I turned onto our block. “She’s not my girl.”

  Yet.

  As I drove up our street, I saw flashing lights in the distance.

  “What’s that?” I wondered.

  I drove a few more feet, and then Joe said, “Frank, there’s a fire truck in front of our house!”

  “Fire?” I exclaimed. “No way!”

  My heart pounded as I stopped behind the fire truck. Jumping out of the car, Joe and I raced toward our house. The house wasn’t on fire—but our garage was.

  My first feeling was relief—at least our house wasn’t burning down. And since I had the car, there was nothing in the garage but some stored patio furniture and a lawn mower. But then I remembered the apartment above the garage—the apartment occupied by our aunt.

  “Oh no!” I shouted. “Aunt Trudy!”

  FIRED UP

  10

  JOE

  FRANK AND I CHARGED TOWARD THE BURNING garage. Mom and Dad watched silently, looking very worried as the firefighters worked on the blaze.

  “Mom, Dad,” I said, my voice cracking. “Is Aunt Trudy up there?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Mom said quietly. “One of the firefighters is climbing up to see.”

  Frank turned to me, his mouth a grim line. I didn’t have to read his mind to know he was thinking the same as me: Was this the work of the Scaredevils? Were they such evil psycho creeps they would target not only Frank and me, but our family, too?

  “I knew it,” Dad groaned, cutting into my thoughts. “All those smelly candles Trudy loves to burn. I warned her several times!”

  “Warned me about what?” came a voice.

  The four of us spun around. Standing right behind us was—

  “Aunt Trudy!” Frank exclaimed.

  “Where were you?” Dad asked, looking relieved.

  “At the movies, seeing that new action flick,” Aunt Trudy said. She stared at the now-smoldering garage. “But I guess there’s more action going on here!”

  Frank and I traded relieved smiles. Leave it to Aunt Trudy to crack a joke—even when her apartment was about to go up in flames. Luckily, the firefighters were getting the blaze out before it could spread that far.

  Chief Madison, the fire chief, came over to us with the report.

  “The garage has considerable damage,” he told us. “But the apartment upstairs is unscathed.”

  “Great,” Aunt Trudy said, walking toward the garage. “I’m going to catch up on my Dancing with the Stars—”

  “You can watch it in the house, Trudy,” Mom insisted. “Which is where you’ll be staying until we know your apartment is safe.”

  “And no more candles,” Dad said. “Please!”

  Aunt Trudy flapped her hand dismissively.

  “For your info, Fenton, I didn’t burn any candles today,” she insisted. “And if I did, I’d certainly have the brains to snuff it out before going to the movies.”

  “The fire couldn’t have started in Aunt Trudy’s apartment if there was no damage up there,” I said, turning to the fire chief. “Right?”

  “Right,” Chief Madison agreed. “The fire started in the garage, which isn’t uncommon. Lots of oily rags, clutter—”

  “Sabotage,” Frank cut in.

  Chief Madison stared at Frank. “Excuse me?” he asked. “Did you say sabotage?”

  “Someone could have set the fire as a prank,” Frank said.

  “Someone or someones,” I agreed.

  “Do you mean those kids who’ve been pulling pranks all over Bayport?” Mom asked. “You think they set fire to our garage?”

  “They’re not just any kids, Mom,” I said. “They’re a gang who call themselves the Scaredevils.”

  “We’ve heard about them,” Chief Madison said with a frown. “But setting a fire is a lot more serious than throwing eggs down a book drop.”

  “Whoa,” Aunt Trudy said. “Maybe I will stay in the house after all.”

  “We have tests to see where the fire started and how,” Chief Madison said. “But it might take a few days.”

  He walked away to join his ladder company.

  The damage wasn’t too bad, but it was enough to leave the garage unusable.

  “This is serious, guys,” Dad said. “I think you should go to the police first thing tomorrow and tell them what you know.”

  “You mean talk to Chief Olaf?” I grimaced. “I’d rather get a tooth filled.”

  “Dad, we just told Chief Olaf we thought the Scaredevils were targeting us,” Frank complained.

  “We told Olaf who the ringleader was,” I said. “But he didn’t even listen.”

  Mom turned to Dad, a worried look on her face. “Maybe you should go talk to the chief, Fenton,” she said. “Better yet, we both should.”

  “Good idea, Laura,” Dad said.

  Frank and I exchanged frantic looks. If Chief Olaf didn’t take us seriously now, he sure wouldn’t with our mommy and daddy speaking for us.

  “Mom, Dad—no,” I said.

  “No what?” Dad asked.

  “No thanks,” Frank said. “Joe and I will talk to the chief tomorrow.”

  “But you said he won’t listen to you!” Mom said.

  “Oh, let them go, Laura,” Aunt Trudy said, smiling in our direction. “If at first you don’t succeed—try, try again!”

  After the fire truck left, Frank and I climbed the stairs to our rooms. The smoke smell from the garage had wafted all the way into the house.

  “Of all nights for us to be out,” Frank said. “If I hadn’t gone to meet Sierra, I might have caught the Scaredevils in the act.”

  I remembered my tablet and pulled it out. “Maybe we still can,” I said. “Catch them in the act, I mean.”

  In Frank’s room I searched YouTube for slickbro13’s latest “hit.” It didn’t take long to find the clip I was looking for—a bunch of bandanna-wearing punks running away from our garage as the bottom edge of the door began to smolder.

  “No cheering in the background this time,” I pointed out. “They probably didn’t want to attract Mom’s and Dad’s attention.”

  Frank moved closer to the tablet. “I did hear something on there,” he said. “It sounded like someone’s voice.”

  I replayed the clip and listened. “I don’t hear anything,” I admitted.

  “Wait, here it comes,” Frank cut in.

  Quickly I turned up the volume. That’s when I heard someone snicker and say, “Hah! This ought to keep the cops busy!”

  That was a voice I’d know anywhere. It belonged to the gang’s now infamous ringleader, Colin Sylvester!

  “That’s Colin on the tape, Frank,” I declared. “What do you think he means about keeping the cops busy?”

  “Who knows?” Frank said. “But at least we have some proof for Olaf that Colin was in on this.”

  “And
this time,” I said, smiling as I held up my tablet, “we’ll convince the chief to watch the clip!”

  • • •

  We usually slept in on Saturdays, but this morning Frank and I were up at the crack of dawn. With Aunt Trudy now in the house, we were treated to an awesome breakfast of buckwheat pancakes and banana smoothies.

  “Where’d you get these ingredients, Aunt Trudy?” Frank asked.

  “I climbed the ladder up to my apartment,” Aunt Trudy pretended to whisper. “Don’t tell your mom and dad.”

  Mom and Dad came into the kitchen. When they wished Frank and me luck with Chief Olaf, I had a feeling we were going to need it—even with the clip we had of Colin at the scene of the crime.

  When Frank and I arrived at the station, we walked straight to the front desk. An officer was drinking from a goofy coffee cup. On it was a pair of handcuffs and the words ONE SIZE FITS ALL.

  “Good morning,” Frank said. “We’re here to see Chief Olaf.”

  Before the officer could look up from his cup, the chief himself marched right past us, followed by an angry Sanford Peyton!

  “What else do you want me to do, Mr. Peyton?” Chief Olaf asked.

  “Plenty!” Sanford replied. “My daughter’s party is tomorrow night. You can schedule the number of officers you assured us a month ago.”

  “That was before all the pranks started happening around here,” Chief Olaf said. “I can’t afford to put my force in one place when stores and cars are being trashed on a daily basis.”

  “I understand,” Sanford said. “But all we have now is one officer for the whole party.”

  “And a good number of private security guards, I’m sure,” Chief Olaf said. He gave a chuckle. “It’s a Sweet Sixteen, Mr. Peyton. What’s the worst that could happen—someone tries to melt the ice sculpture?”

  “Funny, Olaf,” Sanford said gruffly. “If this is what I pay my taxes for, I can easily retract my donation to the Bayport Police Department.”

  I could see the chief’s face pale. He seemed to force a quick smile before saying, “Mr. Peyton, why don’t we discuss this further in my office? How do you like your coffee?”

  “In a French press,” Sanford replied as he followed the chief through his office door. “With steamed milk, no sugar.”