The Case of the Million-Dollar Mystery

by James Preller

  “I guess there’s one less name on our list of suspects,” I told Mila.

  “But we don’t have a list of suspects,” she observed.

  Mila had a point. I went back into the classroom to get my detective journal. During snack recess, kids walked in and out of room 201 whenever they wanted. Sometimes to get something, like a hat and gloves. Sometimes just to go to the bathroom. I ran into Bobby Solofsky on my way inside. That is, he bumped into me.

  “Watch it, Solofsky,” I complained.

  Bobby grinned. “Oh, sorry, Jigsaw. I was looking under there.”

  “Under where?”

  Solofsky laughed like a hyena. Pointing and giggling, he chanted, “You said underwear! You said underwear!”

  “Very clever,” I muttered over my shoulder. “That’s the oldest joke in the book.”

  I searched in my desk for my journal and promised myself that I’d clean it out one of these days.

  Ah-choo.

  Someone sneezed.

  I wasn’t alone.

  There was someone hiding behind Ms. Gleason’s desk.

  Chapter

  7

  The Suspects

  I rose silently from my chair.

  Slowly, I inched toward Ms. Gleason’s desk. I heard papers rustling and a voice mumbling, “Oh, heavens to Betsy.”

  I peered around the corner of the desk. There was a man kneeling on the ground, fumbling with something under the desk. I noted tasseled black loafers. Argyle socks. Brown slacks. It could only be one person.

  “Principal Rogers!” I exclaimed.

  BONK!

  I guess I startled him. Because at the sound of my voice—whap! Mr. Rogers quickly sat up, bashing his head against the underside of Ms. Gleason’s desk. He looked dazed. There were papers all over the floor.

  “Oh, hello there, Jigsaw.” He blinked painfully.

  “Did I startle you?”

  A flustered Mr. Rogers fumbled with the papers on the floor. He stood and placed them on Ms. Gleason’s desk. He rubbed his head. “It’s been one of these days,” he confessed. “Mrs. Garcia is out sick today. It’s chaos without her. So I’ve been running around like a chicken in the rain.”

  “Can I help?” I offered.

  “Oh, no, that’s fine,” Mr. Rogers replied. He checked the wall clock and frowned. “Please tell Ms. Gleason that I dropped off the folders she wanted. I also picked up the notes for the board meeting.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Rogers,” I said.

  At this, my principal scooped up a stack of papers from the desk. He tottered out of the room, wobbling unsteadily.

  “I sure hope your head is okay!” I called after him.

  That left me alone in the room. I glanced at Ms. Gleason’s desk. There was a glass jar filled with hard candy. The peppermint looked nice. And the butterscotch called to me in a little voice, “Eat me, eat me.”

  I lifted the lid and grabbed a candy. No one would ever know.

  Or so I thought.

  Outside once again, Mila and I wrote out a list of suspects. It included everyone in room 201, except for Ms. Gleason. We left out Ralphie’s and Nicole’s names, too. We doubted they sent notes to themselves.

  SUSPECTS

  Bigs Maloney

  Danika Starling

  Mike Radcliff

  Joey Pignattano

  Lucy Hiller

  Kim Lewis

  Helen Zuckerman

  Eddie Becker

  Athena Lorenzo

  Bobby Solofsky

  Stringbean Noonan

  I circled Solofsky’s name. “He’s always trouble.”

  Mila nodded in agreement.

  “Helen is another prime suspect,” Mila added. “You remember all those pranks she used to pull.”

  I remembered. Who could forget the time she put Jell-O in Athena’s sneakers?

  “What about Bigs?” I asked.

  Mila squinched her face. “Not his style.”

  “Probably right. He’d put someone in a headlock before he’d write a note,” I observed. “Still, we’ve got to talk to everyone on this list.”

  “Hey, we forgot Geetha!” Mila exclaimed, slapping her forehead.

  I laughed. “Geetha’s so quiet, I forget she’s there sometimes.”

  I added the name Geetha Nair to the list. Then I asked Mila, “Do you think we should try to find out what kinds of things people have done wrong?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “The way I figure it,” I replied, “this blackmailer has been watching people. If they do something bad, they get a note.”

  “But why isn’t there a ransom?” Mila pondered. “Someone could make a lot of money off this scam. But our blackmailer doesn’t seem to want anything.”

  I lifted my hat and scratched my head. “Everybody wants something,” I mumbled. “We just have to figure out what.”

  Chapter

  8

  The Million-Dollar Robbery

  Eddie noticed it immediately. “Ms. Gleason,” he asked, “did you hide my million-dollar idea?”

  Ms. Gleason glanced at her desk. “Why, no, Eddie. I never touched it.”

  “Don’t kid around, Ms. Gleason,” Eddie said. “That invention could make me rich.”

  Ms. Gleason leafed through the papers on her desk. She leaned over and checked the floor. “That’s strange,” she said.

  Eddie leaped out of his chair and searched through Ms. Gleason’s garbage can. He demanded that everyone look in their desks. Eddie pulled his hair, fumed, and howled. Other than that, I’d say he took it pretty well.

  “Eddie, please calm down,” Ms. Gleason said in soothing tones. “I’m sure it will turn up somewhere.”

  “Who stole it?!” Eddie shouted. He turned and pointed at each one of us. “Someone in this room is a thief—and I’m gonna find out who!”

  “That’s enough, Eddie,” Ms. Gleason ordered. Her voice was stern. “Please control yourself. I won’t have that kind of talk in this classroom. Do you understand?”

  Eddie scowled, then nodded. He understood. But he wasn’t happy about it.

  A few moments later, I slipped him my business card.

  “You’re hired,” he whispered. Then he turned his back to me, still fuming.

  I wrote in my journal:

  CLIENT: Eddie Becker

  CASE: The Million-Dollar Mystery

  I exchanged glances with Mila, rubbing a finger across my nose. It was our secret signal. We were on the case. I thought about the mystery. Maybe our blackmailer had switched to robbery. The envelope was on Ms. Gleason’s desk, we went outside for recess, and it vanished before we returned. That gave the robber fifteen minutes, tops. Who else had been in room 201 during snack recess? We needed to ask around. Solofsky was, I knew that. And I was, too, but I was alone.

  A terrible thought crossed my mind. It seemed to sink like a stone, settling in my stomach. I wasn’t alone. Principal Rogers was there, too. He was messing around near Ms. Gleason’s desk. I had startled him. He seemed nervous and jumpy. And he was in a big hurry to leave.

  The thought was unthinkable. But there I was, thinking it. Could Mr. Rogers have stolen the envelope? For a million-dollar idea, I guessed anything was possible.

  The good news was I already had a suspect for the case. The bad news was … it was my school principal.

  Chapter

  9

  My Invention

  After talking to Mila, I learned that five more kids in our class had gotten notes—Lucy, Bigs, Athena, Kim, and Mike. Each note was the same in every way except one: The color of the construction paper changed each time.

  Our list of suspects was shrinking. I wondered if the blackmailer could have sent a note to him- or herself, just to throw us off the trail. But more important than that, I still couldn’t figure out the motive. Why send all those creepy notes? Why not ask for a ransom? And were the notes somehow connected to Eddie’s missing envelope?

  Geetha told M
ila that she saw me, Bobby, Helen, and Kim all go in and out of the classroom during morning recess. Helen and Kim admitted as much, but they’d gone in together. Solofsky claimed he saw Geetha go into the classroom. Geetha denied it.

  One of them was lying.

  Unfortunately, I had spelling homework and twenty minutes of reading to do. Plus I had to start working on my invention. Yeesh. How’s a detective supposed to get any work done?

  After I finished my homework, I found my dad in the basement. He was carving wooden ducks. Don’t ask why. Nobody can figure it out. My brother Billy says, “Dad’s a little quackers.”

  “Hey, kiddo,” he greeted me.

  “Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”

  “Just ducky,” he joked. Then he eyed me closely. “What do you want, Jigsaw?”

  “Me?” I said. “I don’t want anything. Can’t a kid come down to see how his dear old dad is doing? Would you like anything? Some grape juice or roasted nuts or something?”

  “Peace and quiet would be nice…” he murmured.

  I sighed.

  He continued carving the feathers.

  I sighed again, louder this time.

  “Maybe there is something…” I finally admitted.

  I told my dad how Ms. Gleason said that many inventions aren’t really brand-new ideas at all. Inventors often take old ideas and make them better.

  “Like what, for example?”

  “Like adding ridges to potato chips,” I answered.

  “I see what you mean.” My dad nodded. “Have you got an idea?”

  I did. “You know how a detective will sometimes hold a glass up to a wall so he can hear what’s going on in the other room? Well, it doesn’t work so great. Besides, people notice that sort of thing.”

  “So you’d like to invent something more discreet?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I replied. “But it would be nice if it was sneakier.”

  My dad raised an eyebrow. “Got any ideas?”

  I told him that I had a few. But I couldn’t build it without his help. We stayed up late that night, digging through the supplies in his workshop. We screwed together a small wooden box, ripped up an old radio, and were on our way.

  The invention turned out awesome.

  Of course, I didn’t tell my dad that I was planning on using my new invention the very next day, when I spied on the school principal.

  For some reason, I figured he’d rather not know.

  Parents are funny that way.

  Chapter

  10

  Pig Latin

  Mila and I sat together on the morning bus ride to school.

  “Oodgay orningmay, igsawjay,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Anyway ewsnay onway hetay asecay?” Mila said, grinning.

  “Take the marbles out of your mouth,” I replied. “I can’t understand a word…” Then it hit me. Mila was talking in code. She was using a secret language called pig Latin. We liked to practice it every once in a while.

  Pig Latin could be tricky at first. But once you get the knack, it’s not hard. A lot of kids know a little bit of pig Latin. But if you speak it very fast, most people don’t know what you’re talking about.

  With pig Latin, if a word begins with a vowel, you add WAY at the end. So “out” becomes “outway” and “on” becomes “onway.”

  But if a word begins with a consonant, you move the first letter to the end of the word and add AY. So “man” becomes “anmay” and “good” becomes “oodgay.”

  Mila had greeted me, “Good morning, Jigsaw.” Then she’d asked, “Any news on the case?”

  After a while, I wanted to switch back to plain English. Talking in a secret language wears a guy out. So I said, “et’slay peaksay ormalnay, okayway?”

  Mila smiled. “Uresay!”

  Sure.

  I was eager to tell Mila about my plan to catch the thief who took Eddie’s million-dollar idea. But first, I wanted to check my notes. I fished into my backpack, looking for my detective journal. I found it all right. Something was tucked inside it. “Look at this!” I whispered to Mila.

  It was a note on purple construction paper. It read:

  “Someone must have sneaked it into your backpack yesterday,” Mila observed.

  I nodded, my jaw clenched. That did it. Now it was personal. Nobody messes with my detective journal. I was going to catch this blackmailer—if it was the last thing I did. But in the back of my mind, another thought stirred. I asked myself, What did the blackmailer see me do? I suddenly remembered the butterscotch I nipped from Ms. Gleason’s candy jar. Could someone have seen me?

  Mila poked me in the ribs. “Earth to Jigsaw,” she prodded. “Are you going to tell me about your plan or not?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said distractedly. “I need to check out the principal’s office. Mr. Rogers might have stolen Eddie’s million-dollar idea.”

  Mila frowned. “No way, Jigsaw. He’s the principal.”

  “I saw him at the scene of the crime,” I replied. “He’s just another suspect to me.”

  I stared out the bus window, lost in thought. Finally, I said, “If only I could find a way to get into his office.”

  Just then, Bobby Solofsky gave a loud snort from the back of the bus. Mila pulled on her long black hair. “You could try Bobby’s method,” she suggested.

  “How does he do it?” I asked.

  Mila answered, “He gets into trouble.”

  Chapter

  11

  Looking for Trouble

  There was one problem. I’d never been sent to the principal’s office before. And no matter how badly anyone acted in room 201, Ms. Gleason always handled things herself. Then it hit me like a ton of marshmallows—the strict new lunch monitor, Ms. Hakeem. She was always sending kids to see Mr. Rogers.

  The plan was set when I joined Bigs, Ralphie, Danika, Geetha, and Mila in the cafeteria. I had my invention stuffed in my front pocket. But I felt nervous and worried. Bigs, on the other hand, seemed angry about something.

  “I’m so mad,” Bigs growled. He banged a fist on the table. My lunch tray jumped.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “What are you mad about, Bigs?”

  “Lunch!” he growled.

  I glanced at Ralphie. He shrugged.

  “You are mad about … lunch?” I prodded. “Why?”

  “Because it’s at the same time every day,” Bigs complained. “I’m bored. And every day it’s the same thing: breakfast, then lunch, then dinner. Who made up these rules anyway?”

  “Sometimes at my house we have breakfast for dinner,” Mila said. “I love it.”

  “Wait, what?” Bigs gaped. “Is that even possible?”

  “Sure,” I said. “We had waffles for dinner just last week. With bacon. But come to think of it, I’ve never eaten dinner for breakfast.”

  “Oh, I have,” Danika said. “Cold pizza! It’s underrated.”

  “We’re allowed … to eat pizza … for breakfast?” Bigs asked. The expression on his face was pure amazement.

  “Bigs,” I said. “You can eat anything you want, anytime you want. There are no rules—just suggestions.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I feel better now.”

  And that, folks, is why we loved the big lug.

  I noticed Ms. Hakeem standing nearby. “Excuse me, Ralphie,” I interrupted. “But it’s showtime.”

  I reached over and grabbed a fistful of Jell-O from his tray. Now was the moment. All I had to do was throw the Jell-O and yell, “Food fight!” I hesitated, squishing the slippery Jell-O between my fingers.

  Ms. Hakeem leaned forward, watching me, fearing the worst.

  But I couldn’t do it. I knew it was wrong and wasteful. Instead, I scraped off the Jell-O with a napkin.

  “I’ve got to go,” I announced.

  “Go where?” Mila asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s time for plan B,” I replied.

  Chapter />
  12

  The Principal’s Office

  At our school, there was a small main office with one large desk. The school secretary, Mrs. Garcia, sat clicking at the computer keyboard. Behind her, another door led to the principal’s office.

  I sat down beside Mrs. Garcia. “Can I help you, Jigsaw?” she asked.

  I crossed two fingers behind my back. “Um, I got into trouble. Ms. Hakeem told me to go see Mr. Rogers.”

  Mrs. Garcia’s lips took a downward turn. “Mr. Rogers is on the phone at the moment. But I’ll see that he knows you’re here.”

  A few moments later, Mrs. Garcia was interrupted by a call. As she listened, a smile swept across her face. “I’ll deliver the message personally,” she spoke into the receiver. “It will be my pleasure. And,” she added, “good luck!”

  Mrs. Garcia hung up. “I’ll be right back,” she told me. “I’ve got an urgent message for Coach K. It seems his wife needs a ride to the hospital.” She winked. “She’s going to have a baby!”

  I was alone. The door to the principal’s office was closed. Still, in the silence, I could hear Mr. Rogers’s voice faintly through the wall.

  I felt in my pocket for my invention, which I named the Listener Z-2000. Glancing back to make sure no one was watching, I set the hollow wooden box of the Listener Z-2000 on top of a bookshelf that stood against Mr. Rogers’s office wall. By shifting a plant over, I hid it from sight. Then I unwound the wire and placed the plug into my ear. I returned to my seat, innocent as a fox, and listened.

  Mr. Rogers’s voice came through crystal clear. “Yes, I want to get rid of it quickly. You can come to see it this afternoon. But you should know, I won’t sell for less than ten thousand dollars.”

  I feared the worst. Had Mr. Rogers stolen Eddie’s invention? Was he trying to sell it? Time was running out. There was only one thing left to do.