Howard Wallace, P.I._Shadow of a Pug

by Casey Lyall

  Ivy and I exchanged an uneasy glance. This case was getting weirder by the minute. “And what’s Saturday?” I asked, tugging my notebook out of my pocket.

  “Do you guys even go to this school?” Mr. Williams waved away that comment, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was offside. This whole situation has me very emotional.”

  “Understandable,” I said.

  “This Saturday is our most important game of the year. It’s the annual Grudge Game between us and Stoverton.” He spat into the potted plant in the corner.

  “Uh, okay,” Ivy said, taken aback. “And Stoverton—”

  The coach spat again.

  “Gross,” she said under her breath. “I’m guessing this is a pretty intense rivalry?”

  “One that goes back more than fifty years,” he said. “We haven’t lost a match in twenty. But we’ve been having a rough go of it this season. The guys need Spartacus if we’re going to win. A mascot brings a team together. Not having one is bad luck, and bad luck has no place on a basketball court.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” I asked.

  “One for sure,” Mr. Williams said. “And unfortunately, he’s one of our own, which is a darn shame.”

  I knew where this story led. “Who is it?”

  “Carl Dean,” Mr. Williams said. “Looks like a bad case of sour grapes.”

  “Because you benched him in favor of newer players?” Ivy piped up.

  “Grantley players,” I added.

  “You don’t know about the Grudge Game, but you’ve heard about that?” He rolled his eyes. “Rumors at this school get out of control. I’m trying to build the best possible team. It’s about recognizing skills, not favoritism.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he said that with a straight face. “But you don’t think Carl sees it that way?”

  “No, I do not,” he said. “And I don’t think he’s working alone. Someone’s helping him hide Spartacus. When I went by Carl’s house to check things out for myself, there was no sign of Spartacus anywhere.”

  “You think it’s another player?”

  “Maybe.” The coach sat back and scratched at the thinning hair beneath his cap. “Or someone in his family. Everyone knows the Deans are no good. That, or he made a deal with the devil and is working with someone from Stoverton. All I know is Spartacus is missing and someone’s helping Carl cover the trail.” He punctuated that sentence with another spit shot at the overwatered plant in the corner.

  “I have to say that evidence of a crime is not evidence of guilt. Carl could be innocent,” I said.

  Mr. Williams rolled his eyes. “Then find me some proof while you’re looking for Spartacus. That’ll keep things tidy.”

  I snuck a look at Ivy, and she gave a tiny nod. Taking on the case from another angle could give us the inside track to solving it. Not that I relished the idea of “Coach” as a client.

  “We’ll do what we can to help you, Mr. Williams—”

  “Coach.”

  Ivy took over before I smacked my head onto the desk. “But you’re going to have to let us have access to the team.”

  “I don’t want to get them all riled up about Spartacus,” he said.

  “We’ll tell them we’re doing a story for the school blog,” I said, drawing on one of our old covers. “That way we can question them without raising any red flags.”

  Mr. Williams nodded slowly, steepling his fingers under his broad chin. “Okay,” he said. “That could work.”

  We rose from our seats. “About our fees,” I said.

  “I can’t pay you, Wallace,” he said. “We’ve got to keep this strictly under the table.”

  I started to protest, and he waved a hand at me. “Let’s make a deal. Find Spartacus, and aside from the immeasurable school pride you will earn, I’ll also give you both extra credit for track and field.”

  Cold, hard cash was always preferable, but a free pass on running around in the hot sun was nothing to sneeze at. Contemplating that, I swung a look at Ivy, who shrugged. “Enough credit to skip long jump?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Williams said, rattling open the cage door for us to leave. It came to mind that a contract wouldn’t be out of order for this one. I wouldn’t put it past the coach to try to wriggle out of his end of the bargain. Ivy and I headed toward class, steeling ourselves for Ms. Kowalski’s evil eye.

  “Guess we better get cracking on finding this dog,” my partner said. “The clients are starting to pile up.”

  “And yet, no one is paying us.”

  Chapter Nine

  “This wasn’t what I had in mind for our lunch meeting, Ivy,” I said, plopping down into the chair beside her.

  “It’s called multitasking, Howard.” She rearranged the wrapped cookies on the table in front of us. “We’re helping with the bake sale and working the case. Easy peasy.”

  “But why?”

  “Because the Arts Council needs money. They are buh-roke.”

  “Still not explaining why we’re here.”

  “Sale’s running all week. All the groups have to help out, including Drama Club. Remember that time you made me join Drama Club?”

  “That was a cover. For a case. You don’t have to keep going.”

  Ivy shrugged. “I like it.”

  “I’ll try to make the best of it, I guess.” I reached out to pick up a large chocolate chip cookie when a quiet voice piped up.

  “You have to pay for that.”

  “What?”

  A girl peeked around from the other side of Ivy, blinking behind thick, green-framed glasses. “The cookie,” she said. “You have to pay for it.” She blinked again. “Um, please?”

  I looked back and forth between her and Ivy. “Who? Why? Ivy?”

  Sighing, Ivy leaned back in her chair. “Howard, this is Ashi Jenkins. She’s in band, and unlike you, was actually scheduled to work this shift of the bake sale with me. Do you mind if he hangs out, Ashi?”

  Ashi smiled and ducked her head. “Not as long as he pays for the cookie. Ellis said no freebies. We need the money.”

  “Who’s Ellis?”

  “Ellis Garcia,” Ashi said. “She’s the head of the Student Arts Council. This was all her idea.”

  “You know bake sales are an inefficient way to raise money,” I said, gesturing at the rest of the table with the cookie in my hand. “It’s an unreliable, unsustainable source of income.”

  “You have a better idea?” Ivy quirked an eyebrow at me. “Think we should start an Arts Council detective agency?”

  “Oooh,” Ashi said. “I have the perfect coat.”

  Ivy snorted out a laugh and I grinned. “I like you, Ashi. You’re alright.” Pulling back the plastic on the cookie, I took a bite.

  “That’s four dollars,” Ashi said.

  I paused midchew, opening my mouth to let the chunk of cookie fall back onto the table.

  “Ew, Howard.” Ivy wrinkled her nose at me.

  “I take it all back. You’ll make a killing with prices like that.”

  The girls stared at me until I sighed and pulled a crumpled bill out of my pocket. “Keep the change,” I said, wiping my mangled cookie off the table. “Consider it my contribution to the cause.”

  Ivy plucked the money out of my hand with a smirk. “I’ll consider it a start.”

  A crowd of kids came up to the table. Ashi and Ivy were soon busy handing out treats and collecting funds. I leaned back in my chair, rummaging through my bag for my lunch. The situation was less than ideal. Ivy and I needed to talk about the case. Hard to do while she was hawking brownies and butter tarts. Ever harder with Ashi around—there was such a thing called client confidentiality.

  I ate my lunch in the loudest amount of silence I could manage. Ivy glanced over as I crunched on a carrot and burst out laughing. “Pouty McPoutface, relax,” she said. “We’ll get to the case.”

  “During this lunch period, or are you penciling me in for sometime this
week?”

  “Gimme a sec.” Ivy waved a hand at me as she got swept up in another wave of kids. I felt Ashi’s eyes on me. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger and squinted.

  “You took another cookie.” It wasn’t a question.

  It also wasn’t wrong.

  I pulled the ginger cookie out of my sleeve and stuffed it in my mouth before handing over another bill. Ashi gave it a quick inspection and popped it in their cash box. If Ivy and I ever managed to expand the business, we were stealing Ashi away from the band.

  Things finally slowed down at the table. Ivy thunked a hand against her forehead. “I gave that kid the wrong change. Ashi, can you give this back to him?”

  “Who?” Ashi craned her neck, following Ivy’s finger.

  “Over in the far corner. In the red shirt on the other side of the cafeteria.”

  “Oh, sure.” Ashi hopped up, dollar in hand, scooting away from the table.

  Ivy turned to me. “Okay, we gotta talk fast. It won’t take her long to get back.”

  “What?” My sugar-laden brain tried to connect Ivy’s dots.

  “Howard. Case, focus, talk.”

  “Right, okay. So we have two clients and one case.”

  “And about a million suspects,” Ivy said, pulling Carl’s wrinkled list out of her pocket.

  “Give or take,” I agreed. “We should focus on the ones closest to home first. Rule out the obvious.”

  My partner nodded as she pursed her lips, scanning the list. “Good thing we’re starting with the team then. Speaking of the team . . .” Ivy trailed off.

  I knew exactly where this was going. “I’ll be fine,” I said, somewhat snappier than I had intended.

  “All I was going to say was maybe I should handle questioning Miles. It might make things a little easier.”

  “I don’t need you to baby me, Ivy.”

  “It’s not babying. I’m just trying to help. I know things are—”

  “I can deal with Miles Fletcher,” I said.

  “Miles?” Ashi bounced up to the table. “From the basketball team? He’s cute.”

  “Ashi,” I said. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Only if you pay for the brownie you snuck.”

  Chapter Ten

  After school, Ivy and I stood outside of the gym, listening to the pounding of feet vibrating through the doors. Starting with the team made sense. They were the ones who’d had the most access to Spartacus. A good detective eliminated all of the possibilities.

  “We going in?” Ivy placed a hand on the door. “Or should we gawk at the door some more?”

  A good detective could stomach questioning a roomful of jerks who once stole all his clothes during gym and then shoved him into the girls’ locker room.

  A great detective would do it without hesitation.

  I’d file that under Goals. Taking a deep breath, I pushed on the other door. “We’re going in.” Once inside, we were met with a wall of sound: thumping basketballs, squeaking shoes, shouts, and high-fives.

  “So, this is how the sportsball half lives,” Ivy said, scanning the room. “Looks sweaty.”

  “Let’s make this quick.” We walked the length of the gym, keeping close to the bleachers, out of the danger zone. Grantleyville didn’t skimp when it came to their sporting venues, so the space was large for a middle school. High windows let in enough natural light to showcase the green-and-gold gladiator painted on the floor. A small stage at one end housed the audiovisual room and spare mats behind the curtains.

  “Why are there people here?” Ivy nodded at the seated kids scattered around the bleachers. Most were clustered together, but one girl sat at the far end, face hidden by bright blue bangs as she tapped away at her phone.

  “Friends? Fans? I don’t know,” I said as we reached the end of the gym. “One mystery at a time.”

  Mr. Williams spotted us and blew his whistle in two short bursts. “Come on in, guys,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  The team jogged over and set up in a semicircle around us and their coach. Eyeing me and Ivy with varying degrees of curiosity and hostility, the players began to mutter among themselves.

  “Settle down, settle down,” Mr. Williams said. “Howard and Ivy are here today at my request. They’re doing a story on the team.”

  The rumbling increased. I noticed the blue-haired girl taking an interest.

  One of the players raised his hand. “Aren’t those the detective kids?” So much for going incognito.

  “No, no,” Mr. Williams chuckled nervously. “You’re thinking of someone else. Now be quiet and let me talk. Howard and Ivy are reporting on the Grudge Game for the school blog, getting everyone excited about the big day.”

  “Coach, come on.” Another player stepped forward, and I bit back a groan. Vince Neely—five foot six inches of insolent aggression, usually directed at me. Miles had surrounded himself with some quality new friends. “We’re not idiots,” Vince said, keeping his voice low. “This is about Spartacus, right?” He rolled his eyes in our direction. “You’re really going to let him handle it?”

  The coach sputtered while the rest of the team started nodding and whispering furiously over one another.

  “Did Carl really take Spartacus?”

  “What are they going to do?”

  Obviously someone had to be the voice of reason here. I took a deep breath, ready to shout down the chorus of questions, when someone beat me to it. One loud voice pealed out above the rest: “Why don’t you have professionals handle it?” I locked eyes with the speaker and fought the urge to roll my eyes. Of course. Miles. So much for wanting to help with the case.

  “I mean,” Miles said, quieter now that he had the group’s attention, “we want Spartacus found, right? Why mess around?”

  Vince high-fived him, and Mr. Williams blew a quick chirp on his whistle.

  “That’s enough, Fletcher,” he said. “Everyone, bring it in close.” The circle cinched tight as Mr. Williams huddled the players up. “Are you telling me all of you know about Spartacus?” He looked around the nodding faces. “Honestly, I can’t keep anything from you kids,” Mr. Williams muttered. “I wanted to do this quietly. Okay. Listen up. Team info only. Howard and Ivy are doing us a favor. I expect everyone to cooperate and keep it to themselves. Answer their questions fully and with respect. Back to shooting drills in the meantime.”

  Miles shot me a look as Vince tugged him over to the rest of their gang. Deep breaths, Howard. One step at a time. Best way to handle this was to be professional. And fast.

  “Divide and conquer?” I asked Ivy. She glanced around at the players, who had separated themselves into two groups, one at each basket on either end of the gym.

  “The sooner we’re out of here, the better,” she said and then pointed at the youngest, scrawniest looking player on the left side. “I’m gonna start with the little one.” Ivy strode down the length of the bleachers, culling her chosen player from the crowd and leading him over to a quiet corner. Poor little guy.

  Little being a relative term. All of the players had at least a solid few inches on me. I squared my shoulders, not about to let myself be intimidated.

  Nothing wrong with starting with a friendly face. Wandering over to my end of the gym, I zeroed in on the single one in the crowd of meatheads. “Scotty.”

  The tall blond sixth-grader spun around, twitching a basketball nervously between his hands. “What’s up, Howard? Crazy about Spartacus, eh? Are you figuring out who took him? Do you think it was really Carl? Do you think it was me?”

  Scotty Harris, former client, occasional informant, terrible musician.

  “How’re things, Scotty?”

  “Everyone’s freaked out about Spartacus being gone, especially with the big game on Saturday.” A frown marred his round friendly face. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Were you on the care roster?”

  “Yeah, even though my whole family’s alle
rgic. Coach said no one was allowed to skip,” he said. “Even the guys who aren’t playing much. They thought that was a load.”

  “Right, because of the new kids.” I nodded out to the rest of the team taking shots at the net. “Point out the newbies to me.”

  “Uh, those five down there.” Scotty pointed out a quintet of obvious Grantleys. Even their shoes looked put out with having to walk among the common folk. “And that guy over there.”

  “The one using his head to bounce the ball?”

  Scotty sighed. “Yup.”

  Mr. Williams had made some top-notch additions to the team.

  “Guys, guys!” One of the older players jogged up to the new kids, concern creasing his forehead. “We’re practicing shooting at the net, not each other.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oscar, our captain,” Scotty said. “Well, for now, anyway. Coach is talking about picking a new one if we don’t start playing better. Like that’s Oscar’s fault.” He looked over at the newbs. “Probably just an excuse to pick a Grantley.”

  “Heard much chatter from the team?”

  “Lots,” he said. “People are freaked out about Spartacus. Worried about the game. Mad at Carl.”

  “They think he did it?”

  Scotty shrugged. “Some of them.”

  “You?”

  “Carl’s a good guy.”

  I halted my pen at that comment and raised an eyebrow at Scotty.

  “To me,” he amended. “And when he’s not hanging out with Tim.”

  “Heard that’s not an issue anymore. So, who would you peg?”

  “Aw, Howard.” Scotty hugged the basketball to his stomach, drooping at the request.

  “If you had to take a guess.”

  He bounced the ball a few times while he pondered the question. “I heard Oscar might be transferring to Stoverton by the end of the month,” he said. We both looked over at the captain, who was pulling on his hair as two players collided mid–jump shot. “His parents want him to have more play time. End the year on a winning team before going to high school.”

  Interesting. “Thanks, Scotty.”

  I turned to find another player to talk to and almost got taken out by the basketball flying at my head. I slapped it away, relieved my survival instincts had passed another test. The ball bounced harmlessly on the ground as my assailant came into view.