The Crime on the Norwegian Sea

by Steve Stevenson

  “You’ve got it, son!” exclaimed Edgar. “Now ease up a little. We’re almost there!”

  But Watson mistook a flicker of light on the boat’s shiny floor for a fish of his own, and chose that moment to pounce right between Dash’s feet, tripping him. Still gripping the wheel, Dash suddenly swerved. The boat swung sharply and almost flipped over.

  “Look out!” shouted Edgar, clutching his head.

  But just as the boat was about to crash into the dock, Chandler grabbed the wheel, moved decisively, and turned the bow back toward the sea.

  “You and your stupid challenges!” Dash yelled at his father. “I’ve had it! Give it a rest for a while!”

  “You’re hopeless,” grumbled Edgar Mistery. “You can’t even steer a boat. And you think you’re going to be a world-famous detective? Don’t make me laugh . . . You need to hone your skills to become an Eye International agent. It’s no job for a wimp!”

  Grabbing the wheel, Dash’s father continued to mutter. “Director of Scotland Yard? Ha! If you keep on like this, it’s going to be years before you even solve your first case!”

  Agatha and Dash looked at each other with knowing smiles, and Dash gave his cousin a little wink.

  The penthouse sat high atop of Baker Palace, fifteen floors above street level. Its roof was covered with state-of-the-art solar panels, and if you stood on the wraparound terrace and peered in through the tinted-glass windows, the first thing you’d see was a mass of high-tech electronics—monitors, Wi-Fi antennas, and routers—surrounded by pizza boxes, fast-food bags, and dirty socks.

  The only person at home was a lanky fourteen-year-old boy, sprawled out snoring on the couch with his dark hair flopped over his face. He had left his seven computers on all night long, downloading data from around the world. His face was lit up by LED lights flashing like fireflies in the darkened room.

  Outside the penthouse London, England, was already bathed in a milky haze. It had been a sweltering summer, too hot for tourists, and the Thames River looked like a strip of shiny tar.

  Not far from Baker Palace, the famous Big Ben clock tower chimes struck six times. The low notes rattled the walls, but Dashiell Mistery slept like a rock.

  Dash was not a morning person. He liked lazing around the penthouse all day and never started his homework till late at night, usually with the music cranked. His report cards said it all: Dash was getting straight As in Surveillance Technologies, but he was flunking everything else.

  “Instead of going to that crazy detective school, why don’t you study engineering?” his mother would beg on the rare occasions when they had a real conversation. “The Mistery family could use a few people with practical skills.” Dash shrugged and said, “Don’t forget Grandpa Ellery, Mom. He’s at CERN in Geneva studying subatomic particles. That’s pretty hard-core.” And the conversation would end with his mom sighing, “He’s a nuclear physicist, not a normal engineer. All you Mistery men have to do something different!”

  Dash secretly liked being known as a “Mistery man.” After her divorce, his mother never missed a chance to label the Mistery family a pack of oddballs. First and foremost was her ex-husband, Edgar Allan Mistery, a champion curler. (Curling is an Olympic sport played with brooms and polished rocks on an ice rink; it isn’t exactly mainstream.) Every one of Edgar’s relatives was part of her roll call of hopeless eccentrics.

  6:15 a.m.: Second wake-up attempt. The words RED ALERT flashed on a monitor screen, accompanied by the theme from Star Trek, and a metallic voice that kept repeating, “Man the lifeboats!”

  This time around, Dash’s forehead was targeted by a laser-tag strobe light. The room looked like the bridge of an alien spaceship.

  But it was no use: Dash just rolled over and buried his head in the pillow. Within seconds, he was out like a light.

  6:30 a.m.: Final attempt. First the phone rang several times. Then the automatic blinds rolled up, buzzing, while a wall of speakers blasted the latest hit.

  A neighbor banged on the door, yelling, “This isn’t a nightclub, you slacker!”

  Still nothing.

  Finally at precisely 6:36 a.m., in the middle of all the deafening chaos, there was a tiny blip. It came from a titanium gadget, shaped like a cell phone, which hung from a charger cord over the couch.

  That faint blip rang in Dash’s ears like a volley of gunfire. Without getting up, he reached out, grabbed the gadget, and pressed a few buttons.

  A dreadful message flashed onto the screen.

  The second that Dash read it, his eyes bulged. “Today?” he yelled. “There’s absolutely no way!”

  He jumped to his feet. This was a total disaster. He grabbed various remotes, clicking off the alarms, ringtones, and speakers. “There’s no time to sort all this out. I have to . . . I have to . . . what do I have to do?!” he exclaimed.

  He perched on the arm of a chair, quickly booting up his seven computers, which came to life with a flash of white light. “I’ll email Agatha!” he said aloud. “But will she read it in time?” He checked the gadget again, with a grimace. “No, better not. If they hack into my email, it’s all over.”

  Where did he put that cordless phone? He found it under a burger wrapper. Feverishly he scrolled through his contacts, “Adam, Adrian . . . Agatha! Got it!”

  He started to text her, but stopped. What if they’d put a bug on his phone? They were experts at stuff like that!

  “Okay, don’t panic, Dash,” he whispered. “Concentrate. What’s the best way to get a message to Agatha without anyone listening in?” He ran a hand through his floppy hair and made a decision.

  Dash stepped onto the terrace, unlatched the door to his aviary, and grabbed his trusty carrier pigeon. “Time to put you to work, buddy. The Mistery Cousins need you!”

  As the pigeon soared over the suburbs of London, the patchwork of roofs and yards gave way to a wide swath of green: three acres of flowering meadows, fountains, lily ponds, botanical gardens, and quiet, leafy lanes.

  Smack in the middle of the park was a Victorian mansion with a lavender roof: the Mistery Estate, home of twelve-year-old Agatha Mistery and her parents.

  Agatha was taking a morning stroll in her slippers and bathrobe, dodging the rotating jets of the sprinkler system. The scent of freshly mowed grass tickled her nose—her small, upturned nose, a Mistery family trait.

  She carried a cup of steaming tea, which she savored in tiny sips. It was top-quality Shui-Hsien, with a scent like honey and a fruity aftertaste. In a word: superb.

  She followed the path to a gazebo, where she sat on a purple swing, resting her teacup next to a pile of letters. Mostly junk mail, bills, and silly postcards from friends on vacation. Agatha didn’t bother to read them.

  Then she noticed a package on the table. It was covered with stamps, postmarks, and labels from several countries.

  What could it be?

  “Chandler?” called Agatha.

  The Mistery Estate’s trusty butler peered out from behind a hydrangea bush, armed with a pair of gardening shears. He was pruning stray twigs, dressed in an extra-large black tuxedo that seemed more suited to a gala event than a garden. An ancient straw hat perched on top of his head.

  “Good morning, Miss Agatha.” Chandler waved his shears and gave her what passed for a smile, a very faint crack in the great slab of his face. A former professional boxer, he was known for his stony expression.

  “What’s this?” asked Agatha, picking up the mysterious package. “Where did it come from?”

  “From the Andes, Miss Agatha.”

  “Then it’s from Mom and Daddy!”

  Agatha crossed her legs and started unwrapping the package, carefully noting the sequence of stamps. “This first one is the postmark of Laguna Negra in Peru,” she said aloud. “They’re there right now, at thirteen thousand feet above sea level!”

&
nbsp; “Just so, Miss.”

  “And then the post office in Ica, the Andean province,” she said, concentrating. “Then Lima, the capital of Peru, then . . . that’s strange! Do you see that?”

  “Do I see what, Miss Agatha?”

  “This stamp, right under the air-mail sticker.” Agatha chewed her lip. “It says Mexico City.”

  Chandler nodded.

  “And finally the last stage: from Mexico City to London, endorsed at Heathrow Airport!” She took the last sip of her Shui-Hsien, then pulled her trusty notebook from her pocket and opened it to a blank page. She clicked open her favorite pen, but the ink had gone dry. Frowning, she scribbled a bit, leaving dents in the paper. “Have you got a pen?” she asked Chandler.

  Agatha never missed a chance to take notes on an interesting detail. Like every member of the Mistery family, she had her heart set on an eccentric career.

  She wanted to be a mystery writer.

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