Text copyright © 2013 by Lewis B. Montgomery
Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Amy Wummer
Digital Illustration Enhancement by Mark Wummer
Super Sleuthing Strategies original illustrations copyright © 2013 by Kane Press, Inc.
Super Sleuthing Strategies original illustrations by Nadia DiMattia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publisher. For information regarding permission, contact the publisher
through its website: www.kanepress.com.
Montgomery, Lewis B.
The case of the locked box / by Lewis B. Montgomery ; illustrated by Amy Wummer ;
Super Sleuthing illustrations by Nadia DiMattia.
pages cm. — (The Milo & Jazz mysteries ; #11)
Summary: When detective-in-training Jazz, accused of stealing 100 dollars from a
locked cashbox, stands trial in student court, it is up to her sleuthing partner, Milo, to
prove her innocence.
eISBN: 978-1-5756-5627-4 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-5756-5791-2 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-5756-5795-0 (mobi)
[1. Trials—Fiction. 2. Stealing—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective
stories.] I. Wummer, Amy, illustrator. II. DiMattia, Nadia, illustrator. III. Title.
PZ7.M7682Cal 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012051086
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in the United States of America in 2013 by Kane Press, Inc.
Book Design: Edward Miller
The Milo & Jazz Mysteries is a registered trademark of Kane Press, Inc.
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For Fiora and Marina,
who like puzzles
—L.B.M.
Titles in The Milo & Jazz Mysteries series:
The Case of the Stinky Socks
The Case of the Poisoned Pig
The Case of the Haunted Haunted House
The Case of the Amazing Zelda
The Case of the July 4th Jinx
The Case of the Missing Moose
The Case of the Purple Pool
The Case of the Diamonds in the Desk
The Case of the Crooked Campaign
The Case of the Superstar Scam
The Case of the Locked Box
THE CASE OF THE LOCKED BOX
CHAPTER ONE
Milo poked a fork into the cup and stirred the crumbly brown stuff around. “There’s no worm in this dirt!” he said. “Did someone eat it?”
“Don’t worry, we have plenty extra.” His friend Jazz dropped a gummy worm into the cup of chocolate cookie crumbs. “If we run out of anything, it’ll be the sunflower seeds.”
Selling “seeds and dirt” at lunchtime to raise money for the school garden was a great idea, Milo thought.
Actually, Jazz had tons of great ideas. As student council president, she seemed to come up with a new plan every day. The only problem was that it didn’t leave her much time for solving cases.
Milo and Jazz were sleuths in training. They got lessons in the mail from world-famous private eye Dash Marlowe and solved real-life mysteries. But lately, Jazz had been so busy—
“Milo, did you hear me?” Jazz said.
“Huh?”
“I said, the principal said he’d think about my idea of having a student court. But he’s worried we’re too young.”
Milo shrugged. “Maybe he’s right. Kids aren’t always fair.”
“Neither are grownups!” Jazz argued. “But they have the right to a trial by jury. We should, too.”
A younger boy came puffing up. “Hey, Jazz! Sorry I’m late! I folded all the paper napkins like you said.”
He dropped them on the table by the metal cashbox.
Jazz gaped at the fluffy white pile. “Billy, I just wanted you to fold them in half. I didn’t mean you had to fold them into origami!” She paused. “Um . . . what are they supposed to be?”
“Slugs!” Billy announced cheerfully. “You know, to go with the whole garden thing.”
As Billy set out his napkins at the far end of the table, Milo leaned over to Jazz. “Origami slugs?”
“At least he’s trying to be helpful!” she said. “Unlike Chelsea.”
Chelsea, a fourth grader, was vice president of the student council. Billy was secretary, and Omar, a boy in Jazz’s class, was treasurer.
Chelsea was always telling everyone that she should have been president, and that it wasn’t fair only fifth graders could run for the top spot. She was jealous of Jazz and never missed a chance to cause her trouble.
“What did she do now?” Milo asked.
Jazz pointed at the cups of cookie dirt. “Yesterday she knocked one off the table accidentally and wouldn’t help clean it up. She said it was my dumb idea to sell messy snacks. I had to crawl around under the table picking up the crumbs myself so Mr. Schiff wouldn’t get mad.”
Milo nodded. The school custodian could get a little grouchy about spills.
Voice rising, Jazz went on, “THEN, while I was down there cleaning up the mess, one of the teachers came by and told her what a great fundraiser it was. And guess what Chelsea said?”
“What?” Milo asked.
Jazz mimicked Chelsea’s prissy tone. “Thank you! It was my idea, you know.” She switched back to her normal voice. “Can you believe that? I was so shocked, I started to stand up under the table and I bonked my head.”
“Ouch.” Milo winced.
“Anyway,” Jazz said firmly, “I don’t care what Chelsea says. We’re earning tons of money for the garden.”
“How much have you got so far?” Milo asked, eyeing the locked cashbox.
Jazz broke into a smile. “Over a hundred bucks! The box is stuffed.”
A small key hung on a string around Jazz’s neck. She slipped the string over her head and pulled the cashbox toward her.
“Soon I’ll need to trade some of those dollar bills for fives and tens,” Jazz went on as she turned the key in the padlock and flipped up the lid. “Or else—”
She stopped. She stared.
Milo stared, too.
The cashbox was completely empty.
CHAPTER TWO
“The money!” Jazz exclaimed. “It’s . . . it’s gone!”
Milo lifted the black plastic tray. Nothing underneath, either. He frowned. “Probably someone took it to trade in for bigger bills. Like you were saying.”
“But that’s impossible!” Jazz said. “They’d need the key.”
“You’re the only one with a key?” he asked.
“Well, Omar has one too, because he’s student council treasurer—”
“Maybe he’s off counting the money, then,” Milo said, looking around.
Jazz shook her head. “He hasn’t been in school all week. He’s been home sick. Anyway, Omar would never take the money out of the box without telling me.”
Milo picked up the open padlock. “Are you sure it was locked?”
“Of course! I just unlocked it!”
Milo pulled the key out of the lock. He clicked it shut, then tugged on it. Locked. He stuck the key back in and twisted it. The lock sprang open.
“It seems fine,” he admitted.
Jazz stared into the empty cashbox as if she expected the money to appear with a poof.
�
��Maybe you put the money somewhere else and then forgot?” Milo said.
“How could I forget?” Jazz asked.
He thought. “Well . . . you said you bumped your head yesterday, right? Maybe you have amnesia.”
“Milo, don’t be silly.” Jazz scowled. “Somebody must have stolen our school garden money. But who would do a thing like that?”
The answer came to Milo in a flash. “Chelsea!”
“What?” Jazz said.
“Chelsea stole the money!” he said. “Don’t you see? Remember yesterday, how she spilled that stuff on the floor? I bet she did it on purpose, to distract you! While you were cleaning up her mess, Chelsea was cleaning out the cashbox.”
Milo grinned. Ta-da! Even Dash Marlowe couldn’t solve a case that fast.
Jazz stared back at him, wide-eyed. But then she shook her head. “The money was still there after that. I counted it before I locked the box at the end of lunch.”
The air rushed out of Milo. “Oh.” And it had seemed like such a perfect solution!
By now, a crowd had begun to gather. Kids clustered around the table, jostling for a closer look at the empty cashbox. Sunflower seeds spilled everywhere. Billy flung himself across the table. “Hey! Don’t squish my slugs!”
The principal cut through the crowd. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s the garden money,” Milo said. “It’s disappeared!”
As Jazz explained, the principal’s frown deepened. “The box was left in the school office overnight?”
Jazz nodded. “Right behind the desk. The same as always.”
“Someone could have gone in when the secretary wasn’t there,” Milo said. “Like when she goes outside to help get kids onto the buses after school.”
“But no one else at school had a key,” Jazz reminded him. “So nobody could have gotten the money out of the box except . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Except YOU!”
A girl in a headband pushed forward. “You stole the money. Didn’t you?”
Jazz gasped.
The crowd buzzed.
“That’s a very serious accusation, Chelsea,” the principal said.
“She practically admitted it herself!” Chelsea said. “Nobody could have taken the money out of the box without a key. And who had the key? She did.”
Chelsea pointed a skinny finger straight at Jazz, who looked stunned.
“Student council officers should be trustworthy,” Chelsea went on primly. “We don’t need a thief for president.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Milo protested. “This is America. People are innocent till proven guilty, right?”
“YES!” Billy yelled. “In a COURT OF LAW!”
Everyone stared at him.
Eagerly, Billy turned to the principal. “Jazz has been saying we should try a student court, right? Well, now we can put her on trial!”
Jazz’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“We can have a real judge and jury,” Billy went on happily. “And lawyers—you know, the one who says you’re guilty and the one who’s on your side.”
“Prosecution and defense,” the principal said, looking thoughtful.
“Yeah!”
A wave of excitement was rising. Kids turned to their friends, chattering about trials they’d seen on TV.
Billy beamed.
“Well, Jazz,” the principal said. “You have been asking for a student court. What do you think?”
Jazz’s eyes slowly scanned the crowd. Milo followed her gaze. A few kids smiled at her. Others whispered to each other, or just stared.
Turning back to the principal, Jazz stood very straight. She raised her chin. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Everybody wanted to be at the next day’s trial, even though it meant missing recess. All the fourth and fifth graders were hoping to be chosen for the jury.
The principal arranged for a student judge from the middle school to run the trial. The middle school principal also sent over a boxful of little booklets titled HOW A TRIAL WORKS.
Milo carefully studied his booklet as he and Jazz sat in his kitchen eating an after-school snack. Jazz had picked him to defend her. He figured it was going to be a tough job—especially with Chelsea on the other side.
“Chelsea is really out to get you,” he told Jazz. “And she has a pretty good case.”
“She can’t prove I stole the money when I didn’t,” Jazz said.
“She can tell the jury you’re the only one who could have done it. Then the jury can decide you must be guilty. Unless . . .”
Their eyes met.
“Unless someone catches the real thief?” Jazz asked.
“I happen to know a good detective,” Milo said.
“Me too!”
They grinned at each other.
Then Jazz frowned. “I just can’t figure out how the thief got the money out of that locked box.”
“Do you know where your key was the whole time?” Milo asked.
She pulled out the key on its string. “Right here around my neck.”
“What about Omar’s key?”
Jazz brightened. “Of course! I should have thought of that. Maybe he left it in his desk at school and someone took it!”
“Or maybe he got tricked into handing it over,” Milo said excitedly. “What if the thief went to Omar’s house and said you lost your key and had to borrow his?”
“I’ll call Omar now,” Jazz said.
While she dialed Omar’s number, Milo leafed through the pile of mail. There was an envelope addressed to him with DM in the upper left-hand corner.
“Hello?” Jazz said into the phone. “This is Jazz. May I speak to Omar?”
Milo fidgeted impatiently as Jazz waited for Omar to come to the phone. When he did, she told him what had happened and asked about his key.
Her face fell.
“Are you sure?” she said. “Oh . . . oh. Well, okay. . . . Yeah, I hope we find the money, too. Thanks, Omar.”
Hanging up, she turned to Milo. “Omar says the key is home with him. He’s had it the whole time.”
“He’s sure?” Milo said.
Jazz nodded. “He double-checked.” So much for that. Milo opened the lesson from Dash, and they bent over it together.
Make a Model
Even the best sleuths are rarely on the scene to see a crime take place. Figuring out what happened can be tricky, with criminals trying their best to keep you in the dark.
How to shed light on the situation? One way is to make a model (a small copy) that lets you reenact the crime and see how it could—or couldn’t—have been committed.
I used this strategy when the famous British racehorse Bob’s Your Uncle disappeared the day before the Royal Cup. Bob’s owner called me down to the police station. There, a weeping jockey, Dodgy Della, told us she had taken Bob out for a practice trot.
“I was about to ’op on the ’orse,” Della explained, “but the sun was in me eyes, so I stopped to put on me cap. That’s when ’e sneaked up on me from behind.”
“The horse?” I asked.
“The ’orsenapper!” she said.
“Oh, right,” I said.
Della went on dramatically, “A dark shadow fell over me. Before I could turn around to see ’oo it was, ’e clamped a funny-smelling rag over me face. When I came to, I was alone.” Della sniffled. “I miss the way ’e nuzzled me, so friendly-like.”
“The horsenapper?” I asked.
“The ’orse!”
“Oh, right,” I said.
After hearing Della’s story, I had a pretty good idea what had ’appened—I mean, happened. But I needed to make a model to be sure.
Using heavy paper and scissors, I quickly cut out two paper dolls, one for Della and one for the horsenapper. I placed Della facing a lamp, with the horsenapper behind her. Then I turned on the lamp.
Aha!
“Della said the sun was in her eyes.” I pointed at the l
amp. “She also said the horsenapper’s shadow fell over her as he sneaked up on her from behind.” I pointed at the paper dolls.
“But, as you can see, if he was facing the sun, the horsenapper’s shadow would fall behind him, not in front of him. So Della couldn’t have seen his shadow. In fact,” I announced, “there was no horsenapper. Della made the whole story up!”
Caught in her lie, Della confessed: a rival racehorse owner had paid her to hide Bob until after the Royal Cup.
I ’ope she’s ’appy in her prison cell.
Milo frowned. “We can’t use a model to catch our suspect in a lie,” he said. “We haven’t even got a suspect yet.”
“First, we need to figure out how money disappeared from a locked box,” Jazz said.
“Maybe the thief picked the lock?” Milo suggested. Thieves were always picking locks in the stories he read in Whodunnit magazine.
“It’s possible,” Jazz said doubtfully.
Milo wished they had the lock there to examine. But the principal had put the empty cashbox in his office till the trial. And the school was closed.
On the other hand . . .
He looked down at the new lesson. What would Dash do?
“Come on,” Milo said, standing up. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Jazz asked.
He smiled. “The place that has exactly what we need.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“The hardware store?” Jazz asked.
Milo stood proudly in front of the window full of paint supplies and power tools. “We’re going to make a model.”
“Of what?”
“The locked box.”
Jazz lifted an eyebrow. “What what? A hammer and a toilet seat?”
Milo laughed. “We’re going to buy a cashbox and a lock just like the real ones. If we can figure out how to break into it, we can prove you’re not the only one who could have taken the money.”
Jazz brightened. “Good idea!”
Inside, they found a metal cashbox exactly like the one at school. Milo spotted a display of locks nearby.
The Case of the Locked Box Page 1