Mystery in the Mansion

by Lauren Magaziner

  “So you stopped being friends? Just like that?” Eliza says. “Over an award?”

  “That was just the first straw. Later she turned my daughter, Ivy, against me. When Ivy was marrying that . . . that man. Patty was the one who convinced Ivy to run away from home to marry Walter. When Ivy ran away, it broke my poor husband’s heart, and he died soon after. Patty tore my family apart!”

  “That’s terrible,” I say, patting Guinevere’s hand.

  “Not only that! For years Patty has said she wanted to get revenge on me.”

  I scratch my head. “Revenge? For what?”

  “She is pure evil,” Guinevere says, avoiding the question. “You must talk to Patty! Right now! Go see her. And make sure you get her to confess. I know it was her.”

  Eliza grabs Frank by the hand. We all stand up. “Don’t worry, Mrs. LeCavalier,” I say. “We’ll go investigate. She lives in the house across the street that looks like yours, right?”

  “Absolutely not!” Guinevere huffs. “My house is special. My husband built secret passageways and rooms that can only be entered if you solve a puzzle!”

  The thought of puzzles—especially any that might have to do with math—makes me a little squirmy, but Eliza puffs out her chest.

  “No puzzle is too hard for us,” she says.

  And we all march out of the room.

  In the hallway, Eliza smiles with teeth, which is rare for her. “How exciting! A real mystery!”

  “Can we go now?” Frank complains.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “To Patty’s house.”

  We leave Guinevere’s place and head toward Patty’s house. Across the way, Patty’s home is big and beautiful—just like all the mansions in this fancypants neighborhood—with enormous columns and Yorkie-shaped hedges. I wonder if that person in the window is still watching us. . . .

  “I already told you kids! Feet off the grass!” says a voice from up above.

  Otto is in a big tree that’s on the border of Guinevere’s lawn.

  “What are you doing up there?” I shout at him.

  “Clipping branches. I don’t want them to shake loose during a storm.”

  I almost snort out loud. What storm? Doesn’t he realize it’s the middle of a dry, hot summer?

  “Take the driveway!” Otto says. Then he turns back to his work.

  I roll my eyes. I trample grass all the time when I play baseball. But I don’t want to be yelled at again, so we move over to the driveway, and it takes us two minutes to walk up to Patty’s polished wood door.

  When we ring the doorbell, the door flings right open. There’s no butler. There is only a short woman with poufy hair, thin lips, and horribly messy makeup. Her makeup is smudged all over her face and makes her look like a sad clown.

  I wonder if this woman is the same person who was watching us this morning from the window.

  “Are you Patty Schnozzleton?” I ask.

  The woman nods. “Who are you?” She has a weird accent. She says her As all funny.

  “We’re detectives,” Eliza says. “We’re trying to figure out who’s been sending Guinevere LeCavalier threats.”

  “She thinks I did it?” Patty demands. “Well, I didn’t do it, but I wish I did. That old bat has had it coming to her for years.”

  “Can we come in and ask you a few questions?” I say.

  Patty leads us inside. Her house is kind of like Guinevere’s house, only her walls have a very weird collection of self-portraits. It looks like there are a hundred Patty Schnozzletons, just staring at me. CREEPY.

  And it smells horrible. Like wet dog. Probably because there are five tiny, yipping dogs running around Patty’s feet. Mom refuses to get a dog because she doesn’t want our house to smell. I always fought her on it, but after taking a whiff of Patty’s place . . . Mom might be right.

  We reach Patty’s living room, where the couch—still inside its plastic cover—sits next to a dusty fireplace. The walls feature many more paintings of Patty and her dogs. Weird.

  I sit down on the couch, and it sticks uncomfortably to my legs—and boy, it’s painful when I try to peel myself off. Frank wriggles around, and I think he’s having the same problem.

  “So what do you want to know?” Patty says, picking up one of her dogs. It starts licking Patty’s face: her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. Then it licks her lips, and Patty opens her mouth to receive a sloppy dog kiss. Gross! I bet her breath smells like dog drool. “I’ll tell you everything. I have nothing to hide.”

  We’ll see about that.

  “What do you know about Guinevere LeCavalier’s treasure?”

  “Treasure? What treasure?”

  “The secret one!” Frank says. “IT’S A SECRET!”

  Her eyebrows come together in the middle of her forehead. “Secret treasure? You’re joking, right?”

  Hmmm. She could be lying. But if she is telling the truth—and she really doesn’t know about the treasure—then there’s no possible way she could be our culprit. But Guinevere is convinced Patty is guilty. . . .

  Suddenly Frank sinks down to the floor and makes carpet angels in Patty’s rug. Then a dog licks his face, and he giggles.

  I clear my throat and try to talk over the sound of Frank’s chortles. “Tell us about your fight with Mrs. LeCavalier.”

  Patty’s nostrils flare; she looks like an angry lizard. “A long time ago, Guinevere and I were part of the same club, and we had to plan a benefit ball for unextincting and repopulating dodo birds together. But I did all the work, while Guinevere just laid there on a chair and had Smythe fan her with a giant leaf. In the end, I got awarded for my efforts, and Guinevere got jealous. She gossiped about me to everyone. She said awful, nasty things about me and got all of our friends to stop talking to me.”

  One of Patty’s dogs rubs its face on her ankle, and she pats the top of its head. “I got these dogs to keep from getting too lonely in my big house.”

  “So you want revenge on Guinevere,” I say, “because you’re lonely?”

  “Wouldn’t you want revenge for that?” Patty shouts. “The woman stole my friends from me! She said horrible things about me behind my back! She said I didn’t deserve my award. She poisoned people against me. She embarrassed me. She hurt me. I just want to see her suffer a little . . . is that so bad?”

  “Yes,” Eliza says, and I stomp on her toes. We can’t say that! Detectives are supposed to be nonjudgmental. Even though it is weird how obsessed Patty is with getting revenge on Guinevere.

  Wait a second! The spying this morning . . .

  We thought Patty was snooping on us, but she doesn’t care about us. Her binoculars were pointed straight at Guinevere’s house, behind us! She was looking for an opportunity to get revenge.

  “So, let’s talk about how you’ve been spying on Guinevere,” I say.

  Patty turns pale beneath her layer of thick makeup. “I didn’t realize you saw that,” she says, squirming awkwardly. “Look, I just watch her house sometimes to see if there’s an opening.”

  Eliza pops up off the couch, clearly excited. “An opening! To go get your revenge? So you sent her those death threats?”

  “Of course not!” Patty snaps. “I want to see her humiliated and upset, not dead! Dead would take all the fun out of revenge.”

  * * *

  TO ASK PATTY IF SHE KNOWS WHO MIGHT HAVE A PROBLEM WITH GUINEVERE, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK PATTY MORE ABOUT HER REVENGE PLAN, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “QUICK!” I HISS. “In a laundry basket!”

  We jump into separate laundry baskets and cover ourselves with clothes. Except . . . I think my laundry basket is full of dirty clothes, because it smells like an old armpit.

  But no more than a second after I’m covered, Patty enters the room.

  “It’s this very afternoon,” Patty says. There’s a pause. “Yes, casual wear is fine. Remember, don’t spoil the surprise.”

  And then I realize . . . she’s on the pho
ne.

  Through a set of pajamas, I can see the shape of Patty Schnozzleton walking toward Frank’s basket and lifting it up, while pinning the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

  “Oooooof!” she grunts. “This is heavy. Hold on, Marge. I’ll call you right back.” She puts the basket down and leans out the door. “Maddock-moo-moo? Can you help me carry a basket up from the laundry room? We had more clothes than I thought!”

  My heart pounds as Maddock stomps into the laundry room.

  “Take the blue basket? Thank you, snookums,” Patty Schnozzleton says, and it sounds like she smooches him.

  BLECH!

  Maddock comes over and picks up the basket with Eliza in it.

  “Ugh!” he says. “What did you wash, a bowling ball?”

  Patty picks up the white basket again—the one with Frank in it.

  And they both leave the laundry room.

  As soon as they go, I burst out of the dirty clothes pile and try not to panic. Eliza and Frank are headed upstairs with two potential criminals, who are probably going to find them the very second they start folding clothes. If not sooner. What should I do?

  The only thing I know is that I can’t leave them alone.

  I creep down the hall, through Patty’s messy kitchen, past a passageway covered with a hundred pictures of Patty and her dogs, up the wooden stairs, and—

  “YOU!” Maddock shouts, pointing at me. He’s standing across the upstairs landing, in front of double doors to what looks like a bedroom suite. “What are you doing here?!”

  Patty pokes her head out of the room. “What are you doing in my house?”

  Oh, shoot! Caught!

  * * *

  TO TALK TO PATTY AND MADDOCK, CLICK HERE.

  TO RUN FROM PATTY AND MADDOCK, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I HATE TO admit it, but I’m in over my head. I need help.

  I inhale deeply and scream, “HELLLLLPPPPPPP!!!!”

  “HELLLLLLP!!!!!” Eliza shouts.

  “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” Frank hollers.

  Suddenly, the bookshelf door that leads back into Mr. LeCavalier’s fake study starts to move, and I could cry with relief. Someone is opening the bookcase and coming to help!

  Crrrreeeaaaaaaaak.

  The bookshelf swings open, and we are staring face-to-face with Otto.

  My heart starts pounding.

  “HELP HELP HELP!” Frank screams.

  But Otto just grins. “No one is coming to help y—”

  Thunk!

  A book comes slamming down on top of Otto’s head, and he collapses in a heap.

  And standing behind Otto, with a book in his hand . . . is Smythe. “I thought I heard you screaming.”

  I don’t even know what to say—I never thought Smythe would save our butts!

  “Th-thank you,” Eliza says, her mouth open wide.

  “It was my voice Smythe heard,” Frank boasts. “Why don’t you thank me, too?”

  “Thanks, Frank,” Eliza and I say with shaky laughs.

  Otto is crumpled over on the floor. “He’s not . . . dead, is he?”

  For the first time ever, Smythe smiles. “I’m strong, but I’m not that strong.” He bends down, picks up Otto, and tosses him over his shoulder like a doll. “Come on,” Smythe says, ushering us out of the secret study. “Let’s have some snacks while we wait for the police. And, of course, the missus and miss can return from the hotel, now that the house is safe.”

  “One more thing,” I say with a wince. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but it’s finally time. “You need to call my mom, too.”

  An hour later, things are chaotic at Guinevere LeCavalier’s house.

  First, the police come over to arrest Otto, who is still unconscious. And, since we didn’t have any handcuffs or rope, Otto is wrapped up in a whole bunch of cellophane, thanks to Smythe’s quick thinking. It takes six officers to lift him up and carry him out, still wrapped up like a present for the nearest prison. The only thing missing was the bow!

  Then, as two officers are taking our statements, Guinevere LeCavalier and Ivy return home from the hotel, both looking happy as clams. (Which is something my mom says, but I still don’t understand because it doesn’t seem like clams have emotions.)

  And no more than a minute later, a bundle of blankets bursts into the room.

  “A monster!” Frank shouts, pointing at the blankets.

  “No, a momster,” I reply.

  From underneath the pile of blankets, my mom emerges, looking dazed and sick and worried and angry all at the same time.

  I gulp, and Eliza winces.

  “CARWOS!” Mom says, snot dripping out of her nose. “EWIZA! FWANK!”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” says Guinevere. “Sit down, and have some tea.”

  Guinevere guides my mom into a seat and pours her some tea. Poor Mom—she’s too sick to even notice that Guinevere filled her teacup halfway up with jelly beans.

  We finish telling our statement to the cops, and then when they leave, we start the story over again with Guinevere, Ivy, Smythe, and Mom. Eliza, Frank, and I take turns sharing everything we know about Otto—I mean, Preston LeCavalier. His story is heartbreaking, sure. But there’s no excuse for sending death threats to anyone, no matter what they’ve done.

  As we end our story of the investigation, Guinevere LeCavalier pulls out her checkbook.

  “So, from what I understand,” she says, “you children aren’t actually the detectives on this case at all? And you lied to me?”

  “Yes,” I say, hanging my head in shame. “But we did it for my mom! To save her agency!”

  Guinevere hmms. “Because you lied, I’m going to have to rethink your payment.”

  “WHAT!” Eliza, Frank, and I all shout.

  But Guinevere LeCavalier flashes a toothy smile, and she hands a check to Mom. Mom takes one look at it and faints straight into her tea.

  “Oh dear!” Guinevere yelps. “She’s taken ill again. Smythe! Fetch the smelling salts!”

  Smythe gets up from the table and rummages around in the other room.

  Guinevere reaches forward and pats my hand. “Well, when your mother comes to again, you can tell her that her agency is saved . . . all because of you three.”

  Eliza bursts into happy tears, and she and I high-five. Frank gets up out of his chair and whoops as he runs laps around the table. And me? I can’t stop smiling!

  “Don’t tell your mother,” Guinevere continues in a hushed voice, “but if ever I need a detective again, I know which three I’m going to call.”

  “Then we’ll be waiting by the phone,” I say with a grin.

  CASE CLOSED.

  I UNPLUG WIRE B. The next thing I know, I’m so dizzy and tired I can barely see, and—smack. I fall off the desk. My cheek rubs up against the rough carpet, and that’s the last thing I remember. . . .

  With a start, I wake up on a deserted island. And I mean completely deserted. It’s just me, Eliza, Frank, two coconuts, a pelican, and a palm tree. And there in the ocean—zooming away from us on a speedboat—is Otto, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and holding a treasure chest.

  “Help!!!!!!!” I cry.

  “Come back!!!!!!!!!” Eliza wails.

  “SURF’S UP!!!!!!” Frank calls.

  Otto turns back around to face us on his speedboat, but he’s still so far away. “Couldn’t have done it without you! Thanks!” he says before he zips away again. And then he’s gone.

  Frank, Eliza, and I spend a month on the island, training dolphins to fetch us food. After we win the dolphins’ trust, we hitch a ride back to the mainland on three of them. But by the time we get back home, we’re months too late to save my mom’s agency . . . and worst of all, we let the bad guy get away with the treasure.

  CASE CLOSED.

  ELIZA PICKS UP a letter and lays it by the dripping candle. The light flickers softly, and I peer over to get a look at the loopy cursive handwriting.

  Eliza bends over
the letter and reads it out loud.

  Dear Father,

  This is the last letter I’ll be sending. I have nothing more to say to you, except this: you are no father to me.

  When we meet again, you’ll be sorry.

  Preston

  “Yikes,” I say. “That’s very threatening.”

  Eliza’s gray eyes widen. “Yes, it is,” she says.

  I forgot . . . or I guess it didn’t seem like an actual clue . . . but Guinevere did mention that Mr. LeCavalier’s son from his first marriage had sent threatening letters years ago. Is it possible that history is happening again?

  “Read another,” I tell her.

  Dear Father,

  I don’t understand why we had to leave. Mom says you fell out of love with her. But did you fall out of love with me too? Why won’t you contact me? Is that Guinevere woman forbidding you? Did I do something wrong? Don’t you love me anymore?

  Forever and always,

  Your faithful son,

  Preston LeCavalier

  I feel a twinge of pity for poor Preston. I just couldn’t even imagine Mom cutting me off like that.

  Eliza hums as she skims more letters. “They’re all like this,” she says. “Very sad.”

  I take the first letter and look at it. The handwriting looks so familiar. Where have I seen loopy cursive like this before?

  Eliza pulls out the first clues we ever got from Guinevere LeCavalier. There’s a copy of the first death threat she got: the letter written in magazine clippings. And there’s a photograph of the second death threat: a picture of the library with toppled shelves and a message in red paint on the wall.

  Red paint written in LOOPY. CURSIVE. HANDWRITING.