Howard Wallace, P.I.: Shadow of a Pug

by Casey Lyall

  “Tragedies.” Ivy frowned. “What kind of sad memories haunt these hallowed halls?”

  I unfolded one of the papers. “Well, this story here is all about the only year we’ve ever lost the Grudge Game.”

  A vein began to twitch in Coach’s forehead.

  “Twenty years ago, it happened. A Grantleyville player accidentally passed to a Stoverton player, allowing them to score the winning points in the final seconds of the game.”

  “My goodness,” Ivy said. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Stop it,” Mr. Williams said. “We all know it was me. That game has hounded me my whole life. No one cares how well I played in high school and college. I’m always that guy who lost us the Grudge Game.”

  “You think winning this year is going to change any of that?” Ivy leaned forward in her chair.

  “It has to.” Mr. Williams slammed a hand down on his desk. “I’ve been willing—I’ve done everything for this team.” He pushed his chair back to pace his small square of carpet. “Needed money for better uniforms, I stole from other budgets. Bus broke down for our away game, I swiped one from another field trip. Grantleys want their kids to start, I give them first string.” Coach shook his head at that. “Most of them are awful, but if their parents donate enough, they’re starting.”

  “Sounds like a lot of effort,” I said. “Especially sacrificing other groups for your cause.”

  “Whatever it takes,” he said. “You think anyone actually cares about little Art Club bake sales? No. This town cares about sports. And they never forget.” Coach stared off into the distance. “I put blood, sweat, and tears into this team to make up for a two-second mistake. I need a win to change history.”

  The man was unhinged. I glanced at Ivy as Coach continued his rant unabated. She shrugged. No harm in letting him get it out of his system. I sat back until he started to wind down. “Mr. Williams, I—”

  “You bring me that dog by halftime,” he said, stabbing a finger in my direction, “or I’m turning you in for investigating on school property.”

  “For a job you hired us to do,” Ivy said, jumping out of her seat.

  “My word against yours,” Mr. Williams snarled. “No one else knows about this little situation. Mrs. Rodriguez thinks you’ve been following your special guidelines. She’ll be shocked to hear otherwise. Get me Spartacus, or we’re all going down together. Do you understand?”

  Ivy and I stood in stunned silence.

  “Understand?”

  We nodded and backed out of his office. Once we were out of sight, Ivy and I legged it down the hall. I paused for a breather when we reached the safety of the girls’ bathroom. Hands on my knees, panting, I looked over at Ivy. “Did you get it?”

  She pulled her phone out of her shirt pocket and tapped at the screen. The coach’s voice boomed out. “Understand?”

  Ivy grinned. “Every word.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ivy passed her phone off to Leyla and Carl to work their magic, and we grabbed Spartacus to get into position. The gym was filling up fast with people from Grantleyville and Stoverton, elbowing each other to get the best seats. Shades of green and gold butted up against scarlet red as people wore their school pride on their sleeves. Spartacus snuffled from inside my coat. “Hang on, buddy,” I said. “We’re almost done.

  We crept along the back wall and slid under the bleachers. The crowd had filled in enough to cover our position. I peeked through the feet. Players began warming up, filling the air with thuds and squeaks as they moved over the court.

  “Oh, no,” Ivy said.

  “What?”

  “I just realized something.” She turned to me, despair plain across her face. “We’re going to have to actually watch the game.”

  I knew this plan was terrible.

  “No more sports cases after this,” I said.

  “Agreed.”

  Spartacus puffed out a breath, and we hunkered down to wait out the rest of Operation Sportsball.

  Half an hour later, music was blaring, signaling the beginning of halftime. The score was tied and tensions were running high. Before anyone could leave, the side door to the gym banged open.

  “That’s our cue,” I said.

  Ivy and I walked to the end of the bleachers and took in the scene playing out on the court. Ellis Garcia was striding toward the center of the floor, megaphone in hand. The rest of the Arts Council was lined up behind her, and more kids continued to stream through the door.

  Every single kid. From every single arts club.

  One after the other they sat down on the floor. Ellis nodded to the stage at the end of the gymnasium. I saw the curtain rustle and then the music cut off.

  Leyla and Carl must be in place. Time for phase two.

  “We are the Grantleyville Student Arts Council,” Ellis shouted into her megaphone. “Today we are protesting the treatment we have received at the hands of Mr. Williams, the Parents’ Association, and the school administration.”

  The crowd began to buzz and stir in their seats.

  “Our programs have been cut and taken a backseat to the sports teams. We want our budget back. We want fair use of school space. We want—”

  “Get out of here!” someone shouted.

  “Yeah, simmer down!” Others started to join in. “Nobody cares.”

  Ellis faltered, then squared her shoulders. She looked back at her cohorts, nodding and raising a fist in the air. They began to chant as one. “Do your part, save the arts. Do your part, save the arts.”

  Boos came from all corners, drowning out their message. Mr. Williams stomped over to Ellis and took the megaphone out of her hand.

  “Alright, okay,” he said, frowning when nothing came out of the speaker. Ellis pointed out the On button and Mr. Williams grumbled, starting again. “Let’s settle down.”

  Leyla’s face popped out from behind the curtain on the stage, and I poked Ivy. She brandished a thumbs-up at Leyla, who disappeared again.

  “I know we’ve got some emotions running high,” Mr. Williams said to the crowd. Feedback interrupted him as the speakers came back to life.

  “I don’t care about Carl.” The coach’s voice blared through the room. “I care about getting Spartacus back.”

  “Who’s back there?” Mr. Williams shouted toward the stage. I grinned at Ivy. Looked like Carl had successfully managed to break into the AV room.

  “Needed money for better uniforms, I stole from other budgets. Bus broke down for our away game, I swiped one from another field trip. Grantleys want their kids to start, I give them first string.”

  Ellis grabbed the megaphone back. “Our money and our bus. Stolen from the Arts Council field trip.”

  “Most of them are awful, but if their parents donate enough, they’re starting.”

  Grantley players shook their heads, muttering to each other. Miles stood up and looked at his teammates. “Just like I said, guys.” He walked over to stand beside Ellis. Scotty and Oscar followed quickly in his wake along with a good chunk of the rest of the team. They sat as one with the rest of the kids on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Williams hollered at them.

  “You think anyone actually cares about little Art Club bake sales? No. This town cares about sports. And they never forget.”

  “Turn this off,” Mr. Williams screamed at the stage. The noise was rising and blasted up another notch when Jake rose from the bench on his side of the gym. He said a few words to his teammates and was met with some nods and a couple of frowns. Bending low, his face was serious as he kept talking. All of a sudden he turned and walked over to Oscar in the middle of the court. The rest of the Stoverton team followed, and they joined the sit-in on the floor.

  “I need a win to change history.”

  Parents from both towns were shouting at their kids.

  “This is going well.” We turned to see Leyla and Carl standing behind us. “Time for the finishing touch?” Leyla aske
d, handing Ivy back her phone.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “You can do the honors.” Leyla held out her phone to Carl, and he pressed the screen.

  “Get me Spartacus, or we’re all going down together. Do you understand?”

  Phones started beeping all over the gymnasium. “Exclusive from the Grantleyville Middle School blog,” Leyla whispered. “Corruption on the court – exposing a coach’s ulterior motives.”

  Ivy brought the post up on her phone, and we scrolled through it quickly. “Wow,” I said. “That was some fast work, Leyla.”

  “That’s how we do it in the newspaper biz.”

  Ivy looked out at the crowd poring over their phones. “How many people did this go out to?”

  “Everyone with a school email, the Parents’ Association, the School Board, local news outlets,” she said. Carl poked her, and she trailed off.

  I watched as they exchanged a look. “What?”

  “Also national news outlets.”

  “Leyla.”

  “What? This could be my big break! I’ll be a household name.” She ran a hand through the air. “Leyla Bashir, investigative reporter.”

  The volume from the gym was increasing as people read through Leyla’s article. She’d dragged everything out into the open. The cuts to the arts programs, the coach’s dirty dealings and past failures, the kidnapping of Spartacus, Carl’s innocence. It was all laid out with a few key names missing: Howard Wallace and Ivy Mason. After all, we weren’t supposed to be investigating on school grounds. Ivy and I thought it was best to let Leyla take the credit.

  Leyla agreed.

  “I want everyone to be quiet!” shouted Mrs. Rodriguez, standing in the middle of the gym, one hand on her hip, the other holding the megaphone. She spotted the group of us standing beside the bleachers and exhaled slowly. “Why am I not surprised?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  “I want—” Mr. Williams started.

  “You want to stay right there and shush,” Mrs. Rodriguez said to him. She faced the crowd. “The Grudge Game is always an exciting day, but I think this has raised the bar.”

  The room finally quieted down and she continued. “The information brought forth today is shocking and requires some serious discussion. Rest assured that action will be taken.” She put down the megaphone and spoke with Ellis for a few minutes. Ellis nodded solemnly and motioned to the kids on the floor.

  “What is this?” Mr. Williams paced in front of the benches. “Are you letting them get away with this? With that article? It’s straight libel!”

  A group of well-dressed adults walked over to him, and his face went gray.

  “That’s the school board,” Leyla said.

  We watched from our post as the board members walked Mr. Williams out of the gym. He spotted us and glared. I waved at him with Spartacus’s paw. Next came Mrs. Rodriguez and Ellis. “Leyla,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, “come for a chat.”

  “Freedom of the press,” Leyla blurted out.

  Mrs. Rodriguez sighed. “Ms. Bashir, it’s simply a chat.”

  Leyla fell into step beside Ellis, giving her a friendly hip bump. We watched as they headed out the door. Carl held out his hands, and I passed him Spartacus. “Go, team,” I said.

  He jogged over to the bench where the rest of the Gladiators were milling around. They shouted when they saw Carl with Spartacus in his arms. Soon the little dog was surrounded by pats and belly rubs.

  “Are we here to gawk, or are we gonna play some ball?” Ms. Kowalski stood by the bench, clutching a clipboard and wearing a whistle around her neck.

  “Um, Ms. Kowalski?” Oscar stepped over to her. “Should you be—”

  “Played all though school,” she barked. “Coach three rec league teams. Think I can handle it.” She blew a fierce note out on the whistle. “Come on. We’ve got a game to win.”

  Miles spotted us lingering, and he jogged over. “You going to stay and watch?”

  Ivy and I looked at each other, weighing the options.

  “Come on,” Miles said. “You’ve got to see Operation Sportsball to the end.”

  My partner gasped. “I knew it would catch on.”

  “I guess we can stay,” I said, “for a bit.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Ivy and I sat in the garage office, relaxing in the aftermath of a job well done. My partner scrolled through her phone. “Three more outlets have picked up Leyla’s story,” she said.

  “She’s going to be unbearable now,” I said.

  “She’s earned it.” Ivy grinned. “We couldn’t have pulled it off without her—or Carl.”

  “What else does it say in there?” I nodded at her phone.

  “Mr. Williams is under review. Suspended until further notice.”

  “Good.” We’d heard from Marvin that Carl was back on the team. He said we were officially square now. Ellis, Ashi, Scotty, and the rest of the Arts Council were serving detention for their role in the dognapping, but they didn’t mind. The clubs were finally getting their field trip. Even better, after a number of editorials discussing the need for arts in schools, the Parents’ Association was spearheading new fundraising efforts for their programs. We’d survived watching a whole basketball game and, oddly enough, the Grudge Game had ended in a tie. After the dramatic events of the day, battling it out in overtime didn’t sit right. Both teams were happy to walk away on a handshake. Until next year anyway.

  All in all, a job well done.

  I looked over at Ivy, hanging out in the stinky, comfy chair, patting Blue’s handlebars. “Good work, partner.”

  She grinned at me. “You, too.”

  “Things got kind of hairy for a while there,” I said, nodding at her bag leaning up against the chair. “We never finished talking about that.”

  Ivy pulled her bag up off the floor and fished out the rumpled white envelope. “I don’t know what else to say about it,” she said, worrying one corner after another. “And I definitely don’t know what to do.”

  “I have an idea,” I said. Walking over to the filing cabinet, I opened the top drawer where we kept our open cases. “File it.”

  “What?”

  “File it,” I said. “We’ll deal with it when you’re ready.”

  Ivy hopped up and peered into the drawer. “M for Mason?”

  “Why start worrying about proper alphabetizing now?”

  “Good point,” she said. “P for Pending Parental Problems.” She stuffed the envelope in the drawer and slid it shut. Ivy sighed and looked at me. “Thanks, Howard.”

  I reached out to pat her shoulder and she grabbed me, pulling me in for a hug. “We’re partners, Ivy. That’s what we do.” What I should have been doing all along. I squeezed her back.

  The garage shook as someone banged on the door. “Alright, relax,” I shouted, “I’m coming.” I opened the door to see not only the last person I expected, but five others.

  “Hi,” said Miles.

  “We’re going to the bakery,” said Ellis.

  “To celebrate the fact that I’m famous,” Leyla said, grinning. Carl nodded.

  “You guys should come,” Scotty added, and Ashi popped out from behind him. “Please?”

  Ivy stood beside me in the doorway. She stayed quiet, leaving the decision up to me. My chest tightened as I stared at the crew before us. Staying in would be easy. Ivy looked at me and smiled a little. Going out would be interesting.

  “Will there be hot chocolate?”

  “It’s Mrs. Hernandez,” Ellis said. “There’ll be at least six kinds.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, slapping on my hat and tossing my partner hers. Locking the door behind us, Ivy and I stepped out to join the group. As we made our way down to the sidewalk Leyla started talking about her Pulitzer acceptance speech while Ashi listened with wide eyes. Ellis and Ivy were chatting about the upcoming musical, and Carl and Scotty discussed new plays for the team.

  Miles fell into step beside me. “This is kind
of weird,” he said. I murmured in agreement. “But not bad weird?” He searched my face, trying to gauge a reply before I answered.

  “No,” I said, watching everyone laugh and talk. “Not bad weird.”

  “Where’d you get that hat?” He tipped a finger at his own forehead.

  “This?’ Ivy swung back to sling an arm over my shoulder. She tapped at the brim of her own hat. “This you gotta earn.”

  “Fair enough,” Miles said, hiding his smile. He caught up with Carl and Scotty to talk more shop.

  I looked at my partner. “Don’t say it. Don’t even say it.”

  “Bigger sticky notes, friend,” she said, looking out at the crowd in front of us. “We’re going to need bigger sticky notes.”

  Acknowledgments

  To Molly Ker Hawn, thank you for continuing to be the most amazing agent in the world. I am eternally grateful for your hard work and well-timed jokes.

  To Christina Pulles, editor extraordinaire, thank you for always asking the right questions. You helped turn these words into the story I hoped it could be.

  Thank you to the amazing Sterling family: Hanna Otero, Theresa Thompson, Scott Amerman, Brian Phair, Terence Campo, Heather Kelly, Irene Vandervoort, Sari Lampert Murray, Ardi Alspach, Chris Vaccari, Maha Khalil, and the rest of the fantastic sales team.

  To Larissa Gaudet and the Canadian Manda Group, thank you for being an awesome North-side squad.

  Thank you to Brian and Winnie Gare for providing me with a much-needed writing sanctuary.

  I’m so honored to benefit from the magical critique partner stylings of Naomi Hughes, Kendra Young, Wendy Parris, Laura Shovan, Margaret Dilloway, and Karina Glaser. Thank you, friends!

  Thank you to the fantastic Sweet Sixteens and Kick-Butt Kidlit for all the cheers and group hugs.

  To Jean Moir and my friends and coworkers at the Middlesex County Library, thank you for all of your wonderful support and for giving me the time to make this book a reality.

  Thank you to all of my friends and family who have showered me in enthusiasm and encouragement. Especially my sisters, Jordan and Aidan, who are the best at late night chats and cheers.