Case of the Graveyard Ghost

by Michele Torrey

  To my Grandmother June, who giggles at silly things still

  Also to Heather and Judy—four cheers for soup,

  coffee, laughter, and red ink

  My thanks to Professor Dave Wall,

  Department of Physics, City College of San Francisco,

  for his help with “Pepper's Ghost.”

  M. T.

  For my three sons, David, Mike, and Ben—you love,

  you inspire, and you keep me on my toes!

  B. J. N.

  STERLING and the distinctive Sterling logo are registered

  trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  09/09

  Published by Sterling Publishing Co.,Inc.

  387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016

  Text © 2002, 2009 by Michele Torrey

  Illustrations © 2002, 2009 Barbara Johansen Newman

  All rights reserved

  Sterling ISBN 978-1-4027-4963-6

  Sterling eBook ISBN: 978-1-4549-0400-7

  For information about custom editions, special sales, premium and

  corporate purchases, please contact Sterling Special Sales Department

  at 800-805-5489 or specialsales@sterlingpublishing.com.

  One • A Noisy Cupboard

  Two • Blast Off!

  Three • An Irregular Situation

  Four • A Dirty Deed

  Five • A Blustery Night

  Six • The Ghost of Mossy Lake

  Seven • Show Time

  Eight • Something Foul

  Nine • Plan A

  Activities and Experiments for Super-Scientists

  From the sidewalk, the attic looked like any other attic. It had cute little windows with yellow curtains and a soft light glowing from behind. But everyone in the small town of Mossy Lake knew this was no ordinary attic. No, indeed.

  It was a laboratory.

  A top-notch laboratory at that.

  Inside was top-notch equipment, and a top-notch scientist as well. His name was Drake Doyle. He looked quite scientific with his lab coat and his glasses that always slid to the end of his nose. And if that wasn’t enough, his cinnamon-colored hair looked as if it had actually exploded once, or twice, or perhaps three times. (In fact, Drake’s hair looked rather like a science experiment itself.)

  On this fine Saturday, Drake squeezed a drop of liquid into a swirling solution.

  “Aha!” he declared as the bright pink solution suddenly turned clear.

  He scribbled in his lab notebook.

  One more drop.

  Solution neutralized.

  Analysis complete.

  But before he could even slap his notebook shut, the phone rang. “Doyle and Fossey,” he answered, removing his safety goggles and shoving his pencil behind his ear.

  Now, in case you didn’t know, Nell Fossey was Drake’s science and business partner. (And his best friend.) They did most everything together, especially when it came to solving their many cases. Their business cards read:

  They were a good team. A fabulous team. A top-notch team. The best scientific team in the entire fifth grade.

  “I demand to speak with Drake Doyle at once,” snapped the caller, whose voice sounded strangely muffled.

  “Speaking,” replied Drake.

  “Well, it’s about time. I don’t have all day, you know.”

  Drake blinked with surprise. The caller was quite rude. But, no matter. For besides being an amateur scientist and detective genius, Drake Doyle was a professional. And professionals never lose their cool. Even if their clients are rude. Quite rude. “And who, may I ask, is calling?” Drake inquired, in his most polite and professional voice.

  “It’s Sloane Westcott. Who else, beaker brain?”

  Drake should have known it was Sloane. Everyone agreed that if there was an award for rudeness, Sloane Westcott would be the winner. Hands down. She was the most impolite student in the fifth grade. She never said “please,” and she most certainly never said “thank you,” or “nice day, isn’t it?” But, business was business, and a professional must be a professional. So Drake asked, “What seems to be the problem, Ms. Westcott?”

  “Listen, you little lab rat, let me make one thing perfectly clear. Frisco was my first choice—”

  “Hmm. I see,” said Drake.

  Now, as luck would have it, James Frisco was in Drake and Nell’s class at school. Like them, he was a scientist. But he was a bad scientist. Actually, a mad scientist. While Drake always followed instructions, Frisco tore up instructions, or lost them, or accidentally-on-purpose set them on fire. While Drake measured carefully, Frisco didn’t even own a measuring cup, or a measuring spoon, and often closed his eyes while pouring something out of a bottle.

  Frisco’s business cards read:

  Now, normally when someone threatened to hire Frisco, Drake did everything he could to talk them out of such foolishness. But, on this particular day, with this particular client, Drake merely said, “Hmm. I see,” while trying to sound terribly disappointed. “Very well, then, it’s been a pleasure talking with you—”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up! Uh—what I mean is, Frisco’s out of town and, well—uh, I have a slight situation. . . .”

  After listening for a minute or two, Drake politely said good-bye and hung up, resisting the urge to laugh. (Laughing at customers is definitely unscientific.) Instead he called Nell. “Scientist Nell, meet me at Sloane Westcott’s house. Five minutes and counting. Sloane’s in a tight spot and requires our assistance immediately.”

  “Check.”

  Click.

  When Drake arrived at Sloane’s house, Nell was already waiting by the front door. (She was the fastest runner in the fifth grade, so Drake was used to being the last to arrive. Not to mention that he tripped once on his way over . . . well, maybe twice.) With her coffee-colored hair in a ponytail, and a pencil behind each ear, Nell looked ready for business. Important business. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” observed Nell as she peered through the keyhole. “The house is dark and the curtains are drawn.”

  “Trust me,” replied Drake, and he opened the front door and walked in.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” asked Nell. “To just walk in without knocking?”

  Drake flicked on his flashlight and pushed up his glasses. “Trust me,” he said again. And up the stairs he went. (He tripped only once.)

  In the second bedroom on the right, he found what he was looking for. “Aha!”

  “What?”

  “Observe, Scientist Nell.” And he aimed his flashlight at a cupboard in the wall.

  Now, Nell was a sharp scientist. A genius scientist, to be more accurate. She noticed immediately that this cupboard was not like most cupboards. First of all, the cupboard doors lay flat against the wall, like a medicine cabinet. Second, the cupboard was making strange noises. That’s right. It was a noisy cupboard. Squeals and yelps could be faintly heard from inside. Inside the wall , to be precise. “Hmm,” she mused.

  While Nell stood there musing, Drake went to work. He pushed up his sleeves. He adjusted his glasses. He cleared his throat. He waved his flashlight around. He opened the little doors.

  And together they peered into the cupboard.

  Actually, they didn’t peer into the cupboard.

  They peered down the cupboard. Because it was not really a cupboard at all. It was a laundry chute. The chute went all the way from the bedroom to the laundry room, two stories below.

  Down, down, down it went. And halfway down, they saw something strange.

  It was a pair of tennis shoes. Perhaps
a pair of tennis shoes wouldn’t be too strange a thing to find in a laundry chute, except that attached to these tennis shoes was a pair of legs.

  “Sloane?” Drake hollered down the chute, his voice echoing. “Sloane? Is that you?”

  “Who else would it be?” a voice screeched. “The mayor? Or maybe the president of the United

  States? Yeah. That’s right. The president. I’m going to give a speech to my dirty underwear.”

  Drake closed the cupboard doors and looked at Nell. “It’s her, all right.”

  “How did she call you if she’s stuck in the laundry chute?” asked Nell.

  “That’s just it,” explained Drake. “She was cleaning her room and accidentally threw her cell phone down the chute along with some dirty clothes. When she lunged after the phone, she fell in. The good news is, she caught her cell phone. The bad news is, she’s been stuck upside down ever since her mom went to work this afternoon.”

  “Why didn’t Sloane call 911?”

  “She told me she’d be grounded and lose her allowance,” answered Drake. (He decided not to mention that Sloane had also told him to stop asking her so many questions, and that she had called him a pencil-pocket, geek-breath scientist with a brain no bigger than an atom.)

  “So, what’s the plan?” asked Nell.

  Drake scratched his head, baffled. “We must return to the lab for analysis.”

  “Check.”

  Wanting to avoid further insults, they hurried to the lab before giving Sloane a quick phone call to tell her they had left. “Uh, you call her,” said Drake, handing the phone to Nell.

  She dialed the number. As soon as Sloane answered, Nell said as fast as she could, “We’ll-be-back-in-half-an-hour-bye,” and hung up. “Okay,” she said to Drake, “down to business.”

  Drake pulled a book off the shelf. Together they thumbed through to find the right section: “Laundry Chute Extraction: What to Do When Someone Is Stuck, and They’re Being Quite Rude.” Nell read the section aloud, and Drake took notes.

  A little later, Drake’s mom opened the attic door and peeked in. “Hot chocolate, anyone? Juice? Muffins?” Whenever Kate Doyle offered muffins, it was best to say yes, because her muffins were delicious. In fact, Mrs. Doyle owned a catering company and was a fine person to have nearby, especially if you became hungry or thirsty.

  “Muffins, if you please,” said Drake politely.

  “Affirmative,” replied Mrs. Doyle.

  “Coffee,” said Nell. “Decaf. Black.” (Real scientists don’t drink hot chocolate. They prefer coffee. Decaf. Black.)

  “Check,” said Mrs. Doyle, returning just fifteen and a half seconds later with their order. (She must have known they were in the middle of a laundry-chute-extraction emergency, and had the muffins and coffee standing by, ready to go.)

  Nell took a sip of coffee and then phoned her mother. “Won’t be home until later,” Nell told her. “Much later. Laundry-chute-extraction emergency, you know.”

  Nell wasn’t a bit surprised when Professor Fossey replied, “I understand, my dear. Do what you think is best.”

  You see, Nell was a lucky scientist because her mother was also a scientist. Ann Fossey taught wildlife biology at Mossy Lake University. So she understood perfectly about scientific emergencies and not being home until later.

  Twenty minutes after that, Drake and Nell stood outside on the sidewalk, ready. Their bikes were loaded with the necessary supplies.

  Just then, Drake’s dad, Sam Doyle, drove into the driveway. Like Mrs. Doyle, Mr. Doyle was pretty handy to have around. He was great for giving rides and good conversation. Not only that, but he owned his own company, too: Doyle’s Science Equipment and Supply Company. He provided everything Drake and Nell needed for a well-equipped lab: pencils, test tubes, computers, glassware, and, of course, lab coats with their names on them. “Going somewhere?” asked Mr. Doyle.

  “We’re on a case,” said Drake and Nell together.

  “Need a ride?”

  “Thanks just the same, Mr. Doyle, but we’ve got it covered,” Nell replied.

  Then Mr. Doyle took a long look at the items on their bikes and said, “Whatever you do, don’t blow up anything.”

  Drake and Nell looked at each other, because, you see, that’s exactly what they planned to do! (All in the name of science, of course.)

  “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Doyle,” said Nell quickly, “but our client is waiting.”

  “Bye, Dad!” called Drake over his shoulder. And off they went, riding like the wind.

  When they arrived at Sloane’s house, they immediately got to work.

  Drake lugged all the supplies upstairs to Sloane’s room while Nell went down the dusty basement steps to prepare the laundry room. Nell gathered the dirty clothes into a huge pile. She added a bunch of pillows and sofa cushions just to be on the safe side.

  Meanwhile, Sloane’s voice blasted through the laundry chute. “What’s going on out there? I demand you tell me! If you don’t get me out of here in two seconds, I’m calling my lawyer!” Pause . . . “Okay, that’s it! I’ve had it with you people! I’m dialing!”

  BEEP! beep! boop! boop! bop! beep! BUP!

  “Did you hear that?” Sloane screeched. “Huh? Did you hear that? I dialed! And it’s ringing!”

  Their preparations completed, Drake and Nell stood together next to the laundry chute in Sloane’s room. “Ready?” Drake asked.

  Nell nodded. “All set in the laundry room. The pile is eight feet high, with a diameter of twelve feet.”

  “Good work, Scientist Nell. Let us begin.”

  “Agreed, Detective Doyle. Before she sues our socks off.”

  “Check,” replied Drake. First, he poured five boxes of baking soda he’d found in his mom’s kitchen pantry down the laundry chute.

  “Hey!” screamed Sloane. “I felt that!”

  Drake hollered down the chute. “Ahoy down there! Squeezing your eyes shut is highly recommended!”

  And while Sloane told Drake what he could do with his high recommendations, Drake held a large bucket full of vinegar over the opening. “As soon as I finish pouring it in,” he said to Nell, “you slam the cupboard doors shut.”

  “Roger that.”

  Drake poured the vinegar down the chute.

  “Hey!” shrieked Sloane. “You’re getting me all wet!”

  “Now!” cried Drake.

  “Check!” exclaimed Nell.

  Slam!

  Then they raced down two flights of stairs to the laundry room. And then, from inside the chute came a moan . . .

  “Just try to relax, Ms. Westcott!” cried Drake. “This won’t hurt a bit!”

  . . . and a groan . . .

  “Prepare for blastoff!” he hollered. “Ten, nine, eight—”

  . . . and a mumble . . .

  “Seven, six—”

  . . . and a rumble . . .

  “Five, four—”

  . . . plus a grumble . . .

  “Three, two, one—”

  Then the house heaved like a hiccup!

  “Blast off!” screamed Nell.

  . . . suddenly, in an explosion of bubbles and fizz, out flew Sloane!

  Whoosh! Fizzle!

  “AAAaaaaa!”

  Zoom! Plop! Splat! Sloane landed headfirst in the enormous pile of clothes. Dirty laundry flew everywhere.

  “Incredible!” exclaimed Drake.

  “Remarkable!” cried Nell.

  It was quite spectacular, really. Better than the Fourth of July. Both Drake and Nell enjoyed it thoroughly.

  When Sloane could finally speak, she moaned, “Ohhhhh. Am I alive?”

  “Quite so,” replied Drake.

  “What—what day is it? Who am I? Where are we? What happened? What’s two plus two?”

  “Allow my partner to explain,” said Drake, tossing Sloane a clean towel. “Ms. Fossey?”

  Nell cleared her throat and paced the laundry room. “After we observed that you were stuck in the lau
ndry chute, we knew we needed something to blast you out of there.”

  “Quite so,” added Drake.

  “By adding baking soda—” continued Nell.

  “—and vinegar—” said Drake.

  “—we caused a strong chemical reaction. We no longer had baking soda and vinegar—”

  “Indeed no,” added Drake.

  “Instead we created an entirely new substance.” Nell stopped pacing and looked quite serious, as good scientists often do. “The baking soda and vinegar reacted to form carbon-dioxide gas. The pressure of the gas was so great—”

  “—that it blew you completely out of the laundry chute,” finished Drake.

  “Oooh,” moaned Sloane, holding her head. “Thanks . . . I think.”

  Nell climbed the mountain of laundry. She handed her business card to Sloane. “Take a shower. Then go straight to bed. Call us first thing in the morning.”

  That evening, back at the lab, Drake wrote in his lab notebook:

  Laundry chute extraction complete.

  Sloane friendly for first time.

  (A scientific phenomenon to be

  studied further.)

  Received one month of free

  cellular phone service.

  Paid in full.

  It was a gray, gloomy, damp Saturday morning, the perfect sort of weather for testing the sogginess of breakfast cereals. Drake took a bite of sample #27. He chewed this way and that way, and then swallowed just so.

  “Hmm,” he mused. Taking a pencil out from behind his ear, he recorded his conclusions in his lab notebook.

  SAMPLE #27: Not terribly soggy,

  but certainly not highly crunchy.

  SF = 4

  (In scientific circles, the sog measuring scale is known as the Sog Factor (SF), where 1=terribly soggy and 10=highly crunchy.)

  After rinsing out his mouth with water, Drake took a bite of sample #28.

  Just then, the phone rang.

  “Doyle and Fossey,” he answered. (Actually, it sounded more like “Dooyyye-nnn-Fffffofffyy.”)