The show was over. “Same show tomorrow night,” said Sloane. “Five bucks each. Tell your friends. Now scram.”
Just then, Dr. Livingston bounded up with something in his mouth. Once in the car, Nell examined it. “Hmm. It appears to be a piece of the ghost’s bloody sheet.”
Drake held it to his nose. “Smeared with ketchup, no less.”
“Was it a trick?” asked Mr. Doyle as he drove home.
Nell nodded. “No doubt. The sheet with ketchup proves it. But how they did it is the question. It was remarkable.”
“Indeed.” Drake pushed up his glasses. “The case has me baffled. Let’s return to the graveyard tomorrow to search for clues. That is—if it’s all right with you, Dad.”
“Affirmative,” said Mr. Doyle.
The next evening at dusk, they found a few footprints around the grave and tombstone where Sloane had been standing. “Same shoe size and print,” said Nell, disappointed. “Likely Sloane’s footprints.”
“Ground’s solid,” observed Drake, jumping up and down a few times. “The ghost couldn’t have risen from the soil. No trees overhead to dangle a ghost from either.”
They circled the area. They scanned the sky. They checked behind tombstones. And just as they were about to give up, they walked into something hard and flat and invisible.
“Ow!” cried Drake.
“Ow!” cried Nell.
Arf! cried Dr. Livingston.
Nell rubbed her nose. “What the—”
Drake got up and brushed himself off. (He’d fallen backward onto his behind.) “It’s a large sheet of plastic glass,” he said, rapping on its surface “Propped up between tombstones. Invisible to the audience.”
“Yes, but why?” Nell frowned. This case was becoming more puzzling by the minute.
But before Drake could answer, Dr. Livingston took off toward the gardener’s shed.
Suddenly Nell had a hunch. She followed Dr. Livingston and tried the door. It opened.
Creeeeak!
“Follow me, Detective Doyle,” she hollered as she entered the shed.
It was dark and dusty inside. Nell flicked on her pocket pen flashlight. Of course, there was the usual gardener’s stuff. Shovels, rakes, hoes, and the like. But there was some other stuff that didn’t belong—a white sheet smeared with ketchup, and a pile of chains. Not your normal everyday gardening stuff.
“Aha,” whispered Drake.
“Hmm,” murmured Nell.
Grrr, growled Dr. Livingston.
Nell lifted the sheet. “There’s also a slide projector here. And a bottle of ketchup. You know, Detective Doyle, something bothered me about the ghost last night. Now I realize what it was.” “What?”
“The voice of the ghost wasn’t coming from where the ghost was standing.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Drake. “You’re right! The voice of the ghost was coming from—”
“—inside this shed, ” they said together.
“And last night,” continued Drake, “if I recall correctly, the door to the shed was open, although from where we were sitting, we couldn’t see inside.”
“Hmm.” Nell thought very hard. “And straight out from the open doorway is—”
“—the sheet of plastic glass!” finished Drake. “I think I’m beginning to get the picture,” said Nell.
“Ditto,” replied Drake. “Let’s return to the lab for analysis.”
“And then,” Nell hollered over her shoulder as she flew out the door and down the path, “it’s show time!”
Later that night, silvery moonlight filtered through the trees and into the graveyard. All was still and silent. A creepy fog slithered around the tombstones. An owl hooted.
Drake, Nell, and Dr. Livingston watched from the back row as Sloane waved her arms, sprinkled glitter, and chanted her magical words.
Suddenly the ghost appeared and clanked his chains. “Oooooooooh! I ammmm the ghossst of Mossssy Laaaake. . . .”
But the audience, instead of screaming, instead of covering their eyes in terror, instead of digging in their pockets for all their money . . . began to laugh.
That’s right. Laugh!
Because written with ketchup on the front of the ghost’s sheet were the words: I AM A FAKE! This was the moment Nell had been waiting for. Out of her pocket she took the fragment of ketchup-y sheet that Dr. Livingston had brought her the night before and held it to his nose. “Fetch!” she whispered in his ear.
Dr. Livingston bounded out of his chair, trotted to the shed, and disappeared through the open doorway.
Suddenly, before the audience, a ghostly dog appeared on the scene with the ghost. The dog (looking amazingly like Dr. Livingston) grabbed the ghost’s sheet with his teeth, and pulled.
“Shoo!” shrieked the ghost. “Bad dog! Let go of my sheet! You’re ruining everything!”
But it was too late. Dr. Livingston pulled the ghost out of the shed, and of course, out of the scene as well. Now the dog and the “ghost” stood outside the shed, looking not so ghostly as before. In fact, they looked downright normal.
Nell and Drake ran to help Dr. Livingston.
Nell whipped the sheet off of the ghost’s head. “Behold!” she cried. “The ghost of Mossy Lake!” And there, of course, stood Frisco. “Rats. Foiled again,” he said, scowling.
“Hey! No fair!” someone yelled. “I want my money back!”
“Fake!”
“Boo! Hiss!”
Drake held up his hand for silence. The crowd quieted. “What you have just witnessed is an old theater trick called ‘Pepper’s Ghost.’ Allow my partner, Scientist Nell, to explain.”
“It’s quite simple really,” said Nell.
“Not for me,” said Frisco, frowning. “Took months of research and sneaking around after dark.”
Nell unrolled a diagram she had drawn. Drake held the diagram while Nell shone a flashlight on it and explained, “To make the trick work, you must use light and glass.”
“In this case,” Drake hollered from behind the diagram, “a sheet of plastic that looks like glass. Works just as well.”
“Indeed,” agreed Nell. “When Frisco turned on the empty slide projector in the shed, it lit him up. The light was projected from him to the sheet of plastic, which is in front of all of you, except that you can’t see it.”
“Believe me,” Drake assured them, “it’s there.”
“You, as the audience, saw the lighted ghost reflected off the plastic surface, while at the same time you saw through the plastic to what lay behind it,” Nell continued.
“But reflection isn’t really the right word,” commented Drake.
Shaking her head, Nell said, “No, indeed, Detective Doyle. Not the right word at all. Because reflection is what happens at the surface of the glass, while what is really happening with Pepper’s Ghost occurs behind the glass. Imagine yourself looking into a mirror. You don’t see yourself flattened on the mirror’s surface, as in a photograph. Instead you see yourself in a room behind the mirror.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Scientist Nell. While the light is reflected off the plastic glass, it behaves as if it were at a point in space behind the glass, creating a virtual image. That’s why it looked like Sloane could walk through the ghost. The image of the ghost was behind the plastic.”
“Guess I’ll have to drum up some other get-rich-quick scheme,” mumbled Frisco. “You guys always ruin everything.”
Nell rolled up her diagram. “Show’s over. Frisco will happily refund your money.”
“Who said anything about happy?” complained Frisco. “Besides, it was Sloane’s stupid idea.”
“Was not,” said Sloane.
“Was, too,” said Frisco.
“Was not.”
“Was, too.”
Nell and Drake left them to their arguing and headed back to the car with Dr. Livingston. “Finished?” asked Mr. Doyle as they climbed in.
“Case solved,” answered Nell wi
th a satisfied sigh.
“Thanks to Nell and her hunches,” added Drake. “Couldn’t have done it without her.”
“Ditto, Detective Doyle.” And they shook hands for a job well done.
Nell buckled her seat belt and braced herself. “To my house, Mr. Doyle. And make it snappy.”
“Check.”
Tires squealed as they disappeared into the night.
It was a cloudy Wednesday afternoon, and Drake Doyle lay in bed, miserable. He had stayed home from school with a cold. A nasty cold. He sneezed. He sniffled. He blew his nose. And, every now and then, he coughed a bit as well. So you see, he was quite miserable indeed.
Just then, there was a scratch and a sniff! at his door. “Come in,” he croaked.
And in trotted Dr. Livingston.
“Hello there,” said Drake, already cheered by the visit. Dr. Livingston gave him a lick on the chops and wagged his tail hello.
After patting Dr. Livingston on the head, Drake withdrew a long, skinny roll of paper from the pouch that hung from Dr. Livingston’s neck. Written on the roll of paper was a column of letters from top to bottom. A secret code. Then, from under his bed, Drake pulled out a rolling pin. The code breaker. Taping the end of the strip of paper near one of the handles, he wound the paper around the rolling pin like a bandage. A secret message appeared, as he’d known it would.
Drake forgot all about his cold. “Quick, Dr. Livingston,” he cried as he pushed back the covers, “fetch my detective kit!” And even though Drake really should have stayed in bed because he had a cough and was running a slight fever, he couldn’t bear to stay home knowing something foul was afoot. He was a true detective at heart.
He washed, dressed, combed his hair, and blew his nose for good measure, then quietly slipped over to Nature Headquarters with Dr. Livingston. He didn’t really like slipping out without permission, but he had a job to do, nasty cold or not. He left a note on his nightstand that read:
Dear Mom,
Feeling much better. Respiration
normal. Pulse regular. Call me on
my cell phone if worried.
Signed,
Detective Doyle
“You look awful,” said Nell, when she opened the front door.
“Thanks,” he replied, trying to sound cheery even though his nose was stuffed up.
And without further ado, Nell grabbed him by his scarf, yanked him into Nature Headquarters, and shut the door.
Nature Headquarters was their secret code name for Nell’s room. It made perfect sense because it looked just like a jungle. Giant papier-mâché trees loomed overhead, dangling with vines and glittery leaves. Here and there and everywhere were aquariums, terrariums, and cages filled with spiders, snakes, fish, plants, bugs, rats, and all sorts of creepy-crawlies. At any one time in her room, something was always sleeping, sneezing, snorting, scooting, scratching, scurrying, slurping, or slithering. The smells of mouse fur, fish water, and fungus filled the steamy air.
But neither steam nor smells bothered Nell Fossey. Quite simply, Nell loved nature. Nature was her specialty. Nell was a naturalist.
“What have you got?” asked Drake as he wiped the steam off his glasses.
Nell pointed to an open book on her desk. “Read that.”
Drake sat and put on his glasses. “Hmm. Information on the Diamond Tipped Parrot.” He began to read, jotting notes to himself in his lab notebook every once in a while. “Native to the jungles of Mexico” . . . Ah–choo! . . . “Almost extinct” . . . Sniff! Honk! . . . “Only ten Diamond Tipped Parrots left in the wild” . . . Cough! Cough! After Drake finished the article, he turned to Nell and said, “Fascinating indeed, but what’s this got to do with us?”
“Glad you asked,” said Nell, and she began to pace the room.
From the look on his partner’s face, Drake knew this was serious. He braced himself for the worst. “As you know,” Nell explained, “today was Pet Day at Seaview Elementary. Everyone brought their pets and shared a little about them.”
“You brought Dr. Livingston, I presume?”
“Correct. Of course there were the usual dogs and cats and rabbits, but Baloney brought something special. Quite special, I soon discovered.”
Drake frowned. Usually things having to do with Baloney weren’t good at all. Not only was Baloney a friend of Frisco’s, but he was the hugest kid at Seaview Elementary. Now, being huge by itself wasn’t a bad thing. But Baloney also loved to squish and smash and mash things, and perhaps sit on them as well. Together these became a very bad thing, especially if Baloney was sitting on your head. (Baloney’s real name wasn’t Baloney at all. It was Bubba Mahoney, but no one called him that. Not even his mother.)
“Baloney brought a parrot to class,” Nell was saying, moving aside vines and leaves as she paced. “He said he got it from Jake McNeely’s Pet Palace last weekend. Of course, when I got home I checked my mom’s bird book to see what kind of parrot it was. Just curious, you know.”
“Naturally.”
“From the photo and description,” continued Nell, “I’m almost positive that Baloney’s bird is a Diamond Tipped Parrot. But that’s impossible because there are only ten left in the wild. All the rest live in London as part of a breeding program. Simply put, there are no Diamond Tipped Par–rots in this country.”
Drake frowned again. “If it’s not a Diamond Tipped Parrot”—ah–choo!—“then what is it?”
Nell stopped her pacing and leaned toward Drake. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That’s just it, Detective Doyle. I think it is a Diamond Tipped Parrot. And if it is, that means it was kidnapped from the jungles of Mexico.”
Drake gasped. “Great Scott! That’s against the law!”
“Precisely. It’s called illegal wildlife trafficking. But it happens all the time. People kidnap exotic, endangered animals and sell them just to make a buck. It can cause the extinction of an entire species!” She paused and looked deadly serious. “That’s why we must go to Jake McNeely’s Pet Palace and snoop around. Immediately. Where there’s one kidnapped parrot, there are bound to be more. Doyle and Fossey to the rescue!”
Jake McNeely’s Pet Palace was on the edge of town. The building looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint in twenty years. Moss and ferns grew thick on the roof. A neon sign flashed hot pink: JAKE MC EEL ’S PET PALA. (A few letters were missing.) Altogether, it looked downright seedy. Just the place to buy a kidnapped parrot.
Drake came prepared. Whenever he was on assignment, he carried his detective kit. It contained all sorts of clever gizmos—periscopes, a compass, a fingerprint kit, a flashlight, a decoder, a lock pick, a glowstick, a few nifty disguises for emergency situations, and much more. (And, of course, his handy-dandy camera disguised as a teddy bear.)
Already Drake and Nell were hard at work. Hidden by a bush, they used their periscopes to peer in the window at Jake McNeely as he helped a customer buy a fish and some dog food. After the customer left, Jake counted the money in his cash register.
“Hmm,” murmured Drake, “that’s a pretty thick wad of money for just selling a fish and a bag of dog food. Looks like thousands of dollars.” Ah–choo! “Maybe millions.” (He would have jotted a note to himself in his lab notebook, but it was too difficult to peer through the periscope, take notes, blow his nose, and remain top secret all at the same time.)
“Not only that, but Jake’s wearing alligator boots,” whispered Nell, “and a belt made from a boa constrictor. For a pet-store owner, he obviously has no respect for nature.”
“Agreed,” said Drake. “He fits our profile precisely. But, so far, I only see one parrot, and it’s not a Diamond Tipped.”
“Roger that. They must be hidden somewhere.” Nell put down her periscope and looked at Drake. “This calls for action. Prepare for Plan A.”
“Check.” Cough!
Five minutes later, they were ready. Nell was dressed as a shopper, complete with lipstick, department-store bags, and a checkbook. (Fak
e, of course.) Drake was dressed as a tourist, with a flowered shirt, shorts, teddy-bear camera, and a very fat wallet. (Again, fake.)
“Ready, Naturalist Nell?”
“Ready, Detective Doyle.”
Together they took a deep breath and entered the store.
It was dark, dingy, damp, and dirty. The air was filled with cheeps and squeaks, but they weren’t happy cheeps and squeaks—they were very sad indeed. And the smell? Frankly, the place reeked. “Can I help you?” Jake McNeely stood in front of them, looking rather mean in his alligator boots and snakeskin belt. He seemed impatient, like he didn’t really want to help them at all.
For a second, Drake was at a loss for words. Fortunately, Nell was on top of things. After all, she didn’t have a cold to worry about.
“Why, yes. Thank you very much,” she replied, acting natural. “I’m looking for a pet, and I love insects.”
Jake grunted. “Insects, is it? Well, if you want bugs, lady, we’ve got bugs.” And he led Nell to the bug section.
Drake knew that was his cue. While Jake tried to sell Nell a praying mantis, Drake crept around, keeping his eyes peeled for parrots. So far, nothing. And then he saw it. A door. KEEP OUT! read the sign on the door. THIS MEANS YOU! Since Jake was facing the other way, Drake pushed open the door and crept in.
There were cages everywhere. Big cages. Little cages. Middle-size cages. Some of them were empty. Others held parrots. Diamond Tipped Parrots, to be exact. Nine of them.
“Aha!” Drake whispered to himself. “Just as we suspected!”
After snapping a few photos, Drake turned to leave. It was time to fetch Nell, scram, and present the evidence to the police. But before he could carry out the rest of Plan A, something terrible happened. Something awful. Something all detectives dread when they’re trying to be sneaky. Drake felt a sneeze coming on. A big sneeze. A dilly of a sneeze. A whopper. He tried to hold it back. But it was no use. It was rather like holding back a volcano when it wants to erupt.
Case of the Graveyard Ghost Page 3