Super Puzzletastic Mysteries

by Chris Grabenstein

  One boy, James, who’d somehow cut his foot and had a bandage covering the sole, hobbled past moments before Erica loudly stomped out onto the patio. She was also shoeless, and growled at anyone in her path. Sherman decided it best to take two steps away from the pool.

  A moment after he moved, another classmate backpedaled into the space he’d just vacated, toppling in with the others. Sherman wondered if there were any napkins available to soak up the moisture on his toes.

  While he searched the nearby patio tables for the most absorbent material available, Erica approached him, her fists clenched, and her teeth exposed by her scowl. “Hey!”

  Sherman remained focused on his napkin quest.

  “Hey, freak!” She tapped him on his shoulder.

  Fortunately, his blazer, the V-neck sweater beneath it, the pressed oxford shirt beneath that, and the collarless white T-shirt beneath that provided sufficient layers to keep her unusually sharp nails from breaking skin.

  “Yes, Erica?”

  “You’re smart. You can do stuff, right?”

  “By stuff, you mean . . . ?”

  “Figure things out! I’ve heard about you finding the person who was stealing the standardized tests from the main office. And that thing with the school’s track and the missing hurdles.”

  Sherman nodded. Yes, he’d deduced the culprit in both instances, gaining copious gratitude from Principal Smithers on both occasions.

  “Then,” Erica shouted an inch from his nose, “FIND! MY! GIFT!”

  “Sweetie,” her father called, feigning civility with an exaggerated frown clearly in place for Sherman’s benefit. “That’s no way to talk to your guest.”

  “Your guest, Daddy! You’re the one who invited this dweeb!” She stomped one foot. “I want my present!”

  “Sugarplum, I don’t know what could’ve possibly happened to your mother’s gift. Maybe she forgot to put it in the box when she sent it, honest mistake. But you shouldn’t be rude and ignore all the other lovely gifts everyone gave you. In our family we treat our guests pleasantly.”

  More stomping. More quivering from the spectators. “I want my big gift.”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you, Lollipop. I—”

  Sherman cleared his throat, corralling everyone’s attention. “Mister Erica’s Dad, for your gratitude and willingness to order a sausage and mushroom pizza just for me—”

  “Ewwww,” someone said as they clawed their way out of the pool.

  Sherman continued, “—I am willing to expose the criminal, or criminals, in our midst.”

  Mister Erica’s Dad squinted at him, like he was a curious bug or a dancing squirrel. “You’re willing to . . . what?”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Sherman sidestepped Erica and her father to get a better look at the scene. “Time is of the essence, of course. My mother will be picking me up in an hour to assist with her Saturday evening grocery shopping. Let us not waste a moment.”

  As he entered the house, he caught Erica’s dad whispering to her, “You win, sweetie. Next time you have complete control over the guest list.”

  The party crowd kept their distance from Sherman, each person processing their own strange and different impression of the boy who’d been at their school less than a year, but who’d gained quite the reputation as a “scary-smart freakazoid.”

  Aware of his audience, but mostly engrossed by the day’s mystery, Sherman shimmied out of his blazer, folded it neatly over the arm of the sofa, then knelt over the pile of torn wrapping that had covered the empty box. You could see scratches in the paper’s metallic finish where the girl had dug her nails in. Erica hadn’t completely shredded the wrapping, though. She’d torn through the top, and the box had slipped free, leaving an intact bottom. Sherman could make out the edges where the paper had been neatly cut, folded, and taped. Interesting.

  “The magician did it,” someone squeaked just over Sherman’s shoulder.

  “Hey!” said the Sorcerer Farnsworth. Erica’s dad gave him a swift head shake, as if this was all too silly to debate.

  Sherman stood, faced the frail boy who’d made the statement. “Your name is Otis.”

  “Yep.” His dark hair and equally dark freckles were in stark contrast to his otherwise pale complexion.

  “You’re a talented artist who draws murals on huge swaths of construction paper at our school.”

  “Yep.”

  Sherman stroked his chin. “A shame you don’t create your art from sturdier material. I might implore my mother to acquire some for her collection. You should consider a different medium. Also, different subject matter. Poofy clouds and smiling yellow suns are beneath you. It could be quite lucrative.”

  Otis’s eyes bounced from Sherman to the skeptical crowd. Clearly confused. “Errrr . . .”

  Sherman said, “Explain your accusation.”

  Otis shifted from foot to foot. “He pulled a bouquet of flowers out of Tonia’s armpit, so he’s gotta be able to pull a gift out of a box right. I mean, who else could?”

  Erica stomped to the middle of the room, waggled her finger at the magician. “Arrest him, Daddy!”

  “Gumdrop, I don’t know what your mother allows when you’re at her house, but here you shouldn’t point fingers at people without proof.”

  “He’s innocent,” Sherman said, definitively. “Though, Otis, I do understand your line of thinking and applaud your initiative.”

  Otis blushed. “How do you know it’s not him?”

  “Simple.” Sherman abandoned the paper and the box, approached the dapper magician, who sweated guiltily despite clearly having an advocate in Sherman. “He’s not dressed properly.”

  The Sorcerer Farnsworth said, “Excuse me! I’ll have you know this is a tailor-made tuxedo.”

  “Yes, and it’s fine work. But it’s too heavy for the weather.”

  “You just took off a blazer.”

  “Correct. But the layers I’m wearing aren’t causing me to sweat like you. Part of it may be your high salt diet—”

  “How—? Have you been talking to my wife?”

  “—But I’m willing to bet the forty-or-so pounds of magician’s equipment hidden in your suit has become a strain.”

  “You’re not supposed to tell our secrets!”

  Sherman spun toward the slack-jawed crowd. “Don’t worry, I won’t go into details. But the Sorcerer Farnsworth’s entire act is predicated on the devices hidden on his person. For him to have rigged a way to slip the gift from the box in such spectacular fashion, he would’ve needed more preparation, and a tightly controlled environment. The decals and phone number stenciled on his ‘Magicmobile’ suggest he’s come from two towns over. Also, I can’t imagine being a party magician is a stable career—”

  “Hey again!” said the magician.

  “—so taking such a risk would ruin his business. This is a crime that required both motive and opportunity. Who here would have both?”

  “Paisley!” Erica shrieked.

  The red-haired girl whom Sherman often saw loping after Erica in the school corridor perked, quaking. “What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

  Erica aimed that deadly finger her way. “You slept over last night. That’s the opportunity, right?”

  She’d craned her neck toward Sherman for confirmation. “Yes,” he said, “that could be an opportunity. What about motive, though?”

  “She’s jealous of me,” Erica said. “Always has been.”

  “What?” Tears brimmed in Paisley’s eyes.

  Sherman said, “I was under the impression you two were best friends.”

  Not exactly the truth. There was a clear alpha and beta relationship here.

  Erica continued berating her “friend.” “You knew my mommy was sending me the best gift ever, and you wanted to ruin my party.”

  Paisley’s cheeks and forehead flared, nearly matching her hair. “That’s not true!”

  Erica’s father gripped her shoulder. “That
’s enough! You should not talk to your friend like that.”

  “She’s not my friend if she stole from me.”

  “It wasn’t her,” Sherman said.

  The look Paisley shot him was overly grateful. Then she sprinted and threw her arms around his shoulders. He stood stiffly in the embrace, unsure how to respond, worrying her tears might stain his sweater.

  “Thank you for believing me.”

  Gently—trying not to seem too freaked out—Sherman pried himself free, brushed imaginary wrinkles from his slacks. “It’s not a matter of believing you. It’s a matter of objective fact. Allow me to explain.”

  Sherman shuffled to the remaining gifts on the gift table, and the crowd shuffled after him. He perused the boxes of various sizes until he spotted the one he’d guessed to be Paisley’s. The wrapping paper featured a pattern of two angelic little girls skipping and holding hands. “This is yours, yes?”

  Paisley nodded.

  The box was a cube, only protruding slightly beyond the width of Sherman’s hand. “Notice the wrapping. The corners are poofy and imprecise. There’s excessive tape. There’s even a gap at the bottom seam because it wasn’t measured properly, so there isn’t enough paper. If someone removed the gift from this box, they would need to have reapplied the wrapping paper neatly. I don’t think Paisley is concerned with such cosmetic details.”

  Sherman tore the paper away, revealing a box with a clear plastic face, and a demure teddy bear inside. The bear held a heart with a phrase stitched into it: “For My BEARY Best Friend.”

  “I believe her concern was your friendship,” said Sherman.

  Erica reached for the box, but Paisley beat her to it, snatching the bear away and running from the room.

  Erica didn’t chase her, turning her full wrath on Sherman. “Who stole it then, super-smart detective? Huh? You don’t know, do you? You’re a joke!”

  The crowd was silent, undoubtedly considering Erica’s claims.

  Sherman said, “This is a gift from your mother?”

  “Yeah, I told you that.”

  “Shipped from across the country just in time for the party?”

  “Yes!”

  “Shipped in what?”

  “Huh?”

  Sherman spoke slowly. “Where is the box this box was shipped in?”

  Erica looked to her daddy, and he said, “It came just like that. I took off the mail label.”

  Sherman said, “Hmm.”

  “Hmm,” said Erica, “what does hmm mean?”

  “It means I know what happened, and why. Gather around, everyone, and I’ll show you.”

  For the solution to this story, please turn here.

  The Dapperlings

  by Kate Milford

  You had one job.”

  Milo Pine stood in his pajamas in the bleak light of just-before-sunup, drowning in his cabinmate Kip’s disapproval and hating life. He had not wanted to come to camp in the first place. He was deeply uncomfortable with surprises, social interactions, and almost any changes to his routine—and the camp experience was basically a bubbling mess of those things, plus mosquitos. But his father had gone to Camp Bewilder as a kid and had waxed poetic about how it was all adventures and puzzles that had been tailor-made for role-playing game enthusiasts like himself and Milo. Mr. Pine had laid the salesmanship on thick until Milo had grudgingly agreed to be delivered to this campground deep in the Nagspeake woods.

  Upon arrival, Milo had been duly sorted into a cabin called Cat Dapperling, which turned out to be the name of a fungus. The campground was on the former estate of an eccentric mycologist, so all the cabins were named after fungi, and in moments when Milo started feeling like this venture had been a terrible idea, he reminded himself that at least he was not among the six poor saps who had to troop home each night to Weeping Toothcrust.

  The Dapperlings—Milo, Kip, Phero, Josh, Toby, and Rayhan—got along pretty well, all things considered, with the occasional exception of Kip, who ditched them periodically to hang out with his best friend from a different cabin. (Only ten kids out of sixty this year were returning campers, and despite various requests to bunk together, they’d been divvied up so that each cabin got a veteran, which was how Kip had wound up in Cat Dapperling while the powers that be had stuck Kent in Chicken of the Woods.) Still, the other guys were pretty cool, and they’d won a nontrivial number of the games and puzzle challenges. If asked, Milo would have grudgingly admitted that he’d had a pretty good time so far, right up until the morning they got up and Milo discovered he’d lost the cabin’s team flag, which wasn’t a flag at all but a small cylindrical specimen container from the nature resource lab containing the preserved remains of an actual Cat Dapperling mushroom.

  “One job, Pine,” Kip repeated, staring down his short nose at Milo. “And you blew it. You only had to keep the thing safe for one night. One more night, and we were in the clear.”

  “That guy’s kind of a twit,” said the seventh person in the boys’ cabin, a girl with short red hair who sat perched on the footboard of the nearest bed. Milo forced himself not to reply, or even to let his eyes flick in the speaker’s direction. Meddy had been dead for more than thirty years, and Milo was the only living person who could see or hear her.

  Red-faced, he folded his arms, refusing to wilt under the glare of the Senior Dapperling. “The jar was accounted for at lights-out. The door and the windows were locked. We all checked. What could I have done to keep it safer than it was in our own cabin, with everything locked and all of us here? Swallow the thing?”

  “Could’ve given it to me,” said Meddy. Milo, who knew perfectly well that none of the other guys could hear her, cringed anyway. It took getting used to, being buddies with a ghost. “But no, you said that wasn’t in the spirit of the game.”

  Milo clamped his mouth shut. She was right, but giving his team’s creepy dead mushroom specimen to his equally dead best friend to keep another team from stealing it just hadn’t seemed sporting.

  Camp Bewilder’s version of Capture the Flag had been running for two days. It had a constantly evolving set of excessively complicated rules crafted, as far as Milo could tell, specifically to be able to extend the game almost without end. The basic premise was simple enough, though: each cabin got a hundred-year-old mushroom in a jar from the massive collection of spores, molds, and fungi that the former owner of the property had bequeathed to the camp. The original idea was that campers had to keep their jar from getting stolen (or broken) for the whole week, and whichever team managed to capture the most specimens from other cabins would be the winner.

  Of course, it wasn’t that simple in practice. For one thing, nobody was actually sure who was in the lead at the moment, because over the last couple days several cabins had claimed their jars had disappeared—not that they had been captured through legitimate play under the rules of the game, but that they’d vanished outright. It was almost certainly just a bit of tactical deception, a way for those cabins to try to hold on to their jars by trickery rather than strategy, and the result was that the already confusing game had rapidly devolved into chaos. Or maybe it would’ve done that anyway. The counselors had tried to combat the confusion by adding more rules and more jars, leading to more frustration and more missing specimens. It was not the camp’s most successful game, and the adults had announced at dinner that they’d be putting the kids out of their misery the following day at breakfast.

  The Dapperlings had only managed to capture one other cabin’s jar (a thumb-sized test tube nicked from the gentlemen in Scurfy Twiglet), so they weren’t really in the running to win. Still, you couldn’t officially lose if you hung on to your own ’shroom without breaking its container, so all Milo and his bunkmates had to do at this point was keep control of their jar until the end of breakfast on Wednesday. And now, here they were, a half an hour before the beginning of that very meal, their weird little specimen was inexplicably gone, and the other five boys were looking at Milo like it was
his fault.

  Or four of them were, anyway. “The Twiglets’ tube is gone, too,” reported Phero, hauling his duffel out from under his bunk in a panic and dumping the contents on his bed. When every scrap and stitch of sock and spare underwear had been tossed out and the duffel was empty, he looked up in horror. “The tube was here,” Phero insisted, jabbing a finger into the duffel. “Right here in the side pocket. It’s gone!”

  One missing mushroom could be chalked up to Milo’s being a blockhead. Two missing mushrooms: that was troubling. Kip abandoned the stare down, folded his arms, and addressed the group. “All right, Dapperlings. Let’s focus. This is just one more puzzle we need to solve. We have”—he shook his pajama sleeve back and checked his watch—“twenty-five minutes before we need to be at the mess hall with these stupid mushrooms. The mushrooms can’t have gone far.”

  Milo felt himself start to relax just a bit. Camp pushed a bunch of his most uncomfortable buttons, but this was the kind of thing that made him want to power through all that: the group coming together as a team and working through a challenge.

  Meddy hopped down to stand at his side as Kip gave his little pep talk. Milo glanced expectantly at her out of the corner of his eye. “I know, right?” Meddy said. “Every time Kip calls you all Dapperlings it’s all I can do not to giggle.” Milo risked an impatient glare. “Sorry,” she said apologetically. “And before you ask, I didn’t see a thing. I spent last night haunting the woods instead.”

  “Great,” Milo whispered sourly. “Super helpful, thank you.”

  Meanwhile, the rest of the Dapperlings had moved on to searching the cabin. Josh was gingerly emptying the trash can by the door of candy wrappers, old batteries, and tinfoil from a batch of cookies Toby’s mother had sent. “Nothing here,” Josh reported, dumping it all back in.

  “Maybe they rolled into a corner,” Rayhan suggested, eyeing the uneven floor. He and Phero circled the perimeter of the room from opposite directions. It didn’t take long; Cat Dapperling cabin was comprised of a single room, and the only furniture was their six bunks, the six chairs that served as bedside tables, and the writing table in front of the cabin’s crumbling stone fireplace. For good measure, Toby even rolled up the rug: nothing.