There’s one more puzzle for you to solve to get the data. It’s in the BEST MEAN place.
Once you have it, bring it to me at 9 a.m. on Wednesday at the Darbyville Courthouse.
Ms. Sullivan/Clarkson
* * *
It was Wednesday and 9 a.m. was less than an hour away.
Chloe and Jeremy stared at each other. Did he look as shocked with his mouth hanging open like hers was?
Chloe pulled her feet up onto the bench and looped her arms around them. “We’ve got to tell our parents. We’ve got to find a grown-up to help.”
Jeremy chewed his lip. “What would your parents do if you told them?”
Chloe stood up and began to pace. “Probably call the police.”
“Mine, too.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Don’t you think Ms. Sullivan—or Ms. Clarkson or whoever she really is—would have gone to the police if she thought she could trust them? Besides, there’s no time.”
Chloe kicked at the ground as she walked. “Who else could we go to? Principal Brethington?”
Jeremy shook his head. “He could be in on it, too. Dynamic Recreational has a ton of money. They could buy a lot of people’s cooperation.”
“But not Ms. Sullivan’s.”
“Not Ms. Sullivan’s. Because she’s one of the good guys. She’s one of the people trying to keep kids safe and she needs our help to do it.”
“Where do you think she means when she says the BEST MEAN place?” Chloe took the paper from him.
“It’s got to be something with those letters,” Jeremy said, casting through his mind for different kinds of puzzles they’d worked.
Chloe twirled one curl around a finger and tapped her feet, clear signs she was thinking hard. “Could it be an anagram?”
Jeremy took the paper back from her. “Yes. I bet that’s exactly what it is.”
He grabbed a notebook and a pen from his backpack and wrote down the letters:
BESTMEAN
He separated out the vowels from the consonants:
AEE
BSTMN
“Not many vowels there,” Chloe observed.
“That means we need some of those consonants to pair up.”
“There’s S-T.” She pointed.
“Would she have them together in the clue if they were together in the solution?” Jeremy asked.
“Probably not. It would make it too easy.”
“What else could go together?”
“N-T?” Chloe suggested.
Jeremy wrote those two letters together and put an E in front of them to make E-N-T. “It’s a place. Remember to think about places.”
“Bent, sent, ment,” she muttered.
“Ment!” Jeremy said. “What’s left if we take out MENT?” He crossed letters out and came up with A-E-B-S.
In unison, they said, “Basement!”
“Which basement, though?” Chloe said.
Jeremy said. “It’s got to be some place we can get to.”
Once again, they spoke in unison. “School!”
Jeremy stood up. “Let’s go.”
It had been easy to get to the school basement. They’d just ridden to school, locked up their bikes, and walked in like it was any other day. It was 8:20 and lots of kids were arriving, streaming in and out of the school and going to their lockers. Chloe and Jeremy waited by the door for a moment when no one was near and scampered down the steps.
“What do you think we’re looking for?” Chloe asked.
Jeremy looked around at the stacks of boxes, garbage barrels, mops and brooms and buckets, and bins of flat basketballs and soccer balls. He turned in a circle. There were so many places someone could hide something in here and they didn’t have much time. So far, everything Ms. Sullivan had left for them as a clue was something other people might not notice if they weren’t really looking. She wouldn’t have made it obvious, but she wouldn’t have made it impossible either. He chewed his lip. “Something that sticks out, but not too much. Something that’s just a little out of place.”
They walked the perimeter of the basement. It was lined with lockers similar to theirs, except these all had the kinds of padlocks that used keys instead of combinations. Except one. One locker had a combination lock. “Here,” Jeremy cried. “This one. No one would notice the different lock unless they were really looking.”
Chloe pulled on the combination lock. It didn’t give. “How are we supposed to open this? How are we supposed to know the combination?”
Jeremy looked around. A little corner of white paper peeked out of one of the slots in the locker. Jeremy crouched down, grabbed the envelope corner and wiggled it out. He opened it up.
There was a square. A three-by-three grid with the number nineteen written in the center square. The squares of the middle row were outlined in red. Three numbers. Most combination locks had three numbers.
To find the combination to the lock, they had to solve the magic square.
For the solution to this story, please turn here.
The Mechanical Bank Job
by Mo Walsh
I wedged a penny in the little dog’s mouth and pressed a lever. The black terrier sprang through a silver hoop held by a clown in an old-fashioned yellow costume. With a metallic clink, the dog dropped my penny into a slot in the top of a red barrel.
It wasn’t a video game, but it was still pretty cool.
“Good choice, Jill,” said Mrs. Herzog, our fifth grade teacher. “The antique Trick Dog bank has always been one of the most popular.” She handed a penny to the next student in line, who just happened to be my best friend, Kasey Aziz. She slid her penny into an elephant’s trunk and pressed on its tail. The trunk curled up over the elephant’s head and the penny plopped through a slot in the brightly colored seating platform strapped on its back.
Benny Tosca was up next. There were six mechanical banks spread out on the project table in our fifth grade classroom. Benny went with the firefighter. The squat figure with a wide red mouth sort of looked like he was ready to barf into his hand. It rolled its eyes, lifted its palm, and tossed a penny into its opened mouth.
No wonder the firefighter looked queasy. He had a stomach full of loose change.
“Imagine how children in the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds would have been mesmerized and fascinated by these banks,” said Mrs. Herzog.
Fascinated by cast-iron characters with one move? Mesmerized by clunky toys with one trick? Maybe. These were the same kids who rolled hoops and held tea parties for dolls. No PlayStation, iTunes, or even basic cable. And they totally missed Fortnite. Poor kids.
“The original idea was to encourage American children to be thrifty and save their pennies,” Mrs. Herzog continued. “But these toy banks soon became very popular with adults, too, for the artistic designs and mechanical ingenuity.”
Educational toys the parents love. Some things never change.
“They’re pretty heavy,” said Benny, even as he showed off by hefting the firefighter bank in one hand. “Are they made out of lead?”
“No, but that’s a good guess, Benny. This is cast iron—iron melted with other substances and poured into a mold to harden. When all the pieces are put together, each bank weighs several pounds.” She nodded to the three of us at the table. “Go ahead and pick them up—with both hands this time, Benny.”
Ooof. They were kind of heavy. Sort of like garden gnomes that ate pennies.
Mrs. Herzog laughed to see us struggling to hoist the banks off the table.
“That’s why I needed a few other teachers to help me carry them from my car this morning and then bring them in here from the teachers’ lounge.”
Kasey picked up a bank that looked like a rooster, winced, and put it right back down. She didn’t pick up another one but traced a finger over the elephant. I grabbed a bank that showed the prophet Jonah pitching a penny into the mouth of a whale. A thank-you, maybe, for spitting him out of its belly
. I could lift the bank off the table, but not very high, and I sure didn’t want to drop it on my toes!
Benny set down a bank that looked like a carousel horse and hefted the firefighter figure, again. I think it was his favorite.
“That bank is one of the heaviest,” said Mrs. Herzog. “About seven pounds.”
“Oh,” groaned Benny, pretending to strain as he put it back on the table. When it touched down, he said, “Crushed it,” and flexed his arm muscles—not that he really has any.
“Because they’re so sturdy, the figures don’t break easily,” Mrs. Herzog told us. “But some of the smaller pieces can snap off and get lost, and the mechanisms need special care. Most of the original banks, the true antiques, have missing or replacement pieces. The paint is chipped and worn, or they’ve been repainted. Still, there are collections of banks in very good or excellent original condition.”
“Mrs. Herzog?” I asked. “How many banks do you have?”
“Well, Jill, these six come from the replica collection my father started. Altogether, I guess I have about fifty. That may sound like a lot, but there were hundreds of designs made and each bank was hand-painted, so there was even more variety.” She pointed to the clown with the hoop and jumping dog. “For instance, if the clown’s suit is painted black, it’s worth a lot less to a collector. If the suit is yellow, it will sell at auction for one or two thousand dollars.”
“Whoa,” I said. I think I whistled, too.
Mrs. Herzog smiled. “Yes, Jill. Yellow clowns like this one are quite rare.”
I nodded. “And quite expensive, too.” Not to mention ugly. The yellow color made me think of the stuff that comes out of squashed caterpillars. Why not a bright red or purple clown?
Mrs. Herzog rummaged in her big teacher’s tote bag and pulled out several slick colored magazines. “You’ll see just how serious some collectors are from these auction catalogs.” She handed them to Kasey, Benny, and me. “Please pass them around. Next group!”
The next three kids shuffled up to the table to fool around with the banks.
Kasey and I compared photos and prices of some of the coolest banks in the catalogs. We couldn’t believe what we were reading!
“Seriously? Who would pay five thousand dollars for a bank that looks like a bank building?” I said. “I’d rather have this lion chasing two monkeys up a tree. And it’s only three thousand.”
“This one’s really pretty,” said Kasey, pointing to a white trick pony with a colorful saddle and bridle cloth. “Whoa! Only nine hundred dollars!”
“Maybe you could pay for it a penny at a time,” I joked.
“When I have a lot of money,” Benny whispered behind us, “I’m going to buy fun stuff like this fort bank with the cannons and the top-of-the-line VR set and a bunch of sports cars, instead of stupid watches and fancy suits.”
“I’m going to buy horses,” said Kasey with that dreamy look she always gets for cute animals. “What about you, Jill?”
“I’ll ride your horses and race around in Benny’s sports cars, but when I have a ton of money I’m going to see the world: Scotland, Egypt, Australia, Japan . . .”
I looked up at the one hundred paper origami cranes dangling from the ceiling grid above our heads. We all made them by folding paper when Lucy Sato brought in a rice paper scroll with two cranes drawn in delicate colored ink. I didn’t think cranes did much flying or traveling in flocks, and some of ours were shaped kind of oddly, but they looked a lot better than the bare ceiling panels. And yeah, folding paper into birds and other animal shapes was actually fun.
Every Friday during Social Studies we had the You-Nique Roadshow, when we got to bring in stuff to share with the class. Instead of regular show-and-tell, it had to be something special to your family. That’s the social studies part. Even Mrs. Herzog got in on it. That’s why she brought in her dad’s old bank collection. There’s fun stuff to do, too, like making the origami cranes.
The wall above our cloakroom was lined with the bright carpet designs we colored when Kasey brought in a small Moroccan rug, like the larger ones that hang on the walls in her home. They put them there, Kasey said, because they’re too pretty and too valuable to walk on. When it’s my turn, I think I’ll bring in the tartan scarf Dad gave Mom when they got married. It’s the Macneil of Barra pattern my great-great-great-ancestors wore in Scotland. Dad’s got a tartan tie and a cap, but no kilt. That would be sooo embarrassing. Mrs. Herzog says we can create our own tartan patterns on a computer and print them for class decorations. I already know Kasey’s will be pink and purple. She still likes the girlie colors.
Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! Just as the next group finished playing around with the banks, the school bell sounded in three short bursts, paused, and then rang three more times.
“Fire drill!” announced Mrs. Herzog. “Boys and girls, you know what to do.”
I’ll say. Mulvihill Middle School had already run three drills for Fire Prevention Month. Don’t they think we’ve got it already?
We left everything at our desks and lined up single file by the door.
Mrs. Herzog checked the door for heat, then nodded for us to go out to the hall.
She closed the door behind us and led us at a brisk walk down the hallway—not too fast, not too slow.
We went out the side door and around to the front parking area to our assigned meeting spot.
We sat on the ground while Mrs. Herzog took attendance. All present.
We waited.
“It figures we’d have a fire drill when we were doing something semifun,” I grumbled to Kasey, if it’s possible to grumble in a whisper. “By the time we get back to class it will be time for Spanish. After Spanish is lunch and then math.”
“I want to look at the banks some more,” Benny complained. “I didn’t get to feed pennies to the whale. Do you think Mrs. Herzog will let us skip math?”
“We have a test today, Benny,” I reminded him. “What do you think?”
“Some kids haven’t had any chance to look at the banks at all,” Kasey interrupted before Benny could think of a snarky answer. She’s our referee. “I bet she’ll bring them back in on Monday. That’s just fair.”
Across the parking lot, Mr. Diallo, our principal, jogged toward the school’s circular driveway. The sound of sirens swelled, and two police cars turned into the drive, followed by two fire trucks, a red SUV marked “Fire Chief,” and an ambulance. “That’s weird.” I turned to Kasey. “Isn’t the fire department supposed to be here before the drill?”
Kasey brushed her wavy black hair behind her ears, something she usually does when she’s excited or nervous. “What if it’s not a drill? What if there’s a real fire?”
Benny pumped his fist in the air. “Maybe we’ll get a long weekend! Maybe a whole week off school while they clean up the mess. Woo-hoo!”
I wrinkled my nose. “But if the school burns down, we might have to go to class in trailers, in the winter, until they build a new one.”
Half anxious, half excited, we looked for smoke or any other signs of fire.
Mr. Diallo broke away from the fire chief and crossed the parking lot. He huddled with the school office staff and the teaching specialists who were all grouped together. Then he walked from one class group to another, speaking quietly with each teacher in turn. When Mr. Diallo reached our class, his usually pleasant face was creased in a frown. He turned aside with Mrs. Herzog for a hush-hush conversation.
By this time, the student buzz had reached our line.
“They say somebody pulled the fire alarm!” I whispered to Kasey.
“Whoa, somebody’s going to be in trouble!” Benny sounded excited, since it wasn’t him for a change.
“Boys and girls!” All of our eyes swiveled to Mrs. Herzog. “The fire department has cleared the building, so we will return to the classroom the same way we left, quietly in single file. Please stand!”
Since there was no fire, I don’t know why I exp
ected anything to look different. We walked through the same old door and down the same old hallway to our classroom.
“Benny, hold the door,” said Mrs. Herzog. “Fifth grade, go in and get settled. I’m going to the office, but I’ll be back in two minutes.” Her heels made a loud clack-clack on the tile floor as she kept walking down the hall.
I figured the teachers were all meeting about the false alarm. In the principal’s office. Somebody was really in trouble.
Benny opened and held the door, and the first kids entered our classroom. The line suddenly stopped moving.
“They’re gone! The banks are all gone!” said a voice from inside the classroom. A bunch of others joined in: “Where did they go?” “Who took them?” “Where are they?” “Look behind the desk . . .”
“On the floor—”
“In the closet!”
Kasey and I pushed our way into the classroom. “Hey, the window’s open!” cried Kasey.
“That’s how the thief got away, I bet,” said Benny.
It looked like the thief pulled our teacher’s desk chair over to the long sill that stretched below all three windows. It was positioned directly under the open one in the middle. Books lined up on that part of the sill were knocked over or scattered on the floor.
“Quick!” I shouted. “Can you see anyone out there?”
In two seconds every kid in class crowded around the open window. I locked elbows with Kasey and Benny and we forced our way through to get a good look. This side of the school faced an eight-foot-high wall with only ten feet of scraggly grass in between. The wall was supposed to be a noise barrier to keep sounds from the nearby highway from bothering us. Mostly it was just boring and ugly to look at.
I climbed up on the seat of the chair and crawled onto the windowsill. Kasey grabbed onto my ankles as I poked my head out the window. “They knocked a couple of books out onto the grass, and something else is down there, too. It’s . . .” My voice rose in excitement. “It’s the fireman bank, the really heavy one! They dropped it!”
Sure enough, I had spotted the firefighter bank lying in the grass below, faceup, as if waiting for more pennies to gobble up. Closer to the building, some of the books from our classroom reading library were jumbled together in a heap. I also spied four or five squashed paper cranes with their strings trailing across the grass. I pulled my head back through the window and looked up at the ceiling. There was an empty spot near the windows where the thief must have become tangled in their strings and pulled them through the window.
Super Puzzletastic Mysteries Page 18