Super Puzzletastic Mysteries

by Chris Grabenstein

  Ms. Braxton wavered. “I don’t know . . .”

  “I’ll return at three o’clock to name the thief,” said Gabe.

  I goggled at him. Three o’clock? Was he cocky or just plain crazy?

  “One thing more?” Gabe asked.

  “Yes?” said Ms. Braxton.

  “How were you going to spend that money?”

  Her forehead crinkled. “It was earmarked for the general fund.”

  “Any special projects?” I asked.

  “An author visit.” Ms. Braxton named a writer that our librarian would have turned backflips over. In fact, he was one of my favorites, too.

  “So if we don’t find the money, he can’t come?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” said Ms. Braxton.

  Gabe nodded. “See you at three. Come on, Maya.”

  And off we went.

  Of course, detective work had to wait for classes. School was funny that way. All through our morning lessons, I could tell Gabe’s big brain was worrying at the mystery like a terrier with a chew toy. When recess arrived, he wheeled out the classroom door with fire in his eyes.

  “Where first?” I asked.

  “Custodians, of course,” he said.

  We soon found the head janitor, Mr. Shamoon, picking up trash on the grass by the walkway’s edge. A lean man with glittering black eyes, he looked like a disapproving ferret with a bad haircut. He scowled as we approached. But we didn’t take it personally; he scowled at everyone.

  “Kids,” he growled.

  “Mr. Shamoon,” said Gabe. “Got a minute?”

  Spearing a milk carton and dropping it into his trash bag, the janitor said, “I’m working.”

  “So are we,” said Gabe. His gesture invited me to help Mr. Shamoon.

  I rolled my eyes but complied. It wasn’t like Gabe could easily pick up trash himself, at least not without his own spear.

  “Who has keys to the principal’s office?” he asked.

  “Me, the principal, and Ms. Bustamante,” said Mr. Shamoon.

  “The secretary?” I said, picking up a sticky candy wrapper. “Why her?”

  He squinted at me. “Backup.”

  “And where do you keep your key ring?” asked Gabe.

  Mr. Shamoon straightened, glaring at my friend. “Is this about that gambling event?”

  “Casino Night? Yes.” Gabe looked him up and down.

  The man spat. “Never should have held it in the first place. Gambling is a sin.”

  “So is spitting,” said Gabe. “Now about your keys . . . ?”

  “Locked in my office all weekend.” He stabbed at a plastic cup like it had offended him. “And they were right where I left them when I came in this morning.”

  Even I knew that this didn’t mean someone hadn’t borrowed and returned them. Gabe didn’t bother mentioning this. Instead, he asked, “Who else has keys to your office?”

  “Only my assistant. And she’s been on vacation since Thursday.” Mr. Shamoon slung his garbage bag over a shoulder as if to go. “So I’m doing her work and mine.”

  Gabe raised a finger. “One last thing?”

  “Yeah?” The custodian’s glare could’ve boiled concrete.

  “Nice boots.” Gabe smiled. “Are they new?”

  With a harrumph, Mr. Shamoon turned and stalked off.

  My friend rolled his wheelchair down the path. “Well, that was productive.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Absolutely. Those were Filson Highlanders. Three-hundred-dollar boots.”

  “I can’t believe you know that, but I don’t see how it helps us.”

  His gaze swept over the ragged group of kids kicking a soccer ball across the grass. “The world is full of obvious things that nobody notices. Who knows what will prove important?” Gabe loved to say stuff like this.

  “So who do we see next?”

  Before he could reply, a raspy voice called out behind us, “Hey, Gridlock!”

  We turned. Swaggering up the walkway like a gorilla that had just shaved its body and learned to walk upright came Danny Dunbarton, who I now knew was the PTA treasurer’s son.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  Danny ignored me. “What were you yakking to Shamoon about?”

  “The price of fudgsicles in France,” said Gabe, craning his neck to look up at our visitor. “Of course.”

  “Better not have been about Casino Night.”

  Gabe’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Why not?”

  “People are blaming my mom for losing that money.” Danny tried to look tough, but I’d seen fruit chews that were tougher. “It’s not her fault, so keep your nosy nose out of it, Gridlock.”

  Gabe didn’t bat an eye at the insulting nickname. In fact, he had embraced it, ever since solving his first case, when Danny had said, “You think you’re some kinda Sherlock Holmes, but you’re only Gridlock Jones.” For a guy of Danny’s intelligence, it was actually almost clever.

  “But if she’s innocent, wouldn’t you want me to prove that?” said Gabe.

  “Just leave it alone.”

  “Afraid of what I might find?”

  Trying on a sneer, Danny said, “Ha! My mom works her tail off for this stupid school, even though most of the money they raise is for dumb stuff.”

  “Like books, or an author visit?” I asked.

  “That guy’s a jerk.” Danny glowered. “He wouldn’t help my mom publish her story.”

  Gabe raised an eyebrow at me. “I see. So your mom disapproves of the PTA’s choice?”

  “Duh,” said Danny. He sure had the gift of gab.

  “Thanks.”

  Danny’s forehead crinkled. “For what?”

  “From what you’ve told me, that gives your mom a good motive for ‘losing’ the money,” said Gabe.

  “Hey!” Danny’s fists clenched as he loomed over my friend. “You take that back!”

  I put a palm to his chest. “Easy, bucko.”

  He swatted my hand aside, but he stood down. Danny knew I’d been taking kickboxing and getting beaten by a girl would look bad on his bully resume.

  Jabbing a finger at us, he snarled, “Stay away from my mom. Stay away from this whole thing!” And with that, he spun on a heel and stomped off.

  “I bet Mrs. Dunbarton did it,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Gabe was maddeningly calm.

  “Oh, come on, G,” I said. “She hates the author. She could have taken the money before giving the cashbox to Ms. Braxton for safekeeping.”

  “Never make deductions until all the facts are in,” said Gabe, spinning his wheelchair and heading back in our original direction. “That’s sloppy detective work.”

  “Let’s go see Mr. Langley,” I said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Holding a palm out, Gabe cocked his head. The bell rang.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Classes.”

  Lunch was lunch. What can I say? I’ve never been a huge fan of cafeteria food. After we finished, Gabe slipped some sugar cookies into a napkin and we headed for the main office.

  “What about Mr. Langley?” I asked.

  “In a bit,” he said. “But first, we consult the gossip hotline.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  He grinned. “Ermalinda Bustamante.”

  Ms. Bustamante had a personality as warm as fresh muffins and a nose for gossip that would’ve put a bloodhound to shame. As the head secretary, she held many of the school’s secrets. And Gabe knew the way to her heart.

  “Sugar cookies, for me?” she said, her scarlet-painted lips splitting in a smile. “Aw, Gridlock honey, you’re the sweetest.” Ms. Bustamante snagged one of the treats in her long, violet fingernails and took a dainty bite. “Mmm, nummers.”

  Pulling up his wheelchair beside her desk, Gabe said, “We haven’t had a chance to catch up lately.”

  “Ooh, let’s,” she said. “Did you kids hear that they had to get a special aide for the
youngest Bumblecombe boy? Turns out, he’s a biter.”

  “No fooling,” said Gabe. After some more small talk, he asked, “Say, do you know if any of the staff has money problems?”

  She giggled like a lovesick dolphin. “Honey, we work in a school and get paid peanuts. Who doesn’t have money problems?”

  “How about Principal Braxton?”

  “Or Mr. Langley?” I added.

  “Old Iron Toes Langley?” she said. “Not that I’ve heard. He’s got family money. And he’s an awesome poker player—never loses. He was top scorer at Casino Night.”

  I raised a hand. “Back up a second. Iron Toes?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “A tragic dance class accident. His partner was limping for a week.”

  “And how about our principal?” asked Gabe.

  “She can walk just fine,” said the secretary.

  Gabe rolled his eyes. “Her money issues?”

  Glancing at Ms. Braxton’s closed door, Ms. Bustamante leaned forward, her voice softening. “Poor Aisha. She got upside down with her mortgage. Now she owes more than her house is worth.” The secretary clucked her tongue, a sympathetic mother hen.

  “Will she be all right?” I asked. For a principal, Ms. Braxton was pretty decent. I hated the thought of something bad happening to her.

  Gabe waved a hand impatiently. “Our principal always lands on her feet. She’ll be fine.”

  Then it struck me: Could the principal have taken the missing money? I shook my head, not wanting to think that about such a nice lady.

  I was sure Gabe shared my thoughts, but you’d never have known it to look at him. He traded some gossip with Ms. Bustamante before wrapping things up with, “Thanks for your help. I’ll be sure to remember you next time my dad bakes his famous Kahlúa brownies.”

  “Num-num-nummers!” said the secretary.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Gabe.

  “Yes?”

  “Where do you keep the key to Ms. Braxton’s office?”

  She patted the purse on her desktop. “Right here. And before you ask, it never left my possession.” The phone rang and she excused herself to answer it.

  As soon as her attention was engaged, Gabe wheeled over to an open computer, shoved aside the office chair, and opened a program.

  “Heck of a time to play video games,” I said. “An author visit is at stake.”

  “Research,” he muttered, scrolling down the page.

  I glanced at the wall clock. “You know we’ve only got lunch period to solve this thing, right? We don’t get a hall pass to play detective.”

  “I know.” Scrolling down further, he clicked on a link. “A-ha!”

  “Found something?” I asked.

  “No, I just like saying a-ha. Check this out.”

  I leaned in closer. “Danny Dunbarton’s record? Wondering how many D grades it’s humanly possible to achieve?”

  He pointed to a line. “Danny’s on the free-and-reduced-lunch program. The Dunbartons must have gotten into financial trouble, too.”

  “So?”

  “So Principal Braxton isn’t the only one who needs money.”

  We were silent for a beat, absorbing this.

  Finally, I straightened, raking a hand through my hair. “Augh, too many suspects!”

  “Nonsense,” said Gabe. “We still don’t have all the facts.”

  “So . . . now we visit Mr. Langley?”

  “Precisely.”

  Gabe’s my buddy and all, but honestly, what kind of sixth grader says precisely?

  Just outside the teachers’ lounge, we bumped into Mr. Langley—literally. Or at least I did. His satchel fell, spilling its contents onto the floor. I squatted down to help him gather his things.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” I collected some student tests, an airline itinerary, a paperback book, and a protein bar, and handed them over.

  “No permanent damage,” said Mr. Langley with a stiff chuckle. I hadn’t seen him around in a while and was surprised to notice that he looked tired and unshaven.

  “Just the man we wanted to see,” said Gabe. He leaned over, snagged a red pencil with his fingertips, and handed it to the teacher. “You’ve heard about the missing money from Casino Night?”

  Mr. Langley winced. “Such a shame. And after all that hard work.”

  “You were the teacher representative for the event?” I asked.

  “That’s right.” He frowned, returning the last items into his satchel. “What’s your interest?”

  “Just trying to help Ms. Braxton,” said Gabe. “Did you have an eye on the money the whole time?”

  “Not all the time,” said Mr. Langley. “I did play some poker.”

  “But someone was always watching it?” Gabe asked.

  “Of course,” said the teacher. “Mrs. Dunbarton counted the money at the end of the night, then passed it to me for a recount. After I finished, I gave it back, and that’s the last I saw of it.”

  I scratched my head. “So why didn’t she just deposit the money at the bank? Why leave it at school?”

  He made a rueful face. “Amanda doesn’t trust ATMs, and she was going to be tied up all day Saturday during bank hours.” Mr. Langley shrugged. “We thought it’d be safe at school.”

  Gabe cocked his head. “In your opinion, who could have stolen it?”

  Mr. Langley’s eyes narrowed. “Shamoon. He hated the idea of gambling at school, and he’s got keys to everything.”

  “But he—” I began.

  “Thanks for all your help,” said Gabe. “This whole thing must be so upsetting.”

  Mr. Langley blew out some air. “You have no idea. And the worst part is, the money we raised wasn’t nearly enough. We need three times that much, just to keep up.” The corners of his mouth pulled downwards.

  “Well,” said Gabe, “we’ve spent enough of your time.”

  And speaking of time, ours was up. Lunch period ended, the bell rang, and we headed back to class.

  It’s hard to focus on lessons when your eyes are glued to the clock. I tried not to, but couldn’t help worrying. Sure, Gabe was brilliant, but how could we possibly solve this mystery before three o’clock while we were stuck here in class?

  My friend maintained his poker face, but I caught him chewing his pencil eraser a couple times, a sure sign that his mental wheels were spinning. Still, aside from a longish bathroom break during our last period, he stayed at his desk, apparently doing schoolwork.

  At last, the final bell rang. Gathering up our notes and textbooks, we joined the kids streaming up the hallway.

  “So who did it, G?” I asked, pushing his wheelchair along. (He let me help sometimes when he was tired.)

  “Patience,” he said. “All will be revealed.”

  Easy for him to say.

  When we reached the principal’s office, we found we weren’t alone. Mr. Langley and Mr. Shamoon were standing before her desk, arguing. And right after we arrived, Ms. Bustamante ushered Mrs. Dunbarton into the office.

  There was officially no more room for another body.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” huffed the PTA treasurer.

  “Yeah,” said Mr. Shamoon. “Why’d you call us in?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Principal Braxton cleared her throat. “Gabriel, what’s going on?”

  “I invited them in your name,” he said. My friend let his gaze roam over the adults’ faces, one by one. “We’re here to solve the mystery of who stole the Casino Night money. And the thief, ladies and gentlemen, is right here in this room.”

  For the solution to this story, please turn here.

  The Case of the Mysterious Mystery Writer

  by Tyler Whitesides

  What’s next?” I asked my little sister as I switched off the mixer and watched the cookie dough tumble to a halt.

  She quickly checked the recipe and answered, “Chocolate chips.”

  Dusting flour from my hands, I stepped over to the pant
ry and pulled out the half-empty bag of chocolate chips. “Aha!” I suddenly shouted. “You’ve been snitching chocolate!”

  “What are you talking about?” Jules defended. “Dad used half of the chips when he made cookies last week.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Dad made cookies. You didn’t help that time.”

  “So?”

  “So the twist tie closing this bag is wrapped left over right.” I held it out for her inspection. “A right-handed person wraps a twist tie the opposite way, which means that this bag of chocolate chips was last opened by a left-handed person. That’s not Dad or Mom. And that’s not me . . .”

  I saw her squirm under the proof. I had her now!

  “Well,” she said, “at least I wasn’t the one who ate the last doughnut from the box Mom bought on our way home from my ceramics lesson.”

  “That was Dad,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” she taunted me.

  “All I know is that the doughnut was there when I went to bed at ten, and gone when I woke up in the morning,” I answered.

  “There is a difference between going to bed and going to sleep,” said Jules. “You snuck back into the kitchen at approximately 10:20 p.m. and ate the doughnut.” She narrowed her eyes in challenge.

  “Proof?” I asked.

  “Your bedroom light was on until 10:30.”

  “I was reading.”

  “Your book was in the bathroom,” she said. “And I checked your toothbrush. It was dry.”

  “I must have forgotten to brush.”

  “I checked it again at 10:45,” said Jules. “It was damp.”

  I squirmed under the proof. She had me now.

  “I don’t see why I need to mention the chocolate chips to Dad,” I said quietly.

  “And the doughnut will remain our little secret.” She stretched out her hand, a bit of dried cookie dough stuck to one finger. We shook in a truce.

  Jules was getting good at this. Too good. Together we were becoming unstoppable. We hadn’t had a single case go cold in the last year. In a few more months, Jules would have her tenth birthday. Once she reached the double digits, we’d probably start charging for our investigative services.

  The doorbell rang.

  I set down the open bag of chocolate chips and headed for the front door, but Jules beat me to it. Sofia Diaz was standing in the doorway, an anxious look on her face as she wrung her hands together.