Super Puzzletastic Mysteries

by Chris Grabenstein

“Put it back in the case,” said Juliette.

  “And who took the case?” I asked.

  “I did,” said Juliette. “It’s my responsibility.”

  “It’s really big,” I said. “Is it hard to carry around?”

  “No, it’s got wheels and a handle like a suitcase,” she explained. “It’s easy.”

  “So then you wheeled it outside for the hockey clinic?” asked Margaret.

  “No,” said Darius. “First we did an interview with . . .” he turned to Juliette. “What’s her name?”

  “Kinzly Vance,” sneered Juliette.

  “You don’t like her?” I asked.

  “I don’t like it when TV crews show up unannounced,” she replied. “If she wanted to interview Darius, she should have put in a request to the team.”

  “Sorry about that,” the principal said sheepishly. “Her daughter’s a student here, and I told her she could come.”

  “Yes, but she knows better,” said Juliette. “And it wouldn’t have mattered, except Kinzly’s famous for throwing out surprise questions. Always looking to trip someone up and get a scoop. That’s why I stood next to her for the whole interview. I wanted to hear everything.”

  “Where was the cup during the interview?” I asked. “In the shot?”

  “They wanted that, but I told them no,” said Juliette. “It’s big and silver and reflects a lot of light. It would’ve taken them at least fifteen minutes to set up the lights and we had to be at the clinic in five. So I told them if they wanted the interview, they’d have to do it without the cup.”

  “If you were watching the interview,” said Margaret. “That means you weren’t watching the trophy.”

  Juliette realized she was right. “Yes, but only for a few minutes. And there was just the four of us: Kinzly, the cameraman, Darius, and me.”

  “What about the producer?” I asked. “Earlier there was a producer with them.”

  “I didn’t see any producer,” said Juliette.

  Margaret and I shared a look, thinking this might be significant. Before we left, I pulled Mr. Albright aside and said, “I know you don’t want the authorities involved. But if we can’t find it, this may become a crime scene.”

  He understood what I meant and used his walkie-talkie to call the chief custodian. He had him lock all the doors to the auditorium and told him not to let anyone in without his permission.

  We went out to the parking lot where preparations were underway for the parade. There were cars and floats and some fans already lining the street. They cheered when they saw Darius and he waved back and smiled, giving no hint that anything was wrong.

  “The parade starts in thirty-nine minutes,” Mr. Albright said checking his watch. “If we haven’t found the cup by then, it’s going to be pretty obvious.”

  He motioned to the convertible at the rear of the parade lineup. A sign on the car read, “Darius King and the Stanley Cup.”

  “That’s not our only problem,” I said surveying the parking lot. “Everything’s been taken down from the hockey clinic. The crime scene’s already changed.”

  “Actually, no,” corrected Juliette. “I was worried about all the people running around, so I locked the cup up with the band’s equipment.”

  In the corner of the parking lot was a truck with a cargo trailer. “Washington Capitals Pep Band” was painted on the side along with pictures of the team’s logo and the Stanley Cup.

  I couldn’t believe it. “You’ve had the cup for less than a week and they’ve already put it on the trailer.”

  “They’re hard-core fans,” said Darius.

  “Sometimes a little too much,” added Juliette.

  “What do you mean?” asked Margaret.

  “They’re not officially part of the organization,” she explained. “Sometimes they forget that. They expect to be treated like employees instead of fans.”

  “I always thought they worked for the team,” said Margaret. “Does that mean when they play at the games they have to get their own tickets?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Which they often complain about. We reserve them a special spot and let them use an employee entrance to bring in their instruments. But they’re ticket-buying fans just like you.”

  “Deke!” called out one of the band members. “Come take a picture!”

  The man was Robert Besserer, sousaphone player and leader of the band. He excitedly took some selfies with Darius next to the trailer.

  “I can’t believe you’ve already got it painted,” said Darius.

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg,” he said excitedly. “Check these out.”

  He opened the trailer to reveal an extremely well-organized instrument storage area. There were sousaphone and trumpet cases held in place with bungee cords. Three bass drums were stacked on top of each other like a column and (catching my particular attention) there was a large wooden storage case that looked to be the perfect size to hold the Stanley Cup.

  Besserer, though, wanted to show us drumheads. “Look at these!” There were five and each featured a bright silver Stanley Cup. “I had them specially made.”

  “They’re great!” said Darius. Then he changed the subject. “Listen, we need to ask you some questions.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Anything.”

  “But it’s got to stay between us,” added Juliette. “We have to keep it in the Caps family.”

  He shot her a look. “Oh, so now I’m part of the family?”

  There was tension, but Darius quickly defused it. “Of course you are.” Then he added, “And maybe I can sign some things for your shop.”

  It turned out Besserer owned a sports memorabilia and card shop in Bethesda.

  “Of course,” said Besserer. “Anything for you, Deke.”

  Darius looked at me. “Go ahead, ask him your questions.”

  “Where was the Stanley Cup while Darius taught his clinics?” I asked.

  “Right in here.” Besserer motioned to the trailer.

  “Did you keep an eye on it?” asked Margaret.

  “Didn’t have to,” he replied. “I closed the trailer and locked it.” He motioned to a padlock on the door. “Me and the other sousaphones had to practice. We’ve got a new number we’re premiering at the parade today.” He turned to Darius. “You’re going to love it. It’s called ‘Deke to Deke.’”

  “I can’t wait,” Darius said.

  I was just about to ask another question when something caught Juliette’s eye. “What’s she doing here?”

  We saw Kinzly Vance and her cameraman watching us from across the parking lot.

  “She already got her interview,” Juliette said. “I can’t believe she’d wait around all day just to get some video of the parade.”

  “She didn’t wait around,” I said. “She must’ve left and come back because she’s wearing different clothes.”

  “You’re right,” Juliette said. “Now that really makes no sense.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “She can’t edit the video together with what she shot earlier,” she explained. “It’ll look wrong if her clothes change in the middle of the story. It’s called a continuity error.”

  “So that means she’s here for a new story,” Margaret said.

  No one said it out loud, but we knew what that story might be. The disappearance of the Stanley Cup would make for a huge scoop. She noticed us watching her and smiled.

  Before we left, I had one more question for Besserer.

  “What goes in there?” I asked pointing at the wooden storage case.

  “A glockenspiel,” he said. “It’s like a xylophone with a harness, so you can play it in a marching band.”

  “I don’t remember one earlier,” I said.

  “That’s because Tony plays the glock and he couldn’t make it,” he explained. “He’s a dentist and had to work.”

  “Can I see it?” I asked.

  “The glockenspiel?” said Besserer. “It�
��s not in there. Tony keeps it at his house to practice.”

  “No,” I said. “Can I see inside the box?”

  The moment turned suddenly tense. In effect, I was calling him a liar and he didn’t like the implication. But I was also with Darius, so he went along with it.

  “Sure.” He stepped up into the trailer and opened the case. “See. Empty.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I turned to Mr. Albright and gave him a little look.

  “Right,” he said. “I’m going to get a resource officer out here to secure the scene and make sure nothing gets disrupted.”

  “Wow,” Besserer said shaking his head. “Now it’s a scene.” He pulled the trailer door shut and padlocked it. “Don’t bother,” he said handing Darius the key. “This is the only key. You keep it.” Then he shot a look at Juliette. “You know. In the family.”

  “Thanks,” Darius replied.

  As we went back into the school I felt guilty. Robert Besserer was a huge fan, so excited about the Stanley Cup that he’d already repainted his trailer and ordered special drumheads. And we’d just made him feel like a criminal. But that’s part of working a case and there was nothing I could do about that.

  “Where to next?” asked Margaret.

  “Cafeteria,” said Darius.

  Margaret and I both gave him a look. “Why?”

  “I wanted to thank the staff,” he answered. “You know my favorite saying, right?”

  “Put the biscuit in the basket,” said Margaret.

  “So as a present they made me a basket of biscuits,” he explained. “Absolutely delicious.”

  We got to the kitchen and Ms. Wilkes, the cafeteria manager, lit up when she saw Darius.

  “Looking for more biscuits?” she asked.

  “Not now,” said Darius. “But don’t be surprised if I show up for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Ms. Wilkes, we’re wondering if you can help us,” Mr. Albright said. “We’re trying to re-create the activities from the day.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” he replied.

  She could tell he didn’t want to go into specifics. “How can I help?”

  “Do you remember when Mr. King came in here?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Right after the last lunch. In between fifth and sixth periods.”

  “So the students were all gone?” he asked.

  “It was just the kitchen staff and the two of them,” she responded. “And that big black case they were wheeling around.”

  “What happened while you were here?” I asked Darius.

  “I thanked everyone for the biscuits and we all posed for pictures.”

  “Well, not all of us,” said Ms. Wilkes. “Doug Thiel’s from Chicago. He’s a die-hard Blackhawks fan and since the Caps beat them in the finals, he’s been a bit of a sore loser.”

  “Where was he during this?” I asked.

  “Unloading a delivery,” she replied.

  “Here are the pictures,” Juliette said showing us her phone.

  “And where was the case while you took them?” I asked.

  “Right there by the pantry,” she said.

  “And where was Mr. Thiel taking care of the delivery?” asked Margaret.

  “In the pantry,” said Ms. Wilkes.

  I looked at the angle of the photos and realized that, while she was taking them, Juliette’s back was turned to the case.

  “And it was just a few seconds?” I asked.

  “I took the pictures,” she answered. “And then I got everyone’s email addresses, so I could send them copies.”

  “Hmmm,” said Margaret. “So your back was turned for at least a minute or two. That might be enough time.”

  Juliette slumped. “I’ve just made one mistake after another.”

  Darius put his arm around her shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’re in this together.”

  Inside the pantry we were surprised to see a row of fifty-five-gallon storage drums. They were the perfect size for hiding the cup.

  “What are these?” I asked.

  “We cook over a thousand meals a day,” said Ms. Wilkes. “So we order lots of ingredients in bulk.”

  We spent the next ten minutes opening each drum, but they all checked out clean. Still, Ms. Wilkes admitted that some drums may have been put on a truck and taken away after the delivery. She also said that Mr. Thiel had already left for the day, explaining, “He gets here a few hours before school to start cooking, so he gets off early.”

  Mr. Albright thanked her for helping us and we returned to his office. It was obvious Juliette had given up hope but Margaret and I still worked the case.

  “Let’s talk it through,” said Margaret. “The first question is ‘do you really think Mr. Thiel would steal the cup just because the Caps beat his favorite team?’”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But it’s possible. Just like it’s possible Kinzly Vance’s producer stole it, so she could get a big story. And it’s possible Robert Besserer stole it because he’s angry at how the team treats the pep band.”

  “Which means we’re right back where we started,” said Juliette.

  I went to protest, but she held up a hand to stop me. “I’m not blaming you. You did great. You two are super smart. The problem is that I’m dumb. Or at least I was dumb today. The cup is my responsibility and it was taken because I didn’t watch it properly.”

  The parade was scheduled to start in five minutes. We could hear the pep band warming up outside.

  “If Darius doesn’t have the Stanley Cup when he’s riding in that convertible, it will be all over social media before the parade makes it halfway down the street,” said Juliette. “I can’t let the team find out that way. I have to tell them I lost it.”

  “Say it was my fault,” Darius offered. “I scored fifty-three goals and was the MVP of the Stanley Cup Finals. They’re not going to fire me.”

  She laughed. “I appreciate it. But I’m telling them it’s my fault because it is.”

  The bass drums began to pound, and people started chanting, “Rock the red! Rock the red!” Time was up and we didn’t have the cup.

  And then it hit me.

  Something was wrong, I wasn’t sure what, but something was out of place. Suddenly, images started flying through my mind. The Stanley Cup. Biscuits in a basket. Sousaphones. Storage drums. Bass drums. Kinzly Vance’s clothes. The cafeteria. Street hockey. Blackhawks. It was all a blur.

  And then I saw it as clear as day. Suddenly everything made sense and all I heard was, “Rock the red! Rock the red!”

  Juliette looked distraught as she waited for her boss to answer the phone. Just as she was about to talk, I snatched it from her.

  “Sorry, wrong number,” I said using a fake deep voice. Then I ended the call.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Juliette.

  “Because I know where the Stanley Cup is,” I said with a Cheshire grin.

  “How?” exclaimed Darius.

  “It’s complicated,” I answered. “But the first thing you need to know is that ‘Rock the red’ changes everything.”

  For the solution to this story, please turn here.

  Solutions

  Solution for Snow Devils

  “It wasn’t Hubert Montgomery,” Riley told Mr. Ball.

  He and Mongo were sitting in the vice principal’s cinder-block office. Mongo looked nervous. Riley did not.

  “Go on, Mr. Mack,” said the school’s disciplinarian. “I’m listening. But only until two twenty-five. Then I’m calling the police.”

  Riley glanced up at the square clock on the wall. It clicked from two nineteen to two twenty.

  He had five minutes.

  “There was a pair of snow devils involved in this prank, which, actually, wasn’t a prank.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That FART out back?” Riley gestured toward the window. The big word was still ther
e. “It wasn’t a joke. It was a giant cheat sheet created by an eighth grader named Brandon Kilmeade.”

  Mr. Ball nodded. “I know Mr. Kilmeade. We’ve had a few . . . discussions. Go on.”

  “Kilmeade charged Steve Duffy, who, by the way, has to be the laziest student on the planet, twenty bucks to steal the answers for his makeup history quiz in Mrs. Henkin’s class.”

  Mr. Ball bristled. “How could you possibly know such a thing, Mr. Mack?”

  “Easy. Steve told me. But even after Kilmeade gave him the answers, Steve Duffy was still freaking out.”

  “He must have severe test anxiety,” said Mongo.

  “I’m guessing having the answers to the quiz wasn’t enough for Duffy,” said Riley. “So Kilmeade gave him a giant cheat sheet.”

  “I’m not following your logic,” said Mr. Ball.

  “The history quiz was only four questions long,” Riley explained. “And it was about American presidents. The answers? Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Abraham Lincoln, Richard Nixon, and Thomas Jefferson.”

  “I still don’t . . .”

  “Take the first letters of their first names.”

  “F-A-R-T,” mumbled Mr. Ball.

  Riley nodded.

  “What about the boots?” asked Mr. Ball.

  “Well, sir, I confess I don’t have any proof to back me up, but I believe Mr. Kilmeade ‘borrowed’ them from Mongo last night. My friend here keeps them on his porch overnight when they’re wet.”

  “Those are my mom’s rules,” said Mongo. “You want me to ask her to check our security cameras?”

  “You have security cameras?” said Mr. Ball.

  Mongo nodded. “We had a dognapping incident at our house not too long ago. We installed them after that.”

  Mr. Ball stood up behind his desk.

  “Mr. Mack?”

  Riley stood up, too.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Job well done.” Mr. Ball extended his hand. Riley shook it. “Now, if you two gentlemen will excuse me, I need to locate a certain pair of eighth graders.”

  Mongo raised his hand.

  “Yes, Hubert?” said Mr. Ball.

  “May I have my boots back? The sidewalks are still kind of slushy.”

  “Of course. Here you go.”

  Mr. Ball handed Mongo his boots, exited the office, and scurried down the hall, barking into his walkie-talkie. “This is Ball. I need a 10-20 on Brandon Kilmeade and Steven Duffy. ASAP!”