Mystery in Mayan Mexico

by Marcia Wells

  When he opens his mouth to speak, I don’t know if people are expecting a caveman because of his size or what, but usually within thirty seconds it becomes clear that Dad truly knows everything about everything, from the weather patterns in the Amazon to quantum physics to food dye in pistachio ice cream. It’s part of his job.

  Cones in hand, we leave the shop and head down a quieter street toward an empty park bench. I sit and watch the traffic trickle by, trying to ignore the gloom brewing in my stomach. Ice cream out with Dad usually means one thing: serious conversations involving bad news. Like the time when he told me that my hamster Leviticus had been trapped and eaten by Sadie, our evil cat. That day involved some cookies ’n’ cream and a whole lot of tissues.

  “Edmund,” my father says quietly, hailing the arrival of the Moment of Reckoning. My stomach does a somersault. All breathing stops.

  I should be on a bus headed over to the Upper West Side, where we live. I wish I were on that bus. I’d be a lot warmer. And calmer.

  “Edmund, they’ve cut my hours back at the library again. I’m going to search for a different job, but in this economy . . .” He lets the sentence hang there. I know where this is going. I’ve heard the rumblings at home. I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say next, so I take a big lick of my ice cream in a desperate attempt to distract my brain. Yuck. Gurgly things start happening to my already churning digestive tract.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but we can’t send you back to Senate next year. We just can’t afford it. You’ll have to switch schools. But don’t worry,” he adds, patting my hand. “You’ll make new friends. And you can visit Jonah on the weekends.”

  No more Senate Academy? The words wash over me, fizzing on my skin like a bad rash. No more awesome classes like architecture and photography and fencing? No more bus rides or bagel breakfast sandwiches with Jonah? Or blowing things up in chem lab with Jonah or eating at Al’s Pizza after school with Jonah?

  “What about a loan?” I ask. “I’ll do anything. I’ll get an afterschool job.” Who would hire an eleven-year-old? Maybe the Mafia . . . they have kids run errands for them all the time in the movies. “I’ll pay you back, plus interest. We have to talk to Mom. She’ll know how to fix it.”

  Icy wind pricks at my eyes, making them water. Just then a woman walks by in a pink scarf, her green eyes widening with sympathy. Great, she thinks I’m crying. I wipe the frozen tears away quickly. All I need is for someone from my class to witness this and I’ll be called Little Boo Boo Sniffles or something equally moronic for the rest of the year. Although, maybe if Dad thinks I’m crying he’ll take pity on me . . .

  “Edmund,” my father says softly. “Your mother agrees with me. Senate is too expensive.”

  Nope, no pity today. Before I can regroup and reload, a loud cry calls out from behind us:

  “Help!”

  My dad springs up like a jack-in-the-box and turns his head, eyes shifting toward the alley. For a big guy, the man is seriously quick on his feet.

  “Run back to the ice cream shop,” he commands in a whisper. “Call the police. I’ll meet you there.”

  He takes off into the alley. Into the alley.

  What does he always say? Never go into an alley, at any time, for any reason. Lonnrot Family Rule #1: Avoid alleys at all costs. Dangerous places . . .

  And now he is gone. Into an alley.

  Every muscle in my body fights with my brain. I can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything. I pray I don’t pee right here and now. I grip the slats of the park bench, my fingers curling around the cold wood.

  More yelling, this time spiked with my dad’s deep voice. His shouts jolt me out of my stupidity, because next thing I know my body has thrown itself behind the bench, crouched down low.

  Same stupidity, different location.

  Loud men’s voices, and now scuffling noises. I flatten my stomach against the pavement, cramming myself under the bench. The cement scrapes at my bare knees. Quite the hero. For once I am psyched to be small.

  What do I do? What do I do?

  Blend in to your surroundings, soldier! My friend Jonah’s voice shrieks silently in my head. He’s obsessed with military stuff. Quickly I take off my red cap. Without it, maybe I can pass for a blob of garbage; my black winter coat looks like a trash bag, right?

  This is the worst hiding place ever. I might as well just lie across the open sidewalk. There are no bushes, no newspaper kiosks, nothing to hide behind. Should I try to flag down a passing car? It’s New York City—no one’s going to stop unless it’s a cab. Plus I’m too chicken to move.

  I strain to hear what’s happening. The only sounds are my pulse hammering in my ears, the rustling fabric of my jacket against the gritty stone, and the whoosh of a few cars passing by, their wheels barely visible from my strange hideout. No birds, no dogs, no people. Just machinery and alley brawls in this weather.

  Must do something.

  I try to fish my cell phone out of the mountain of down quilting I’m tangled in. Finally a chance to call 9-1-1!

  Bumbling the phone with icy fingers, I watch helplessly as it clatters away from me on the cement. Terrific.

  Assess your situation! Work with what you have! More of Jonah’s combat tactics tick through my mind. Okay, assessing . . . assessing . . . I am wearing shorts and lying on a sidewalk in January. My cell phone is out of reach. I smell gum.

  A new wave of fear tightens my lungs as a man comes sprinting out of the alley and whizzing by my park bench. His long black hair and weird, spindly goatee fly back in the breeze as he books out of there. He’s holding a bloody knife in his hand, too distracted to notice the kid sprawled out on the ground.

  Click goes the camera in my mind.

  A bloody knife?

  My dad bolts out of the alley and arrives back at the bench, winded. My eyes strain to assess any damage through the slats of wood. Blood stains on his coat? Fingers grasping his side in agony? Just heavy breathing. He hunches over, hands on his knees, and slows his panting. I want to say something, tell him I’m glad he’s okay, but my mouth won’t open. His shoes start to turn in the direction of the ice cream place, then shuffle and stop, as if he’s confused.

  “I thought I told you to go to the ice cream shop.”

  I was right. Lamest hiding spot ever.

  “Sorry, Dad,” I say as I squeeze out of my crawlspace, limbs finally able to move under the protection of his faint winter shadow. “My legs didn’t work.”

  He hugs me and squats down, sliding my hat back on and staring straight into my face. “Did you get a good look at the guy?” he asks.

  I nod and he smiles.

  “That’s my boy. Let’s go call the police.”

  The man from the alley didn’t see me, but I sure saw him. Unlucky for him, very lucky for everyone else.

  You see, I have a photographic memory.

  And that will be very interesting to the police when they arrive.

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  Seventh grade is here at last. New friends, new classes, and a chance for Edmund to be a regular kid again. Everything is perfect . . . until a new grumpy teacher shows up at school: Mr. Frank—a.k.a. Detective Frank Bovano, NYPD. He’s been assigned as Eddie’s undercover bodyguard, but first he’ll have to survive teaching chemistry class.

  The elusive art thief Lars Heinrich is back in New York City, leading the cops on a wild-goose chase through the city’s most beloved monuments. Is he searching for the lost crown jewels of Ireland? Or is his target Eddie Red, the boy who ruined his last robbery? When Edmund vanishes on a carnival ride gone wrong, it’s up to Jonah, Bovano, and a Trojan horse to save the day. Will they rescue Eddie from the evil Lars before it’s too late?

  The clock is ticking.

  About the Author

  MARCIA WELLS taught middle school students for more than a decade before becoming a full
-time writer. She holds a master’s degree in Spanish literature and was influenced by the brilliant crime writing of Jorge Luis Borges in crafting the Eddie Red books. She lives with her husband and two young children in Vermont. Visit her website at www.marciawellsauthor.com.