“About time!” she says.
“ABOUT TIME!” Frank copies, tapping his foot too.
We pass through a billiard room, a lounge, a family room, a living room, a great room, and a den. Honestly, I don’t know what the difference is between any of these rooms. Each one is grander than the last, with arched ceilings, old tapestries, marble walls, wide windows, and hardwood floors.
At last we get to a dining room, and the butler, Smythe, comes in with a tray of teacups, a teapot, milk, sugar, honey, and a bowl of jelly beans.
Guinevere pours a half a cup’s worth of jelly beans into her tea and begins stirring madly.
Let me repeat that: she put jelly beans in her tea.
“So, now,” Guinevere says. “What are your names?”
“I’m Carlos,” I say, “and this is my best fri—I mean, my colleague Eliza. And another detective, Frank.”
“And you three will solve my case?”
“We’re the best detectives the agency has to offer.” And seeing as we’re the only detectives it could offer, it’s not technically a lie.
Guinevere takes a sip of tea. “Mmmmm, jelly beany.” She sighs.
Eliza leans forward, eyes squinty. I know that face. It means she’s thinking very hard. “Why don’t you start with the first threat? When did you receive it?”
“About two months ago,” Guinevere says. “I got a threatening letter in the mail. No return address. No stamps.”
“Interesting,” Eliza says.
“Interesting how?” Guinevere asks.
“You mean boring!” Frank cries, and I kick him under the table.
Eliza ignores Frank. “Well, the lack of fingerprints means that the criminal was wearing gloves. But more importantly, it means he or she is smart. And the fact that the letter didn’t go through the mail means the threat was hand delivered. Someone had to come to your mailbox and deliver it in person. He—or she—was in town. And since the threats have continued, he or she is probably still in town.”
“Impressive,” Guinevere says. “I can see why the agency sent you.”
Eliza gives a shy grin. I smile too, only I can’t stop thinking about how much smarter she is than me, and how I don’t have any special skills to offer this case, and how much Mom needs the money. And suddenly I’m not smiling at all.
Eliza looks at me for approval, and I flash her a thumbs-up when Guinevere LeCavalier looks away to shovel more jelly beans into her tea. “Yes, Eliza is one of the top detectives on staff,” I tell Guinevere. Then I glare at Frank, who has started falling asleep on the table.
“So do you think I’m in danger?” Guinevere says, shaking so much that her tea sloshes over the top. “My lawyer seems to think I’m in grave danger.”
“Your lawyer?” Eliza says.
“Oh yes,” Guinevere says. “Attorney Joe Maddock. Best in town. He charges an arm and a leg—well, really, more like two arms, two legs, a torso, and a head. He’s been swinging by the house often, ever since the threats started, so I’ve been writing him a lot of checks recently. But if he’s the most expensive lawyer in town, he must be the best, right?”
“Uh, sure,” I say.
“I am very afraid,” Guinevere says. “This nasty affair has thrown off my whole groove! And I would meet the letter’s demands if that would just make this all go away! But the demands are impossible. . . .”
“What were the demands?” Eliza and I ask simultaneously.
“The criminal wants me to share the location of my late husband’s treasure.”
“Treasure!” Frank perks up. “What treasure?”
“Wouldn’t I like to know!” Guinevere LeCavalier pinches her eyebrows together like she’s thinking really, really hard. “The thing is,” she says, “I have no idea where or what the treasure is. My husband died five years ago, and he left me a treasure in his will. The problem is, I can’t find it. You see, he only left me one clue, which was supposed to lead me to more clues, but I can’t figure it out. He was very odd. I keep thinking if I find the treasure, this would all be over. I could hand it to the criminal, and maybe they would just go away before anyone gets hurt.”
“Hurt?” I gulp. “You think the criminal will actually go through with the death threat?”
Guinevere nods, and her many necklaces jangle. “Perhaps. The first threat was very . . . chilling.”
* * *
TO ASK MORE ABOUT THE DEATH THREATS, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK TO SEE THE FIRST CLUE OF THE TREASURE HUNT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE NEED TO search Ivy’s room. She is, after all, the prime suspect. Well, a prime suspect. Or maybe she’s just a suspect.
We dash up to Ivy’s room. There are a lot of bedrooms in the house, but we know this one’s hers because it’s got a couple of suitcases in it. She still hasn’t unpacked from when she arrived this morning.
We shut the door behind us. I grab one suitcase, Eliza grabs the other, and Frank starts trying on Ivy’s fancy hats. He prances in front of the mirror, giggling like mad.
My suitcase is full of clothes—summer dresses, tank tops, shorts, socks, and even underwear. Ewwwwww! I close the suitcase back up and go to help Eliza sift through hers. That one is filled completely with papers.
“What is this?” I ask, holding one up to the light. It’s full of numbers, and it looks like gibberish to me.
“Financial records,” Eliza gasps. “Ivy is having money problems!”
“Money problems!” I choke. “But what does that mean?”
“She has a motive,” Eliza says. “She really needs the treasure—”
We both stop dead. The doorknob is turning.
* * *
TO HIDE, CLICK HERE.
TO FACE WHOEVER’S AT THE DOOR, CLICK HERE.
* * *
THERE’S JUST NO reasoning with Smythe. We have to make a break for it.
“Run!” I shriek.
All three of us run at Smythe, who is so surprised he doesn’t know which one of us to go after. Frank leaps by his left side, Eliza spins into the house with a pirouette on his right, and I slide through his legs—just like I slide into home on my baseball team each year.
Once we’re in the house, there’s no stopping—we can’t let Smythe catch us.
“Kids!” he hollers after us, chasing us with a spatula. “I’ll call the cops!”
But we run much faster than he does.
“HIDE AND GO SEEK! HIDE AND GO SEEK!” Frank shouts as we dash through the grand ballroom. Then we scamper down the hall, and the wooden floor squeaks under our sneakers. We climb the stairs, and Frank’s muddy shoes track dirt on the white runner (oops). Then we hop down the tapestry-covered hall like bunnies. Then we soar through a stone archway. And BAM!
Our path is a dead end.
The room we’re standing in is circular—two stories tall, no windows, and the whole wall is lined with books, like a mini library. There’s also a ladder to get to the books that are too tall to reach by tiptoe. The desk is right in the center of the room, made of dark red wood with some sort of shiny polish. It looks like a desk made of glazed red-velvet doughnuts. This must’ve been Mr. LeCavalier’s study.
“Why did we stop?” cries Frank. “Let’s go!”
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Big thudding footsteps are headed our way, and I know Smythe is in the hallway we just came from. There’s no way out of this room without running right into Smythe! We’re trapped. Cornered.
“Hide!” I tell Eliza and Frank.
Frank curls himself onto a half-empty bookshelf, but Eliza stays put and shakes her head.
“We need to meet Smythe. Head-on. It’s time to talk to him.”
“No,” I insist. “Hide!”
“No! Talk!” she says.
“Hide!”
“Talk!”
* * *
TO HIDE FROM SMYTHE, CLICK HERE.
TO TALK TO SMYTHE, CLICK HERE.
I ENTER THE password Art Blue Book Hare Sad into the keyboard underneath the doorknob, and the door swings open, revealing a plain hallway, totally unlike anything I’ve seen in Guinevere LeCavalier’s house before. The floors and walls are both made of reddish wood, and nothing hangs on any of the walls. It’s way too plain. I guess she doesn’t care if the staff lives with nice stuff.
I take a step into the hall, and I realize it’s ten degrees hotter in this wing of the house, too. Maybe Guinevere doesn’t pump AC through parts of the house she doesn’t go in? But that seems pretty unfair to poor Smythe.
Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy. I definitely know how that feels—living without air-conditioning makes me grumpy!
Frank leaps ahead and stops at the last door on the right. “Found it!” He gestures to the door. When I catch up to him, I see that the door has a nameplate: SAMUEL S. SMYTHE.
I pump my fist silently, and Eliza grins. Then she puts a hand over Frank’s mouth to make sure he doesn’t accidentally shout.
I push the door open, ever so slightly.
Clomp.
A big, floor-shaking step comes from inside the room, and the door swings open.
“What are you doing?” fumes Smythe, his droopy eyes red with rage.
Eliza stammers. “I just—we just—”
“This is my room! You cannot come in here without my permission, and I give you no such permission!”
Shoot shoot shoot!
Run! my brain suddenly shouts. Runnnnnnnnnnn!
I grab Eliza and Frank by the hands, back out of the staff’s hallway, and leave Smythe roaring behind us.
Eliza is trembling from fear, but poor Frank is on the verge of tears. “That was scarier than everything.”
“No kidding,” I say, patting Frank on the back.
My heart is still beating wildly. I lean against one of Guinevere’s fancy tapestries and wipe my sweaty hands on the cloth.
Eliza and Frank are both looking to me, so I have to pull it together. “Next time,” I say, my voice a little shakier than I want it to sound, “let’s make sure the person whose room we want to search isn’t in the room.”
“Speaking of,” Eliza says, “we could try searching Ivy’s room right now. . . .”
“Noooooooooo,” Frank whines. “Not again!”
“We have to find more clues, Fra—”
KABOOM!
A huge crash echoes down the hallway—so loud it’s like the house is caving in. The noise is followed by an earsplitting, hair-raising shriek. A woman’s voice! Could Guinevere be in trouble?
Frank squeals and hugs Eliza’s legs for comfort. For the first time, I worry about danger . . . and wonder if maybe we shouldn’t have taken this case.
Should we follow the noise? On the one hand, the best detectives would monitor a crash.
But on the other hand, maybe the best detectives would take advantage of a distraction like this to go search a suspect’s room. This might be our only chance to search Ivy’s room for clues.
* * *
TO FOLLOW THE NOISE, CLICK HERE.
TO SEARCH IVY’S ROOM, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“WHO ELSE KNOWS about the treasure?” I ask.
“Well, there’s me,” she says. “And my daughter, Ivy, as I said. And Smythe, my butler of thirty years. Under my employment for ages. Although . . .”
I lean forward. “Although?”
She looks around to make sure Smythe isn’t lurking nearby before she squeaks, “He has been grouchy lately. Even more than usual.” She shakes her head. “But no, no, it’s not him. I trust him completely!” she says, sounding very firm about it.
Eliza and I exchange a look.
“Who else? Ah! My lawyer,” continues Guinevere LeCavalier. “Yes, Joe Maddock knows about the treasure, too.”
“GUILTY!” Frank cries, and I clamp my hand over his mouth.
“So,” Eliza recaps, with a quick glare at Frank, “we have Ivy, the daughter who you haven’t seen in years; Smythe, your butler; and Maddock, your lawyer. Anyone else?”
“I suppose,” Guinevere says, “that anyone who works in the house might know about it. But I certainly haven’t said anything. And I trust Smythe hasn’t either.”
“Still,” I say. “It wouldn’t hurt to question them. And who exactly works around your house? Besides Smythe?”
“Well, the only other person who is around regularly is my landscaper, Otto. He’s been redoing all my flowers and bushes. My husband used to take care of that, and since he passed, I’m afraid I’ve let the weeds sprout for far too long! We have a terrible infestation!” She pauses. “Is . . . is any of this a help to you?”
“Yes!” I say.
“Utterly,” Eliza says.
“Milk comes from udders, you know!” Frank says.
“Before you go,” Guinevere LeCavalier says, “I must warn you about my . . . strange house. There are some rooms and secret passageways that are locked and can only be opened by solving a puzzle. You be careful, now.”
“We will,” Eliza says. I know she loves the sound of puzzles. And Frank loves the sound of secret passageways and locked rooms.
We stand up from the table and excuse ourselves.
Eliza squeals when we get into the hallway. “I’m so glad we did this! I love mysteries, and this one is juicy!”
She’s too giddy about death threats, I think. “I’m glad you’re excited, but it’s not a book, Eliza,” I remind her. “It’s real.”
She grins.
“So where do we start?” I ask her.
“We start by questioning our suspects. We have two things to consider: motive and means.”
I should know more about detective work, especially after watching Mom solve a few cases. “Motive and means? What’s that?”
“Motive—who has a reason to commit the crime? Means—who is physically able to commit the crime? So the criminal is going to be someone who wants—or needs—the treasure. Badly. That’s the motive. And the means is the ability to set up the threats. The culprit obviously needs access to the house to pull this off.”
“So we have to figure out who needs the treasure. And which of them was able to do the threats. Right?”
Eliza nods.
“Let’s play house,” Frank says.
“We don’t have time to play house right now,” Eliza says, taking him by the hand. “We can play later.”
“Okay,” Frank says. “But only if I’m the llama.”
“There aren’t any llamas in house, Frank,” I say.
“There is in my house! And unicorns too!”
I ignore Frank. Last thing I want is for him to throw a tantrum when I tell him the bad news about the existence of unicorns. . . .
Suddenly a man comes strutting down the hall like he’s very important. He’s carrying a briefcase and, boy, does he smell awful!
He is coated in about five layers of cologne. His odor is so sharp and so strong—it’s like he took a bath in cleaning solution. Blech.
I cough and put my sleeve to my nose, trying to breathe through my shirt.
“MADDOCK!” I whisper loudly. “I bet that’s Maddock, the lawyer!”
“Should we talk to—” Eliza begins, and I don’t even wait for her to finish the question before I wave Maddock down.
“Mr. Maddock, sir!” I shout, and the three of us run up to him.
Maddock is a middle-aged man with dark, greasy, slicked-back hair. His face is sharp and angular, with a chin so pointy he could carve an ice sculpture with it.
“Children,” he says distastefully.
“If you don’t mind, sir,” Eliza says, “we have a few questions for you.”
“I do mind,” Maddock says. “I have nothing to say to children. Now run along and play.”
“Hey!” I shout. “We have important questions for you!”
“YEAH, YOU BIG MEANIE!” Frank adds.
Maddock looks at his watch and
sighs. “As much as I’d like to participate in your little game, kids, I have real work to do. And I don’t have time for this.”
“This isn’t a game!” I say. “We’ve been hired to solve Guinevere LeCavalier’s case.”
At this, Maddock raises his eyebrows at us. “Oh, really?” he says with an amused smirk. He leans against the wall, like he’s trying to be cool. “And what is it you want from me?”
“We have questions. About what’s been going on around here.”
“Then perhaps you should be interviewing Smythe,” Maddock says. “Guinevere LeCavalier’s butler.”
“Yes, we’ve met,” Eliza says.
“And he’s a big meanie, too!” Frank adds.
Maddock sneers. “He lives here with Mrs. LeCavalier. If you’re curious about what’s been going on around here, he would know. Not me. So go find him.”
“We’ll get to him later,” I say. “You first. Now, what do you know about Guinevere LeCavalier’s treasu—”
“Oh, look at the time!” Maddock says pointedly. “Listen, kids. This was entertaining at first, but I am no longer interested in your antics. I have very important things to be doing right now. I don’t usually make house calls, you know. Good-bye.”
He tightens up his tie and scurries down the hallway.
I squint after him. “Guilty behavior?”
“Who knows?” Eliza says. “He did seem like he was in an awful hurry to leave.”
“We can follow him to see what he’s up to—”
“YES! FOLLOW!” Frank squeals.
“Or,” I continue, “we could try to interview Smythe. He did seem really grumpy.”
“True,” Eliza says. “Maddock’s right about one thing—Smythe does have free rein of this house. Though . . . I wonder what ‘important things’ Maddock is doing. Why is he here? Why would he come to Mrs. LeCavalier’s house instead of having her visit his office? Maybe he wants access to the house to set up threats. . . .”
Case Closed #1 Page 2