“Yeah. Bummer, huh?”
“Bummer. Listen, I gotta go.” Pete hung up before I got out my goodbye.
As I jotted down notes in Watson, my mind lingered on my conversation with Pete. His one-word assessment of my predicament bothered me more and more. Muttering the word “bummer” had lacked any empathy or any righteous indignation on my behalf.
The more I replayed his words in my head, the more convinced I became that he was happy about my punishment. But why?
CHAPTER 19
The next morning I scanned the bikes in the rack, which the OMS powers-that-be hadn’t moved yet. No beat-up black bike with a skull sticker. Disappointed, I stopped by Mrs. Baker’s before PE to show her my updated information and inferences.
“Looking good, Gabby. Keep on going,” said Mrs. Baker. “Truth be told, I’m impressed with what you have so far.”
The school day whizzed by, and without afternoon detention to interfere, I set off to Paradise Pawn, a place I had visited while solving a previous case. The visit wasn’t a complete bust. Even though all they had in the bike department were three for little kids and a tandem so old it could have come over on the Mayflower, I hit pay dirt at the jewelry counter. A golden walnut, just like the one in the time capsule, was priced at seventy-five dollars. I tucked that info away for later.
Even though Paradise wasn’t located in a great part of town, the inside was more like a regular store than the creepy, dingy place that was my second stop. Big Joe’s reminded me of my aunt’s old fishing cabin. The place was a dump with junk piled everywhere and smelled of wet dog, dead fish, and rotting leaves.
I held my breath the best I could as I poked around. A thin old man with long hair probably from his Woodstock days kept an eye on me through his John Lennon–style wire-rimmed glasses. Two shelves were crammed with ashtrays in the shapes of dragons and squatting dwarves. They reeked of old cigarettes. Yuck.
“Can I help you?”
The asthmatic voice took me by surprise, and I wheeled around, knocking off one of the dragons. Moving faster than the speed of light, the old man’s arm shot out and caught the falling object before it shattered. I backed carefully away from the entire display.
“I’m looking for a bike.”
“What kind?” he wheezed. Probably too many cigarettes. Double yuck.
“Pink?” Realizing that was a dumb reply, I added, “Something I can ride around. Not cheap but not too pricey.”
“Follow me.”
I trailed Wheezing Hippie, careful to avoid bumping anything. We passed through some old, faded bead curtains to a back room. It had less of the noxious odors the main store had and at least twenty bikes ranging from kids’ banana seaters to practically new bikes for adults. But nothing pink.
“Thanks, but not what I’m looking for,” I said, eager to get out of the place. I didn’t know which creeped me out more: the store or the owner.
“If your heart’s set on pink, we repaint bikes all the time. You like one, I’ll have it pink by tomorrow.”
Something clicked inside my brain. All the time? People didn’t do that with used cars. If they did, our van might look less junky. Why waste the time and paint on bikes?
Unless . . . unless the repainting was to make identifying a stolen bike more difficult. Maybe the Diva’s bike was here but in disguise.
I decided to tough it out and check the bikes before getting out of Big Joe’s.
The third road bike I examined made me catch my breath. A skull sticker with flames flickering behind the empty eye sockets had been stuck on the underside of the seat. It was exactly like the one I’d seen on the black bike carrying the cold spray.
Why put it where no one could see it? Unless it was some kind of signal. Did it indicate which bikes should be cold sprayed? Or had that been stuck on after the cold spray so the second thief didn’t waste time whacking locks that wouldn’t shatter?
I checked the underside of every bike without finding another sticker. Several had paint jobs, but nothing appeared to be covering up Pepto-Bismol Pink, the Diva’s color of choice. It seemed fitting that the person who caused the most indigestion in the seventh grade would choose that shade. The Diva upset more tummies than cafeteria food did.
Wheezing Hippie stuck to me like Elmer’s Glue in a preschooler’s hair, which meant I couldn’t pull out the serial number for comparison on the one bike that still had one attached. As he encroached even further into my personal space, I began feeling unbearably uneasy and hurried through the beaded curtains a bit too fast. My body collided with another customer.
Raff!
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I glanced around nervously, wondering if any of his gang was with him. I spotted two of them—Little Chuck Chuck and a kid I didn’t know—checking out a stereo.
“Where’s your manners, Red?” Raff demanded, easily towering over my five-foot-two frame.
“Sorry,” I squeaked and headed for the door.
Raff was quicker. He grabbed my upper arm.
“You know what they say: ‘wrong place, wrong time, and wrong people.’”
I swallowed. Raff had probably heard Principal Black’s speech thousands of times. But why was he telling me this?
“Keep your nose outta things that are none of your business, Red.” He sneered, then turned me loose so abruptly that I stumbled out of the door.
My hands shook so badly it took three tries to unlock my bike, and all the looking over my shoulder didn’t help either.
Did Raff know why I was there? How could he?
Instead of checking out Dusty Deals Delivered, another local pawnshop, I headed home. I was still rattled from my close encounter of the wrong kind. But the farther away from Raff and that stinky place I got, the madder I became at myself for not standing up to him and demanding he let go of my arm. Who did he think he was, putting his hands on me?
Since I was close to Page Turner’s when I collected my wits, I decided to swing by. I’d forgotten to get Dr. Hinkley’s contact info. If I was really lucky, I could pump Howie for more info on Hope. Or Tyasia. I wasn’t sure which one I was more eager to learn about.
When I turned the corner onto Birch Street, what I saw arrested my eyes so completely, I nearly ran into a parked car.
CHAPTER 20
Pete’s bike was chained to the street sign out front, the chain lock run through two front tires. And the second bike wasn’t mine.
Did it belong to Howie’s sister, Tyasia, the girl with braids and purple beads?
I felt as awful as if I’d seen him holding hands or kissing someone else. I’d thought locking our bikes together was not just romantic but an exclusive “us” thing. Me and Pete. Not Pete and whoever.
It had to be Tyasia’s bike.
They were meeting here, behind my back.
Since Pete had never had detention, he probably was unaware it was closed on Fridays. He thought I would never find out.
Curiosity, outrage, and a cold, knifelike emotion I had no name for slashed across my heart. I started to blink and realized I was fighting back tears. I felt exposed, like a humongous red, flashing neon arrow was pointing at me, telling the world: look at the dummy.
I, Gabby St. Claire, was going to get to the bottom of this. No matter what it cost me.
I chained up my bike around the corner, where it couldn’t be spotted from Page Turner’s. Casually and cautiously I approached the used bookstore, staying close to the walls of the nearby businesses so I couldn’t be seen from inside. My heart was thudding, but I didn’t know if it was from the anxiety of what I’d seen or what I was doing.
I would not jump to the conclusion that it was Pete’s bike without proof. Solid proof from a close examination. A covert and undercover exam.
When I got to the corner of the store’s front window, I squatted down like cops do on TV shows and eased just my eyes over the edge to peer inside. A quick scan turned up no familiar faces, so I stood and scouted more thoroug
hly, keeping half of my face and body out of sight.
College Guy was at the register checking out a mom and her three preschoolers, but no one else was in sight. I stood on tiptoe to get a final look at the comic book section and satisfied myself Pete was nowhere to be seen.
While the coast was clear, I scurried to the two bicycles to get a quick peek. The bikes were parked so close together they were touching. Glancing left and right one more time, I squatted down so that the bikes would partially shield me from view if anyone looked out the store windows.
Pete had a blue 820 hardtail. This bike was a blue 820 hardtail.
I gritted my teeth.
Pete’s bike had a red chain lock. So did this one.
A squiggle of sour taste crawled through my mouth.
Pete’s bike had a couple of dings on the front fork. This one had dings in the same area. My stomach knotted up.
Whoever had chained these up had used the same MO—cop talk for same method. My vision blurred, and for a moment, the chain resembled a red cobra preparing to strike. I blinked and the chain reappeared, although my heart felt like it had been pierced by fangs.
The second bike was purple with a really bad paint job. Flaking revealed pieces of the original color peeking out here and there.
Pink. This bike had been pink. Pepto-Bismol Pink.
Just like the Diva’s stolen bike.
With numb fingers I fumbled with my backpack and pulled out the piece of paper with her serial number on it. I had to kneel and twist my head to view the little metal plate underneath the down tube by the gears. The first three numbers were scratched too much to read, and the fourth so badly I couldn’t tell if it was an eight or a three.
But the last three numbers were an exact match.
CHAPTER 21
“I want to report a stolen bike.”
“Your name?”
“Gabby St. Claire.”
“What was the last known location of this bicycle?” asked the police dispatcher in a tired tone.
“No, I found the stolen bike. Just now. At least I think I have.” I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and started over. “Last week a pink bike belonging to Donabell Bullock was stolen from Oceanside Middle School. Officer Glenn said if someone found the bike, we shouldn’t try to recover it ourselves but call the police. I think this bike is that bike.”
“What bike?”
“The bike chained up in front of Page Turner’s Novel Ideas—a used bookstore on Birch Street.” Why hadn’t she already sent a squad car screaming to the scene? Any minute someone could arrive and unchain the bikes, and the evidence would disappear like cookies at a slumber party.
“And you think this is the stolen bike because . . . ?”
“Because the last three, possibly four, serial numbers match, and someone tried painting it purple but the pink is showing through,” I huffed, my patience wearing as thin as ice in July.
“What about the first numbers?”
“They have been scratched so badly I can’t read them. Deliberately.” I hoped I could convince her to hurry up and do something besides asking so many questions.
“Are your parents aware you think you have found your bike?”
“No!” I had reached the end of my rope. “Could I please speak to Officer Glenn?”
“I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. If you will give me your home address and phone number, we’ll send an officer out to speak to you and your parents about the bicycle.”
“My parents have nothing to do with this bike. It’s not mine. It will be long gone if someone doesn’t come now,” I snapped. My mind was already formulating Plan B.
I knew Pete’s bike lock combination began with three. How many would I have to try before I stumbled onto the other two numbers?
If I could figure it out, I could unlock the bikes, hide Donabell’s somewhere, and then . . . then what? I didn’t know, but I had to act and act now, or everything would fall apart.
“I’m just going to take the bike,” I said. I paused, unsure of how to complete the thought because I had no idea where I’d take it.
The dispatcher didn’t give me a chance to finish. “Do not do that.” Her voice hardened into the typical tone of authority. “You could be charged with a misdemeanor for being in possession of or receiving stolen property. Furthermore, if the bike in question is not stolen property, the minute you take it, you commit the crime of burglary.”
“So you want me to do nothing and let a criminal get away?” I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. Maybe the Diva had had a reason to be outraged at the poor recovery rate the police department had. They seemed to lack enthusiasm for catching the culprits.
On the other hand, Officer Glenn had seemed very eager when she thought she’d caught a thief—me.
“What is your current location?”
I told her the name of the Chinese take-out place I was calling from and which street sign the bike was locked to before hanging up. Discouraged and unsure of what to do now, I peered out the window, expecting to see the bikes gone.
Instead, I saw the last thing I’d ever have expected.
CHAPTER 22
Howie and Pete were arguing. Without me hearing a single word, it was obviously no friendly chat. Howie towered over Pete by half a foot or more, one finger shaking up and down in Pete’s face while his other hand grasped Tyasia’s upper arm.
I couldn’t see Howie’s face, but the anger was evident on Pete’s. His hands flew out to his sides, then up in the air. Meanwhile, Tyasia pounded on her brother’s back with the flat of her free hand.
I pressed my face so close to the glass of the window, my breath immediately fogged it up. I hastily swiped it clean with my right forearm.
In that short amount of time, Tyasia had pulled her leg back. Her foot connected with the back of her brother’s calf. He lost his balance and tumbled into Pete, dragging his sister with him.
Their combined weight was too much for Pete, and the three of them went down in a heap, knocking both bicycles over in the process.
Then the cops showed up.
As Officer Glenn and another policeman exited their car, the pile started to untangle. Just as the two police officers had an unobstructed view of the situation, Pete shoved Howie. It was probably just to get him off so Pete wasn’t being crushed, but the two cops immediately got involved.
The male officer knelt on top of Howie, pinning him and reaching for his arms, while Officer Glenn grabbed Pete. Tyasia was pointing and waving, and I was dying to hear what she was saying.
Part of me was relieved the police arrived, while another part of me had the sinking feeling the Titanic must have had when it hit an iceberg. This whole thing was turning into a disaster of epic proportions.
“I let you use the phone for your emergency.” The counter girl crooked two fingers on each hand into air quotes. “But if you’re not ordering or eating, you’re loitering.”
The slender Asian teen with vibrant pink streaks running the length of her shoulder-length dark hair pointed to the sign over the counter. “No loitering” was positioned just above “No shirt, no shoes, no service” and below the menu marquee.
I nodded and started for the door, the phrase “caught between a rock and a hard place” taking on new meaning. If I went outside, someone was bound to see and recognize me. If I stayed where I was, I was breaking the law.
Could you be arrested for loitering? I didn’t know.
Probably. And if the cashier called the police, they could walk over in three seconds flat. I reached into my backpack and scrounged for my change purse. I felt coins sliding inside, and I pulled it out. Keeping one eye on the scene outside, I spilled the coins into my hand and counted.
Fifty-two cents.
I checked the menu. The cheapest thing was $1.99.
I glanced back outside. All five pairs of eyes were on the bikes, their backs to me. No telling how long that would last. Summoning all the speed I could manage and m
oving silently, I slipped out the door and dashed to the end of the block, turning left into an alley.
Then I doubled back and peeked around the corner. Pete was unchaining the bikes while Officer Glenn spoke to Tyasia. Howie was having an animated conversation with the other officer.
I checked the other end of the alley for a possible means of escape. It was as I remembered. A perpendicular alley dotted by Dumpsters ran the length of the block. I could make two lefts and get to my bike unseen.
I congratulated myself on having the foresight to park it out of sight of the store. As I hurried to make my getaway, competing thoughts clamored for my attention.
Was Pete or Tyasia going to get arrested? Did I want them to? Would they find out I called it in?
I pushed the distractions to the back burner and concentrated on my disappearing act.
I’d have plenty of time to ponder and regret my actions.
Later.
CHAPTER 23
“Gabby, a Professor Hinkley from a university or a museum called. I didn’t quite catch which because he talked a mile a minute,” my mom said.
I continued to wash up for dinner at the kitchen sink.
“He wanted to talk to you and said you could call the number on the fridge at five thirty, but it’s almost an hour past.” She scowled. “Who is he, and why are you so late getting home?”
I didn’t want to get into the whole stolen bike mess, so I chose to start with the “who” question. “You know that old flour canister, the time capsule from school?”
Mom nodded.
I dried my hands with a paper towel. “Professor Hinkley is an expert about stuff like that.”
I explained about the research for my monologue and how I met Howie, who’d been my connection to Professor Hinkley. I ended with “They have a history museum at Hampton University.”
“I never knew that. I must say I am impressed a college professor would be calling about a middle school project.” She stopped cutting veggies to beam at me. “I’m proud of you, Tootsie. You’ll be this family’s star.”
The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3) Page 7