The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3)

by Christy Barritt

  “Please, Mom,” I begged. “I can do this. No sweat.”

  Mom looked at me with those mom eyes, the kind that see you as four years old even if you’re one hundred and forty-four.

  “Becca will be riding a bait bike too,” Mr. Chapman added. “And it’s only for the next five school days. If nothing happens in that time span, we’ll drop it.”

  “Mom, it’s our duty as citizens to assist the police when possible,” I said in my most mature voice, repeating the words my civics teacher had said just three days ago.

  My parents exchanged glances. Dad shrugged noncommittally. Mom looked at me again.

  I gave her my best begging look. She nodded ever so slightly, and I broke into a huge grin.

  I was going to be working with the Virginia Beach police department! We’d have my bike back in no time. I was practically one of their detectives.

  CHAPTER 31

  Friday started out fantastic. After math I bounced my Elvis idea off of Brandon. He thought it was fabulous and agreed to do a ten-second appearance as the King of Rock and Roll during my monologue, if Mrs. Baker approved. She did and agreed to let me revise the piece to add in the hurricane stuff. Having a strong science connection thrilled Ms. Shernick so much she offered to let me research the hurricanes in the library rather than come to class.

  Finally, things were looking up.

  I made a beeline to the reference section of the media center and retrieved the almanac from the shelf. I skimmed through until I found Hurricane Hazel. I started reading.

  “Hurricane Hazel was one of the most severe storms to ever strike the Eastern seaboard, causing destruction at beach resorts in Virginia Beach and Norfolk. During mid-October 1954, trees, power lines, and radio towers were downed as Norfolk sustained winds of 78 mph and gusts of 100 mph. Thirteen across Virginia perished.”

  I gasped. Could Hope’s dad have been one of them?

  I paused and considered. If her dad was a minister, might he have been out helping people when the hurricane swept in, ending his life? It was a real possibility.

  I jotted down a few notes and looked up Hurricane Betsy.

  “Hurricane Betsy struck in August of 1956, leaving twenty-seven dead and damages in excess of $35 million in the Caribbean and Canada. Virginia damage estimates reached $15 million.”

  I sketched out a timeline to figure out when Hope had stashed the time capsule. If I had a firm date, the Diva wouldn’t be able to complain this was all a figment of my imagination. Everything was pointing to 1956. But what month?

  If Hope’s daddy died during Hurricane Hazel in October of 1954, and Hurricane Betsy had not yet struck in August of 1956, it was probably in the spring or early summer, when construction would be in full swing. But was it 1955 or 1956? I really wanted to narrow it down; I just wasn’t sure how.

  “Gabby! I’m glad you dropped in today. I have something for you,” said Mrs. Gibson.

  I returned the almanac to its place on the shelf and followed her to her desk.

  “Here’s something from the Encyclopedia Virginia.” She flipped open the book and read aloud. “It says that in April of 1956 more than one hundred politicians protested the US Supreme Court ruling on segregation and education.”

  I shared my hurricane information, and together we agreed this new information narrowed the time down to June or July. Buoyed by the solid information I’d found and conclusions I’d drawn, I set about revamping my piece. I was so caught up that I flinched when I looked up and saw Mrs. Gibson standing next to me, purse slung on her shoulder.

  “Gabby, I hate to tell you to stop working, but I have to go. Come by on Monday if you need to,” the media specialist said with a smile.

  I stole a glance at the clock.

  Three thirty! I’d worked through the dismissal bell on a Friday afternoon!

  Since it seemed to be my lucky day, I took a detour past the bike rack on my way home to gather a few more clues and possibly catch the bike burglar. As I rounded the corner of the school, what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

  Pete, sitting on his red mountain bike, chatting away to Raff, sitting on the rack itself.

  I ducked out of sight. Of all the two hundred bazillion people in the world, why were the two I least wanted to see me in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  ***

  Dear Watson,

  Just as I get it together with the time capsule, the bike burglaries become a more tangled mess than ever. Why was Pete at the bike rack, and why was he talking to a known criminal?

  As soon as the words flowed from my purple pen, Watson seemed to answer.

  Maybe Pete was waiting to talk to you. If Pete was waiting for you, then he didn’t know you had no bike to ride to school and therefore isn’t the thief. In fact, his presence might have deterred any would-be thieves from stealing a bike.

  That did seem to fit with Pete’s obsession with superheroes. Based on the information from Ian, Raff never rode a bike to school; therefore, unless he was hanging out to talk to Pete—which was unlikely—he had been there for the bikes. I stopped chewing on the end of my pen and scribbled.

  I must discover the thieves! It’s my civic duty.

  CHAPTER 32

  Monday I rode my police special to school, dying to tell someone—everyone—that I was part of an actual police operation. I had to content myself with merely exchanging knowing glances with Becca during math. Hard as it was to resist talking about it, it was harder to resist the urge to check on the bike after every class to see if the thieves had struck.

  When she dropped the bike off Sunday night, Officer Glenn had impressed upon me the need to stick to my usual routines. Any out-of-the-ordinary actions might alert the criminals that something was up and blow the operation.

  At lunch Pete still sat elsewhere. Brandon hesitated halfway to our table. I could tell he was torn, unsure of where to sit without hurting anyone’s feelings, so I waved and called out, “See you at rehearsal.”

  A relieved look washed away his uncomfortable expression as he headed to sit with my ex.

  I had agonized over the Pete thing all weekend and finally concluded we were over and I needed to move on. Not that I had new boyfriend prospects lined up for miles or anything. I felt a hollowness, but it was more like a dull ache, like after a tooth was filled, than the sharp pain of stepping on a pointy rock in your bare feet.

  After rehearsal, Becca and I exited the school to find our bikes missing. Principal Black took it much harder than we did. He said something about the police being at school more often than some students.

  When Becca called that evening, I was amazed that two suspects had already been picked up for the burglary. Becca couldn’t say anything outright, but I had a feeling those suspects weren’t any of the ones from my list.

  “My dad said the police followed the radio transmissions to this warehouse place with a gazillion other bikes that were probably stolen. They confiscated them all. One of them could be yours.”

  Warmth spread all over my body. I’d helped put criminals behind bars. My bike had been found.

  “Can your mom drive you down to impound to check out the bikes?” Becca asked.

  “She’s at work,” I said, disappointed at the delay and wondering if impound was like the dog pound, except for lost bikes. I really wanted my wheels back.

  “Your dad?” Becca asked tentatively, knowing he’d lost his license for driving under the influence of alcohol when we were in sixth grade.

  “Still can’t drive.” I glanced at the clock. It was only five thirty. “Maybe I can walk or jog down to impound. If it is my bike, I could ride it home. Where is this impound place?”

  “Just a sec.”

  I heard her drop the phone and walk away. If I had to wait for Mom, I’d be waiting until next week. She’d traded shifts so she could have a couple hours off on Friday to see my show.

  Becca came back on the line. “Dad said he’ll drive us down if it’s okay with your dad
, it being the least he could do for your help with the sting.”

  “Cool!”

  Forty-five minutes later, my hopes were dashed when I examined the confiscated bikes. None of them were my actual bike—a beat-up, fat-tired mountain bike that had been blue at one time.

  “It could still turn up,” Becca’s dad said. “We’ve got something else in the works.”

  “Can I help?” I asked eagerly. “Whatever you need, I volunteer.”

  “This part is for the pros.” He chuckled. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Speaking of which—” The impound officer motioned Mr. Chapman over.

  The two of them lowered their voices and looked at something on the desk.

  Becca and I exchanged knowing glances and launched into Operation Eavesdrop, a technique we’d perfected back in elementary school.

  One of us talked while one of us didn’t listen. Instead, that person dropped an object that accidentally on purpose ended up near the conversation we were trying to overhear. Today we used her cherry lip balm. With a slight tap from my foot, it rolled next to the desk.

  I scurried to retrieve the item while Becca chattered on about Hypatia.

  “It’s set for tomorrow at six, which isn’t your shift, but you’re welcome to see this through,” Impound Officer was saying.

  I tapped the lip balm again so it rolled past the desk.

  “I wouldn’t miss it. If they are stupid enough to advertise stolen bikes, they won’t be that hard to catch.”

  I moved past the desk to grab the rolling tube. As I retrieved it and stood, I caught a glimpse of a map on the desk. A red circle attracted my attention. I walked slowly by, fiddling with the lid to the tube but eagle eyeing the location.

  Main and Chestnut.

  “Yeah. They have a red hardtail nearly new that they’ll let go for one fifty. At a price that cheap, it has to be hot.”

  I rejoined my friend, my brain sorting through the data at the speed of light. I knew exactly what that bike would look like because Pete had a hardtail mountain bike.

  As the two cops continued talking, I quietly filled Becca in on what I’d heard. She promised to call me as soon as her dad got home from the operation with any news she could weasel out of him.

  But I didn’t intend to wait that long to find out.

  Main and Chestnut were less than twenty minutes from my house, if I jogged. I’d even have time to stop home after rehearsal to change into ninja black before heading to the location.

  Dear Watson,

  Tomorrow I’m going to observe a police operation as they nab the guys who took my bike. I’ll stay out of sight and out of the way. No one will even know I was there.

  CHAPTER 33

  Five thirty the next day, I peered through the window of Bartlett’s Shoes at the corner of Main and Chestnut. I hadn’t even had to make up an excuse for going out dressed in black from head to toe, including a ski cap, because Dad hadn’t been home. My pulse spiked as I waited to see the way everything would play out.

  Foot traffic was light, so I quickly spotted a guy standing next to a red mountain bike. He wore baggy jeans that fell off his hips, a gray T that had seen better days, and a red ski cap pulled down over his eyebrows. Curly brown hair sprouted beneath it. He reminded me of a bear.

  I scanned the streets for Mr. Chapman. No sign of him or anyone looking like police.

  Probably too early.

  “Can I help you?”

  I gasped and whirled around. College Guy? What was he doing here? Had he been following me? I pressed myself against a rack, and a pair of strappy pink sandals with three-inch heels tumbled off.

  “You. From Novel Ideas. You shopping for shoes?” College Guy retrieved the sandals.

  I shook my head, wanting to steal a glance over my shoulder. I couldn’t take my gaze off of College Guy, though. Was he following me?

  Then I noticed his name tag. “You work here?”

  He looked down at his tag and smiled. “Sure do. I get paid commission. A nice step up from my old job.” He replaced the sandals on the rack. “What size?”

  So this was how he’d “come into money”? I could have laughed.

  “I . . . uh.” I looked over my shoulder and saw an old guy shuffle up to Bear. The man patted the bike seat.

  “Dress or casual?”

  I glanced back at College Guy, not wanting to tear my eyes from the scene. “Just one second.”

  Was Old Guy a policeman in disguise? If so, he really should be an actor. People walking by were giving him a wide berth. As I watched, Old Guy pulled out some crumpled paper from inside his shirt. I moved closer to the window. It was money.

  Bear shook his head no. Old Guy stuffed the bills back and pulled out a baggie. Bear quickly shoved it back inside Old Guy’s shirt, looking right and left nervously.

  Drugs?

  A cop wouldn’t have drugs.

  Bear pulled the bike out from under Old Guy’s other hand and backed away.

  Old Guy had just blown the whole operation!

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  “I’ve gotta go!”

  I raced outside and crossed the street, dodging traffic. Bear was headed down Chestnut, away from the rendezvous point. I’d follow him from a safe distance, just long enough to see where he went. Then I’d tell the cops.

  I forced myself to slow down and trail him at a normal pace. The message bypassed my heart. It beat at an accelerated staccato rhythm, and I wished I could start doing Shakes on Eight from drama club to calm myself. It was out of the question, of course. Anyone who saw me would think I was a spaz.

  I racked my brain for another relaxation technique or warm-up actors used before going onstage, something that would smooth over my jitters.

  Unique New York.

  Strangely enough, focusing on keeping the words from tangling up worked. I started to relax. Bear passed two shops and then cut down an alley running behind the Main Street stores. When I reached the alley, I slowed and took a quick peek.

  Bear pushed the bike past the first Dumpster.

  I couldn’t very well stand there staring. If he turned around, I’d look suspicious. But if I kept walking down Chestnut, I might never get my bike back. Nor would any of the other victims.

  I made a bold decision.

  I’d follow just long enough to get an idea of where he was headed.

  As alleys go, I supposed it wasn’t all that bad. Some trash that hadn’t made its way into the Dumpsters littered the area, but no drug dealers, dead bodies, or puddles of blood. Still, I was starting to perspire. I assured myself I had nothing to worry about.

  Three Dumpsters later, Bear cut behind one of the oversized metal containers. I heard pounding, like he was banging on a door.

  I’d keep walking, casual like, right past the place and out the other side of the alley where it came out on Birch. But I would remember which store he’d ducked inside and alert the police.

  But when I passed the Dumpster, the red hardtail was leaning up against it and not a soul was in sight.

  He must have gone inside. I’ll take a quick peek at the bike; see if it has any skull stickers or a serial number.

  As I stopped to examine it, I sensed someone standing over me. In my haste to stand up, I slipped in something oily spreading out from the Dumpster and landed on my backside.

  I looked up. Right into Bear’s angry face.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Why are you following me?” he growled, his fists balled up next to his sides.

  Like channel surfing on steroids, my mind ran through a gazillion possible responses and how they might play out back here in a creepy, smelly alley with the sky darkening into evening.

  I went with the obvious.

  “I was following you.” I stood, noting my backside was damp. Somehow my voice had sounded as even and calm as a glassy lake at sunset.

  Bear blinked in surprise, like he hadn’t expected that truthful response. “Why?”


  “I’m looking for a cheap bike. Somebody said you were the man.”

  Again, Bear blinked. “Uh, yeah. Here’s the bike. Tires practically new.”

  Up close Bear reminded me even more of a hulking bear, not just because of his size, which was significantly larger than my size eight, but also because his arms and the back of his neck were extremely hairy.

  I nodded and knelt next to the bike. I pinched the tires and turned the pedals while my eyes scanned the four locations where most bike serial numbers were located. Not only was the bike missing a serial number, the place where the seat post met the top tube had the telltale scratches where someone had tried to eradicate any means of identifying the bike.

  Must be stolen.

  “I’d rather wait and get a green one,” I said, standing.

  I was done. I could walk away. Mission accomplished.

  “Just so happens my bro has one just like this in green. It’s just around the corner.”

  My “Nah, but thanks anyway” was drowned out by the screech of metal on metal. We both turned in time to see an SUV rear-end a tan sedan on Chestnut. I stood transfixed as the drivers burst out of their vehicles shouting. The sedan door slammed, shooting light into my eyes, the sun ricocheting from the side view mirror. I scrunched them closed.

  Another unfamiliar noise thundered in my ears. I opened my eyes and saw water exploding fifty feet in the air. More people yelled and more car doors slammed. The fire hydrant, I realized. They’d hit the hydrant, and now water was spouting like Old Faithful.

  A familiar figure stepped into sight near the scene of the accident. Mr. Chapman. Dressed in plainclothes.

  Bear chuckled to himself. “Bozos! Let’s blow.”

  I started to refuse, but the sedan inched toward us, causing more water to blast our way. We moved toward the opposite side of the alley to avoid a dousing.

  “My bro’s got lots of bikes. You take your pick.” Bear was persistent.

  Before I could form a reply, Mr. Chapman looked our way. Through the spray I could see he was motioning for me to move.