“That’s okay,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll ask Mr. Bragg.”
“NO! Do not ever mention the chess piece to him.” Irwin shakes his head. “You have no idea what he’s been through. You’ll only upset him.”
“Upset who about what?” Kyle joins us, flipping a wave of hair from his face. He looks suspiciously at Irwin. “Did you just say you broke a chess piece?”
“No! That is not what I said.” Irwin presses his hand to his head, sighing. “Honestly, I don’t know much because it happened months ago, before I came to live here. What I do know is that my uncle pretends it never happened. I shouldn’t tell you more, but I will just so you’ll understand why you must never mention it to Mr. Bragg.”
“I know how to keep a secret,” I say with a glance at Kyle, who nods and pretends to zip his lips.
“The emerald king wasn’t broken.” Irwin slams the cabinet door shut. “Someone stole it.”
- Chapter 9 -
Tailing a Tail
By the time I get home, it’s too late to call Becca and Leo so I borrow Mom’s cell phone and leave texts for them to come over early tomorrow. We had planned to meet at the Skunk Shack at noon, but my news can’t wait.
Questions explode in me like firecrackers as I lock my bedroom door. I pull open the hidden drawer at the bottom of my dresser and take out my notebook of secrets. Grabbing a pen off my desk, I write:
Secret 40. Mr. Bragg’s emerald king was stolen.
I stare at these words, wondering if Sheriff Fischer investigated this theft. Did he find clues like fingerprints or signs of a break-in? Were there any suspects? The thief must not be very smart to take one chess piece when the complete set must be worth a fortune.
When I asked Irwin these questions, he clammed up like his lips were superglued. He only revealed this much because of the EOS: element of surprise. I doubt he’ll tell me any more. So how do I find answers to my questions?
There are four Ws of investigation: Where, When, Why, and Who-Dun-It. I know where and have an idea of when, but nothing else. Was the motive greed or something more personal like revenge? And the biggest question: who has the emerald king now?
It’s all very puzzling, but exciting too—another mystery for the CCSC.
That night I dream of emerald and ruby chess pieces battling like the scene in the first Harry Potter book. The angry emerald queen chases me, waving her royal staff. My legs ache from running but I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. The Queen draws closer and closer. She overtakes me and reels back with her mighty staff, ready to smash my head. But the emerald king dodges in front of me, taking the blow on his crown and shattering into shards…
I wake up sweating.
I blink in the darkness. My room is silent except for the distant hoots of an owl and the hum insects. I reach for my kitten in her favorite sleeping spot at the foot of my bed…but she’s not there. I click on my bedside lamp. The kitty bed is empty too.
I fling my covers aside and search beneath the bed, behind the dresser, and inside the closet—but no kitty. Like yesterday, the door and windows are shut.
Did Honey sneak into my sister’s room again? Alarm jolts through me as I remember Dad’s warning about my cat, “If she causes any more trouble she has to go.”
I tiptoe down the hall and peek into Kiana’s room. She’s asleep, her soft breathing drifting from her bed. The closet door is wide open and messy with discarded clothes and shoes. No sign of Honey, so at least she isn’t causing any trouble. But if she isn’t here, where is she? And did she get out on her own or did someone in my family—like Kiana—let her out? I’m tempted to wake Kiana and accuse her, but she’d never admit it.
After a futile search of the house, I grab a jacket and head outside.
I snap on the outside light and step onto the porch. I rub my eyes, sleepy but more worried about my kitten. Honey is so little and the woods behind our house are full of dangerous predators that would enjoy a kitty snack.
“Honey, Honey,” I whisper into the shadowy leaves hiding the tree house. When I hear the shivering of leaves overhead, I spot Honey peering down at me from a gnarled branch.
“Come down right now,” I say.
She swishes her tail with attitude, and springs up to a higher branch.
“You’re a very bad kitty!” I wave my finger at her. “Get back here!”
But she’s already disappeared into dense greenness. Of course I know where she’s going, and I grit my teeth as I climb the slat ladder. If I’d blocked the hole in the wall yesterday, Honey couldn’t sneak into the tree house.
I’m breathing hard, mostly from frustration, when my fingers find the leaf-shrouded trapdoor. I push up and the door lifts a few inches, just enough for me to see into the room. I’m ready to scold Honey when I freeze like a statue and stare at not one animal—but two!
Honey tumbles playfully across the dusty floor with a small gray creature. It has a ropy tail and is furry like a fuzzy scarf.
Of course, I know what it is, but I’m surprised Becca didn’t figure it out when we saw the long paw prints. She did say they looked familiar—and they should have! Becca has two ferrets living at her home at Wild Oaks Sanctuary. She nicknamed them the Fur Bros. When my kitten stayed at Becca’s house while I was living in a no-pets apartment, Honey enjoyed playing with the furry brothers. But this ferret isn’t a pet—it’s wild.
Will it hurt Honey? I worry as it tumbles with my small kitten. I’m ready to rush in to the rescue when Honey affectionately licks the ferret’s whiskery face. The ferret nuzzles against Honey, like they’re two best buddies. Still, that doesn’t mean this ferret is tame like Becca’s ferrets. It has a wild, rough look to its gray-brown fur and the black markings of a mask across its beady eyes.
I’m trying to be quiet so I don’t startle the animals, but the ferret suddenly turns toward me. Its black eyes stare. The ferret whirls away, stirring up a cloud of dust, and disappears like a puff of smoke.
I’m sure it escaped through the hole in the wall, so I scramble down the tree trunk, the trapdoor banging shut over my head. I stare up into the dense branches, and there it is! A streak of gray skitters down a sloped branch then it seems to fly through the air, landing on the grassy ground.
I know Honey will be safe in the tree house, so I take off after the ferret, curious to see where it’s going.
As dawn lightens the sky into pinkish-gold, I can see the ground I’m running on. I swerve around a prickly dark-green bush and keep running through high grasses. The small animal is moving away from our house into the dense pines separating the cottage and Bragg Castle. I keep my sight on its ropy tail and run faster.
The ferret whisks up a pine tree. I lose sight of it until it scurries down the next tree and disappears into the wild grass. The clever little guy is trying to elude me. But I don’t give up easily, even though the chilly air is seeping through my jacket and gives me goose bumps up my arms.
Still I continue to follow, my eyes on the waving gray tail. We’re almost past the trees where a grassy meadow sweeps up to a wrought-iron fence surrounding Bragg Castle. The fence rises to pointy spires and keeps out all trespassers more securely than a medieval moat. I can’t see any sign of movement in the grass until the ferret jumps onto a rock. I pick up my pace and continue the chase. The ferret weaves like a gray ribbon through the grass then slips through the locked gate.
Drats! How can I follow him now?
I don’t want to catch him because I don’t want to get scratched or bitten. I just want to find out where he’s going.
Does he have a home or does he live in the tree house? I wish Becca were here. She’d know how to help him. Her ferrets are very sweet and friendly and come eagerly when they’re called. But this guy is running scared.
When I reach the gate, I clasp my fingers around the cold iron bars and scan the yard beyond the fence. I’m at the back of the castle, not the front entrance where the modern paved driveway winds up to the steep st
one entry steps. I feel a sense of having gone back in time here, with the wild grasses and shadowy trees and birds chirping morning greetings.
The cunning ferret knew where to slip through the fence. Unfortunately I can’t climb over the iron spikes without becoming a human shish kebab.
Sighing, I turn to head back to the tree house and wait for Becca and Leo. But I stop when I hear a whistle.
It’s not the mechanical squeal like a soccer coach blowing a whistle during a game, but a shrill whistling from someone’s lips. It’s coming from farther along the fence, where I glimpse the tiled roof and chimney of a small building. I peer through the fence at the stone house with its yard framed by an ivy hedge and a cobbled path leading up to the wooden door where a man with green hair stands on the front porch.
Sergei? I think, surprised. So the housekeeper doesn’t live in the castle but in his own house. It’s half the size of our cottage.
A yellow porch light shines on Sergei’s many piercings. Carrying a plastic bucket, he climbs down the porch to the yard. He reaches into the bucket and pulls out a small dish that he sets on the ground. He reaches in again and pulls out another dish, setting it down a little farther away. He does this three more times and then he steps back to the porch, gives a sharp long whistle, and waits.
Waits for what? I wonder.
I hear hisses and rustling, then the grass shivers, and I can see pointy ears, swishing tails, and then lithe animals scurrying to the dishes.
Cats—over a dozen of them!
White, calico, tabby, Siamese, gray, orange, and a scrawny black cat with only patches of fur like he’s survived a fire. The cats don’t greet Sergei but keep their distance, their bodies taunt and on guard like wild creatures.
But one of them isn’t a cat, and my mouth drops open as I stare at the black-masked face.
I’ve found the ferret.
- Chapter 10 -
Ferreting Out the Truth
Before I can call out to Sergei, he goes into the house, and I hear a bolt being latched across his door.
Unable to unlock the gate or climb the fence, I peer through the iron bars at hungry cats crowding around the scattered dishes. A scruffy tabby swats a gray cat away from a dish. The gray cat goes over to a different dish, shoving other cats aside. The cats hiss and swat but mostly they share as if this is a familiar routine.
Do the cats and ferret belong to Sergei?
I doubt it because they crouch around the dishes as if wary of predators. They’d mew to be picked up or petted if they were pets. But these animals are clearly here for the food, a ragamuffin swarm of scruffy fur and feral attitudes. Even their ears are ragged, probably from cat fights.
When I look for the ferret again, I can’t find it.
I gaze through the sea of felines for a masked face, but she’s gone.
Disappointed, I puzzle over the small ferret and crowd of cats. Why is Sergei feeding them? Is this something he does every morning? I know nothing about Sergei except he’s unfriendly and a better housekeeper than cook. I want to ask him about the ferret, but even though I could come back later with my key-spider (Leo’s invention) and pick the gate’s lock, I’m afraid to face Sergei alone.
So I retrace my steps through the grove of trees back to the tree house. When I climb through the trapdoor, Honey scampers over, swishing her tail with an annoyed attitude. She meows and narrows her golden eyes as if to complain, “Why did you scare my friend away? We were having fun.”
“No more fun for you,” I say firmly.
Before Honey gets any ideas about looking for her ferret buddy, I scoop her up in my arms. Then I go into my house with a purpose, because there’s something I want to do before my friends arrive.
A short while later, I’m wearing my grubbiest clothes and armed with cleaning supplies. Honey trails after me into the tree house.
Since Mom has warned us kids about the dangers of diseases from wild animal scat (a fancy word for poop), I put on plastic gloves and a face mask (borrowed from Mom’s animal control truck).
Honey watches from atop the old crate as I pick up the broom. I sweep and fill a garbage bag of leaves, twigs, bits of paper, dried poop, and other yucky stuff. Dust puffs in clouds and makes my eyes water. I consider boarding up the hole in the wall but decide not to because I want to see the ferret again. I think about its silvery-gray markings and dark mask across its face like a bandit.
Bandit! I realize with a start. Wasn’t that name listed on the ARC papers? Quickly I open the cooler and unzip the plastic pouch with the papers.
Yes! It’s right on the top of the page listing animals and their ailments. Bandit was dehydrated. Obviously he recovered, but why is he living in a tree house and dining with feral cats? Did the ARC kids abandon him like they abandoned the tree house?
I have more questions than answers, and the best way to sort through my thoughts is to do physical work. As I scrub the metal table to a shine, I think about the ferret. I’m sure his name is Bandit. The ARC kids found him and nursed him back to health—but then what? If they cared enough to heal injured pets, why leave the ferret to survive on its own? Or does it belong to Sergei? If so, why is he wandering on his own?
A black stain won’t come out of one of the couch cushions no matter how hard I scrub. So I flip the cushion over.
I’ve saved the worst for last—the filthy pile beside the hole in the wall. It’s like someone piled up junk: broken silverware, bits of plastic, clothes scraps, and a headless Barbie doll. Even through my face mask, the musty odor stinks. I push the cooler out of the way and a creaking sound startles me.
I whirl around to see the trapdoor lifting…
“Becca!” I drop the broom.
“Hey, Kelsey!” She flips a tendril of black hair from her face.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on me.” My words are muffled, so I take off my protective mask and set it on the now-clean table.
“You texted to come early so here I am. But seriously, you need your own phone,” Becca complains as she crawls into the room. She straightens up. She’s taller than me so her head is only inches from the wood ceiling. “I started to reply to your text until I realized you’d borrowed your mother’s phone and—wow!” She interrupts herself to look around, eyes widening. “This room looks amazing!”
“Thanks,” I say, pleased.
Becca wipes her finger across the table. “Everything is so clean.”
“I still have more to do.”
“I’ll help while you tell me every detail about last night.” Becca reaches for a dust rag. “What’s it like having dinner in a castle?”
“Fantabulous,” I say using one of my favorite words. I wring out my wash cloth into the soapy water pail. “The castle has lots of cool stuff—including a dungeon!”
She grins. “Any prisoners?”
“Just wine bottles. Oh, and there’s a barred room like a prison. And in a turret at the top of the castle there’s a toy room with a real suit of armor!”
“Any ghosts?” she asks eagerly.
“No, but there’s a mystery,” I say with a secretive smile. “I’ll tell you more when Leo gets here.”
“I’m so curious I could chew my nails off. And that would be a shame since I just had them polished.” She puts aside the broom to show me her shining purple and silver fingernails. “At least it won’t be a long wait. Leo texted a while ago to say he was on his way.”
“Good.” I toss the dirty cloth into the bucket. “I have a lot to share.”
“I found out something too.” Becca’s dark eyes shine. “Remember those skinny animal prints we didn’t recognize? I’m embarrassed I didn’t figure it out sooner. The animal is a—”
“Ferret,” I interrupt.
Her mouth drops open. “You already know?”
“I caught Honey playing with a ferret.” I gesture to my cat curled asleep on the crate. “The ferret must have shown her how to get in and out of the house.”
“Ferr
ets can slip through openings as small as a few inches,” Becca says.
“I also think this ferret is the animal called Bandit from the list we found.” I gesture to the cooler. “There’s a black mask across its eyes like a bandit. Oh! I just realized something else—the ferret must have been playing with my cat in my sister’s room. Kiana saw their combined shadow and screamed because she thought it was a monster.”
“Nothing monstrous about ferrets,” Becca says fondly. “When Honey lived with me, she loved playing with the Fur Bros. Cats and ferrets get along great. I should have recognized the paw prints right away.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “But I thought it was a wild animal. Ferrets depend on humans to care for them and can’t usually survive in the wild.”
“He may not be wild,” I say. “I saw Sergei feeding him with a bunch of cats.”
“Sir who?”
“Not ‘sir.’ That’s his name.” I repeat it with emphasis on the two syllables. “Sergei is Mr. Bragg’s housekeeper and he has green hair and wicked piercings. He made a yucky dessert that looks like eyeballs floating in Jell-O.”
“Eyeballs?” Becca giggles.
“Soggy raisins,” I admit. “Sergei never smiled or talked while he served dinner and I thought he was a big sourpuss. But when I followed the ferret to Sergei’s house, he was feeding a lot of cats.”
“Anyone who’s kind to animals is okay with me.” Becca’s dark brows arch with interest. “Tell me about these cats.”
“There were all colors—orange, black, gray, white—and scrawny with rough fur. Even though Sergei was feeding them, they didn’t get near him.” I bend over to lift Honey of the cabinet and cuddle her in my arms. I stroke her silky fur and she purrs.
Becca strums her fingers on the tabletop. “Did you notice anything unusual about their ears?”
“Yeah,” I say as I sit back down. “They were ragged like they’d been in lots of cat fights.”
“Or notched for the feral cat spaying program,” Becca says.
The Secret of the Shadow Bandit Page 6