by R L Wagner
COMING SOON TO
THE GHOSTS OF MERLIN’S AMULET
THE MERMAIDS OF ATLANTIS
.
Acknowledgments
To Jay, Jerry, Dodo, Tony, Bill, Mollie, Ron – we made some fine stories together, and I still love telling them.
My thanks to – Jackie Chang, Priya Gupta, Excedus Marshall-Williams, Cory Binkerd, Sarah Roy, Austyn Rivera, William Wells, Destiny D. Freitas, Aubrianna V. Glynn, Dana Green, Larry Green, and Maxfield H. Wagner for our conversations and your contributions, and thank you Ronda Kalista for the Italian translations, our long talks, and my biography.
Early on and over several days, Cynthia Merrick, the outstanding editor of ‘Monster’s Tooth’, carefully read this book aloud to me. Wonderful conversations and questions ensued. Cynthia’s love of reading, her knowledge of literature, in particular, novels read universally by teens, provided me with her remarkable understanding of storytelling. Clearly Cindy’s work helped deliver my writing into the story I hoped it would be.
It was always Briana Shawcroft; I never considered another illustrator for this beginning of the Mystery Buster series. In earlier days, Briana and I often met onstage covered in scenic paint. Now, years later, Briana’s skill and zest for this project rapidly transformed my pencil scrawls into a working exchange of ideas and into her beautiful illustrations that grace this book and my desktop. From there, Briana’s art accompanied me while I wrote. I can hardly wait to show you her art work for the next two books.
Andromeda Romana Hay is the book’s lighthouse, my contributing first editor, and my dear friend. Absolutely, her devotion, support, and work helped me navigate through the tricky waters of this book. I asked her often and still do, “Butch, what do you think of this?” Then I wait for either her smile or her lips pursed in a frown.
For Max
My son, who is full of ideas and vision and humor and reason and many what ifs.
All my thanks for all your help and for asking for The Mystery Buster series!
Excerpt from San Francisco talk radio May, 2001
Radio host – Caller you’re on the air with Scott Louis Drake, the Mystery Buster himself. Caller – Unbelievable! Did I hear you correctly? You receive 50 to 75 requests each month to investigate unsolved mysteries?
Drake – Yes, those numbers are about right and constant for nearly a dozen years now.
Radio host – How do you make your choices? Drake – Choices…well in the big scheme of it ALL, infinite possibilities always exist, so I try and make choices that will benefit us all. What we do certainly matters.
Radio host – Yes of course, but what I mean is; how do you choose which mysteries you will to go after? Drake – From time to time I am also selfish, and I choose just for me, to investigate those marvelous secrets that hide deep inside every good mystery.
Radio host Secrets? alternatives out there ready to be chosen; secrets that point me to the less traveled road and hopefully to a discovery and the answer.
Drake – Yes, the tantalizing puzzles, the elusive questions begging to be asked, the unimagined
Radio host – Wow, sounds mysterious and a bit dangerous, but obviously you love your work and the search.
Drake – It can be risky, but I have to go and look. I absolutely love it. I do! Radio host – And you always work alone. Some say solving 100 cases is a mystery in itself. Are you just THE all time super sleuth, or do you also have a mysterycracking secret that you’re not telling us about?
Drake – I do have a secret, and one that I’m not telling you about. Caller – Mr. Drake I’m writing a mystery book. Ever written one yourself and do you have some advice for me on writing mine?
Drake – No, regrettably I have never penned a mystery book, but if I did, I would put a clue on every page. That’s my advice; put a clue on every page!
Scott Louis Drake, the Mystery Buster
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 The Mystery Buster 1
Chapter 2 Clayton’s Secret 4
Chapter 3 Benny’s Nightmare 16
Chapter 4 The Secret and The Treasure 25
Chapter 5 The Green Key 47
Chapter 6 THERE! 62
Chapter 7 The Man in Black 79
Chapter 8 Cab Ride 89
Chapter 9 Mulligan’s Pub 103
Chapter 10 Uncle Scott’s Apartment 119
Chapter 11 Strands of Gold Lights 133
Chapter 12 Fifty-Two Clues 148
Chapter 13 Inverness 159
Chapter 14 Expect the Unexpected 178
Chapter 15 Our Deal 188
Chapter 16 The Harpooner 206
Chapter 17 McCurdy’s Cove 228
Chapter 18 Monsters Bite 247
Chapter 19 The Nightmare Curse 266
Chapter 20 The Ride Home 279 Chapter 21 What’s Next 293
1 The Mystery Buster
Mom, Benny, and I are moving this summer to Mom’s small, gold-country, childhood hometown: Clayton. I don’t want to leave San Francisco, MY hometown, not for a City second. Mom seemed thrilled when she announced the move. For me, it’s awful; my face is always wet now. Understandably, when Mom explained why, she cried too.
A city council woman of Clayton, Mrs. Krebs, sent us a letter. It told us with “much sadness” that Mom had inherited the house and all property of Scott Louis Drake, our greatuncle. He has been missing for two years and is now presumed dead.
Three years ago, three weeks after Dad had passed away, Uncle Scott came to our rescue and got Mom set up in her own business. He always visited us in the same way, with a firm loud knock on the door and one of his signature apple pies in hand. His big smile and scent were so enticing: pure sugar with a hint of vanilla. Uncle Scott’s strong and light-hearted character cheered us up and helped Mom rebuild her life. Like always, even during that week, he made us laugh.
I met Uncle Scott, my dad’s uncle, maybe ten times, but we usually heard from him through the cool postcards that he sent us from all over the world. He was really famous everywhere he went. Everyone had heard of him.
As a younger man, Uncle Scott worked in San Francisco as an investigative reporter. For years, he made quite a name for himself solving dozens of famous cases, including ones that baffled the police. He found a lost child living on donuts in the city library; he recovered the mayor’s wife’s stolen Revolutionary War antique jewels, and in another case, he found the Mayan Golden Eagle artifacts that were taken from the de Young museum. Uncle Scott even debunked a Noe Valley haunted house story finding stolen loot stashed there from a 1890s bank heist!
“It’s uncanny,” people said. “How can he keep doing it?” Just once, in a radio interview, Uncle Scott surprisingly answered that he had a secret. It must have been true because he solved everything and anything that caught his interest.
Even after he retired and moved back to the tiny town of Clayton, mail and requests for help poured in from all over the world. “Could you solve this puzzle?” or, “Could you help us crack this case?” or, “Would you consider looking into this mystery and please, please help us remove an ancient family curse?”
I guess that explains where all those post cards came from. And it wasn’t so unusual that the press nicknamed Uncle Scott “The Mystery Buster.” Now I suppose one sad mystery remains unsolved: what happened to my GreatUncle Scott. Who knows, maybe some day I’ll solve it.
After all that has happened, this is my story as I remember it.
2 Clayton’s Secret
“I’m just saying, I think it’s weird that Uncle Scott kept solving big mysteries from all around the world, and he lived all the way out here in smallv
ille Clayton,” Benny said, buried in his burrow of pillows, blankets, and moving boxes in our packed minivan.
“I guess maybe he could just blend in and didn’t have to worry about being famous here in his old home town, Benny,” Mom said, rocking her head left and right searching in the rearview mirror for a glimpse of Benny.
Mom might have a point there. Clayton was, at best, a sleepy small country town in the Northern California foothills. Main Street was maybe six blocks long and looked like a movie set for the next ‘Billy the Kid Robs the Bank’ flick. Nora’s Dress Shop was flanked by the two-story Forty-Niner Hotel and a Victorian red brick bank with a “witch’s hat” clock tower. Directly across the street, the Nugget Diner squeezed between the closed Clayton Firehouse Museum and Murphy’s General Store, famous for their wool socks, hard candy, and one-dollar pocket slingshots. I was afraid to blink in this tiny town, because I would probably miss a block or two.
“Sally, I think with your love of
architecture, you’ll certainly appreciate
Clayton.” Mom sounded nostalgic and so proud of the place. “It’s almost like going back in time. There’s Gold Rush history in every building.” Clayton was Mom’s personal trip down memory lane. “It’s so pretty here in the snow. You kids will love it.” She looked thirteen as she said it, but I rejected her giddiness.
“Snow?” Not for me, I won’t be here that long! I thought. Besides, I prefer the thick fog of the San Francisco Bay.
“What do you think, Benny?” Mom said, still trying to find the wild-haired, missingtoothed mess that was my kid brother.
Benny lounged in the back seat drinking an orange soda and playing his video games with the sound off. He glanced out the window and went back to his game.
“Looks great, Mom,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
I shot Benny an exasperated look. He could be such a little fool. He looked back, wide-eyed, pretended to get his finger stuck in his nose, then slumped back playing his game.
And what do you think, Sally? I thought to myself. Mom already knew my opinion was to stay in the city. I felt my frustrated mind wandering – suffering over this move. We’re moving to Clayton because Uncle Scott came back to live here. So why did you come back to live here Uncle Scott? Maybe that’s part of the mystery, huh? If it was as Mom said, that you could just blend in easier here and not worry about being famous, did you have a reason for laying low? Were you working undercover and still solving stuff? And what was that “secret” you said you had?
The reflection of the shady trees in front of the brick firehouse shot across the van window and over my face.
I’m thinking of two possibilities, Uncle Scott: you retired out here in Clayton, not missing the world traveling and cracking cases. Or maybe you were still secretly solving mysteries and not publicly reporting it. Is that it Uncle Scott? I bet that’s it!
Slowly I took in and blew out a deep breath. Sadly, I realized the flaw in my hopeful thinking. Uncle Scott was gone, presumed dead. Now he was the Mystery Buster in memory only. However, I’ve got to say, it’s the
“presumed dead” part that I wasn’t so
comfortable with. Somehow, you got yourself missing, Uncle Scott. How did you do that?
We crossed over the Main Street Bridge and over a small river.
“News alert, kids! We’re entering our very own country neighborhood!”
Mom’s excitement was like a nail scraping down the chalkboard of my hopes. This move felt like the beginning of my end. All of the houses were one or two stories. It looked like some of the City’s Victorian neighborhoods but with three or four houses missing between buildings.
“Do you remember that brown house there?” Mom looked a bit distant and sad. “That’s where I lived until I was your age, Sally.” She drove past her old house slowly, feeling older than she wanted to be. “Well, two more blocks and we’re at Uncle Scott’s,” she said, trying to put on a smile.
Right then I think Mom was missing Dad, too.
“They’re not blocks. Blocks have sidewalks and street lamps, Mom,” Benny blurted, sounding displeased. Obviously, he didn’t feel too happy about this move either, and Mom picked up on it.
“Okay, okay. We’re not getting rid of the San Francisco apartment just yet, kids. Sasha is only housesitting right now. We’re just out here seeing how this summer goes, right? Oh gosh, there’s Mrs. Krebs now.” Mom’s excitement bloomed as we drove, honking back into her past, down the long gravel driveway past a grand, red, flowering mimosa tree.
Mrs. Krebs met us at the house with a welcoming basket brimming over with picnic lunches. An enormous, black, meowing cat, emerged, stretching, from his sunbath, and trotted down the front porch steps to greet us. We all exchanged the expected hugs, handshaking introductions, the “ah huhs” and “oh reallys?” of friendly chatter. Benny and I could feel our cheeks ache and our teeth getting dry from holding our smiles in place while the two adults talked on.
“I was your mom’s fifth grade teacher, you know. Now I’m Clayton’s town historian, a real estate agent, and a city council woman. And best of all, I’m your next door neighbor.” Mrs. Krebs pointed to her white, turn-of-the-century, country Victorian home surrounded by a confetti-of-colors rose garden.
“Your Great-Uncle Scotty and I went to high school together, and so did my Walter. Scotty spent six months of very extensive, very secretive, termite work on the old place a few years back. And…”
All I heard was “very secretive.” What is that about, Uncle Scott, I thought to myself?
Mrs. Krebs was positively giddy being with Mom. She just kept talking, and so did the cat. His yowls were our comic relief from this eternity of gabbing.
“If that cat were a dog, he’d be barking right now,” Benny said, smiling. He always talks about getting a dog.
“His name is Rammie. He comes with the house. Rammie never leaves Scotty’s – oh, excuse me, I mean your porch, Jean, not for very long that is. I’ve tried to bring him home with me, but he just runs back here once I feed him!”
After what felt like fifty polite years later, “Little Jean” and Mrs. Krebs seemed
temporarily caught up and out of words. A long, serious moment passed before Mrs. Krebs spoke again. She seemed to be studying our faces and gathering her thoughts. She nodded her head slightly and flashed a hearty smile.
“Well here it is!” Mrs. Krebs handed Mom the keys to the house. “It’s yours now, Jean.”
We all turned around and for the first time gave the place a good look. The house was a dark-shingled, two-level, square-framed beauty with a long, open front porch. It looked like many of the homes in the East Bay – a Green and Green or Craftsman Bungalow. Probably built in the early ‘20s, I thought. I’m an architect; at least, I’m going to be.
Mom handed me the spare key.
“Open it for us, Sally!” She gave me a solemn smile.
We climbed to the porch. I stuck the old key in the brass lock, twisted it, and turned the handle. The door opened silently. Rammie dashed inside, screaming loud frantic meows and bolted upstairs. Benny chased after him.
“So we own this, Mom?” Benny shouted back over his shoulder while running up the stairs.
“Yes we do, Benny!” Mom called back.
She and Mrs. Krebs slipped past me. I waited, pulled the key, and put it in my hip coin pocket.
“Elsie Wilson has a cleaning service now,” Mrs. Krebs said, stopping in the entry, addressing Mom and me. “I had her dust, change the bedding, and air the place out. My Walter, Mr. Krebs, was Post Master of Clayton before he passed last fall. I pulled some strings and took the liberty of picking up your Uncle Scott’s letters and packages. They’re on the bay window seat there. Other than that, the place is just the way Scotty left it.”
The way he left it. I repeated the words in my mind and entered cautiously. I was in the house of a legendary man. “So, this is the house of The Mystery Buster,” I said slowly. Mom and Mrs. Krebs
turned and gave me a solemn, consoling smile.
“Where did you go, Uncle Scott?” I softly whispered, half expecting him to hear me. I took a few steps further and stopped. The sun beamed through the windows and bathed the room with a warm, welcoming orange glow, but it was an immediate sensation; an unsolved mystery still clung in the air here. Mom looked right at me. Maybe she felt it too.
“I could see a detective living here,” I said to her as I meandered on. Furnishings and unique objects stood around the room, filling the space all the way to the ceiling and with nothing contemporary. It was mostly incredible antiques, but all were in surprisingly great condition. Wonderful, classic, woven carpets covered the hardwood floors. Books were everywhere – tall stacks on tables, chairs, even resting on the floor like stools. Wooden, built-in bookcases were crammed with nick nacks, old cameras, and metal toys. Three stone skulls sat on one bookshelf as if they had been there for an eternity, watching. An amazing antique book collection lined the center of the walls
downstairs. My heart felt like it stopped when I opened three, signed, first editions of Conan Doyle, Jules Vern, and H.G. Wells. An inviting, river-rock fireplace, a tall, green wingback chair, and an upholstered rocking chair atop an elegant rust and sage woven carpet made for a perfect reading place.
The photos surprised me. A dozen framed pictures of Uncle Scott laughing and holding both Benny and me as babies, and pictures of him with Mom and Dad sat on the thick wooden mantel. That was the entire family – now we’re three.
I looked at Mom as we explored the rooms. Our faces shared the same expression of awe.
“There’s a strange faint smell of vanilla,” I said to Mrs. Krebs, half-expecting Uncle Scott’s strong knocking crack on the door.
“That’s probably Elsie Wilson’s dusting spray. It should go away in a day or two,” Mrs. Krebs answered, still holding the picnic basket. “I’ll be outside if you need me neighbors.”