She froze for a moment. “Look at my detective son. I was so tired from work last night that I poured myself a glass of wine, but forgot and poured myself another one. Your mother is becoming forgetful!”
I studied her. Something was off. I looked closer at the living room area. It had the same couch and armchair. There was a blanket draped over the side of the couch, but that could be because it was getting cooler.
Then I saw it. Next to Mom’s book club book on the coffee table were two coasters.
You didn’t need two coasters for one person drinking one glass of wine.
Mom wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. Which was a nice way to say that she was flat-out lying.
Here’s the thing: Mom would’ve been open if she had a friend over. That was no big deal. I’d met a few of her work friends. Her book group came over here a couple weeks ago. She’d even stayed late at work a few times to have dinner with a friend.
There was only one reason she wouldn’t tell me about having someone over.
My suspicions from yesterday were slowly confirmed.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked her.
“What?” Mom seemed both relieved that I was changing the subject, yet confused about what I was asking. “Is this about those scary movies you and your father have been watching? What did I tell you about that? No more horror movies if you’re having nightmares.”
“No, it’s not that. There’s some crazy stuff that happened last night at Bryant’s.”
I told Mom everything. Every. Single. Detail. At one point, she stopped trying to get dinner ready and sat down.
“So yeah,” I finished. “I wanted you to know because we said no more lies or secrets between us.”
The look on Mom’s face told me what her reaction would be if she did, in fact, see a ghost.
Well, it was official: Mom was dating someone.
CHAPTER
16
“Everything okay, John?”
Dad looked at me with concern as we video chatted after dinner.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just a really long day.” Which was entirely true.
Things weren’t okay. In fact, everything was the opposite of okay. This confusing case that was giving me a serious case of the creeps. Mom was lying to me about something. My dad was a thousand miles away.
So yeah, not good at all.
“Come on, I know you better than that,” Dad said with a tilt of his head. “You can always talk to me.”
But could I? That was the worst part of the divorce. I didn’t feel like I could talk to either of my parents about the other one. They wanted to live separate lives, and I was the one caught in the middle.
Talk about life not being fair.
“I really miss you,” I stated, because it was the truth. Dad’s recent visit made me miss him even more now. Before, there weren’t memories of him everywhere. Now when I saw Sal’s pizzeria, I thought about getting a slice with him. When the Knicks were on TV, it brought back memories of us going to a game at Madison Square Garden. Even walking into the Holmeses’ apartment reminded me of how he had to leave abruptly.
He was everywhere, even though he wasn’t.
“I miss you, too.” He touched the screen. “And listen, I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but there’s a really good chance I’ll be moving to the East Coast at the beginning of the year.”
“Really?” I didn’t want to think much about it because I did have my hopes up.
“Of course. You know I miss my little man. You’re growing so much and having all these experiences and your pops is missing out.”
I beamed. Maybe things weren’t going to be that bad after all.
“How’s your mom?” Dad asked.
Then it all came crashing down.
So was I supposed to tell him that Mom was most likely dating? Oh no, was Dad also dating?
You know what, there were certain things a kid didn’t need to know about their parents, and their romantic lives should be one of them.
Yuck.
The truth was having them both move on meant that the fantasy I’d had of them getting back together was just that: made up. Yeah, they were divorced and all and living in separate states, but there was still a part of me that hoped they would eventually get back together and my life could return to normal.
“Mom’s good,” I finally replied. “Ah, so there’s a new case.”
I had become a master at changing the subject when it came to my parents. I told Dad all about what was going on at Bryant’s apartment building. Well, at least what I knew. Even recounting to him all we’ve learned and even more we didn’t know, I realized that there just might be a case out there that even Shelby Holmes couldn’t crack.
Especially since John Watson was absolutely clueless. And confused. And scared.
But I didn’t want Dad to know that.
“You be careful,” Dad said with a wag of his finger. “I don’t like the sound of any of this. So I take it you want to skip The Haunting of Manor Inn tonight?”
I nodded. “Yeah. That might be for the best.”
“We could watch a ghost-hunting show if you think that would help.”
“I tried that earlier with Shelby, and it did not go well.”
“I can only imagine. That Shelby is something else.”
No kidding.
“I’m serious, John,” Dad said in a soft voice. “I want you to be careful. I don’t believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be cautious with whatever is going on over there.”
“I promise.” I knew Shelby would never put me in a dangerous situation. Well, again. There was that whole passing out and having to be whisked away in an ambulance, but that was, like, weeks ago.
“I trust you. But I have to admit I’d rather you stick with figure skating cases. Although you’re probably falling down on your butt a lot less this time around.”
We both laughed. Yeah, I had some issues when it came to staying upright whenever I put on figure skates.
Man, I was so glad that case was over. Not like this one wasn’t keeping me up at night.
I yearned back to the days of a good old-fashioned dognapping.
Or, I don’t know, maybe people could stop committing crimes in the first place.
But what fun would that be?
Oh great. I was sounding more like Shelby.
That was never a good sign.
CHAPTER
17
“There’s one thing I can’t figure out,” Bryant said the next day as we walked to his apartment after school.
One thing? He had only one thing he couldn’t figure out? Because I had, like, a gazillion. And not just about this case. About Mom. About Dad. About everything.
“What would that be?” Shelby asked as she unwrapped one of the four Levain cookies Bryant bought her.
“If there’s somebody doing this, how do they know you?”
Good point. Someone knowing Shelby’s name should worry us instead of pleasing Shelby.
“It is safe to presume that your building and those coming and going from it are monitored,” Shelby replied.
“Okay, let’s say that’s true.”
“It’s true,” Shelby stated flatly.
“Yeah, but how do they know you?” Bryant glared at Shelby.
“Why would someone know about two young detectives who solve cases? Ones with numerous satisfied clients? Who are well known in this neighborhood? Who were recently featured in the Harlem Observer, not to mention Watson’s blog, which is gaining readers daily?”
Wait a second. Shelby told me she didn’t read my blog since she’d lived it. Hmm, maybe she did like reading what I had to say about her.
Uh-oh. Sometimes I wasn’t very flattering because I told the truth.
Shelby continued, “Bryant, you often underestimate my abilities. Granted, I haven’t thus far been able to properly put all the pieces in place for you. But I will. I’ve done it before. I’ll
do it again. And must I remind you how detrimental it has been for you to underestimate me in any capacity?”
Bryant sulked for the rest of the walk to his place.
Although he had a reasonable question. How did this person foresee that Shelby would get involved—since she wasn’t even brought in until yesterday at lunch? How did they know enough to use her name on the very day she showed up?
My online journal about our adventures had gained new readers. We were recognized around the neighborhood, but we weren’t that famous. There were only a few photos of us online. (Okay, yeah, I googled myself once. Or a few dozen times.)
How did Shelby fit into all of this?
Maybe Shelby was onto something when she said that Bryant would want to see her fail. Not that Bryant was involved, but maybe it was someone from one of her past cases who had a vendetta against her. Maybe someone she’d been rude to.
So, like, everybody.
Could it be Belle from the figure skating cipher? Or maybe one of the Lacys from the dognapping case? I’d hate to think Zane could be behind this, but I’d been wrong about him before.
Wait a second. Shelby had been wrong before. The whole Mr. Crosby case. She was blinded by her own ego to see that there was someone pulling the strings. She had simply believed that Miss Adler’s School for Girls would move heaven and earth to bring her back. I was the one who thought that seemed fishy.
And then we’d met Moira Hardy. Aka the only person to outsmart Shelby. Moira almost got away with blackmailing our teacher and being an all-around horrible person. She had even set a trap for us that we fell right into, locking us in a basement. It was bad, and not just because I ended up in an ambulance due to diabetic hypoglycemia.
But eventually, Shelby had provided evidence that Moira hacked into her school headmistress’s email. As a result, Moira had been assigned volunteer work—a pretty small punishment if you asked me. But Moira had money and her family donated a lot of it to the school, so . . . do the math.
I had hoped we were rid of Moira, but this sounded an awful lot like her. Not the whole haunting business, but being one step ahead and taunting us with that note, which had paper from a financial newspaper. Moira’s dad worked in finance. Plus, she loved nothing more than to mess with Shelby and make our lives complicated.
“Hey, Shelby,” I started cautiously. “You don’t think she has anything to do with this?”
“Who?” Shelby asked as she licked chocolate from her fingers.
She was going to make me say it. It’s like you-know-who from the Harry Potter books. I didn’t want to say her name aloud.
Since Shelby wasn’t getting my hints, I took a deep breath. “Moira Hardy.”
At Moira’s name, Shelby perked up. “Oh, that would be fun!” (Again: Shelby did not understand what “fun” meant.) “How did you make that deduction?”
“If Kaitlin is to be believed, the girl who gave her that letter looked like you. So either whoever did this hired a girl to impersonate you . . . or it could be Moira in a wig.”
Moira was a little taller than Shelby and had darker skin, but skin could be lightened with makeup and Kaitlin didn’t comment on her height, probably because she was staring down at her phone.
Shelby didn’t respond so I continued, “Plus this person knew you and anticipated your arrival. You weren’t at Bryant’s long enough for someone to see us enter and then go hire someone. So they had to know you were going to show up.”
“That is true,” Shelby conceded. “However, if this person is as clever as we think, which Moira certainly is, they’d have realized that you were an acquaintance of Bryant’s and I’d eventually be called in.”
I bristled at that. Whoever it was assumed I wouldn’t have been able to figure it out on my own. Yeah, that was true. But still.
Have some faith in Watson, people!
Shelby remained quiet for the rest of the walk to Bryant’s, which meant that she was processing what I was saying. I might be right! (As much as it would be nice to be right, I didn’t want it to be about Moira. She was TROUBLE.)
But . . . why? A detective always needed to figure out why someone would do something (send ciphers, kidnap a dog). There was no reason why Moira would be involved with Bryant’s building. Right?
The biggest problem with Moira Hardy—she didn’t really need a why. Her only motivation seemed to be bringing Shelby down. Seriously. She only wanted to prove that she was smarter than Shelby, which ended up backfiring on her. But there were so many ways to get back at Shelby (like, say, having all sugar banned in NYC). Why Bryant? Why now?
It seemed like a stretch. Even for her.
So that basically left us with everybody in Bryant’s apartment building as suspects. My gut told me Kaitlin wasn’t behind it. Yeah, she had a motive, but I didn’t think she could pull it off. But we all know my gut has been wrong in the past. Let’s hope it was off regarding Moira. And Mom.
As much as Shelby said it was an inside job, everybody in the building seemed really upset about what was happening. Were they all really great actors? Who had the most to gain?
So many questions, so few answers.
When we rounded the corner of Bryant’s street we knew right away something was wrong. Really, really wrong.
Outside the building was an ambulance and two police cars. The lights were on, and someone was being carried out on a stretcher.
CHAPTER
18
It was Mr. Mortimer.
He was being treated by two EMTs. He had an oxygen mask over his mouth.
This had reached a whole other level.
A really, really bad level.
“He’s my neighbor!” Bryant called out to one of the EMTs as we went running over. “What happened?”
They ignored us and loaded Mr. Mortimer into the back of the ambulance. But he held up his hand and gestured toward the medic who was checking his pulse. He pulled down his mask.
“Are you okay, Mr. Mortimer?” Bryant asked, his voice shaking.
His mouth moved for a few beats. Bryant leaned in. Shelby and I gathered around him as well. His skin was ashen, and he looked more gaunt than usual.
“What is it?” Bryant said as he held his hand.
“I—I—I,” he stuttered. “I saw . . .”
Oh no.
Just no.
“Saw what? WHAT DID YOU SEE?” Bryant asked, his voice near hysterics.
Have to be honest, I was dreading the answer to that question. No way could it be any good.
Here’s the thing: every time Shelby dismissed this case and said there was a logical explanation and nothing otherworldly was at play, something like this happened.
Before Mr. Mortimer could answer, the paramedics put the mask back on him and loaded him into the ambulance.
The three of us stood there dumbfounded as the ambulance sped away. Well, Bryant and I looked lost, while Shelby had her eyes closed. Her mouth was moving slightly.
Bryant began to talk, but I held up my hand to silence him.
“She’s figuring something out,” I whispered to him.
The front door of the building opened. And there, walking beside Ms. Lyons was none other than Detective Lestrade.
Shelby was not going to like this.
Detective Lestrade was with the New York City Police Department. Her relationship with Shelby was, ah, unusual. I mean, if you really thought about it, any nine-year-old’s relationship with a detective should be weird. Shelby and Lestrade often butted heads, mostly because Shelby stuck her nose in the detective’s business. But a few weeks ago they kind of came to a, well, I wouldn’t necessarily call it a truce. After Detective Lestrade helped us out with Moira, there was almost a bit of respect between the two. Granted, a very begrudging respect.
Shelby was still deep in thought, but I knew she’d want to know about this.
“Um, Shelby,” I said quietly.
“I am quite aware Lestrade is here,” she replied. She kept h
er eyes closed for a beat more before she opened them to see my confused expression. “Watson, her car is right there and I got a slight whiff of her perfume when the door opened.”
I looked over at the unmarked black sedan. It looked pretty generic to me, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Shelby had memorized her license plate number.
Detective Lestrade smirked when she saw us standing outside. “Why am I not surprised you’re involved in all this, Holmes?”
“Greetings, Detective,” Shelby said with her arms folded.
“You know the cops?” Bryant asked me.
I shrugged. He’d know about it if he read my blog. I went to his violin recital the other day, so he kind of owed me. I know he didn’t read it because he didn’t want anything to do with Shelby, but hey, it was a pretty good read—it had action! Twists and turns! Sugar! Me!—if I do say so myself.
Shelby gave Lestrade and Ms. Lyons a curt nod. “What happened with Mr. Mortimer?”
“I was walking up the stairs to my apartment when I heard a loud bang from Mr. Mortimer’s unit,” Ms. Lyons said. There were deeper bags under her eyes. It was clear she hadn’t been sleeping. According to Bryant, last night was the same as before. The stomping. The tapping. The howling. The sense something was off. “Mr. Mortimer wasn’t answering his door so I called for Jay, but he wasn’t home. I ran upstairs to grab the spare key Mr. Mortimer had given me. When I went in his unit, he was passed out on the floor. I then called 9-1-1.”
“He stated to us that he saw something,” Shelby said.
Ms. Lyons ran a shaking hand over her face. “Yes. He kept coming in and out of consciousness. At one point he told me that he saw . . . a figure.”
“Did he describe this figure?”
“No.”
“Those were his exact words, ‘I saw a figure.’”
Ms. Lyons shook her head.
Shelby sighed. “When recounting a witness’s testimony, it’s important to be precise. What exactly did he say? And please be as specific as possible.”
Ms. Lyons wrapped her arms around herself. “He just kept saying that he saw it.”
“Are you positive he said it, not him or her?” Shelby inquired.
The Great Shelby Holmes and the Haunted Hound Page 8