A new thought seemed to flicker in Geetha’s eyes.
Her face turned pale.
“Perhaps,” she whispered.
Over the next few minutes, Geetha explained her artwork down to the smallest detail. She even drew a sketch. As Mila had guessed, Geetha had used several family photos in her painting. Plus some pink lace from her first ballet slippers. A friendship bracelet. Even a piece of her favorite candy, an Everlasting Gobstopper.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“A Gobstopper,” Geetha repeated.
“You had candy stuck to the painting?”
Geetha seemed embarrassed. She brushed a strand of hair from her face. I took that as a yes.
My eyes scanned the cafeteria. I found our first suspect. He was stuffing a Twinkie into his mouth, sideways.
I wrote in my journal:
SUSPECTS
Joey Pignattano
We all knew that Joey would do almost anything for food.
I wondered if he’d steal for it.
Chapter
6
Spill It, Joey
I sat down across from Joey Pignattano.
“Hey, Jigsaw,” he greeted me. “It’s too bad about Geetha’s painting. But you’ll solve the mystery. You always do.”
“Usually,” I replied, “not always. You know we’re friends, right, Joey?”
Joey slurped from a container of milk. A white mustache formed above his lip. “Sure we are. Why? Do you need a favor?”
“This is business,” I replied. “I need to know the truth. Did you have anything to do with this vanishing painting?”
His fingers started tapping on the table. It wasn’t a good sign. Joey looked away.
“No,” Joey said.
I knew right away he wasn’t telling the truth.
His fingers tapped faster, nervously.
“Geetha said she glued a piece of candy to her painting,” I noted.
“I never touched that Gobstopper,” Joey pleaded.
I sat back and crossed my arms. “Who said anything about a Gobstopper?”
“Um, you did.” Joey paused, then doubtfully asked, “Didn’t you?”
“I said it was candy,” I replied. “I never told you it was an Everlasting Gobstopper.”
Joey didn’t answer. Which was probably a good idea, since he was a terrible liar. And that tells you a good thing about Joey Pignattano. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s this: The nicest people make the worst liars.
“Spill it,” I demanded.
Joey’s eyebrows arched. “What?”
“You’re holding out on me,” I said. “You know something, and you’re not telling. Go on,” I urged. “Spill it.”
“You want me to spill it?” Joey asked.
I should have noticed when his eyes went to the milk carton. But I didn’t put two and two together fast enough. Because in the next instant, Joey reached across the table … and spilled the milk.
It oozed across the table. And right onto my lap!
I was a soggy detective. So I grumbled and groaned and wiped myself off. “I didn’t mean spill the milk!” I complained. “I meant spill it. You know, tell me the truth!”
Joey’s eyes widened. “Oooooh,” he said.
After that, Joey confessed.
He didn’t pocket the painting. But he did grab the Gobstopper.
I shook my head. “How could you?”
“How could I not?” Joey answered. “Those little suckers are delicious. It was like a little voice crying out to me: ‘Eat me, Joey. Eat me. Eeeaaattt mmmeeee!’”
Oh brother.
“You promise that you did not take the painting?” I asked.
“No way, Jigsaw,” Joey promised.
I believed him. After all, why would Joey take a painting? He couldn’t eat it.
“So … how was it?” I finally asked.
“How was what?”
“The Gobstopper.”
“A little gluey,” Joey admitted.
Suddenly, a chorus of voices filled the air. Mila and a bunch of other girls were standing around Geetha, singing. I knew the song. Ms. Gleason had taught it to us this week. It was part of our Insect Unit:
“Just what makes that little old ant
Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant?
Anyone knows an ant can’t
Move a rubber tree plant.”
Helen was waving her cast around like an orchestra leader. Danika and Kim were swaying back and forth. Geetha sat in the center, watching them.
Then it really got loud:
“But he’s got HIGH HOPES!
He’s got HIGH HOPES…”
I watched Geetha’s face. Slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted upward. She smiled. Then she joined in with her friends and quietly sang the rest of the song.
Chapter
7
Detectives at Work
Have you ever tried to write while riding in the back of a school bus? Bounce, bounce, scribble, rippp! Yeesh.
I closed my detective journal. As Mila talked, I stared out the bus window with my chin in my hand.
The trees had dropped their leaves. Clear skies had turned gray. Songbirds had flown south. It suddenly hit me that we were driving into the long, cold, dark months of winter.
It made me feel blue.
“Jigsaw? Jigsaw? Are you even listening?”
It was Mila’s voice. And no, I wasn’t.
“What about Eddie Becker?” Mila repeated. “He’s a suspect.”
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“The oldest motive in the world,” Mila answered. “Greed. Eddie loves money. Everybody knows that. Geetha is the best artist in our class. Maybe Eddie thought he could sell her painting.”
I read my notes from our talk with Geetha. “She mentioned there was a friendship bracelet in the collage,” I said. “You think that’s worth any money?”
Mila shook her head. “It’s valuable because of what it means, not because of what it costs. It’s probably just cheap beads and string.”
“Could Ms. Nicks have stolen it?” I wondered. “We don’t really know much about her.”
Mila pulled on her long black hair.
“Doubtful,” she concluded. “But Ms. Nicks was late getting to class. She said her unicycle got a flat tire. So I guess it’s possible.”
“Anything is possible,” I commented. “But I don’t figure Ms. Nicks for a thief. I remember that the door was not locked. That may have been the time of the robbery.”
I closed my eyes and rested my head. For some reason, I felt incredibly tired. All I wanted to do was sleep.
I listened to the conversation behind me. Ralphie Jordan was complaining about our bus driver, Big Curtis.
“He never talks,” Ralphie said. “Big Curtis just grunts. And nods. And frowns. But mostly, Big Curtis just scowls. He’s, like, the worst bus driver in the whole school!”
“That’s not true,” Bobby Solofsky countered. “Big Curtis talks all the time.” Bobby imitated our bus driver’s booming voice: “Sit down back there! Hurry up! Quiet down, you’re giving me a headache!”
A few kids laughed. Bobby did sound like Big Curtis.
Mila turned around in her seat. “I think he’s sweet,” she said.
“Sweet?” Solofsky scoffed. “Maple syrup is sweet. Big Curtis is mean.”
“No,” Mila said. “He’s … he’s…” Mila searched for exactly the right word. “He’s an individual. Besides, he’s shy. That’s why he doesn’t seem friendly. Deep down, I think Big Curtis is a big cream puff. It’s his job to keep us safe. He has to be bossy sometimes.”
“Whatever,” Solofsky said. He buried his face in a comic book.
Meanwhile, the wheels of the bus rolled round and round. And my mind kept returning to the same question: Who took Geetha’s painting?
I didn’t have a clue.
All I knew was that I felt very, very hot.
I suddenly realized why I felt so bad. I was getting sick.
Chapter
8
Saved by the Bell
“Jigsaw, you look awful!” my mother exclaimed as I walked through the door.
I forced a grin. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
I plopped down on the couch. My mother felt my forehead and murmured concern. She said something about the twenty-four- hour bug that was going around. Soon I was propped up with pillows and a blanket. I sipped ginger ale and tried to watch television.
I dozed for the rest of the day, on and off.
Sweating, achy, worn-out, and run-down.
Some detective I turned out to be.
My mom didn’t wake me on Thursday morning. I finally rose from bed to find my mother working on the computer. The rest of the house was quiet. No school for me.
Normally, I’d be happy to have a sick day. The problem is, sick days are wasted on sick people. I felt lousy. My brain wasn’t working. I watched TV, ate soggy toast, and blobbed around. It wasn’t exactly a thrill ride at the amusement park.
By two o’clock, I was feeling well enough to be bored, bored, bored.
“I’m bored,” I grumbled to my mother. Then I said it again, a little louder. Maybe for the tenth time. In the last five minutes.
I think I may have been getting on my mom’s nerves.
The first clue was when she gritted her teeth. Then she rubbed her temples. My mother snapped, “Enough, Jigsaw! I know you haven’t been feeling well. But you are really GETTING ON MY NERVES!”
You see, I’m a detective. I get paid to notice little things. And big things, too. Like, for example, the steam pouring out of my mom’s ears.
“There’s nothing to do,” I pointed out.
“NOTHING TO DO? ARE YOU KIDDING?!”
“Mom,” I said quietly, “maybe you should use your inside voice.”
And maybe saying that wasn’t such a good idea.
“How about this, Jigsaw?” she said. “There are puzzles to do, books to read, and floors to be swept. It seems to me that you’re feeling a little better.”
“But…”
“Find something to do,” my mother said.
“But there isn’t anything to do,” I repeated.
Ding-dong. The doorbell rang.
My mother smiled tightly. “Now there is,” she said. “You can answer the door.”
It was Mila. I think my mother was as happy to see her as I was. Mila unloaded a stack of board games on our living room table. Then she handed me a get-well card. It was written in code:
OHPE OYU RAE EFELIGN EBTTRE, EDTECTIEV!
“It’s a Twist Code,” Mila offered helpfully.
I remembered it from one of my code books. If a word has two, three, or four letters, then you are supposed to switch the first two letters. So the word “SICK” becomes “ISCK.”
But if a word is five letters or more, you flip-flop the first and last two letters. “BETTER” becomes “EBTTRE.”
Pretty simple, once you get the hang of it. Mila had written:
HOPE YOU ARE FEELING BETTER, DETECTIVE!
And I was. I even ate a little something. Mila brought over all the ingredients. But it was Ms. Gleason’s recipe. You just slather some cream cheese on a celery stalk. Then you drop on a row of raisins. Ants on a log!
“Thanks,” I said while we played Checkers. “You’re a good friend, Mila.”
“That’s what friends do,” Mila answered. “They look out for each other.”
Then she added seriously, “I’ve been thinking about the case, Jigsaw. I have a new idea. But it’s a little out there.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Maybe Geetha stole her own painting,” Mila replied.
Chapter
9
The Suspect
You could have knocked me down with a feather boa.
“Geetha? Why do you suspect her?”
“She doesn’t seem very upset,” Mila said. “It’s like she doesn’t care.”
“Geetha is quiet,” I pointed out. “It’s hard to tell what she’s feeling.”
Mila continued. “Other people seem more concerned about the painting than she does, don’t you think?”
“Like who?” I asked.
“Helen, for example.”
“Well, that makes sense,” I countered. “Helen is Geetha’s best friend.”
“Yes,” Mila agreed. “But Helen keeps asking me about the case. She wants to know if we’ve got any suspects yet.”
“That’s what friends are for,” I said.
“There’s more, Jigsaw,” Mila said. “Something weird happened in school today. Ms. Nicks spoke to Geetha in the hallway. Luckily, I was on my way to the girls’ room. So I stopped by the water fountain and took an extra-long drink.”
“You eavesdropped!” I laughed. “Good detective work, Mila.”
Mila’s eyes twinkled. “Exactly. Pretty sneaky, huh? Anyway, Ms. Nicks wanted to hang another one of Geetha’s pictures in the art display. But Geetha wouldn’t let her.”
“Really?”
“Geetha said that nothing else was good enough. But I don’t think that was really it,” Mila said. “I think Geetha was happy she wasn’t in the art show.”
Mila was usually right about these things. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Geetha’s a great artist. You’d think she’d love to be the…”
“… center of attention?” Mila filled in. “That’s it, Jigsaw. Geetha is super-shy. She doesn’t want anyone to notice her.”
It was time for dinner. I walked Mila to the door. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thanks for coming over. I’m feeling a lot better now. You’re a good friend and a good detective.”
“See you in school tomorrow?” Mila asked.
“Definitely,” I replied. “We’ve got a mystery to solve. If Geetha took this painting, we have to figure out how and when. You’ve already answered why.”
My family was happy to see me back at the dinner table. For about ten seconds.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Grams said. “Now pass the potatoes.” For an old lady, Grams eats like a rhinoceros.
“It’s Parents’ Night tomorrow,” I reminded my parents.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” my father murmured. “It would take wild horses to keep me away.”
“We’re looking forward to it,” my mother quickly added. “We’ve heard a lot about Ms. Gleason. I can’t wait to go through your folders to see what kind of work you’ve been doing.”
“Through my folders?” I chirped.
“Yes,” my mother answered. “We’ll get to see all the things you’ve been doing in school.”
“I’m not so sure I like this,” I said.
During the rest of dinner, I kept thinking about Geetha. I wondered why someone would be that shy.
“We’ve got a girl in school,” I began to tell my parents. “She’s a great artist. But she’s really, really shy. I don’t think she wants to show her work in the art display.”
“Yeah, so?”
That was my brother Nicholas.
My brother Daniel cared even less. He said, “Who cares?”
Yeesh.
“I care,” my father chimed in pointedly.
I said to him, “You’d think that she’d love to show off her artwork.”
“People are funny,” my dad answered. “When you were little, I thought you’d love the circus. But you just cried and cried.”
“Did not,” I protested.
“Did too,” my sister, Hillary, said. She teased in a babyish voice, “Momma, Dadda, the cwowns are scawing me!”
The cwowns?
“You were afraid of clowns,” my father said. He shrugged, raising his palms in the air. “Who knew?”
“Clowns still worry me,” I admitted. “I think it’s the weird smiles and big feet. It’s like they’re too happy, you know what I mean?
“I
saw a horror movie about a killer clown,” Billy began.
“Never mind that,” my mother interrupted. “Would anyone like some apple pie?”
Chapter
10
Crumbs
I was glad to get back to room 201 on Friday morning. I liked the usual hubbub before the morning bell sounded. Kids were pulling off backpacks and hanging jackets in cubbies. Joking and laughing, pushing and poking. Helen and Danika were performing magic tricks with Kim. Bobby and Bigs were arguing about video games. Mila was talking with Geetha. It was good to be back.
Off by himself, Stringbean Noonan lay sprawled on the floor. His nose was inches from the ant farm.
I sat beside him.
“Just look at them, Jigsaw,” Stringbean marveled. “Ants are amazing.”
“So are uncles,” I joked.
It didn’t get much of a laugh. But it wasn’t much of a joke, either.
“Have you ever noticed that ants are just like people?” Stringbean said. “They live together. They work together. Just look at this little guy.”
Stringbean pointed to an ant that was struggling to carry a crumb. “Can you imagine how heavy that little crumb must be for him? It’s like you or me trying to carry a school bus.”
Another ant came along to help out. Together they carried that crumb deeper into a tunnel. “Those are the worker ants,” Stringbean noted. “See how they help each other? Ants may be small, but they work together to solve big problems.”
He paused. “We can all learn a lot from our friends in the insect world.”
I’m not kidding. That’s really how Stringbean talked.
I wouldn’t make this stuff up.
A huge roar of laughter suddenly filled the room. Helen had tricked Danika by making a pen disappear. Then, presto, Helen revealed her secret. She had hidden the pen in her sling!
“What a great hiding spot!” Kim declared.
The Case of the Vanishing Painting Page 2