The Homemade Stuffing Caper
CHARLIE
COLLIER
=SNOOP FOR HIRE=
The Homemade
Stuffing Caper
CHARLIE
COLLIER
=SNOOP FOR HIRE=
The Homemade
Stuffing Caper
JOHN V. MADORMO
PHILOMEL BOOKS
AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC.
PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group. Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.
Copyright © 2012 by John V. Madormo. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the United States of America. Edited by Jill Santopolo. Design by Amy Wu. Text set in 12-point New Baskerville.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Madormo, John V. Charlie Collier, snoop for hire : the homemade stuffing caper / John V. Madormo. p. cm. Summary: Twelve-year-old Charlie’s analytical skills win him few friends at school, but when the most popular girl in class comes to the makeshift private investigation office in his parents’ garage asking Charlie’s help to find her missing bird, he and friend Henry begin their first real case. [1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Lost and found possessions—Fiction. 3. Birds—Fiction. 4. Family life—Illinois—Fiction. 5. Grandmothers—Fiction. 6. Illinois—Fiction. 7. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title. II. Title: Homemade stuffing caper.
PZ7.M26574Ch 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011013064
ISBN: 978-1-101-57226-9
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To my wife, Celeste,
for her endless love,
support, and encouragement.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 — THE BOUNCING CZECHS CAPER
Chapter 2 — THE IDOL HANDS CAPER
Chapter 3 — THE GOING FOR BAROQUE CAPER
Chapter 4 — THE LOSS OF PATIENTS CAPER
Chapter 5 — THE STEAMED CARATS CAPER
Chapter 6 — THE DUES AND DON’TS CAPER
Chapter 7 — THE NEVER ON A SUNDAE CAPER
Chapter 8 — THE CHIC SHEIK CAPER
Chapter 9 — THE ROAMIN’ SOLDIER CAPER
Chapter 10 — THE BUOYS AND GIRLS CAPER
Chapter 11 — THE COMMON SCENTS CAPER
Chapter 12 — THE POULTRY IN MOTION CAPER
Chapter 13 — THE HITS AND MRS. CAPER
Chapter 14 — THE KNIGHT SCHOOL CAPER
Chapter 15 — THE GRIZZLY BAREFOOT CAPER
Chapter 16 — THE WOK IN THE PARK CAPER
Chapter 17 — THE DOG DAZE CAPER
CHAPTER 1
The Bouncing Czechs Caper
The name’s Collier. Charlie Collier. Glad to meet you. Maybe you’ve heard of me. No? That’s hard to believe. Well, then you’re one of the few folks in Oak Grove, Illinois, who hasn’t. I’m practically a legend—at least at Roosevelt Middle School, that is. Everybody knows me there. You see, I help folks—for a price that is. Take Josh Hartley, sixth-grade class president, for instance. When Josh was falsely accused of a crime he didn’t commit, he sought out my services. And who do you suppose identified the real culprit who dumped live goldfish into the principal’s water cooler? Yep, that was me. When Tracy Hudson, cheerleader captain, found herself on the hot seat, she called me too. And who do you think exposed the real perpetrator who teepeed the teachers’ lounge? Yep, me again.
Does any of this stuff ring a bell? No? Why don’t you check me out—on the Internet. I’m the big kid—yeah, the big kid with the XXL wardrobe. I carry a little extra muscle. Well, it’s not really muscle, but I like to call it that. Oh, I’m not saying I enjoy being fat. There I go again, using that word. My mom makes me put a quarter in the vacation jar every time I say it. But it doesn’t really bother me. It’s who I am. Don’t get me wrong, if I could snap my fingers and shed thirty pounds, I’d certainly do it. It’s just that I’ve tried so many times. Diets, exercise programs, even hypnosis. Nothing’s worked. This is my lot in life and I’ve accepted it. After all, it’s in the genes. Take a good look at my parents. I never had a chance. But I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone.
As a matter of fact, a few extra pounds can come in mighty handy in my line of work. Sometimes you need to get tough. Push people around. But there’s a reason for it. I’m a private eye. You know—a detective, investigator, shamus. Whatever you want to call it. I don’t act in an official capacity—I mean, after all, I’m only twelve years old—but I’ve got a nice little business going.
I think I was about ten when I realized that I had this gift. These powers of deduction. On the playground, I was always the first one to unravel a riddle. In the classroom, a word problem was no problem. I didn’t even have to think. It was a little scary—almost as if my brain had a mind of its own. Stuff just seemed to pop into my head.
For a long time I wondered how these skills would pay off. Then a friend of mine, actually my best friend, Henry Cunningham, gave me an idea.
“You know, Charlie, I’ll bet folks would pay for a service like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Solving mysteries for people.”
“Like what?”
“Like what? Finding out who stuffed you into a locker, who stole your lunch money, or who put fake barf on your desk. Heck, I’d pay to find out.”
The more I thought about it, the more I realized Henry was right. It was a great idea. This was an untapped market. There were people in need. Damsels in distress. Paying customers. How could I refuse? Someone had to come to their aid. Why not me?
In the past few months, I’ve managed to grow a fairly successful business. All out of our garage. It’s the perfect office. I’m open for business only when my parents are out of the house. And I’ve a built a pretty impressive client list. You’d be surprised how many kids want dirt on their classmates.
I have my scruples, of course. After all, I’m Charlie Collier, Snoop for Hire, not some Peeping Tom. I’ll have you know I’ve turned down my share of cases. Like the time Kevin O’Keefe wanted to know why Mr. Summers, our gym coach, seemed to have no butt. As far as I was concerned, that was no one’s business. Although to ease my own curiosity, I did happen to discover that he had been the
victim of a liposuction procedure gone horribly wrong. It all seemed to fit. There had to have been a malpractice suit that had produced a tidy sum. How else would you explain the Porsche he drove around the school parking lot? But there were just some things that the public need not know.
And so my life as a junior sleuth is proceeding rather nicely. Not to mention that when clients seek out my services, they look at me as a solution to their problems, not just some weight-challenged kid. Weight-challenged … yeah, my mom’s okay with that one.
When one of my clients smiled and shook my hand one day following a rather challenging case, I soon discovered the secret of surviving the battle of the waistline. I realized that when people look at you for who you are, and not for your appearance, it makes a whole lotta difference. It was at that moment that I saw the light. I decided that, since I would probably never be lean and mean, instead I would always place myself in a position to offer a necessary service to my fellow man. I wanted people to see me for what I could accomplish. It’s worked. And, you know, I decided that even if I ever do shed these pounds, it’ll still be a pretty good way to live my life.
Well, back to what really matters: solving cases for your fellow man—and making a few bucks. It’s not easy, you know. Running a detective agency is a lot of work. It helps to have a partner—and I have the best. Henry’s job is to book clients and handle the finances. And he’s pretty easygoing—unless someone tries to stiff us, of course. To Henry, a satisfied customer is one who pays on time. If not, watch out. Collections is one of his strong suits. Simply put, Henry is the agency muscle—short for his age, but as tough as anyone twice his size.
Henry and I were together, in the garage as always, about a week or so ago. It had been a quiet day and we were about to close up shop. The garage had seemed particularly dusty. Henry carefully rolled a dart between his thumb and forefinger. He had recently learned the rules of English darts, and it made him feel worldly. He eyed his target, bit his bottom lip, cleared his throat, and let loose.
“Did you see that? A triple-seventeen,” he said.
“Shhhh.” I wasn’t downplaying his achievement, I was just wrapped up in what I can only describe as my passion, or what Henry would call my obsession … Sam Solomon, Private Eye, a series of detective novels set in Chicago in the 1930s. I carefully cradled Episode #11—The Bouncing Czechs Caper—and ever so delicately turned pages as if they were pieces of priceless parchment. I wanted to savor each cunning feat of deduction, each moment of unthinkable peril.
Sam Solomon was my hero. He was responsible for who I was, who I dreamed of becoming. He was the master of mystery. When working on a case of my own, I would always think to myself: What would Sam do? And within seconds, I had the answer.
So, why would Henry even think of disturbing a student in the midst of intense research?! It was unthinkable, untimely, and just plain rude.
“How many times have you read that one? You already know what happens,” he said.
It was not a question I chose to answer. Instead I shot back with one of my own. “What’s the combination of Sam Solomon’s safe?”
Henry threw his head back and fired the remaining handful of darts at the board. “I don’t know.”
“Twenty-six—nine—thirty-seven.”
“Now why would I care about that?”
“You never know when something like that’ll come in handy.”
Henry, as was his style, waved me off, then seemed to think for a moment, and smiled. “Okay, genius, try this. I found it on the Web. How many animals of each species did Moses take on the ark?” Henry seemed particularly proud of himself.
I could only shake my head. This was clearly an amateur’s attempt to trip up the master. Now, I don’t mean to sound cocky, but if you had spent the better part of your twelve years solving puzzles, you would know that the first step in solving a riddle is to dismiss the obvious. And in this riddle, the first move was to reject the element of mathematics. This wasn’t a numbers question. One had to analyze each word of the statement. The answer was obvious.
“Moses wasn’t on the ark,” I said. “Noah was.”
Henry closed his eyes tightly and groaned. It was a familiar sound. He had yet to stump me, but it didn’t stop him from trying. I admired that. Every so often, I considered missing one, but I always suspected that he would know, and that would be embarrassing. Henry wanted to best me one day, more than anything, but he’d never take charity. Whenever I managed to decipher one of his riddles, which he scoured the Internet for on a daily basis, he would fire back with some comment about my lack of interest in technology.
Henry stewed for a moment. He needed a comeback in the worst way. He had to save face. “Well … well … you call this a modern-day detective agency?” he said. “Where are our cell phones—our GPS navigation systems—our digital audio recorders? Huh? Just think how much more effective we’d be with those at our disposal.”
“I’ve told you before—Sam Solomon didn’t need them—and we don’t need them. We solve our cases with good old-fashioned think technology. We don’t need any of those gadgets,” I said.
A knock at the door interrupted the standoff. I looked at Henry. We weren’t expecting anyone, especially at the end of the day. Henry grabbed a clipboard off the workbench and shrugged his shoulders.
“You sure you didn’t book anyone?” I asked.
Henry shook his head. “Nope.”
We needed our game faces on … and fast. I grabbed my trench coat, hanging on a hook that it shared with a bamboo rake. It was a wrinkled beige number that my dad thought he had donated to Goodwill.
Henry darted to the far corner of the garage and tried to pry loose an old, tattered card table, stuck behind an aluminum ladder. “Help me with this.”
“Be right there,” I assured our uninvited guest. I scooted over to aid Henry. One good yank and the table was free, but we had inadvertently knocked the ladder from its supports, directly onto my toe. “Oh man!”
Another knock at the door. Henry placed his hand over my mouth to muffle the groans. “Just a minute … ,” he yelled.
We quickly set up the wobbly, makeshift desk. Hopping on one foot, I slid a pair of lawn chairs up next to it, and placed a legal pad and pencil on the table.
“Ready?” Henry asked as he grasped the doorknob.
“Wait a minute. Something’s not right.” I quickly scanned the area. Everything seemed to be in place. Why did I feel incomplete, undressed?
Henry snapped his fingers. “Your hat.” He pointed to a black fedora hanging on a hook next to some garden tools.
I ran over, carefully fitted it onto my oversize noggin, glanced into a broken mirror, pulled the brim down slightly, and nodded confidently at Henry.
As the door creaked open, I turned around, and my eyes beheld a vision. Standing in the entranceway was our classmate Scarlett Alexander, a statuesque beauty in a sequined jean jacket. Scarlett flashed a killer smile and walked in, flicking her hair as she passed by. She held a cell phone to her ear—a familiar sight. She was never without it.
“I’m going to have to call you back, Sarah. I have an appointment,” she said as she flipped off her phone.
Henry glanced at me and rolled his eyes. Henry was not what you would call Scarlett’s biggest fan. He always thought that she used her looks, not her brains, to get her through tough scrapes. That mattered little to me. I had been smitten since kindergarten. And I think I can speak for the entire male population of the sixth grade class—minus Henry, of course—when I say that each of us hoped, even prayed, for Scarlett just to look in our direction, let alone speak our names. Henry, amazingly, was unfazed. It might as well have been the janitor walking in.
At times, I envied him. I always wished I could have been more like Henry—in complete control—instead of a babbling idiot whenever a pretty girl walked in the room. At that moment, as Scarlett was passing by, her perfume trail nearly choked both of us, but there was something a
bout it that made you yearn for more. I knew I should have followed Henry’s lead, but like Sam Solomon, I was hooked the minute a mysterious woman entered the office.
“H-H-Hello. Can I help you?” I could barely spit it out.
“I hope so,” Scarlett said softly. “Can I sit down?”
I slid out the lawn chair. Its metal bottom scraped the cement floor. Scarlett lowered herself delicately into the seat and crossed her legs. I plopped down in a chair opposite hers. It was at that moment, as the chair was collapsing beneath me and I was falling to the ground, that I remembered the missing screw in the lawn chair I had so unfortunately chosen.
Scarlett snickered as I climbed to my feet and brushed myself off. I thought it best to say nothing, to maintain my professionalism, but this was certainly no way to impress a new client, let alone the most popular girl in class. Scarlett was no ordinary sixth-grader. She had seventh grade–second semester written all over her.
She turned away for a moment, allowing me to save face. She looked in Henry’s direction, and he returned a scowl. Then she smiled politely at me. I could hardly believe it. There she was—in my garage. I was going to enjoy the moment. I cleared my throat as Henry slid another chair over to the table. I pushed down on the seat before settling in.
“So what can I do for you?” I asked.
“I need your help,” she said.
“Of course. What seems to be the problem?”
“It has to do with a missing person. Well, it’s not really a person.”
I began scribbling on the notepad. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”
“By the way, how much do you charge?” she said.
But before I could answer, Henry stepped in. He was holding the change jar.
“Excuse me, Charlie, this is my territory,” he announced.
Scarlett rolled her eyes.
“A missing person’s case is certainly more difficult than others,” he said. “It requires a great deal of resources—”