The Copycat Caper Read online

  “And if they don’t?”

  She smiled. “That’s why I’m here,” she said, pointing at her outfit. “You get one wish.” Maybe she really was a genie.

  I thought for a moment. “I got it. I’d like to be able to keep the agency open, without any interference from my parents, and to become a real private detective someday.”

  “You are a real private detective, Charlie. And as far as keeping the agency open . . . your wish is my command. Consider it done.”

  “But what about . . . ?” I nodded in the direction of the kitchen.

  “You just keep doing what you’re doing,” Gram said. “And let me worry about Mr. and Mrs. Killjoy.” She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “Now where the heck is that lamp of mine?” She winked. “Can’t keep Aladdin waiting.” She leaned over and whispered, “He’s a nice kid, mind you, but very demanding. It’s all about him.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Mummy and Daddy Caper

  The next day at school began like all the rest—lectures, discussions, in-class projects, quizzes, homework assignments, and so on. As we waited for science class to begin, Henry and I talked about Danny Reardon’s dog, Rita, and her obsession with the tennis ball. That was one crazy canine. We expected to see Danny back in the office sometime soon with another dilemma. But at least he was a legitimate client, and one who never squabbled about paying. We couldn’t say the same about some of our other clients, whose unpaid tabs kept growing.

  “We ought to just cut ’em off,” Henry said. “That’d show ’em.”

  “I have a hard time turning people away,” I said.

  “No kidding. It’s no way to run a business.”

  Mrs. Jansen cleared her throat. “Okay, let’s get started,” she said.

  We had successfully made it to the final period of the day, and our favorite class. It wasn’t that we especially enjoyed biology or chemistry or anything like that, it was all about the teacher. Mrs. Jansen had the ability to take the driest, most boring material and turn it into something fascinating. And having to wait until the end of the day for her class was torturous. It was kind of like a delicious dessert after a meal of broccoli, cauliflower, and brussels sprouts.

  “Okay, gang, let’s start off with a brainteaser,” she said.

  Jackpot! This was the best part of the class. I could feel a smile beginning to grow on my face. It was hard to hide it. I noticed a handful of classmates glancing in my direction. I was used to it. Whenever Mrs. Jansen unveiled one of her patented brain busters, most of the kids expected me to solve it. It’s not that they wanted me to, it was just how things tended to work out. I had this gift—these amazing reasoning skills—that seemed to come alive whenever a brainteaser or puzzle or riddle was served up. I often wondered why I was fortunate enough to possess these talents. I guess I inherited them from my grandmother. That would make sense, right? Then again, why hadn’t my dad been so lucky? He couldn’t care less about brainteasers, and he had no real aptitude for solving them. I guess these gifts just skipped a generation.

  “Okay, imagine this,” Mrs. Jansen said. She stood in front of her desk and held out her hands. “You’re holding a bowling ball.”

  Henry raised his hand.

  “Yes, Henry.”

  “How heavy is it?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” she said. “Oh, let’s just say it’s twelve pounds.”

  Stephanie Martin, an annoying girl who sat two rows over, began nodding. She did that a lot. Actually, all the time. She threw her hand into the air.

  “Yes, Stephanie.”

  “Is it a man’s bowling ball or a woman’s?”

  Mrs. Jansen smiled. “It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Well, technically . . . ,” Stephanie began.

  Mrs. Jansen sighed. “Okay, let’s say it’s a man’s. And how about if we do this—let me give you the entire problem and then you can ask questions, okay?”

  A few kids glared at Stephanie. She responded by nodding. What else were you expecting?

  “Okay,” Mrs. Jansen said, “You’re holding a twelve-pound, man’s bowling ball. On the floor in front of you are a pair of two thirty-gallon garbage cans—one red and one blue. Each can is filled with water.”

  I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I listened carefully to each clue. Solving a brainteaser in class was great practice for any budding private detective. I knew that it was all about the details.

  “The temperature of the water in the red garbage can is forty degrees. The temperature of the water in the blue can is twenty degrees. If I drop the bowling ball into each can, will it hit the bottom faster in the can with forty-degree water or twenty-degree water?”

  I sat back and closed my eyes. I wanted to picture the scenario that Mrs. Jansen had described. I tried to remember anything that I might have learned in science class about water temperature and its effect on falling objects. I knew that the color of the cans was meaningless, as was the weight of the bowling ball. This was all about water temperature. I was sure of it.

  And then, all at once, it hit me. I started to chuckle under my breath. I was surprised that it had taken me as long as it had to figure out. This one was a no-brainer. I looked around the classroom. Some kids had sketched pictures of the bowling ball and the cans of water. Others sat back, their arms folded, with pained expressions on their faces. I couldn’t believe no one else had figured it out by now.

  “So, what do you think, gang?” Mrs. Jansen said.

  Sherman Doyle, by far the largest kid in class, raised his hand. A couple of months back, I was deathly afraid of Sherman. He’d grunt a lot and always had this menacing look on his face. But since the last two adventures with Rupert Olsen and Colonel Culpepper, we had gotten to know him better. Peel away the oversize body and what you have left is a pretty normal kid, and a nice one at that.

  “I think it’ll take the same time to hit bottom in both cans. I just don’t think the temperature of the water has anything to do with it,” he said.

  “Oh, but it does,” Mrs. Jansen answered. She looked around and saw Henry’s hand in the air. “Okay, Henry.”

  “It’ll take longer for the ball to go through the twenty-degree water. I don’t know why, but I think it will.”

  Mrs. Jansen smiled. “You are absolutely correct.”

  Henry jumped up and threw his arms into the air. “Yesss!”

  “But I’m afraid the answer is incomplete,” she said. “It’s important to know why.”

  Henry dropped back into his seat and curled up. He didn’t handle rejection well.

  I looked around to see if any more hands were raised. I noticed a lot of confused faces, but no one was volunteering an answer.

  “That’s it?” Mrs. Jansen said. “No more takers?” She waited a few moments to see if anyone else wanted to venture an answer. “I have to say I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think this one was that difficult.”

  It wasn’t. At least for someone like me, it wasn’t. I decided to wait until the last second to respond. There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I would have fought the urge to raise my hand. I used to be worried about how people would feel if I showed them up. It used to really bother me. But in the last few months, I’ve learned a lot about myself. I now realize that even though there may be a handful of jealous classmates out there who would like nothing better than to see me fail, the sensation that I would experience when I was able to tackle a brain buster, to deduce the answer, and to share my findings in class was like no other. So, a few occasional sneers or catcalls no longer discouraged me. The ultimate payoff was just too good to pass up.

  “Last call,” Mrs. Jansen said.

  I knew it was my time to shine. I raised my hand slowly.

  She smiled. “I was wondering when you’d decide to speak up, Charlie. Enlighten us.” />
  A few kids rolled their eyes.

  I wasn’t going to let it bother me. “Well, this one is so easy, it can seem hard if you try to overthink it,” I said. “Henry was right. A bowling ball will drop faster in water with a temperature of forty degrees than in twenty-degree water. And the reason is pretty simple. Twenty-degree water is frozen. The freezing temperature for water is thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit.”

  Groans filled the room. Some of the brighter kids were angry with themselves. They knew they shouldn’t have missed that one.

  “Well done,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Okay, now get out your books and open them up to page 147.”

  As we dug out our science texts and flipped through the pages, there was a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Jansen seemed surprised. She walked over and opened it just slightly. A smile began to form on her face as she conversed with someone in the hallway. And within a few seconds, she returned and sat down on the edge of her desk.

  “Boys and girls, we have a special guest this afternoon,” she said. “So why don’t you put away your textbooks for the time being.” She motioned for the mystery guest to join her in the classroom.

  In what could only be described as theatrical, Thaddeus Miles, Roosevelt Middle School’s longtime drama teacher, entered the room. He bowed at the waist and waved his hand in a formal manner. Mr. Miles was no stranger at Roosevelt—he was a legend. The longtime actor, well past retirement age, had directed nearly every school production in the past thirty years. Before joining the faculty, he had acted in dozens of Broadway plays and an untold number of old-time radio dramas. In his day, Mr. Miles was known as the man of a thousand voices, and he frequently demonstrated them to anyone who would listen. He stood off to the side and waited for a formal introduction.

  “For those of you who are unfamiliar with this esteemed gentleman,” Mrs. Jansen said, “I’d like to introduce the head of our theater department, Mr. Thaddeus Miles. He’s stopping by the sixth-grade classrooms to share some pretty exciting news.” She turned to her guest. “Mr. Miles, the floor is yours.”

  The silver-haired drama instructor proudly strutted to the front of the room, oozing confidence. And why not? He had performed before countless audiences in his career, both local and national. He smiled as he scanned the room. It was almost as if he was performing a formal inspection. He brushed a speck of lint off his fire-engine-red blazer and repositioned the white ascot around his neck.

  “Good afternoon, theater lovers,” he said, throwing his arms into the air. Mr. Miles was a master of body language. He moved and swayed in a manner that suggested that his appearance today had been carefully choreographed. He could really work a room. “As many of you have undoubtedly heard, we are about to hold open auditions for our annual sixth-grade spring play. Have any of you ever considered a career in the acting profession?”

  A couple of hands went up in the back of the room. The response was underwhelming.

  “Well, it looks like I have my work cut out for me,” he continued. “Let me tell you about this year’s production.”

  Mrs. Jansen, standing off to the side, waved her hand. “Just wait until you hear this, kids.”

  “In the past we have staged traditional works, but this year will be different,” Mr. Miles said. “This year you have a chance to make history. We will be performing an original production, penned by”—Mr. Miles smiled—“yours truly.” He paused. It almost seemed like he was waiting for applause. When it became clear that we had missed our cue, he frowned and continued. “It’s the story of Rebecca Ramsey, a spoiled young heiress who is facing criminal charges following the disappearance of her wealthy parents. All of the facts point to her as the guilty party. The accused then hires a private detective to help uncover evidence that will prove her innocence.”

  Mrs. Jansen took the lead this time by waving her arms so we would applaud. It worked.

  “That sounds just fascinating, Mr. Miles,” she said. “So, is there more?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Rebecca has a deep, dark secret that she keeps hidden from almost everyone. She has a bit of a gambling problem. She likes to play the ponies. But instead of showing up at the track and risking being recognized, she places her bets through a bookie. And it just so happens that this bookie is her alibi, but he’s disappeared.” He smiled. “I’m giving too much away.”

  “So, what’s next?” Mrs. Jansen asked.

  “All that’s left now is the casting. I’m hoping to discover some talent right here in this room.”

  I looked around. To be honest, I couldn’t imagine anyone in class actually sticking their necks out to audition for a part. There weren’t any actors in this room. Why would any of us want to risk public humiliation?

  “Mrs. Jansen,” Mr. Miles said, “I came to your classroom first for a reason.”

  “Oh, really?” she said.

  “I wanted to ask one of your students to consider trying out for a particular part in the play.”

  “And who might that be?” she asked.

  Mr. Miles put his finger to his lips and looked around. It was as if he was searching for someone.

  “Is there a Charles Collier in the room?” he said.

  Every head turned at the same time. All eyes were now on me. It was the same feeling I would get when I answered a brainteaser in class. But this sort of attention I could do without. I felt Henry nudge me from behind. For some reason, I resisted the urge to raise my hand and be identified.

  “Well, we call him Charlie,” Mrs. Jansen said. “And he’s sitting right over there.” She was pointing in my direction. “Please stand up, Charlie.”

  I slowly rose to my feet.

  “Mr. Collier, your reputation precedes you,” Mr. Miles said. “I’ve been following your exploits in the news the last couple of months. I’m very impressed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  “One of the principal characters in my play is a tough, old-school, no-nonsense private eye by the name of Nick Dakota. Rebecca hires Nick to locate the bookie. Without him, she faces life in prison. Mr. Collier, with your background, I think you’d be the perfect choice for this part.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Did this guy really think that I had any acting abilities? There was no way I would embarrass myself onstage. I considered myself a real private detective, not an actor playing a private detective. I knew my own limitations. I could solve brain busters, help classmates with their problems, but I was no actor.

  “What do you say?” Mr. Miles said.

  I shuffled my feet and swallowed hard. “Sir, I appreciate the invitation but—” I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “I’ve just never . . . I mean . . . I just really . . .” I exhaled. “Mr. Miles, I’m not an actor.”

  Mr. Miles folded his arms and smiled. It was one of those knowing smiles. “I beg to differ.” He strolled across the front of the room and stopped at the window. He gazed out momentarily and then suddenly spun around. “Have you ever assumed a new identity during an investigation?”

  “Well, sure,” I said, “plenty of times.”

  “So you pretended to be someone you weren’t?”

  I nodded.

  “And when you were doing that,” he said, “what exactly were you doing?”

  I didn’t know how to answer the question. “I don’t understand.”

  Mr. Miles threw his hands into the air. “Charlie, you were acting! You might not have thought so at the time, but you were. Let me ask you another question. In order to solve a case, did you ever have to fib to your parents?”

  Henry immediately started laughing. Then the entire room joined in.

  I smiled sheepishly. “I’d rather not answer that question.”

  Mr. Miles chuckled. “I already know the answer.” He began to walk down the aisle toward me. “When you stretched the truth, you were acting.” He
was now standing a foot away from me. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You have hidden talents. It would be a shame to see them go to waste.” Mr. Miles extended his hand. “What do you say? Will you audition for the part?”

  I knew that I should just shake his hand and tell him what he wanted to hear, but I couldn’t. I guess it was fear of failure that held me back. I lowered my eyes.

  Mr. Miles withdrew his hand. “Will you at least consider it?” he said.

  That I could do. “I will, sir. I’ll consider it.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. And for the next fifteen minutes, Mr. Miles described in detail each scene, each act, each character description, etc.

  I found myself wondering what to do. I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted this whole thing to just go away. I didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Miles, but I also didn’t want to embarrass myself. Going undercover and assuming a new identity during an investigation may have been acting, but it sure didn’t give me the courage to step onto that stage in front of a live audience. And then there was the agency to consider. It would be impossible to attend play rehearsals and run a business. I couldn’t walk away from my clients just like that. And what about this unsolved crime in town—this Persian rug burglary? That could very well be my next caper. Gram certainly thought so. And if that turned out to be the case, I’d want to be ready to drop everything and jump in. I didn’t know what to do. Maybe this had nothing to do with the agency. Maybe it had everything to do with the fear of embarrassing myself.

  As was the case whenever I found myself in a fix, my mind drifted to Sam Solomon. What would Sam do in a situation like this? Would he attempt something he knew he wasn’t qualified to do? There had to be an episode where something like that happened. I closed my eyes and concentrated. Think, think. And then it hit me. Of course, Episode #38—The Mummy and Daddy Caper.

  In this particular story, Sam had been hired by a movie producer who was shooting his latest horror film. Apparently a number of mishaps had been taking place on the set, and several of the actors had been injured. To conceal his identity, Sam was hired as a film extra. He had a walk-on part and a handful of lines. Because of his inexperience, he was concerned that veteran actors would be able to detect a fraud in their midst, which would blow his cover. So he worked with an acting coach to help him prepare for his theatrical debut. Not only was the veteran P.I. able to fool the cast and crew, but he was able to expose the perpetrator—a disgruntled actor who had been denied a part in the film and who would sneak onto the set each night and booby-trap various props.