The Homemade Stuffing Caper Page 3
“Grandma? Don’t you think that’s enough?” I tried to make the request seem more like a question.
“I s’pose,” she said, as she reached for the stethoscope around her neck.
“Mom?” My dad’s voice was strained.
“Quiet!” She placed the end of the stethoscope against his neck and listened carefully. Hearing nothing, she stared at the instrument and banged it on the table.
I don’t think I had ever seen a senior citizen jump quite that high before. Grandma yanked the stethoscope from her ears and slapped the side of her head. She leaned over and removed the cuff. My dad let out a great sigh and rubbed his neck.
“Let’s just eat,” he snapped as my mom set a plate of scrambled eggs on the table.
Sensing my dad’s displeasure, and fully aware of her mother-in-law’s pattern of outrageous behavior, my mom was determined to turn this melodrama into a relaxing family meal.
“So, Charlie, were you surprised to see your grandmother after school yesterday?” she said.
“You might say that.” I made a face at my mother. No one wanted to offend Grandma.
“She got back from her Vegas trip a little early, and wanted to help out.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, rolling my eyes.
She winked at me and turned to my grandmother. “You must have had a great time, Mom. You look beat.”
Grandma abruptly stopped chewing. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her nurse’s uniform and smiled politely.
“I’m beat ’cause some idiot was banging on my door at three o’clock in the morning.”
“At the hotel?” my mom asked.
“No, at the circus! Of course, at the hotel.”
“What’d he want?” I asked.
“Oh, he said he thought it was his room. Said he must have gotten off on the wrong floor.” She reached into the large serving bowl in the center of the table and pulled out a clump of scrambled eggs with her hand. “I’m just glad he wasn’t a robber.”
I thought to myself for a moment. Something wasn’t right here. I couldn’t just let this go. “Gram, he was a robber.”
“What?” she squealed.
“Don’t you see? He would never have knocked on the door if it was his room. He wanted to find out if someone was in there.”
My parents stared at each other, then at me. I could almost read their minds: He’s done it again.
Grandma slapped my dad on the shoulder. “I hope you realize this boy has quite a gift.”
“Yes, Mother, I’m aware of that,” my dad said.
It was nice to hear my parents finally acknowledge these powers of mine. Maybe they’d cut me some slack. They might even learn to appreciate these skills. But then, all at once, my dad’s attention focused on me.
“Your mother tells me you’re taking on clients again.”
And suddenly I wished that I had never said anything at all. In every household, a kid needed an ally. My mother had always been there for me. Why would she betray me this time? I glared at her, then quickly turned away.
“I’m not recruiting them. They find me.”
My father was noticeably upset. “Charlie, professional private investigators are licensed by the state,” he said. “Where’s your license?”
I was well aware that I would not win this battle. But still, it just didn’t seem fair. Can you tell a cat not to purr? Can you ask a bird not to sing? It just wasn’t natural.
“Aw, let the boy be,” my grandma said.
“Mom, please stay out of this,” my dad said.
“What’s the big deal? He’s helping his friends. He’s making a little spending money. What’s the harm? In my day—”
My dad didn’t seem to appreciate Grandma’s comments. “But we’re not in your day. So, please, let me handle this.”
Grandma let out a long sigh.
“Charlie, I asked you a question. Where’s your license?” my dad said.
I stared at my plate of eggs and sausage. I decided to say nothing. This was ridiculous. Why would you ask a question you already knew the answer to?
“So you don’t have one, huh? Then you don’t practice. Understood?”
I gritted my teeth. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response.
“Charlie!” my dad roared.
“Okay.” I had suddenly lost my appetite. “May I be excused?” I marched to my room and spent the better part of the day curled up with a Sam Solomon novel. In this particular episode, a mysterious redhead was about to get the drop on the master detective. A knock at the door startled me, and I sat up in bed.
“Yeah.”
My mom stuck her head in. “Can I come in?”
Was this the same woman who had ratted me out? I was in no mood for an apology. My mother entered the room and immediately noticed my reading material.
“Aren’t you tired of”—and then in dramatic fashion—“Sam Solomon, Private Eye?”
“No,” I said, without making eye contact.
She paused, then sighed. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Oh no. This couldn’t be good. I had a bad feeling she was about to ground me for taking on clients again. And if that happened to be my sentence, then so be it. I had survived worse. And I would maintain my cool through it all. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. Go ahead, Mom, take your best shot.
“What’d you want to talk about?” I said. And then just as the words had trickled off my tongue, I felt this sinking feeling in my chest. What if she had something else in mind—something far worse? My folks were headed to my cousin’s wedding tonight, and I was about to have the whole house to myself. What if she felt that she couldn’t trust me? What if she wanted to hire a babysitter? Oh no. I couldn’t take that. I had to do something. I had to take charge. I had to control the conversation—keep it on my terms. I decided to test her. Yeah, that would work. I sat up and smiled.
“Okay, Mom, where does Sam Solomon hide his can of sneezing powder?”
“His what?”
“His sneezing powder.”
“Why in the world would he need that?”
“Mom, I’ll have you know that if you toss a little sneezing powder into the face of an unsuspecting enemy, you can buy yourself enough time to get out of a tough scrape. Sam’s done it dozens of times.”
She sighed again. “I have no idea where he keeps it.”
“In a secret compartment under his desk.”
My mother reached over and slid the book from my hands. She examined it.
“With all those hours you spend at the library, you mean to tell me you can’t find something else to read? What do you do there anyway? Not counting the time you’re visiting with Eugene, that is.”
My mom was referring to Eugene Patterson. Eugene was the library’s oldest volunteer. Besides yours truly, he was probably more familiar with routine aspects of Sam Solomon’s life than anyone I’d ever known—not counting my grandfather, of course. Like me, Eugene had not just read about the world’s greatest detective, he had studied him. He and I would always play this little game. We’d quiz each other on Sam Solomon trivia. It usually ended in a draw.
“Charlie, I’d like you to do a favor for me,” my mom said. “The next time you’re at the library, I want you to start reading one of the classics. Can you do that?”
“But, Mom, Sam Solomon is a classic. Gramps always thought so. It’s challenging, thought provoking … and helps sharpen my powers of deduction.”
“You have all the answers, don’t you?”
I grinned and raised my eyebrows. I had managed to land on my feet once again.
My mom kissed me on the forehead and glanced at her watch. “I’d better get ready. We leave in a little while. I just want to make certain—are you sure you’re going to be all right by yourself tonight?”
Be all right? I’d been waiting for this day for months.
“I’ll be fine. You go have a good time.”
“What do you think, Sam? Maybe, tonight’s the night”—I scooted to the window and looked out at the garage—“when the big score walks right through that door.”
CHAPTER 3
The Going for Baroque Caper
A few hours later, I found myself in the living room staring at the TV. There was nothing much of interest to watch. I was just killing time waiting for my parents to leave for the night. I flipped through the channels until a story on the news caught my eye.
“Authorities in suburban Oak Grove are reporting complaints from businesses and homeowners of missing birds in the area. The missing birds range from home pets like cockatoos, conures, and macaws, to the more exotic species of parrots—the eclectus, pionus, quaker, and senegal varieties. Even the local wildlife sanctuary has been unable to locate one of its red-tailed hawks, and this is after having reported last week that one of their falcons is still missing. Authorities are investigating. In other news …”
I turned off the set and thought to myself. Something strange was happening—but what? This was the second time that someone had made reference to missing birds recently. Mrs. Jansen had said something in class yesterday. It sounded like the police were looking into it. What I wouldn’t give for a chance to tackle a caper like that.
Just then my mom appeared. “Charlie, help me with this.” She was wearing a black, floor-length gown. She apparently was having trouble fastening a necklace. “I’m expecting your dad to honk the horn any minute now.” And then right on cue—beep beep! Dad and Gram were waiting in the minivan in front of the house. Mom was always running late. I quickly fixed the necklace and walked out onto the front porch with her. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I groaned.
There should be rules for parents, not just children. Once you reach the age of twelve, no family member should be able to kiss you in public. It’s that simple. Okay, maybe in the house, on your birthday, but for Pete’s sake, the front porch is completely off-limits.
“You know our cell phone numbers, and there’s dinner in the fridge. We’ll be back around eleven,” my mom said. She paused and placed her hand on the side of my face. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, honey? I just don’t feel right leaving you home alone like this.”
“I’ll be fine.”
My grandmother stuck her head out the car window. “Are we finished here?!” She glanced at her watch. She was in a hurry—and let it be known. “I don’t want to miss the open bar.”
My mother grinned at me. Grandma was amusing, when she didn’t have a blood pressure cuff around your neck.
“Okay, be good. I love you.” She walked to the car and got in.
I waited on the porch until the van was safely out of sight.
From behind the bushes on the far side of the house emerged Henry, holding a notebook. “Boy, I thought they’d never leave.”
“This is gonna be great,” I said.
“Hey, did I hear your mom say that they won’t be back till eleven?”
I nodded with an ear-to-ear grin.
Henry raised his arms into the air. “Yessss!”
“So, what do you think?” I asked. “Could it happen tonight? Could someone walk into the garage and present us with the caper of capers? The big score? The case we’ve been waiting for all our lives?”
“Oh yeah.” But I knew Henry was just telling me what I wanted to hear. “Tonight’s the night for sure.”
We hustled to the garage. It had never looked better. A half-dozen lawn chairs filled the space, and a chaise lounge was parked just outside the door. It would make a nice waiting area. We were anticipating a big crowd. Henry had spent the last few days spreading the word to fellow classmates that we would be open for business tonight.
We made a few last-minute alterations to the office décor and finished up just in time. As we stood there and admired our handiwork, there was a knock at the door. I winked at my partner.
“It’s showtime,” I announced.
As I stuffed myself into my seat, Henry casually strolled to the door and swung it open. With a shaven head and a basketball under his arm, Danny Reardon stood on the other side.
Danny was slightly smarter than your typical jock, but he had chosen sports history over academics. He was a student of the game Dr. Naismith had invented, which is to say basketball. Danny could tell you every NBA championship team beginning with the 1947 Philadelphia Warriors, but could supply little else from his history textbook.
The six-foot-two string bean ducked down as he passed through the doorway. He smiled when he caught sight of my hat.
“Hi, guys,” he said, waiting for an invitation to sit down.
Henry glanced at his notebook. “Hi, Dan.” Henry escorted him to a chair opposite mine.
“So, what can we do for you?” I asked.
“Well, my next-door neighbor hates it when we play basketball.”
“What do you mean?” I said as I folded my hands on the card table.
“My driveway is right next to his yard. And we have a basketball net over the garage.” Danny paused as I took notes on a legal pad.
“Go on,” I instructed.
“Well, a lot of times the ball goes in his yard. And it’s hard to get ’cause he’s got this big dog, you know. I mean sometimes we can get it ’cause the dog’s tied to a tree. But sometimes we can’t ’cause it’s too close to him, and he’s not too friendly … the dog, that is.”
“Do you ever ask your neighbor to get the ball for you?”
“Not anymore. He says if it goes in his yard one more time, he’s keepin’ it.”
I stood and began pacing. I picked up the legal pad and studied my notes. “You say the dog’s tied to a tree?”
“Yeah, they nailed this big hook in the tree and attached a long chain to it.” Danny stretched his legs out in front of him.
“And what does the dog do when you go in the yard?”
“Well, he’s not too happy to see us, I’ll tell you that. And there’s no way to sneak up on him. He follows you everywhere.”
I sat back down and began to sketch a picture on the top page of the pad. I studied it. Redrew it. Analyzed it. Then I smiled.
“Okay, my friend, listen up. The next time the ball goes in that yard and you can’t get to it, I want you to—”
Henry cleared his throat, interrupting us. He pointed to a jar filled with dollar bills and coins on one of the workbench shelves.
Danny opened his hand and grinned. Four shiny quarters rested in the center of his palm.
“Just checking,” Henry said with a smile.
“Okay now, the ball’s in the yard, right?” I said.
“Right.”
“I want you to go into the yard and stay close to the fence where the dog can’t get at you. Then I want you to walk all the way around the yard … once, twice, three times … whatever it takes.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, the dog’s tied up to the tree. When you walk, he’ll follow you. The chain will start to wrap around the tree and get shorter and shorter and shorter. Then go pick up the ball.” I leaned back in the lawn chair and waited for his reaction.
Danny nodded his head and grinned. “Sweet. Thanks, guys.” He got up, dropped his quarters in the jar, and left.
For the next hour, Henry and I engaged in a relaxing game of English darts while waiting for our next client. Relaxing, however, might not be the way Henry would have described the experience.
“Double in?” Henry whined. “Why do we always have to double in?”
“Because those are the rules. Why would you want to play any other way?”
“So we’re not here all night. I’ll never get it in one of those little holes.”
“We either play the game the right way, or we don’t play at all,” I said. “For your information, in Episode #8
—The Going for Baroque Caper—Sam Solomon, while interviewing a new assistant, clearly states that breaking the rules is like breaking your word. And a responsible and ethical private eye would never—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I betcha Sam wasn’t playin’ darts when he came up with that one.”
A light knock at the door interrupted our friendly spat.
“Who’s next?” I asked.
Henry looked around for the legal pad. “Where is it?” he said impatiently.
“It was right here a minute ago,” I said.
“You know, if we had a computer in here like normal people, we’d have all this stuff stored in a nice database, and we wouldn’t be running around looking for a pad of paper like a couple of dopes.”
Someone was now pounding on the door.
“Sam Solomon didn’t need a computer to keep track of his clients. And we don’t either,” I said.
Henry shook his head disgustedly and swung open the door. Standing in the entryway with a parrot sitting on her shoulder was Jessica Pearson. The sixth-grader didn’t wait to be asked in as she brushed by Henry and sat down.
“Let’s go, boys, we’re on the clock.”
Jessica was all business. She controlled all situations and won all arguments. In a conversation with Jessica, you were always the listener. And she wasn’t afraid to point out your shortcomings.
“I’m on a tight schedule tonight.”
I glared at Henry. I couldn’t believe my best friend would do this to me. Why had he booked Jessica? After all, this was the office of Charlie Collier, Snoop for Hire. I called the shots here. I didn’t have to work under these conditions.
Jessica slammed her fist on the card table, nearly collapsing it. “If you think I’m going to just sit here …”
“It’s nice to see you again, Jessica,” I said. Killer kindness was always the way to tame a restless client.
Jessica rolled her eyes. She wasn’t buying it. “Cut it out, Collier. I got a problem. You wanna help me or not?”
I sat down and reflected. I had taken on difficult clients before. And although Jessica was certain to test my patience, I needed to maintain my professionalism.