The Homemade Stuffing Caper Read online

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  As I returned each book to the cart, I noticed that many were in poor condition. “These look pretty old.”

  “They are. A lot of them are first editions.”

  “So, what are you going to do with them?” I said.

  “Oh, they’re headed to the archives. Too valuable to sit on the shelves.”

  I slid the last of the books onto Eugene’s cart.

  “Well, thanks a lot, Charlie. I’d better be on my way.”

  “You’re welcome.” I watched Eugene slowly trudge down the aisle—then he stopped suddenly.

  “Hey, didn’t you forget something?” he said.

  I looked at him, confused. “What?”

  “Sam Solomon trivia. Come on. Try to stump me.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, smiling. I thought hard for a moment. I needed an especially challenging Sam Solomon tidbit. I closed my eyes tightly and tried to think. But the more I tried, the less I could come up with. Nothing was happening. “Umm,” I said, stalling. I let out a nervous laugh. What was wrong with me? This Scarlett thing had messed me up big-time. I couldn’t think straight. This was not difficult stuff. After about thirty seconds, I decided to just spit out anything.

  “How did Sam escape from his office when the Hudson Gang was trying to break in?”

  Eugene just shook his head. “The rope ladder hidden in the flower box.” He seemed disappointed. “You asked me that one last week.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about it. Just be sure to think up a new one next time. A real good one.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  Eugene glanced at his watch. “Appears my sentence is almost up for the day. See you tomorrow,” he said as he dragged his cart to the archives.

  I fell back into my chair with my book, but minutes later, I sat up. I just couldn’t concentrate. What was wrong with me? If I could no longer become engrossed in one of Sam’s mysteries, then what was left? The future seemed bleak at best. I was beginning to feel sorry for myself. This was worse than I thought. I had to get out of this funk. You’re Charlie Collier, Snoop for Hire, for Pete’s sake, I told myself. Snap out of it.

  I reopened the Sam Solomon novel and forced myself to concentrate. But it was no use. I kept thinking about Scarlett. It would be so great to work for her on a real case. I began to worry that it might never happen though. I had to make this right. I just had to. But how? What I needed to do was to sit down and talk with her, and to officially take on this case. I decided not to wait until school tomorrow. I needed to take action right now. I’d go over to her house. That was what I’d do.

  The thought of showing up on Scarlett’s front porch made me a little nervous. I had never done anything like that before. I had walked by her house any number of times, just hoping that she might see me and ask me in. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. But actually going over there—and ringing the doorbell, no less—now, this was a big step. She might not be too crazy about me just showing up uninvited. This whole thing could backfire. But what did I have to lose anyway? It was worth a shot, right? I decided to risk it.

  On the walk to Scarlett’s house, I tried to prepare myself for the worst. If things didn’t go well, and I blew a chance for a shot at the big score, then so be it. I tried to convince myself that there would be other opportunities. I suppose I might stumble onto the ultimate case one of these days. For years I dreamed of a client … a mysterious redhead … yeah … walking into the garage and requesting my services. It was just like in The Loss of Patients Caper: The daughter of one of the missing patients hires Sam to locate her father. I can just imagine the same thing happening to me. She’d be gorgeous … and fragile … very fragile … and distressed. Her life would be in jeopardy. She would have exhausted all other means. I would be her last resort. I let out a sigh. Now that would be outstanding.

  I suppose I would have relived that image multiple times had not the rattle of a transmission and a blaring car horn startled me. It was the familiar sound of Grandma’s oversize Chrysler Newport. The boat screeched to a halt, jumping up onto the curb. Grandma popped out. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit—the prison variety. I smiled. This was a new look. I didn’t dare ask about it.

  “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride,” Grandma said.

  Now, I appreciated her offer, but I’d just as soon have reworked that daydream. The redhead was waiting for me.

  “Thanks, Gram, but I’ll pass.”

  “It wasn’t a question. It was an order. Get in,” she said. Her tone was deadly serious.

  I looked at her funny, but I didn’t argue. I threw my backpack onto the rear seat and slid in. Was something wrong at home?

  “What’s going—,” I started to say, but Gram held up her hand.

  “No talking. Just sit.”

  I sat back in my seat. Chalk up another failed attempt to connect with Scarlett. But, who knew, maybe Gram was doing me a favor. Maybe showing up at Scarlett’s house unannounced would have been a bad idea.

  I didn’t say a word as we whisked through town, ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit at all times. Grandma was a relatively safe driver, but she had the need for speed. It made my dad crazy sometimes. He had finally refused to ride with her. I, on the other hand, enjoyed it. After all, in my line of work, high-speed chases were commonplace. I had better get accustomed to them.

  When we turned onto Briar Avenue, the old Oak Grove City Hall building came into view. I knew at that point that we weren’t headed home. I wanted to know where we were going but thought it best to wait until Gram was ready to reveal our official destination. Her eyes were fixed on the road. The farther we drove, the less familiar I was with the surroundings. I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I had to know.

  “Gram, where exactly …?”

  Without turning her head, Grandma made herself very clear. “No questions. Just sit there. You might learn something.”

  We soon entered an old section of town. I noticed an army surplus store on one of the corners as we passed by. The buildings weren’t necessarily run-down … just old. It was the kind of place where you’d never find a mall, just a series of mom-and-pop shops up and down the main street. Most of the buildings had to be at least seventy-five years old. They did have character though.

  Grandma turned the corner at Kendall Avenue and stopped the car in front of an old barber shop … the kind with the red-and-white pole that spins around. On the front door were metal numbers that read 3116. She opened the driver’s door and nodded for me to follow. We both got out of the car and walked past the front window. I could see several older men in chairs waiting for haircuts. Then Gram looked around, as if she didn’t want anyone to see where we were headed. It was then that I felt a twinge in my gut. The same feeling I would get sometimes when reading a Sam Solomon novel, right before Sam gets himself into a jam. I loved the sensation.

  I followed my grandmother along the side of the building to its rear. We stopped at the back door. It was unlocked, and Grandma pulled it open. We made our way up a set of creaky wooden stairs. When we reached the landing, Grandma nodded at an unmarked door at the end of the hallway. She led the way. As we approached the doorway, she looked over her shoulder at me. I detected a half smile. It was the first friendly signal I had gotten from her in the last thirty minutes. She proceeded to knock twice, then scraped her fingernails on the face of the door and knocked three more times. It was clearly some sort of password. But what was on the other side of this door? Where had she taken me? Why all the mystery?

  I could faintly make out an oddly familiar voice from the other side. “Come in,” he said.

  Grandma was now sporting a full grin. It was the type of facial expression that people have when they can’t wait to see the look on your face. Like your mother on Christmas morning as you unwrap the best gift. She stepped back and motioned for me to open the door. I was a little fearful of what was waiting for me on the other sid
e, but I didn’t want her to sense my nervousness.

  I turned the knob and pushed. The door was stuck. Not surprising given the age and appearance of this place. I tried it a second time … nothing. I glanced at my grandmother. She shook her head and threw a shoulder into the door. It opened right up. She stepped back, allowing me to enter first. I took a deep breath and poked my head inside.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Steamed Carats Caper

  The room was dimly lit. I’m not quite certain what I was expecting but this was nothing special, that was for sure. I stepped in for a better look. Grandma followed, closing the door behind us. I examined the surroundings. We were in a dingy, undersized office. The plaster walls were cracked and stained. The window … there was only one … was partially shattered with a tiny hole still visible. Looked almost like a bullet hole … a .38 if I had to guess. There were no rugs or curtains. The only light came from a lamp flickering on the desk. There was a tall leather chair with its back to us pushed up against the desk. A picture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt hung on the far wall, with a wooden file cabinet just beneath it. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a wrinkled trench coat and a black fedora. There was an old, moth-eaten couch and a three-legged table filled with papers next to the window, and that was about it. But something about it felt familiar and comforting.

  I turned to Gram. “I don’t get it. Why are we here?”

  “I’m a little disappointed in you, Charlie. Take a really good look around.”

  I reexamined the contents of the room. Was I supposed to recognize this place or something? And then it hit me. Of course. I smiled. Actually, I beamed, and my grandmother could sense my delight. The bullet hole in the window. The three-legged table. The portrait of FDR. And the unmistakable fedora and trench coat. On the surface, this space just appeared to be a sorry excuse for an office. But upon closer examination, it was an exact replica of Sam Solomon’s office in 1938 Chicago. Just as I had pictured it. It was almost as if I were reading about it for the first time—like I did in Episode #1—The Steamed Carats Caper.

  “I knew you’d recognize it,” Grandma said.

  All at once the desk chair spun around, and seated before me was a gentleman I would never have expected to have found there. “Eugene Patterson?” I said, looking at him quizzically. The volunteer from the library? Now I was even more confused. What was Eugene doing here? And what was this office all about? It was fantastic. But who had put it all together, and why?

  “Welcome, Charlie,” Eugene said. He motioned for me to join him.

  I looked at my grandmother. It wasn’t as though I was asking for permission. I just wanted to make sure she was okay with all of this.

  “Well, go ahead,” she said.

  I continued to soak in all the wonderment of this incredible place as I sat down across from Eugene. “I don’t understand,” I mumbled.

  With a smug look, the old man sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Grandma was now sitting on the old, ratty couch. Both of them were staring at me, silently, waiting for my reaction to all of this. I was dying to know what was going on. After about thirty seconds, curiosity forced my hand.

  I jumped up. “What is all this?”

  Eugene and Grandma laughed.

  “This is my office, Charlie. What did you think it was?” Eugene said.

  I didn’t know what to make of it. Why exactly would Eugene have an office? I thought he was retired. What was going on here?

  “Your office? What kind of office?”

  “Well, you should know that. We’re both in the same line of work.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “This is a detective agency? You run a detective agency?

  Eugene nodded.

  “But I thought you were just a volunteer at the library.”

  “That’s my cover,” Eugene said. “You know, the library is a great resource when you’re researching a case. Heck, most people think I’m just another senior citizen trying to kill time and waiting for the call from upstairs. And that’s fine with me.”

  I looked around the room. “How long have you been doing all of this?”

  Grandma laughed. “A long time,” she said. “How long’s it been, Eugene … fifty-plus years now since we set up shop?”

  I stared at my grandmother. “We?”

  “We,” Eugene said. “You didn’t know your grandmother once worked in a detective agency, did you?”

  “Are you kidding, Gram? Why didn’t you ever tell me? You know I love this stuff.”

  “It was best to be discreet,” she said. “You know what that word means, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “When you spend most of your life undercover, you learn not to advertise it,” she said.

  “Wait a minute. I thought you were a switchboard operator.”

  “Well, I was … during the war.”

  “And that’s not all she did in W-W-Two,” Eugene said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. My grandmother seemed slightly embarrassed.

  “Tell the boy, Constance.”

  She rose from the couch and walked over to the desk. Pausing, she turned toward me with intense seriousness, and said, “This information can’t leave this room.”

  I nodded. Gram didn’t have to worry about me spilling the beans. In all my years as a private eye, I had never betrayed a client. Confidentiality was required in our profession, and I respected that.

  “During the Second World War, while I worked at the telephone company, I was approached by a young, good-looking lieutenant in Naval Intelligence.” She winked at Eugene.

  “Eugene?” I said.

  Eugene smiled, and pointed his finger at me. “That’s classified too, young man.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. I turned to my grandmother. “Well?”

  “When I was young, Charlie, I was a lot like you. I loved to solve things—crossword puzzles, word jumbles, anything with letters—and a lot of people knew I had this little skill.”

  “Don’t be modest,” Eugene said. “It wasn’t so little.”

  “You see, when you run a switchboard,” Grandma continued, “you have access to a lot of communications from all over the country … from all over the world for that matter. And our intelligence forces were worried that enemy sympathizers, here in the U.S., were in contact with their cohorts overseas. Our military would try to intercept their telephone conversations. And since I was an overseas operator, many of those calls had to come through me. But it wasn’t so easy because they were always in code.”

  “Code?” I said.

  “That’s right,” Gram said.

  “It was your grandma’s job to decode those messages for us.” Eugene grinned. “And there was none better.”

  “I can’t believe all this. Gram, you were a hero. You too, Eugene.”

  “Just doin’ our jobs,” Eugene said humbly.

  “That’s how it was back then,” Grandma said. “You did whatever your country asked you to do, you didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t look for a pat on the back.”

  “So, how did you get here?”

  “When the war ended, there weren’t many opportunities to put my skills to good use,” Gram said. “Nobody was hiring cryptologists.”

  “You were a cryptologist?” I asked.

  Grandma looked embarrassed.

  But Eugene grinned. “She was the best we had. There wasn’t a code she couldn’t crack.”

  “It was quite a ride,” Grandma said.

  “But what happened after the war?” I asked. “Did you keep working for the government?”

  “No, I returned to the switchboard,” she said. “But it wasn’t nearly as exciting. And then a few months later, Eugene paid me a second visit.”

  “Best move I ever made,” Eugene said.

  “He told me that he’d been discharged from the navy and was considering setting up his own detective agency. And he asked me to join him.”

  “You see, Charlie,”
Eugene said, “I’d learned a lot during my years as a Naval Intelligence officer. Enough to hang out a shingle and set up my own shop. But I couldn’t do it alone.” He winked at Gram. “I needed an associate. Someone I could trust. And someone who folks would never suspect was in the detective business. Your grandmother was the perfect choice.”

  “Gram, How come you never told me about all this? Is this the reason for all your different … personalities? Did Grandpa know? Does my dad know?”

  “Your grandfather knew. And like a true Sam Solomon fan, he loved all the mystery and intrigue. But your dad, on the other hand, knows nothing about this. And that’s just the way I want to keep it.”

  “Why?”

  “He should think of me as his mother. Period. All that cloak and dagger stuff would only muddy things up.”

  It was already pretty muddied up, I thought to myself. She was probably right though.

  “Then how come you’re telling me all this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad. But why?”

  “Because you’re different,” Gram said. “Because you have a hunger for mystery and intrigue. And because your dad gets on your case all the time about your little business. I thought it might be nice for you to see how a real detective agency operates.”

  “And today at the library,” Eugene said, “I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed restless. Like something was wrong. I’ve never known you to have a hard time thinking up a Sam Solomon trivia question before. It just seemed like the right time to lift your spirits a little. And”—Eugene looked at Gram, who nodded—“to make you a little offer.”

  “An offer?” I said.

  Eugene stood up and walked to the far wall. He reached for the fedora and placed it on his head, then he slipped on the trench coat. He returned and sat on the edge of the desk.

  “Your grandmother’s told me about the detective agency you run out of your garage.”

  I glanced at Grandma and smiled. She was the only one at home who never gave me grief about my small-business venture.

  “Very enterprising,” Eugene said. “I applaud you.”

  “Thanks.”