Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 1 : The Haunted Toolshed (6 page)

Strangers in a Strange Land

“Nice backpack, kid,” a deep, grumbly voice says from the darkened passenger-side window of the van.

I gulp.

“You better get home and avoid the street tonight,” says Mr. Deep Voice.

The van rolls slowly past and into the darkness. I watch the two taillights fall away into the mist like the red eyes of a dragon.

“You’re not the boss of me,” my voice peeps. I want to sound tough and brave, but I sound more like a nervous guinea pig.

Who was that? Why were their headlights off? Could they be the ones trying to scare the Ashers off their property? Were they trying to scare me off my first official case as a private detective?

“The plots thickens,” I say to nobody, although I’m really thinking that if the plot thickens any more it’ll start to feel like quicksand.

I feel goose bumps crawl across my back, skitter up my neck, and spread across my scalp like aherd of spiders.

I remember something that my dad is always telling me: “Son, there is nothing to fear but fear itself.”

This really drives me nuts.

The truth is, when you’re really scared you can’t think about anything. Your body simply switches into autopilot and starts growing goose bumps like crazy. So in order to keep myself from looking like a plucked chicken all night, I decide to get organized.

I pull out the pencil and pad of paper Hailey put in the backpack. To organize my thoughts I make a list of the many puzzling facts of this case.

I read my list over. I realize I’ve simply organized my confusion.

I pull Hailey’s Girl Chat Sleep-over flashlight out of the backpack. I stagger across Mr. Asher’s lawn and turn the corner.

I lower my smallish chin, determined to make a major break in the case, goose pimples or no goose pimples.

One clue. One footprint. One trace of evidence is all I need. No detective likes going home empty handed. And neither do I.

Of course, the one clue I do end up finding is so shocking, so unexpected, it will change the way I think about fingers forever.

Can I See a Show of Hands?

“Red Leader. This is Blue Fox. Do you copy?

Over.”

I forgot about the Girl Chat Sleepover walkie-talkie. Although I turned down the volume, Hailey’s voice is loud enough to make me jump.

“Did you find Dad?” I ask hopefully.

“Uh, that’s a negative, Red Leader. Please refer to that person as Hot Skunk for the remainder of the mission. Over!”

“Hot Skunk? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

I holler.

“Uh, that’s a negative. Over!” Hailey’s faint voice replies.

“Is Jessie helping you look for him?” I ask.

“That’s a big negative, Red Leader. Happy Fish is not participating in Operation Hot Skunk Rescue. Over.”

“Happy Fish?” I growl into the phone.

“Operation Hot Skunk Rescue? Hailey, I don’t have time for this!”

“Please don’t use real names on this freq—”

I turn the thing off before she can finish.

I’m convinced that my little sister is not good for my mental health. I clip the walkie-talkie back onto my belt.

Putting as little pressure as possible on my ballooning ankle, I teeter over to the area under the Ashers’ kitchen window.

I sweep the pink beam of light from the Girl Chat Sleepover flashlight across the ground, looking for any sign of a trespasser.

But instead of the footprints I expect to find in the soft dirt under the window, I discover handprints. Deep prints made by long, super size hands with fingers as thick as sausages.

Gross! I move the pink circle of light back and forth on the ground, but there are only handprints. Not one footprint? That’s odd.

Handprints? Why would someone walk on their hands like an acrobat to steal bundt cakes and a glass eye?

So they wouldn’t leave fingerprints? So their face wouldn’t be seen?

Or maybe they couldn’t walk on their feet. . . .

“NO! It can’t be!” I croak.

I clutch my forehead as if to pull the hunch from my mind. But it just grows and spreads and blossoms like all the weeds in our front yard. There’s no escaping it. . .

The thief could quite possibly be my dad!

Calling for Backup

It all seems to fit.

My dad is missing. He can’t walk on his feet. He’s been moaning like a ghost because of his gout-infested toe. He’s been acting goofy. And he’s been eating like a vacuum since he dropped Mom off at the airport . . .

and I think he likes bundt cake, too.

Despite the cool, misty air, I start to sweat like a pig in a blanket.

With a jolt of panic, I wrestle the phone from my pocket and punch in the phone number of the one person who can handle something this big. The person who will always stand by me no matter how bad things get.

“Da,” I hear Lance’s grandmother say after the first ring.

“Hello, Grandma Peeker! Sorry to call this late . . . anyway, I’m wondering if Lance can—”

“Who is this?” Grandma Peeker interrupts.

“Oh, sorry . . . this is Sherlock,” I say. “Um . . . I know it’s late, but this may be a matter of life or—”

The phone bangs down like it’s been dropped from the roof of a skyscraper. What-ever happened to phone manners?

Lance’s grandma is odd. She’s short with wide, wiggly arms. She has a drooping, gumdrop-size wart just under her right eye that I try not to look at, but the more I try not to look at it the more I do. I hate that. She smells like old cheese.

“Hiya, Sherlock!” Lance finally says on the other end of the line.

I clear my throat. “Would you like your milk in a bag?”

“What?” Lance asks.

“Would you like your milk in a bag?” I repeat slowly.

“Huh? Sherlock, did you bang your head on something?”

“Would you like your milk in a bag?” I say louder.

“What on earth are you talking about?” he asks.

“WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR STINKING

MILK IN A BAG?” I shout.

Lance is quiet for a few moments. I can hear him breathing. “Have you gone completely crazy?” he asks finally.

“No! You knucklehead!” I holler into the phone. “That’s our secret code!”

“Secret code?” he asks, like he’s never heard those two words said together before.

“Yes! The secret code that means you’re supposed to drop everything and come running because your best friend in the whole world needs you! The secret code that we were always going to remember for the rest of our lives!”

“I don’t remember making any secret code with you,” he says.

“What good is an emergency secret code if the only other guy who knows it can’t remember it? Just forget that I called.”

“Well, since you got me out of the bath, you might as well tell me what your big secret-code emergency is all about.”

“I need you to come and help me on a case,”

I say, shaking my head because I already know what his answer will be.

“At this hour?” he snorts. “You are crazy. Besides, I just put on my pajamas.”

“C’mon, Lance! I need you on this one,” I beg.

“Sorry, pal, but we’re about to watch the

final episode of Bug Chompers,” he says. “It’s the major television event of the season.”

I close the phone on Lance and his bug show. He’s my best friend, but I’m beginning to think he’s allergic to doing anything without a remote control in his hand.

My dad’s cell phone starts vibrating again in my pocket. Oh, brother. Could this night possibly get any worse?

Before I can answer that question, someone rushes up from behind me, grabs Hailey’s Girl Chat Sleepover backpack, and starts to run.

Sadly, I’m still strapped to the dang thing.