Super Puzzletastic Mysteries Page 2

  Briana touched the tip of her nose and slipped around the corner where, right on cue, she speed-dialed Mr. Ball.

  The phone inside the chest pocket of his sausage parka started chirping. (Ben had loaded all the personal cell phone numbers of the teachers and administrators in Briana’s and Riley’s phones for just such an emergency. He’d also blocked the caller ID function.)

  “Hello?” Mr. Ball snapped into his phone. “This is Albert Ball. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  His eyes went wide.

  “Superintendent Worthington? Why, I was just talking about you. I loved your most recent memo . . .”

  Riley grinned. Briana was on the case.

  “I see,” said Mr. Ball. “You’re writing a new memo? About avoiding lawsuits? Fascinating. Oh, I agree, Mrs. Worthington. False accusations are the worst. However, I think if you have solid evidence and a prime suspect— Right. Lawsuits. Need to be one hundred percent certain. What? Yes, as a matter of fact I do have a student eager to lead an investigation but— Oh. You think that’s a good idea? You know, now that you mention it, so do I. Thank you, Mrs. Worthington. And, if you have a minute, might we discuss the current pay scale for vice principals in the district? As you may not know— I see. You have to run. No, later would be fine. We’ll chat later. Thank you for the call.”

  Mr. Ball tapped the off button on his phone just as the second class-change bell rang.

  “You have until the end of the day, Mr. Mack. Otherwise, I am turning Mr. Montgomery over to the authorities.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Riley.

  “May I have my boots back, Mr. Ball?” asked Mongo.

  “No, you may not. I’m confiscating them.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m keeping them! They’re evidence.”

  “They’re also warm, sir. Warmer than just socks.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Hubert. Go to the gym. Put on your sneakers.”

  “Good idea, sir,” said Riley, grabbing Mongo by the elbow. “Let’s hit the gym.”

  As they walked, Riley thumbed a text string.

  Bathroom Emergency.

  NOW!

  Meet us outside the boys’ locker room.

  Riley and Mongo hit the gym. Mongo went to his locker and quickly slid on his size fifteen sneakers.

  “These won’t be good for walking home in the snow.”

  “Don’t worry, Mongo,” Riley assured him. “You’ll have your Timberlands back before school’s out for the day.”

  When they stepped into the hall outside the locker room, Ben, Briana, and Jamal were there, waiting for them.

  “Why, hello, Mr. Mack,” said Briana in a snooty, lockjaw voice, like she went to college in Connecticut. “I’m ever so delighted to see you again.”

  “Is that the voice you used on Mr. Ball?” asked Mongo.

  “Yuh-huh. I went full-blown Ivy League. It can be very intimidating.”

  “Good job,” said Riley.

  “Thank you,” said Briana in her normal voice. “An actor makes choices. The secret is believing in those choices. Keeping them real.”

  “Yo,” said Jamal. “That was supposed to sound real? Because, if I may, I have a few notes on your performance that I’d be happy to—”

  “Not now, guys,” said Riley. “The clock’s ticking.”

  Ben nodded and waved a green card. “I could only score a five-minute bathroom pass.”

  “Me, too,” said Jamal.

  “Okay,” said Riley. “We have to clear Mongo.”

  “I didn’t do it,” said Mongo.

  “Cool,” said Jamal. “So, uh, what exactly are people saying you did?”

  “Mr. Ball thinks I’m the one who wrote FART in the snow.”

  “Nah, man. That’s not your style. You’re more physical than verbal. Me? I’m something of a wordsmith. Love to play with words, experiment with them.”

  “Jamal?” said Riley. “We only have until the end of school today. So far, the evidence against Mongo is pretty solid. The snow writing was done by someone wearing size fifteen Timberland boots.”

  “Like Mongo wears,” said Ben.

  “Exactly. We don’t have the time to pull together a full-blown operation. We need to peanut butter out the tasks and see what we can learn about those other suspects.”

  “Um, what other suspects?” asked Ben.

  “You mentioned Sam Morkal-Williams. Class clown. Known prankster. You and Jamal get close to him at lunch. If Sam did it, he’s going to be eager for someone to find out. The guy lives for the spotlight. Briana?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This Elyssa Shapiro you mentioned.”

  “Nuh-uh. No way. I told you, she’s hard-core. I think she has tattoos. I know she dyes her hair. That’s why it’s so black it looks bluish. The girl is extremely Goth. She’ll be giving me noogies on the cafeteria floor if I even come close to her table. Goth chicks don’t like drama geeks.”

  “Then put on a disguise. Become somebody new. Maybe a new kid. Pretend this is your first day at Fairview. You’re looking for girls even Gothier than you are . . .”

  Briana nodded. Slowly. “Okay. Yes. I can do this. I am an ac-tor. Sure, it’ll be a challenge, but all good roles are.”

  “What do we do, Riley?” asked Mongo. “You and me?”

  “You stick to your class schedule and be on your best behavior. Me? I’m going to visit Old Man Jenkins after lunch. I have a free period.”

  “No, Riley!” said Ben.

  “That old man is old and cranky,” said Jamal. “They could call him Old Cranky Man Jenkins. He might come after you with his Weedwacker.”

  Briana arched an eyebrow. “In the middle of winter?”

  “Hey, some old dudes keep their Weedwackers handy all year long, just to chase kids off their lawns. And who knows what else he might have hidden in that garage. Sledgehammers. Hedge trimmers. WD-40 he could spray in your eyeballs.”

  Riley just grinned. “He might also have a pair of Timberland boots. Size fifteen.”

  Riley and his crew all had lunch at the same time.

  Usually, they sat together and fielded requests from kids who needed help righting wrongs. Today, they split up. Ben and Jamal sat with Sam Morkal-Williams and his friends, who called themselves the Goofballs. They were Fairview Middle School’s premier practical jokers and class clowns. The best of the best.

  Briana would hit the locker room, change into her New Goth Girl disguise/costume, and then try to find a seat at Elyssa Shapiro’s table. It shouldn’t be hard. Nobody much wanted to sit with Elyssa except her nose- and eyebrow-studded friend with the purple hair, Charlotte Edelman.

  Mongo and Riley ate their lunches at their regular table.

  “See?” said the weaselly looking kid, Brandon Kilmeade. He and Steve Duffy shuffled past Mongo and Riley’s table, carrying trays loaded down with double desserts and double chocolate milks. “Riley Mack is old news. He can’t even protect his pal Mongo. Check out the shoes.”

  “Ha!” laughed Steve. “He’s wearing canvas high tops the day after a snowstorm? His socks are gonna stink when he gets home.”

  Brandon nodded. “His feet are gonna itch, too.”

  Mongo slammed down both fists on the table and jangled all the silverware.

  “My boots have been confiscated for evidence!” he declared.

  “We heard,” said Brandon. “If you need help getting out of that jam, let me know. I charge by the job, not the hour.”

  “Hey, Riley?” taunted Steve. “Guess who aced his history quiz this morning? Me. Answered all four questions correctly. Scored a big fat one hundred.”

  Meanwhile, over at the Goofballs’ table, Jamal and Ben were listening to Sam Morkal-Williams regaling his fellow jokers with his funny tale of woe.

  “Oh, man, I so wish I had thought of that,” he said. “Writing something funny in the snow? That’s like the ultimate stunt. Although I might’ve gone with the word poop. Poop is always
funnier than fart. Underpants would’ve been funny, too.”

  “Y’all talk about this kind of stuff every day?” asked Jamal.

  “Nah,” said Sam. “Usually we just tell jokes and try to make everybody else laugh so hard, milk comes shooting out their noses.”

  “Cool,” said Jamal. “Nice grabbing lunch with you dudes. We gotta run.”

  “Yeah,” said Ben. “This was fun. And, you know, funny. Sorry I didn’t laugh much.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” said Jamal. “Ben never laughs. Except when he’s watching that British guy Mr. Bean. Go figure, huh?”

  As Ben and Jamal took their trays to the drop-off window, they passed Briana in a jet-black wig. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Even her lipstick was black. She had raccoon circles around her eyes, wore a jagged necklace, and had plastered all sorts of temporary tattoos up and down her sleeveless arms.

  She sat down at the table where Elyssa and Charlotte were sitting, each girl twirling the dyed tips of her hair. All Briana had on her tray was a small plate cradling a wobbly hard-boiled egg. The other girls were eating bowls of gloomy-looking gruel. Or grits. It could’ve been grits.

  “Hey,” said Briana, sounding totally bored.

  “Hey,” said Elyssa.

  Charlotte just grunted.

  “I’m new,” said Briana, with a yawn. “First day.”

  “Cool,” said Elyssa.

  Charlotte grunted again.

  “So,” said Brianna, “which one of you total bad apples wrote the word in, like, the snow?”

  Elyssa and Charlotte put down their spoons and glared at her.

  “You think I wrote FART?” said Elyssa. “In the snow?” She sounded like she might rip out somebody’s hair sometime soon.

  “Totally,” said Briana.

  “You don’t wear coffin creeper boots like these in the snow, idiot!” snarled Elyssa.

  “They cost like a hundred and thirty dollars,” added Charlotte.

  “Snow could ruin the leather,” said Elyssa. “And do you know how much we paid for these pants?”

  “Oh-kay,” said Briana. “Good fashion tips. Thanks.”

  She picked up her tray, turned around, looked over to where Riley was sitting, shook her head, and mouthed two words:

  “No. Way.”

  That meant it was up to Riley.

  He had to sneak over to Old Man Jenkins’s house and see what he could see.

  He had a free period right after lunch that he usually spent in the media center working on “independent studies.”

  “Excuse me?” he said to the librarian. “I need to go outside and gather some samples for science class.”

  “Samples?” the librarian answered skeptically.

  “Yeah,” said Riley. “I’m going to catalog snowflakes. See if they’re all really different. I mean, come on, one or two have to be the same, am I right?”

  The librarian stared at him. For a full second. “Be sure to wear your coat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Riley put on his snow boots and coat and trudged across the ballfields to the scene of the “crime.” The edges of the FART letters were crusting over with ice. Riley wondered why Mr. Ball hadn’t sent out the custodians to plow away or cover up the word. Probably because it was on Old Man Jenkins’s property, not the school’s.

  Riley scooched through a hole he knew about in the fence and carefully headed toward Mr. Jenkins’s elevated back porch. It was made of concrete and free of snow, shielded by an angled aluminum awning overhead. As he moved closer, Riley could see the tops of a pair of tan boots peeking out of a wooden crate pushed into a corner where the porch’s railings met the house’s brick wall.

  Riley tiptoed up the stoop’s three steps and took a look inside the boots. He checked out their size. It was printed on the label sewn to the tongue.

  Fifteen.

  Mr. Jenkins had the same size feet as Mongo.

  But were his boots Timberlands?

  Riley gingerly extracted one boot out of the box and read the logo stamped into the side of the heel.

  Eddie Bauer.

  He eased the boot back into the box and sighed.

  It was nearly one o’clock. School would be over in two hours.

  And he didn’t have a single piece of evidence.

  Or did he?

  He quickly texted Mongo.

  WHERE DO YOU STORE YOUR BOOTS AT NIGHT?

  Mongo texted right back.

  IN MY ROOM.

  Not the answer Riley was looking for.

  But then he saw the bubble and dots letting him know that Mongo wasn’t done texting. His second message finally blooped onto his screen:

  UNLESS THEY ARE WET.

  THEN MOM MAKES US PUT THEM ON THE PORCH.

  Yes! Riley thought. He hurried away from Mr. Jenkins’s house, slipped through the fence, and went back into school.

  He needed to talk to Steve Duffy.

  The class-change bell rang. Riley strolled over to where he knew Duffy had his locker.

  “What are you doing here, loser?” Duffy asked when he swaggered up the hallway to grab what he needed for his next class.

  “I think you’re lying,” Riley told him. “No way you scored a one hundred on your makeup history quiz.”

  “Ha!” said Duffy, digging a sheet of paper out of his notebook. “Read it and weep. The librarian graded it for Mrs. Henkin. See? One hundred percent! Nailed all four multiple choice questions.”

  Riley glanced at the exam sheet. Up in the right-hand corner, he saw the 100 circled in red. The librarian had also added a smiley face.

  Riley checked out the first question:

  1. Who was president at the start of World War II?

  A. Harry Truman

  B. Dwight D. Eisenhower

  C. Franklin D. Roosevelt

  D. None of the above

  Duffy, of course, had circled the correct answer. C. He’d answered the other three questions correctly, too.

  Riley handed the quiz back to Duffy and didn’t say another word.

  He and Mongo needed to go see Mr. Ball.

  Because Riley Mack knew who had written FART in the snow and why.

  For the solution to this story, please turn here.

  Possum-Man and Janet

  by Steve Hockensmith

  It was nine o’clock at night, and Janet was walking her dog, Albus, before getting ready for bed.

  Something moved in the darkness between two houses.

  Albus turned toward it and growled.

  Janet stopped on the sidewalk and peered into the shadows.

  “Hello?” she said. “Is someone there?”

  A shape emerged—tall and broad, with gray fur and round black eyes and a long, hairless tail. It spoke to Janet in a deep, raspy voice.

  “I am the night,” it said.

  “Oh,” said Janet. “Hi, Uncle Jim.”

  Albus wagged his tail.

  The man cleared his throat. He didn’t like being called “Uncle Jim” when he was in costume.

  “Janet Goffman,” he said, his voice still low and gruff, “Cleveland needs you.”

  Janet sighed.

  “It’s late,” she said.

  “It’s never too late,” said Uncle Jim, “for justice.”

  “I’m tired,” said Janet.

  “I am, too,” said Uncle Jim. “Tired of the criminals who prey on our city.”

  “I have a math test tomorrow,” said Janet.

  “We’re all being tested. All the time,” said Uncle Jim. “And you don’t want to flunk doing the right thing.”

  “‘Doing the right thing’ would be walking Albus and brushing my teeth and going to sleep,” said Janet.

  “Crime never sleeps,” said Uncle Jim. “Or brushes its teeth.”

  “I’m in the fifth grade,” said Janet. “I shouldn’t be running around with a superhero.”

  “Please?” said Uncle Jim, his voice going up an octave. “Pleas
e, please, please?”

  “Oh, alright,” said Janet. “But I can’t stay out long, and I want to bring Albus.”

  “Albus?” said Uncle Jim.

  Albus wagged his tail again. He’d always liked Uncle Jim.

  “He’ll get hair in the Night Glider,” Uncle Jim said.

  “OK, fine,” said Janet. “You wait here while I finish walking him and put him inside and tell Mom you dropped by and need my help. I should be back in twenty minutes or so. Maybe.”

  Uncle Jim held up a black-gloved hand.

  “There’s no time for that,” he said, his voice dropping low again. “Bring him.”

  He turned and stalked away.

  Janet followed him through her neighbors’ yards.

  “Let’s go, Albus,” she said. “You’re coming with me and Uncle Jim.”

  Uncle Jim looked over his shoulder, and even in the darkness Janet could tell he was scowling.

  “I mean ‘me and Possum-Man.’” Janet sighed.

  Albus trotted along beside her still wagging his tail.

  The Night Glider—the large black hoverdisc Uncle Jim flew in around Cleveland—was parked on a baseball field nearby. A gray-haired man was standing near the bleachers staring at it, a leashed Chihuahua at his side.

  “Hi, Mr. Getzler,” said Janet. “Hi, Amy.”

  Amy the Chihuahua whipped around and started barking at Albus.

  Albus—five times her size—ignored her.

  Mr. Getzler turned and stared in wonder at Janet and Uncle Jim.

  “Geez Louise,” he said. “I heard it, but I didn’t believe it. You actually know Opossum-Man?”

  Janet put a finger to her lips.

  “It’s supposed to be a secret,” she said.

  “There’s no O, citizen,” growled Uncle Jim. “It’s just Possum-Man.”

  “Yeah, well, I appreciate everything you’ve done for us, Possum-Man,” Mr. Getzler said.

  Uncle Jim kept heading toward the Night Glider.

  “No need to thank me, friend,” he said.

  “I know you’ve saved the city a dozen times,” Mr. Getzler went on.

  “Two dozen,” Uncle Jim said, still not slowing down. “All in a day’s work for Cuyahoga County’s cowled crusader.”

  Janet knew Mr. Getzler well enough to know what was coming next.

  “Beautiful afternoon,” he’d usually say when he spotted her walking Albus. “But do you have to let that big elephant of yours do his business so close to my daffodils?”