“Of course, then I had to figure out where the rabbit came from,” Shelby continued, as she often did, bragging about her old cases. “That led me to not only capture the animal, but also to return it to its owners down the street. Two cases solved with one helpful technique.”
“That’s really impressive, Shelby.”
While it was, in fact, impressive, I was really just buttering Shelby up.
In creative writing class, Ms. Onder suggested we start putting our work up online to gain an audience and get feedback from readers. I wanted to start an online journal about our adventures, but I needed Shelby’s permission.
Part of me assumed she’d want me to do it since it would feed her ego to get credit for all the work she’d done around our neighborhood and school. But there was another part that was worried she would find it silly. She always saw me writing on the stoop and knew about my journal, but she never asked me about it.
Maybe because she already knew what was in it. Or maybe because she didn’t care.
“Hey, Shelby.” I tried to sound natural as I mixed the plaster of paris to pour into the imprint. “You know that journal I’ve been keeping about our cases?”
“Yes,” she replied as she stuck her face down near the soil, inspecting my work.
“Would you mind if I put it online? It’s for class.” I could hardly contain my nerves. I could always change names and details if she said no, but I really wanted to report the truth.
Okay, and I’ll admit that I hoped there’d be enough people in school who would be curious about Shelby that I’d be guaranteed some readers. Jason was always snatching my notebook to read the latest entry. The only problem was, I was running out of things to say. We hadn’t had a case since school started.
“Do whatever.” Shelby stood up and wiped her hands on her jeans.
Really? That was it? I didn’t think she’d make it so easy. She never made things easy. (See: being on my hands and knees mixing plaster in our backyard on a sunny Saturday afternoon.)
“Why do you look surprised?” she called me out.
“Oh, nothing, I just … You’re sure?”
She scowled at me. “Of course I’m sure. Would you like me to retract my answer?”
“No!”
Shelby sighed. “Here’s another lesson for you, Watson: Never give someone the opportunity to reverse their decision if you already have the answer you want.”
“Yeah, no, yeah,” I stammered.
“Are you okay here?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, good. I have a pressing matter that I need to attend to upstairs. Please come up when you’ve completed your task.”
“What pressing matter?” I asked.
Her reply was to walk away. (Again, she never makes things easy.)
I kept my eyes glued on the plaster of paris to make sure I mixed it to the right consistency. Shelby said it had to be like pancake batter, which only made me hungry. Once I thought I had it, I slowly poured the mixture into the shoe impression.
A loud bang came from the building, like something heavy dropped on the floor. The sound actually made me smile since it reminded me of the first time I met Shelby. She had set off an explosion upstairs during a science experiment gone wrong. Then my smile disappeared as I had a horrible feeling that whatever that noise was had to do with my next assignment.
I finished with the cast, then made my way up to Shelby’s apartment. It was eerily quiet. When I got to the landing in front of 221B, the door was slightly ajar.
“Shelby?”
I hesitated before stepping inside. It felt weird to just go into someone’s home, but Shelby knew I was coming up here and probably left it unlocked for me.
As soon as I walked into the living room, I knew something was wrong. One of the armchairs had been knocked on its side. I went over to look at it and let out a scream.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
There, on the other side of the chair, was Shelby, covered in blood. Her eyes were closed.
Sir Arthur started barking upstairs. It took me a second to form words. But as soon as I found my voice, I began shouting, “MRS. HUDSON! ANYBODY! SOMEBODY! CALL 9-1-1!”
Shelby opened her eyes, and I let out another scream. “Seriously, Watson?” she said with a sneer. “How reassuring that you remain so cool and poised under pressure.”
“Wh—wha—” I stuttered, my entire body shaking.
“And you’ve upset Sir Arthur.”
Shelby was concerned about her dog being upset? WHAT ABOUT ME?
“What on earth is going on?” Mrs. Hudson called out as she climbed the stairs.
Shelby groaned. “Great, you’ve also managed to interfere with a crime scene.” She sat up and began shouting, “Everything’s fine, Mrs. Hudson. Watson just decided to up the hysterics this afternoon.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, okay!” Mrs. Hudson replied, and her footsteps receded. I don’t think she would’ve been that calm if she saw the state of the apartment. Or Shelby, for that matter.
I took a deep breath. “What. Is. Going. On?”
Shelby wiped away some blood that was trickling down her face. “I’ve given you a case to investigate. You’re welcome, by the way. Unfortunately, one of the clues has been mucked up by your improper handling of a crime scene, but there should still be sufficient evidence to continue. So tell me, what have you observed?”
“WHAT HAVE I OBSERVED?” My voice was shrill. “Are you INSANE? I thought you were dead!” My pulse was racing. I don’t think I’d ever been so freaked out in my entire life.
“That’s precisely what you’re supposed to think since my murder is the case you’re trying to solve. However, you’ve only managed to prove to be more a lover of the dramatic arts than a detective, with all your ranting.”
“SHELBY!” I yelled at her. “I think I’M going to be the one to kill you!”
“Please be serious, Watson.”
Oh, I was being serious. My entire body was still shaking from nerves. And shock. Definitely shock.
“This training exercise took a lot of time to set up, and I would appreciate it if you’d give it a try,” Shelby said, irritation in her voice. Like I was the one being unreasonable.
“We’re never going to be called in to investigate a murder,” I reasoned.
“There’s always hope,” Shelby replied with a wistful look on her face.
This was unbelievable. Truly unbelievable. The shock was wearing off, and now all I felt was anger. “You want to know what I see?” I asked.
“Not see, Watson. Observe,” she corrected me.
“I see a completely delusional person!” I started looking around the room, then stopped. I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of finding her clues. There was no way I was going to encourage her. I already knew that I was going to be opening doors around here with a lot more caution. Who knew what other surprises she had planned for me.
“Ugh!” Shelby fell back on the floor. “I would kill for a case like this. I’m so bored,” she whined.
So Shelby was bored and decided to stage a murder.
We really needed a new case.
CHAPTER
6
“At long last, you have a case,” Shelby said to me at her locker the following Wednesday.
“Really?” I asked. After I refused to talk to her for a day after the “murder” fiasco, Shelby promised me no more fake blood (I’d been assured it was a mixture of corn syrup, red dye, and flour), and I’d forgiven her for nearly giving me a heart attack. “We have a case?”
“No. You have a case,” Shelby replied. “Let’s face it, you need the practice.”
I ignored Shelby’s dig and instead got excited. My very own case! And Shelby trusted me to figure it out on my own.
Come on Watson, you can do this.
“Watson, this is Tanya, a fourth grader in the music program.” She gestured toward a little white girl with pigtails. Then Shelby held up
a piggy bank. “This is Tanya’s bank, which has been losing funds continuously over the past two weeks. A few coins disappear each day.”
Shelby studied the ceramic pig from every angle, even smelling it. Shelby had been harping about how investigating involved all five senses. Guess she was trying them all out on this case, although she hadn’t licked it. Yet.
She smiled as she handed it to me. “This one is a piece of cake, even for you.”
I took the bank in my hands and copied what Shelby had done.
I had nothing.
Think, Watson.
“It was a family member,” I ventured a guess. Who else would have access to Tanya’s piggy bank? Unless it was a babysitter. Or someone who worked for the family. But would they waste time taking a few coins here and there?
I glanced at Shelby, whose expression remained blank. She wasn’t going to give me any hints.
“Not a family member?” I fished for a clue.
Shelby snatched the bank from my hands. “It was your younger sibling,” she declared to Tanya.
“What? How?” Tanya asked. (I had the exact same questions.)
Shelby sighed as she flipped over the ceramic pig. “First, do you see the dark stain near the cork?”
Tanya held up the bank closely to her eyes. “I guess …”
We both looked at Shelby expectantly, but her attention was now across the hallway. I followed her gaze to Mr. Crosby, who was headed our way and talking to Principal Loh. Shelby narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Both Crosby and Principal Loh glanced at Shelby and stopped talking when they walked past us.
Okay, that was weird. Although most people froze when they were within eavesdropping distance of Shelby.
“You can’t still be on that,” I said to Shelby. During our science classes with Crosby, Shelby continued to sit in the front row and take notes the entire time. But I thought at this point she was actually, you know, taking notes for class.
“What?” Tanya looked around the hall. “What about my piggy bank?”
Once Mr. Crosby and Principal Loh turned the corner and disappeared from view, Shelby snapped her attention back to us.
“Smell it,” she demanded, pointing toward the dark spot by the cork.
Tanya took a step away from the piggy bank.
“Smell it,” Shelby repeated slowly as if she were talking to a small child.
I didn’t smell anything when I gave the bank a sniff.
Tanya did as Shelby instructed. “Is that …?”
“Yes, it’s chocolate,” Shelby stated.
Seriously? Tanya smelled something? I mean, if Shelby would’ve told me exactly where to smell, I would’ve figured it out. At least I hoped I would have. But then again, what did the chocolate even mean?
“Organic dark chocolate, to be precise,” Shelby said with a twitch of her nose. “I much prefer the taste of milk chocolate myself. And before you inquire how I knew you had a sibling, I’ll save you the trouble. You have all the markings of an older sibling: wrinkled clothing, especially around the quadriceps where the sibling no doubt hangs onto your legs. In addition to your messy appearance, your lunches, if you ever bring one to school, are packed haphazardly at best. I once observed that a pacifier was accidentally packed in your lunch in lieu of a juice box. Clear signs of neglect due to your parents’ paying attention to a significantly younger child. A sibling whose hands need to be cleaned with more regularity, evidently. You no doubt queried said sibling about your piggy bank?”
“Yeah, but Katie’s not even two. She can hardly string a sentence together. She kept saying no, and honestly I didn’t think she could even figure out how to open it.”
“Never miscalculate the abilities of a younger sister,” Shelby said with the wisdom of a younger sister.
“Oh,” Tanya said. “But my parents don’t neglect me; they just have a lot going on with—”
“Of course not,” Shelby interrupted her with a smirk. “Case solved.” Shelby held out her hand.
Tanya reached into her backpack and pulled out four candy bars and gave them to Shelby.
“Pleasure doing business with you. You may leave now.” She dismissed Tanya with a wave of her hand.
Shelby tore open one of the candy bars. “Honestly, Watson, sometimes it takes me longer to explain my findings than to solve a case. Why can’t people simply take me at my word? I feel like I’ve proven myself at this point.”
She had, but I liked hearing how she came to her conclusions, especially since there was no way that I would’ve figured it out. I had a feeling this failure on my part was going to result in more homework from Shelby.
Awesome.
Shelby slumped against her locker. “Is it too much to ask for a nice neighborhood burglary? Or a missing person? My talents are being squandered.”
Yep, that’s right. Shelby would’ve preferred our neighborhood be riddled with crooks and kidnappers than have to deal with petty theft. It was clear that Shelby’s patience, while barely existing on her best days, was wearing thin.
And okay, I’ll admit I was getting a little antsy, too. As busy as I was, I knew I could always make time for a juicy case.
Uh-oh. I was starting to sound just like Shelby.
That was not a good sign.
CHAPTER
7
Maybe Shelby was onto something.
The next day in class, Mr. Crosby was acting weird. Really, really weird.
“Okay, so we’re going to, ah, look at …,” Mr. Crosby said as he began to roll up his sleeves. He stopped suddenly and stared at his left arm for a few moments. He finally blinked and looked at the class as if he didn’t realize we were there. “Um, sorry. Where was I?”
“You were discussing the elementary fact that a potato can run a clock,” Shelby piped up from the front row. “Although scientists recently discovered that if you boil a potato, it can produce ten times as much energy.”
Mr. Crosby stared blankly at her. (Okay, that reaction was normal.)
Shelby returned to scribbling in her notebook.
Mr. Crosby pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, why doesn’t everybody turn to chapter six and read to themselves.” He collapsed in his chair.
While reading the assignment, I kept looking up at Mr. Crosby. The color had drained from his face, and he was staring at the right side of his desk. Something was going on.
I’d never been a huge science fan, but Mr. Crosby had quickly become one of my favorite teachers at the Academy. He’d made it almost fun with experiments like making a battery out of a lemon, using Oreo cookies to study the phases of the moon (no surprise, even Shelby enjoyed that one), and telling time using a water clock.
Once the bell rang, he shook his head like he was trying to get out of his daze.
“What about the work sheet at the end of the chapter?” Shelby asked to the groans of the rest of the class.
“Yes, please have it completed for tomorrow,” Mr. Crosby replied with an almost robotic tone.
“Should I turn mine in now?” Shelby held up her finished work sheet; she then placed it on Mr. Crosby’s desk before exiting class.
As I walked out of the classroom, I wasn’t surprised to see Shelby standing in the hallway.
“See?” she said with a tilt of her head.
“Yeah, okay, but everybody’s allowed to have a bad day,” I argued.
“But didn’t you notice what was missing?”
Besides Mr. Crosby’s usual energy and class plan?
“His watch!”
“Oh.” That was it? People forgot stuff like their watches all the time. Although Mr. Crosby did seem lost without it.
“Don’t oh me, Watson. Haven’t you observed that before we do any experiment in class, Mr. Crosby rolls up his sleeves, removes his watch, and puts it in his locked drawer? It’s very important to him.”
“Because it tells time?”
“Please be serious, Watson. You of all people should realize the signific
ance of his watch.”
Was this a dig because I was three minutes late one time to a training session?
“After observing Mr. Crosby’s careful behavior regarding his watch, I took note of it. And I realized it was a Bulova A-11 military wristwatch, which was produced in 1943 for the United States government to issue to members of the army and air force. Didn’t they teach you any of this on the posts?”
Ah, no. Why would anybody know that?
Scratch that. Why would anybody other than Shelby Holmes know that?
Shelby shook her head as she took in my bewildered expression. “Therefore, I deduced from Mr. Crosby’s age that it was a family heirloom from his great-grandfather who fought in World War II. And now it’s missing, and he wasn’t acting like someone who simply forgot his watch at home. He’s out of sorts. He’s confused. He doesn’t know what to do. This is the piece of the puzzle I’ve been waiting for.” Shelby clapped her hands together. “Don’t worry, Watson, I’m going to get to the bottom of this!” She walked down the hallway with a skip in her step.
I wasn’t worried, but maybe Mr. Crosby should be.
CHAPTER
8
Shelby had disappeared after school, no doubt on her quest to blow Mr. Crosby’s missing watch out of proportion. Since it was raining, the guys and I headed over to Carlos’s after school.
“Who’s ready for merciless defeat?” Carlos asked as he held up a controller.
“Oh, so you’re peddling fiction like me?” Jason laughed behind his laptop. “I have to finish Watson’s latest installment. It’s unreal, Watson. And so good.”
I’d continued to post my writing journal online every day. Even with insane amounts of homework and Shelby’s assignments, I’d found time to obsessively check every ten minutes how many visitors I had to my site. (Hello to my seven readers out there!)
The only problem was, I was running out of Shelby Holmes stories to post. If we didn’t get a new case soon, I’d be forced to bring my favorite superhero creation, Sergeant Speedo, out of retirement. But let’s face it, even fictional superheroes couldn’t compete with Shelby Holmes (although I would never, and I mean NEVER, tell her that). The few people in class who had read my stuff wanted to hear more about what Shelby could do. I was hoping she’d give me more to write about soon.