The Treasure of Dead Man's Lane and Other Case Files Read online

  I could see three remarkable coincidences, one really weird connection, and—arg!—something that more or less proved Harry Lovecraft could not be the intruder.

  How many of your conclusions match mine?

  ITEM 1—three remarkable coincidences:

  The timing of each incident. In every case, it happened on a Thursday (the dates are seven days apart)! And on a Thursday morning, too, between about a quarter to ten and one o’clock!

  The families involved. In every case, there was no dad around at the time of the incident—every dad was either away or at work, or absent for some other reason. And, building on that: it struck me as very odd that all six of these moms were people who just happened to be free on those Thursday mornings. They were self-employed, or they worked in the afternoons, or whatever. They were all people who, on those Thursday mornings, could arrange their own schedules.

  The stuff that was disturbed. Strangely similar in each case—household papers, stuff in drawers, and computers in particular. This simply had to be significant!

  ITEM 2—one really weird connection:

  In two cases out of the six, somebody saw the relevant mom at home at a time when the mom claimed to have been out. Maggie Hamilton’s mom and Liz Wyndham’s mom were both spotted by neighbors.

  Now, if that had happened in one case, I’d have written it off as a simple mistake. Someone got their time wrong. But it happened twice, and it happened twice within this very specific, already coincidence-packed group of six. Now that’s weird!

  ITEM 3—Harry Lovecraft now had a perfect alibi:

  Thursday mornings, he was at school.

  Hmm…

  On my way back to class, my sinuses a bit better now that I’d been away from fresh air for a while, Muddy gave me a full report on what that low-down rat Harry Lovecraft had been up to during recess. The report was pretty much exactly what I’d expected.

  “He’s been talking to different kids from the grade below,” whispered Muddy, as everyone filed back into the classroom, “and some in the grade below that too.”

  “Good work,” I whispered.

  “There was a lot of chitchat about giant frogs or something, I didn’t really follow that part. But I think that was just a cover. What he was really trying to find out was personal details. What their parents do for a living, what part of town they live in, that sort of thing.”

  “Excellent work,” I whispered. “I assume these kids didn’t suspect him of anything?”

  “No,” whispered Muddy. “They think they’ve got some great new friend. He keeps claiming he can get them a discount on those frog thingies.”

  “Brilliant work,” I whispered. “How did you get all that info? Careful eavesdropping and deduction?”

  “No, I went up to them and asked.”

  “You did what?” I cried. Some of our classmates turned in our direction. “I told you to be casual and subtle!”

  “You told me to not use my spy gear!” protested Muddy. “I had the Whitehouse Listen-O-Phone 2000 in my bag, but oooh nooo, not allowed. I don’t have super-power hearing, you know! I can’t listen in from the other side of the playground!”

  “Now Harry’s going to know we’re investigating him,” I hissed.

  “Tut tut,” said a voice behind us, a voice that was slimier than a snail’s handshake. That low-down rat Harry Lovecraft swanned past us, grinning his sick grin. “Tut tut, Smart; is one of your trained poodles not doing his tricks?”

  Muddy made a remark about tricks and trained poodles that can’t be repeated in these pages. From the other side of the classroom, Mrs. Penzler clacked a ruler on her desk for attention.

  “Is there a problem? Saxby Smart? George Whitehouse?”

  “Sorry!” I cried.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Before the end of the day, I asked the six affected students in Miss Bennett’s class the specific question my notes had led me to. The following morning, I had six specific answers.

  Maggie Hamilton: “She left at ten, drove to the post office, then she was at something called Monsieur Jacques’s De-Stress Session from 10:30 to 11:30. Then she drove into town for lunch with my grandma, then home at one o’clock.”

  Patrick Atwood: “At 10:15 she walked to her weekly de-stress session, which is run by some French guy from Dragonfang Gym. After that she did some shopping at the SuperSave, then came home.”

  Sarah Hardy: “After leaving the house, she stopped in at the dentist’s to make an appointment, then she was at Monsieur Jacques’s class until 11:30, then she came straight back.”

  Thomas Waters: “She says the only place she went to was her regular de-stress class. I said to her, ‘De-stress? More like distress,’ because she’s so wound-up you’d think she was clockwork. And she said to me, ‘Stop being a brat and set the table’…” etc., etc.

  Liz Wyndham: “Mom went to the doctor’s at 9:45. After that, she went to a weekly thing run by Dragonfang Gym. Then back home around noon.”

  John Wurtzel: “She’s got it all on her calendar, apparently. Quarter past ten, leaves the house to go to her stress-free meeting, or something like that. Then back home and in her studio the rest of the day.”

  “Bingo,” I said quietly to myself, smiling a huge smile. Then I stopped smiling and said, “Uh-oh!” not at all quietly.

  It was a Tuesday. On Thursday there would be another one of those Monsieur Jacques classes. At which time, someone, somewhere, was going to get a visit…

  I had two days to track down the intruder!

  Think, think, think! I told myself. Find out whose moms would be attending Thursday’s class. That would give me all the addresses of where the intruder might strike next. But how could I know which address would be next on the list?

  There was only one way to proceed: get as much information as possible on this Monsieur Jacques and Dragonfang Gym. During lunch, while everyone was chewing on cardboardlike piecrusts and trying to hide their uneaten peas from the lunch ladies, I talked to my friend Izzy. As those who’ve examined my earlier case files will know, Isobel Moustique is St. Egbert’s number one genius, and quite possibly the girliest girl on the face of the planet. I filled her in on the story thus far as I struggled to cut into my piece of pie.

  “So,” I said, gritting my teeth as I leaned as heavily as I dared on my knife and fork, “I need all the background info you can give me on both the gym and the French guy.”

  “No problem,” she said. “This Monsieur Jacques person has only been in the fitness industry for a few months, but he’s already built up quite a large list of clients. He has all his classes in people’s homes—yoga, weight training, relaxation, the usual thing. Each member of the class takes a turn to host a session. Like I said, he hasn’t been at it long, but he’s already planning on closing Dragonfang Gym at the end of the year. Apparently, he and his wife are moving to Africa to do charity work.”

  “You’re amazing,” I gasped, open-mouthed. “I simply name a topic, and you know all about it! Incredible!”

  “Noooot really,” said Izzy, making a you-poor-dumb-fool face. “My mom just signed up for one of his classes.”

  “Aha,” I said quickly. “Yes, I thought so, of course.” I shoveled some peas onto my fork. They fell off.

  “And before you ask,” said Izzy, “no, my mom’s class is not on a Thursday morning. It’s tonight at six.”

  “That’s perfect,” I said. “Could she get me in there? I want to observe this Monsieur Jacques up close.”

  “I don’t think they normally let kids into these sessions,” said Izzy, “but I’m sure we can think of something.”

  I chewed my way through a particularly tough section of pastry. “Aren’t you having the pie?” I said.

  She gave my plate one of her arch, feline looks. “As if,” she said. She unzipped her pink sandwich bag and took out a container of homemade pasta salad and a fork.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Have you ever noticed how some family memb
ers seem almost identical, while the members of other families seem about as alike as a jar of jelly and the Empire State Building?

  Izzy’s mom was as unlike her daughter as two people could possibly be without major genetic re-sequencing. Whereas Isobel was all glitzy clothes and chunky rings, her mother was somber and businesslike.

  At six o’clock that evening, as we stood together on the doorstep of 29 Mercia Way, Izzy’s mom looked ready to march into a high-powered, top-level executive meeting and start firing people. And that’s not an easy look to achieve in a track suit. I still had on my school clothes.

  The door was opened by the owner of the house, Mrs. Ferguson. It was her turn to host this week’s session.

  “Hello, hello,” she twittered, ushering us inside. “Lovely to see you, Caroline. Who’s this with you?”

  I’d given Izzy’s mom my carefully thought-out cover story. I was to be Matt, her adopted nephew. I was to be staying with her while my house was getting repaired after a gas explosion. I was to be accompanying her this evening due to the traumatic after-effects of having my house blown up.

  “This,” said Izzy’s mom, “is my daughter’s friend Saxby. He’s just tagging along.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “The more the merrier; please come right in, Monsieur Jacques has arrived and we’re ready to start.”

  As we walked into the living room, I nudged Izzy’s mom in the ribs.

  “What about my carefully thought-out cover story?” I whispered.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Izzy’s mom. “Half the people here will know you from school. What on earth do you need a cover story for?”

  “It’s more detective-like,” I grumbled.

  Assembled in the living room were a dozen other women in track suits. Standing in front of them was a man with an elaborate hairdo shaped like a headless duck, and a mustache that set a whole new standard for the phrase “thin and weedy.” He wore bright yellow pants and a polo-style T-shirt with Dragonfang printed across the chest. A gold badge with a dragon logo was pinned above the letters.

  So this was Monsieur Jacques. Immediately, his face seemed vaguely familiar to me.

  “Good evening, everyone,” he cried, clapping politely for quiet. (For the full effect here, you need to imagine his words in a French accent as thick as week-old gravy.) “To business! Voilà! We ’ave ze beginning exercise! Aaaaand…”

  Everyone lined up and started sticking their legs out at weird angles. I nudged Izzy’s mom again.

  “I forgot to ask,” I whispered. “Which class is this, exactly? Advanced Relaxation? Meditation for Beginners?”

  “Ballet-robics,” said Izzy’s mom. “Come on, get those arms moving.”

  Thumpy music started up on the CD player. If my heart had sunk any lower, I’d have been standing on it. “Great,” I muttered.

  I reminded myself that I was here to make careful observations. I was still troubled by the fact that Monsieur Jacques seemed strangely familiar. And I was even more troubled by his accent. Something, as Monsieur Jacques would probably say, smelled of ze fish.

  “That’s it, mes amis!” cried Monsieur Jacques. “Kick and twirl! And one, two, three; one, two, three! That is good, Mrs. Ferguson! Also good, Mrs. Moustique!”

  After a few minutes, he shut up a bit and started patrolling each of his students, tapping out the rhythm of the music with his fingers. I took the chance to ask him some deceptively innocent questions. The first of these questions was based on a snippet of historical knowledge I’d collected during the case of The Treasure of Dead Man’s Lane…

  “This is a really wonderful class, Monsieur Jacques,” I said, above the music’s beat. “Absolutely outstanding.”

  He glanced at me as though I was something he’d recently picked from his nose. “Merci,” he said. “Aaaand one, two—”

  “Why did you name your gym Dragonfang?” I said. “Why not something more French; maybe something historical, like ‘Waterloo.’ You know, to commemorate Napoleon’s victory?”

  He tapped his gold dragon badge. “Yes, of course I considered ‘Waterloo,’ but I am ze, as you say, fan of ze martial arts movies. My favorite, it eez Dragon Warrior Goes Nuts in Shanghai. You know it?”

  “Oui! Or, as it translates into French, Le Penzler de Bennett Izzy de la Muddi, right?”

  “Oui, exactly,” he said. “Now then, come along, one, two—”

  “But I hear you’re closing the gym soon?” I said, putting on my best sorrowful-puppy-dog expression.

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Jacques, “ze Mrs. Wife and I, we do ze work for ze charity in Africa; we ’elp orphans build ze shelters for endangered species in ze Brazilian rainforest. Soon we sell up and move there.” He clapped his hands and raised his voice. “In time with ze music! Good! Lovely work, everyone! Three, four, five…”

  I knew it! The guy was a total fake, no more French than my Aunt Pat. And I doubted he could even point to Africa on a map of nothing but Africa, with Africa circled in red, and a sign saying Africa, This Way taped on top of it!

  Did you catch his three mistakes?

  Napoleon LOST the Battle of Waterloo. (For more info, see my previous case file.)

  That translation I gave him was total gibberish. Even I speak more French than him, and all I can manage is ordering a baguette!

  The Brazilian rain forest is in South America. In, like, you know, um, Brazil! It’s nowhere near Africa.

  I tapped Monsieur Jacques’s sleeve. “Could I ask if you—?”

  He was clearly getting ever so slightly fed up with my questions. “I don’t appear to ’ave your name on my list, young man. ’Ave you paid for ze session?”

  “Er, no, I’m just tagging along,” I said.

  “Well, tag along to ze kitchen and make ze tea,” said Monsieur Jacques. He gave me a smarmy smile.

  And in that instant, I knew why his face looked familiar. Remember what I said about family resemblances? Monsieur Jacques’s smarmy smile was identical to the smarmy smile of a certain low-down rat from school…

  My heart suddenly started to race. So as to not give anything away to “Monsieur Jacques,” I quickly retreated to the kitchen. While the kettle boiled, I called Izzy.

  “Stand by,” I said. “I’ll get a picture of him and send it to you right away.”

  “Okie-dokie,” she said.

  I hurried back into the living room, holding the phone to my ear as if Izzy was still on the line. I planned to stand as close to our phony French friend as I could, pretend to be deep in conversation, and click the camera button when he wasn’t looking.

  The living room was empty.

  For a second or two I panicked, thinking that the class was suddenly over and that everyone had gone home. But as the steady throb of the music continued, I could hear people moving around all over the house.

  Two members of the class reappeared, and kick-stepped their way across the room. I spotted a couple more of them twirling and stretching in the hallway. From somewhere upstairs came a familiar, honey-coated accent: “Looovely, Mrs. Ferguson, hold your leg in zat position and spin! Yeeees, that is perfecto; you three there, please to be going downstairs to join ze group in ze dining room. Loooovely!”

  I found Izzy’s mom doing funny-looking arm movements on the stairs.

  “Does every class include this different-rooms routine?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” said Izzy’s mom, continuing to wave her arms around like a slow-motion windmill. “We always split up, spread out, and move around. Monsieur Jacques says it’s to give us a free-flowing feeling of personal space. He says it allows him to assess us individually.”

  A crime-related thought popped into my mind. “Yes,” I said, “and I bet that’s not all it allows him to do.”

  Monsieur Jacques appeared at the top of the staircase and started lightly skipping down the steps toward us. “Mrs. Ferguson,” he called back over his shoulder, “ze spinning, she is enough now, you will get dizzy agai
n.”

  As he drew level with Izzy’s mom and me, he smiled at one of us and sneered at the other. I’ll leave you to guess which of us got the sneer.

  “You ’ave made ze tea?” he said.

  “Oui,” I replied. “Ze kettle, she is boiled.”

  For the briefest of split seconds, the look on his face said, “I don’t like you, sunshine!” But then he switched his attention to Izzy’s mom, grinning sappily at her. He dug into his pocket and produced a gold badge like the one he wore, with a dragon logo printed on it.

  “Mrs. Moustique!” he declared. “You ’ave made such terrific effort this evening. You are quite a new member to our group, but already I award you my Star Student badge!”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” said Izzy’s mom, as he pinned it to her track suit. There was a ripple of applause from upstairs.

  I took the opportunity, while Monsieur Jacques’s attention was diverted, to flip open my phone. I got an excellent shot of his face while he was busy asking Izzy’s mom for her monthly membership fee.

  Later, after I’d sent the picture to Izzy and was back home, I waited nervously for confirmation of the evening’s findings. I didn’t have to wait very long. Izzy called me back within the hour.

  “You were right to suggest I look back through crime reports on news sites,” she said. “It didn’t take me long to find this Monsieur Jacques. The pictures I’ve got of him are ten years old, but it’s definitely the same guy.”

  “Ten years old?” I said. “Why’s that?”

  “Because until the middle of last year, he was in prison,” said Izzy. “He ran a gang that conned half a million bucks out of some Third World charity groups. What a jerk!”

  “And his real name?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s the best part,” said Izzy. “You were totally right. He certainly isn’t French. His name is Jack Lovecraft. He’s Harry’s uncle.”