Mystery in the Mansion

  Dedication

  To Brianne Johnson, who gave this book life.

  And to Ben Rosenthal, who found its heart.

  25-15-2120-23-151-18-520-8-52-5-19-20 . . .

  3-1-19-53-12-15-19-5-4

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  * * *

  Day One

  * * *

  RRRRRRRRIIIIIIIINNNGGGGGGGG!!!! RRRIIINNNGGGGGG!!!!

  Mom’s alarm clock goes off for the second time this morning. It rattles through my wall.

  “Ugh,” I groan as I roll over. I’m soaked in sweat. Every day this summer, I’ve been waking up like this. We can’t afford to use our air conditioner anymore. Now that it’s the beginning of July, a fan just doesn’t cut it.

  RRRRRIIIIIINNNGGGGG!

  I hit my hand on the wall. “Mom! Shut off your alarm!”

  Then I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. My breath is really bad this morning, so I scrub my teeth. I not-so-accidentally “forgot” to brush last night, because let’s be honest: toothpaste tastes gross. Usually Mom nags me to brush, but she was so busy preparing for her case today that she didn’t bother to do it.

  Mom co-owns a detective agency, but it’s not doing so hot. In fact . . . it stinks more than my breath. Six months ago, my mom had a case that flopped, and her agency had to pay a lot of money for damages. They also took a hit to their reputation; they haven’t had any new business since. But she finally got a new case—and a big one too! A million-billion-zillionaire named Guinevere LeCavalier is being sent death threats by a mystery person, and she hired Mom to help find the criminal! Mom is going to interview Mrs. LeCavalier for the first time this morning.

  RRRRRIIIIIINNNGGGGG!

  Is that Mom’s alarm . . . again? That’s odd. It usually only takes her one snooze before she pops out of bed like a jack-in-the-box.

  I shuffle across the hall and knock on Mom’s door. “Mom? Are you awake?” I crack the door open and peek inside.

  “ACHOO!” She sneezes.

  I walk in and sit by her bed. “Uh . . . Mom? Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’b sick!”

  “Sick! You can’t be sick! Not today!” This job is important—to both of us!

  “Carwos,” Mom says to me. “Pwease call my pardner and tell him I’b sick.”

  “What?”

  “Send Cowe! Put Cowe on de case!” Cole is Mom’s business partner, who is up to his neck in another case—his first case in months too. I get nervous thinking about what will happen if Mom’s company goes bankrupt. And Cole can’t handle two cases at once. It’s hard enough that Mom and Cole don’t even have assistants to help them investigate.

  “But Mom . . . Cole can’t take the Guinevere LeCavalier case. Doesn’t he have another case to solve?”

  “He’ll hab to do bof!” Mom says, her nose dripping with snot.

  “Mooooooom!” I shake the bed. “Get up, get up, get up! You have to take this case! You can’t afford not to!” My sweat-soaked pajama shirt suddenly feels grosser than ever. But I try not to think about how sticky it is as I lean over Mom. “Come . . . on!” I grunt, yanking her by the wrists and pulling her up into a sitting position. But she flops back down.

  “Wheeeee! How’djya make de room spin?” she says. Then she coughs again and groans. “Pwomise me you’ll caw Cowe wight now, Carwos! Pwease! I don’t want to woose dis case eiber.”

  “I . . .”

  “Carwos!” Mom says, reaching for a tissue. “Pwease!”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll go call him.”

  I slowly walk back out of the room, kicking my feet the whole way—and to my surprise, my best friend, Eliza, is sitting at the kitchen table.

  But I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. Whenever Eliza comes over, she always walks right in without knocking. She’s been my best friend since we were in preschool. She lives in my neighborhood, two streets over.

  Lately, it’s almost embarrassing having her over to my place, a dusty one-story house with peeling wood panels on the walls and shaggy carpet. Since my mom’s agency took a nosedive, we haven’t been able to fix up all the things that keep going wrong with our house: the leaky faucet, the clogged bathroom sink, the malfunctioning dishwasher, the broken vacuum cleaner. And I don’t want her to notice that we’ve had to cut back on a lot of things, like air-conditioning and expensive groceries. We even had to sell a bunch of our lamps, books, and furniture, just to get by.

  I don’t want her over here. I don’t want her noticing. But I haven’t said anything, and Eliza is used to keeping me company every summer. At home and at day camp, another thing we couldn’t afford anymore.

  Camp starts in two weeks, and Eliza still doesn’t know I’m not going yet. Every time she talks about all the fun we’re going to have, I feel like shriveling up. I’m not excited to be stuck at my house all alone while she does all the sports and games we used to do together. But I’m trying not to think about it. Until she leaves, I’m going to spend as much time with her as I can.

  “Eliza! When did you get here?”

  “Just a second ago. I let myself in.”

  “Oh,” I say, and I slump down on the chair next to her. I know I need to call Mom’s partner right now, but I really, really don’t want to do it.

  Eliza’s eyes narrow as she looks at me. “What’s wrong, Carlos?”

  I sigh. “Mom wants me to call the detective agency and tell Cole to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Mom was supposed to investigate the Guinevere LeCavalier case—”

  “That old lady in the rich part of town?”

  I nod. “Yeah. She’s been receiving death threats. Mom’s too sick to work, though. And Cole’s way too busy. But if they don’t take this case . . .” I look away from Eliza. But I can still feel her staring at me. I wish I could just crawl into a hole right now. Or a ditch. Or a pit. (I’m not picky.)

  Honestly, I’d rather crawl into a sewer full of poop than talk about our money problems.

  Eliza puts her hand on my arm. “What aren’t you telling me, Carlos? You’re hiding something.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say to my feet.

  Eliza frowns, and I start calling Cole.

  This stinks. This case could have put Las Pistas Detective Agency back on the map . . . it would have turned things around for Mom. For both of us.

  I pause in the middle of dialing. “We should go.”

  “What?” Eliza says.

  “YEAH!” shouts a muffled voice from under the couch.

  “Oh no,” I groan. “Not Frank!”

  Frank is Eliza’s little brother, and he always tags along with Eliza and me. He’s six years old, and Eliza says Frank is short for Frankenstein’s Monster. But she’s the only one who’s allowed to say anything mean about him. She even gets mad at me when I call him annoying.

  I walk over to the couch. Frank’s head is underneath it, but the rest of him isn’t. His butt is wiggling high in the air.

  “Frank! You’re not even hiding! I can see you.”

  Frank crawls out of his hiding spot. “I found a nickel!” he says. “And a button! And a piece of fuzz. Can I eat it?” He looks to Eliza.

  “No, you cannot eat random fuzz!” she says, turning around to gag.

  The second she turns away, Frank pops the fuzz into his mouth and grins at me.

  “Wait, go back,” Eliza says to me. “You want to take on Guinevere LeCavalier’s case?”

  “Carwos?” Mom shouts from her bedroom. “What’s going on ou—ah—achoooooo!”


  “Nothing, Mom!” I shout. “Just Eliza and Frank!”

  Then I turn to Eliza and whisper so my mom doesn’t hear. “We have to. My mom needs us. You think we can do it, right?”

  Eliza smiles. “Three kids are about equal to the size and mass of one adult.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, but Eliza is smart. In fact, she’s the smartest person I know.

  “So, you’re in?” I say to her, wiping off some sweat that’s dripping out of my hair. Guinevere LeCavalier would pay a lot of money if we solved her case. And we could certainly use the money.

  And together we could solve it, and save my mom’s agency. Eliza is a genius. She could figure out anything that needs figuring out. And Frank is really good at finding things—maybe he could find some clues. The only weak link is me, because I have no idea what I’d bring to the team.

  “Of course I’m in,” Eliza replies. “You know that!”

  “Me too!” Frank hollers.

  I have the best friend—and the best best friend’s little brother—in the world.

  Guinevere LeCavalier’s house is in the nicest part of town, in a neighborhood called River Woods. Only there is no river and no woods. It’s kind of an open field with a bunch of houses the size of the White House. Usually the only time I ever come to River Woods is for Halloween. Rich people give out the best candy.

  We wander around looking for the house number 1418, Mrs. LeCavalier’s address, according to Mom’s files. But so far no luck. Eliza and Frank are checking the other side of the street, while I look at the ones on this side. I pass a big blue mansion, then a white one, then a brown one. None of them are right. I ignore Frank as he shouts, “THIS ONE! NO, THIS ONE! NO, THIS ONE!” He shouts just to shout.

  “Carlos?” Eliza suddenly says. “Look at this.”

  Eliza nods toward a house that’s kind of yellowish and has big white columns all along the outside—and a weird lawn with hedges shaped like Yorkie dogs.

  “Uh . . . is that it?”

  “No,” Eliza says. “Look at the window next to the front door.”

  I squint toward the window, but it’s hard to see with the sun glaring in my face. But then—I see it. Or her. There’s a woman in the window, and she’s spying on us with binoculars.

  I shudder. “Is she watching us?”

  Eliza shrugs.

  “Well, who is she?”

  “P. Schnozzlepoop,” Frank says, peering at the mailbox.

  “P. Schnozzleton,” Eliza corrects.

  “I got bored in the middle of reading that word,” Frank admits, “so I made up the rest.”

  I try not to roll my eyes.

  Eliza gasps. “She’s gone!”

  The window blinds are down now. I wonder if the woman is peeking through them, still spying. “But who is P. Schnozzleton?” I ask Eliza. “Is that her?”

  Eliza looks nervous as she says, “I don’t know. That was very weird.”

  Across the street, we finally find 1418—Guinevere LeCavalier’s house. The driveway is long and twisty like a gummy worm, and at the end of it is a big BIG ENORMOUS gray stone house. It’s got four chimneys and a zillion windows, and it’s so nice it’s hard to look at it without feeling all lumpy in my throat. I wish Mom and I could live in a house even a quarter as nice as this one. Or I’d even settle for a house with two stories. Or a house with a fireplace. Or a house that didn’t smell weird. Or a house with affordable air-conditioning.

  Mom says money doesn’t grow on trees, but maybe she’s wrong. Because Guinevere LeCavalier seems to have found one giant money oak.

  “Carlos?” Eliza says. “Should we go in?”

  I can’t let Eliza know what I’m feeling. And I can’t afford to think about money right now—it won’t help me solve this mystery. I just have to concentrate on the clues. And then my mom will have the big break she needs to boost her agency.

  As my Little League coach says, I have to keep my head in the game! “Come on,” I say to Eliza, and run toward the door, cutting across the grass to save time.

  “Excuse me!” says a voice, and a man comes running from a toolshed near the side of the house. “What are you doing?” he calls from halfway across the yard. He’s tall and thin, with messy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a dimple in his chin.

  “No, no, no!” the man cries, walking over to us by tiptoeing along the mulch. “I just mowed the lawn to perfection! Don’t tread all over it with your shoes! You’ll flatten out the grass!”

  “Ooops!” Eliza squeaks. “Sorry!”

  “It’s okay.” The man sighs. “I didn’t mean to yell at you kids. You didn’t know any better.”

  “Who are—?” I start to say, but Frank interrupts.

  “Excuuuuuuse meeeeeeeee!” he shouts, pointing at the man. “Your chin is in the shape of a butt.” Then Frank bursts into hysterical giggles.

  The man cracks a smile. “My name is Otto Paternoster. I’m Mrs. LeCavalier’s landscaper.”

  “What’s a land caper?” Frank asks.

  “I help her maintain her beautiful gardens and lawn. I plant vegetation, pluck weeds . . .”

  Otto continues talking, but my eyes glaze over and I tune out what he says. I can do this with a lot of adults, especially my teachers.

  “But this is probably boring you kids,” I hear Otto say.

  “What? No!” Eliza says. “It’s very interesting!” But I can tell she’s lying because she turns pink. Eliza is such a bad liar.

  “What are you kids up to?” Otto says. “Are you family of Mrs. LeCavalier?”

  “No,” Eliza says.

  “We’re defectives!” Frank says, puffing out his chest.

  “Detectives,” Eliza corrects.

  “Detectives? What—why—”

  “We’re here to figure out who has been sending Mrs. LeCavalier death threats. Do you know anything about this?” Eliza asks.

  Otto’s eyes grow wide. His irises are like two blue saucers. “No! This is the first time I’m hearing about this! What’s going on? What kind of threats? Is she in danger?”

  I can’t discuss the details of my case with a perfect stranger. That’s like . . . rule number one of detective work.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Otto, sir,” I say. “Everything is under control.”

  Then I grab Eliza’s and Frank’s arms and drag them to Guinevere LeCavalier’s ironclad front door.

  “Is it weird to be excited?” Eliza whispers as I ring the doorbell.

  A towering man opens the door. He’s wearing a fancy suit that looks too tight for his big body—especially around the arms and shoulders. The man has speckled gray hair with a bald patch on the top of his head, and his eyes droop like a basset hound’s.

  “Yes?” the man says, scowling at us like somebody put a plate of poo under his nose.

  “Hello, sir,” I begin. “We’re detectives from—”

  “HELLOOOOOOOOO!” sings a booming voice. Behind the giant man, an old lady floats down the stairs. Her hair is a silvery white, and her face is thin and crinkly. She’s wearing pearls and diamonds and rubies and sapphires and more diamonds and purple gems and green gems—she looks like a human Christmas tree. “Move aside, Smythe,” the old woman demands, and the man glares.

  “Hello,” I say. “Are you Guinevere LeCavalier?”

  “Well, aren’t you a precious plum?” she says. “I could just eat you right up!” She looks dangerously close to pinching our cheeks. Why do adults always love to pinch and squeeze and slobber-kiss kids? Gross!

  I smile. “We’re the detectives from Las Pistas Detective Agency.”

  “You are much smaller than I thought you’d be.”

  Before I can think of what to say, Frank says, “HUMPH! You’re a meanie!”

  “We are . . . uh . . . very sensitive because we look much younger than we are,” Eliza jumps in, and even I don’t believe her.

  “I promise, we’ll solve your case, though,” I say firmly. “Trust us.”
>
  Guinevere raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps you can prove you’re adult enough to handle this case. Hmmm . . . what is it adults do?”

  “Work at a job you hate,” the man grumbles from beside her.

  “Pay taxes?” Eliza says.

  “Worry a lot?” I suggest.

  “Be boring?” Frank replies.

  “Get colonoscopies?” Eliza says.

  “Wear matching socks!” Frank yells.

  “That sounds adult enough for me!” Guinevere says. “Come on in. Smythe!” she screams, even though he is standing right next to her. “Prepare the tea!”

  Inside, Guinevere LeCavalier’s house is even more fancypants. The walls are encrusted with jewels. The windows are made of stained glass. The ceilings are fifteen feet tall. She even has a ballroom. And multiple staircases.

  “What’s up there?” I say as we pass the third staircase.

  Guinevere LeCavalier waves her hand. “Oh, nothing. Just my grand bedroom, my late husband’s study, Smythe’s quarters, three bathrooms, and Ivy’s bedroom.”

  “Who is Ivy?” Eliza asks.

  Guinevere pauses for a moment, and Frank runs smack into her butt. “GROSS!” he says with a grin. He loves gross things.

  “Ivy is my daughter,” Guinevere says.

  “Oh!” I say. “Does she live here?”

  “She moved away. She lives with her husband now, in Wichita.” Her voice is cold. “Ivy’s coming tomorrow, though. To visit me.”

  “Do you see her often?” Eliza asks.

  “No,” Guinevere says. She folds her arms and pouts.

  We pass through a library, where a bookshelf is toppled and books are everywhere. There’s red writing on the wall, but it’s too far away to read.

  Guinevere quickly brushes past the room without a word, and Frank marches right behind her. I start to follow, but I notice Eliza is moving closer to the red, swoopy cursive on the far wall, like she wants to read the death threat. The crusty paint looks close to blood from where I’m standing.

  “Come on, Eliza!” I hiss. “If we lose Guinevere, we can be lost forever in this house.”

  I grab Eliza’s hand and drag her into the next room, where Guinevere is tapping her foot expectantly.