Who Stole Halloween? Page 3

  Chapter Seven

  Yasmeen, Luau, and I have solved one whole mystery together. So I guess I can’t claim to be an expert. But here is something I think I know. A lot of the time, solving mysteries is unexciting.

  I mean, in the movies there are explosions and car chases and women wearing bathing suits. In real life it’s more like you look around, you ask questions, and you think hard.

  Anyway, unexciting is definitely how it was that Sunday afternoon. Yasmeen and I walked at the speed of snails from the cemetery gate to Kyle’s house and back again. By the fence we found an empty beer can. On the sidewalk we found a gum wrapper. Next to an old green car we found a grocery receipt. Yasmeen, who was wearing yellow rubber gloves, carefully saved each in a plastic bag.

  “What’s with the gloves?” I asked her.

  “So we can preserve the catnapper’s fingerprints,” she said.

  “But we don’t have a way to analyze fingerprints,” I said.

  “Your mom does.”

  “Right, Yasmeen,” I said. “She’s gonna get the whole FBI crime lab involved to find a missing cat.”

  “Three missing cats.”

  “We don’t even know if the others are connected to this one!”

  “Oh, come on, Alex. Do you think there’s more than one thief grabbing cats in the middle of the night?”

  “How do I know? Maybe it’s a coincidence. Anyway, the circumstances in the other cases were different. My mom said those owners were negligent, didn’t care that much about their cats. Does Kyle seem negligent to you?”

  “No,” Yasmeen admitted. “But that just makes it more mysterious, right?”

  Luau did not turn out to be keen on detecting, even though the case was catnapping. What he wanted instead was regular napping, and the cemetery didn’t disturb his dreams either. While Yasmeen and I collected our useless clues, he slept in a cozy spot by a headstone. We were about ready to give up when he strolled toward us, tail swishing, nose in the air.

  “He smells something,” I told Yasmeen.

  “Does it have anything to do with Kyle’s cat?” Yasmeen asked.

  “More likely with some tasty rodent.”

  Luau sniffed for a few seconds, then he walked down the sidewalk and stopped next to the old green car. I could see he wanted to get under it from the curb, but the car was parked too close, so there wasn’t space. He did a quick ear swipe and looked back at me, which meant, Take a look under there, why don’t you? Something smells very interesting.

  I crouched and peered into the darkness.

  “What do you see?” Yasmeen asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, then, “Oh . . . wait. There is something. It’s round.” I reached and brushed it with my fingertips. “I need a stick—do you see one?”

  What Yasmeen found was more like a branch. It was awkward, but I managed to bump it against the thing till I had moved it over to the side.

  “Gloves!” Yasmeen said, but by then I had already grabbed the thing. Any catnapper prints were now mixed up with mine.

  In daylight our mysterious object seemed to be a handkerchief wrapped around a ball of crinkly stuff. I held it up for Yasmeen to see. “It’s a sachet,” she said. “You know, you put them in drawers to make your clothes smell good.”

  Okay. But then why was Luau acting crazy—mewing pathetically and trying to climb me like a tree?

  “Can he have it?” I asked.

  Yasmeen said why not, so I tossed it on the ground. Luau pounced, then looked around like he thought for sure someone must want to steal such a marvelous prize.

  “No, really, Luau. It’s all yours,” I said. “Enjoy.”

  Luau is ordinarily a very dignified pet. But whatever this stuff was, it brought out his inner kitten. Clutching the ball between his paws, he rolled onto his back and thumped at it with his hind feet, finally tossing it into the air. Then—and I never knew he was this coordinated—he caught it in his mouth and rolled over and over with it till you’d swear he had to be dizzy.

  And that’s when—duh, Alex—I realized what the white ball was made of. I opened my mouth to say the word, but Yasmeen beat me to it: “Catnip!”

  Chapter Eight

  Was the catnip a clue?

  Or a coincidence?

  Yasmeen and I had a lot to discuss that night, so I got permission to eat over at her house. The only trouble with having dinner there is that her parents are so strict. Grace before dinner. Cloth napkins. And no matter what kind of mushy, mysterious green stuff a kid finds on his plate, he is expected to eat it.

  “Alex?” Mrs. Popp, Yasmeen’s mom, looked up at me after we’d all said amen. “Would you like to start the conversation?”

  When I was little, Yasmeen’s parents scared me. By now, though, I’ve figured out that they’re okay, they even like me—as long as I remember to speak in complete sentences.

  “Sure, Mrs. Popp,” I said. “Yasmeen and I have had an interesting afternoon.”

  “Tell us about it, Alex,” Yasmeen’s dad said.

  So—between small bites of some mysterious meat—I told them. In a way, it was nice to be telling the story now because for once Yasmeen didn’t interrupt. At Yasmeen’s house you don’t dare interrupt.

  “. . . a sachet Yasmeen called it.” I was almost done. “But then we both realized, because of how crazy Luau was acting, that it had to be catnip. After that, we brought it home. We’re still trying to figure out what it means.”

  For about a minute Jeremiah, Yasmeen’s little brother, had been shaking his head and looking gloomy. Actually, he looks gloomy most of the time.

  “Do you have something to contribute, Jeremiah?” Yasmeen’s mom asked.

  “Uh-oh,” said Jeremiah.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Mrs. Popp.

  “Because somebody’s a litterbug,” said Jeremiah. “Miss Deirdre tells us never be a litterbug. And I never will.”

  “Admirable, Jeremiah,” said Professor Popp. “What else does Miss Deirdre tell you?”

  “Put the play dough back in the bag or it will dry out,” he said. “Drink your milk, unless you’re allergic. Oh—and always be kind to animals. She says that a lot.”

  Professor Popp said, “Excellent advice,” and he sounded serious, but he might have been kidding. Professor Popp has an English accent because he grew up on some island I can never remember; to me he always sounds serious.

  Jeremiah nodded. “Miss Deirdre knows everything,” he said.

  “Everything?” asked Mrs. Popp.

  Jeremiah nodded again.

  “There’s one thing I bet she doesn’t know,” Yasmeen said. “She doesn’t know who stole Halloween.”

  “So you two children are at it again, eh?” said Professor Popp. “Playing detective? I must say I think the catnip is a clue. Could the thief have dropped it?”

  “That’s what I think,” said Yasmeen. “The thief carried it so Halloween would like him—so she’d go with him and not complain.”

  “That’s reasonable,” said Mrs. Popp, “if we can associate the word reasonable with someone who steals cats. What kind of person would do such a thing?”

  “A wacko!” said Jeremiah.

  Professor Popp arched his eyebrows. “Jeremiah?”

  “Sorry,” Jeremiah said. “A nut case?”

  Mrs. Popp pursed her lips and shook her head.

  This time Jeremiah thought for a few seconds. Then he said, “A lunatic.”

  His parents looked at one another. “Better,” they agreed.

  “Did you know the word lunatic comes from luna—the Latin word for moon?” Mrs. Popp asked. “A lunatic was thought to be somebody influenced by the moon.”

  “You mean like werewolves?” I asked.

  Yasmeen laughed. “So now you think it was a werewolf who stole Halloween?”

  Jeremiah shook his head again. “Uh-oh.”

  “You don’t even believe in werewolves,” I reminded Yasmeen, “or ghosts either.”

&n
bsp; “But ghosts are real,” said Jeremiah, “aren’t they?”

  “No,” said his mom.

  “Possibly,” said his dad. “You know, I’ve done a bit of research on ghost stories. Every culture has them. Is that coincidence?”

  “Oh, Derek, for goodness sake,” said Mrs. Popp. “When people don’t understand something, they invent a supernatural explanation. There are many mysteries in the world, but one thing is certain: Ghosts exist only in the imagination.”

  Chapter Nine

  There is something strange when you look into a mystery: It sort of takes over your brain and even your sleep. That night I dreamed we found a whole bunch of clues, but most of them turned into fish and swam away. The only one that didn’t was a little slip of white paper with writing on it.

  The dream woke me at six, and I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Luau was awake, too, lying on my feet, blinking at me and purring, which meant, I love you, Alex, I love you so—especially when you give me catnip.

  Down the hall I could hear my mom in the shower. It was Monday. She worked an early shift. This would be my best chance to talk to her.

  I went down to the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of Pirate Berry Crunch. Mom came down a couple of minutes later. When she saw me, she jumped.

  “What on earth are you doing up?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  The coffeemaker was burbling. Dad measures out the grounds and water the night before, then sets a timer so it’s ready when Mom gets up. I used to think this was nice of him, but Mom says he only does it so he can sleep in without feeling guilty. Now she poured herself a mug and sat down across from me at the table.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Just the missing cats,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking about them—Kyle’s especially.” Then I told her about my dream and about finding the catnip under the car. I told her what Bub said about a ghost story, too.

  Mom nodded. “We’ve been lucky the last few years. No cats stolen at all. But before that, I remember several incidents. People with a sick sense of humor stole them and blamed the ghost. Once there was a ransom note. Another time somebody deposited two in the cellar at the Harvey house. It was vacant then. Luckily, the cats made plenty of noise, and a neighbor heard them. The cats were pretty hungry by the time we found them.”

  “Kyle said the thief might have been a ghost,” I told her.

  Mom laughed and shook her head. “Right, honey. And the tooth fairy robs banks in her off-hours.”

  I laughed, too. Then I told her Mr. Stone was supposed to be the expert on the old ghost story.

  Mom said that didn’t surprise her, then she looked at her watch and stood up. “I’ve got a seven o’clock meeting. We’re planning our patrols for Halloween night.”

  “But you haven’t eaten breakfast,” I protested.

  “There’ll be doughnuts at the meeting.”

  “You won’t let me eat doughnuts for breakfast,” I pointed out. “You say they’re bad for me.”

  “I’m right, too,” she said, “as usual.” She put her mug in the dishwasher, then ducked into the downstairs bathroom. When she came out, her police uniform was buttoned up and her lips were pink.

  “Go get ’em, Mom,” I said.

  “I will, honey.” She started down the hallway to the garage, then paused. “What’s Kyle-over-on-Groundhog’s last name?” she asked.

  “Richmond,” I told her.

  Mom nodded. “I’ll talk to Fred Krichels today, take a look at his report. It seems likely the catnapping incidents are related, don’t you think? And maybe you and Yasmeen could get Mr. Stone to tell you that ghost story. Who knows? It might help us solve the case.”

  I was surprised, and kind of flattered, that Mom had asked for our help. “Sure,” I said. “So you don’t mind if Yasmeen and I try to find Kyle’s cat?”

  Mom smiled. “I don’t mind,” she said. “But this time, Alex, please be more careful. No death-defying midnight runs through the neighborhood. Deal?”

  “Cross my heart,” I said.

  Chapter Ten

  Dad came down about fifteen minutes later. I was clean and dressed and full of cereal. I was reading the sports section. Dad was as surprised as Mom, but he didn’t jump. Instead, he asked about my spelling test.

  “Oh, no!” I said. “I was going to study last night, but then I went to the Popps. . . . Do we have time to go over the words?”

  “Hand me the list,” Dad said.

  I pulled it out of my backpack. Dad held it close to his face, then he stretched out his arms and held it far away. He opened his eyes wide. He squinted.

  “Can’t you read it?” I asked.

  “Of course I can read it,” he said. “First word: glamorous.”

  “Glamorous?” I shook my head. “That’s not one of our words.”

  “Sure it is,” said Dad. “I mean”—he moved the paper away again—“I think it is.”

  I took the list back. “Dad, the word is generous.”

  Dad shrugged. “Glamorous, generous—the rule is the same: O before U except after moo.”

  “Ha-ha, Dad.” I slid the list into my backpack. Yasmeen could quiz me on the way to school.

  Dad frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I should make that phone call after all,” he said.

  “To the eye doctor you mean?”

  “Oh, no.” Dad shook his head. “I don’t care what your mom says, it’s not serious enough for an M.D. But Eric Blanco’s got that new store downtown, I think I told you? It’s one of those health-organic-type stores. Five-dollar zucchinis, tea bags from Tibet, vitamin Q. . . .”

  “In the Harvey house,” I said. “Mom and I were just talking about that place. But I don’t understand. What do five-dollar zucchinis have to do with your eyes?”

  “Oh, it’s probably a lot of hooey,” Dad said. “But Eric claims he’s got some miracle pills—vitamin A it must be. He says if I take them, my eyesight will be as good as Luau’s.”

  I couldn’t believe my dad. Miracle pills? Why didn’t he just get glasses like all the other old people?

  “You know Eric sells pumpkins, too,” Dad said. “Organic, homegrown, all that stuff. What do you say we go over there before dinner? I’ve got that PTA meeting, but after that we could go get the raw materials for our jack-o’-lantern.”

  “Can Yasmeen come?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Dad said, “and speaking of Yasmeen . . .”

  She was knocking at the front door, same as she does every day. That meant it had to be precisely 7:45. Yasmeen is never late to pick me up for school.

  “Want to come pumpkin shopping with us?” Dad asked her.

  “At the haunted house,” I added.

  Yasmeen said probably—she’d have to check with her dad. Then she adjusted the straps on my backpack, and we headed out the door.

  It is a two-block walk from my house to College Springs Elementary School—one block to Bub’s at the end of Chickadee Court and one along Groundhog Drive to the school. For the first block I filled Yasmeen in on what my mom had said about stolen cats and how Mom wanted us to get the ghost story from Mr. Stone. For the second Yasmeen quizzed me on spelling words. We are in different rooms this year, so we figured we’d meet at lunch to plan our next move.

  But our next move came to us.

  Yasmeen and I had just sat down in the cafeteria when Kyle came over to our table. We were shocked. At our school it’s strange for a kid in a higher grade to talk to a kid in a lower one. It’s more than strange, it’s like totally uncool for a kid in a higher grade to risk this at lunch—when his friends are bound to see. Whatever Kyle wanted, it had to be really important.

  “Uh . . . I came to ask you . . . ,” he began, and if it’s possible, he looked more miserable than before, “. . . uh, I mean, everything’s okay now. . . . You don’t need to get my cat back.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Yasmeen dropped her sandw
ich she was so surprised. Me—I almost choked on my Chips Ahoy!

  “What?” Yasmeen said. “She came back on her own, you mean?”

  Kyle shook his head no. “I wish, but that’s not it. I’m just saying—of course I want her back. She was like my best friend . . . but I don’t want you to help get her for me.”

  “Why not?” I said. “We already found out some stuff.”

  “What?” Now Kyle looked scared. “What have you found out?”

  “Nothing,” Yasmeen said.

  I looked at her. “Nothing? That’s not—”

  Yasmeen interrupted me with a kick. While I rubbed my shin and tried to figure out what I was missing, she said, “Nothing that was any help. Don’t worry about it, Kyle. If you don’t want me to bring your cat back, I won’t.”

  Kyle was already standing up and looking around—wondering which of his friends had seen him and how much he was going to suffer for talking to us.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it. I know maybe it seems weird, but . . .” He shrugged, turned, and walked away.

  When he was out of earshot, I let Yasmeen have it. “What was that about? I hope you’re carrying your famous Band-Aids because I need one where you assaulted me!”

  “I didn’t hurt you,” Yasmeen said, then she thought again. “Did I? Roll up the leg of your jeans and let me look.”

  “Oh, right, Doctor Popp,” I said. “In the middle of the cafeteria at lunchtime, I’m going to show you my shin.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, and took a bite of her sandwich. Meanwhile, our friend Russell came over and sat down. He had a tray full of cafeteria delights.

  “What is that?” Yasmeen asked him.

  Russell took a bite. “I’m not sure, but it tastes good. Hey—that was a hard spelling test, huh? I think I got 0 out of 20.”

  Actually, I had thought the test was okay. But it would sound like bragging to tell Russell that now. And with him here, Yasmeen and I couldn’t really talk about the missing cats either. So instead, we acted like regular, normal, everyday kids—instead of hardworking detectives—and talked about regular, normal, everyday stuff like trick-or-treating and kickball and video games.