The Missing Monkey-Eye Diamond Page 3

  “Uh, hold on a moment,” I say. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and the leather makes an embarrassing noise. I shift a few more times so Earl knows that it was the leather seat and not me who made the noise. But, of course, no matter how much I squirm, the seat doesn’t make another peep. Finally, I give up. “Um…I’d like to warn you that I have experienced some carsickness in the past.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answers, and leans over in the seat. He fumbles around in the glove compartment and tosses back a box of Barf Blocker pills.

  “Perfect,” I exclaim, my eyes growing wide in amazement.

  “Those also might help with your gas problem,” he says as a wall slowly rises up between us. Before I can explain about the seat, the wall clicks into place, leaving me in silence.

  I quickly pop in a pill and look around for something to drink. Of course, as my luck would have it, there’s nothing to drink. In growing desperation, I spot a fancy bucket full of melting ice sitting on the seat across from me. But before I can snatch up the shimmering bucket, I experience what can only be described as liftoff.

  I am thrown backward like I’ve been kicked by a school of mules.

  I land upside down in the rear seat. On my head. I think. I can’t be sure because I am almost instantly knocked out by the ice bucket, which has been launched from its resting place. It bounces squarely off my forehead. Then everything goes black. One half second later, I am shocked awake as the entire melted contents of the bucket explode all over me. I gasp in confused astonishment and clutch my throbbing forehead.

  The lump above my eye is not the worst of my problems: The Barf Blocker pill has become wedged in my throat. And although it’s a tiny pill, no bigger than a pencil eraser, I could swear that a speedboat has become stuck in my throat.

  Gagging like a tortoise with a fur ball, I hold on for dear life. My stomach has forgotten everything it ever knew about carsickness.

  Just as my eyes notice the unused seatbelts, we stop. Suddenly. Very suddenly. I am once again sent rocketing through space and time. I hit Earl’s wall of silence like a wet bag of walnuts.

  In the sudden silence, I hear the whir of a small engine inside the seat. The wall that separates us drops.

  “Here’s our first stop,” Earl announces.

  Chapter Eleven

  Calling on Mr. Spiffy

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Spiffy,” I say with an amazing amount of authority considering my head has been dented by an ice bucket.

  Mr. Spiffy’s Tuxedo Emporium seems like a normal enough tuxedo rental store. As far as I can see, there is just one woman working at the moment, and there are no other customers in the store. Earl has chosen to stand out by the limo, perhaps in fear of my mysterious seat noises.

  “There is no Mr. Spiffy here,” says the woman. She is almost as short as she is wide, like a perfect square. She wears a measuring tape flung around her neck like a scarf. She also wears a pair of those half-glasses on the tip of her nose. As she looks me over, she can’t seem to figure out if she should look at me through the half lenses or just over them. She tilts her head back and forth continuously as she tries to bring me into focus.

  “When do you expect him back?” I ask.

  “Never,” she says with a puzzled look.

  I rub the egg growing out of my forehead. “Is he sick?” I ask stupidly, mostly because I am completely distracted by her annoying head tilting.

  “It’s just a name, not a person,” she says loudly and slowly, as if she’s convinced I’ve had most of my brain removed for medical reasons. “There are twenty-two Mr. Spiffy formal wear stores. And there is no Mr. Spiffy at any of our stores. It’s just a name someone thought up.” She looks at me with pity.

  “Mr. Castro sent me here,” I say, deciding I’d better cut to the chase. “His son is getting married today. They were here earlier. He thinks he may have left something here, and he sent me to recover the item.” It takes every ounce of concentration that my bruised and battered head can muster not to mention the missing diamond ring.

  Her eyes grow wide. “It was like finding tuxedos to fit two redwood trees,” she whispers, peering at me over her lenses. “Like Sasquatch, those men!”

  Surprisingly, I know what she means. Lance is a Sasquatch expert.

  In case you don’t already know, Sasquatch is just a fancy name for Bigfoot, a shy and hairy monster that roams around the forest leaving gigantic footprints everywhere. Lance has several books filled with very blurry photographs of him. There are also lots of pictures of scientists picking gross hair off tree trunks with tweezers. And a half dozen shots of hunters pointing at giant mounds of mysterious poop. Personally, I think it’s just a guy in an ape costume with too much time on his hands.

  Now that we’ve found some common ground, Mrs. Perfect Square is as helpful as a stepladder. She shows me the dressing rooms Mr. Castro and his son used. As I inspect the carpet, seats, and surrounding area with my magnifying glass, she tells me that she had to make several last-minute adjustments because their special-order XXXL tuxedos didn’t fit quite right.

  “They showed me the ring,” she says, tilting her head back so far I think she might fall over backward. “That diamond was bigger than a grape.”

  “Where did they put the ring?” I ask, trying not to sound too interested.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says with a wave. “The younger one had it, I guess.”

  Mr. Spiffy’s Tuxedo Emporium is a dead end. I hang my head in defeat. My gut tells me the ring is not here. It tells me I am running out of time. It also tells me I have another burf brewing.

  I thank Mrs. Perfect Square and almost run into Earl as I push open the door.

  “Mr. Sherlock, there is a phone call for you,” Earl reports with some urgency.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tightening the Screws

  “Did they find the ring?” I blurt out, seeing myself look hopeful and extremely damp in Earl’s reflective lenses.

  My heart soars at the thought that I can put this whole uncomfortable mess behind me and squeeze in some violin practice before my recital.

  But Earl doesn’t have to speak. The droop at the corner of his mouth tells me three things with just one look:

  The ring hasn’t been found.

  Mr. Castro is on the phone and wants an update.

  Earl’s curious about the thing growing out of my forehead.

  With a sigh, I climb through the door and slide into the back of the limo. I pick up the limo’s sleek black phone.

  “This is Sherlock,” I squeak, feeling betrayed by my voice box once again.

  “Please tell me you have the ring,” Mr. Castro rumbles at me from the other end of the line.

  “Not yet, Mr. Castro,” I mumble. “But if I—”

  “Sherlock,” Mr. Castro interrupts. “The guests will start arriving in less than an hour. We’re counting on you.”

  “Mr. Castro, detective work isn’t like a cup of instant soup. You have to—”

  “And there’s something else I didn’t tell you,” Mr. Castro interrupts again.

  “Fantastic,” I sigh. Mr. Castro is like a pitcher who only throws curveballs.

  “The oversize diamond my son has misplaced originally belonged to the bride’s great-great-great-grandmother. It’s been in her family for over two hundred years. As you can imagine, the bride’s family will be less than thrilled if they find out we lost their most prized family treasure. In fact, the news might cause a riot.”

  “For future reference, Mr. Castro, I don’t need any more pressure.”

  “I just want you to keep an eye on the clock,” he says.

  “Mr. Castro, I’m a detective, not a magician who can pull fluffy white birds out of his sleeve whenever he feels like it!”

  “I understand,” he says as if he’s suddenly distracted. “Has anybody located the florist yet?” he bellows at somebody.

  “Mr. Castro, if you could just—” I look down at the phone. It h
as gone dead. Mr. Castro has hung up on me. Before I can feel bad about it, Earl stomps the gas pedal through the bottom of the vehicle. I am slammed back into the seat. I whip a seatbelt around me and click it in place faster than you can say “severe concussion.”

  Perhaps the act of fearing for your life speeds up time, because we come to a screeching halt in what feels like only a few seconds.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Under Pressure

  “Ralph’s Chili Dog Palace?” I groan.

  “Yes indeed. This is our second stop,” Earl announces.

  He jumps out, circles the car, and opens my door. “Mr. Sherlock, please hurry. I must pick up the bride and her bridesmaids in just sixty minutes.”

  “I’m detecting as fast as I can,” I sigh as I make my way to the door. I stop momentarily and pull out my time line. I quickly jot down “Ralph’s Chili Dog Palace” just to the right of “Mr. Spiffy’s Tuxedo Emporium.” My time line is starting to take shape. I stuff it back into my coat pocket, realizing I still have mountains to move.

  Trust me, all eyes lock onto a kid who steps from a black stretch limousine and into a Ralph’s Chili Dog Palace. My wet, too-small suit and lumpy forehead might also help explain all the staring.

  I should mention here that “palace” is not the right word to describe this smelly hut. It occurs to me that Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be caught dead in a dump like this. Besides, The Great Detective wasn’t known for his love of chili dogs. In fact, he only seemed to drink tea and nibble on the occasional scone, which looks like a combination of a donut, a muffin, and quick-dry cement.

  There are just six small tables and every chair is filled. There must be twenty-seven eyes staring directly at me in utter silence.

  “Um, I am trying to solve a mystery,” I announce as loudly as I can, since they all look like they’re waiting for me to say something.

  “Are you trying to find out who stole the bottom of your pants?” some joker says from the back corner. This must be the kind of humor that chili dog lovers find hilarious, because the place erupts in laughter.

  It’s at this moment I catch a whiff of the sickening breeze blowing out of the cramped kitchen. My stomach starts dancing a jig. I think I turn a shade of lime green, because the place grows eerily quiet again.

  “I’m here to find a ring that has been lost!” I shout in desperation as I feel the chance of solving this mystery slipping between my toes. “Anyone who finds it will get as many chili dogs as they can eat for a whole year.”

  Perhaps they think I’m a rich kid because of the limo. Maybe they just want to get rid of me before I get sick right in the middle of the restaurant. But before I know it, they are all crawling around on the floor looking for the ring. If it’s here, they’ll find it.

  The pimply guy wearing a paper hat behind the front counter pulls out a shoe box with “Lost and Found” written on the side. I glance inside. I see a rabbit’s foot on a chain, some sunglasses, a pink glove, and a pair of wax lips. I honestly don’t expect to find a priceless two-hundred-year-old diamond ring in there, but I do consider borrowing the rabbit’s foot. I could use the luck.

  I notice everyone has completed their search. The energy and excitement has drained out of the room. They have returned to their chili dogs.

  I scratch out my home number on a paper napkin and hand it to the pimply guy with the paper hat. “Call me if anything should turn up,” I say. I exit without another word.

  “Wait a second, kid,” he calls after me. But I don’t stop. I simply don’t have the time…or the stomach for it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Road Warrior

  Riding a wave of growing frustration, I burst out of the back of the limo and into Edna’s Travel Spot, the next stop on our magical mystery tour. Apparently, the groom came by this morning to pick up the tickets for his honeymoon.

  The woman who greets me from behind the service counter is clearly scared of me. I must look like a wild boar with short pants on. I figure that this woman must be Edna, because she has a big red splotch on her forehead, which is probably why she named this place Edna’s Travel Spot.

  Luckily for me, the space in front of Edna’s counter is a small one. And Mr. Castro’s son would not have gone behind it. I give the seating area in front of the counter a thorough examination. I find nothing but a moldy, half-eaten gummy bear.

  I hand Edna the gummy bear and thank her for her cooperation, which despite my low mood does make me sound a bit like a detective.

  “I hope it’s not that ring he’s lost,” Edna says as I turn to leave.

  “What?” I gasp, quickly returning to the counter.

  Her eyes grow wide. She can tell from my reaction that it’s the ring that I’m searching for. “Oh dear, that diamond was as big as a golf ball.”

  “Wait!” I yelp. “You saw the ring today?”

  “Yes, it was beautiful,” she says quietly, finally understanding the kind of rabbit I’m trying to pull out of a hat. She suddenly looks at me like I’m a stone caught between a rock and a harder place. And I can’t argue with her on that one. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” she says.

  “Believe it or not, you’ve been a great help!” I say as I back out the door. I suddenly feel like a hound dog who’s picked up a fresh scent. Or perhaps it’s just my shirt that’s starting to mildew. Either way, I’m hot on the trail of the missing monkey-eye diamond!

  I pull out my time line and add Edna’s Travel Spot. I put a diamond shape next to it. If the groom showed the ring to Edna, then the ring was lost after he was here. I must be getting close! And my time line is leading me straight to it.

  I get a tingling feeling on the back of my neck that usually means I’m close to solving a case. I haven’t had this feeling since I found a missing stamp from my dad’s rare stamp collection stuck to the bottom of one of his slippers.

  Earl interrupts my tingling. “You have another urgent phone call.”

  This time I don’t know what to expect.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On the Road Again

  “Mom just came by the Castros’ house looking for you,” Hailey’s voice informs me when I pick up the phone.

  “Are you kidding me?” I thunder into the phone.

  There’s sort of an unwritten rule among detectives: Your mom is not supposed to bug you when you’re on a case. Just imagine if Sherlock Holmes’s mom was always interrupting him during his cases because he forgot his lunch or didn’t make his bed. It’s called an unwritten rule because it’s supposed to be so dang obvious nobody bothers to waste a piece of paper on it.

  “Mom said Mrs. Hudson dropped by our house to see if you were practicing for tonight’s recital,” Hailey tells me. “She told Mom you’re her most challenging student.”

  “Well, I’m sort of busy right now,” I huff into the phone. “I’m trying to solve a mystery in the time it takes for most people to make toast.” While I say this, I’m sliding from left to right on the backseat of the limo. I’m so irritated by Hailey’s news, I forgot to buckle up before Earl hit the gas. I grab a handle on the ceiling just above the door with my free hand and swing around like a monkey in a storm.

  “Mom also said she can’t find your violin,” Hailey informs me.

  “It’s probably under my bed,” I say.

  “Nope. She looked there.”

  “Did she look in the bathroom?” I ask.

  “The bathroom? You are so weird,” she whispers. “Mom said she’s looked everywhere. She wanted to know what kind of detective can never find anything.”

  “I hardly ever lose anything—”

  Hailey interrupts me with a loud snort. “Sherlock, Mom told me some guy from Ralph’s Chili Dog Palace just called our house to say that you left your clip-on tie there. We can only hope you’re still wearing pants!”

  I look down and notice for the first time that my tie is gone. The pressure of this case is getting to me. At least my pants are still in good
standing.

  “And talk about awkward,” Hailey continues in a hushed voice. I am powerless to stop her. “I think Mom was wondering why she wasn’t invited to this wedding. She’s been a good neighbor to the Castros for a fragillion years. So I gave her a piece of wedding cake to cheer her up.”

  “Dang it, Hailey, stay away from that cake!” I shout just as the limo comes to a sudden, jerking stop and the arm I’m dangling from is almost separated from the rest of my body. “Look, I don’t have time for wedding gossip right now. I gotta go!”

  “Hey, did you see that ice sculpture of a mongoose?” she whispers.

  “That’s supposed to be a swan,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Not a swan from my planet,” she says. “Isn’t it just awful?”

  “I thought it was a weasel,” I admit quietly.

  “Mom thought it was a tree frog,” she says breathlessly.

  “Look, I don’t have time for the mystery of the lumpy ice sculpture right now!” I explode in frustration.

  “Oh, but you have time to stuff your big mouth at Ralph’s Chili Dog Palace?” she explodes back.

  “How did you even get this number?” I holler.

  But the phone is dead.

  Earl swings my door open. “Looks like someone has a neckwear mystery,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Neckwear?” I stare at Earl like I’m a stuffed fox in a natural history museum. My brain feels like a cell phone searching for a signal. Then it hits me that he’s talking about my tie. “Earl, there are mysteries everywhere you turn,” I say with just a hint of irritation as I crawl out the door.

  Earl has a good laugh at that one.

  At least somebody’s having a good time on this wild goose chase.