The Haunted Toolshed Page 4

  “Wait a minute!” I interrupt. “That’s good.

  Really good. Gooder than good. That’s the goodest.”

  It’s like I’ve gotten an eight-hundred-pound monkey off my back. Hailey has handed me the key that I’ve been missing, and now I’m unlocking all the doors in my head.

  “What are you doing?” Hailey asks from behind me.

  I yank the cord that lifts her window shades, throw open the window, and lift the screen out of its frame. As I hand Hailey the screen, I pull her chair over to the window.

  “Hailey, I think I can help Mr. Asher get to the bottom of things. And I’ve still got eight minutes until the clock strikes nine,” I say, nodding at her Girl Chat Sleepover wall clock. “So stall Officer Lestrade for just five minutes and then tell him to meet me down the street at Mr. Asher’s house.”

  “Stall him?” she sputters. “With what? Dad’s stamp collection?”

  “Think of something,” I say as I swing my legs out of her window. “Maybe show him Dad’s toes. If that doesn’t distract him, nothing will.”

  “Have you lost your mind, Sherlock?” she asks, running to the open window.

  But I’m already long gone.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I Got Your Poof Right Here!

  “Wow! Did someone attack you with a rowing oar?”

  Mr. Asher is looking at me through the peephole in his front door.

  “Could you please open the door, Mr. Asher?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he says with a nervous laugh. Finally the door opens. I push past him, limp directly into the kitchen, and start flinging open every drawer.

  “Sherlock, what are you doing?” he asks above the clatter of kitchen drawers opening and closing.

  “What is this called?” I demand to know, holding up a silver cooking utensil that claps together at the end.

  I see fear flicker in his eyes as he stares at the cooking tool I’m snapping open and closed like a metallic crab claw.

  “Those are called tongs.” The voice comes from Mrs. Asher, who has quietly entered the kitchen.

  Her eyes dart back and forth between her husband and me. She slowly picks up a meat thermometer from one of the open drawers. I think she plans to use it to protect her husband in case I attack him with the clacking tongs.

  Instead I step over to the sink and go to work. The Ashers are silent behind me. I can feel their eyes on the back of my neck.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements,” Mrs. Asher whispers to her husband.

  “He may have had his brains scrambled,” Mr. Asher whispers back. “It looks like someone took batting practice with his head.”

  “Look at this!” I announce suddenly, spinning around wildly. They both gasp in alarm. They gasp again when their eyes follow my outstretched arm and come to rest on the single glass eye clasped firmly in the end of the silver tongs.

  “How did you…” Mr. Asher’s voice trails off before he can finish.

  “I fished it out of the garbage disposal,” I explain, dropping the eye into a glass of water that’s half empty. “I could only hope that you didn’t need to use the garbage disposal before I could return tonight. Luckily, you didn’t. It was the only logical place it could be, since someone who was stealing fresh-baked bundt cakes would have no use for a glass eye.”

  “That’s amazing,” says Mrs. Asher.

  “I figure it rolled off the windowsill when the second cake was being stolen,” I explain.

  “I simply imagined the places it could be, and decided that it must have rolled down the drain.”

  “Brilliant,” says Mr. Asher with a tap of his cane.

  I smile. “Just wait until I show you what happened to your mailbox. Follow me!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  You’ve Got No Mail!

  “Mr. Asher, exactly where was your garbage can this past Thursday night?”

  “Don’t tell me you think my garbage can ate my new mailbox,” Mr. Asher says, pointing at the black hole with his cane.

  “Am I standing about where you left your garbage can last Thursday night?” I ask, placing my feet on top of the curb.

  “Yes. Yes, that is where I left it,” he insists, as if he’s being accused of something. “And that is where it was the next day when I discovered my mailbox was missing.”

  I snap my fingers so suddenly Mr. Asher flinches. “Don’t you see, Mr. Asher? Your mailbox was taken by accident when your garbage was picked up early Friday morning. It’s at the Baskerville Municipal Dump right now under tons of dirty diapers, moldy bread, and uneaten beef stew with broccoli and lima beans.”

  “That’s impossible,” he says gruffly. “Why would the garbageman take my new mailbox?”

  “The garbageman doesn’t actually lift up these new garbage cans,” I say. “You see, it’s all robotic. Our garbage cans are grabbed by a giant pair of robotic pinchers that reach out from the side of the truck, like a pair of garbage-grabbing pliers. They hoist the cans up and dump the junk in the back of the truck.”

  Mr. Asher stares at me with a blank face. “I’m usually in bed at that hour, so I would never have noticed,” he mumbles.

  “You installed your new mailbox too close to where you leave your garbage can. The two-fingered clampers must have reached around your garbage can and yanked your new mailbox up with your garbage can.”

  “It had a lovely brass flag,” Mr. Asher says with a sniff.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Asher,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll follow me, it’s time to unmask the person who’s behind the haunting of your toolshed.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Off to the Wheelbarrow Races

  I’m so excited by the sudden turnaround of luck that I never even see the wheelbarrow until it’s too late.

  Just as I think I’m on a roll that would even make Sherlock Holmes green with envy, I’m suddenly belly surfing for the second time tonight. Only this time I’m left with about four tablespoons of dirt in my mouth.

  It takes me a few moments to realize exactly what has happened. And why I’m eating a dirt sandwich.

  I roll onto my knees and do my best to spit the soil from my mouth.

  That’s when I hear Mr. Asher crashing through some tall bushes to my right. “Mr. Asher,” I whisper as loud as I can, “I’m over here.” I hear him stop and grunt, but he moves on toward the toolshed without me.

  But wait! That’s not him. Mr. Asher can’t be on my right. Because I now see him stumbling out of the darkness from behind me. And he doesn’t see the wheelbarrow, either.

  What a dumb place to leave a wheelbarrow! Before I can move out of the way, Mr. Asher trips and plows into me like a bull in a china shop.

  “Ooooomph!” Mr. Asher wheezes, while at the same time blowing an alarmingly high-pitched blast from his nose whistle.

  I’m knocked like a circus clown into two backward somersaults.

  “Sherlock?” Mr. Asher groans. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  “No problem,” I squeak.

  With some panic, I realize that my lungs no longer work.

  I think I’ve been hit in the solar plexus. I know this because Lance once told me that your solar plexus is a small section of your guts, right above your stomach and below your rib cage, that acts like an emergency shut-off button for your lungs. Well, my lung button has taken a direct hit. Unfortunately, Lance never mentioned where the emergency restart button is. My lungs feel like two tiny raisins dangling helplessly next to my heart. I can smell boiling cabbage again. What does that mean!

  Finally, my raisins reinflate. I suck in the cool air. I look over to make sure Mr. Asher is okay. In the darkness I can see he is standing again, his hands on his knees.

  But about forty yards behind him, I see two flashlights coming through the brush.

  Officer Lestrade! He’s too early! I’m so close to solving this mystery I can taste it—no, wait…that must be the dirt sandwich.

&nbs
p; “Quick, Mr. Asher,” I plead, steering him by the arm so he doesn’t see the flashlights coming our way. “Let’s finish this haunted toolshed business once and for all.”

  “Sherlock, I need to rest,” he insists.

  “You there, wait!” thunders a voice from behind us.

  “Quick, Mr. Asher, take a rest in this wheelbarrow!” I shout.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  So Close and Yet So Far

  “Who’s that?” Mr. Asher asks in a shaky voice as he bounces around in the wheelbarrow.

  “I’ve called for backup,” I huff as I crazily wheel Mr. Asher over the bumpy, uneven ground. “We must make it back to the toolshed.”

  “Slow down!” he calls back to me. “I think I just swallowed my gum!”

  Mr. Asher’s property stretches from Baker Street all the way back to Highway 67 and the fairgrounds. I’m sure those men in the van have their own evil plans for using this giant piece of property to make a fortune. Maybe as the site of a new football stadium. Or a skyscraper factory. Possibly a long-term parking lot for blimps.

  “There it is,” Mr. Asher says, pointing to the dark shape of his toolshed.

  I dump Mr. Asher out of the wheelbarrow like a heavy load of chopped wood. There’s no sign of the flashlights that were so close behind us. We’ve lost them. But they can’t be far away.

  “C’mon,” I whisper to Mr. Asher as I walk past him and approach the door of the toolshed as quietly as a cat with slippers on.

  I take a deep breath, pull my night-light from my pocket, and kick the door open with a bang.

  “That’s not an Inspector Wink-Wink night-light, is it?”

  Mr. Asher whispers over my shoulder.

  “Don’t move, cake stealers!” I squeak, careful not to enter the toolshed while at the same time cursing my guinea pig–like voice.

  My nose detects something I’m not familiar with. A sickening, sour smell not unlike the smell of a wet dog. I want to enter the toolshed and have a look around, but I’d feel better with something to protect myself.

  “Mr. Asher,” I whisper, reaching behind me, “can I borrow your cane for a minute?”

  He simply huffs in reply.

  “Please, Mr. Asher, I’ll be careful,” I say.

  He snorts like he thinks I’m nuts. Without taking my eyes off the door of the toolshed, I reach back farther and tap him on the arm of his wool coat.

  Wait…I don’t remember any wool coat when we left the house.

  I spin around and raise my Inspector Wink-Wink night-light…revealing the face of an enormous, orange-haired monster whose sickening breath carries just the slightest hint of crab cakes.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Beast

  “Nice doggie,” I peep.

  It’s all I can think to say. Although the monster standing before me is more like a hairy refrigerator than any dog.

  My night-light reveals the monster’s heart-stopping face. Yikes!

  Going numb with fear, I drop the night-light. It bounces off my grapefruit-size ankle and lands in the grass. The beast is now a large, dim outline against a distant street-light. I look down and see that the light now reveals the beast’s feet, which are actually more like hands than feet.

  Remaining motionless, I realize that I’ve solved my mystery. This is the thief I’ve been looking for. A thief who walks on his hands.

  “Edward!” a gruff voice calls. I see flashlights coming near us from the direction of the voice.

  “Uh…I’m Sherlock, not Edward,” my voice quivers.

  “Not you, kid,” the voice says. “I’m talking to Edward.”

  I’m struck dumb by the idea that someone would actually name a monster Edward.

  Edward moves off happily toward the voice, which I now recognize as the voice from the big van with the lion painted on the side. The beast hugs Mr. Deep Voice and a young woman who is with him.

  It’s at this moment I realize what I’m looking at. “It’s an orange monkey,” I say out loud, although I meant to say that to myself.

  “This is Edward,” laughs the woman.

  “He’s not a monkey; he’s a Bornean orangutan. We’re from the circus. When we came into town last night and started setting up our tents, Edward wandered off. We’ve been searching for him ever since. I hope he hasn’t caused too much trouble.”

  Of course, an orangutan! Suddenly everything starts to make sense.

  But why Edward? Who came up with that name? It seems like a huge, ugly orangutan should have a name that fits, like Kong, or Sampson, or Big Red.

  “He’s a regular escape artist,” laughs Mr. Deep Voice, handing Edward a mango.

  “FREEZE!” a voice off to my right shouts. “NOBODY MOVE!”

  “It’s okay, Officer Lestrade,” I shout into the darkness. “It’s just an orangutan.”

  “A what?” Mr. Asher shrieks from the direction of Officer Lestrade.

  “It’s just Edward,” I say with a croak. “From the circus. Not to worry, Mr. Asher. The final piece of your mystery has just fallen into place.” Boy, I like the sound of that.

  “He’s no harm to anyone,” shouts Mr. Deep Voice, handing another mango to Edward.

  “Wait until the guys back at the station hear this one,” Officer Lestrade laughs nervously. He slowly approaches our weird little nighttime gathering, never taking his eyes off Edward.

  “I’m so glad you’re not hurt, Sherlock,” Mr. Asher says, stepping into the light. “I’m sorry I left you. When you kicked open that door, I guess I got spooked. I thought I’d better bring in some reinforcements.”

  I smile. “All in a day’s work, Mr. Asher. Or a night’s work. Now I need someone to call my mom, or I’m going to have to run away with the circus.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Case Closed

  I can’t help but feel proud of myself.

  I’ve done it. I’ve solved my first official case as a detective. And a tough one. Hailey was right. This case was really a mystery, wrapped in a puzzle, stuffed in a coincidence.

  Everyone congratulates me on my “nerves of steel.” Mr. Deep Voice hands me five free tickets to the circus tomorrow. Mr. Asher hands me a check made out to “Sherlock.” Edward hands me a mango.

  Officer Lestrade says he’s going to recommend me for an Outstanding Citizen Award from the Baskerville Board of Supervisors. I’m just glad he’s forgotten about the headless bunny in all the excitement.

  I learn from Mr. Deep Voice that the howls and roars we’ve been hearing are actually “long calls,” a male orangutan’s way of establishing his new territory. The backpack stunt is a trick Edward performs with Kreepy the Clown in the circus. And the bundt cake? Who knows? Probably just an orangutan’s curiosity, since Edward prefers fresh fruit over cakes and pastries.

  Mr. Asher hurries inside to spread the good news and to call my mom at my aunt Peachy’s house. He promises to explain how I saved the day. And night.

  Looking back, I realize that I should have known that the prints I found under Mr. Asher’s window were not from a human. It seems so obvious now that I could kick myself. But I can’t complain. My orangutan mystery made the front page of the metro section in the Baskerville Daily News. And I hung the Outstanding Citizen Award certificate from the Baskerville Board of Supervisors on my wall, right above the photo of me, Hailey, Lance, Grandma Peeker, and Mr. Asher at the circus with Edward the Orangutan and Kreepy the Clown.

  There are only two questions that I’m unable to answer at this point:

  What’s with the boiling cabbage smell? And…

  Will Mr. Alessandri hire me to find out who broke his cement bunny?

  Only time will tell.

  In the meantime, I’ll keep studying my library of Sherlock Holmes movies, so I’m ready for whatever mystery comes knocking at my door next.

  About the Author

  DAVE KEANE has been an avid Sherlock Holmes fan since he was a kid. He even insisted on going to the Sherlock Ho
lmes Museum while on his honeymoon in London, England. Today he lives in Northern California with his wife, Christine, and their three junior detectives. He now solves everyday mysteries like “Where are my car keys?” and “Who left the garage door open?” The Joe Sherlock series is his debut in children’s books.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Credits

  Cover art © 2006 by David J. Keane

  Cover design by Christopher Stengel

  Copyright

  JOE SHERLOCK, KID DETECTIVE, CASE #000001: THE HAUNTED TOOLSHED. Copyright © 2006 by David J. Keane. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Adobe Digital Edition March 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-189810-5

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