On the Case Page 6
And yet there she was.
The suspicious side of Madison thought it must be a sign of something. It was hard not to shake the notion that Ivy was a part of the torn-paper mystery. Otherwise, why did she keep showing up? Madison wondered if Ivy was also responsible for the theft at school. Ivy was known to do anything to get her way. Maybe the “precious object” that the teachers were talking about was a test. Once, in science class, Ivy had cheated on a quiz by copying Madison’s paper. It didn’t take much of a leap to imagine Ivy stealing a test to get a better grade.
“What are you staring at?” Ivy yelled across the library.
Madison realized that she had, in fact, been staring—and she’d been caught. She wanted to kick herself. Major DeMille would never have let himself be spotted that way while gathering evidence.
“Sorry,” Madison said dumbly. “I was just—”
“Where’s Hart?” Ivy snapped. “Oh, look. He’s not with you! What a surprise—”
“How should I know where Hart is?” Madison retorted. “He’s probably playing hockey. What do you care?”
Ivy gathered her books together and stood up. “I have nothing else to say to you, Madison Finn.”
Madison didn’t know how to respond. Ivy was good at leaving her speechless.
Madison sat down on a bench by the large library windows and gazed out onto the back lot behind the school. Way out beyond the teachers’ parking lot there were wide, open fields and a forest. The land looked like a quilt of color; it curved and dipped.
Those were the far hills of Far Hills.
They looked inviting from way up here, Madison thought.
She wondered how many mysteries were hidden in those hills.
Madison looked up at the clock on the wall; it read 3:02. Realizing she was late for her lesson, she sped out of the library and down the staircase to Mr. Olivetti’s room. For the first time maybe ever, he wasn’t late. Mr. Olivetti was waiting, tapping his conductor’s baton on his desk as he read through a pile of papers.
“Sorry!” Madison cried as she burst through the door, flute case in hand.
Mr. Olivetti looked up, a sad expression on his face. “Oh!” he said, surprised. “Sit-a-over there,” he said.
There was something different about the way he was acting, Madison thought instantly. He kept dropping things. And he was chewing on his nails, a nervous habit that Madison had only noticed in him once or twice before.
Later, out of the blue, somewhere in the middle of her practicing scales, Mr. Olivetti sat down on a chair and declared, “I cannot go-a on.”
Madison stopped playing. “Are you okay?” she asked.
His eyes darted from one side of the room to the next. “Yes, I’m-a… I’m-a-fine, Miss Madison.”
Madison didn’t believe him. She remembered what Lindsay had said about possibly having overheard Mr. Olivetti in the teachers’ lounge. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to ask him about it.
“Are you absolutely, positively sure you’re okay?” Madison asked again.
“I have a lot on-a-my mind, that’s all,” Mr. Olivetti said.
“Did you hear anything about a robbery at school?” Madison asked.
Mr. Olivetti’s eyes grew wide. “Robbery?” he echoed. “What about robbery?”
“I heard that there was a robbery somewhere,” she responded matter-of-factly.
“I don’t-a-know what you are-a-talking about,” Mr. Olivetti said.
His stare landed on Madison, and she felt as if he were looking right through her, boring little holes in her with his dark eyes. Madison wasn’t sure what was going on, but it made her squirm a little.
Did Mr. Olivetti have something to do with the robbery?
After that, he stared at the clock and rubbed his chin as Madison completed her exercises. Watching him made it nearly impossible for her to focus on the flute.
He acted the way Madison imagined a guilty person would act, all strange and sweaty. What if all of the blame for the school theft were placed on a student when, really, the one responsible for the crimes was a teacher… her flute teacher!
When the lesson ended, Madison hoped Mr. Olivetti would say more about the robbery—or give himself away in some other manner.
Were there other clues to his guilt right there in the music room?
Eyes and ears OPEN.
That was what the Crime Time website always advised.
Madison quickly glanced around, but all she saw was the usual chairs and tables, music stands, and someone’s tuba parked in the corner. Mr. Olivetti’s briefcase was propped up against the desk in front of another large black attaché case with the initials PKO. Were those his initials? Madison speculated about what was inside the briefcases. But just as she was about to wander over for a sneaky peek, Mr. Olivetti shooed her out of the classroom.
“Hurry up, my dear. Next lesson coming in!” he cried, mopping his brow.
Wow, Madison thought to herself. He’s so nervous he really is sweating. That has to mean something.
As Madison walked out of the room, the next music student wandered in, carrying a guitar. The wall clock said it was a few minutes after four o’clock.
Madison remembered the mysterious scrap of paper.
Friday at 4 @ 411 Marquette Street.
Madison got a whirly feeling inside her belly, as if something weirder than weird was about to happen. She returned to her locker and got the books she needed for doing homework over the weekend. Then she left the school, walking home via Marquette Street—just in case.
When Madison saw the familiar street sign, she could felt her pulse thump. She wasn’t sure if she should walk by 411 Marquette just to see if there was anything suspicious. But she did anyway.
It was a warm afternoon, and the sidewalks along the walk home were surprisingly busy. Kids buzzed around on scooters, other kids marched by carrying wrapped gifts, and parents dropped kids off by the curb. There didn’t seem to be anything mysterious going on there.
At least, not at first.
Madison approached Number 411 from the opposite side of the street. She recognized some of the faces of people passing by. A kid she knew from Mrs. Wing’s school website committee was headed straight for the front door of Number 411. She wanted to grab him and ask what was going on. But she stopped herself. There were other kids who looked familiar heading toward the house, too, but they were all older than Madison. They were all ninth graders, Madison guessed.
Maybe Aimee had been right. Maybe it was better not to snoop around like this. She didn’t belong there. Madison hoisted her orange bag onto her shoulder and headed for home—for real.
“Maddie? Is that you?”
Madison’s heart stopped. She turned to see Mariah Diaz, Egg’s older sister, standing there on the sidewalk outside 411 Marquette Street with another girl. Mariah was in the ninth grade at FHJH.
“Oh, wow! What are you doing here?” Mariah asked.
Madison had to think of something—fast.
Chapter 8
“UM… I WAS ON my way home,” Madison said; it was mostly true.
“That’s cool,” Mariah said, not really seeming to care that Madison was standing there.
“You dyed your hair again,” Madison said.
Mariah had a purple streak running down the side of her face. Her hair was pulled back into a fuzzy, leopard-patterned hair clip.
“Yeah, my mom was ready to kill me when she saw it. She almost made me dye it black like the rest of my hair. Oh, by the way, this is Penelope,” Mariah said, introducing her friend.
Penelope had bright orange hair that was pulled back in a ribbon. Madison recognized her from the halls at school.
“Hi,” Madison said.
“You’re in Walter’s class, right?” Penelope said, using Egg’s real name. “I think I’ve seen you around.”
Madison wanted to answer, but she couldn’t. She could barely think. When Penelope asked the question again, Madison still
couldn’t respond. It was as if her brain had just stopped working.
There was a good reason for it.
“Maddie, what is wrong with you?” Mariah asked. She snapped her fingers in front of Madison’s face. “Hello?”
“You look like you saw a ghost or something,” Penelope said.
Indeed, Madison felt as if she had seen a ghost—or at least heard one.
Penelope was the owner of the squeaky voice from the library. Madison was sure of it.
She eyed Mariah’s friend up and down, from her faded jeans to the black portfolio case she held in her left hand. Madison looked down at Penelope’s feet, too. There they were: the pink-laced sneakers from the library.
Madison didn’t know what to say.
“Knock-knock,” Mariah teased. “Is anyone home?”
Madison snapped out of her daze with a gasp. “What did you say?” she replied.
Mariah laughed out loud. “Maddie, you’ve acted weird sometimes,” she said, “but this takes the cake. I asked you if anyone was home. Obviously not…”
Penelope kept smiling. “Do you like my shoes?”
“Your shoes?” Madison said.
“Yeah, you’re staring at my feet,” Penelope replied with a chuckle.
“Oh, no…” Madison stammered. “Am I? I have the same sneakers,” she lied.
“What are you doing here anyway, Maddie? This is a ninth-grade party. Did someone from my class invite you?” Penelope asked.
“No… I… I…” Madison said. Her mind raced. “I was on my way home. I just stopped to see what was going on. It’s a party, huh? I didn’t know.”
Penelope’s voice still had that familiar squeak. “Yes! A surprise party! Only, we’re late, I think. It started at four. Isn’t that dumb that we got here late, so we’ll miss the best part? Well, maybe next time, right?”
Madison nodded. “Right,” she said.
“You know Maddie, Penelope is in the school music ensemble. Aren’t you?” Mariah asked.
“Sort of,” Madison admitted. “But I have a lot of flute practicing left to do before I can ever perform.”
“You play flute? That is so cool. I play piano!” Penelope kept right on squeaking. “Mr. Olivetti is a super teacher, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Madison said.
“You know, I like that hair clip a lot,” Penelope said, still acting overly nice.
Why was she acting so nice?
Madison reached up to see which clip she had in her hair. It was a tortoiseshell barrette. “I like your headband,” she told Penelope. “That’s a cool bag, too.”
“It was my mom’s or grandmom’s or something. It’s a hand-me-down,” Penelope explained. “I carry it everywhere with me.”
The longer she looked at it, however, the more Madison realized that Penelope’s black bag looked familiar. In fact, it looked an awful lot like the black case Madison had seen earlier in Mr. Olivetti’s office.
Then she noticed the initials on the side of Penelope’s bag: PKO.
Her heart sank.
That was exactly what Madison had seen on the bag in Mr. Olivetti’s classroom.
What was Penelope doing with it?
Gramma Helen had always told Maddie to trust her gut feelings—and something big was gnawing at Madison’s gut. From that moment in the library when she found the paper, Madison had known that something strange was going on. Now she’d located the girl with the squeaky voice—and Penelope was carrying suspicious cargo.
This was no case of mistaken-bag identity.
This had to be Mr. Olivetti’s bag!
Where was a crime-scene photographer when Madison needed one? Right there was the evidence she needed in order to prove that something mysterious was going on at FHJH. What if this bag were the connection among the party, the scrap of paper, and the thefts at school?
Madison wished she could have asked the real Major DeMille for advice. Ask questions. Expect answers. That was what he always said on Crime Time. That’s what she would try to do.
“Your bag is so big,” Madison said. “Isn’t it hard to carry everywhere? Why did you bring it to a party? What’s inside?”
“What are you, Maddie, the Inquisition?” Mariah asked. “It’s just a dumb bag. Come on, Pen, let’s go. We’re late.”
“Sorry.” Madison realized she had gone a little overboard with the questions. “Um… It was good to see you,” she said to Mariah. “And to meet you,” she told Penelope.
“Totally!” Penelope said, still smiling.
Maybe she was being nice in order to hide something?
Mariah leaned in toward Madison before walking away and whispered, “Are you okay? You seem kind of… I don’t know… strange.”
“I’m okay.” Madison said.
Mariah and Penelope waved as they walked into 411 Marquette Street and the party. Madison waved back. She watched Penelope lift the black bag onto her shoulder and enter the house.
Maybe she was carrying other things that she’d stolen from the school, Madison thought. Or maybe she’d stolen stuff from other places, too. Or maybe…
Wait! a voice cried inside Madison’s head. Her thoughts were spinning out of control. She’d only met Penelope two minutes ago, and she already had her pegged as the great criminal of Far Hills. Major DeMille would have said that that wasn’t so smart. Madison could almost hear his voice.
A good detective would wait to gather stronger evidence before flinging around random accusations.
So Madison needed more evidence. She had to be 100 percent sure Penelope’s bag and Mr. Olivetti’s bag were one and the same.
Madison walked on toward home as quickly as she could, stopping only once, to tie her shoelaces.
When she arrived at her house on Blueberry Street, Mom and Phin happened to be outside on the front porch, watering the mums in the planters that lined the porch steps.
“Rowwrororrooooo!” Phin barked when he saw Madison.
Madison dropped her bag on the sidewalk and ran to pick him up. His curlicue pug tail was wiggling fast.
“How was school?” Mom asked as Madison grabbed her stuff again and climbed onto the porch.
“Fine,” Madison said, sounding as noncommittal as possible. She wasn’t sure she was ready to tell Mom about the day’s super snooping just yet. Madison needed more evidence to solve the crime and to prove to Mom that her detective work was the real deal.
“How did the math test go?” Mom asked.
“Math test?” Madison said with a blank look.
Mom laughed. “Yes, the one you said you were up all night studying for!” Mom exclaimed. “Was it hard?”
Madison gulped. She’d told Mom the night before that she had been studying. That way she’d been able to chat online and send e-mails for a longer while.
“It was a breeze,” Madison lied.
“Good,” Mom said. “You had a flute lesson this afternoon, too, right?”
Madison nodded. “It was good,” she said.
“See where all this hard work gets you?” Mom said. “I’m so proud of you!”
Madison thought about her sleuthing. Where would that hard work get her? She patted Phin on the head but then went indoors without him. He was staying outside in order to go for an evening walk with Mom. Madison went upstairs and set herself up in front of her laptop. Since she had been able to finish two of her assignments during a free period, Madison didn’t feel as guilty about jumping online before finishing the rest of her homework.
No sooner had she logged on and started to surf around than a message appeared in a corner of the screen.
Madison was happy to hear from Aimee, especially after they’d shared a bad moment in the hall earlier that day. But she also knew she couldn’t tell Aimee what she had really been doing after school.
Aimee asked Madison to go to a private chat room called DANCRS. Madison met her
there.
She understood? Madison was relieved to hear that. Maybe Aimee would understand if Madison explained the new mystery she was trying to solve?
Madison typed quickly.
She told Aimee about the scrap of paper, Mr. Olivetti’s odd behavior, and Penelope. Of course, Madison was careful (as any good detective would be) to use only initials when referring to her “suspects” online.
Aimee took a moment to write back.
Madison couldn’t believe she’d actually typed the words, but she had—in all caps, too. And she had hit SEND very quickly.