Super Puzzletastic Mysteries: Short Stories for Young Sleuths from Mystery Writers of America

By Chris Grabenstein, Stuart Gibbs, Lamar Giles and 4 more

Bestselling author Chris Grabenstein and the Mystery Writers of America bring together twenty peerless puzzles—from bestselling authors such as Peter Lerangis, Stuart Gibbs, Lauren Magaziner, Kate Milford, and, of course, Grabenstein himself—in an anthology of mystery short stories that invite readers to try to unravel the riddles themselves.

From tales of hapless superheroes and stolen squirrel monkeys to murderous triplets and haunted basements, these thrilling, puzzling, and hilarious cases have one thing in common—YOU get a chance to be the detective before the author reveals the solution.

With twenty never-before-published mystery stories, this collection will leave young detectives sleuthing for more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780062884220

Chris Grabenstein

Chris Grabenstein is the author of Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library, which has been nominated for twenty-two different state book awards and has already spent six months in the top ten on the New York Times bestseller list. Nickelodeon optioned the book to become a movie. Chris is also the coauthor, with James Patterson, of the #1 bestsellers I Funny, Treasure Hunters, and the House of Robots series. He is the critically acclaimed author of over twenty other books for children and adults, a playwright, screenwriter, and former advertising executive and improvisational comedian. Winner of two Anthony and three Agatha Awards, Chris wrote for Jim Henson’s Muppets and cowrote the CBS TV movie The Christmas Gift starring John Denver. His dog Fred has better credits. Fred starred on Broadway in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. To find out more about Chris, visit him at www.ChrisGrabenstein.com.

Book preview

Introduction

For me, a lot of the fun of reading mysteries comes from trying to solve the story’s puzzle before the characters in it do.

I think this fun started one Christmas when Santa brought me a book: Donald Sobol’s Two-Minute Mysteries (Sobol was also the creator of Encyclopedia Brown).

There would be some sort of crime, the clues would be presented, and the story would end without a solution. I had to rack my ten-year-old brain and try to figure out whodunit or what happened.

I confess, I seldom got the answer right, but I had fun trying. When I ultimately flipped to the back of the book to read the author’s solution, I usually slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and said, Doh! Of course. I knew that. I just forgot to think it.

Such was the inspiration for this collection of Super Puzzletastic Mysteries, created by some of the best criminal masterminds from the Mystery Writers of America organization and the world of kidlit.

Here you will find twenty stories—some by authors you’re familiar with, some by authors you’ll want to read more of—all of them filled with clues, red herrings, and clever sleuths. The stories will take you right up to the brink of a solution . . . and then you’ll have a chance to match wits with the characters and attempt to solve the mystery on your own. (Or with your classmates. These stories were all written to be the perfect length for a classroom read-aloud.)

And yes, you’ll find the solutions in the back of the book to make sure your deductions are correct!

I was so lucky that so many terrific writers accepted an invitation to contribute to this collection—a number of whom, like Donald Sobol, have been singled out by Mystery Writers of America committees judging the prestigious Edgar awards:

Edgar nominee Stuart Gibbs will take you to the world of his FunJungle series, where some Monkey Business has led to chaos and confusion in the cages. It’s a case that must (with your help) be solved.

The always hysterical (and Edgar-nominated) Steve Hockensmith will introduce you to the funniest superhero you’ve ever met: Possum-Man. With the help of his niece, Janet—and, of course, you—will Possum-Man be able to avert disaster?

Edgar winner Kate Milford will take you camping in The Dapperlings. But, at this camp, solving puzzles (not making lanyards) is the number one activity.

Edgar nominee Lamar Giles will introduce you to a brainy young man who is only called a nerd because he is so much better at unraveling puzzles than all his classmates. Will he be smarter than you?

Edgar winner James Ponti will treat you to TRICKED! a new tale in his amazing Framed! series. There’s a reason twelve-year-old Florian Bates is a consultant with the FBI. He’s very good at making observations and solving mysteries—something you’ll be great at after you work your way through these twenty mysterious puzzlers.

And my own story? Well, let’s just say it’s based on something I actually saw out the library window when I did a school visit the day after a snow day.

I hope you enjoy Super Puzzletastic Mysteries. I know I did when I first read the stories as they came in.

Could I solve ’em all?

Of course not. But that’s half the fun!

—Chris Grabenstein

Snow Devils

A Riley Mack Story

by Chris Grabenstein

The FART was huge.

The biggest one Riley Mack had ever seen.

Looks like somebody enjoyed their snow day yesterday, Riley said to himself with a grin.

The towering word had been cleverly shuffled into the deep snow on a hill facing the school library windows. Each letter was at least twenty feet tall and surrounded by the daintier boot prints of the mystery writer moving from one leg-plowed letter to the next. The F-A-R-T spanned at least forty feet across the backyard of a house on the other side of the school’s perimeter fence.

Mr. Ball’s not going to like that, said Riley’s friend Ben Markowitz, who was sitting with him at a table in the library that more or less served as Riley’s office.

Mr. Ball was Fairview Middle School’s vice principal. Its disciplinarian. The guy who liked nothing better than running detention hall. He’d strut up and down the rows of chairs, tapping a ruler behind his back, his eyes darting from one inmate to the next, just itching to whip out his pink pad and give one of the troublemakers another hour in the after-school punishment zone.

Troublemakers.

That’s what some grown-ups called Riley and his friends Ben, Briana, Jamal, and Mongo (whose real name was Hubert Montgomery but, because he was so huge, everybody called him Humongo, which quickly morphed into Mongo).

In truth, Riley’s crew didn’t make trouble. They were fixers. The school’s go-to team of Robin Hoods. They only tried to right wrongs, protect innocent kids from bullies, look out for abused animals, and, basically, use their talents to do all the good they could.

Riley had a strict ethical code for his team’s operations, too. They would never execute a caper that was just plain wrong. For instance, on Monday, an eighth grader named Steve Duffy had come to Riley’s office in the media center, begging for help.

What do you need? Riley asked.

The answers to my history makeup quiz.

Excuse me?

I missed the quiz last week. So Mrs. Henkin is going to give me a makeup exam Thursday morning with all new questions! And I’ll be on my own. Jenny Myers won’t be sitting next to me.

Riley arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

She’s smart, Duffy explained. Always knows what answer to circle. I sometimes copy her moves.

I see, said Riley.

But I don’t need Jenny Myers. I saw where Mrs. Henkin stashed the answer key.

Oh, you did, did you?

Top right-hand drawer of her desk. The one that locks. I figure your guy Jamal could sneak in after school, pop it open, copy the answers, and BOOM! I’m golden. But we have to hurry. Like I said, my makeup test is first thing Thursday!

Nope, Riley told the eighth grader. Not gonna do it.

Why? What’s your problem? I can pay you ten dollars. Twenty! Okay, thirty.

That’s not how we roll, Steve.

Why not?

Because I might need brain surgery someday.

What?!!

You think I want to be operated on by some Dr. Dingus D. Doofus who cheated his way through middle school, then high school, and all the way through medical school?

Oh, fumed Steve. Funny. Guess Brandon Kilmeade was right. He said you and your crew were yesterday’s news. He’ll do the same job for twenty bucks. But I came to you first, Riley Mack. Out of respect.

Steve?

Yeah?

Why don’t you just study for the test? You say it’s not till Thursday. Today’s Monday. You have three whole days.

"Um, no, I don’t. Every single one of my after-school hours this week is spoken for. I made it to the next level of Alien Annihilator. I can’t miss a single online Thrash or my avatar will lose his force field and his bludgeon balloon."

Riley shook his head in disbelief, remembering that Monday morning conversation.

So, Ben? he asked his friend. Who do you think’s the prime suspect for the FART art?

I’d go with Sam Morkal-Williams, said Ben, tapping the glass of his smartphone, pulling up a database. Kid’s a real cutup and class clown. This looks like his kind of prank.

You have to admire his craftsmanship, said Riley. It’s not easy bulldozing letters into snow while making the minimum number of moves necessary to hop over to the next letter.

Ben nodded. "The leap from the right leg of the A to the left leg of the R is amazing. Winter Olympics–caliber stuff. Kudos to Sam."

Ben was the brainiac in Riley’s crew. He used words like kudos a lot.

OMG, you guys?!! Briana Bloomfield made a dramatic entrance into the library. She was their actress. She could imitate voices, create disguises, and become whoever Riley and his team needed her to be. Her locker was full of costumes, hats, wigs, makeup kits, and all sorts of disguises. She was so theatrical, almost every entrance she made was dramatic. Did you guys see the FART?

We’re kind of looking at it right now, said Riley.

Briana gasped. That thing is huge. No. It’s ginormous! Who do you think did it?

Sam Morkal-Williams, said Ben.

That’s what I thought, said Briana. Although it could’ve been Elyssa Shapiro. That girl is hard-core.

Interesting choices, said Riley. Any idea whose yard that is?

Old Man Jenkins, said Briana. I mean, Old Man probably isn’t his real first name, but that’s what everybody calls him.

Is he old? asked Ben, innocently.

Briana rolled her eyes. "Uh, yeah. He’s also a widower. Doesn’t really like kids. You do not want your ball to end up in his backyard. If it does, you will never see it again. They say the inside of his garage looks like a sporting goods store."

Jamal Wilson came strutting into the library. He was the youngest and newest member of Riley’s gnat pack. That’s what Fairview’s sheriff, Big John Brown, called Riley Mack and the other known troublemakers he associated with. The sheriff thought they were a bunch of annoying little pests. Probably because the bully they busted most often was his son, Gavin Brown.

Riley didn’t mind the gnat pack label. In fact, he kind of liked it. Gnats were small, almost microscopic creatures. But they could drive full-grown adults crazy.

Dag, said Jamal. That FART out there is elephantine. You know what that word means, Riley Mack?

Yeah. Big.

Jamal was good with his hands and could crack open just about any lock you tossed his way. He also liked memorizing big words out of the dictionary.

It is positively behemothic, Jamal continued. "Man, I wish I’d thought to write something in the snow yesterday. I know so many better words than fart. For instance, flatulence. You know what that word means?"

Yeah, said Riley. Fart.

Correct. But I spent the whole day yesterday sledding with Mongo over on the golf course. Let me tell you—that dude is strong! He gave me such a mighty shove downhill, I was flying!

Hey, speaking of Mongo, has anybody seen him this morning? asked Riley.

Everybody shook their heads. Mongo was the group’s muscle. Sure, he was a seventh grader, but he was growing so fast that he was already bigger than most high school kids.

Maybe he’s in the cafeteria, suggested Ben. He sometimes needs a second breakfast.

And a third, said Briana.

Riley and his crew usually met up in the library every morning before the first bell. After school, they’d meet up again at the Pizza Palace on Main Street. They were a little like firefighters or the Avengers. They were always ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Excuse me, guys, said the librarian. The first bell is about to ring. I’m going to need these tables. Mrs. Henkin is still snowed in so she asked me to give a makeup quiz for her.

Riley nodded. He figured Steve Duffy’s private history quiz had slid back a day on account of yesterday’s snow.

No problem, he said to the librarian. Come on, guys.

Riley and his crew stood up from the table.

Enjoy the view, cracked Jamal, nodding his head toward the big FART outside the window.

Oh, my, gasped the librarian. Who did that?

That, said Ben, is today’s sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

Riley led his crew out of the library.

Dag, said Jamal when they were in the hall. There’s a reward? Sixty-four thousand dollars? For finding the FART felon?

It’s just an expression, Jamal, said Briana. It was the title of an old TV game show back in the 1950s.

Now, explained Ben, whenever a question is extremely important or difficult to answer, we call it a sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

Really? said Jamal. I mean y’all might do that, but not me. I’d call that question onerous. Or troublesome. Maybe even enigmatic. You know what all those words mean?

Yeah, said Riley. It won’t be easy for Mr. Ball to figure out who wrote FART in the snow.

Mr. Ball thinks I did it, said Mongo.

On his way to his first period class, Riley had seen his friend Mongo, the gentle giant, sitting in his stocking feet on the bench outside the school’s main office.

He told me to wait right here while he investigated. So that’s what I’m doing. Waiting. Right here.

Why aren’t you wearing any shoes? asked Riley, sitting down on the bench alongside his friend.

Mongo wiggled his toes. His brown socks were decorated with cute little teddy bears. Not that anyone at Fairview Middle School would dare make fun of him for it.

Mr. Ball took my boots, he explained.

Why?

He wants to go see if they match the boot prints near that big FART in Old Man Jenkins’s backyard.

He thinks you did that?

Yeah.

But you were at the golf course yesterday. Sledding with Jamal.

I know. I told Mr. Ball. He didn’t care. He said I was a miscreant and ne’er-do-well. The big guy furrowed his brow and scrunched up his eyes. Riley could tell he was thinking. Hard. Hey, Riley?

Yeah, Mongo?

What’s a miscreant and a ne’er-do-well?

Riley winked. They’re both very important members of any top-notch gnat pack.

Oh. Cool.

Mr. Ball came through the front doors wrapped in a dull gray parka that made him look like a quilted pork sausage. He stomped snow off his rubber boots; shook it off his pant cuffs. Then he wiggle-waggled the large pair of tan hiking boots he held in his hand.

If the boot fits, Mr. Montgomery, he said with a sneer as he marched over to the bench, wear it.

Okay, said Mongo. Thanks. My toes were getting kind of cold . . .

What are you doing here, Mr. Mack?

Sitting.

Shouldn’t you be on your way to class?

No, sir. Not when one of my best friends is shoeless and the RealFeel temperature outside is fifteen.

Your ‘friend,’ as you put it, Mr. Mack, is not wearing shoes because he was wearing boots. These boots. The ones I hereby hold in my hands. But now they are more than boots, Mr. Montgomery. They are evidence!

Mongo nodded. Okay. But can I still wear them?

No! Not until you confess!

To what?

Writing that foul word in the snow.

Oh. I didn’t do that.

Oh, yes you did. You’re the only student at Fairview Middle School who wears a size fifteen shoe or boot.

How can you know that? asked Riley.

Because I keep statistics, Mr. Mack. Why? For situations just like this one! Plus, Mr. Montgomery, these are Timberland brand boots. They leave an extremely distinctive, easy-to-identify footprint pattern in the snow. The same pattern I found at the scene of the crime.

Wait a second, said Riley. Timberland boots are very popular. And who said a student from Fairview wrote that word in the snow? Some adult with size fifteen feet could’ve—

"Ha! Don’t make me laugh, Mr. Mack. Ha, ha, ha. Look at me. I’m laughing. I warned you not to make me do that."

Briana came up the hall, hugging her books to her chest, trying to blend into the background of lockers. Riley touched his ear. She nodded and moved to the nearby water fountain where she could eavesdrop.

Riley stood up. I can prove Mongo, I mean Hubert, didn’t do it.

Mr. Ball gave Riley some snide stink eye. Oh, really? How?

I’m not exactly sure, said Riley. But you definitely don’t want to accuse the wrong student. Remember what the new school superintendent said about false accusations and lawsuits.

Mrs. Worthington said something about lawsuits? Suddenly, Mr. Ball’s left eye was twitching. She’s a very important person, he sputtered. We haven’t met, not yet, but, well, I, of course, respect her opinions . . .

Briana touched the tip of her nose and slipped around the corner where, right on cue, she speed-dialed Mr. Ball.

The phone inside the chest pocket of his sausage parka started chirping. (Ben had loaded all the personal cell phone numbers of the teachers and administrators in Briana’s and Riley’s phones for just such an emergency. He’d also blocked the caller ID function.)

Hello? Mr. Ball snapped into his phone. This is Albert Ball. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?

His eyes went wide.

Superintendent Worthington? Why, I was just talking about you. I loved your most recent memo . . .

Riley grinned. Briana was on the case.

I see, said Mr. Ball. You’re writing a new memo? About avoiding lawsuits? Fascinating. Oh, I agree, Mrs. Worthington. False accusations are the worst. However, I think if you have solid evidence and a prime suspect— Right. Lawsuits. Need to be one hundred percent certain. What? Yes, as a matter of fact I do have a student eager to lead an investigation but— Oh. You think that’s a good idea? You know, now that you mention it, so do I. Thank you, Mrs. Worthington. And, if you have a minute, might we discuss the current pay scale for vice principals in the district? As you may not know— I see. You have to run. No, later would be fine. We’ll chat later. Thank you for the call.

Mr. Ball tapped the off button on his phone just as the second class-change bell rang.

You have until the end of the day, Mr. Mack. Otherwise, I am turning Mr. Montgomery over to the authorities.

Thank you, sir, said Riley.

May I have my boots back, Mr. Ball? asked Mongo.

No, you may not. I’m confiscating them.

Huh?

I’m keeping them! They’re evidence.

They’re also warm, sir. Warmer than just socks.

For goodness’ sake, Hubert. Go to the gym. Put on your sneakers.

Good idea, sir, said Riley, grabbing Mongo by the elbow. Let’s hit the gym.

As they walked, Riley thumbed a text string.

Bathroom Emergency.

NOW!

Meet us outside the boys’ locker room.

Riley and Mongo hit the gym. Mongo went to his locker and quickly slid on his size fifteen sneakers.

These won’t be good for walking home in the snow.

Don’t worry, Mongo, Riley assured him. You’ll have your Timberlands back before school’s out for the day.

When they stepped into the hall outside the locker room, Ben, Briana, and Jamal were there, waiting for them.

Why, hello, Mr. Mack, said Briana in a snooty, lockjaw voice, like she went to college in Connecticut. I’m ever so delighted to see you again.

Is that the voice you used on Mr. Ball? asked Mongo.

Yuh-huh. I went full-blown Ivy League. It can be very intimidating.

Good job, said Riley.

Thank you, said Briana in her normal voice. An actor makes choices. The secret is believing in those choices. Keeping them real.

Yo, said Jamal. That was supposed to sound real? Because, if I may, I have a few notes on your performance that I’d be happy to—

Not now, guys, said Riley. The clock’s ticking.

Ben nodded and waved a green card. I could only score a five-minute bathroom pass.

Me, too, said Jamal.

Okay, said Riley. We have to clear Mongo.

I didn’t do it, said Mongo.

Cool, said Jamal. So, uh, what exactly are people saying you did?

"Mr. Ball thinks I’m the one who wrote FART in the snow."

Nah, man. That’s not your style. You’re more physical than verbal. Me? I’m something of a wordsmith. Love to play with words, experiment with them.

Jamal? said Riley. We only have until the end of school today. So far, the evidence against Mongo is pretty solid. The snow writing was done by someone wearing size fifteen Timberland boots.

Like Mongo wears, said Ben.

Exactly. We don’t have the time to pull together a full-blown operation. We need to peanut butter out the tasks and see what we can learn about those other suspects.

Um, what other suspects? asked Ben.

You mentioned Sam Morkal-Williams. Class clown. Known prankster. You and Jamal get close to him at lunch. If Sam did it, he’s going to be eager for someone to find out. The guy lives for the spotlight. Briana?

Yeah?

This Elyssa Shapiro you mentioned.

Nuh-uh. No way. I told you, she’s hard-core. I think she has tattoos. I know she dyes her hair. That’s why it’s so black it looks bluish. The girl is extremely Goth. She’ll be giving me noogies on the cafeteria floor if I even come close to her table. Goth chicks don’t like drama geeks.

Then put on a disguise. Become somebody new. Maybe a new kid. Pretend this is your first day at Fairview. You’re looking for girls even Gothier than you are . . .

Briana nodded. Slowly. "Okay. Yes. I can do this. I am an ac-tor. Sure, it’ll be a challenge, but all good roles are."

What do we do, Riley? asked Mongo. You and me?

You stick to your class schedule and be on your best behavior. Me? I’m going to visit Old Man Jenkins after lunch. I have a free period.

No, Riley! said Ben.

"That old man is old and cranky, said Jamal. They could call him Old Cranky Man Jenkins. He might come after you with his Weedwacker."

Briana arched an eyebrow. In the middle of winter?

Hey, some old dudes keep their Weedwackers handy all year long, just to chase kids off their lawns. And who knows what else he might have hidden in that garage. Sledgehammers. Hedge trimmers. WD-40 he could spray in your eyeballs.

Riley just grinned. He might also have a pair of Timberland boots. Size fifteen.

Riley and his crew all had lunch at the same time.

Usually, they sat together and fielded requests from kids who needed help righting wrongs. Today, they split up. Ben and Jamal sat with Sam Morkal-Williams and his friends, who called themselves the Goofballs. They were Fairview Middle School’s premier practical jokers and class clowns. The best of the best.

Briana would hit the locker room, change into her New Goth Girl disguise/costume, and then try to find a seat at Elyssa Shapiro’s table. It shouldn’t be hard. Nobody much wanted to sit with Elyssa except her nose- and eyebrow-studded friend with the purple hair, Charlotte Edelman.

Mongo and Riley ate their lunches at their regular table.

See? said the weaselly looking kid, Brandon Kilmeade. He and Steve Duffy shuffled past Mongo and Riley’s table, carrying trays loaded down with double desserts and double chocolate milks. Riley Mack is old news. He can’t even protect his pal Mongo. Check out the shoes.

"Ha! laughed Steve. He’s wearing canvas high tops the day after a snowstorm? His socks are gonna stink when he gets home."

Brandon nodded. His feet are gonna itch, too.

Mongo slammed down both fists on the table and jangled all the silverware.

My boots have been confiscated for evidence! he declared.

We heard, said Brandon. If you need help getting out of that jam, let me know. I charge by the job, not the hour.

Hey, Riley? taunted Steve. Guess who aced his history quiz this morning? Me. Answered all four questions correctly. Scored a big fat one hundred.

Meanwhile, over at the Goofballs’ table, Jamal and Ben were listening to Sam Morkal-Williams regaling his fellow jokers with his funny tale of woe.

Oh, man, I so wish I had thought of that, he said. "Writing something funny in the snow? That’s like the ultimate stunt. Although I might’ve gone with the word poop. Poop is always funnier than fart. Underpants would’ve been funny, too."

Y’all talk about this kind of stuff every day? asked Jamal.

Nah, said Sam. Usually we just tell jokes and try to make everybody else laugh so hard, milk comes shooting out their noses.

Cool, said Jamal. Nice grabbing lunch with you dudes. We gotta run.

Yeah, said Ben. This was fun. And, you know, funny. Sorry I didn’t laugh much.

It’s nothing personal, said Jamal. Ben never laughs. Except when he’s watching that British guy Mr. Bean. Go figure, huh?

As Ben and Jamal took their trays to the drop-off window, they passed Briana in a jet-black wig. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Even her lipstick was black. She had raccoon circles around her eyes, wore a jagged necklace, and had plastered all sorts of temporary tattoos up and down her sleeveless arms.

She sat down at the table where Elyssa and Charlotte were sitting, each girl twirling the dyed tips of her hair. All Briana had on her tray was a small plate cradling a wobbly hard-boiled egg. The other girls were eating bowls of gloomy-looking gruel. Or grits. It could’ve been grits.

Hey, said Briana, sounding totally bored.

Hey, said Elyssa.

Charlotte just grunted.

I’m new, said Briana, with a yawn. First day.

Cool, said Elyssa.

Charlotte grunted again.

So, said Brianna, "which one of you total bad apples wrote the word in, like, the snow?"

Elyssa and Charlotte put down their spoons and glared at her.

"You think I wrote FART? said Elyssa. In the snow?" She sounded like she might rip out somebody’s hair sometime soon.

Totally, said Briana.

You don’t wear coffin creeper boots like these in the snow, idiot! snarled Elyssa.

They cost like a hundred and thirty dollars, added Charlotte.

Snow could ruin the leather, said Elyssa. And do you know how much we paid for these pants?

Oh-kay, said Briana. Good fashion tips. Thanks.

She picked up her tray, turned around, looked over to where Riley was sitting, shook her head, and mouthed two words:

No. Way.

That meant it was up to Riley.

He had to sneak over to Old Man Jenkins’s house and see what he could see.

He had a free period right after lunch that he usually spent in the media center working on independent studies.

Excuse me? he said to the librarian. I need to go outside and gather some samples for science class.

Samples? the librarian answered skeptically.

Yeah, said Riley. I’m going to catalog snowflakes. See if they’re all really different. I mean, come on, one or two have to be the same, am I right?

The librarian stared at him. For a full second. Be sure to wear your coat.

Yes, ma’am.

Riley put on his snow boots and coat and trudged across the ballfields to the scene of the crime. The edges of the FART letters were crusting over with ice. Riley wondered why Mr. Ball hadn’t sent out the custodians to plow away or cover up the word. Probably because it was on Old Man Jenkins’s property, not the school’s.

Riley scooched through a hole he knew about in the fence and carefully headed toward Mr. Jenkins’s elevated back porch. It was made of concrete and free of snow, shielded by an angled aluminum awning overhead. As he moved closer, Riley could see the tops of a pair of tan boots peeking out of a wooden crate pushed into a corner where the porch’s railings met the house’s brick wall.

Riley tiptoed up the stoop’s three steps and took a look inside the boots. He checked out their size. It was printed on the label sewn to the tongue.

Fifteen.

Mr. Jenkins had the same size feet as Mongo.

But were his boots Timberlands?

Riley gingerly extracted one boot out of the box and read the logo stamped into the side of the heel.

Eddie Bauer.

He eased the boot back into the box and sighed.

It was nearly one o’clock. School would be over in two hours.

And he didn’t have a single piece of evidence.

Or did he?

He quickly texted Mongo.

WHERE DO YOU STORE YOUR BOOTS AT NIGHT?

Mongo texted right back.

IN MY ROOM.

Not the answer Riley was looking for.

But then he saw the bubble and dots letting him know that Mongo wasn’t done texting. His second message finally blooped onto his screen:

UNLESS THEY ARE WET.

THEN MOM