Counterfeit Detectives

By Mary Dixon and David Krumboltz

Scooter Kane is not your typical detective. No rough scraggly beard or run down office in the tough section of town. No messy desk with coffee mug rings and week-old newspapers. In fact, theres no office at all. And unlike some traditional detectives, Scooter is busy. He cant even remember when he wasnt working on a case. He hasnt solved any mysteries yet, but then hes only ten years old.

In Counterfeit Detectives, a kick-the-can game starts an adventure of mystery, suspense, terror and humor as brother and sister work to solve a case that has foiled the professionals. Set in a small mid-western city, Scooter and his twelve-year old sister, Mary, discover a box of counterfeit money. But it disappears before they can show it to their doubting father. Because of their tricks in the past, their parents dont believe them, thinking this is just the latest in a series of pranks.

Counterfeit Detectives was written to be read and enjoyed by pre-teens. However, parents and grandparents will find this is a story they actually enjoy reading aloud to younger children, as there are some valuable lessons involving right and wrong, helping others, and the acceptance of different people. Sprinkled though out with humor that both children and grown-ups will enjoy, this is the first in a series that follow Scooter and Mary as they solve the crime that stumped the experts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 13, 2002
• ISBN: 9781465322739

Mary Dixon

David R. Krumboltz A graduate of the University of Iowa, David retired from Chrysler Corporation after thirty years as a sales and marketing executive. In addition to writing, he works as an automotive consultant. An avid tennis player, David lives with his wife, Jean in Danville, California. Mary W. Dixon Mary has both an undergraduate and law degree from The University of New Mexico. She has taught on both the high school and college level. Mary has been heard coast to coast in every major market on radio talk shows speaking on the detriments of television. While not writing, Mary manages an apartment complex in Los Angeles.

Book preview

Prologue

If you were to ask him his occupation, he’d tell you that he’s a private investigator—PI. And he’s a busy detective, unlike most private detectives you hear about, or see in the movies. In the movies, PI’s are usually rather rough, maybe unshaven, working out of a shabby office in a run down area of some big city. Private investigators seem to have a lot of time on their hands, waiting for another case or for some beautiful doll to show up.

Scooter Kane is different. First of all, he has absolutely no interest in dolls and second, he never needs a shave. He doesn’t sit around waiting for someone to walk into his office; he’s always working on a case. In fact, you can’t just walk into Scooter’s office; you need to know the secret password. Scooter hasn’t solved any cases yet, but then again, he’s only ten years old. He claims he’s almost five feet tall, but to be precise, he’s four feet, six and one quarter inch. He wears his reddish-brown hair short, and usually covers it with a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. His wholesome appearance is similar to his twelve-year-old sister, Mary, his reluctant partner. Scooter is an inquisitive kid. He’s always searching for clues and is wary of things he sees and hears.

1

Mysterious Box

Scooter loved the feel of the warm August breeze against his sweaty face as he glided along the freshly paved street. Smooth, so smooth the wheels rolled quietly as he rapidly moved beneath the graceful arches created by the overhanging elm trees. He adjusted his helmet and turned to see if Mary was still behind him. Scooter and Mary were playing roller blade tag, an after dinner favorite. Scooter enjoyed roller blading with his sister for a couple of reasons. First, they were the best of friends, and second, he believed it diverted attention away from himself as he observed activity pertaining to the various mysteries he was investigating.

The bulk of the summer he’d been working on the Wolters case. He knew there was something odd going on behind the fifty-year-old, white frame house. Located on the corner of Oak Street and Highland, three doors away, he’d studied the odd behavior of the strange, sour mouthed Mrs. Wolters. While hiding in the alley (some would call it spying), as well as from the periscope in the „trees house, so called because it was supported by two large oak trees, he kept track of her peculiar activities. He would then record his observations on his trusty Compaq computer. Why was she always digging in her backyard? It didn‘t appear as if she were planting anything. He knew she was hiding something. He and Mary had discussed it frequently. Mary speculated that she was hiding money from her wimpy husband, and even tried to prove it to Scooter by photographing Mrs. Wolters unsuccessfully through the periscope, in the „act.

Scooter disagreed. He was aware of at least three cats suspiciously missing in the neighborhood. Through surveillance, he learned Mrs. Wolters did not like cats. Obviously Mrs. Wolters was burying the cats she poisoned. He felt compelled to prove it. He‘d be the hero of the neighborhood. No wonder her yard was fenced—one of only two in the vicinity.

The other case was one that had captivated his attention for two consecutive summers. It was the most puzzling of mysteries, the Listo house at 2306 Haworth Drive. He had a lot of time invested in this case and had detailed the suspicious activity with dates and times on his trusty Compaq as well. Not only was the yard fenced, but it had high, thick hedges, which he felt certain were intentionally planted to hide sinister activity. And there were statues in the yard! One in particular embarrassed him. The Listo sisters were weird old ladies that was for sure—germ crazy. Or maybe they were just plain crazy. He had heard that one of them even had purple skin. He’d never been close enough to confirm this with his own eyes. Behind the old estate was a carriage house, supposedly with an upstairs living area where the servants used to live. He would love to investigate that. Only the truly brave dared enter this yard. He was brave, all right, he’d proved that!

They glided past their own English Tudor style house spotting Dad poking at a yellowing elm tree.

Hi, Dad, they hollered.

Dad’s face lit up. Hi, kids. Hey, it’s getting late. You might want to take your blades off and come in for the night.

Mary tilted her right roller blade and braked to a stop. She turned her lean, athletic body to face her dad, Aw, it’s not even dark, yet! We want to stay out a little bit more.

Okay, ten minutes. Dad eyed Mary and tapped his watch for emphasis.

They skated down Carter Avenue again, both swerving into wide s turns, gracefully moving from one side of the quiet, residential street to the other. Scooter stumbled, barely missing a bizarre object in his path. It hadn’t been there the first time around the block.

The rectangular box hugged the curb on one side, the other end stuck out toward the street. He could have eased around it. However his inquisitive mind was piqued. He dragged his rollerblade to an abrupt stop. This was definitely strange. He scanned the area. Other than Mary, who’d already skated past, and the tail lights of a car two blocks away, he observed no movement. He crouched down to investigate the object more closely. It was a fairly sturdy box, approximately the size for shoes, but made of wood, and painted blue. Leather straps with buckles kept the lid closed.

Strange, he thought, very strange indeed … Mary, come here.

Mary looped lazily around, her caramel colored hair flowing.

Did you notice this when we skated by before? Scooter said, standing to move around, as if sizing up prey.

Nope. Mary leaned forward. What is it?

Scooter stepped back, tilted his head, scratched his chin, took a deep breath and exhaled. I don’t know, but it sure is weird.

Mary moved closer and stared. Oh, you’re always seeing mysterious stuff. It’s probably just some tool or something.

It might have poisonous spiders in it, Scooter noted, seizing the opportunity to pick on Mary’s fear of spiders.

It can’t be spiders. There are no air holes.

Then, why don’t you open it? he dared.

Do you think we should? After all, it doesn’t belong to us and it’s probably none of our business.

Oh, go ahead. Don’t be such a chicken. Maybe it’ll give us a clue to the owner.

Mary wasn’t sure if it was the proper thing to do, but she, too, was curious. She unbuckled the straps and gingerly lifted the lid. Her eyes bulged. She couldn’t speak. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, she muttered, It’s money! It’s a stack of money. She peered deeper into the box. They’re all twenty dollar bills. Wow! There must be hundreds of dollars in here! What should we do?

Scooter couldn’t fathom how so much money could be in one spot or why it would be carried in a wooden box. Boy, we’d be rich if we had this much money. We better run and find Dad, he declared anxiously. We’ll show it to him just where we found it and see what he says. Mary fumbled with the straps again.

We don’t want our fingerprints all over it and remember, Scooter emphasized, This is ‘evidence.’ He carefully lined up the box with the marks in the street dust. It must be in the exact same spot or the police won’t have the right clues. C’mon, let’s catch Dad before he goes into the house. Scooter nervously looked about, then skated toward home.

Stubbornly Mary finished buckling the straps, then raced after Scooter. Skating at their fastest pace, the two kids headed up the street to their house.

Scooter found his father tinkering in the garage. Dad, Dad, he yelped. You gotta see what we found. They rushed into the garage where Mr. Kane was stirring the ointment for the elm tree. Ya gotta come right now, Scooter panted. This is really important.

Let me put the lid back on this stuff so it doesn’t dry out, said Mr. Kane, calmly.

No, come on, Scooter begged again, yanking at his arm.

But Mr. Kane could not be side tracked. He carefully replaced the lid, set the can on the shelf, wiped his hands on a rag, and brushed back his wavy brown hair. He sauntered out to see what the excitement was all about.

Jake stared intently out the right front window of Lefty’s dilapidated Chevy. Ten years was the typical life span for this particular model. By the grace of who knows what, it had made it five years beyond. Every time the old Chevy made it back to the warehouse safely, Jake heaved a sigh of relief. He dabbed the sweat drip from his brow.

See it?

Nope.

He’ll kill us, really, I think he’ll kill us.

Just keep looking.

The old Chevy moved slowly down the street, each occupant scanning the road. The shadows of the great elms made the street dark and visibility difficult.

Stop! Back up. I think I saw something!

The tires squealed. Lefty shoved the transmission into reverse. Jake leaped from the moving car, stumbling to keep his balance.

Here it is, Lefty, can you believe it? Back inside the car, Jake laughed nervously as he clutched the blue box to his chest. We found it! Are we lucky dudes or what? I thought we’d be goners for sure. You can’t say a word about this to the boss, understand?

Lefty grinned, nodding. He shifted the car back into drive and pressed the accelerator.

2

Evidence

The two kids gawked, pointing to the spot where the box should have been. Only Scooter, with his innate antenna for identifying cars noticed the sedan’s tail lights turning down Lamson Drive and disappearing from view.

We … we found a box, Scooter stuttered. And it was full of money! Twenty dollar bills, right, Mary? Mary looked through the stack. All twenties … Scooter pointed to the exact spot where the box had been. In a voice higher than before, Look, you can see the marks.

Uh huh, right, Mr. Kane tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "Remember the Chicago bank robber? You convinced me to have the police search the whole town after you claimed