The Funfair Fiasco: The Sally and Sherlock Mysteries, #2

By Chynna Pace

Girl detective Sally Holmes and her corgi sidekick Sherlock are at it again! This time, Sally stumbles on a case while out at the new carnival in town. Fall is in the air, there are dozens of rides she's excited about, and Nicole, the kindly fortuneteller, has just given her an amazing glimpse into her future as a detective. But there's no time to celebrate. When Sally hears a bloodcurdling scream coming from the fortuneteller's tent, she's worried that something bad has happened to Nicole.

 

The problem is, the fortuneteller has disappeared from her tent, and when Sally asks around, she's told that nobody named Nicole works at the fair at all. Everyone in the tight-knit family running the fair seems to be hiding something—but what? Why is everyone acting so suspiciously? What happened to Nicole? And what's up with the creepy old lady that keeps skulking everywhere?

 

Something fishy is definitely afoot, and Sally knows that the only way this case will get cracked is if she and Sherlock solve it themselves. Join your favorite sleuthing duo for yet another twisty mystery with plenty of fiascos—and fun!  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chynna Pace
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215021385

Book preview

Chapter 1

September 22 nd . The official first day of autumn.

I’m not gonna lie, even if it does sound cliché, but I jumped out of bed that Thursday morning like I was a five-year-old and Christmas had come three months earlier. I love Christmas just as much as the next kid, but nothing got me more whacked up on excitement like fall.

It was my favorite holiday, my favorite time of year ever. And it wasn’t just because of Halloween, though that was pretty dang cool too. It was the leaves changing, and the crisp cool bite in the air, the thin jackets and light sweaters, the pumpkin spice everything, from lattes to pancakes to maple syrup, the upcoming fall break from school, the coziness of reading a good mystery outside under the red and orange leaves—

Heck, I could go on and on.

The bottom line is, I was excited for fall. Especially when I stepped outside in the early light before school to walk Sherlock, my sweet corgi doggy and partner-in-solving-crime, and found that the changes were in full swing.

The leaves had been changing for a couple weeks now, turning brown, then red, then gold, and now bright orange. But the weather had still been warm. Today was the first day it really felt like fall. The sky was cloudy, the air cool, and there was a perfect, I mean perfect, breeze. It lifted the strands of my red hair off my shoulders and made Sherlock’s fur look like he had a fan strapped to his back.

He was straining at the leash, almost as excited as I was, so I unclipped him and let him run free in the yard. He looked funny chasing after the leaves that got caught up in the breeze and started skidding across the yard. I watched him, laughing, for a minute.

Then my face fell.

Out of nowhere, Sherlock spotted something, something besides an autumn leaf, something he felt he absolutely had to catch, and he took off after it at high speed.

He completely left behind the yard and started running like a mad-puppy up the street.

It was probably just a dumb squirrel, or maybe Sherlock was chasing the thin pink and yellow streaks that had fallen out of the brightening sky and landed on the street from the incoming sunrise.

Either way, I had to go get him.

Sherlock! I called, trying not to yell since it was still barely seven in the morning, and most of the houses on my street were dark and quiet and still asleep, at least another fifteen minutes away from getting ready for the day.

Speaking of getting ready. That’s what I was supposed to be doing. I was in my pajamas, slippers and all, and my hair was the worst kind of bedhead there was—plus I had to be on my bike, headed to school, in less than half an hour!

The last thing I wanted to be doing right then was chasing Sherlock all over creation.

Grumbling and grunting out my frustration, I flew down the street, the cool breeze slapping me in the face. My slippers crunched awkwardly through the leaves on the street, turning them to red and gold dust. I inhaled gulps of the sweet, smoky air, and glanced nervously at the houses I passed by on my way in pursuit of Sherlock’s golden wagging tail.

It wasn’t that I was worried about Sherlock or anything, not at all. He was no ordinary dog, after all. If he could solve mysteries, find clues, and dig up information for me, he could keep himself out of trouble.

In fact, if it wasn’t for…Mrs. Moss…I wouldn’t care if he ran free at all.

But just when I was gaining on the little guy, we passed by the house. Her house.

Sherlock! I hissed, hoping to call him towards me before Mrs. Moss spotted him. Come here, boy!

Terrified, I glanced at the house.

I used to think that house was one of the nicest looking ones on the block. The whole thing was like a cottage out of some storybook, painted bright yellow, with cheery blue shutters and dozens of flowers planted in the front yard. Plus, sweet old Mrs. Tate used to live there, and she’d been the quintessential nice old lady stereotype—she even gave out homemade cookies and brownies instead of candy every Halloween.

But poor Mrs. Tate had died, and a month ago, just a few short days after I solved the mystery of the missing keys and the lost librarian, Mrs. Moss had moved into the sunny cottage, which was weird to me, because if you knew Mrs. Moss, you’d think a huge, gray, stone manor, with dungeons and a moat, would suit her better.

Mrs. Moss was mean, crotchety, liked glaring, hated smiling, and loathed dogs running loose, because she said they were a ‘menace to the neighborhood.’

She didn’t have any pets of her own. Just a bunch of creepy lawn gnomes standing in her front yard.

And that wasn’t the only thing in the front yard…

Hey! Why’s that mongrel not on a leash!

Sherlock came to a screeching stop when he heard the voice.

So did I.

We both turned to see Mrs. Moss in the front yard with a paint bucket and a paintbrush, covering up some spot on her precious garden gnome. She glared—her favorite activity—first at me, then at Sherlock.

You’ll get lost if you know what’s good for you, mangy mutt! she bellowed, waving her paintbrush at Sherlock, her wrinkled face almost as pinched as her tight gray bun.

Hey! I said, as Sherlock took off again. Don’t yell at him like that! He wasn’t even anywhere near your house.

Mrs. Moss didn’t care. She just wagged her paintbrush at me too.

"You’ll scram if you know what’s good for you too, young lady!"

Well, you didn’t have to tell me twice.

I scrammed, right after Sherlock.

That was close. For a minute there, I thought both of us were about to go home looking like we’d gotten caught in a paintball storm.

But the fact was, we weren’t going to go home at all, until I caught Sherlock.

He was still way ahead of me, but I was gaining on him, running so fast that the sound of my own panting breaths was getting louder than the wind roaring past me.

Finally, I got close enough to see what he was chasing. It wasn’t a squirrel or a cat after all.

It was a sheet of paper.

Now, knowing Sherlock, I didn’t think for one minute that the paper had just caught his eye because of the way it danced and flew on the breezes. Sherlock only went after things that intensely when he found a clue.

I ran faster despite getting tired, my stinging legs and aching lungs making me worry that this would go on forever.

But just when we passed the last house on the street, and Sherlock turned to bound onto the sidewalk toward town, he gave one last running leap, a jump worthy of the gymnastics at the Olympics, and landed dead center on the rogue paper, trapping it under his paws.

Finally! I cried, slowing my pace.

My hair dropped down to my shoulders as I quit running, started walking. Sherlock turned to look at me, his head cocked in that quizzical way of his.

I swore I almost heard his voice in my head— Come see what I found, Sally!

So my slippers trudged through a few more dead leaves, and the wind blew softly, cooling my hot cheeks. I stopped right in front of him, leaned down to give him a quick pet, and then snatched up the white paper he’d found.

It turned out to be a flier. But not just any flier. It was an advertisement for a traveling carnival.

Flybird Funfair? I read.

Sherlock yipped excitedly at my feet. I smiled down at him.

"I get it, boy. You weren’t finding me a clue. You just thought this would be fun."

And it probably would be. It was in the name after all. And the flier was as colorful and action-packed as a page in a comic book, with bold, red letters spelling out the name of the carnival and the dates it would be in town—starting tomorrow, Friday, and continuing all through next week, Monday through Saturday—and all kinds of pictures, of men breathing fire, of delicious-looking pies, of a Ferris wheel, and a carousel. Each picture had a caption—Pie Contest! Magicians! Fortune-Tellers! Rides for everyone!—and there were about a million exclamation points scattered from top to bottom.

The message was clear.

And I was thrilled.

A fair is coming to town, Sherlock!

He yip-yapped in approval and nuzzled my hand with his moist nose.

I knew what that meant.

He wanted us to go to the fair.

And so did I.

Chapter 2

Did you see the fliers for the funfair? I asked Gordon at lunch.

Fliers? Gordon looked up from his scribbling, one eyebrow perfectly arched. Sally. You’re forgetting I live right across the street from the fairgrounds. I’ve been watching them set rides up for two days.

"And you didn’t think to tell me?" I said, appalled at him.

He shrugged, his eyes already on his notebook again. "I figure you would’ve seen it. Or heard the other kids talking about it…ah. That’s why. You’ve been detective-ing again." His gaze had flitted up and landed on the book beside my lunch tray. History’s Most Twisted True Crime Cases. I’d recently checked it out at the public library.

I didn’t even blush in embarrassment. I’d been friends with Gordon Emerson long enough—since we were babies, in fact—for him to know every little thing about me, including my obsession with true crime. But my obsession wasn’t the only reason I had my nose in this particular book.

Ever since I got to meet Detective Shapiro, I confessed, I’ve wanted to meet him again. It would be a dream come true if he’d let me be an apprentice.

Sally, aren’t apprentices usually people in trades, like carpentry or bladesmithing or something?

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, that doesn’t matter. Anyway, what I’m thinking is, the only way I can get close to Detective Shapiro is by solving another really twisty, amazing, high-profile case. So I’ve been studying up on some of the best ones in history so I’ll be ready. There’s this really interesting case about a whole family of con artists who…never mind. You don’t care. What’s going on with you? You look pretty distracted yourself."

I watched him scribble. Writing was Gordon’s constant state of being. Just like I dreamed of being a detective, he dreamed of being a journalist. Which was probably why most of the girls in our grade viewed him as one of life’s great disappointments, because in their eyes, he had all the looks of one of the popular jock kids (blond hair, sparkly blue eyes, cute, dimpled smile), but inside, he was 100% nerd.

Remember how everyone loved my article about you solving The Lost Librarian case, so the editor at the Jackson Progress-Argus said I could start guest-posting one article a week?

I nodded, and reached into my snack bag for a handful of pretzels. Yeah?

Gordon turned the page of his notebook to a clean sheet and started writing furiously at the top. I’m working on one right now, about a massive chocolate pudding leak at the Dollar General across from Ingles.

That sounds cool, I said. Yeah, I wasn’t really paying attention to a thing he said. My brain was a tangle of excitement for autumn, determination to solve a crime worthy of getting Detective Shapiro’s attention again, and…anticipation for the funfair coming to town.

I sat up straighter at that thought and smiled sweetly across the table at Gordon. So…we’re going to the carnival together, right? Tomorrow, opening night?

He snorted. I knew something must’ve been on your mind when not even a giant chocolate pudding leak could get your attention. Yeah, we’ll go. That’ll give me something to report on for next week’s article.

My smile stretched from ear to ear. I popped another pretzel in my mouth, then handed Gordon one. Sounds great.

Chapter 3

Friday evening. The day of the funfair’s grand opening.

It was a cool evening, and the leaves were falling faster.

Just before Gordon came to pick me up, I changed out of the dirty, hole-ridden sweatshirt and leggings I’d worn to school and slipped into my favorite green shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, perfect for a night of walking and riding. My hair, I combed and secured mostly back with a clip so it wouldn’t be flying in my face during some of the rides. Then I threw on a light jacket to appease my mom, who was busy in the kitchen making her famous cookies for a birthday party she was catering, grabbed Sherlock off his perch on the living room couch, and headed out.

The chilly September air smelled like campfire smoke and pumpkin pie and felt amazing on my skin. I took off my jacket and let the breeze tickle my bare arms.

I let Sherlock down to nose around in the leaf-strewn grass for a bit, getting some last minute business done before we left. Once he’d finished, I bent down