Monsters and Mischief Page 2

  Woodrow sighed. “I think my batteries are dead.”

  “I’ve got some batteries at home,” Rosie offered.

  Mr. Cho approached the table, this time with a steaming plate of french fries. “I’ll grab you some ketchup,” he said, leaning over the adjacent table. “Oh, and Sylvester …” He pointed at his wristwatch. “Homework?”

  When the group had finished their snack, they went out to the street and said good-bye to Mickey. “Thanks, you guys,” he said. “You’re really good at this. I’m sorry I called your group lame.”

  “We still have a ways to go,” said Viola. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Tonight, think some more about our next step. You might just solve this one yourself.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, laughing. He turned up Main Street and clomped away, his heavy footfalls echoing into the coming evening.

  The Question Marks went the opposite way, past the familiar library clock, toward the block where they all lived. Woodrow lagged a few steps behind the rest of them.

  A strange silence accompanied the group, as if they had run out of things to say. It made Viola uncomfortable. She knew that they should have had questions to discuss and theories to toss back and forth. Having read more mystery novels than she could currently remember, she knew that the answers would only come if she and her friends kept talking. But for the first time ever, Viola sensed that her friends might not be on the same page.

  The next morning, Sylvester, Rosie, Woodrow, and Viola met Mickey just inside the school library’s entrance.

  “The graffiti is over there on the checkout desk,” said Mickey. “I don’t think the custodians have scrubbed it away yet.”

  “I can imagine it’s probably really hard to get the ink off of the wood,” said Rosie, pulling two double-A batteries from her backpack.

  “I forgot my camera,” said Woodrow. “Sorry.”

  He didn’t appear sorry at all though. In fact, he looked pleased with himself.

  Mickey, however, was obviously disappointed. “How are we supposed to compare the handwriting now?” he asked, struggling to control his temper. “We can’t wait until tomorrow. If the graffiti happens again, I’m done for.”

  “I have an idea,” said Sylvester. “We don’t need a camera for comparison. We just need a little imagination.”

  “How are we supposed to capture the handwriting without a camera?” asked Mickey. “And don’t tell me ‘magic.’”

  “Not magic,” said Sylvester, reaching into one of his notebooks. He tore out a page and held it up. “Only this piece of paper and a pencil.” When the others simply stared at him, he continued. “To get a copy of it, all we have to do is trace the handwriting. Then we can take it wherever we want.”

  “Cool idea,” said Mickey, impressed.

  “The question is, who’s sneaky enough to trace it without getting caught?” said Woodrow. “Ms. Newsom is standing right there. We’ll never get away with it.”

  “Like a good magic trick, it’s all about distraction,” said Sylvester. “One of us needs to pull the librarian away from her desk.”

  “I can do it.” Rosie shrugged mischievously. “Living with four older siblings, I’ve learned a few tricks myself.”

  “Then you should go ask for help finding a library book,” Sylvester suggested. “Once Ms. Newsom isn’t paying attention to the desk, I’ll swoop in and do the deed.” He waved the paper and pencil at them.

  “Brilliant,” said Rosie.

  Once Sylvester was finished, they gathered out in the hallway. Sylvester showed them his work. It was a little messy, but the traced handwriting on his paper was clear enough to get the point across. “Where to now?” asked Mickey. “The first bell’s about to ring.”

  “I’ll take this page to the boys’ locker room and then out to the tennis courts to see if the writing matches up,” said Sylvester. “We can meet during lunch. I should have an answer for you by then.”

  “What was the question again?” Woodrow asked.

  Viola shook her head at him, surprised. “Whether the impostor is working alone or not. Remember?”

  The next period, for their poetry assignment, the teacher asked the students to write an ode to spring. She promised to hang the work on the corkboard at the back of the room. Viola sat near Woodrow and Kyle Krupnik. When the teacher wasn’t paying attention, Kyle leaned close to them. “I saw you talking to Mickey Molynew this morning,” he whispered. “Is he bothering you guys?”

  Viola shook her head. “We’re helping him solve a mystery. Someone is trying to frame him by writing his name in marker around the school.”

  Kyle flinched. “You’re helping him? Why?” His question was directed more at Woodrow than Viola.

  Woodrow struggled to answer. “I don’t know. I was outnumbered when we voted.”

  “Mickey promised to stop being mean to everyone if we helped him figure this out,” Viola said. “It’s for the greater good.”

  Kyle stared at her for a second, then shuddered. He said nothing before going back to his notebook.

  Viola squinted at him. Had she just discovered a suspect? Kyle had certainly been in Mickey’s crosshairs in the past. For some reason, his small size made him a target. He might want to get revenge on the bully. For the first time, Viola realized that the Question Marks might have to bust one of their friends. What would happen if that were the case? Would they make new enemies by helping one of their old ones?

  The question haunted her for the rest of the morning. Thankfully, at lunch the graffiti mystery itself pulled Viola back into its clutches and distracted her from the dilemma.

  At their regular table by the windows, Sylvester presented his conclusion. “All of the handwriting matches up,” he said. “You can especially see the similarity in the lowercase a and loops of the e‘s. We’re dealing with a lone artist.”

  Mickey sighed with relief. “That’s easier to deal with than a whole gang.”

  “Lucky you,” said Woodrow.

  Rosie lit up. “Hey,” she said, “what Sylvester just mentioned gives me an idea about where to head next.”

  “We need to find a handwriting expert?” Sylvester asked.

  “Not quite,” said Rosie. “But there is another kind of expert, right here in school, who might be able to help us. Can you think of who it is?”

  “Sylvester mentioned a lone artist,” said Viola. “And who here knows about art?”

  “The art teacher!” said Sylvester, excited. Then suddenly, he looked confused. “But what can he do for us?”

  “What do artists use to make art?” Rosie prodded.

  “Art supplies?” said Woodrow.

  “And what is our graffiti artist’s supply?”

  “The silver marker,” said Mickey proudly.

  “Yup,” said Rosie. “Our culprit’s tool, the marker, might lead us closer to the guilty party. Especially since silver is such an unusual color for a marker. We can ask Mr. Delfin if he knows anything about it.”

  The group snuck out of lunch a little early and made their way to the art rooms. Peering through the doorway, Rosie noticed that the chairs were empty. Mr. Delfin was sitting behind his desk, drawing in a notebook. She knocked, then poked her head in.

  “Hey there, Rosie. What’s up?”

  “My friends and I were wondering if we could ask you some questions.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Delfin. “I suppose this is what free periods are for.”

  Once the group had gathered at his desk, Rosie went on. “In your class, we’ve used pencils and paint, clay and plaster. But we’ve never used markers. Do you keep them in your supply cabinet?”

  Mr. Delfin gazed at the students in admiration. “I’ve never had anyone ask for them before. So, no, I don’t have any. Would you like me to order some? I’m sure we could experiment with them.”

  “No thanks,” said Rosie, blushing. “But if one of us were to try to locate a marker with silver ink, say, outside of school, where would we lo
ok?”

  “I’m sure you could find something online,” said Mr. Delfin. “But I’d suggest checking Messer’s Art Shop on Maple Avenue first. They’ve got all sorts of great stuff. High quality too.”

  They all thanked the art teacher before the next bell rang, then headed out to the hallway. “I guess we have another place to meet up after school,” said Mickey. “Right?”

  “Absolutely,” said Viola.

  “I can’t go,” said Woodrow.

  “Why not?” asked Sylvester.

  Woodrow blushed. “I have … something to do,” he snapped, before turning and walking away.

  “Okay, then,” said Viola. “We’ll check it out, just the four of us, and let Woodrow know what we find.” Mickey stared at Woodrow’s diminishing form until it disappeared around the far corner. “I’m sure he’s just busy,” Viola said, trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince Mickey.

  After the last bell rang, Sylvester stood at his locker, packing his book bag. He kept thinking about what Viola had said about Woodrow being busy and wondered if that was the truth. Whatever was going on with his friend, Sylvester hoped that he was okay. The Question Marks Mystery Club was supposed to bring them all together, not push them apart. Maybe after this Mickey Molynew Mystery, they’d have to lay down some more ground rules. Maybe a majority vote wouldn’t decide whether they took a case; maybe the decision needed to be unanimous. Woodrow obviously felt strongly about not helping Mickey. But after spending even a little time with the kid everyone had called a bully for years, Sylvester realized that Mickey was just like them in many ways. How could Woodrow not see that too?

  Sylvester felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found Wendy Nichols smiling at him. Her bright maroon hair was currently cut extremely short, and she’d marked her cheeks with what looked like little eyeliner-made freckles. She wore a floor-length blue cotton dress with a black leather belt wrapped tightly around her waist. Wendy was what some people called “eccentric,” but she always made Sylvester smile. “Day-dreaming?” she asked.

  “Oh,” Sylvester said, chuckling. “No. Just thinking.”

  “About Mickey Molynew?”

  That jolted Sylvester out of his little trance. “Why do you ask?”

  “My friends and I noticed you were hanging out with him today.” She was able to turn the statement into a question without needing to say anything more. Sylvester suddenly felt the need to explain, so he did. He knew that Mickey had been mean to Wendy in the past, so he tried his best to get all the details right. Wendy listened politely, then nodded. “I always knew you were a nice guy, Sylvester,” she said. “Maybe too nice. But you know what they say …”

  “No, what do they say?”

  “Whatever floats your cabbage,” she said, closing her locker.

  Really? Sylvester thought. Is that something people say?

  The windows of Messer’s Art Shop were filled with colorful displays — paint on canvas, etchings from scratchboard, a messy palette of oil paints propped on a wobbly wooden easel. Sylvester, Viola, Rosie, and Mickey went in together. Almost immediately, a woman approached them. She was tall and wore angular glasses that made her look like a college professor. A plastic tag pinned to her blouse told them her name was Elsa. “Need some help?” she asked.

  “Sort of,” said Viola. “We’re wondering if you sell markers with silver ink.”

  Elsa nodded. “Several kinds. What exactly were you looking for?”

  “Something that would be nearly impossible to wash off,” said Sylvester.

  Elsa threw him a suspicious look. “And how do you plan on using it?”

  “Oh, uh, well …,” Sylvester stammered. “We just wanted to know if you sell them.”

  Elsa sighed. She led them to an aisle filled with single markers of all sorts — fat, skinny, brightly colored, dark, opaque, translucent, and finally metallic. “Here you go. If you need anything else —”

  “Actually,” Viola said, “we have another question.” Elsa nodded. “Do you remember selling any of these recently?” She plucked a thick silver marker from the wall display.

  The saleswoman was quiet for a moment. “I suppose so. But I sell a lot of things here. Every day. You need a name?”

  “That would help,” said Rosie.

  “I do make the customers who want to purchase the metallic markers write their names and addresses in our logbook. You’d be surprised how many kids use them to write on stuff they shouldn’t be writing on. Private property and such.” She went behind the cash register and pulled out a ledger. She flipped it open and turned to the last signed page. Leaning forward, the group read the name there.

  Abraham Lincoln

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  USA

  Elsa immediately turned red.

  “This doesn’t help,” said Mickey, fuming.

  “But it does,” said Sylvester, opening his book bag. He removed the paper on which he’d traced the graffiti from the library desk. Holding it up to the ledger, he showed the group what he meant. The slant and curves of the handwriting were very similar. “Look at the lowercase a. The person who bought the pen here is the same person who wrote the graffiti at school,” he whispered to the group.

  “And you don’t remember what this person looked like?” Viola asked Elsa.

  “Come to think of it,” she said, “it was a kid. About your age.”

  “A boy?” asked Rosie. Elsa nodded uncertainly.

  “Was he really short?” Viola asked, thinking of Kyle Krupnik. Elsa shrugged.

  “Are you sure it was a boy?” asked Sylvester, thinking of Wendy Nichols. “Could it have been a girl with short, maroon hair?”

  This seemed to confuse Elsa even more. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. But if you write down one of your e-mail addresses, I’ll let you know if anything comes to me.”

  Outside, Viola assured the group that they were even closer than they’d been the day before, but this didn’t help Mickey’s mood. He looked ready to stomp on something cute and fuzzy. “Let’s sleep on it again,” said Viola. “Sometimes all it takes is time. We might be missing something obvious.”

  Later that evening, Viola was surprised to find a message from Elsa in her inbox.

  After you left, a memory came to me. A jingling noise. A key chain. The boy who bought that marker had rattled around the store. I’m pretty sure he had messy blond hair. I hope this helps.

  All best,

  Elsa

  Viola felt chills race across her skin. She knew who the villain was, and for the first time in her life, she was absolutely shocked at the answer — so shocked in fact that she kept the knowledge to herself all night long.

  Rosie was the first person she saw at school the next day. “Hey, Viola!” Rosie said as she approached from down the hall. “I heard they posted the results from the auditions near the auditorium. Do you want to come with me to check them out?”

  Viola was filled with a mix of exhilaration and dread. Still, she answered, “Totally. We need to chat on the way though.” As they walked, Viola told Rosie about Elsa’s message. She watched as Rosie turned pale, or as pale as Rosie’s cocoa skin could possibly turn.

  “You don’t think … ?”

  “I don’t really know what to think,” said Viola. “I also don’t know what to do if I’m right. And I don’t want to jump to any conclusions or make any accusations without proof.”

  “But where can you get proof? Elsa’s memory seems a little unreliable.”

  Viola sighed as an idea came to her. “I know what might prove our suspect’s guilt. I just need to get something from Sylvester first.”

  “Really?” Rosie asked. “What do you need?”

  “The tracing paper,” said Viola. “I want to take it to English class. Once I’m there, I’ll know for sure.”

  The girls arrived at the auditorium doors, where a mob of curious students were stepping on one another’s toes, trying
to catch a glimpse of the paper taped to the wall. Somehow, Viola and Rosie were able to make their way to the front of the crowd. When they read the list, they squealed. Both of their names appeared at the top of the page.

  Rosie Smithers — Miss Jessalynn Welford

  Viola Hart — Lady Edith Crushing

  They’d been cast as the two leading roles! Rosie would play the heroine and Viola the villain. All around them, their peers congratulated them. The girls were so happy, they both felt like they were floating.

  As they moved away from the auditorium doors, the thought of the graffiti mystery pulled them right back down to earth. The girls sighed. “Okay, then,” said Rosie, trying to temper her excitement. “Where can we find Sylvester?”

  The obvious answer was to wait for him at his locker before the first bell rang. When he appeared from around the corner, he hugged them both. “Congrats, you guys,” he said, smiling. “I already heard the good news.”

  “Thanks,” said Viola. “But now for the bad news.”

  In English class, Viola sat at her desk beside Woodrow and Kyle, trying her best to pretend that nothing was wrong. It was easy enough when both boys congratulated her on her role in the school play — all she had to do was smile and say thank you. But throughout class, the corkboard on the back wall kept drawing her attention. The Spring Odes assignment was hanging there, the poems all handwritten individually on lined paper. She kept peeking back at the board discreetly. Neither Woodrow nor Kyle seemed to notice her distraction.

  Viola had hidden Sylvester’s tracing paper inside her English notebook. She wished she’d had time to check the corkboard before class started. If only she could get closer to it now. Her proof was right there.

  As soon as the bell rang, Viola was out of her seat. At the corkboard, she found the poem she’d been wondering about all morning. She held up Sylvester’s tracing, comparing the writing on it to the writing on the wall.