Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 1 : The Haunted Toolshed (5 page)

Barf Bath

I cover my ears in front of Mr. Asher’s left-leaning, nail bag of a house and I imagine that I’m about to be snatched up into the jaws of a Tyrannosaurus rex, flipped into the air like a helpless rag doll, and swallowed whole like a Swedish meatball.

But no dinosaur appears. In fact, the earsplitting roar stops as suddenly as it started.

Wait!

This is ridiculous. My imagination is out of control! I need to think clearly for once in my life!

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in again.

Relax.

Think. Think. Think!

What exactly am I dealing with here?

I smack my forehead a few times with my fist—which is how I try to get most things to start working properly.

Is this real? Is this some sinister plot cooked up to scare the Ashers? Or is this the work of something ghostly? I stroke my small chin as I consider the endless possibilities.

I feel in my bones that something is not right here. Or perhaps it’s the smell of my own fear leaking out of my skin. Maybe I need that fresh pair of underwear.

Before I can figure out a suitable answer, the front door of the Ashers’ home bangs open. “Sherlock! Please, come quick!” Mr.

Asher hollers. “The ghost is back! There isn’t a moment to lose!

Bundt Cakes and Black Holes

As I stumble through the Ashers’ door, I am struck by the sickening smell of raw terror in the air.

“That’s not a Girl Chat Sleepover backpack, is it?” Mr. Asher asks.

I can’t seem to think of an answer to his question. There are too many alarm bells going off in my head. The foul smell from outside is also in Mr. Asher’s house! It

doesn’t take long to realize what’s going on: I’ve walked right into Grandma Asher’s gas problem! It’s a choking haze that I can only describe as a mixture of vinegar, spoiled milk, hard-boiled eggs, and burned meat loaf.

I grab Mr. Asher’s shoulder to steady myself. “Silent but deadly, indeed,” I gasp.

I consider the very real possibility that if someone were to strike a match, the Ashers’ house might erupt into an enormous ball of flames. The explosion could quite possibly take out the entire neighborhood. Maybe even some nearby towns. Heck, this side of the Earth could vanish altogether.

It’s at this point things get a little blurry.

I hear nervous voices. I sense chaos. I see Mrs. Asher walking down the hallway wearing strands of garlic around her neck and what appear to be asparagus tips in her ears. My eye stops on Grandma Asher coming through the swinging door to the dining room. My eyes widen as I realize that she is winking at me—

No! Not winking . . . she just hasn’t found her missing eye yet!

Only after leaning over the sink to place my trembling nostrils as close to the open kitchen window as possible, I slowly, carefully assemble the important details of what is quickly becoming my living nightmare.

The loud, thundering roars happen about every hour or so. Shortly after Mrs. Asher’s first bundt cake disappeared, Grandma Asher baked another bundt cake to replace it. It disappeared, too, from the windowsill above the sink. Grandma Asher’s glass eye was left near the cake to keep an eye on it. That plan didn’t work. Most troubling, there are still strange banging noises coming from the toolshed in the far corner of Mr. Asher’s property.

“Uh . . . what’s a bundt cake?” is all I can think to ask.

“You’ve never had bundt cake?” Grandma Asher asks with a wide, unbelieving eye. “Sit down, young man, and I’ll make another one and show you.”

“Enough!” explodes Mr. Asher. “No more bundt cakes! Three bundt cakes in one night are more than any man can take!” he cries, shaking his cane at the ceiling.

“Mr. Asher, I’m going to have a look around the property,” I gag. I manage to make it onto the front porch. I stagger down the steps and out toward the street.

Suddenly, and without any kind of warm-up, my ankle sends out shock waves of eye-popping pain. I’ve stepped on a bear trap! Or an alligator has just taken a free sample of my ankle! Maybe I’ve been attacked by a rat the size of a bowling ball!

I crumple to the ground. The jolt of pain is so unexpected and shocking, it’s all I can do not to wet my pants.

“I see you’ve discovered the hole from which my new mail- box was uprooted,"

Mr. Asher calls out from the porch.

“Yes!” I wheeze like an accordion being sat on by Santa Claus.

“You’re not resting already, are you?” Mr.

Asher asks suspiciously.

“No,” I rasp, pulling the throbbing remains of my left leg out of the hole. The pain is so great that I’m amazed to see my foot is still attached to the bottom of my leg. “How long did you have your mailbox before it was stolen?” I manage to ask.

“Let’s see,” Mr. Asher says, banging the cane several times on the wooden porch. “I just installed it this past Wednesday. It was gone by Friday. It was a beauty. It even had a brass flag.”

“Interesting,” I say, although I’m really trying to figure out if I’ll ever be able to walk again.

“Honestly, Sherlock, I’m a little more concerned about the ruckus coming from my toolshed.”

“I’m sure you are!” I sputter. Boy, can’t the guy just let me suffer in peace?

I need an aspirin the size of a truck tire.

“Mr. Asher,” I say, struggling into a sitting position, “I must continue my investigation because my time is running short.”

I feel my dad’s cell phone vibrate urgently in my pocket. What now?

Little do I know that my case and my luck are about to take a turn for the worse.

Who's on First?

“Did you find Dad?” I ask, flicking open the phone.

“What do you mean? Where’s your father?”

It’s my mom! She’s must be calling from Aunt Peachy’s house.

“Uh . . . hi, Mom,” I say cheerfully. “How’s Aunt Peachy’s clarinet?”

“The word is ‘clavicle,’ Sherlock,” she says sternly. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Who’s playing?” I say defensively.

“Why are you answering your father’s cell phone?” she asks.

“Um . . . because it started vibrating?”

“And why doesn’t anyone answer the house phone?” she asks.

“Jessie’s hogging the phone to tell the whole world that I brush my teeth with toilet water,” I answer.

“And just what did you mean when you asked me if I found Dad?”

“What do you mean what did I mean?” I say stupidly, mostly because I can’t think of anything else to say.

As my luck would have it, another thunderous moan fills the air surrounding the Ashers’ property. The groaning roar is so loud I think I might get a nosebleed. Like before, it stops after about a minute.

“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, WAS THAT YOUR FATHER?” my mom hollers on the other end of the phone. “WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU

CHILDREN DONE TO HIM!”

“No! Mom! Wait! That wasn’t Dad! That was just an evil spirit or something. I swear.

. . . In fact, we can’t even find Dad.”

“Can’t find him? He can’t even walk. How could you lose your father?” she asks so loudly that I have to hold the phone a few inches from my ear.

“We didn’t exactly lose him,” I explain. “He just sort of vanished into thin air. Poof!”

“Your father poofed?” she blurts out, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“Are you telling me someone has kidnapped your father?” she shouts.

“Kidnapped?” I sputter. “I never said. . . . ”

This conversation is getting out of hand. I need to get control of this situation or I’ll be grounded until I’m a grandfather. “No, Mom.

I don’t think he’s been kidnapped,” I say calmly into the phone. “Although I can’t be sure . . . because I’m not at home.”

“I’m taking the next flight home!” my mom exclaims, but not to me. I think she’s talking to Aunt Peachy. She’s in full panic mode.

“Sherlock, stay where you are. And stay away from the toilet!” The phone goes dead in my ear.

It’s at that moment I notice an enormous, strange van. The van jerks to a stop. Searching eyes stare at me from the passenger-side window.