Kelsey the Spy (12 page)

I ride through my old neighborhood, passing the playground I enjoyed when I was little. I had so much fun running across the tire bridge and slipping down the swan-shaped slide with Ann Marie and Tori. Ann Marie still lives next to my old house. But a new family lives in our wonderful two-story home with its big yard and tree swing. I ride past my former street without even looking.

The big, flashing pink donut in the sky beckons. When I've come here before—usually early in the morning—the parking lot has been packed with a line snaking out the door. But now the giant donut on the roof isn't flashing. The parking lot is empty.

Propping my bike up on the kickstand, I go over to the glassed front door. I peer through the window into darkness. I rattle the handle but the door is locked.

Where is everyone?

And I notice the
Closed
sign.

I read the posted hours: 5 a.m.–2 p.m.

It never occurred to me that such a popular business would close early. I'd expected lots of people and felt it was safe to come alone. I ignored the advice in
Spy Now, Die Later
:
When meeting a suspect, always have backup.

Instead, no one knows where I am—except the thief.

The smart thing to do would be to ride away, but what about my notebook? Does the thief plan to return it, or is this a cruel prank?

I turn around in place, slowly, on the alert for anything suspicious.

A good spy assesses the situation before deciding on a course of action. Assuming the thief is one of our suspects, it's unlikely he or she is inside a closed business. But there are no cars or even a bike in the parking lot, only a trash can and a garden shed.

Waiting around is boring. Waiting for an unknown thief is risky. The smart thing to do would be to leave
now
. But I really, really want my notebook.

So I straddle my bike, my sneaker toes poised to kick off at the first hint of trouble. Glancing down at my watch, I watch seconds tick by into minutes.

By three thirty, I'm fuming inside. This whole ransom-note drama is a prank. No one is coming. I'm pretty sure the thief (Gimme a guilty T-Y-L-A) is laughing while she has fun hanging out with Becca.

Still, what if my notebook is here?

I can't search inside the store, but I can check around the building. I leave my bike and walk along the paved walkway circling the donut shop. I peer into bushes, behind a flower planter, and beneath a stone bench.

No notebook.

I walk around the back of the building to the dumpster. The lid is pushed back, showing plastic bags piled taller than me, some ripped open with trash spilling down to the concrete.

A few weeks ago, Becca, Leo, and I rescued kittens from a dumpster in a creepy alley. This dumpster smells and looks worse. Do I want my notebook badly enough to search through piles of trash?

The stench of decaying food and sour milk turns my stomach. Searching through dozens of trash bags would take hours and make a huge mess. So I just search around the dumpster. I'm pushing aside a trash bag covered in donut sprinkles when I hear an odd noise.

Whirling around, I don't see anyone.

I start to turn back to the trash when there's a
thud
.

And this time I can tell where it's coming from—inside the shed at the back of the parking lot. It's a small metal shed, probably used for tools and storage.

I hear the thud again. And another sound, soft and plaintive … like a moan.

OMG! Something alive is inside the shed!

I stare ahead, holding my arms around myself so I don't freak out.

When I hear a whimper, I worry that someone is bleeding or dying. And it's up to me to save them. But then I think of horror movies where zombies and monsters burst out of dark places. Should I run to the shed to help?

Or should I run away?

I finally decide the safest thing to do is find an adult who can help. I turn around and start for my bike … but stop when I hear the whimper again.

The sound clicks in my head.

I know that whimper!

Instead of fleeing for my own safety, I race forward. When I reach the shed, I lift the metal latch, surprised but relieved it's not locked. The door slides open with a scraping sound.

Blue eyes gleam dangerously at me from the darkness.

- Chapter 14 -

Puzzling

“Bobbsey!” I cry, then soften my tone as I repeat his name in a soothing way that won't frighten him.

The dog quivers in the shadows. His bobbed tail wags so I'm sure he won't bite me. Still I don't make any sudden moves, taking one step forward with my hand outstretched so he can smell me and know I'm a friend.

Whining, Bobbsey cowers and backs away. I stand very still while I try to figure out how to catch him. If I grab and miss, he'll run out the open door behind me.

Keeping my gaze focused on Bobbsey, I reach back with one hand and feel for the door latch. I don't want to shut the door completely—that would leave us both in the dark. I need to close it enough to block him from escaping. My fingers slide around a metal handle. I pull slowly, light dimming to only a crack in the door. I call Bobbsey soothingly by his name to hide any noise the door might make.

With the door open a few inches, sunlight streams behind me. As my eyes adjust, shadowed shapes become clearer. This is a garden shed with a rake, a hoe, a ladder, a wheelbarrow, and coils of hose. Nothing I can use to catch a scared dog.

“It's okay, Bobbsey,” I murmur, bending my knees so I seem shorter than usual and less threatening.

He whines but lifts his head, his blue eyes shining eagerly. I can tell he wants to come over to me. This is exactly why I started carrying about a leash and dog treats in my backpack. Moving slowly and keeping my gaze on the dog, I feel around in my backpack until I find the dog treats.

When I lift the steak-flavored one, Bobbsey jumps to his paws. He barks and wiggles his stubby tail.

“It's all yours, boy.” I hold the treat closer so the savory smell breezes in the small shed, making me a little hungry. Not that I'd resort to eating dog treats … Well, not unless I was stranded and starving.

It takes two more doggie snacks to gain Bobbsey's trust.

“Good boy,” I say as I scratch behind his ears with one hand and click the leash onto his collar with the other.

I start to lead him out of the shed when I slap my palm to my head. Duh! I almost left without searching for my notebook. Did someone trap the dog to lure me in here so I would find my notebook? Or is finding Bobbsey a coincidence? The only thing I know for sure is that Bobbsey didn't shut himself inside this shed.

The shed isn't big so it doesn't take long to discover my notebook isn't here. It wasn't near the Donut D-Lite building or in the parking lot. And I doubt it's inside the dumpster—why toss something worth ransoming in the garbage?

But why would someone claim to have the notebook and then not show up?

I shake my head, frustrated. No point in searching for something that was never here. It's what I
did
find that matters. And I smile down at Bobbsey. “Your owner is going to be so happy to see you!”

Bobbsey nudges his head against my leg. “Ready to go home?”

He barks and I chuckle. “Okay, boy, let's figure out where you live.”

Holding the leash with one hand, I dig into my backpack for the Lost Pet flyers, then flip through them for Bobbsey's contact information: 1933 Larkspur Lane. Hmmm, that sounds familiar. Maybe the new gated community near Riverview Hill? It's on the south end of town. There's a phone number too, which would be great if I had a phone.

But I know where I can borrow one. I'm only a few blocks away from my old house. So I head for Ann Marie's house.

Leading a timid dog home while riding my bike would be a bad idea. If he suddenly bolted, I could end up on the pavement and he'd be gone again. So I walk my bike while leading Bobbsey on the leash. (Apparently he loves to walk.) I know Ann Marie won't be home since she has some kind of sport practice every afternoon, but her mother (who considers me her second daughter) is thrilled to see me.

“Kelsey! It's been so long!” she cries, wrapping me in a hug so tight that I gasp for air.

When she lets me up for air, I explain about finding Bobbsey, then ask to use her phone to call his owner.

It's a quick call. Bobbsey's elderly owner sounds feeble—until I tell him why I'm calling. Then his voice rises with excitement like a kid surprised with a birthday party. I give him the address, and he says he's coming right away.

While I wait, Mrs. Sanchez sits me down at the kitchen table and insists on making me a sandwich, just like when I was little. She feeds Bobbsey too. Mrs. Sanchez hasn't changed at all, which makes me smile.

“Nice dog,” she says. “He still looks hungry though. I'll see what I can find for him.” As she turns to search the fridge, she rambles on about her job at the hospital and shows me Ann Marie's latest athletic trophies. Ann Marie is an only child—which I've often envied. I love my family, but sometimes it would be nice to be an “only” and not wait my turn for new clothes or to use the computer.

Mrs. Sanchez wants to know everything about my family. So I tell her about Dad's baking masterpieces, how cool Mom looked in her animal control officer uniform, Kyle's determination to get a college scholarship, and how my sisters are so popular and busy I rarely see them.

I'm telling her how I ride around looking for lost pets when the door bell rings. Mrs. Sanchez sets down her steaming coffee cup and then excuses herself to answer the door.

“Bobbsey,” I tell the dog sitting at my feet, “I think your owner is here. He sounded so excited on the phone and can't wait to see you.”

The owner, Mr. Sudbury, doesn't have much hair on his head, but his wiry gray beard goes down to his chubby chest. When he sees Bobbsey, his eyes redden as he sniffles. Opening his arms he runs forward, meeting Bobbsey halfway, and their hug is so sweet I feel a little emotional too.

Mr. Sudbury thanks me at least twenty times, then insists that I take the fifty-dollar reward.

“It'll go toward helping other animals. Thank you so much,” I tell the old man, but he's clicking a leash onto Bobbsey's collar. A few minutes later they're gone.

I don't stay much longer either.

After hugs and promises to visit more often, I put on my bike helmet and then ride off.

I'm smiling as I think about how great it felt to reunite Bobbsey with his owner, but after a few blocks my smile fades with thoughts of my missing notebook.

Was it a coincidence that I found Bobbsey at D-Lite Donuts? Or was he purposely left there for me to find? But why leave a pet instead of my notebook?

It doesn't make any sense.

When I get home, I spread the ransom note under a bright light on my desk and look for clues. The thief was careful not to use their own handwriting, only cutout words and images from magazines. I doubt there are any fingerprints, but I take my spy pack from the closet, slip on gloves, and sprinkle graphic powder across the paper. I find several clear prints—all mine.

Pulling out my magnifying glass, I examine each glued piece of paper. They're mostly from magazines with colorful printing formats. The donut could be from any food magazine—Dad has a cupboard full in the kitchen. The phrase “meet me” has a loose corner that I pull up gently until it comes off. On the other side of the paper there's a cartoon of a clown with half of his face smiling and the other half frowning.

Hmmm … that's familiar. But I can't think of where I've seen it before.

I stick the weird face picture back on the paper, the glue still strong enough to hold it in place. My nose and eyes itch at a strong chemical odor. I sniff and the smell is definitely coming from the paper, sort of like a detergent mixed with flowers.

I'm on the scent of a clue—literally!

I dig my fingernail at the edge of the eyeball paper until it lifts off. My eyes itch again and the smell increases. I fight the urge to sneeze as I stare down at the paper eyeball in my hand. It's slick and glossy like it came from a magazine.

Curious, I flip it over, and in bold print is the name of a popular magazine:
InbeTWEEN
. My sisters used to read the trendy teen-zine and cut out photos of cute guys. Now instead of ogling airbrushed guys, they're going out with high school guys.

My sisters stopped reading
InbeTWEEN
two years ago, so why do I have a memory of seeing the magazine recently?

Not at school or at home.

Memory slams into me, and I suck in a sharp breath.

I saw
InbeTWEEN
magazine in Becca's bedroom.