The Case of the Barfy Birthday
To Mom & Dad,
my handy-dandy references
for inspiration, answers, and hugs
M. T.
For the editor extraordinaire,
Meredith Mundy Wasinger—
truly a pleasure to work with and a master
at the fine art of nurturing and nudging
B. J. N.
STERLING and the distinctive Sterling logo are registered
trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
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09/09
Published by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016
Text © 2003, 2009 by Michele Torrey
Illustrations © 2003, 2009 Barbara Johansen Newman
All rights reserved
Sterling ISBN 978-1-4027-4964-3
Sterling eBook ISBN: 978-1-4549-0398-7
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CONTENTS
Activities and Experiments for Super-Scientists
I
t was a perfectly lazy Sunday afternoon in the small town of Mossy Lake. Just the sort of day for a barbecue or a stroll in the park.
Unless you happened to be Drake Doyle.
Tucked away in his attic lab, surrounded by test tubes, Drake was up to his ears in experiments. Sometimes he said, “Aha!” if things went especially well. Or sometimes, if things didn’t go precisely so, he exclaimed, “Great Scott!” or even “Egads!”
Drake’s cinnamon-colored hair stuck straight up, as if he’d seen a ghost. (Which he had, but that’s another story.) He looked quite spiffy in his lab coat, because it had his name on it. A pencil stuck out from behind his ear.
Drake punched numbers into his calculator and peered at the results. He scribbled in his lab notebook:
Incredible, but true.
Numbers crunch perfectly.
Analysis a success.
But before he could call his partner, Nell Fossey, and tell her about his perfectly crunching numbers, the phone rang.
“Doyle and Fossey,” he answered.
You see, Drake never answered his phone in any other way. The reason was simple. Drake was a professional. In fact, he and Nell were the most professional amateur science detective team in the fifth grade. Whenever there was a nasty case to solve (or even a not-so-nasty case), Drake and Nell were the ones to call. Already they’d solved many cases involving ghosts, monsters, and kidnapped parrots, to name a few. Their business cards read:
“Detective Doyle?” said the caller.
Drake recognized Zoe Jackson’s voice. Zoe was in Drake and Nell’s class. Just yesterday, they had attended a birthday party for her and her twin sister, Chloe. Zoe was a nice girl, and a health nut besides.
She jogged to school, drank her protein lunch, and ran an exercise program called “Fabulous Fitness for Flabby Folks” on rainy days during recess.
“Oh, hi, Zoe. What seems to be the problem?”
“Can you and Nell hurry to the emergency room at Mossy Lake Hospital?” asked Zoe.
Drake nearly dropped the phone. The hospital! Great Scott! This had to be critical! Drake kept his voice calm. “You can count on us, Ms. Jackson. We’ll be there. ASAP.”
He wasted no time before calling Nell. “I’ll pick you up, ASAP. Situation critical.”
“Check.”
Click.
Drake sprang to his feet, grabbed some essential equipment, and hurried down the attic stairs. “Dad! Dad!”
“What! What!” Mr. Sam Doyle met him at the bottom of the steps, looking very worried.
“Situation critical! Nell and I need a ride to the ER, ASAP!”
“Oh. Whew! For a second there, I thought you’d blown up the lab.”
Together they hurried out to the car. Soon they were racing toward Nell’s house. You see, no one could speed around corners quite like Mr. Doyle. Plus, he owned a science equipment and supply company. If Drake needed anything for his lab, he only had to ask. Computers, beakers, lab coats with their names on them, test tubes—it didn’t matter so long as Drake didn’t blow up the lab. (He’d only blown up the lab three times so far, but who’s counting?)
They screeched to a stop in front of Nell’s house. She was waiting for them on the sidewalk and looked ready to tackle anything. Hair the color of coffee was pulled into a tight ponytail, guaranteed to stay out of the way while speeding around corners. She slid into the backseat, buckled her seat belt, and gripped the armrest. “Step on it, Mr. Doyle.”
“Check.”
Va-room!
They turned here. They turned there. Meanwhile, Drake told Nell about his phone conversation with Zoe. Finally, they screeched to a stop in front of the hospital.
Screech!
And off they rushed. (Unfortunately, Drake didn’t see the glass doors and ran right into them with a
bonk!
Nell had to rub his head until he stopped looking cross-eyed.)
Nell opened the door for Drake, and they hurried inside. The emergency room was packed. Nurses hollered, “Code Purple!” Doctors said, “This won’t hurt a bit.” Grandmas moaned, “Ohhh.” Grandpas groaned, “Bleh.” Babies wailed, “Wah!” Parents cried, “Get me outta here!”
And in the middle of all that hubbub, someone grabbed Nell’s arm. It was Zoe. She was wearing sunglasses and a trench coat. “Shh,” she whispered. “This way.” She led them behind a big leafy plant. “No one can see us here.”
Drake and Nell exchanged glances. “What seems to be the trouble, Ms. Jackson?” asked Drake. “Why the secrecy?”
“It’s my twin sister, Chloe.” Zoe parted the plant and pointed across the lobby. Indeed, there sat Chloe. Both Drake and Nell gasped because, you see, Chloe didn’t look like she usually did. Normally Chloe was happy and smiling. Today, however, she looked terribly, terribly sick.
And while they watched, Chloe bent over a basin on her lap and . . . well . . . barfed. (No delicate way to explain it, really, except to just say it like it is.)
“Eew,” said Zoe.
“Ugh,” said Nell.
“Oh dear,” said Drake.
Zoe sighed. “She’s been doing that all day. At this rate, she’ll turn inside out before the doctors even call her name. Poor, poor Chloe!”
Nell flipped open her lab notebook and whipped a pencil out from behind her ear. “Why don’t you take it from the top, Ms. Jackson.”
Zoe nodded. She cleared her throat. She paced just a wee bit. (Pacing is limited behind big, leafy plants.) “You see . . .”
“Yes?” asked Drake, his pencil poised over his notebook.
Zoe adjusted her sunglasses. She paced a bit more. “You see . . .”
“Yes?” asked Nell, tapping her foot.
Finally Zoe stopped. She peered over her sunglasses and looked them square in the eye. “I think I poisoned my sister.”
“P
oisoned your sister?
” Drake and Nell said together.
“Shh! Lower your voices,” said Zoe. “I’m looking at life in prison here. Maybe only ten years, if I’m lucky.”
“But how—” started Drake.
“But why—” started Nell.
“Believe me, it was an accident. This morning Chloe said she didn’t have any energy, so I fixed her a health shake.”
“And what was in this health shake?” asked Nell.
“Let me see . . . peanuts, milk, fish oil, carrot juice, spinach, garlic, oranges, anchovies, and vanilla ice cream—nonfat, of course. Just the thing for boosting energy.”
“And she drank it?” asked Drake, shuddering at the thought.
Zoe nodded. “Every drop. And that’s when it all . . . you know . . . started. Oh, poor, poor Chloe!”
“Indeed,” murmured Drake, jotting everything down.
“Quick question, Ms. Jackson,” said Nell, making a few final notes. “What exactly is it you want us to do?”
Drake looked at his partner, stunned. It was a brilliant question and he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it, too.
“I want you to make an antidote to counteract the poison.” Zoe stopped pacing and stuck her hands in her trench-coat pockets. “You’re my last chance between freedom and prison. You’re my last chance to save Chloe. Unless, of course, I call Frisco.”