Smashie McPerter and the Mystery of Room 11 Read online

  Both notebooks were squat and colorful. One had FIRST STREET BAPTIST written across the front, and the other featured an earnest-looking horse.

  “Could I please use the horse one?” asked Smashie.

  “Sure.” Dontel handed it over.

  Smashie looked at the cover and sighed. “A horse would have been a terrific class pet.”

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “Except that I’m allergic to them.”

  “I was forgetting,” said Smashie. “Then it would be a terrible pet. You would have to blow your nose all day long.”

  “Yep,” said Dontel, taking up the other notebook. “Let’s get to business. Let’s start by writing down the facts as we know them.”

  “Good idea,” said Smashie, and flipped to the first page of her notebook and began to write.

  “Also because he makes that scrabble, scrabble, scrabble sound,” said Smashie, showing the page to Dontel. “We could hear that from our seats even after morning break.”

  “Plus I could see him from our table,” said Dontel. “I am willing to testify that I saw Patches in his cage until lunch.”

  “Swell,” said Smashie. “Let’s put that down.”

  They continued:

  “Those are some solid facts,” said Dontel, pleased. “And a nice piece of logic, too.”

  “Yes,” Smashie agreed. “And we have the time of the theft narrowed down to between twelve o’clock, when we left Room 11 for lunch, and twelve forty, when we came back.”

  “Let’s write that down, too.”

  They added the fact to their notes.

  “Now,” said Dontel, “we have to put our mind to the who.”

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “We have to think about what kind of person would be a hamster swiper.”

  “I was thinking,” said Dontel, “that there are two kinds of people who might take Patches. One is a person who would do it as a prank. And the other is a person who would do it to be mean.”

  “It could also have been a person who is a crazed scientist who has always wanted to be a hamster and stole Patches to swap brains with him,” said Smashie.

  Dontel gave her a level look.

  “Oh, fine,” said Smashie. “We can do the reasons you said first.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That is okay.”

  “If it were a mean person,” said Dontel, “who do you think it could be?”

  “Nobody,” said Smashie. “Except for when they are mad at you, we have a very nice class.”

  “That is true,” said Dontel. “Well, what about if it were a prank?”

  “There is always Billy,” said Smashie. “And some of his pranks are kind of mean.”

  Dontel agreed. “I guess he is a good suspect.”

  “A suspect! I love Investigator Language!” Smashie flipped open to a new page. “Let’s make a list of all the inspector words we get to use in the course of our investigation.”

  “Swell idea, Smash! We could write them in the back of our notebooks.”

  “For easy reference!” Smashie nodded. She turned to the last page of her notebook and busied herself with her pencil.

  “Let’s put detective and investigate down, too,” said Dontel. “We’ve been using those a lot.”

  “Good idea,” said Smashie, and added them to her list:

  “Now,” said Smashie, “we can get back to the investigation. Let’s start another list. For suspects.”

  But as soon as she was done writing the name, Smashie leaned back and shook her head. “I don’t really think it is him this time, though. If Billy did it, he would be happier. Whenever he does a prank, he does that thing where he covers his mouth with his hand and gets all chumped up with laughing behind it until we realize it is him.”

  “That’s true,” said Dontel. “And all day today, he only looked awful.”

  “Well, because everybody was mad at him for the glue,” said Smashie.

  “Maybe,” said Dontel. “But maybe your thing about why he wouldn’t have done the hamster makes him not be the glue person, either. He didn’t boast about that, right?”

  “Dontel,” said Smashie reasonably, “nobody else does tricks like that all the time. No one else would think gluing people was such a good joke, either. Think of all of Billy’s phone calls. The tarantula. That time John was a pirate for Halloween and he marched through the whole Halloween parade with that sign Billy pinned to his back that said, YO-HO-HO AND BOTTLE OF DUMB.”

  “Hmm,” said Dontel. “I don’t know.”

  “Blah and blah,” said Smashie.

  “Blah and blah?” said Dontel. “You sound like Mr. Carper.”

  “Ugh!” cried Smashie. “I will never say blah and blah again!” And she fell back to the floor and lifted her feet in the air in despair.

  “Well, we should figure out how we will investigate Billy, anyhow,” said Dontel. “Just to be sure.”

  “Wait! Ugh!” cried Smashie. “We can’t investigate Billy!” She let her feet drop with a tremendous thump.

  “What’s going on in there?” Mrs. Marquise called.

  “Nothing!” Dontel called back.

  “It was only me, thumping, Mrs. Marquise!” Smashie shouted. “I will stop!”

  “Thank you,” replied Mrs. Marquise.

  Smashie sat up.

  “I only thumped because I realized that we are dumb, Dontel,” said Smashie. “Billy can’t be the hamster swiper. He was sick at the nurse’s office at lunchtime, remember?”

  “Ugh,” said Dontel. “You’re right. He was all green around the gills. And then after the nurse, he was back outside with us.”

  “Rats,” said Smashie. “There goes the suspect list.”

  Taking up their pencils, Smashie and Dontel crossed out Billy’s name.

  “Curses,” said Smashie. “Investigating is hard.”

  “Ugh!”

  “Ugh!”

  Mrs. Marquise appeared in the doorway. “What is all this ‘ugh’ yelling?” she asked.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Marquise,” said Smashie. “I got carried away about our mystery. But don’t worry — I’m working on not getting so carried away.”

  “I’m happy to hear that, Smashie,” said Mrs. Marquise. “But I’m sure my grandson was in the thick of things, too. My goodness, but I never knew two children to squawk and raise a ruckus like the two of you. Dontel, don’t you forget you still have your homework to do. And your mother and father are planning on Family Game Night tonight.”

  “I won’t forget, Grandma. Me and Smashie are going to work on our mystery for just another couple of minutes. Then we’ll do our homework.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Marquise. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need help.”

  “Thank you, Grandma.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Marquise.”

  “Oh, well,” said Smashie when Mrs. Marquise had gone. “I guess we will have to come up with a list of mad scientists after all.”

  The rest of the afternoon was not successful in terms of useful investigating, but the next morning, Smashie was ready to go. She and Dontel had plans to meet up at Smashie’s house before the bus came. At last he arrived, and Smashie flung open the door to greet him.

  “That is some suit,” said Dontel, taking her in.

  “Yes.” Smashie beamed. If she had ever needed a suit to help her think, it was now. She had torn through the house like a wild thing the evening before, looking for things to turn into her Investigation Suit. Thus, this morning she stood somewhat lost in the fabric of a blue hot-suit from Grammy’s go-go dancing days, the legs and sleeves rolled up and the surplus around her middle bound with a belt she had made out of an old macramé sash. From the belt dangled pouches in which she planned to keep clues and supplies. Grammy had refused to let Smashie modify her wide-brimmed hat, so Smashie had taken a flat golfing visor from her mother’s closet instead and built extra places along the sides into which she could tuck
more clues.

  Her mother had not minded about the visor, but she had been terribly upset that she hadn’t been included in the making of Smashie’s latest creation.

  “Is that a suit?” she had cried this morning when Smashie came down.

  “Of course it’s a suit,” said her grandmother, eyeing Smashie over her coffee.

  “Smashie!” said her mother. “You know how much I enjoy helping to make your suits!”

  It was true. A firm believer in the power of a hot-glue gun and a roll of tape, Mrs. McPerter liked to make things as much as Smashie did and she supported Smashie’s suit making completely. “There is nothing like a suit to turn a frown upside down, Smashie,” she often said.

  “I truly am sorry, Mom,” said Smashie. “But sometimes I have got to make them on my own.”

  “Well,” said her mother, disappointed, “I don’t know about those pouches. At any rate, don’t forget your lunch. I’ve put two cupcakes in yours, but one is for Dontel. Be sure you give it to him, please.”

  “I will.”

  Now, with Mrs. McPerter gone to work and her grandmother safely back with the washing machine, Smashie led Dontel to the kitchen table and handed him an identical sash full of pouches she had made for him to wear.

  “It’s not a full suit,” said Smashie. “But I thought this would be useful. It would show we are partners.”

  “Um, thank you,” said Dontel. “But I think I’ll just stick with looking regular. People might ask questions if I turn up with a bunch of pouches all over me. I don’t want to blow our cover, remember?”

  “Oh,” said Smashie, looking at her enpouched stomach. “Do you think this looks too much like an Investigator Suit?”

  “Nah,” said Dontel. “You wear all kinds of different suits, all the time. No one will think anything of it.”

  “Good,” said Smashie, cheering. But then her brow furrowed. She took out her notebook, across the top of which she had printed,

  “I guess I should cross that out.”

  “I think that would be good,” Dontel agreed. “Here, I’ve got a Sharpie in my pocket.”

  Smashie crossed out the words.

  “Smashie,” said Dontel, “I woke up with an idea.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “About a new suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Dontel looked at her gravely.

  “Mr. Carper.”

  “Mr. Carper?” Smashie cried, scarcely able to believe her ears.

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “I think we need to investigate him.”

  “Hooray!” cried Smashie. “We can perform a citizen’s arrest!” An immensely attractive picture of her in her Investigation Suit and Dontel in his normal clothes frog-marching the hapless Mr. Carper downtown to the authorities filled Smashie’s mind. “Oh, I am so happy,” she said. “He’ll regret that he was ever mean about people being smart!”

  “That is true,” said Dontel.

  “Investigating is the best!” said Smashie. “I never thought we would get to foil Mr. Carper as well! You have the most terrific ideas, Dontel. We always knew Mr. Carper was a big villain!”

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “But I was also thinking about it in terms of the kind of person who would be likely to steal Patches.”

  Smashie’s mouth fell open. “Do you think Mr. Carper is a mad scientist in disguise?”

  “No,” said Dontel. “I don’t. But I think there are other reasons someone could have done it. First of all, Mr. Carper doesn’t like hamsters.”

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “He snarled at Patches the whole time. He called him a disease carrier.”

  “Right,” said Dontel. “In other words, he would be glad to be rid of him. That’s what they call a motive.”

  “Ooh,” said Smashie. “I am adding that to our list of Investigator Language! And then,” she said darkly, “I am adding Mr. Carper to our list of suspects.”

  “Me too,” said Dontel. And he took out his list.

  Next they turned to their suspect lists and updated those as well:

  “Dontel.” Smashie’s eyes were wide. “We’ve been thinking that whoever took Patches out of that cage put him somewhere else. But Mr. Carper would probably just —”

  Dontel laid his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s take it slow,” he said. He looked very serious. “We’ll think it through. Our number-one goal is the safe return of Patches, but regardless —” Dontel swallowed.

  “We have got to bring the thief to justice,” said Smashie.

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “Now, let’s make sure we are on the right track.”

  But Smashie was still caught up in the excitement of an impending kerfuffle. “Here’s what we’ll do,” she plotted. “We’ll call him up with our voices disguised and tell him we know where some treasure is buried. Then, when he goes to the place with his shovel, we will leap out and arrest him! It will be like putting cheese in the cage for Patches, only it will be pretend treasure instead of cheese, and Mr. Carper instead of a hamster!”

  Dontel stared at her, then collapsed backward into a chair. He smacked his forehead.

  “UGH!” he cried. “UGH!” He clapped his hands over his eyes.

  “What’s going on in there?” Smashie’s grandmother called.

  “Nothing!” Smashie called back.

  “Dumb!” cried Dontel.

  Smashie turned back to Dontel’s hand-covered face. “You think he won’t believe us about the treasure?” she asked, crestfallen. “And quit calling me dumb.”

  “I would never call you dumb,” said Dontel. “The treasure is a great idea. I meant I’m dumb. For even thinking about Mr. Carper.” He dropped his hands and looked at Smashie. “We already figured out that whoever did it had to have gone into our classroom during lunch.”

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “Mr. Carper could have done that with no problem. Nobody would question whether he belonged in Room 11 since he was our teacher for the day!”

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “But Smashie, we know he didn’t go into the classroom during lunch. He was in the Teachers’ Lounge the whole time. We saw him. Remember?”

  The memory of Mr. Carper’s ruff of curls in the teachers’ room windows, both inside and out, rose in Smashie’s mind.

  “Rats.” Smashie was deflated. “Are you sure you saw him there even when I left to get my hoodie?”

  “Yes,” said Dontel. “I did.”

  “Pleh! Then you are right.”

  “Mr. Carper,” said Dontel sadly, “is in the clear.”

  Slowly, they crossed out Mr. Carper’s name.

  Then they added:

  “I am very disappointed,” said Smashie.

  “Me too,” said Dontel.

  “We have had two suspects,” said Smashie. “And we have had to cross them both out.”

  “I think,” said Dontel, “that maybe we are a little bit terrible at investigating.”

  “Maybe I need to make a better suit.”

  They stared morosely at the floor.

  “That’s a pretty intense suit already, Smashie McPerter,” said her grandmother, coming unexpectedly into the kitchen. She looked a bit harassed, with a smudge of oil on her nose. “However, I will say that hot-suit had a different effect when I wore it as a girl. Hop along to the bus stop, now, you two. It’s almost time.”

  Mr. Potter, the bus driver, raised his eyes at Smashie’s outfit but said only, “Sit down, Smashie.”

  “Yes, Mr. Potter.”

  As he did every morning, Dontel opened his lunch box and began to consume the sandwich meant for his lunch.

  “Smashie,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of ham, “you went back in the room to get your hoodie during lunch. Maybe you saw a clue without knowing it. Think! Did you see anything suspicious?”

  Smashie furrowed her brow.

  Nobody in a Thief Suit. No muffled sounds as if from a hiding doer of wrong. No evil cackles as if from a successfu
l mad scientist.

  “No,” she said regretfully. “I didn’t see anything at all. I didn’t hear anything, either. The room was empty.”

  “Heck.” Dontel slumped back to the floor. “This is going to be tough.”

  But as he spoke, the eerie feeling Smashie had had yesterday when she’d gone back to Room 11 crept up her spine again, and she shuddered. “I forgot to tell you, though,” she said slowly. “Because we got all caught up in Alonso’s hand and then Patches. But it was strange in Room 11, when I went back for my hoodie. Spooky, almost. Like something was wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes,” said Smashie. “It was almost too quiet.”

  “Hmmm,” said Dontel, furrowing his brow. “Was the feeling to do with Patches at all? Did you see him at that point? Was he still in his cage?”

  “That is hard to say,” said Smashie. “You know I kind of avoid him.” She felt badly admitting it, but it was true. “I didn’t even think to look. I was kind of spooked, so I was just focused on getting my hoodie.”

  “Rats.”

  Smashie nodded. Then she gasped.

  “Wait!” she cried. “Dontel! Patches must have been gone by then!”

  “What do you mean, Smashie?”

  “It really was too quiet! No scrabble, scrabble, scrabble sounds!” Smashie was triumphant. “That must have been what made it feel so eerie! And Patches couldn’t have been asleep, because I was very loud when I first came in. I was running on account of I didn’t want the yard lady to get mad at me. And you know how frighty Patches is. He’d never have been able to sleep through me running all the way through to the back of the room!”

  “Maybe all the noise you were making masked his scrabbling noises.”

  Smashie shook her head. “No. Because I didn’t make any noise when I looked through my cubbie. I only made soft hoodie-moving sounds. I’m sure I would have heard him!”

  “That makes a lot of sense, Smashie!” Dontel’s eyes were bright. He put away his sandwich and fished his Investigation Notebook out of his backpack. “So somebody must have snatched Patches between the start of lunch and about ten minutes into recess.”