‧ Chapter Two ‧
The Evening Caller?
I don’t hear the doorbell at first.
It’s Friday night and I’m in the bathroom trying to figure out why I can’t get my Inspector Wink-Wink electric toothbrush to turn on. I can’t hear much of anything because I’m too busy smacking my toothbrush against the side of the sink—which is basically how I try to fix most things.
My stubborn toothbrush does not respond. So I bang it harder. Inspector Wink-Wink is a cartoon show character that I like a lot.
He’s a detective, like me. But to be totally honest, it’s really a show for younger kids. I’m probably one of the biggest Inspector Wink-Wink fans on the planet. But I try not to let anyone know because it’s a little weird that I still like a little-kid show.Before I realize what’s happening, the top section with the brushing bristles pops off the base, bounces off the mirror, and falls into the toilet with a sickening little ploop sound.
I watch in silent horror as it sinks into that nasty, dark cave at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
I freeze, clutch my forehead, and make a weird squeaking noise that sounds like someone just stepped on a hamster.
In the terrible silence that follows, just as I hear the doorbell ring on its desperate third try, I notice that I’ve chipped the rim of the sink.
This makes me think of two important facts.
Fact one: It’s Friday night and my mom is out of town at my aunt Peachy’s house in Phoenix (which is somewhere in Florida, I think). My aunt Peachy broke her clavicle, and my mom is staying with her for a few days to help take care of my creepy twin cousins. Fact two: My dad is sick in bed.
So I do what any kid would do in this situation when both his parents are unavailable: I quickly cover up the sink’s missing chunk with a gigantic blob of sparkly toothpaste.
“Mr. Asher is here and he wants to hire you!” my little sister, Hailey, exclaims, throw-ing open the bathroom door and nearly crushing all the delicate little bones in my right elbow with the doorknob.
“Aaaaaaaaaagh!” I groan like Frankenstein’s monster as I roll around on the bathroom mat.
I’m almost certain that my elbow bones have been crushed into a fine powder. For some unexplained reason, I can smell boiled cabbage—which can't be a good sign.
“Why do they call it a funny bone again?”
I wheeze.
“Quit goofing around, Sherlock,” she whispers. “Poor Mr. Asher looks like he’s seen a ghost!”
Finally, my first official case as a private detective has arrived.
‧ Chapter Three ‧
Strange Goings-On
“Hi, Mr. Asher,” I say when I find him in our living room.
“I'm sorry to bother you so late, Sherlock,” he says, nervously fingering the handle of his cane.
Hailey is right. Mr. Asher looks freaked out. His eyes are all jumpy and bugged out, like he’s a boxer who just got punched hard below the belt.
Magnifying the problem are his thick glasses, which make his eyes appear to be the size of white tennis balls. His face is covered in big gobs of sweat. His nose is making an eerie whistling noise.
“Sherlock, you must help us,” he says between nose whistles. “There are strange things happening at the end of Baker Street.
I may have . . . a poltergeist.”
“I see,” I say like any thoughtful detective would say, although I’m really thinking that I have absolutely no idea what “poltergeist” means.
“Cool, a poltergeist,” Hailey says from behind me.
Great! My seven-year-old sister knows what he’s talking about, but I don’t have a clue. I make a mental note to brush up on my vocabulary.
“A poltergeist is a kind of ghost,” Mr. Asher explains.
“Oh . . . I know that,” I say like an idiot.
“My mother is visiting from the old country, and these strange events have made her very nervous,” he continues. “Today she fainted three times, and now she’s developed a terrible case of flatulence.”
“Cool, flatulence,” Hailey chirps.
What
The Evening Caller?
I don’t hear the doorbell at first.
It’s Friday night and I’m in the bathroom trying to figure out why I can’t get my Inspector Wink-Wink electric toothbrush to turn on. I can’t hear much of anything because I’m too busy smacking my toothbrush against the side of the sink—which is basically how I try to fix most things.
My stubborn toothbrush does not respond. So I bang it harder. Inspector Wink-Wink is a cartoon show character that I like a lot.
He’s a detective, like me. But to be totally honest, it’s really a show for younger kids. I’m probably one of the biggest Inspector Wink-Wink fans on the planet. But I try not to let anyone know because it’s a little weird that I still like a little-kid show.Before I realize what’s happening, the top section with the brushing bristles pops off the base, bounces off the mirror, and falls into the toilet with a sickening little ploop sound.
I watch in silent horror as it sinks into that nasty, dark cave at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
I freeze, clutch my forehead, and make a weird squeaking noise that sounds like someone just stepped on a hamster.
In the terrible silence that follows, just as I hear the doorbell ring on its desperate third try, I notice that I’ve chipped the rim of the sink.
This makes me think of two important facts.
Fact one: It’s Friday night and my mom is out of town at my aunt Peachy’s house in Phoenix (which is somewhere in Florida, I think). My aunt Peachy broke her clavicle, and my mom is staying with her for a few days to help take care of my creepy twin cousins. Fact two: My dad is sick in bed.
So I do what any kid would do in this situation when both his parents are unavailable: I quickly cover up the sink’s missing chunk with a gigantic blob of sparkly toothpaste.
“Mr. Asher is here and he wants to hire you!” my little sister, Hailey, exclaims, throw-ing open the bathroom door and nearly crushing all the delicate little bones in my right elbow with the doorknob.
“Aaaaaaaaaagh!” I groan like Frankenstein’s monster as I roll around on the bathroom mat.
I’m almost certain that my elbow bones have been crushed into a fine powder. For some unexplained reason, I can smell boiled cabbage—which can't be a good sign.
“Why do they call it a funny bone again?”
I wheeze.
“Quit goofing around, Sherlock,” she whispers. “Poor Mr. Asher looks like he’s seen a ghost!”
Finally, my first official case as a private detective has arrived.
‧ Chapter Three ‧
Strange Goings-On
“Hi, Mr. Asher,” I say when I find him in our living room.
“I'm sorry to bother you so late, Sherlock,” he says, nervously fingering the handle of his cane.
Hailey is right. Mr. Asher looks freaked out. His eyes are all jumpy and bugged out, like he’s a boxer who just got punched hard below the belt.
Magnifying the problem are his thick glasses, which make his eyes appear to be the size of white tennis balls. His face is covered in big gobs of sweat. His nose is making an eerie whistling noise.
“Sherlock, you must help us,” he says between nose whistles. “There are strange things happening at the end of Baker Street.
I may have . . . a poltergeist.”
“I see,” I say like any thoughtful detective would say, although I’m really thinking that I have absolutely no idea what “poltergeist” means.
“Cool, a poltergeist,” Hailey says from behind me.
Great! My seven-year-old sister knows what he’s talking about, but I don’t have a clue. I make a mental note to brush up on my vocabulary.
“A poltergeist is a kind of ghost,” Mr. Asher explains.
“Oh . . . I know that,” I say like an idiot.
“My mother is visiting from the old country, and these strange events have made her very nervous,” he continues. “Today she fainted three times, and now she’s developed a terrible case of flatulence.”
“Cool, flatulence,” Hailey chirps.
What
Similar Books
