Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 1 : The Haunted Toolshed by Dave Keane Page B

the door and fading into the inky darkness like a ghost with a limp.
    I realize that I don’t have his phone number. I realize I should have asked for more than ten dollars.

    And with a gasp, I realize I’ve made an ugly chip in the table with the base of my toothbrush.
    I haven’t even left the house yet and I’ve already damaged a sink, a table, and an elbow.
    I can’t imagine how things could get any worse. . . .
    Then I hear the toilet flush.
    My toothbrush! The brushing bristles of my Inspector Wink-Wink toothbrush are gone forever! Tears creep into the corners of my eyes. My nose fills with snot. I even choke back a sob. (Hey, it was a collector’s item!) I’m struck with the uneasy feeling that this evening is only going to get worse.

‧ Chapter Five ‧
    Toe Jam

    My dad’s not sick in the traditional way, like someone with a stomach virus, a lung infection, or an armpit rash.
    My dad had to stay home from work today because of something called gout. It’s in his big toe.
    Medically speaking, gout makes my dad’s toe slightly swollen and the color of uncooked hamburger meat. Just the thought of his

    rotten toe makes me want to spew the entire contents of my stomach onto the carpet.
    Our family doctor, Dr. Bell, says that gout happens to old guys like my dad when they stuff themselves with a lot of junk food while their wives are out of town. He says that a bunch of gross acid squirts out of the guy’s liver or gizzard or something and gets sucked down to his toes by gravity.
    I enter my dad’s room slowly, staring at his big, ugly toe like it’s about to explode and spray toe jelly all over the room.
    His toe now rises proudly out of the bedsheets, a shining example of everything that can go wrong with a foot.
    “I need to help Mr. Asher with a mystery,”
    I whisper to the toe.
    “I heard,” my dad answers from the other end of the bed.
    “He thinks his house might be haunted,” I say.
    “Hailey told me all about it,” he murmurs.
    “Funny, huh?” I ask.
    “Nothing is funny right now,” he moans.
    “Um . . . so I’m going to run down there and see if—”
    “She tells me that Grandma Asher is farting up a storm,” he interrupts.
    “Well, that’s not really part of the mystery,” I reply quickly.
    He laughs quietly. “Silent but deadly.”
    “What’s that?” I ask.
    “She wants to help you, Sherlock,” he mutters.
    “Grandma Asher wants to help me?” I ask.
    “No. Hailey. Hailey wants to go with you, but I told her she can’t,” he says.
    “I might be out pretty late,” I say.
    “Be back by nine o’clock,” he mumbles.
    “How about ten?” I ask, realizing that it’s already seven-thirty.
    “Nine o’clock sharp,” he slurs. “And be very, very careful that your mother doesn’t find out.”
    “Okay,” I sigh, staring at the sad family of little piggies that live at the end of my dad’s foot. I realize that after nine and a half years of life, I’ve never really taken a good look at my dad’s toes. Now I know why. They look like they’ve been run over by a tank. Or a Zamboni.

    “Have your toes always been bent like that?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the thought of what my mother would think of my after-hours detective work.
    “It’s rude to stare at a man’s feet, son,” he says.
    “Dad, does this mean you’re not taking me and Hailey to the circus tomorrow?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off his gnarled toes.
    “Sorry, son,” he says softly. “Maybe next year.”
    My dad starts to snore. I hope Hailey hasn’t given him too many pain pills. He seems a bit loopy. I stare at his messed-up toes a bit longer, then stumble out into the hallway, holding my lurching stomach. As I close the door, I make a pledge that I will never take my normal-looking feet for granted again.
    “Sherlock!” my older sister, Jessie, yells from the other end of the hall. “For some reason Mr. Asher is on the phone, and he’s rambling on about how you