The Case of the Barfy Birthday by Michele Torrey Page A

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.”
    Frisco! Drake and Nell exchanged horrified looks. James Frisco was also in their fifth-grade class at school. Like Doyle and Fossey, Frisco was a scientist, but that’s where the resemblance ended. You see, Frisco enjoyed it when beakers bubbled over. Frisco grinned when things exploded. Frisco laughed out loud while pouring dangerous chemicals down the drain.
    Frisco’s business cards read:

    Drake could never let Zoe call Frisco! If Zoe called Frisco, he’d likely fill a bottle with dishwater, call it an antidote, and charge her five bucks plus tax and a tip. Who knows what would happen to Chloe without a proper antidote! The thought was too terrible to imagine!
    “Never fear, Ms. Jackson, we’ll take the case,” said Drake.
    “Say,” said Nell, peering through the plant to where Chloe was sitting. “Isn’t that your mother sitting beside Chloe?”
    “Yes,” answered Zoe, “what about her?”
    “She looks