The Case of the Barfy Birthday by Michele Torrey Page B

sick, too.”
    Drake agreed. Mrs. Jackson was the color of mashed peas, with perhaps a splotch of spinach green here and there.
    Zoe nodded. “Yes, but she didn’t drink any health shake, so there’s no worry there.”
    “And isn’t that Lilly Crump sitting two seats away from Mrs. Jackson?” asked Nell.
    Drake pushed up his glasses. Egads! Nell was right again! Just like Chloe and Chloe’s mother, Lilly was barfing into a basin!
    “Hmm,” said Nell, “the last time we saw Lilly was yesterday at the birthday party.”
    “I have a hunch,” said Drake, his mind working furiously.
    “Ditto,” said Nell.
    They pulled on surgical gloves.
    Snap! Snap!
    They marched across the waiting room.
    “Afternoon, Chloe,” said Drake, patting her on the shoulder.
    “Ooooooh, help me,” she moaned.
    “Sorry you’re not feeling well,” said Drake.
    Nell patted her other shoulder. “Do you mind if we examine you? Perhaps we can help.”
    “Anything,” said Chloe weakly.
    “Just try to relax,” said Nell. “This will be over in a jiffy.”
    Mrs. Jackson moved over a couple of seats to make room for them. “Do whatever you need to do,” she said.

    “Check,” replied Drake and Nell. They took Chloe’s pulse. They took her temperature. They had her say “Aaaaah.” They asked her and her mother a few questions. Then, just as Drake was pondering, Chloe leaned over, missed the basin, and . . . well . . .
    Barf! . . .
    Splat! . . .
    . . . all over Drake’s shoes. (It was one of those curious scientific moments when, just for a second or two, Drake wished he’d picked a different career.)
    Chloe groaned. “Sorry.”
    But Drake was a professional. Even when splattered with barf. “No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
    “Indeed,” said Nell with a nod. “Get well soon.”
    And after questioning Lilly, plus a quick trip to the restroom for barf removal, both Drake and Nell were ready for action.
    “There’s no time to lose!” cried Nell. “Back to the lab for analysis!”
    “And a shower . . .” added Drake.

D rake pulled a book off the shelf and sat next to Nell at the lab table.
    He flipped through the pages until he found the right section: “Situation Critical: What to Do When You’ve Given Your Twin Sister a Health Drink and She Barfs and Barfs and Barfs.” After Drake read the section aloud, they discussed their observations. (Good scientists always discuss their observations.)
    Finally, Drake said, “I have developed a hypothesis.” (A hypothesis, as every good scientist knows, is a scientist’s best guess as to what is happening.)
    “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Detective Doyle,” said Nell with a nod after Drake had explained his idea. “Let’s test it.”
    And so, they got to work. In this case, it was detective work. Telephone detective work, to be precise. They were into their fifth phone call when Drake’s mother, Kate Doyle, poked her head around the door. “Do you two brilliant scientists want anything to eat or drink? Hot chocolate, perhaps? Deviled eggs? A muffin or two?”
    “Muffins,” said Drake. “Blueberry. Hold the hot chocolate.”
    “Coffee,” said Nell. “Decaf. Black. And two deviled eggs. No, make it three.” (In case you weren’t up on the latest in the scientific world, real scientists don’t drink hot chocolate. Ditto for real detectives. They prefer coffee. Decaf. Black. With muffins upon occasion. And don’t forget the deviled eggs.)
    “No problemo,” replied Mrs. Doyle. Just as Drake’s dad was great for science equipment and driving fast, Drake’s mom was fabulous for food and drink. In fact, Mrs. Doyle owned her own company: Kate Doyle’s Fab Foods.
    One phone call and one chart later, Mrs. Doyle was back with hot coffee (decaf, black), muffins (blueberry), and eggs (deviled).
    “Now eat those eggs right away,” said Mrs. Doyle. “Don’t let them get warm, because you know what can happen . . .” And she warned them about the