Agent Angus (3 page)

“Really?” Ella asks. “But I already searched the art room. It's not there.”

“No. Of course not.” My mouth feels dry. “But it would be helpful for me to see the, uh, layout of the room.” This sounds lame, even to me. And then inspiration strikes. “Also, I'd like you to tell me who was in the room at the time. And where they were positioned.”

“Oh.” Ella nods. “That makes sense. But I'm not sure I can remember where everyone was.”

“That's why we need to go there,” I say. “It'll help jog your memory.”

“Right.” Ella glances down the hall. “Should we go now?”

“No time like the present, I always say. Ha ha.” I don't always say that. I never say that.

Shahid rolls his eyes, but Ella just says, “Okay,” and starts walking.

I follow, and Shahid falls in beside me. I think he only does this so he can jab his pointy elbow into my ribs. I refuse to look at him. I don't have time for his opinion right now. I
know
I'm an idiot. The question is, how can I prevent Ella discovering it too?

The answer is obvious. I must continue to avoid her. By the time we get to the art room, I've got an updated plan. If it was a computer program, it would be called Avoidance ~ Version 2.0. I barely pay attention when Ella points out the last known location of the sketchbook. That changes when she mentions the girl who shares her worktable.

“She's really good at sculpting in clay. I let her borrow my sketches when she was working on her bust.”

Shahid and I make eye contact, and I know he's thinking what I'm thinking. “Um,” I begin. “She used your sketches to work on her bust?”

Ella's forehead wrinkles. “Yeah. You know, like one of those?” She points. Sitting on a shelf is one of those disturbing statues of a head, neck and shoulders.

“Oh. Right.” I feel my face getting warm. It's possible I may need to learn about art too. I shrug off my back-pack, reach in and fish around for a notebook and pen. When I turn back to Ella, I'm ready to ask, “So what is this girl's name?”

“I don't think she'd steal my book,” Ella says.

“Probably not.” I hold my pen ready to write. “But she has a motive. We need to consider all potential suspects.”

Ella sighs. “I guess. Her name is Rachel. Rachel Stone.”

I gape at Ella. I know Rachel Stone. Okay,
know
may be an exaggeration. But I know who she is.
Everyone
knows who she is. “The Gaga Girl.”

Behind her glasses, Ella's eyes flash. “People shouldn't be judged by what they wear.”

I hold up a hand. “Of course not. No. I just meant…”

“She's got an artistic
soul
,” Ella says. “She can't help expressing it.”

“Right.” I nod.

Shahid emits a sound. “Gack.”

“Huh?” I ask.

Then a new voice demands, “What are you people doing in here?”

We turn and see the art teacher, Mr. Wilder. Everyone knows who he is too. He stands with his arms folded across his chest. His long gray hair has partially escaped its ponytail. The trademark ponytail, bound with beaded leather and feathers, is one of the things that make him stand out. Another is his habit of wearing dresses. Shahid has told me they aren't really dresses, they're caftans or something. They still look like dresses.

His gaze rakes over us, and I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He doesn't look friendly. More like a snake preparing to strike. When his beady eyes find Ella, he raises an eyebrow. “Ella? You know students aren't permitted in here without supervision.”

Ella's cheeks flush pink. “Sorry, Mr. Wilder. I forgot my favorite pencil.” She raises her hand and waves a pencil.

“Hmph,” Mr. Wilder says. There's an edge to his voice as he adds, “Such dedication. Even on a Friday. On your way then. I need to lock up.”

We turn as one and leave. Once we're out the door, I mutter, “
Now
he's concerned about security? Seems like a case of too little, too late.”

Ella is still pink. “I guess.” She takes a deep breath and asks, “So what should we do next?”

Here's where Avoidance ~ Version 2.0 comes in. “I have a few leads to follow,” I say. “But while I'm conducting the investigation, it's best if you aren't seen with me.”

Ella stops walking and stares. “Why not?”

I talk fast. “If people see us together, as in, if the
culprit
sees me with you, it will tip them off.”

Together, Ella and Shahid say, “Huh?”

I force myself to speak slowly and clearly. “Picture this. Let's say I want to check out a suspect like Gaga…I mean, Rachel. I would observe her from a slight distance. I'd watch for clues, such as a glimpse of the sketchbook. Or her displaying guilty or furtive glances.” This sounds impressive, even to me.

I go on. “If the suspect noticed
me
lurking nearby, they'd think nothing of it. But if they saw
you
”—I nod at Ella—“they'd know we were after them. Therefore, we must split up at once.”

“Oh,” Ella says. Her lower lip quivers in a fascinating way, and she drops her gaze to the floor. “But…” She's quiet for a moment, and then asks, “How will I know what's happening?” She raises her eyes again. “Can we keep in touch on Facebook?”

Facebook
, she says. I tried that. But I never got into it. My only “friends” on there were Shahid and my mother. It didn't matter before, but it would be embarrassing if Ella saw how pathetic I am at social networking. Now that I think about it, that's a cruel aspect of Facebook. Why should the number of “friends” we have be publicly displayed?

I shake my head. “That's too risky,” I say. “Suspects could notice our connection there too. How about email?”

She smiles. “Okay. Do you want me to write down my address for you?”

“Sure.” I smile too and hand her my notebook. Ella writes her address in
my
notebook. Then she asks me for mine and she writes that down too, at the bottom of the page. She tears off the little strip of paper and tucks it into her pocket.

Chapter Five

Shahid and I spend Friday evening online. We start by researching mentalists. It turns out Shahid was right, they
are
a peculiar bunch. Not that there's anything wrong with peculiar. It's cool that some of them create illusions and do magic and all. But to believe that reality is all in the mind? That's pushing peculiar to the limit.

“What if Ella finds out about this crazy stuff?” I moan. “I never should have told her I'm one of them.”

“You shouldn't have told her a lot of things,” Shahid replies.

“Yeah, yeah. I don't need to hear about it. I need to learn about facial expressions.”

We find some sites with drawings of faces showing emotions like anger, confusion and surprise. I study these, and then I test my skill on a site that shows photos of straight-faced people. A second photo of these people displaying an emotion flashes briefly. The site claims that humans often display “micro expressions” that reveal our true feelings. I'm supposed to identify the emotion shown in the flash photos. I get the answer wrong every time.

“I told you,” Shahid says. “It takes years to learn how to read people.”

I'm getting tired of him being right. “So it'll take awhile. But I'll bet I can at least follow clues.” I shake out my hands, pop a few knuckles, and then get busy typing in a search for detective skills. Thousands of hits come up. We spend the next hour hopping from site to site. A standout piece of advice says it's important to study your suspects.

“Do we even
have
suspects?” Shahid asks.

“Absolutely. Gaga Girl and Mr. Wilder.”

Shahid snorts. “As if.”

I've already entered a search for Rachel Stone, but almost nothing comes up for her. “Maybe if I were her friend on Facebook,” I mutter, “I'd find something there.”

“You have no good reason to suspect her.” Shahid sounds very certain. He thinks he's right yet again. “And Mr. Wilder? You don't even have a
bad
reason to make him a suspect.”

“Yes, I do. He's got beady eyes. And he had a tone of voice.”

“A tone of voice?” Shahid scoffs. “Who doesn't have a tone of voice?”

I don't waste time trying to convince him. The fact is, I may have a hunch. Detectives get hunches all the time, and they don't ignore them. So I type in a search for
Wilder Artist Teacher
. I luck out right away when an image of Mr. Wilder as a young man pops up. He wore a ponytail back then too. Plenty of text comes up on the site with his photo, and we start reading.

Years ago, Mr. Wilder was a promising young artist. He had his paintings on display in art galleries. An old write-up says he could be another Picasso. I'm not sure who that is, but it sounds impressive. Sadly for Mr. Wilder, things didn't turn out that way. Other articles trash his work. One says a flock of pooping peacocks could create finer art. Finally, there's a short blurb that says he's fallen to teaching in a public school.

“What's wrong with that?” Shahid asks.

“Don't ask me.”

The blurb goes on to say,
Kel Wilder
has given up on himself. His failed
attempt to pass off another artist's work
as his own is proof of that.

“Whoa!” I tap the computer screen. “See that? Mr. Wilder took someone else's art.”

“It doesn't actually say—”

I don't let Shahid finish. “What if he's done it again? Ella's really good, you know. What if he took her sketchbook and he plans on pretending it's his work?”

“Hmmm. That
would
explain him not bothering to look into its disappearance.” He blinks a few times, then says, “Angus, I think for once—
you
could be right.”

We exchange high fives, guzzle energy drinks and eat the rest of our red Twizzlers in celebration of this discovery. In Mr. Wilder, we have our prime suspect.

“Wily Wilder,” I murmur.

Shahid nods. “Good one.”

“Yeah. But if he's
really
wily…” I pause to choose my next words carefully. “Our investigation must be covert.”

“As in, we need to spy on him?” Shahid asks.

“Exactly.” So we start researching spy gear. We find many amazingly cool gadgets. There's a remote-control robot with a hidden camera. It's expensive, so we discuss installing a camera on Gordon.We soon rule this out because Gordon is two feet tall and makes a loud whirring sound. People would notice him.

The next item that captures our attention is the Gryphon Rocket Wing flight pack.

“An actual rocket pack,” Shahid breathes. “Can you imagine? We could spy from the air.”

Unfortunately, users of the rocket pack must be launched from an airplane. And it isn't actually available yet. If it was, it would probably cost a lifetime of allowance money.

We agree to get practical after that, set some priorities and figure out what we actually
need
. We decide it's important to get audio and video recordings. We could capture evidence and then go home to review it. We might catch Wily Wilder making a micro expression. If we could freeze that moment, we might even be able to figure out what it means.

But all the gadgets that seem perfect aren't. There's an audio and video camera that looks like a button. It comes with extra look-alike buttons. If you sew them all onto a shirt or jacket, the camera button blends in. No one suspects a thing. Sadly, it costs almost $200, and who knows how to sew on buttons?

There's a camera baseball hat. It's large and puffy and looks like something my grandpa would wear. But it would be easy to operate. All you have to do is switch it on and turn toward the person you want to film. If you put the hat on sideways, you don't even have to look at them.

“We're not allowed to wear hats in school,” Shahid says. “And it costs more than the buttons.”

He's right. Again.

“There must be something we can afford,” I whine.

“How about this?” Shahid points at a camera-carrying Happy Face button. A big bright yellow smiling cartoon-face button.

“Shahid.” I speak gently. “What do you think would happen to us if we wore that to school? Take a moment. Imagine the reaction of Some People.”

“Ah.” Shahid's eyes widen. “It could provoke them, couldn't it?”

“Very likely,” I say. “And look at the price.”

It's after midnight when we discover a spy supply store within bus range. Spies 4 Real is having a Saturday cash-only sale. They have a limited quantity of rearview sunglasses for the blowout price of $30. These sunglasses are equipped with a tiny mirror inside the frame. Wearers of the glasses can watch the mirror and spy on people behind them. We decide to get up early and bus over so we can be first in line.

Chapter Six

Saturday morning arrives, too bright and too early.

“My eyes hurt,” Shahid moans. He rubs them and adds, “If I'd known we'd have to wait around in the sun, I wouldn't have let you keep me up half the night staring at a computer.”

We're in a small parking lot, waiting for the Spies 4 Real store to open. The building, with its gray metal door and gray stuccoed walls, isn't welcoming. We tried peering in through the barred window, but the dark tinted glass wasn't giving up any secrets.

“It shouldn't be much longer,” I say. “And just think. When we come back out, you'll be the lucky one wearing sunglasses.” We were halfway here before I realized my late-night choice of spy gear wouldn't work for me.

“You're sure your parents won't let you get contact lenses?” Shahid asks.

I nod. I have no intention of asking them. I don't tell Shahid that the mere thought of sticking something in my eye makes me queasy.