Edgar Allan's Official Crime Investigation Notebook (4 page)

By the time Edgar returned to the classroom, art was almost over.

“Edgar, you're falling behind,” the art teacher said. “Everyone but you is ready to add the feathers and beads. I think you'll have to come in during recess tomorrow and paint.”

Edgar looked around the room. The masks on every
table were screaming with bright colors. His was plain white.

“What about right now? I can do it right now,” Edgar said.

“Too late.” The teacher turned her attention to dismissal. Edgar put away his materials and gathered up his stuff. He went back to Ms. Herschel's room to get ready for final dismissal and wait for his bus number to be called.

“Ms. Herschel,” Patrick said loudly. “Since I don't have to ride the bus, can I stay and do more investigating?”

“Great idea, Patrick,” Ms. Herschel said.

“My dad is going to want to hear every detail,” he went on. “He's a forensic chemist, you know. The police consult him for information about stuff like fingerprints and poison and crime stuff.”

Edgar's bones rattled with jealousy. Last year in Ms. Brooks's class, Patrick's dad, Mr. Chen, came and made a mysterious powder in a test tube turn green and then explode. He was dressed in a black suit that looked like something from a James Bond movie.

“My dad is a pilot, and my mom is a lawyer,” Taz said.

Ms. Herschel started asking other kids about their parents, and Edgar held his breath, hoping that if he didn't breathe much, he would be invisible and Ms. Herschel wouldn't call on him.

“What about your parents, Edgar?” Ms. Herschel said. “What do they do?”

Edgar's stomach dropped.

“They're clowns,” Patrick said.

Ms. Herschel laughed. “No, really. What do they do?”

Destiny, who also remembered Edgar's parents from last year's class visit, explained that they worked in the Clown Care Unit at Children's Hospital, and that their job was to tell jokes and sing funny songs to cheer up sick kids.

Ms. Herschel said, “How wonderful,” and when Edgar was a kindergartner he thought so, too. Now he wanted to crawl under a rock. Finally his bus number was called, and he ran out, climbed into his bus, and flung himself into the first seat. To his surprise, a poem popped into his mind. A metaphor poem!

Skunk


by Edgar Allan


The Skunk comes


on big stinking feet.


He takes pictures


with a fancy camera


and then


he rips your heart out.


For dinner that night: fish. On a bun. With tartar sauce.

Edgar looked at his plate and thought of Slurpy. He couldn't eat.

“So how was school today, boys?” Edgar's mom looked at Edgar and his older brother, Henri.

“Did you learn anything?” his dad added, shoveling a spoonful of fish mixed with mushed peas into the little mouth of Edgar's baby sister, Rosy.

Although they had taken off their costumes and clown makeup, Edgar noticed with dismay that they didn't need odd clothes or cosmetics to look like clowns. His father was extremely short, had a shiny bald head, a wide smile, and a big nose that was always somewhat reddish at the tip. His mother was tall, with tiny ruby lips, sparkling green eyes, long black eyelashes, and a shock of red hair that she wore piled on top of her head like three scoops of strawberry ice cream. To the three Allan children, they were known as dad and mom, of course, but to the rest of the world they were known by their stage names: Tubby and Twig.

Edgar summoned his most serious tone and announced that they'd had a robbery at his school.

“A robbery?” Twig put down her fork, eyelashes fluttering. “What was stolen?”

“The goldfish from Ms. Herschel's room.”

Henri laughed. Even though little Rosy didn't know what was funny, she laughed, too.

“It's not funny,” Edgar said.

“Sounds like the fish dropped out of school,” Henri said.

Tubby and Twig roared as if it was the funniest joke on the planet. Rosy slapped her chubby hands on her high chair tray.

Twig leaned forward, her eyebrows arching, and asked: “What do you call a fish without an eye?”

“Fsh?” Henri guessed, and they laughed again.

“Anyway, I have important news,” Henri announced. “Today I played so well in band, Mr. Copland said I could play a solo at the band concert.” He sat up even taller, which was impressive, since he had inherited his mother's height—along with her red hair, green eyes, and double-jointed fingers.

“Congratulations, Mr. Music Man!” Tubby said.

Twig raised her glass and the three of them clinked.

“I was thinking I could do the solo for the Cabaret if you want,” Henri added.

The proud parents smiled at each other. The Cabaret was a talent show that they hosted to benefit the Children's Hospital every year. “What a lovely idea,” Twig said.

“Luminiferous!” Tubby agreed, sticking another spoonful of mush into Rosy's mouth.

Edgar cleared his throat. “I was thinking . . . if I had a dog, I could bring him to school and train him to guard things.”

Henri set down his milk. “I've heard of sheep dogs, but dogs guarding fish? What do you think, Rosy? Fido the Fishdog?” Edgar's brother panted and howled at Rosy, who laughed so hard mush dribbled down her chin.

His parents couldn't help laughing, too.

Edgar scowled.

“I'm sorry, Edgar,” Twig said. “We're not laughing at you.”

“Well what about it?” Edgar persisted.

“A dog?” Twig shook her head. “We told you before: You kids keep us busy enough! Besides, I'm sure your teacher will make sure nothing else gets stolen.”

Tubby wiped Rosy's mouth and gave her a wooden spoon to play with. She grabbed it and promptly bonked her dad on the head.

“Ouch!” Tubby said. “Maybe we should trade her in for a dog.”

“We were talking about the Cabaret,” Henri said. “How many friends can I invite this year?”

For the rest of dinner, Edgar's parents and Henri talked about the Cabaret. It was supposed to be fun, but Edgar found it stressful because he didn't have a talent. Last year his dad had tried to teach him how to play the accordion, but his fingers kept tripping over the buttons and he quit.

“Are you doing anything for it this year, Edgar?” Henri asked.

Edgar pushed his plate away. “No.”

“Why don't you play the cowbell on the song your dad and I are doing?” Twig said.

Henri laughed. “Yeah. Play the cowbell.”

Tubby gave Henri a look. “The cowbell is a great idea, right, Henri?”

“Right,” Henri said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile.

“Which reminds me. Where do cows go to make it in show business?” Tubby asked.

“Moo York City!” Twig stood up and sang, “If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere. No udder place than old Moo York!”

His parents started mooing in two-part harmony, Henri added rhythm by clinking his fork on his glass, and Rosy banged along with her wooden spoon. On another night, Edgar might have joined in, but he couldn't stomach it. Ever since Henri started middle school and made it into advanced band, he thought that his accomplishments should be the topic of every conversation. Now that Edgar finally had something important to talk about, nobody seemed to care. Patrick's dad was probably giving him crime-solving tips at this very moment.

“Excuse me,” Edgar interrupted. “Can I use the computer to do some research?”

Henri stopped. “I already asked to use it. I have to download clarinet music for school. And I have a history report that's due first thing in the morning.”

“That's true,” Tubby said. “Edgar, do you absolutely need the computer for your homework?”

Edgar sighed and shook his head. He had thought he
would look up fish facts to see if he could find some kind of clue.

To make it worse, Henri hopped up and said, “Ha! It's your turn to do the dishes, Edgar.”

“Knock, knock,” Tubby said.

“Who's there?” Twig asked.

“Dishes.”

“Dishes who?”

Tubby stuck a carrot in his mouth like a cigar. “Dishes a very bad joke.”

“You are so cute!” Twig leaned over and planted a kiss on top of her husband's bald head.

Rosy leaned forward and burped.

Edgar sighed. Could the night get any worse?

I am in the bathroom right now because I am too mad to be in the same room with anybody, and they are taking up all the good rooms. I am sitting in the bathtub with all my clothes on because I don't feel like sitting on the toilet, and there are no chairs in here.


Am I the only one who cares about Slurpy? I wonder if he is dead. Is there such a thing as a Goldfish Heaven in the clouds? Since clouds are really floating water molecules, then I suppose fishes could feel right at home in them. Maybe there are entire
schools of goldfish spirits in the clouds.


Maybe Slurpy is happier being with all the other dead fish. I always thought that he looked lonely in that little tank. On the other hand, Mister Furball kept him company. Maybe they stayed up late and did tricks for each other. It would be nice to have a friend like that.


I just had a bad fantasy.


I imagined that I walked into Ms. Herschel's room and found Mister Furball gone. I said, “The thief has struck again!” and everybody looked at me and said, “Oh no!” and here's the bad part…it was exciting! I
want
Mister Furball to get stolen!


A nice person wouldn't want an innocent hamster to be the second victim in a dramatic crime wave.


I just really really want to solve a mystery. Everybody has something they're good at except me. This could be my thing.


Through the crack under the bathroom door, the sound of Henri's clarinet music drifted in. His parents had joined him on the ukelele and accordion. Through
the bathroom window, which was open slightly, he heard the groan of his neighbor's car starting and farther off, the sound of a siren.

Edgar imagined being very high up, as high as a cloud. He imagined floating up there, like the spirit of a goldfish, looking down and seeing the whole world at once, seeing all the people getting into cars and washing dishes and feeding babies; seeing all the kids working on computers and doing their homework and watching TV; seeing all the teachers in their houses, grading assignments and drinking coffee; and seeing all the hamsters, too, running around in their cages and the fish swimming in their tanks; and even seeing a real skunk creeping around in the woods and a thief creeping around on the street; and there in the middle was a boy, fully dressed, in his bathtub, writing and worrying, alone.

The next morning Edgar kept his fingers crossed the entire bus ride and all the way down the hall. When he walked into Ms. Herschel's room and saw Mister Furball running on the wheel inside his cage, he uncrossed his fingers and slumped into his chair. No criminal had crept in. No thrilling second theft had occurred. It was just another ordinary day.

I am disappointed that Mister Furball is safe. What kind of person am I?


Ms. Herschel is about to take attendance, and Patrick Chen is still not here and all I'm thinking is I hope he is sick. How will I feel if Patrick Chen has a brain seizure and dies? Will I feel happy then? I am definitely not a nice person.


Just as Ms. Herschel was finishing taking the roll, Patrick walked in and announced that he had solved the mystery.

Edgar felt sick to his stomach. A metaphor poem came to him all at once. He grabbed his pencil.

ME


by Edgar Allan


I am a big glass