Mystery of the Phantom Heist (2 page)

“If the kids are anything like you,” Joe mumbled, “that’s what we’re afraid of.”

I wasn’t sure whether Sierra or the Peytons had heard Joe, and I didn’t want to find out. All I wanted to do was get out of that house ASAP!

“B-list,” Chet kept repeating once we were outside. “Why do you think Lindsay put me on the B-list?”

“
B
for ‘bodacious,’ dude,” Joe said, laughing. “That’s you!”

Chet cracked a smile.

“Forget about Princess Lindsay, Chet,” I said. “I heard Bay Academy kids can be snooty—but that one takes the cake.”

“Wrong!” Chet declared. He pulled a squished iced pastry from his jacket pocket. “I took the cake—on our way out!”

“Oh, snap!” Joe laughed.

As we walked to my car, I had no trouble forgetting about Lindsay, but Sierra kept popping into my head. Then, as if Joe had read my mind . . .

“I saw you watching that Sierra, Frank,” he said with a grin.

“You never miss a beat, do you?” I smirked.

Joe shrugged and said, “Just saying!”

Leaving the sprawling Peyton mansion behind us, we walked down the flagstone path toward the private parking lot. I could see my car in the distance right where I’d parked it. But before we could get to my secondhand fuel-efficient sedan, we had to pass a parking lot full of luxury SUVs and sports cars.

“Boats and cars,” I sighed. “How many fancy toys can one family have?”

“Not enough if you’re a Peyton,” Chet said. “Which ride do you think is Empress Lindsay’s?”

Joe pointed to a red sports convertible whose vanity plate read
LUV2SHOP
. “I’ll take a wild guess and say that one!” he chuckled.

Chet whistled through his teeth as we went to check out the shiny car. The top was down, so we got a good look.

“Black leather seating,” I observed as the three of us walked slowly around the car. “MP3 output . . .”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet that’s a heated steering wheel,” Chet added.

“That’s not all it has, you guys,” Joe called.

Glancing up, I saw my brother staring at the car door. He didn’t look impressed. Just dead serious.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Without saying a word, Joe pointed to the door. I turned to see what he was pointing at. That’s when my jaw practically hit the ground—because scratched across the gleaming red door were the angry words:

RICH WITCH!

T
HE THREE OF US GAWKED AT THE DOOR
and the message. I had seen keyed cars before—but never scratches as deep as this.

“Whoa,” Frank said. “A keyed car has got to be the worst kind of prank.”

“Worse than a million hurled slushies,” Chet agreed.

The word “slushies” made me remember the YouTube video—and the clueless punks who starred in it.

“You guys,” I said. “What if this was done by the same slushie-slingers we saw in the video clip?”

Frank gave it a thought, then shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“How come?” I asked.

“Because I think it was another Sweet Sixteen reject,”
Frank explained. “Who knows how many kids Lindsay dissed by putting on the B-list today?”

“And watch out,” Chet joked. “When provoked, we B-listers can get pretty ugly.”

I ran my finger along the deep scratches. Frank was probably right.

“It wasn’t one of Lindsay’s friends, because they’re probably rich too,” I thought out loud. “It probably
was
a reject like us.”

“Hey, you guys weren’t rejected from working that party,” Chet reminded us. “You can still be fitted for your togas, you know.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Frank said. “Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen may be the party of the decade, but it’s not worth the humiliation.”

“And who needs all that fancy-schmancy food when you can get the most awesome burgers and fries at Chomp and Chew?” I added.

Chet’s eyes lit up at the magic words. “Chomp and Chew, huh?” he asked with a smile. “Could that be a hint?”

Frank shook his head as he pointed to the scratches on the car door. “Wait a minute, you guys,” he said. “What are we going to do about Lindsay’s car?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, should we tell Lindsay about the scratches?” Frank asked. “She really ought to know.”

I glanced back at the Peyton house. Sure, I felt bad for
Empress Lindsay and her trashed car. But the thought of facing her and her dad again practically made my skin crawl.

“Nah,” I said. “She’ll find out soon enough.”

We took one last look at the scratches before walking away.

“What do you think Lindsay will do when she sees her keyed car?” Chet asked.

“Get Daddy to buy her a new one?” I said with a shrug.

The Chomp and Chew was only a fifteen-minute drive from the Peytons’. You couldn’t miss the place, with its giant neon burger spinning on the roof. It may have been super tacky, but the burgers were tastier than filet mignon. . . . Not that I’d ever tasted filet mignon.

By the time we were cozy in the booth next to the window and under the TV, we had forgotten all about Lindsay and her keyed car. All we could think about were the burgers we were chomping and chewing: guacamole burger for me, Western burger for Frank, and the everything burger for Chet.

“Our favorite burgers and our favorite booth!” Chet said, popping a pickle chip into his mouth. “Are we lucky or what?”

My mouth was too stuffed to answer, so I gave Chet a nod. As my eyes began to drift up toward the TV, I spotted someone I knew from school. It was Tony, a Bayport High senior like Frank. But Tony wasn’t happily chomping or chewing like us. He was crazy busy clearing dirty dishes and glasses from a nearby booth.

“There’s Tony Riley,” I whispered to Frank and Chet. “I didn’t know he worked as a busboy here.”

We watched as Tony picked up his tip. He looked at it, rolled his eyes, and murmured something under his breath.

“The guy definitely looks overworked,” Frank whispered.

I felt bad for Tony and wanted to cheer him up. So I waved and called, “Yo, Tony! I’ll bet free burgers come with the job, huh?”

Tony dropped his rag on the table and walked over to our booth.

“Who cares about that?” he said in a low voice. “After working in this place almost all day, the last thing I want is a Chomp and Chew burger.”

“Wow,” Chet said, shaking his head. “This place must really be a sweatshop for you to pass up a Chomp and Chew burger.”

Tony snorted and said, “Working in a sweatshop would be a breeze compared to this place. A kid in the last booth just wrote his name on the table with ketchup!”

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Al,” Tony replied.

“At least it’s only two letters,” Frank said.

“He wrote his full name, guys!” Tony sighed. “Alexander!”

“Bummer,” I said. Maybe that sweatshop
was
a better deal.

“If you hate it that much, Tony,” Frank said, lowering his voice, “why don’t you just look for another job?”

“Part-time jobs aren’t so easy to get, Frank,” Tony explained.
“And I’m saving up for a new phone, so I can’t quit now.”

Frank nodded as if to say he got it.

“Frank and I can’t even have fancy phones yet,” I said. “But this is the next best thing.”

“What is?” Tony asked.

“Glad you asked,” I said, pulling out my tablet. “Tony, my man, when was the last time you saw a skateboarding squirrel?”

“Spare me, Joe,” Frank groaned.

But Tony finally cracked a smile. “Squirrels on skateboards—no way!” He laughed. “Let me see that.”

I was about to search for the clip when a voice shouted, “Yo, busboy! Why don’t you start earning your minimum wage?”

Tony froze. So did we. Who’d said that?

Turning my head, I saw a bunch of guys in a nearby booth laughing it up. They were wearing polo shirts and khaki pants. One of the guys had on a Bay Academy varsity jacket.

“Bunch of jerks,” Chet said. “Who do those guys think they are?”

“They’re Bay Academy kids, that’s who,” Frank whispered. “No doubt they’ll be going to Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen.”

“Yeah,” I scoffed. “But they won’t be passing around barbecued hot wings and punch.”

Looking at Tony, I could tell he was trying hard to keep his cool.

“No problem, guys,” he called back. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“A minute isn’t good enough!” the guy with a maroon polo shirt and wavy blond hair boomed. “This table here is pretty messy.”

His friends snickered as he picked up a half-full glass of chocolate shake and poured it all over the table!

Tony’s face turned beet red, but he kept his mouth shut.

Not me . . .

“Hey, losers!” I shouted toward the booth. “Why don’t you clean up your own mess?”

“Yeah, well, why don’t you shut up?” the guy with the biggest mouth snapped.

“Game over,” Frank muttered as he stood up.

He looked like he was about to go over to the Bay Academy booth, until we all saw someone in a police uniform heading up the aisle.

“Sweet,” I said. “Somebody must have called the cops on those guys.”

As detectives, Frank and I knew all the officers in Bayport. Sometimes we’d ask them for advice on a case we were working on. Sometimes they’d even ask us for advice, which was really cool.

Most of the officers were great guys—minus one named Officer Olaf. His beef with Frank and me was that we were always trying to do his job. Lucky for us, the cop at the Chomp and Chew was Officer Schroeder.

I expected Officer Schroeder to stop at the Bay Academy booth. Instead, he walked right past them, straight to us.

“Boys,” he said with a nod. “The chief wants you to come to the station right away.”

Frank and I traded confused looks.

“We’ve retired from investigating, Officer Schroeder,” I said.

“It’s not about a case, Joe,” Officer Schroeder said. “It’s about the gash on Lindsay Peyton’s car.”

“Oh!” Frank said with a nod. “Does the chief want to know what we saw?”

Officer Schroeder’s mouth became a grim line. “No,” he said. “The chief wants to know what you did.”

T
HIS DIDN’T LOOK GOOD.

“Excuse me, Officer Schroeder,” I said. “Does the chief think that we keyed Lindsay’s car?”

The officer heaved a sigh. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with the situation. All the cops had known us since we were little kids.

“You can ask all the questions you want at the station,” he explained. “Come on, guys, pay your bill and let’s go.”

“Okay,” Chet said. “But can we at least get our burgers to go?”

“Chet, just pay,” I murmured.

Quickly and quietly we laid our money on the table before we left. By now all eyes in the Chomp and Chew were on us as we followed Officer Schroeder up the aisle.

I knew we weren’t criminals, but I sure felt like one.

“Good luck, guys,” Tony whispered as we walked past him. “Whatever this is all about.”

“Thanks,” I whispered back.

I could hear snickering as we passed the Bay Academy booth. I tried not to look at the creeps until one of them sneered, “Bad day, burger boys?”

Without even looking, I knew who it was—the idiot who’d tipped over the chocolate shake.

“Surprise, surprise,” Joe said, loud enough for the whole booth to hear. “I thought they didn’t allow animals in here.”

“Will you quit it, Joe?” I muttered. “The last thing we need is more trouble.”

Once outside, we followed Officer Schroeder to the squad car. He walked a good few feet ahead of us, giving us some privacy.

“I knew it,” I murmured. “I knew we should have told Lindsay about her car.”

“Frank, I just had a weird thought,” Joe said quietly.

“What?” I asked.

“What if they dust the car for fingerprints?” Joe squeaked. “I ran my finger along the scratch—about three times.”

“You think that’s bad?” Chet said. “I snatched a pastry on the way out. What was I thinking?”

All I knew was that this was serious stuff.

“Look,” I said. “When we get to the station, we’ll just tell Chief Gomez the truth. He’s known for being fair.”

“Um . . . FYI,” Chet said. “I heard Chief Gomez retired about a week ago. Some other officer at the station was just promoted to chief.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Chet said. “You’re the detectives.”

“Well, that explains it, then,” I said. “This new chief, whoever he or she is, probably wants to be extra thorough. You know, cover all the bases.”

“If you say so,” Joe said. “I just hope covering all the bases doesn’t mean fingerprints!”

We left my car in the Chomp and Chew parking lot, and Officer Schroeder drove us to the station. Joe and I were glad he didn’t run the siren—the last thing we wanted was more attention.

The ride to the station was only fifteen minutes but felt like fifteen hours. When we arrived, Officer Schroeder led us to the receiving desk. I was almost anxious to see the chief and get this over with. If he or she was as fair as Chief Gomez, we’d be out of here in a matter of minutes.

“I’ve got the Hardy brothers and the Morton kid,” Officer Schroeder said.

“Okay,” the officer behind the desk said. “Chief Olaf said he’d see them right away.”

Chief Olaf?

I stared at Joe, who looked about as sick as I felt. If the new chief of police was Officer Olaf, we did not have a chance!

“Yo, Frank,” Joe whispered as we followed another officer down a long hallway.

“What?” I whispered back.

“Do you think they have wi-fi in the slammer?” Joe asked.

“Whatever,” I mumbled.

The new chief of police, Olaf, was sitting behind his desk as we filed into his office. He looked up at us and immediately scowled.

“If you Hardys think you’re off the hook because your father was a private investigator, well, think again!” he barked.

“We weren’t planning on playing the dad card, Officer—I mean, Chief Olaf,” Joe said.

“What exactly is this all about, Chief?” I asked carefully.