Spiders on the Case

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Author's Note

About the Author

Copyright

I
n the dim light of the rare books room of the Boston Public Library, a brown walnut spider, a type of orb weaver, waited in a shimmering silken web stretched between two ancient volumes of Greek poetry. The young spider had been secretly observing the new spider family since their arrival almost two weeks before. The mother and three spiderlings were every thing he had ever dreamed of being. Charming and smart, they spun stories as easily as silk. Behind their three pairs of eyes, they had little fiddle markings. Buster himself — for that was the brown walnut spider's name — had no such interesting marks. In addition to all this, the three spiderlings were curious, lively, and often squabbling. In short, they were a family. Buster was an orphan.

And the newcomers were not just a family, they were a venomous one. How he envied them for that. He almost swooned at the very thought. And he needed their venom desperately. For something very bad was happening in the Boston Public Library, and it had to be stopped. The little spider family was clueless as to what was going on practically in front of their very eyes — all twenty-four of them! But with this family on his side, the horrid crime spree would end!

A
nd when Madame unfolded the gown from the layers of tissue paper, she almost fainted with delight at Monsieur Poulet's creation. “Mon sieur!” she exclaimed. “It is too beautiful —
trop belle
. It is a chef d'oeuvre, a masterpiece.” Jo Bell hesitated over the next words. “It shimmers like the clouds with just a soupçon of” — Jo Bell paused — “soupçon. I think that means ‘a hint.' Yes, a hint of silver thread. I love the word ‘soupçon'!” Jo Bell exclaimed, and looked up at her mother. “Mom, have you heard anything I've said in the last five minutes?”

“What, dear? Something about soup's on. Yes, a lovely human expression for ‘dinner is ready.'”

Jo Bell sighed. What did one have to do to get attention in this family? She was the oldest. Didn't she deserve a little respect? Instead, every one fussed over Felix and the “enchanting” webs he spun. Their mother had called his last one a “triumph.” She wanted to shout, “Hello! I'm here, too, you know!
MOI!
” But her mother only had eyes for Felix.

“‘Soupçon' — it's the French word for ‘hint.' Mom, you're not listening to me! I've been teaching myself French. And look, I spun a replica of the very gown Madame Gerora described. I copied it from the book I was telling you about.”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” her mother replied somewhat vaguely. “Well, that's very nice, dear. Quite lovely.”

Jo Bell's mom's enthusiasm meter seemed to hover around a five as opposed to the solid ten with bells and whistles it reached for Felix's masterpieces.

“You call that art?” Felix said, examining the gown Jo Bell had just spun.

“I certainly do!” Jo Bell replied, crossing her front legs in annoyance. “You are not the only artist in the family, you know, Felix. Fashion is art, especially high fashion. You don't know every thing,” Jo Bell huffed.

Sock it to him, Jo Bell
, Buster thought.

“I know it's not as good as this new web design of mine. It's perfect for trapping and storing silverfish. Elegant yet practical. Form follows function, as the great architects say.”

“Now, Felix, mind your manners. We can't all be architects as you are.” Edith, the spiderlings' mother, swung down from the web repair work she was tending in the corner.

“Mom, this is beyond manners! He is insulting what I care about.”

“All he said was that fashion isn't an art form, dear.”

“Mom, now you — you're saying it, too!” Jo Bell was ready to explode. Her mother always sided with Felix.

“It is a kind of art, dear!”

Kind of.
Two little words that made fashion design sound like a half art at best! Her mother's lukewarm defense only made Jo Bell angrier.

“Fashion is so … so … vain. It's really a frivolous preoccupation of humans,” Felix added.

WHAT?!
Was Felix the only one who got credit for anything? Jo Bell felt like an alien in her own family. She thought,
That's exactly it. I might as well be a Peruvian jumping spider or a Mexican lace weaver.

Trying her best not to explode with anger, Jo Bell said with all the patience she could muster, “Mom, I take offense that you feel my interest is a ‘kind of' art form, but I can definitely tell you that French is certainly not a ‘kind of' language.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear.” Edith was beginning to wring two of her rear legs together. In another few seconds, she'd be wringing six of her eight legs. “I didn't mean that at all, Jo Bell. I misspoke. Since we've been here in the Boston Public Library, we have all learned so much already. You especially, dear. Some French! And now Felix is trying as well.”

“What about à la mode?” Julep asked. She was the youngest of the family and just returning from one of her explorations in the pop-up books section of the Rare Books Department. “Isn't that the one with ice cream or something? A gown with ice cream. Yum.”

“No, darling, that is just a food term for the most part — although, loosely translated, it can mean ‘in style.'” Edith paused. “Let's stop the bickering. We promised Fatty that we would meet him at the theater this afternoon for the matinee of the flamenco dancers. Another lovely art form that we can explore.”

Fat Cat, or Fatty, was the godspider of Edith's children. He had traveled with them to Boston all the way from the philharmonic hall in Los Angeles. But Fatty preferred theatrical settings to libraries.

“I'm not going,” Jo Bell said stubbornly.

“Now, Jo Bell, don't be that way.” Edith sighed.

“What way? Not ‘gifted' like Felix?” Jo Bell's mother was always talking about how gifted Felix was ever since he had begun spinning beautiful new webs that usually only orb weaver spiders could create. Here, Jo Bell had taught herself French and spun the lovely design of an evening gown, but did her mother say anything? Once more she asked herself, what did one have to do to be noticed in this family?

“Suit yourself, dear,” said Edith. “If you prefer to stay here.”

“That's exactly what I'll do,” Jo Bell replied. She was furious. Ever since Felix's accident at the philharmonic hall in Los Angeles, where he lost a leg, Edith had been fawning over him. But for silk's sake, the leg had grown back, as it usually did with young spiders!