Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 1 : The Haunted Toolshed (4 page)

Speed Demon

I may not be the smartest kid in my class, but I am the fastest.

By far.

In fact, I’m easily the fastest kid in my school. Maybe even the whole state. Don’t ask me why. Even Dr. Bell says it makes no sense because I have such flat feet. They’re so flat that whenever I step on a floor that my mom just mopped, my feet get stuck like two industrial-strength suction cups.

My mom has to slide a spatula under each foot to free me. It’s humiliating.

Except for solving mysteries and running like a greased pig shot out of a cannon, I’m usually pretty average.

But you should see me run.

Especially with the Grim Reaper on my tail.

My best friend, Lance, has a model of the Grim Reaper in his bedroom. It’s one of those

creepy things that I try not to think about, but the harder I try, the more I can’t help but think about it. I hate that.

In case you’ve never heard of him, the Grim Reaper is a tall skeleton guy who floats around with a sword stuck to the end of a big walking stick. He wears a shabby old robe with a hood that’s so big he can’t possibly see who he is terrifying.

And then it hits me. . . .

That’s not the bony fingers of the Grim Reaper tapping me on the back.

That’s my dad’s cell phone vibrating in Hailey’s Girl Chat Sleepover back-pack! I come to a complete stop just one house away from Mr. Asher’s house.

Hailey never mentioned putting the cell phone in the backpack. It must be her backup plan if the walkie-talkie doesn’t work.

I yank the phone from the backpack and snap it open. “Hello?” I gasp.

“Sherlock, it’s me!” Hailey exclaims. “Dad’s gone. He’s disappeared!”

Toe Break

“How can a guy who can barely walk disappear?” I thunder into my dad’s cell phone.

“How should I know!” Hailey yelps in exasperation. “You’re the detective in the family.”

I’ve seen a lot of Sherlock Holmes movies.

Probably every one ever made. And one thing is for sure: he only dealt with one mystery at a time. Now I know why.

I think the great Mr. Holmes knew that when you try to think about two mysteries at once, your brain starts to melt like a stick of warm butter on the hood of an overheating car. It turns into sizzling butter goop.

“Where could he have possibly gone?” I ask.

“To kick field goals? To stomp grapes? Maybe he suddenly decided to learn how to kickbox!”

“I thought he might be with you,” she says.

“No, it’s just me and the Grim Reaper out here,” I mumble, looking up at the sky in frustration.

“Who’s Jim Reaper?” she asks.

Why can’t I just solve mysteries like a normal detective in the movies?

“Hailey,” I say as calmly as I can after setting a new world record for sidewalk sprinting, “just look for him. Ask Jessie to help you. Let me know what you find out.”

Hailey grunts in frustration. “Thanks for all your wonderful help. You’re my hero!”

The phone goes silent in my ear.

I look up at the Ashers’ house and silently wish for no more phone calls, footraces, or panic attacks.

I don’t like my odds.

Crime Scream

Mr. Asher might as well hang a sign that says, “GHOSTS WELCOME!”

The Asher home is located on a big plot of land at the very end of Baker Street. It leans a little to the left, so if you stare at it for too long you end up falling over like a guy with a serious inner-ear infection.

I begin to feel a little wobbly, so I’m careful not to stare at the house for longer than a few seconds at a time.

Looking at the Ashers’ house makes me consider what motive someone might have for terrifying the Asher family.

“Motive” is a fancy word they use in detective movies. It means reason, but why they always have to use an uppity word like

“motive” when “reason” would work just fine is something I haven’t figured out yet. “So,”

I ask, “what reason would someone have to try to scare the people who live in this house?”

In detective movies, when the main guy is hired to investigate strange, weird, and ghostly-type stuff, it usually turns out to be the work of some bad guys wearing goofy ape costumes. These bad guys are always trying to scare an old couple off their property so they can build an eight-lane highway right where the couple’s living room happens to be.

After you’ve seen a few hundred of these movies, you learn one thing: Heroes almost always have a big chin.

I make a mental note to ask Mr. Asher if there’s anyone who wants him to move off his property. If I can figure out a motive, I might get a jump on why these strange and unexplained things are happening.

Breaking down a puzzling mystery into simple steps like this is an important skill of the successful detective. It always makes me feel better.

But I don’t feel better for long.

Because at that very moment, a thunderous, head-snapping roar blasts through the night air. My guts quiver. My lungs vibrate. My stomach feels like it’s filled with three hundred nervous grasshoppers.

I secretly wish my chin were bigger.