The Great Shelby Holmes (6 page)

While I should have been paying attention to the details of the case, I kept getting caught up in the fact that Tamra lived in a building with an elevator, doormen,
and
security. Plus, I didn't need Shelby to tell me that this car and personal driver belonged to her family.

“I can't believe it.” Tamra's voice wavered. “The show's in three days. Everybody knows that Daisy's the favorite, but I can't believe someone would take her away from me.”

Shelby did need to fill me in that the show Tamra kept talking about was the Manhattan Kennel Club's annual dog show. Daisy came in second last year in the toy breed category.

Toy breed?
I nodded like I understood any of that.

“Does Daisy have any enemies?” Shelby asked. I had to stop myself from laughing. How could a dog have enemies?

“Not at all. She's the sweetest dog in the whole world. Although …”

Shelby's posture straightened. “Although what?”

“Maybe it's nothing.” Tamra bit her lip. “In the last six months, Daisy's taken titles away from Mr. Wiggles, who always used to win. But I don't think Mr. Wiggles's owner even knows where we live, let alone be able to break into our apartment.”

“Never underestimate an underdog,” Shelby said with a confident nod.

A laugh escaped my throat, and I started coughing to cover it up.

Underdog? Mr. Wiggles? Really?
What had I gotten myself into?

The car turned as we headed toward a park that seemed to stretch for miles and miles. I didn't know the city that well yet, but I knew it had to be Central Park. The driver made another turn and pulled up alongside a tall stone building with two towers.

“We're here,” Tamra said as she exited the car.

A doorman greeted her as he opened the intricate glass doors that led us into a lobby with marble floors, wood paneling, and mural walls. I felt like we were on the set of some movie about superrich people back in the 1940s. But people actually lived like this. For real.

My grandma once came to Kentucky to visit us. We took a day trip to Nashville since it was the closest big city. Grandma took Mom and me to a fancy hotel for tea. At the time, I couldn't imagine staying even a night at such a nice place, let alone living every single day in such a ridiculously fancy building.

John, you're not in Kentucky anymore.

“Any word, Javier?” Tamra asked the man at the security desk, who was wearing the same gray-and-red uniform as the doorman.

He shook his head solemnly. “Nothing, but don't you worry, Miss Lacy. We'll find your Daisy.”

Another man tipped his cap as he hit the elevator button for Tamra.

Once we got inside, Shelby started talking in a whisper. “Tamra, I need you to inform your family and whoever else we meet that we are familiar acquaintances. I can't have people know I'm here to investigate. This way, they'll be more natural around me and I can study them freely.”

“But nobody in my family would do this—they all love Daisy,” Tamra protested.

The elevator came to a stop on the twenty-fourth floor. Once we were inside the apartment, I stopped in my tracks. Although the building appeared to be old, Tamra's
apartment was the exact opposite. It was like I stepped into some futuristic home. Everything was made of glass, white marble, shiny silver, or leather. Every item looked new, expensive, and extremely breakable. I was afraid to walk around for fear that I'd accidentally smash one of the large glass vases overflowing with flowers that seemed to be on every surface.

I'd never seen anything like it.

(I need to start getting out more.)

“You're home!” a voice cried out. A woman who had the same big brown eyes as Tamra hugged her and said, “I know you're upset, but don't go running off like that, okay? We can't have any more members of the family go missing.”

“I'm sorry, Mom.” Tamra hugged her back. “I went to find some friends.”

“Hi, Mrs. Lacy!” Shelby's voice was a lot louder than normal (which was saying a lot). “Yes, we are
friends
. Great
friends
! Allow me to introduce myself, since I have not yet had the good fortune to make your acquaintance. I'm Shelby Holmes. I attend school with Tamra!” She then laughed really hard as if someone had told a joke.

Was this Shelby being calm undercover? If so, we were in trouble.

“Ah, I'm John Watson,” I said to distract everybody from Shelby's jittery behavior, and shook Mrs. Lacy's hand like
a
normal person would do
. “Nice to meet you, ma'am. You have a nice home.”

“Thank you, John.” Mrs. Lacy looked around the apartment nonchalantly.

“Why, yes, it is rather lovely.” Shelby put her arm around Tamra, who in turn placed her head in her hand, probably wondering what she was thinking, asking Shelby over. “Well done!”

Mrs. Lacy tilted her head at Shelby, perhaps curious as to why Tamra would've chosen this tense time to bring home a new friend, especially one acting so uncomfortably. “It's nice to meet you both. Thank you for being here for Tamra. We're all at a loss about what could've possibly happened to our Daisy.” Mrs. Lacy looked like a model (and more like Tamra's older sister than her mom). Every hair was in place, and she had on about fourteen different pieces of jewelry and sky-high heels (how can girls walk in those things?). I felt out of place in a ratty T-shirt and shorts.

“Has Dad called the cops yet?” Tamra asked, getting us back to the pressing matter of the missing dog.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” She wrapped her arms around her daughter.

“Ugh, don't call the cops,” Shelby groaned. “I mean, what are the cops going to do? Am I right?” She then snorted so loudly I wanted to crawl into a hole for her.

Mrs. Lacy nodded at Shelby slowly. “Tamra, can I speak with you in private?”

Mrs. Lacy and Tamra went into a room that was off the large living room where we were standing (my guess was that they were going to call the mental ward to haul Shelby away). Shelby sat down on a leather couch while I remained standing, as I was too afraid I'd stain something.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Of course, Watson, old chum!”

Old chum? Who talks like that?

“You seem a little nervous,” I admitted. While I really didn't know her well, nervous didn't seem like her style. Overly confident maybe, but not nervous.

“I do?” Shelby slouched down on the couch. “I'm usually much better undercover, but I've never had to be someone's friend before.”

“Just be like how you are with your real friends.”

“Right,” she responded quietly.

Of course.
The nervous laughter. The awkward body movements. Shelby had difficulty pretending to be a fake friend because she didn't have a lot of real friends. Maybe none at all.

Sure, everybody in the neighborhood was excited to see her, but they were all adults. Shelby had mentioned how her
“contemporaries” didn't appreciate her talents. Maybe she didn't have any friends her own age?

Was deductive reasoning contagious? Because I so had this thing down.

“You know,” I proceeded cautiously, “I have lots of experience making new friends—one of the talents you get moving around so much. Maybe I can help you?”

Shelby tilted her chin up. “I don't need any help. I'm fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“Listen, Shelby—” I began, but there was a scream accompanied by a loud clattering noise that came from down the hallway.

Followed by the sound of a barking dog.

CHAPTER

7

I
was
on
S
helby
'
s
heels
as
she
raced
toward
the
noise
.

Upon entering the largest kitchen I'd ever seen, a girl a little older than Tamra was trying to calm down a tiny ball of black fur that was barking at an older white woman wearing an apron.

“Get that dog out of here!” the woman cried, her cheeks flushed. “How many times do I have to say it: no animals in the kitchen!”

“Zareen!” A man with a suit on entered the kitchen and snapped his fingers. “Get her out, right now. You know better!”

Zareen picked up the dog, who turned her incessant barking at me before being whisked away.

“You found her!” I started saying before I could help myself. “Where was she?”

“That's not Daisy,” Shelby informed me. “Daisy is a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. That Pomeranian is Zareen's dog, Roxy.”

“And Zareen is—”

“Tamra's older sister.”

“Are you okay, Eugenia?” the man asked the woman, who was shaking considerably from the incident.

“Yes, Mr. Lacy.” Her voice had some sort of accent. Australian? Scottish? Irish? I had a hard time telling the difference. The woman wiped her hands on her apron and went back to cutting up some vegetables. “I didn't mean to scream so loudly. I was simply taken by surprise.”

“I'll go talk to her,” Mr. Lacy said with a sigh. “Again.”

“So you're from Essex?” Shelby asked the woman.

The woman appeared startled that there were other people in the kitchen. “Oh, why, yes. My, you certainly have an ear for accents. Tell me, my dears, who might you be?”

“They're my friends,” Tamra replied upon entering the kitchen with her mother right behind her.

“Would your friends like a snack?”

I looked at Shelby, hoping she wasn't going to say no to another offer for free food. Pizza was one thing, but I was fairly certain that this woman was a professional chef, and
there was no way I wanted to turn down whatever she made in this ginormous kitchen.

Shelby smiled widely at her. “I'd be delighted to partake in the walnut-fudge brownies you made this morning, please.” She sat herself down at the booth that was in the corner of the kitchen.

The woman looked around. “How did you know I made a batch this morning?”

I found myself copying Mrs. Hudson from the first time I met Shelby. “It's just this thing she does.”

I had a feeling I'd be repeating that phrase a lot if I continued hanging out with Shelby.

“However,” Shelby continued, “Watson should probably have something else, like an apple, but with some peanut butter to help stabilize his blood sugar.”

Before I could protest, Shelby turned to me. “In all the excitement, I hadn't noticed how much time had passed. You must be hungry.”

I was. I had breakfast with my mom and made a sandwich for lunch, and then I went out on the stoop. Usually I would've had a snack an hour or so ago.

We sat down as Miss Eugenia, who was in fact the Lacys' personal chef, served Tamra and Shelby brownies with milk, while I tried not to be too jealous as I took a bite of my Granny Smith apple (which might've been the best-tasting
apple I'd ever had—did rich people get their apples from a different place than us common folk?).