Madeleine Brown and Catelyn Monsen ducked behind the book-fair display in the library, their faces drawn. March and I side-eyed each other before sneaking around a spooky-book tower to listen in on their conversation.
Students who were up-to-date in the fifth-grade genre challenge filled the library. Eavesdropping in a small space filled with chatter tested our keenest spy skills. But we were real professionals, and March got to work blocking the noisiest of kids away from our target.
He grabbed a book in one hand, splayed its pages, and held it open with a thumb, moving back and forth behind me as if enthralled with the story. He mumbled apologies as he pushed into kids, like a human bumper car, clearing a quiet perimeter around Madeleine’s hiding place. I leaned into the book display and strained to hear her and Catelyn talking.
There were whispers and…crying? Catelyn mumbled, “It’s okay, they’ll find him,” while it sounded like Madeleine was weeping. I turned to meet March’s eyes, raising my brows in confusion. I couldn’t even picture Madeleine Brown crying. I spun back and leaned closer to hear her sputter, “We’ve had Lenny since he was a puppy. Now I may never see him again.”
I backed away from the Halloween book display, a cramp pinching my side. Grabbing March’s arm, I whispered, “I think Crowley stole Madeleine’s dog.”
We were halfway to our reading classes before we realized March had taken the library book without checking it out.
Hating Madeleine Brown wasn’t nearly as fun now that she was sad. She stood in the middle of the choral risers wearing dark jeans and a black sweater. Her face was splotchy, like she had a rash, and her hair hung past her shoulders in stringy strands. Her friends, usually bouncing and giggling around her, watched her from the corners of their eyes.
Mrs. Hewitt was preparing us for the Halloween assembly, where each class performed two songs. The fifth grade would sing “Ten Little Witches” and “Gory Monsters Galore,” which ended with a chorus sure to inspire a handful of nightmares:
The gory monsters roam the street,
Looking for a simple treat.
Trickers, oh, look mighty tasty.
Run like lightning, super hasty.
The song was just missing a line about ogres picking their teeth with children’s bones. Even so, I caught myself wishing Denver’s monsters were purple cyclopes or slobbery beasts. Mr. Crowley was the worst kind of scary; he was real.
Mrs. Hewitt showed everyone how to sing from their diaphragms, pushing at a spot below her chest and singing words that began with HA. HAppy HAndy HAmmer HAnky HA HA HA! She reminded me of a teddy bear with a sound box hidden in the stuffing, the kind that you had to push on just right to make the plush laugh or sing or growl.
March towered above everyone on the top row, three up from Madeleine. He was serious about singing, and I could hear his tenor voice clearly, like he was exaggerating for a laugh. When I tried sending him a warning look, he flashed me our secret hand signal—Taco Monster—and kept singing.
Madeleine looked at him over her shoulder, but her face remained expressionless. Any other time, March would have been the target of a verbal Madeleine dart, and her friends would have erupted in laughter. But something about the way she turned back to face the front of the class, her eyes flat and dark like buttons, made me feel sorry for her.
Mrs. Hewitt now pantomimed the signs that went with each line of the song. She used clawed fingers when singing about monsters, a hand visor when searching for treats, a tummy drum for tasty “trickers,” and then the running man on the final line warning everyone to flee.
“Creepy, right?” she asked the class after she finished, breathing heavily from the effort.
She stood before the class, her arms held forward like a zombie’s. Maybe more strange than creepy, but it worked for her.
After music class, as we walked up the stairs, Madeleine caught up to me and grabbed my arm; her fingernails dug into my skin. She whispered in my ear, and her breath was hot. “You know who the Denver Dognapper is. If you don’t let me in on it, I’m going to tell the police.”
My ear felt wet, and I tried to wipe it dry with my shoulder. “The joke’s on you,” I said. “We already told them, and they don’t care.”
She stopped walking, and for a minute I thought she would drop to the floor in a tantrum. Instead she marched forward, her face hardening to stone. “I need to get Lenny back. You have to tell me what you know.”
Rule #2: Do not share operation intel with anyone else. But we had broken that rule when we told CindeeRae that we suspected Crowley was the dognapper, and she probably blabbed about it with her stage voice so that Madeleine finally overheard.
“We have some information,” I admitted. I couldn’t even hear my own whisper over the hallway chatter. “When we know more, we’ll tell you.”
As soon as I said the words, my limbs felt heavy.
Madeleine stopped at the bulletin board outside Mr. Carter’s class. “I want in. Now.” Her eyes flashed, but for a moment I caught a glint of despair. I remembered her best friend list, and I imagined Madeleine’s pirate puppy licking her tears, sitting on her feet, and following her to the soccer field.
“Please?” she added.
March and CindeeRae were going to kill me.
“Did you hear?” CindeeRae plopped into the seat across from March and me at the back of the school bus. She had given our driver a permission slip to ride with us to March’s stop so we could search the hack for more clues.
“You mean about Madeleine’s dog being swiped from Sleepy Hollow last night?” I said, realizing that if March and CindeeRae felt bad enough for Madeleine, they might not be angry at me for inviting her to help us.
“She cried through most of social studies,” March said.
I frowned at that information, trying to build sympathy for our nemesis.
“It makes me hate her less,” CindeeRae said, gazing out the back window as the bus pulled from the turnout. “Maybe Lobster and her dog are friends now. Wouldn’t that be weird?”
“Lenny,” I said.
“What?” March asked.
“Lenny,” I said again as March and CindeeRae studied me. “Her dog’s name is Lenny.”
“Look!” March pointed out the window as we passed the front of the school, and CindeeRae crowded next to us to get a peek.
Madeleine and Catelyn were walking toward the pickup lane, Madeleine wilting with each step, as if standing upright all day had finally taken its toll. Madeleine’s mom waved the two girls toward her, and when Madeleine reached the car she collapsed into her mom’s arms. I couldn’t tell from where we sat, but I imagined her mom’s eyes were red-rimmed like CindeeRae’s mom’s had been a couple weeks ago. Do all moms give their kids rides home from school when their pets have been dognapped?
“That’s horrible.” CindeeRae backed into her own seat and deflated into the cushion. “I remember that feeling.” She shook her head like she was trying to dislodge the memory from her brain.
Now was the perfect time to break the news. “Speaking of horrible things,” I said. “Madeleine somehow kinda heard that we know who the Denver Dognapper is.”
“She what?!” March’s voice was shrill, pinging off the walls of the school bus.
“I know, right?” I folded my arms over my chest, annoyed. “How did that even happen?” I looked from March to CindeeRae, letting my gaze linger on the newest member of our team.
CindeeRae twisted her fingers on her lap. “I was defending you, Kazu.”
“Defending me from what?”
CindeeRae jutted out her lower lip and sighed, the force blowing up her curly red bangs. “Madeleine and Catelyn were making fun of Detective Jones in science class a couple days ago, and I couldn’t let them say that stuff about you.”
“What did you say?” March leaned forward in his seat so he could drill CindeeRae with his squinty eyes.
“Just that Kazu’s already figured out who the Denver Dognapper is.” She shrugged. “They didn’t even believe me—they laughed and called me Little Watson.”
“Now that she knows,” I said, as if everything that happened next was out of my control, “she’s forced herself into the group. Her mom’s dropping her off at March’s this afternoon.”
“What?” March squealed again, this time his voice shriller than before. “Kazuko Jones, what are you talking about?”
“She was sad, guys.” I tapped my foot on the floor, staring at the green backrest of the seat in front of us. “Maybe she can help.”
“Help make the dognapper cry?” CindeeRae shifted in her seat to display perfect, board-straight posture. “Because the only thing that girl is good at is being mean.”
“She’s going to help us solve the case,” I said, feeling for the first time like my detecting hobby had become a little too complicated, even for me. “It’s going to be fine.”
Even though March and CindeeRae didn’t respond, their matching glares told me they didn’t agree.