Ms. Early met her eye. “Smashie,” she said, “you assured me that suit would not be disruptive.”

“Sorry, Ms. Early,” said Smashie, and fixed her belt. She sat with her cheeks in her hands. So far, this new Investigator Suit was not doing the trick. And now Ms. Early was irritated with her, too. How was that going to put her in a frame of mind to let Smashie sing in the musicale? Smashie had better watch her step, was what.

“I’d like to look at that problem I gave you for homework,” said Ms. Early. “How many tens in two hundred and fifty-nine?”

But Dontel and Smashie, who normally adored math class, were both distracted and could scarcely pay attention.

“Sort yourselves into groups of four or five and compare your work,” said Ms. Early. “I want all of you to really think, Room 11.”

Dontel shook his head wearily at Smashie. “We might as well try taxing Billy now,” he said.

Smashie pulled her mind back to the investigation. “Even though we are the world’s worst taxers today,” she agreed.

“Dontel and Smashie,” called Ms. Early, “are you paying attention?”

“Yes,” said Dontel. “I was just going to ask Billy to work with me and Smashie.”

“Sure,” said Billy.

“Can I, too?” asked Cyrus.

“And me?” asked Jacinda.

“That’d be great,” said Smashie. But in her heart she despaired. Losing John as a suspect was a giant failure. She had been so sure he was the perp! Billy was a pale second choice. And how were they going to tax him anyhow, in front of Cyrus and Jacinda?

But she grabbed a bin of math cubes and a sheaf of paper and headed with Billy and Dontel to the meeting area rug to work. As they passed Ms. Early’s desk, Smashie began to hum a few bars of “Smacked in the Heart.”

But “Be sparing with that paper, Smashie” was all Ms. Early said. “We are running low.”

Smashie’s heart sank. “We will be,” she said, and slouched back over to her group.

Dontel looked at her. She shook her head. He patted her comfortingly on the arm.

“What’s the suit, Smash?” Jacinda asked amiably, joining them from the back of the room, a pencil in her hand.

“Oh, just a . . . just a suit,” said Smashie. “For . . . for choreographing. And thinking,” she said, still unhappy with her attempt with Ms. Early but uncomfortable with her fib. “So how many tens do you all think we can make out of that number?” she asked her group.

But the other children were still eyeing Smashie’s suit.

“My mom and dad have belts like that,” said Cyrus. “They’re mechanics, so they always have tools handy.”

“My dad works with computers, but he got laid off a while ago,” said Jacinda. “He’s still looking for a job. But my mom’s a patent lawyer.”

“What’s a patent lawyer?”

“They help you make sure no one else can copy an idea you have for an invention or something.”

“Oh,” said Smashie. “Well, my mom’s a phlebotomist. They’re the ones that take your blood at the doctor.”

“Ugh!” said Jacinda. “I hate needles!”

“Everybody does,” said Smashie. “My mom says it’s tough being the one no one wants to see.”

“Smashie’s group! Get to work!” Ms. Early was stern.

The group hastily started working.

Smashie wrote in large numerals at the top of a piece of paper.

“Here, Smashie,” said Billy. “Have some cubes. Let’s see how many tens we can use to build this.”

“Thanks,” said Smashie. She glanced over in Ms. Early’s direction. Ms. Early was busy with Tatiana’s group and was not looking their way. “Bet you’re still real mad about the musicale, huh?” she said, arranging cubes into sticks of ten. “Because you can’t sing ‘Machine Gun Jailbreak’?”

“‘Machine Gun Jailbreak’ is a great song,” said Billy determinedly.

“Billy,” said Smashie meaningfully.

“Oh, heck, I don’t care if I can’t sing it,” said Billy.

Smashie dropped her cubes.

“I knew Ms. Early wouldn’t let me sing ‘Machine Gun Jailbreak,’” Billy continued. “I was just stirring things up. And besides, all I really want is my hair lengthened and molded into a shape. I can’t wait for the musicale!”

Dontel looked up from his own work, shocked. “What?” he said incredulously.

“Yeah,” said Billy happily. “A good hair molding will be a blast. My mom’ll freak. I’m hoping Charlene can make me an actual hair roller-skate shape like Tatiana’s! Or if I don’t have enough hair for that” — his eyes glinted — “maybe she can mold me into some kind of monster! And I can tell my mom it’s permanent!”

Smashie and Dontel looked at each other in despair. Both their suspects had fended them off before they could even tax them — and fended them off spectacularly. The motives they had thought of yesterday had completely fallen apart. Neither John nor Billy had any desire at all to sabotage the musicale. And it was clear that Billy actively wanted Charlene to use the goop on him, so it was no prank of his, either.

Ugh!

They had no more suspects. Smashie’s suit had failed and so had all the notions sparked by yesterday’s motion, including Dontel’s plan to convince Ms. Early to let Smashie sing. What were they going to do?

“Ms. Early!” Joyce was at her cubby. “I just came back here to get some markers from my backpack, and guess what!”

Smashie and Dontel sat up straight, their failures forgotten.

“The hair goop is gone!” cried Dontel before Ms. Early could respond.

“Yes!” cried Joyce. “How did you know? What is going on in here?”