“A clue!” cried Smashie. Luckily her shout was drowned out by the din of the playing children.

“Yes,” said Dontel. And he reached behind one of the rear wheels of the basketball bin and brought out a jar. A familiar-looking jar.

“That’s not just a clue! That’s the stolen goods itself!” cried Smashie. “What? Who? How?”

“I don’t know,” said Dontel. “But now I know we’re onto something. I’ve remembered what made me think so before!”

But before he could go on, the PHWEET of the yard lady’s whistle sounded and it was time to line up.

Dontel placed the jar carefully back where he found it.

“Why are you putting it back?” Smashie was plaintive. “We need to show the kids! We can be heroes! We can do some hairstyles after all! And now maybe the rest of them will forgive us for Mr. Bloom! Take the jar!”

“No,” said Dontel. “I’ve got good reasons. Trust me, Smash.”

And although she was full of misgivings, Smashie nodded. Dontel was the finest thinker she knew. She did trust him. But it was certainly hard to control her patience. And it was even harder to join a line of children who were all mad at them. The frostiness toward Smashie and Dontel was palpable.

“Didn’t see you doing much dancing,” said Cyrus to them as they walked down the hall. “What, were you too busy thinking of other people to accuse?”

“We said we were sorry,” said Smashie. “We really are.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” said Willette. “You better think of a way to make it up to Mr. Bloom.”

“We will,” said Dontel. But the look on his face was determined, not meek. Whatever he had figured out about the jar was giving him confidence.

The children filed back into Room 11. Ms. Early looked at them. “Why do you all look so unhappy?” she said.

“We’re not,” said Siggie. “Some of us are mad.”

“Oh. Well. Let’s see if we can put aside those feelings for now. It’s time for writing. We can talk at the end of the day if you all feel like we need to.”

“No. It’s fine,” said Jacinda. “Smashie thinks it’s fine, too, don’t you, Smashie?”

“I think it’s very fine,” said Smashie hastily. She couldn’t bear for Ms. Early to know that she had been rude to Mr. Bloom. What if they talked in the staff lounge? she worried. What if Ms. Early winds up not liking me anymore, either? If only they could solve this case! Then the kids would forgive them and she and Dontel could have a real heart-to-heart with Mr. Bloom.

Ms. Early furrowed her brow briefly. But all she said was “Fine. Get out your notebooks and use this time to generate thoughts, or if you’re working on a story, keep going. I’ll come around to check in with you as you work.”

“Come on, Smash.” Dontel grabbed Smashie’s wrist and their notebooks and tugged her into the reading corner.

“Tell me everything!” Smashie demanded. She couldn’t imagine working on her writing before she knew what Dontel had remembered.

“Smashie,” said Dontel, his voice deep with mystery, “I don’t think the thief is stealing the jars to sabotage our musicale. I think we have stumbled onto enormous intrigue!”

“Intrigue!” breathed Smashie. “I love intrigue! But how do you know it’s intrigue?”

“The jars!” said Dontel. “Remember when Charlene passed around the first one? The one that rolled away and that Mr. Bloom found?”

“Yes,” said Smashie. “Dontel, are you thinking that the second jar rolled all the way from our room to the gym and behind the basketball bin wheel? Because I think that goes along with my idea about Charlene’s mother somehow making them jet-propelled!”

“Smashie,” said Dontel wearily, “the jars are not jet-propelled. Believe me, I’d be glad if they were. But no. This is something else. There’s something different about this jar. This is definitely the second jar, the one Charlene used to make Joyce’s first hairdo — that hair heart.”

“How do you know?” asked Smashie.

“Because” — Dontel paused — “I remember that the first jar, the one Mr. Bloom found that Charlene used to make your music note, only had the words about Herr Goop on it. But the second jar had numbers on it. And so did the third jar — the one Joyce’s mom bought. I remember because I looked at them all.”

“I noticed that, too,” said Smashie. “Why does that matter? And how do you know this was the second jar and not the third?”

“Because I remember that one of the numbers on that second jar was 77!” said Dontel. “I didn’t remember the other numbers, but I remembered that one.”

“Dontel,” said Smashie, “I mean this in a nice way, but — who cares?”

“Hear me out, Smashie,” cried Dontel. “Because even though I don’t remember the numbers on the third jar — the one that Joyce’s mom bought — I know that there was no 77. Why would the numbers be different?”

“OK,” said Smashie. “If only we had the rest of the numbers on that jar you found in the gym, we might be able to figure it out!”

“We do,” said Dontel smugly. “I wrote down all the numbers that were on that jar. I have them right here, in my Investigation Notebook.”

“Dontel,” said Smashie, “you are a wonderful investigator.”

“Only sometimes,” said Dontel modestly. And he opened his notebook to the page where he had written down the numbers.

The two investigators stared at the numbers. Then slowly, they turned to look at one another. Smashie knew their minds were as one.

She was right.

“Smashie,” said Dontel, “I think this is a secret code! And that means —”

“There is not just one thief! Two people must be involved!”