“The TrueYum Grocery Mart,” said Smashie firmly.

“What? Why the TrueYum? I never noticed they sold super big figs before.”

“I don’t know if they do, either,” said Smashie. “But, Dontel! Think of the sign just by the entrance!”

Dontel’s mouth dropped open. “It is a picture of an enormous fig!” He looked at Smashie in admiration. “Smashie,” he said, “I thought you were losing it with the magical-being stuff, but this is excellent. You are something else!”

And they slapped each other’s hands with their hands.

“But how will we get there?” Smashie wondered aloud. “It’s way outside the parameters of where we’re allowed to go alone.”

“My grandma,” said Dontel firmly. “She told me this morning that she needs to go shopping this afternoon. We can just . . . encourage her to take us.”

“We can offer to help,” said Smashie. “Then we won’t feel guilty about not telling the whole truth.” But she did feel a bit guilty.

“I think we are doing it for the greater good, don’t you?” said Dontel. “Something is happening, and it’s up to us to catch the perp!”

“That’s true,” said Smashie, comforted somewhat. “Oh, well. Let me get permission to come over to your house.”

“You can’t play at Dontel’s today,” said Grammy when Smashie got home. “Mrs. Marquise and I have to go shopping. We’re cooking for both families tonight and we need supplies.”

Smashie could scarcely believe her luck. She bounced up and down in front of Grammy.

“That’s great!” she said. “I really want to go!”

Grammy looked at her strangely.

“You hate grocery shopping,” she said. “You always say it’s like being trapped in the boringest place in the universe, and you complain and thrash about until we can leave.”

“Not today,” said Smashie. “Me and Dontel want to make brownies. May we? For tonight’s dessert? We can get the ingredients.”

“Brownies?” said Grammy doubtfully. “Do you have to make a mess in the kitchen today, of all days? We’re having the families eat together so we can help you and Dontel get ready to lead your first rehearsal tomorrow.”

“We want to take some brownies to Mr. Bloom as well.”

“The custodian? Why? Did you make a big mess at school?” Grammy was stern.

“No,” said Smashie. “At least, not the kind of mess you mean.”

“Hmm.” Grammy looked at her thoughtfully. “All right. As long as it’s okay with Lorraine.” That was Dontel’s grandma. The cooking for the night’s supper was to happen in the Marquise kitchen.

“Thank you!” cried Smashie, hugging Grammy around the waist. She ran to the front door and flung it open.

“She said yes!” she screamed across the street at Dontel in his yard.

“My grandma did, too!” screamed Dontel back. And they air-high-fived across the street. The two grandmothers, standing in their respective doorways, exchanged looks and sighed. They very much saw eye to eye when it came to Dontel and Smashie.

“All right,” said Mrs. Marquise as they pulled into the parking lot of the TrueYum. “You two find us a cart with four good wheels while Sue and I go look at the produce.”

“We’ll investigate things about produce, too!” cried Smashie, looking at Dontel meaningly.

Dontel elbowed her quiet as the two women made their way into the store. “Quit almost giving us away! Who needs produce for brownies, for Pete’s sake?”

“Sorry, Dontel,” said Smashie. “I was just enjoying the coincidence.” And the two children sidled casually over to the rows of carts, which stood handily below the TrueYum fig sign.

“Well,” said Smashie, “that certainly is a big fig. But I don’t see anything suspicious about it, do you?”

“No,” said Dontel. “I guess I don’t really get what we are supposed to do now. Let’s test some carts and think.” For the TrueYum carts were old, and the grandmothers were very picky about having carts with four working wheels.

Creak, crark, went Smashie, testing a cart.

Crark, creak, went Dontel, testing another. “This is no good.” He stopped, hand on the cart handle, and this time, it was his jaw that dropped.

“You have an idea!” squealed Smashie.

“Shh!” whispered Dontel fiercely. “There are passersby! And who knows who might be involved?”

“You are right,” said Smashie. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What are you thinking?”

“Look at the top of the sign.”

Smashie looked at the sign, which lay flush against the wall of the market. “I don’t see anything,” she confessed. “Except hinges.”

“Exactly,” Dontel whispered. “And that means . . .” He snaked his fingers under the bottom edge of the sign. “You keep watch.”

Smashie looked around the parking lot. No one was looking in their direction.

Dontel lifted the edge of the sign. The hinges creaked. He drew in his breath sharply.

“What?” cried Smashie, and came around to look.

But there was nothing there. Nothing, except a piece of tape to which a scrap of paper was still stuck, clearly torn off from a larger sheet that had been fastened there.

“We’re too late,” said Smashie. “Somebody already got what was taped there!”

“We are too late,” Dontel agreed. “But we were right, Smashie! These thefts were never about the goop!”

Smashie nodded. “The jars are clues to something much bigger! It was about secret messages the whole time!”

“Yes,” said Dontel. “But what are the secret messages? What do they say?”

“And why use our goop to send clues? Maybe we have another enemy who really does want to wreck our musicale as well as be involved in intrigue!”

But before Smashie could start up her imagination on the topic, the doors to the TrueYum flew open. “Are you two ever coming in with that cart?” Grammy demanded. “Or do you want Mrs. Marquise to walk around with her arms full of tomatoes for the next half hour while you chitchat?”

The shopping over, Smashie and Dontel were in the Marquises’ kitchen, working on the brownies.

Smashie slapped her forehead. “I completely forgot to ask you. Why didn’t you let me take the jar from under the basketball bin? Why did you want to leave it there?”

“Because,” said Dontel, cracking the first egg into the bowl, “it was placed there so carefully I knew it was meant for someone. It was no accident.”

“But who could it have been meant for?”

“The code receiver,” said Dontel.

“I know that,” said Smashie. “But who could that be?”

“I have no idea,” Dontel admitted. “But we can watch to see if another one appears there under the indoor basketball bins again. Maybe we’ll even catch who comes to collect it in the act!”

“We would have to have a hot pursuit!” Smashie’s mind filled with the image of her and Dontel racing after the suspect, arms pumping, legs churning, and finally grabbing the collar of the perp and turning him or her over to the authorities. Or at least to Ms. Early. And then maybe she would be so proud of Smashie that she would let her sing in the musicale! Smashie’s Investigator Suit looking so much like an Officer of the Law Suit would be good for catching a perp like that. Though, she supposed, now that the kids were onto that particular suit, she couldn’t wear it again.

“Who do you think left the jar there?” said Smashie. “Charlene’s mom? She’s the one who makes the goop and puts it in the jars and labels them. It makes sense that she’s the one putting the codes on them.”

“But why would she?” said Dontel, cracking another egg.

“I don’t know why,” Smashie admitted. “But if it was her, we might not have noticed because she did it in a black sneaky Thief Suit!”

“You always think people are doing things in black sneaky Thief Suits.”

“Fine. Maybe she wore camouflage, then,” said Smashie, and she began to stir the batter with all her might. “She could have elbowed her way across the room on her stomach and we’d never see her! She could reach up, steal the jars, and —”

“Smashie.” Dontel picked up the rubber scraper. “I am going to have to stop you. This makes no sense. If she wanted those particular jars, she would have just kept them at her house. My goodness. And besides, she and Charlene were both really happy we were going to use her goop so more people would come to her hair salon.”

“Ugh,” said Smashie. She knew Dontel was right. “Fine. But then I am going back to my magical-being theory.” And she held the bowl while Dontel sighed and scraped the batter into the pan.

Dinner between the two families eaten, the adults and kids assembled in the Marquises’ living room. Dontel’s mother started the music. Smashie and Dontel began to practice teaching everybody how to dance the Pony.

“Fling your arms like this!” Smashie shouted to the adults while Dontel counted out the beat.

“Do your feet like this!” Dontel shouted while Smashie critiqued the grown-ups’ form.

And everybody flailed their arms and Ponied until it was time for Smashie, her mother, and Grammy to go home.

“I hope the kids aren’t too mad at us to let us teach them,” said Smashie under her breath as everybody said their good-byes at the door.

“They won’t be. We have those apology brownies. I think Mr. Bloom and the kids will forgive us.”

“I sure hope so. Otherwise, we have some dark days ahead.”