I somehow manage to snatch the note out of Miss Piffle’s hand and stumble out through the classroom door.
The eyebrow waves good-bye.
I gulp at the air, fanning my face with the tiny note. My wobbly legs steer me toward the school’s office.
“Hey, my note worked.”
It’s my little sister, Hailey. She grabs the note, shakes her head, and tosses the note into a nearby garbage can.
“You mean that note was fake?” I gasp.
“It wasn’t fake! I really wrote it,” Hailey informs me with a shrug. She starts pulling me down the empty hallway. “Sometimes a lie isn’t a lie, especially when being untruthful is meant to uncover a deeper truth,” she says.
My sister always throws these verbal obstacle courses at me to distract me. They work. As my brain gropes its way through the mental maze, I forget what had me so flipped out in the first place.
Instantly, the tension begins to drain from my scrunched-up forehead.
Then I see a police car waiting at the curb outside the office!
“Holy hot sauce! They know about the burning curtains incident! They’re coming to take me away! Quick, hide me in a garbage can!”
“Whoa! Take it easy!” Hailey yells, holding me by the back of my pants so I can’t dive headfirst into a garbage can. “What burning curtains incident?”
“Never mind,” I snarl between clenched teeth. “The less you know, the better.”
“Hey, that’s your approach to life, not mine,” she shoots back.
I spin around, but the expression on Hailey’s face stops me cold.
She stands, arms crossed, a look of genuine concern in her eyes. “Wait a minute,” she whispers. “This isn’t about burning curtains, is it? You’re an odd shade of pea green. What happened? Oh, no…was Irene Adler picking and eating another one of her scabs?”
For a brief moment I think my lunch might come up for a victory lap. That tuna fish sandwich didn’t look so good before it went down, so I really doubt it would win any beauty contests in its current condition.
“Is Sherlock Holmes a ‘fractional’ character?” I blurt out.
“‘Fractional’? I think you mean ‘fictional,’” she replies evenly. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything,” she continues, shifting uncomfortably. “Sherlock Holmes is not real. Okay? He never was. He’s just a character created for some magazine stories over a hundred years ago. Sorry.”
My lower lip quivers. My eyeballs feel like they’re doing figure eights in my skull. The air seems to have gone mountain-peak thin.
“Hey, I’m sorry for your loss, but you need to snap out of it,” Hailey says, stabbing a finger in my chest. “The cop that’s parked out front is Officer Lestrade. He’s looking for you. And not because you torched some window coverings. Mrs. Bagby, our very own art teacher, had a valuable painting ripped off last night. Lestrade asked me to get you out of class. He needs your help. Now. As in extra pronto with a cherry on top and a police cruiser at the curb.”
I’m still in shock over the disturbing news about my hero. But my fifth official case as a private detective just fell into my lap like a very large bowling ball. And it feels great!
I notice I’m no longer gasping for breath. I’m once again sucking in air like a champ. “Let’s go crack us a case,” I say with a nod.
“Great,” Hailey replies. “But before we interview Mrs. Bagby, you might want to zip up your zipper.”