Our school’s office makes me feel itchy, nervous, and guilty for reasons I haven’t been able to figure out yet.
But Hailey? She just loves the place. Heck, she thinks it’s more fun than a barrel of apes.
“Why didn’t you just have Officer Lestrade ask Principal Lupin to get me out of class?” I ask.
“Sherlock, just let me do what I do best, and you do what you do best,” she says. “Besides, we don’t have time for permission slips, parental approvals, and small talk.”
In case you’re wondering why my little sister gets to walk around like she owns the place, it’s because she’s the only second grader on the planet with a free period. She gets a free period for math because she takes a high school geometry class. In short, my little sister is too smart for her own good.
As we enter a room strangely labeled TEACHER’S LOUNGE, PLEASE NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY, I can tell instantly that something is amiss, which is just Sherlock Holmes’s uppity way of saying “messed up bad.”
My eyes sweep over a microwave oven that’s seen one too many beef enchiladas, a chalkboard showing the number of days left till summer vacation, several dozen bottles of assorted pain relievers, and an oxygen tank.
Mrs. Bagby is flat on her back on the couch like a slice of sofa toast, groaning loudly and covered with a splotchy red rash.
Although Mrs. Bagby is usually covered with a splotchy red rash, I notice she is currently breaking her personal splotch record.
Mrs. Bagby visits every class at Baskerville Elementary School once a week to teach squirming kids about art history. I must admit it’s a tough crowd. And she seems to think all the groaning, yawning, and burping means the kids don’t like her. But the sad truth is, most kids don’t give a ham sandwich about art.
“Mrs. Bagby, my brother’s here,” Hailey says in a sweet and caring voice she never uses with me.
I notice Mrs. Bagby has kicked off her shoes. I’ve never seen a teacher’s feet before, and the sight of her plump toes makes me feel uncomfortable and a bit panicky.
Mrs. Bagby blinks in my direction with unfocused, glossy eyes.
“You’re the boy in Miss Piffle’s class who fidgets constantly,” she says unsteadily. “Your sister tells me you’re a mystery solver. Is that right?”
“I’m much better at solving mysteries than I am at art history,” I say awkwardly.
“Well that’s not saying much. You’re getting a C–in Art,” she sighs, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She’s quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “An extremely rare and valuable painting that’s hung in my living room for the last thirty-five years was stolen last night from the Baskerville Museum of Art, History, and Walnut Farming.”
I know the place she’s talking about. My class recently took our field trip there, and we were forced to learn more about growing walnuts than a kid should ever have to.
“Why wasn’t the painting in your living room?” I ask.
“I had finally decided to sell it,” Mrs. Bagby says to the ceiling in a cracking and quivering voice. “The museum is hosting Baskerville’s first annual art auction tonight. I dropped it off just yesterday with tears in my eyes. The money I would have gotten for selling it was going to fund my retirement. Now it’s been stolen.” She turns her watery eyes in my direction. “You seem like the type of person who needs to write things down.”
“Um…I forgot my backpack in my classroom,” I say.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Mrs. Bagby mumbles.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bagby; unlike my brother, I don’t forget things,” Hailey says, shaking her head at me.
Before I can ask another question, Officer Lestrade pokes his head into the room. “Sherlock, there you are! I just came from your classroom. If you want to see that crime scene, I’ve got to take you over there now.
The auction is set to begin in just three hours, and the clock is ticking.”
I consider the fact that my entire class must think I’m being hunted by the police.
I bet Miss Piffle’s eyebrow went bananas.
“Oh, and Sherlock,” Officer Lestrade adds, “a girl in your class named Sharon Sheldon told me to tell you your zipper’s down, but it looks like you figured that one out already.”
Spending the rest of my life hiding under my bed is looking better every minute.