We leave our grandpa at the curb in front of Lance’s house, mumbling curses under Bessie’s hood. On the walk back down Baker Street, I work out a plan of action in my head. By the time I push through the front door of my house, I know exactly what to do.
Step one is putting on a shirt. I choose my lucky Inspector Wink-Wink shirt, which I don’t wear much in public because it rattles people to see a kid in the fourth grade wearing a shirt about a TV show for first graders. But you can’t please everybody.
Step two is tracking down every lead we’ve got. “Get on the phone and see if you can talk to Clem, the museum’s janitor,” I instruct Hailey when I find her reading on the couch.
“Nice shirt,” she says with a grin. “Is every other shirt you own in the Man Laundry basket?”
See what I’m talking about!
“We need to know everyone who saw that painting yesterday,” I continue. “And I don’t trust that rock-headed curator as far as I can throw him, which wouldn’t be far.”
“You’re not known for your muscle mass,” Hailey says.
“And see if you can find out what happened to Officer Lestrade.”
“Ten-four, Major Mildew,” Hailey says, saluting.
“And call Lance and tell him we’re almost out of time. I need him to find out the name of the museum’s chairman.”
“Anything else, boss?” she says. “Perhaps you want me to pick up all the dirty underwear in your room? Or pluck the fuzz ball out of your belly button?”
“I have a fuzz ball in my belly button?” I say, feeling around in there with a finger.
“Oh, you probably should see this,” Hailey says, handing me an old, faded photograph. “Grandma says Mrs. Bagby dropped it off earlier.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I gasp, staring at the picture.
“Your shirt threw me for a loop,” she says simply.
The photo shows a much younger Mrs. Bagby, a tall older man, a bearded man wearing a headband and round sunglasses, and a corner of a painting, which I assume is Man with a Cat. The rest of the painting is cut off, but at least I can see a corner.
“Oh, Sherlock, you’re helping that poor splotchy woman?” my grandma says, entering the room. “I’m so proud of you,” she coos, and kisses me on the cheek.
“What about me?” Hailey protests. “What am I? A throw pillow over here?” Grandma gives her a peck on the cheek, too.
Grandma points out the photo’s highlights. “That’s Mrs. Bagby in her pre-splotch days, that is her unpleasantly hairy boyfriend Bobby, and this is the artist McGuffin, and that is the painting that’s been stolen. She said this photo is over thirty-five years old, but it’s the only one she has of the painting.”
“It helps, Grandma,” I say, staring at the photo. “It proves that Mrs. Bagby got the painting directly from the artist himself, and it will go a long way in proving that it’s authentic. That is, of course, if we ever see it again.”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” Hailey says, shooting me a look.
“I need an art expert right now,” I announce. “Is Jessie home?”
“She’s home, dear,” Grandma says, looking down the hallway. “But she’s not in a very good mood.”
I start off down the hallway, into the jaws of the beast. “Well, at least there’s something I can count on in this world,” I say to nobody in particular.