Mayor Robert P. Fliggle lives in a swanky mayor’s residence that itself could be called a museum.
I must admit, I’m impressed.
And disgusted. Our school’s science lab has only five microscopes—three are broken and the other two don’t work! Meanwhile, our mayor lives like a fat cat in bird heaven.
After I’ve been pacing around like a caged shark for five long minutes, an aide ushers me down the hall to the mayor’s home office. I notice that all the art hanging on the walls looks pricey. It appears as if Baskerville’s mayor is something of an art lover himself, so getting his cooperation may not be so hard after all.
In my head, I try to calculate how many microscopes one of these paintings would buy. I reach a grand total: plenty.
I’m turned loose in the mayor’s office.
Mayor Fliggle is on the phone, leaning back in his chair, boots up on his desk. Although he certainly looks fat and happy, he seems smaller in person than he looks on TV. I imagine that’s common with politicians.
He holds his hand over the phone. “Your zipper’s down, son.”
“I know,” I say, irritated at my impossible situation.
He looks confused for half a second. “Trying to start a new fashion trend, eh?” He says this with a rumbling chuckle and a shake of his head. “Nice shirt, too.” He pulls his hand from the phone. “Twenty-three five,” he says into the phone, and gives me a thumbs-up sign.
“I’m here about my art teacher’s painting. It was stolen from the museum last night.”
The mayor picks up a slip of paper off his desk. “It says here you needed an emergency meeting because you have three million dollars you’d like to donate to my next campaign.”
“I did?” I croak. “Oh! No, that’s just my sister. I mean, that was her idea. I’m here about the stolen painting.”
The mayor seems puzzled by the sudden change in his agenda.
“Yes! A shame! A scandal!” he says to me, staring at the note again. “Twenty-four,” he says into the phone. “The newspaper keeps calling me for a comment,” he says to me, or to someone on the phone—it’s getting hard to tell.
“Did you notice anything unusual when you were in the museum yesterday?” I ask, feeling my chances fading by the second.
“Who are you again?” he says, giving me a sideways glance.
“I’ve been hired to recover my art teacher’s painting,” I say.
“Are you putting me on?” he says, forcing a smile. “Is this a joke? A prank? Is there someone out in the hall?”
“I’m no prank, although many people think I’m a joke,” I say, instantly kicking myself for saying something so lame. I’m not even sure what I mean by it. I wish my mouth would just keep its mouth shut!
“But there is someone out in the hall!”
It’s Hailey. She’s out in the hall. Finally, she’s announced herself before sneaking up on me. Miracles really do happen.
“Sherlock, I need to talk to you!” she hisses from the hallway, refusing to enter the room.
“Just a minute,” I hiss back.
“Twenty-five five,” the mayor says into the phone, not sure if the drama that’s playing out in front of him is a comedy or a tragedy.
“Right now!” Hailey whispers urgently. “You need to hear what I have to say.”
“Great! I’ll pick it up tomorrow,” the mayor says. “Send me a bill.”
“Me?” I say, confused.
“No, not you,” he says. “Look, I’m not even sure who you are!”
“It’s complicated,” I say, backing out of the room. “Um, hold on, Mister Mayor, er…Your Honor…I’ve got to talk to my little sister for a second.”
“Is she the one with the three million dollars?” he asks, throwing his arms up in the air with confusion.
“Lance called,” Hailey whispers in my ear. “The mayor’s name is Robert.”
“You’re interrupting me to tell me who I’m talking to?” I growl between clenched teeth. “I know that already!”
“Granted, you have an uncanny grasp of the completely obvious, Sherlock,” she says, grabbing me by the shoulders. “But do you know the mayor’s nickname?”
“How should I know? Is it Fat Cat? Mayor Big Booty?”
“I heard that!” the mayor calls out from behind his desk.
“People named Robert are often called Bob,” Hailey whispers. “And sometimes they’re called Bobby.”
“And?”
“Remember Mrs. Bagby’s boyfriend?” she says, pulling the photo from my back pocket and pointing to the hairy guy with Mrs. Bagby.
“So they have the same name!” I exclaim. “That doesn’t mean anything. It could just be—”
“I called Mrs. Bagby,” Hailey interrupts, waving the cell phone in my face. “She confirmed that the mayor was her boyfriend, the one in the picture, when the artist gave her that painting. They broke up not long after that. She hasn’t spoken two words to the mayor since then. It didn’t end well.”
“But that doesn’t mean he stole the painting,” I argue, trying to see the mayor in the bearded guy in the photo.
“That’s not all,” Hailey says, checking the hallway for anybody who may be listening. “Lance also told me who the museum’s chairman is….”
My eyes open wide. A tingle creeps over my scalp like a tarantula on roller skates. I’m hearing bells and whistles and sirens in my head. “The mayor?” I croak.
Hailey nods. “That means something, right? The mayor was the one telling the curator to get rid of us and sweep this mess under the rug.”
“Why didn’t Mrs. Bagby say anything about the mayor?”
“She didn’t know he was mixed up in this,” she says.
Like a key sliding into a lock, the tumblers in my head click into place. I feel like a drowning man who just got hit on the head with a lifeline. A ray of hope breaks through the darkness inside my skull. I run for the light.
“It means something, all right,” I say slowly. “It means we need to go now.”
“Go?” Hailey shrieks. “Go where? We’ve got the mayor right where we want him. Let’s go in there and squeeze him like a kitchen sponge!”
“Mayor Fliggle, this meeting is over!” I announce, and start pulling Hailey back down the hall.
“What about the donation?” the mayor hollers from his office. “I don’t need all three million at once!”
I now know that Mayor Fliggle knows all about Mrs. Bagby and her treasured masterpiece. As the museum chairman, the mayor is also aware of all of the ins and outs of the museum. He even appears to like nice paintings. But does that mean he stole Man with a Cat?
I’m the only one who can crack this case, but I’m still only half cracked at this point! And once the auction is over, my instincts tell me my chances of solving this mystery will be, too.
It’s clear that the next few minutes will either whisk me directly into a glorious hero’s welcome or smack dab into an extra-thick brick wall.