CHAPTER 18

The next day, the most exciting thing happened during language arts. Charlie was sent to get some photocopies of our worksheets, and he came back all out of breath and wide-eyed with what looked like both

(It was sort of like the time he ate too much strawberry licorice and went all hyperactive.)

He sat down and said, “I can’t believe I’m still alive.

It was so fun but so terrifying.”

“What was? What did you do?” I whispered.

“Tell us,” said Daniel.

Charlie stood up and then sat down again and then tried to find his pencil before he finally blurted out,

“You? BROKE? You broke into . . . ?” I managed.

“Whoooooa. Yes, Charlie!” said Daniel.

“OK, well, actually I didn’t have to break in—the door was open. But I went in!!! I could see from the photocopy room that he wasn’t there, and I really didn’t know when he might come back, but something in me just said, and my legs started running without my brain giving permission!”

“What did you find?” I asked, still in shock.

“I was looking for the stolen money, but it wasn’t there.”

“That doesn’t mean that he didn’t do it, does it? He might have spent it.”

“Yes, you’re right, but I saw a copy of a letter on his desk that he had written to the local police station . . . and, well, it was all about the missing money and said how upset he was about the whole thing and how he wants them to do more to help us. And, well . . . I have taken the letter, and it possibly . . . be in my pocket.” Charlie breathed quickly in and out and bounced on his chair.

“Never in a would I have imagined you doing that, Charlie! I’m rubbing off on you!” Daniel gave him a proud slap on the back.

“Show us,” I squealed.

Charlie handed over the letter, and we passed it to each other secretly, ignoring nosy glances from Ellie and Sarah.

“Yup. He’s innocent,” I said.

“Innocent,” agreed Daniel.

“I feel like a   or something.” Charlie looked at his hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what they’d done.

“You are, Charlie! That’s one suspect down, four to go. We’re like   My brain went into overdrive, trying to think of how we were going to investigate everyone else. How could three kids be more like James Bond?

Daniel had his thinking face on. “I think I have a plan for Mr. Martin . . .”

Charlie and I leaned in just as Mrs. Hutchinson noticed that we weren’t really concentrating on our worksheets.

“Boys, don’t make me come over there to find out what you’re chatting about,” she said in her voice that she uses to mean

Super spying was going to have to wait.

---

•  •  •

At home that evening, I couldn’t decide whether to think of moneymaking ideas or spying ideas—it made my head hurt! To cheer myself up, I imagined H₂O trying to be a super spy and hiding his huge dragon body behind a tree, which made me laugh out loud.

The deadline for the mosque building work was drawing closer and closer. We only had eight days left. I looked through my keepsake box for inspiration and found a painting Esa had given me when he was two years old. It was in quite good condition and was of birds made out of his in bright colors. I had kept it because it was so cute (don’t tell anyone just how much I love him, OK?). I figured if it meant something to me, it might mean a lot to Dad.

So I went to look for Dad, and found him in the garden, pulling out some weeds, probably in exchange for Mom cooking dinner tonight. Dad would never do gardening just because he wanted to.

“Dad, will you buy this for $5,000?” I showed him the card. “Esa will never have tiny hands like this ever again . . .”

Just then, Mrs. Rogers popped her head over the hedge and said, “How’s the moneymaking going?”

“That depends,” I answered. “Dad? Was that a yes?”

“Um, no.” Dad shook his head.

“It’s going badly, Mrs. Rogers,” I said. But I laughed. I guess that had been a pretty

way to try to make some quick money. Dad and Mrs. Rogers laughed, too.

“You keep the painting, Omar—Esa made it especially for you. But I’ll let you have $10 for helping me with the weeds,” said Dad, opening his wallet.

“Cool!” I said, and stuck the money in my jeans pocket.

“And we could make some more cookies for you to sell, Omar,” Mrs. Rogers added kindly. “I know they won’t raise as much as the talent show, but every little bit helps, eh?”

Then and there, I decided to cross Mrs. Rogers off our suspect list. There was just she’d taken the money—she’d helped us a ton, and she’d been really looking forward to visiting the mosque with us, too.