The Mystery of the Zorse's Mask Page 11

“Looks like trash not evidence.”

  “And you call yourself a spy,” Becca teases. “Didn’t you notice how weird Frankie acted about cleaning his desk and ripping a paper? Why rip it up—unless he’s hiding something.”

  I rub my chin thoughtfully. “It did seem strange.”

  “Highly suspicious,” Becca says. “So I collected all the paper pieces and hid them in my pocket. I’ll tape them together like I did with the letter in your spy game.”

  “Excellent! Too bad I don’t have tape with me. I’ll have to add it to my spy pack. But I do have this.” I dig into my spy pack for a baggie and offer it to her. She stuffs the paper pieces inside, then we head for my house since it’s the closest.

  When Mom sees me walk in with a friend, she gets all excited like I’ve never brought a friend to our apartment—which I haven’t. Mom also notices my shirt.

  “Doesn’t that belong to one of your sisters?”

  “Um … maybe,” I say, smoothing over the leopard fabric.

  “It looks great on you,” Mom says. “I’m glad someone is finally wearing it. Did your sisters give it to you?”

  “Uh … not exactly.”

  “Well, they should,” Mom says with a chuckle. Instead of criticizing me, she offers to return it to my sisters’ closet.

  “Go change before your sisters get home,” Mom says with a conspiratorial wink. “Becca can wait here with me.”

  When I come back, I’m wearing a sky-blue sweatshirt over comfy jeans. Mom and Becca sit close together on the couch, chatting like they’ve known each other for years instead of a few minutes.

  I give Mom the leopard shirt, then turn to Becca. “Come on. Let’s hang in my room. We have that project to work on,” I add with a meaningful look.

  “Oh, yeah. The project.” Becca pats her pocket where she has the letter pieces. She turns back to my mother. “Anytime you want a tour, I’ll set it up.”

  “Thanks,” Mom says. “I’ve really missed being around animals.”

  I grab Becca’s hand and escape to my bedroom.

  “What tour?” I shut my door and lock it.

  “Wild Oaks Sanctuary. Your mother might become a volunteer. She said she has lots of free time since her florist job is only part-time and she enjoys working outside. She talked to me like a friend, not bossy like my mother does. Your mom is coolness.”

  I smile, pleased and little proud of Mom. “Dad’s the diva in the family, and Mom is the peacekeeper. They balance each other out.”

  “You’re lucky,” Becca says with a wistful sigh. And I guess I am. My family has financial problems, but at least we’re together.

  Becca opens the baggie I gave her and spills paper pieces onto my desk.

  “You’ll need this,” I say, then hand her a roll of tape.

  There are about thirty pieces of paper, and Becca swiftly arranges them into place like puzzle pieces. The uneven pieces don’t lie flat, but Becca manages to smooth them out with bits of tape and fit them together. She must have been practicing because she’s really good at this.

  Finally all but one piece—a jagged corner—is in place, a colorful image of jungle animals emerging. I find the missing piece on the floor and carefully stick it in place. I hold the tape, ripping off strips until Becca has the paper pieces together.

  “It’s only a flyer for The Lion King play,” Becca says, disappointed. “I thought it would be a letter or coded message.”

  “You did a great job of piecing it back together.”

  “But it tells us nothing about Frankie. I was just so sure …” Becca’s voice trails off as tosses the taped flyer toward my trash can. But she misses and it sails down to the floor. Neither of us bothers to pick it up.

  “I was sure I saw Frankie too,” I confess. “But it must have been someone else.”

  “Someone who now knows all about the CCSC,” Becca adds grimly.

  I groan, my gaze drifting down to the floor to my shoes, which are scuffed and mud stained. I’m thinking how I should wash my shoes when I notice something odd about the flyer.

  “Look!” I grab the paper and point. “When it fell to the carpet, it flipped over and there’s writing on the back.”

  Becca and I read it together.

  Chapter 17

  A Puzzling Clue

  Frankie has terrible handwriting.

  It’s hard to decipher the words scribbled on the bottom of the paper. At first glance I think they’re just doodles until a few words jump out at me:

  Wild

  Club

  Cats

  Another word looks like it begins with “san” and has a t in the middle … Could it be sanctuary? Wild could be for Wild Road or Wild Oaks. Either way this paper proves Frankie was at the Skunk Shack. He wrote down what he saw; then, when we almost caught him, he ripped up the evidence.

  But Becca pieced it back together.

  “I bow to your puzzle mastery,” I say as I hand back the paper. “This proves Frankie did spy on us.”

  “Why did the drama club—even Mrs. Ross—say he never left?” Becca wonders.

  “Maybe they didn’t know,” I guess. “They saw him go into the storage room but not leave.”

  “How did he sneak out?”

  I rub my chin for a moment. “Could there be a back door?”

  “There must be.” Becca nods. “Large buildings usually have lots of exits.”

  “So Frankie left through the back door, then returned the same way, and no one knew he left,” I guess.

  “What a sneaky snake.” Becca scowls.

  “He was convincing,” I say. “He should be acting in the drama club.”

  “As a villain,” Becca adds bitterly.

  I stare down at the scribbled words, a trail of guilt adding up. “Frankie wrote down what he saw. He followed Leo to Wild Oaks Sanctuary, then climbed up the hill and through the trail to our clubhouse, where he spied in the window.”

  “Exactly,” Becca says with a triumphant snap of her fingers. “Now all we have to do is confront him and make him explain.” She sits on the edge of the bed, a worried look creasing her face. “But how do we tell Leo?”

  “Oh” is all I say because I don’t have a better answer.

  I sit on the bed beside her, our legs dangling over my carpet. Leo seemed happy to work on the costumes for Frankie. I’ve never seen Leo so relaxed. He’s going to be so disappointed when he realizes Frankie lied.

  “Do we have to tell Leo?” I ask Becca.

  “Yeah.” Becca blows out a heavy sigh. “But it can wait.”

  “We’ll tell him tomorrow,” I agree, and we shake on it.

  Becca isn’t in a hurry to return to her empty house, so we study for a science quiz. We work until the aroma of homemade corn bread and spicy chili is too strong to ignore. My parents invite Becca to join us, and suddenly an ordinary night becomes a party.

  My family—even my sisters who usually look down on middle schoolers—are fascinated by Becca’s stories of living on a wild animal sanctuary. She tells us about a dog with the hiccups, being sneezed on by the zorse, and a duck that fell in love with a cat.

  It’s dark by the time dinner is over. My parents offer to drive Becca home, and I tag along with them. After putting her bike in the rear of our SUV, I sit in the backseat beside Becca. My parents have the radio blasting ’80s songs, so Becca and I have to lean close to hear each other.

  “I really like your family,” Becca confides.

  “And they like you too. Usually my brother can’t wait to leave the table, but he stayed for Dad’s blueberry cheesecake.”

  “It was delish! Your dad’s an amazing cook. It’s cool your mom might volunteer to help at the sanctuary. She’s easy to talk to—the opposite of my mom,” Becca adds wistfully. “Mom used to be fun—before Dad left.”

  I remember Mrs. Morales saying how hard it was to run a sanctuary alone. I’ve never asked Becca about her father and only know he’s living in Washington. “Maybe your mother
is lonely,” I say.

  “How could she be lonely when she has me? Yeah, we argue, but I help her out a lot. She doesn’t need anyone else.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask softly. “You’re not home that much with school, the CCSC, and the Sparklers.”

  “Mom isn’t home tonight,” Becca complains. “She’s with that cowboy.”

  We don’t say much after this. I hum along to the song coming from the front seat radio. I watch Becca twirling the end of her ponytail and realize I’m twirling mine too. Streets, houses, and cars blur by as I try to think of something to say that has nothing to do with her mother, Caleb, or Zed. So I talk about the Sparklers.

  “Any new ideas for the fund-raiser booth?” I ask.

  “Only old boring ideas. We’ll probably do face painting again.”

  “But even Tyla admits that wasn’t profitable. Your hair ties are so pretty; they would sell like crazy,” I say, reaching up to touch my leopard hair tie. “I’m wearing mine the same way you wear yours.”

  She gives me a startled look. “Why did you change your hairstyle?”

  “Because yours looks so great on you. I admire your creative style.”

  “But your style is you,” she says so loudly my mother glances at us from the front seat. “You’re already coolness. And you have a great family. I hardly ever see my dad, and when I try to talk to Mom, we end up shouting.”

  “So don’t talk—listen. Give your mom a chance.”

  “She won’t give me a chance.” Becca shakes her head.

  “Sure she will, if you give her your big smile that wins everyone over. People naturally like you. I envy that. Before I started hanging out with the Sparklers, no one even knew my name.”

  “I did,” Becca says. “You sat behind me in homeroom, and I admired how smart you were. Whenever the teacher asked you a question, you got it right without coming off like a smarty-pants. I wanted to get to know you, but whenever I turned around to talk, you looked away.”

  “I did?” I ask, surprised.

  “I thought you didn’t like me, so I gave up trying to talk to you.”

  I can hardly believe this. I think back to the times I stared at the back of her head, wishing she’d talk to me. And to think she was wishing the same thing! If we hadn’t rescued kittens together, we wouldn’t be friends.

  “Once I tried to dye a pink stripe in my hair like yours,” I confess.

  “Don’t try to be like me.” She takes my hand and looks directly into my eyes. “I like the way you are and others do too. Wear your hair loose, put on comfy jeans, and go back to sitting with your other friends at lunch if you want.”

  “I don’t want to—I really like the Sparklers.”

  “Even Tyla?” Becca asks doubtfully.

  “Well … I’m working on it. But you’re right. I’d rather wear jeans and T-shirts minus all the sparkles—except my necklace.” I reach up to trace the smooth crescent shape.

  “Just be Kelsey,” Becca says as the car slows to drive under the archway announcing Wild Oaks Sanctuary. She unfastens her seat belt, then leans over to whisper in my ear. “I think you’re the coolest girl ever.”

  As I’m getting ready for bed that night, I can’t stop smiling.

  Becca thinks I’m cool.

  This is better than every awesome holiday and birthday present combined. And I really do like who I am—not a sparkly girl, just plain Kelsey Case. If I’m in a ponytail mood, I’ll wear one of Becca’s hair ties. But otherwise, it’s back to comfy T-shirts and jeans and my hair loose around my shoulders. I’m not going to be like anyone but me starting tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, I think with a jolt, Zed will be gone.

  And we didn’t solve the mystery of who abused him.

  As I slip into my pajamas, question marks whirl though my head. We found the fly mask but we don’t know who dropped the blue pen I labeled “Evidence A.” Did the shadow dude plan to rob the thrift store? Or was it a homeless person looking for a place to sleep?

  That night, I toss and turn like the fairy-tale princess troubled by a tiny pea beneath her mattress. Only my troubles feel boulder sized. Who abused Zed? Why did Frankie spy on us? Will my father ever find a job? Who tried to break into the thrift store? What do the words on the blue pen mean?

  Desert Sun Train … train, brain, rain, stain …

  Questions whirl, spin and torment me until—

  “That’s it!” I jerk up in my bed.

  I glance at my illuminated clock flashing 3:14 a.m. It’s pitch-dark outside, but a light bursts bright inside my head. Clues add up and point to one person.

  But I need proof.

  Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I race from my room into the living room and power up the computer. I pull up a search engine and type a name.

  A few links come up, but they don’t match my suspect. I try a search combined with the word horse.

  Bingo!

  There is it!

  I think back to when Becca first told us Zed’s owner was coming to take him away. She suspected that Caleb Hunter was a fraud and didn’t really own Zed. But Leo’s web search confirmed Caleb Hunter did indeed live in Nevada, was the grandson of Zed’s owner, and trained horses at D. S. Ranch.

  D. S. Ranch, I ponder. Why does that ranch sound so familiar?

  The more I look at D. S. Ranch, the more my brain tingles. Could D. S. stand for Desert Sun? Desert Sun Train—the words on the blue pen! Only it’s “training,” as in someone who trains horses. Not a sand and dune desert, but a high desert of sage and chaparral.

  Hello, Caleb Hunter: suspect number one.

  But what’s Caleb’s motive? Is he more interested in Zed or the fly mask? He was eager to leave with Zed—until he found out the fly mask was missing. When Becca’s mom told him the mask had been donated to the thrift store, he said he’d wait till Monday to look for it. Yet he didn’t wait. He hid his identity like a thief and tried to break into the store. Only we scared him away, and he tripped over a turtle and dropped his blue pen. If I’d seen him the next day I bet he would have been limping.

  Why go to so much trouble for a bejeweled fly mask? The answer is obvious—the jewels must be real and worth thousands. That would explain why Caleb is so eager to find the mask but not why he lied to us. Did he think we would keep the mask for ourselves if we thought it was valuable?

  But Caleb wasn’t the only one who said the jewels were fakes. Leo’s authenticity test proved the jewels weren’t real. How can I find out the truth? I can’t believe anything Caleb says, and his grandmother is too ill to ask. Who else might know?

  I go back to the computer and skim through the information on Caleb Hunter until my gaze stops on the name Carol Hunter-Bowling.

  Caleb’s sister.

  Hunter-Bowling isn’t a common name, so it’s easy to search for her. She’s a real estate agent and her website gives a business address, phone number, and email. I can’t call in the middle of the night, but I can send an email.

  Do I address it to Miss, Mrs., or Ms. Hunter-Bowling? A husband isn’t mentioned, so I can’t tell if she’s single, married, or divorced. I settle on just her first name and hope that’s okay.

  Now what do I write? I need to let her know right away I’m a friend and not spammer. I should also say I’m sorry her grandma may be dying, but tactful like, not a blunt, “Is your grandma dead yet?” And I want to ask if the fly mask jewels are real.

  I start off with “I like your zorse,” then hit delete and replace it with “My friend has your grandma’s zorse.” Hmmm, still doesn’t work. So I rewrite again, adding three words. Next I type, “I hope your grandma is feeling bitter.” Oops, typo. I change “bitter” to “better.” I add two more sentences and it seems perfect—until I realize I called the zorse “Zed” instead of “Domino.” Another rewrite and I’m done.

  Dear Carol,

  My friend has been caring for your grandma’s zorse. I hope your grandma is feeling better. She’ll be happy when your brothe
r returns Domino. I have some questions about the fly mask. Can you call or email me?

  Sincerely,

  Kelsey Case

  I add my phone number, then hit send.

  When I crawl back under my covers, I fall into a sleep so deep that I don’t wake up until I hear Mom calling my name.

  “Kelsey, Kelsey!” I open one sleepy eye and see my mother peeking into my room. “Why aren’t you up yet?”

  Slowly, I sit up in bed and stretch out my arms.

  “You have a phone call,” Mom says, holding out the phone to me. “It’s Becca, and she sounds upset. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for her.”

  “I will.” I jump out of bed and take the phone.

  “Becca, what’s up?” I say into the phone as the door thuds shut behind Mom.

  “Something terrible has happened,” Becca says, her voice cracking. “I got up early and went to the Skunk Shack—”

  “The kittens!” I interrupt. “Are they okay?”

  “They’re fine. But when I went to get the fly mask, it was gone.” I hear tears in her voice. “The fly mask has been stolen.”

  Chapter 18

  A Shocking Call

  “Mom!” I shout as I rush down the hall. Her bedroom door is open, and she’s standing in front of her free-standing mirror, holding up a blue pleated skirt and matching vest.

  “Is Becca okay?” Mom drops the clothes on her bed and comes over to put her arm around me. “When I talked to her last night, she seemed stressed.”

  “She’s not hurt or anything, but she’s having a crisis and wants me to come over.”

  Mom frowns. “I can’t drive you because I have an important appointment.”

  “I can get there quickly on my bike.” I look up at her hopefully. “Can I go?”

  “Of course. If Becca needs you, you have to go to her.”

  Then you know what my mother does? She calls my school to say I’ll be late.

  “You’re the best,” I say and give her the biggest hug ever.

  I consider calling Leo, but I’m sure Becca already texted him about the theft. He’s probably on his way to her house.

  Hurriedly, I slip into the first pair of jeans I find and put on a comfy green T-shirt. As I reach for my backpack, I notice the yarn sunflower on my dresser. I grab it for luck. I need all the luck I can get today.