Mystery on Museum Mile Page 13

  “It’s okay, Detective,” I say, trying to distract him. He’s semiconscious and beginning to thrash a bit. “Stay still. Help is on its way. Try to relax. Think of something nice.” But not my mother, I mentally add.

  He groans and shifts his arm. More blood bubbles out of his shoulder. “Detective, don’t move,” I say. “Please just breathe. Relax. Think of happy things. Like ice cream . . . or calzones.”

  I am an idiot.

  Chapter 32

  Edmund

  May 14

  I give a tentative tap on the door of the hospital room the next morning.

  “Come in,” a low voice murmurs.

  I look back at my dad. He frowns and nods me forward with his head. He still isn’t speaking to me. Way too angry. He sits down in the waiting room with my mother, who is shooting me major daggers. I am on my own with this one.

  I won’t bore you with the gory details of what happened when they got to the station last night. Full-on wrath. Grounded until I’m eighty.

  Bovano’s lying on the hospital bed, his arm in a sling. A hint of flesh reveals itself through an opening in his hospital gown. I shudder at the possible sight of white hairy skin. Did they have to shave him for surgery? That must have taken hours.

  Mom insisted I bring flowers. I feel like a complete tool handing him a bouquet of carnations. I should have brought pizza. White and red flowers don’t seem to say “Gee, I’m sorry I got you shot.” Then again, neither does pizza. Hallmark should look into a greeting card for that one.

  I stand there while he raises the bed to a sitting position. The longest twenty seconds of my life.

  Time to apologize to this man yet again. I gulp back my nerves. He took a bullet for you. You owe him. “I’m so sorry, Detective Bovano. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  My voice trails off. Didn’t mean to what? Lie? Steal? Go behind everyone’s back? Bovano still got shot in the end. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  “Sit down, Eddie.” He gestures to the chair next to his bed, his face set in a soft expression. At least I think it’s a soft expression. Could be drug-induced.

  Staring down at my sneakers, I slide into the seat. The low rumble of an infomercial on the television promises a magical machine that can make healthy shakes out of anything, including the living room rug. It’s hypnotic.

  Bovano’s voice breaks my trance. “You understand now why I never wanted you on the case, don’t you? Too dangerous, too risky. When Alisha pulled the gun on you last night, I thought . . .” He shakes his head, his eyes haunted.

  He clears his throat. “But I’m proud of you, kiddo. You did what I couldn’t. You solved the case and stuck to your guns, even when I fired you. I’m proud of you.”

  We are back in the Twilight Zone from yesterday.

  I want to tell him about Jonah, give credit where credit is due, but why remind him of all the rules I broke? This once, I keep my mouth shut.

  “Of course,” Bovano continues in a sterner tone, “I’d also like to wring your neck, but I can’t. My arm’s in a sling.”

  I let out a sound between a gasp and a giggle. I don’t think he’s kidding.

  He studies me a moment. “I suppose you want to know what happened with the Picasso Gang? Who we caught . . . and who we didn’t?”

  What? They weren’t all caught? My nod is shaky as it dawns on me that I may not be safe. Will they put me in a witness protection program? Cart me off to Nebraska? So much for doing all of this to stay at Senate Academy.

  “We caught Alisha. And Galen Lee.”

  Who? My eyebrows fold in confusion.

  “The guy with the long beard,” he clarifies. “The Asian.”

  Ah, Marco. Not sure I can get used to thinking of him as Galen.

  “Lars and the others are still at large. I’m guessing we won’t hear from them for a while. Lars must be stunned that we figured out his elaborate game. Or that you did, I should say.”

  Bovano starts to pick at the sheet on his bed. I grip the metal armrests of my chair, the reality of the situation flooding down on me like an ice-cold shower. What if Lars knows who I am? What if he comes after me? What if—?

  “You’ll have to testify, Eddie. Against Alisha and Galen. You are a key eyewitness.”

  My breathing hitches and my leg starts to twitch.

  He smiles and pats my arm. “A closed testimony. You won’t be in the courtroom. They’ll never see you. They don’t know your real name, either. Alisha never had access to it. She’ll be locked away for a very long time. Not to worry. And she swore last night on a lie-detector test that the others knew nothing about you. She never thought you were a threat. So that’s a good thing.”

  I settle down a little. Suddenly I have a great appreciation for Bovano’s rules. Having a code name was an über-good idea.

  He scrutinizes me for a moment, a sour look growing on his features like the meds are wearing off and he’s just remembered how much I annoy him. “I suppose you should go. Thanks for the flowers.”

  I nod and stand to leave. The safety (and anger) of my parents is right outside that door. I just want to be home; being grounded is fine by me.

  “Eddie?” Bovano calls from his bed.

  I turn. “Yeah?”

  “I’ll make sure you get that check. For the full amount. You’ve earned it. You need the best education you can get. We need minds like yours on the force.”

  I am stunned. “Thanks, Detective,” I whisper. Should I hug him?

  No.

  I think about shaking his hand, but he’s staring out the window. Just go, before he takes back his offer. I shift to leave again.

  “Edmund,” he says. I freeze in the doorway.

  He pauses, eyeballing me, but not in his usual I-could-eat-you-for-breakfast way.

  “Thanks,” he says softly, picking up the remote control and focusing his attention once more on the television.

  Chapter 33

  The End?

  May 16

  Back at school I am feeling extremely heroic, only I can’t tell anyone of course (except Jonah, who is finally out of his sinus coma). He’s pretty bummed that he wasn’t a part of the final showdown, but I’m glad he was sick in bed, because he could have been shot. Scratch that. He would have been shot.

  It doesn’t matter that I can’t tell anyone about my weekend. My head is higher, my back straighter, my chest stronger. I may have grown a few inches.

  I clean up my area in art class, carefully sliding my paintings and drawings into a folder. The familiar earthy smell of pottery clay puts a permagrin on my face. It’s not a goodbye. It’s a see you next year.

  “Edmund?” Jenny Miller’s voice startles me out of my happy thoughts.

  “Yeah?” I say, like the smooth talker I am.

  “I have something for you. Have a good summer.” She hands me another present. A quick glance reveals that it’s a bumper sticker, and it says something about a cat. My brow furrows as I take it from her. Is the girl of my dreams trying to change me? Force me to be someone I’m not? Force me to . . . like cats?

  I straighten my glasses, and then I see it correctly: I LIKE CATS. THEY TASTE LIKE CHICKEN. I beam at her. She smiles and waves goodbye.

  I float all the way to Spanish class.

  Somewhere in the middle of cloud nine, I hear sounds coming from the boys’ bathroom. Distress noises. I walk in and there’s Jonah, pinned against the wall by our class thug. Jonah is whimpering and his mouth is curling in a weird way, as if “Puddles” is going to pay a visit.

  “Beat it, Edmund. This is between me and your girlfriend,” Robin rumbles in my direction.

  “No.”

  “What did you say?” He drops Jonah and turns, eyes narrowing.

  I could run. The door is right behind me. I could run and get a teacher.

  Sorry, Detective Bovano. I’m not running this time. This guy I can take.

  “Nobody makes Jonah pee his pants except me!” I yell, shoving Robin as
hard as I can. He stumbles back onto a urinal and gets his sleeve wet. Gross. His face blotches up even more as he struggles to his feet.

  “You’re dead, loser,” he jeers, clenching his fists and lunging at me. I stand my ground and do the cool leg-sweeping move that Bovano leveled me with. I’ve been practicing.

  Robin sees me coming and tries to jump my leg. Apparently I move as slowly as my grandmother. But he stumbles and falls, this time hard on his knee. “Ahhh!” he cries out in pain.

  Okay, the move didn’t go as planned. But it still counts.

  “Boys! What’s going on here?”

  Mr. Pee, impeccable timing as always.

  “Thanks,” sniffs Jonah. He blows his nose for the millionth time. Poor kid is still a little sick.

  “No problem. Sorry about the pee comment. It came out the wrong way.”

  “It’s all right. I know what you meant.”

  We’re sitting outside the principal’s office, awaiting our punishment. I’m not worried. But Robin Christopher should be.

  Jonah reaches for another tissue. “You know, I think I’m going to give up on my military studies. It didn’t prepare us for battle properly. I’m on to other things now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ninjas. Much better in alleys. Sneakier.”

  He taps his foot, his mind going a million clicks per second. “We’ll start with fencing. Nunchucks, black suits, soft quiet shoes . . . and if you’re locked away in your apartment this summer, I’ll scale the wall ninja-style. You’re only two floors up. We’ll need carabiners, climbing chalk, a harness, and rope. Think you could rig up a pulley system from your window? And throwing stars. Of course, it’s summer, so there’s the daylight factor . . .”

  I smile and shake my head as he rattles on.

  “The principal will see you now. Are you boys ready?” the secretary asks over her glasses.

  Jonah turns a bit pale as we stand up. I pat him on the back. “It’s okay, Jonah. We’re ready,” I say.

  Turns out being Eddie Red is pretty great, despite the alleyway abductions, the shootouts, and the large and irritable detectives. I’ve got a great best friend, a present in my pocket from a cute girl, and a bully on the run. I’ve foiled the plans of an Evil Mastermind. I have a check in the bank to pay for Senate next year. I’m about to have a very enlightening conversation with the school principal on his bullying policies. And from the sounds of it, I have an extremely entertaining summer ahead of me.

  Things are good.

  In fact, they’re über-good.

  THE END

  How to Draw Faces

  1. Draw with a pencil because you’ll be erasing . . . a LOT! Start by drawing an oval that tapers at the bottom, kind of like an egg.

  2. Next divide the egg in half, both vertically and horizontally with two lines.

  3. Divide the lower half of the egg again with another horizontal line. This line is where the nose “rests.” Go ahead and draw the base of the nose, resting just on top of this line.

  4. Divide the bottom quarter in half again with another horizontal line (I told you you’d be erasing later on!). The lips will rest on tops of this line. Draw them in.

  5. Next are the eyes. The top horizontal line goes right through the center. A good rule is to leave one eye width between them so the eyes aren’t too close together or too far apart. Unless you’re drawing a Cyclops and the center eye IS the eye. ALSO, the eyes are in sockets, so you need to shade behind them or they’ll look weird, like they’re popping off the page in surprise.

  6. Ears are next—line them up between the bottom of the nose and the eyebrows (oh yeah: you need to draw eyebrows), and they should be flat by the head. Then the hair—smooth it across the forehead using the top of the egg as the top of the hair. The hair does NOT start on top of the egg, because that would give you huge puffy hair like an eighties rock band.

  7. Last is the neck, which starts to appear by the jawline. Make it a sturdy neck or your head will roll off in the wind. (Not really, but a cool zombie visual, right?)

  And that’s it! Easy! Ha—I know, I know . . . it’s tricky stuff. But keep practicing and you’ll get the hang of it. This guy looks like a Karl to me. Karl the Krusher.

  Coming in Spring 2015

  Edmund and Jonah are off on a two-week family trip to Mexico, filled with parasailing, snorkeling, and sunny beaches. But when Edmund’s father is accused of stealing a priceless artifact from the hotel, it’s up to Eddie Red to solve the crime and save the day.

  Armed with a bottle of iodine and the book Aztec Gods and You, the boys uncover a real-life ghost mystery, one involving an invisible alphabet, a teenage street gang, and a thief obsessed with avenging his father’s death.

  Whether they’re fighting germs from Montezuma’s revenge or battling a bad guy on top of a Mayan pyramid, they have only one important rule to follow this vacation:

  Never underestimate the power of projectile vomit.

  Acknowledgments

  So many amazing people helped make Eddie Red possible. First, a huge thanks to my ninja agent Kristin Nelson, for taking a chance on me and helping me become a better writer. Thanks also to Anita Mumm for pulling Eddie from the slush pile, and to the rest of the hard-working Nelson Literary Agency. To Ann Rider, my über-awesome editor whose kind and thoughtful approach has soothed my nerves in this wonderfully crazy process. Thank you! Thanks to Scott Magoon, Alison Kerr Miller, Mary Huot, Rachel Wasdyke, and the talented people of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. And thank you, Marcos Calo, for helping Eddie come to life in your wonderful illustrations.

  Thanks to the hysterically funny kids and faculty of the Gailer School, who inspired me and made me laugh every day. An extra-big thanks to Mary Lower for the drawing lessons, Diane Guertin for the chess lessons, and Galen Fastie for being a patient reader.

  A huge thanks to my readers: Drew Whitney, Beth Charles, Kimberly Jones, and my sisters Laura Wells and Autumn Williams—you’re the best!

  Thank you to my friends and family for their love and support. A special shout-out to the Wells and the Elkins families for their vast and enthusiastic knowledge of New York City, to my mom, Jeanne Williams, for her endless generosity, and to my husband, Ben, and my two kids for putting up with me and microwave dinners. Thank you for keeping me grounded and silly.

  And to you, my reader. Thank you.

  About the Author

  MARCIA WELLS taught middle school students for more than a decade before becoming a full-time writer. She lives with her husband and two kids in Vermont, where she knows entirely too much about chickens, pigs, and sword fighting. This is her debut novel. Visit her at www.marciawellsauthor.com.