Skylar Robbins: The Mystery of the Hidden Jewels by Carrie Cross (well read books TXT) 📕

toes.

There were protective gloves and goggles, and a measuring tape, pen, and sketchpad for taking notes at crime scenes. I had a magnifying glass that I used to look for clues, tweezers to pick them up with, and evidence envelopes to put them in. When I got home from Shadow Hills, the listening device I’d sent away for had finally come. My Soundtrap was a directional microphone that was the size and shape of a new pencil, connected to a pair of earbuds. Perfect for eavesdropping. I’d saved up my chores and weeding money for months to pay for it and it was worth every quarter.

My favorite detective tool was my fingerprinting kit. It had black and white dusting powder for finding fingerprints, a brush to dust on the powder, and clear strips of tape for lifting the prints. There were Case Solution cards to paste fingerprints or other clues onto, which I labeled with invisible ink. And of course I had my pink, Super-Zoom binoculars. I would probably need every single item in my kit to help me find Xandra’s hidden jewels.

My Porta-detective kit contained a miniature set of spy tools. It was a pink metal carryall with leopard spots that looked like a lunch box, so I could take it to school and stay undercover. You never knew when your detective gear would come in handy.

When I got sick of unpacking I took a break and decided to make a sign for my office door. First I carried my art supplies and detective kit up the stairs and sat down at my desk. Grabbing a ruler, I drew pencil lines on a piece of white poster board. Then I used my stencil to draw the letters, and colored them in using marking pens in different shades of violet and blue. I decorated the borders with pink and purple glitter ink.

“Perfect,” I said, holding up my sign and admiring my work. I hung it on the turret room door with heavy-duty pushpins.

Open for business! I opened the note-taking app and typed, “The Mystery of the Hidden Jewels.” If I could solve this mystery, maybe my agency would finally get famous. I liked to fantasize about going on exciting missions, deep undercover.

I was seated at a formal table in a castle dining room next to the highest member of a Middle Eastern government. A microphone the size of a pinhead hid under a button on my silk blouse, and a micro-camera disguised as a jewel dangled from my necklace. I flirted with my handsome enemy until he was distracted, then dropped a pill into his drink. When the drug loosened his lips he revealed a plan to attack the United States, which I recorded. I brought the Top Secret information back to America, revealed the plot to the FBI, and prevented a terrorist attack.

The fantasy evaporated when a horrible banging sound made me jump right out of my chair. I hurried over to the window and looked down into the yard, spotting a construction worker with a black beard and muscles so big he looked like a professional wrestler. He was ripping broken wood trim and the old rain gutter off of our house. I’d heard Smack’s squeaky voice yelling at him earlier. His name was Sledge. Picking up a huge pile of junk, Sledge groaned loudly as he heaved it into the dumpster. Then he snooped around the backyard for a minute, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching him.

Sledge cracked his knuckles and peeked into the gazebo. When he looked up at the turret, I dropped to my knees so I wouldn’t get caught spying. The cleaning crew had obviously missed the turret room, because the windowsill was covered with dust. I had just started to stand up when something caught my eye.

There was a pattern in the dust.

I looked at it more closely and my heart started to pound. I stood up, snatching my detective kit off the floor. Plucked out my magnifying glass and studied the windowsill through it. I sucked in my breath and the hair stood up on my arms.

I had just found the first clue.

 

8

Invisible Ink

Fingerprints covered the entire length of the dirty sill. Whose are they? I wondered. Xandra Collins’s? Or maybe her kidnapper’s?

Somebody left a trace.

My round office had tall, narrow windows all the way around it, stopping only for the doorway, a cupboard, and a couple of feet on each side of the door. A curving windowsill ran all the way around the wall. Grabbing the flashlight out of my detective kit, I shined the light on the windowsill and looked at it through my magnifying glass. The prints were pressed down one after the other in a rambling line that led to the end of the sill. Then the fingerprints stopped.

My eyes darted around the room, looking for more clues. I didn’t find any. Then I looked at the sill through my mag glass, picking up the trail. The prints climbed the wall and stopped right below the cupboard. These were no random fingerprints in dust. These were made on purpose. How could Xandra’s heirs have missed this?

My conscience poked me. You missed it too—until now.

I opened the cupboard door.

It was empty.

Shining my big flashlight inside, I stuck my entire head into the cupboard, but all I could see was spider webs, dust, and a dead fly. Was the dead fly a clue? I didn’t think so. But the fingerprints had stopped.

Was that it? Weren’t the prints a clue after all? I was sure someone had pressed them into the dirt so they led to the cupboard for a reason. But why?

I needed to get out my black light and shine it in there to see if I could find something that wasn’t visible otherwise. Like maybe there would be faded blood beneath the dirt. I shined the ultraviolet light inside, and then I stopped moving and stared.

A message was written on the wall in invisible ink.

Congratulations. You found the first clue.

Here is your second clue: Things in this room are not always what they seem.

I whirled around with my heart hammering, almost expecting to see Xandra’s ghost or nosy Smack standing behind me.

No one was there.

 

9

A Tattered, Yellowed Envelope

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to calm down and think. A detective rule my grandfather taught me popped into my mind: Always remember that crime scenes are three-dimensional. Look for clues on the floor, all four walls, and the ceiling. I searched my office, looking for something that might not be as it seemed.

My office was tiny. I finished in just a few minutes and didn’t find a thing. A second bang echoed from the backyard. I flinched and stood still, waiting for another sound. Nothing happened. It was too quiet.

Dropping to my knees, I crawled back over to the window and peeked out over the sill. Sledge was slinking around the yard with a piece of rain gutter in his hand, peering into every corner while he pretended to be working. He was spending a lot more time looking around than installing rain gutters. Hmm.

No time to waste watching him.

I went back to the cupboard and read the second clue again.

Things in this room are not always what they seem.

Pushing my desk chair over to the wall and standing on it, I shined the flashlight back into the cupboard. Then I stuck my whole upper body inside, twisting around and looking at the back of the front wall, and feeling all over. The cupboard was definitely empty. But when I reached up and pushed on the cupboard’s ceiling, it flexed. I aimed my flashlight up there and saw a thin seam around the edges. Shining the light into the corners, I noticed four screws that had been painted to match the dull beige of the cupboard.

The cupboard had a false ceiling.

I ran down two flights of stairs, hoping to find a friendly workman.

A thin guy named Ignado who had greasy black hair was threading heavy curtains onto a rod in the living room. I looked at his leather tool belt while he and a pale man with bags under his eyes balanced the rod and lifted it onto big brackets. Ignado finally noticed that I was watching him and turned to look at me. One of his eyes was brown and the other was a cloudy blue. The blue-gray right eye didn’t follow his left one. It reminded me of Alexa’s old dog when it went blind.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, but can I borrow your screwdriver for a second?” Ignado looked at me suspiciously like he wondered why I wanted to use his tool. “I’m trying to hang a picture, and I need to screw in a hook,” I fibbed. “I’ll bring it right back.”

“No problem,” he said, handing it to me slowly. “I ain’t using it.” When I smiled at Ignado I got a smirk in return.

“Thank you,” I said, backing away from him.

I ran up the two flights of stairs and up my spiral staircase. By the time I got to the top of the turret I was out of breath. Standing on my chair, I aimed the flashlight at one corner of the ceiling and started to work on the screws. The paint made them really hard to turn, but I finally got all four of them out. Then I pushed the top of the cupboard up, turned it on its side, and lowered it through the opening.

My heart started to pound. Above where the false ceiling had been, a tattered, yellowed envelope was taped to the wall.

Just as I reached for the envelope, “Skylar? Skylar!” my father shouted from somewhere below me. “We need your help downstairs. Now please.” I could tell by the sound of his voice that he meant right now. It sounded like he was standing in the hall outside my bedroom, so I scrambled off my chair and closed the cupboard door, leaving the mysterious envelope taped high up inside.

I hurried down the stairs so I could return the screwdriver before helping my dad. Ignado gave me a creepy smile. “How’d it go?” he asked, focusing on me with his brown eye while the cloudy blue one stared blindly into the area above my head.

“Good. Thanks,” I said, handing him the screwdriver while I took a quick look around the raw, dusty room.

He held onto the tool, staring at me hard before he pulled the screwdriver away from me. “Be careful,” he said, wrapping a dirty hank of hair behind his ear.

“Of what?” I asked, wondering if this was some kind of a threat.

“Remodels can be real dangerous,” he warned as a bald guy with a huge belly let a thick beam crash loudly to the floor.

I had to load kitchen cupboards right up to dinnertime. Then we unpacked books in the library until it was time to go to bed. I kissed my parents goodnight, changed into my nightgown, and brushed my teeth. After turning out my light, I opened my detective kit and groped around in the dark until I found my penlight. Then I crept up the spiral staircase and tiptoed across my office floor.

Quietly opening the cupboard door, I stood on my chair and aimed my penlight beam at the false ceiling. Stretching my arm up as high as I could reach, I moved the panel to the side and snatched the yellowed envelope down off the wall.

It looked old and was stained, and some of the corners had been nibbled away by rats, roaches, or something even more disgusting. I pried open the flap, hoping to find a treasure map that would lead me to Xandra’s jewelry box. I pulled out an old piece of unlined paper, and carefully unfolded it.

“What could this possibly mean?” I asked the shadows.

 

10

Not Exactly a Kiss

The next morning I took one last look at the puzzling clue, then rushed downstairs and ate breakfast. No time to figure it out now. I had another mystery to solve.

My mom drove me to school, and I hurried to room A-12 and walked up to my English teacher’s desk before the bell rang. Mrs. Mintin was reading the school newspaper. “Excuse me,” I said, waiting for her to look up. “Um, I left my sweater on the back of my chair yesterday. Did anyone turn it in?” I tried not to wiggle impatiently like I had