Edgar Allan's Official Crime Investigation Notebook by Mary Amato
Ms. Herschel said, “How wonderful,” and when Edgar was a kindergartner he thought so, too. Now he wanted to crawl under a rock. Finally his bus number was called, and he ran out, climbed into his bus, and flung himself into the first seat. To his surprise, a poem popped into his mind. A metaphor poem!
Skunk
by Edgar Allan
The Skunk comes
on big stinking feet.
He takes pictures
with a fancy camera
and then
he rips your heart out.
CHAPTER SIX
For dinner that night: fish. On a bun. With tartar sauce.
Edgar looked at his plate and thought of Slurpy. He couldn’t eat.
“So how was school today, boys?” Edgar’s mom looked at Edgar and his older brother, Henri.
“Did you learn anything?” his dad added, shoveling a spoonful of fish mixed with mushed peas into the little mouth of Edgar’s baby sister, Rosy.
Although they had taken off their costumes and clown makeup, Edgar noticed with dismay that they didn’t need odd clothes or cosmetics to look like clowns. His father was extremely short, had a shiny bald head, a wide smile, and a big nose that was always somewhat reddish at the tip. His mother was tall, with tiny ruby lips, sparkling green eyes, long black eyelashes, and a shock of red hair that she wore piled on top of her head like three scoops of strawberry ice cream. To the three Allan children, they were known as dad and mom, of course, but to the rest of the world they were known by their stage names: Tubby and Twig.
Edgar summoned his most serious tone and announced that they’d had a robbery at his school.
“A robbery?” Twig put down her fork, eyelashes fluttering. “What was stolen?”
“The goldfish from Ms. Herschel’s room.”
Henri laughed. Even though little Rosy didn’t know what was funny, she laughed, too.
“It’s not funny,” Edgar said.
“Sounds like the fish dropped out of school,” Henri said.
Tubby and Twig roared as if it was the funniest joke on the planet. Rosy slapped her chubby hands on her high chair tray.
Twig leaned forward, her eyebrows arching, and asked: “What do you call a fish without an eye?”
“Fsh?” Henri guessed, and they laughed again.
“Anyway, I have important news,” Henri announced. “Today I played so well in band, Mr. Copland said I could play a solo at the band concert.” He sat up even taller, which was impressive, since he had inherited his mother’s height—along with her red hair, green eyes, and double-jointed fingers.
“Congratulations, Mr. Music Man!” Tubby said.
Twig raised her glass and the three of them clinked.
“I was thinking I could do the solo for the Cabaret if you want,” Henri added.
The proud parents smiled at each other. The Cabaret was a talent show that they hosted to benefit the Children’s Hospital every year. “What a lovely idea,” Twig said.
“Luminiferous!” Tubby agreed, sticking another spoonful of mush into Rosy’s mouth.
Edgar cleared his throat. “I was thinking . . . if I had a dog, I could bring him to school and train him to guard things.”
Henri set down his milk. “I’ve heard of sheep dogs, but dogs guarding fish? What do you think, Rosy? Fido the Fishdog?” Edgar’s brother panted and howled at Rosy, who laughed so hard mush dribbled down her chin.
His parents couldn’t help laughing, too.
Edgar scowled.
“I’m sorry, Edgar,” Twig said. “We’re not laughing at you.”
“Well what about it?” Edgar persisted.
“A dog?” Twig shook her head. “We told you before: You kids keep us busy enough! Besides, I’m sure your teacher will make sure nothing else gets stolen.”
Tubby wiped Rosy’s mouth and gave her a wooden spoon to play with. She grabbed it and promptly bonked her dad on the head.
“Ouch!” Tubby said. “Maybe we should trade her in for a dog.”
“We were talking about the Cabaret,” Henri said. “How many friends can I invite this year?”
For the rest of dinner, Edgar’s parents and Henri talked about the Cabaret. It was supposed to be fun, but Edgar found it stressful because he didn’t have a talent. Last year his dad had tried to teach him how to play the accordion, but his fingers kept tripping over the buttons and he quit.
“Are you doing anything for it this year, Edgar?” Henri asked.
Edgar pushed his plate away. “No.”
“Why don’t you play the cowbell on the song your dad and I are doing?” Twig said.
Henri laughed. “Yeah. Play the cowbell.”
Tubby gave Henri a look. “The cowbell is a great idea, right, Henri?”
“Right,” Henri said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile.
“Which reminds me. Where do cows go to make it in show business?” Tubby asked.
“Moo York City!” Twig stood up and sang, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere. No udder place than old Moo York!”
His parents started mooing in two-part harmony, Henri added rhythm by clinking his fork on his glass, and Rosy banged along with her wooden spoon. On another night, Edgar might have joined in, but he couldn’t stomach it. Ever since Henri started middle school and made it into advanced band, he thought that his accomplishments should be the topic of every conversation. Now that Edgar finally had something important to talk about, nobody seemed to care. Patrick’s dad was probably giving him crime-solving tips at this very moment.
“Excuse me,” Edgar interrupted. “Can I use the computer to do some research?”
Henri stopped. “I already asked to use it. I have to download clarinet music for school. And I have a history report that’s due first thing in the morning.”
“That’s true,” Tubby said. “Edgar, do you absolutely need the computer for your homework?”
Edgar sighed and shook his head. He had thought he would look up fish facts to see if he could find some kind of clue.
To make it worse, Henri hopped up and said, “Ha! It’s your turn to do the dishes, Edgar.”
“Knock, knock,” Tubby said.
“Who’s there?” Twig asked.
“Dishes.”
“Dishes who?”
Tubby stuck a carrot in his mouth like a cigar. “Dishes a very bad joke.”
“You are so cute!” Twig leaned over and planted a kiss on top of her husband’s bald head.
Rosy leaned forward and burped.
Edgar sighed. Could the night get any worse?
I am in the bathroom right now because I am too mad to be in the same room with anybody, and they are taking up all the good rooms. I am sitting in the bathtub with all my clothes on because I don’t feel like sitting on the toilet, and there are no chairs in here.
Am I the only one who cares about Slurpy? I wonder if he is dead. Is there such a thing as a Goldfish Heaven in the clouds? Since clouds are really floating water molecules, then I suppose fishes could feel right at home in them. Maybe there are entire schools of goldfish spirits in the clouds.
Maybe Slurpy is happier being with all the other dead fish. I always thought that he looked lonely in that little tank. On the other hand, Mister Furball kept him company. Maybe they stayed up late and did tricks for each other. It would be nice to have a friend like that.
I just had a bad fantasy.
I imagined that I walked into Ms. Herschel’s room and found Mister Furball gone. I said, “The thief has struck again!” and everybody looked at me and said, “Oh no!” and here’s the bad part…it was exciting! I want Mister Furball to get stolen!
A nice person wouldn’t want an innocent hamster to be the second victim in a dramatic crime wave.
I just really really want to solve a mystery. Everybody has something they’re good at except me. This could be my thing.
Through the crack under the bathroom door, the sound of Henri’s clarinet music drifted
Edgar imagined being very high up, as high as a cloud. He imagined floating up there, like the spirit of a goldfish, looking down and seeing the whole world at once, seeing all the people getting into cars and washing dishes and feeding babies; seeing all the kids working on computers and doing their homework and watching TV; seeing all the teachers in their houses, grading assignments and drinking coffee; and seeing all the hamsters, too, running around in their cages and the fish swimming in their tanks; and even seeing a real skunk creeping around in the woods and a thief creeping around on the street; and there in the middle was a boy, fully dressed, in his bathtub, writing and worrying, alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning Edgar kept his fingers crossed the entire bus ride and all the way down the hall. When he walked into Ms. Herschel’s room and saw Mister Furball running on the wheel inside his cage, he uncrossed his fingers and slumped into his chair. No criminal had crept in. No thrilling second theft had occurred. It was just another ordinary day.
I am disappointed that Mister Furball is safe. What kind of person am I?
Ms. Herschel is about to take attendance, and Patrick Chen is still not here and all I’m thinking is I hope he is sick. How will I feel if Patrick Chen has a brain seizure and dies? Will I feel happy then? I am definitely not a nice person.
Just as Ms. Herschel was finishing taking the roll, Patrick walked in and announced that he had solved the mystery.
Edgar felt sick to his stomach. A metaphor poem came to him all at once. He grabbed his pencil.
ME
by Edgar Allan
I am a big glass
but instead of being filled
with orange juice,
I am filled
with hatred.
Toward a certain someone.
Even though I know that isn’t nice.
Ms. Herschel set down her coffee cup. “You’ve solved the crime already, Patrick?”
“Through interviews and forensic analysis,” Patrick nodded.
Interviews and forensic analysis! All I have to rely on is my own stupid brain, Edgar thought.
“Yesterday I interviewed the principal and Mrs. Peabody at the front desk,” Patrick went on. “They said there were no strangers on school property yesterday during the time of the crime, so I believe that the thief is someone who belongs at this school.”
“Good job, Patrick!” Ms. Herschel said. “Interviewing is a great way to get information.”
“Thank you! There’s more!” Patrick held up a photo that he had printed out. “This is a shoe print. Someone with dirty shoes left this print right here at the scene of the crime.” He pointed to the floor in front of the chalkboard. “As you can see, they don’t belong to Ms. Herschel. I checked with Mr. Browning, the custodian. He said he mopped the floor the night before and did not return to the classroom in the morning. So . . . I believe the shoe prints belong to the thief.” He pointed to the picture. “See this distinctive tread pattern with an “O” in the center? During recess, I found matching footprints in the mud. Through careful observation, I discovered who the footprints belong to.”
Everyone was silent, waiting.
Patrick grinned.
“Well, who is it?” Kip blurted out.
“The person who has a shoe print with an ‘O’ is . . . Taz Raskel!”
“I knew it!” Maia exclaimed.
Everybody looked at Taz’s feet.
“So? My shoe prints were on the floor,” Taz argued. “What does that mean? I was the first person in the room. Of course my shoe prints would be on the floor.”
“According to Ms. Peabody in the office, you were the first student in the building,” Patrick said. “You had the time to commit the crime without being seen.”
“Now Patrick,” Ms. Herschel interrupted. “I like that you’re observing shoe print impressions. That’s what an investigator would look for. But remember, just because you find a shoe print near a crime scene, doesn’t mean the shoe print belongs to the criminal. Taz does come in early every day to check on the pets, so it makes sense that his shoe prints would be here.”
“Well,” Patrick said, “I have another piece of evidence!” He held up another photograph.
“What is it?” Kip asked, trying to see.
“It’s a photograph I took of a poem written in the boy’s bathroom.” Patrick read:
There once was a
great dude named Taz
Who had a lot of
pizazz!
He likes to play jokes
On all kinds of folks
Especially the kids in
his clazz!
Ms. Herschel looked at the picture and sighed. “Taz, that’s your handwriting. You know you’re not supposed to write on bathroom doors!”
“The poem proves that Taz likes to play jokes on people and likes poetry.” Patrick summed it up. “Those are two things that are true of the thief. And we know that Taz is a pet lover. So my theory is that Taz wanted Slurpy all to himself. He took Slurpy, but then he felt guilty about it, so he called his mom. I was a witness.”
“Wait!” Taz said. “Another crime has been committed. Someone stole the brain right out of Patrick’s head.”
The class laughed, but Patrick’s theory made Taz look awfully guilty. Edgar couldn’t bear the thought that Patrick had solved the crime, so he looked at the picture of Taz’s poem, trying to find a hole in his theory. “Wait!” he cried. “Taz couldn’t be the thief! The thief has great handwriting and Taz’s is terrible!”
“Hey, he’s right,” Taz said.
Ms. Herschel nodded. “Interesting observation, Edgar. Forensic investigators often use handwriting analysis to solve crimes. Patrick . . . we can’t accuse unless we have solid evidence. At this point, I believe we all still need to keep our eyes and ears open.”
“Yeah, Patrick,” Taz said.
Patrick glared at Edgar.
Ms. Herschel stepped between them. “Edgar, have you uncovered anything else that might help?”
Edgar looked at his notebook. Sadly, nothing he had done so far was any good. The theory about a professional fish thief, the worry about Mister Furball and the kindergarten fish . . . none of it had led him any closer to solving the crime. He shook his head.
“Well. I suggest we all keep our minds open,” Ms. Herschel said. “Use your powers of observation. Consider all the possibilities. Remember the culprit is sometimes the opposite of who you’d expect.”
I am going to try opening my mind right now. Think…think…think…
It could be anyone….Someone who looks sweet on the outside might be rotten on the inside. Like an Easter bunny with rabies. Or Clarice Stolnup!
The crime happened between 8:25 and 8:55 and no strangers were in the building. If the thief is someone from school, it can’t be any of the kids on my bus because we didn’t get there until 9:00. So…it must be a walker.
The walkers in my class are:
Kip, Taz, Patrick, Destiny, Maia, and Gabriela.
Kip is fast, and he wrote a really good poem. Could he have done it? Maybe he skateboarded in? No shoe prints then! But…he has even worse handwriting.
Aha! The doors of my mind just banged right open. Who is the opposite of a criminal? Destiny Perkins! She is the best student in the class, and the nicest, happiest girl. She never gets into trouble even when we have a substitute. She also has excellent handwriting and loves poetry.
One problem. She and Maia Gomez have been best friends since the first grade. Why would one best friend steal the goldfish that the other best friend gave to the class?
I am going to observe Destiny. Never fear! I will solve this mystery.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Destiny Perkins could hide a whole school of fish in her hair. Why hadn’t Edga
Destiny was sitting two seats up and one row over, and even though Edgar knew she wasn’t hiding fish in her hair, he wanted to use his powers of observation to notice everything about her.
He kept an eye on her all through math class, which meant that he didn’t complete the sixteen problems that were due by the end of the period and so he had homework. It would have been worth it if he had uncovered a piece of damaging evidence, but all Destiny did the entire time was math. Math! He was beginning to have his doubts about her as a suspect.
On the way to Mr. Crew’s room, the situation improved. Destiny walked alone, which was very suspicious. Destiny always walked with Maia.
Something is up between Destiny and Maia. Perhaps Maia knows that her best friend is a criminal and she has decided to no longer walk with her.
In language arts, Edgar finally had his chance to do some professional sleuthing. It all began with another poetry lesson.
Mr. Crew wrote a poem on the board.
What Am I?
Sometimes I am white.
Sometimes I am gray.
Sometimes I steal the sunlight.
Sometimes I float away.
The tall, lanky teacher finished writing, sat on the edge of his desk, and picked up his teacup. “What is the poem about? What am I?” he asked.
Patrick was the first one to raise his hand. “A cloud,” he said.
Edgar knew the right answer. He would have said it, too, if only he could’ve raised his hand faster.
Note: The shirt I’m wearing is too small, which makes it hard for me to raise my arm. This is a problem because all my shirts are too small and my parents are too cheap to buy me new ones. What I really need are new parents.
Mr. Crew set down his cup. “A poem is a mystery to solve. As we discovered yesterday, the writer gives you clues and you have to figure out the poem’s meaning. I want everybody to try writing a riddle poem like the cloud poem I wrote on the board. It doesn’t have to rhyme, but don’t reveal exactly what the poem is about . . . we’ll try to guess what each poem is about when we read them out loud. Let’s have a minute of silence to let our imaginations get to work.”