Howard Wallace, P.I._Shadow of a Pug

  PRAISE FOR HOWARD WALLACE, P.I.

  “Lyall’s crack at the trending genre of middle-grade noir is an absolute delight, told with clear affection for the usual P.I. story tropes and injecting them with just the right amount of amusement while avoiding sarcastic mockery. ”

  —BULLETIN OF THE CENTER FOR CHILDREN’S BOOKS, starred review

  “Engagingly blending the fictional world of dames and private eyes with keen insights about adolescent friendship, Lyall’s debut is a winner.”       —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Likely to see sequels; Howard and Ivy deserve them.”

  —KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “Strong writing, relatable themes, and a solid mystery combine for a read that both boys and girls will have trouble putting down.”    —SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “Give this to fans of Encyclopedia Brown who are looking for longer (and funnier!) well-plotted mysteries.”  —BOOKLIST

  HOWARD WALLACE, P.I.

  SHADOW OF A PUG

  by Casey Lyall

  STERLING CHILDREN’S BOOKS and the distinctive Sterling Children’s Books logo are registered trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

  © 2017 Casey Lyall

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4549-1996-4

  For information about custom editions, special sales, and premium and corporate purchases, please contact Sterling Special Sales at 800-805-5489 or specialsales@sterlingpublishing.com.

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  Chapter One

  A bright light pierced my eyes, and they struggled to adjust. I caught flashes of the room around me: Bare walls. Scratched linoleum floor. The door slammed and my chair slowly tilted back. From the shadowy corner came a deep voice: “How many, Howard?”

  “What?” I could barely make out the figure of a man.

  He took a step closer. “You know what.” A metal instrument glinted as he twisted it back and forth in his hands. “How many?”

  Sweat burned a trail down my neck, and I squinted under the light. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  A chair rolled across the floor, and Dr. Hunt came into view, taking a seat in front of me. “How many packs of gum a day are you up to?”

  Crossing my arms, I leaned back in my seat. “That’s a loaded question, Doc. Lemme ask you one first: What’s the cavity count?”

  He slid over to the lightboard to pin up my x-rays. “Zero,” he mumbled, and I grinned. “But that doesn’t mean bad habits won’t catch up with you.”

  “I floss.”

  “It’s all a stopgap solution if you keep abusing your teeth this way.” Dr. Hunt passed me a small cup of fluoride, and I dutifully swished. I could tell him I’d tried to quit. Tried a million times, but the siren song of Juicy Smash kept pulling me back.

  “I want you to cut back to one a day, understood?”

  Empty promises weren’t my bag, but we’d done this dance before. There was one answer alone that would get me out of this chair. Fingers crossed, I nodded.

  Dr. Hunt smiled, relief plain across his face as our semiannual ordeal came to a close. He pointed at the cup in my hand.

  “Now, spit.”

  An hour later, freshly polished teeth and all, I was on my way downtown to meet up with my partner, Ivy Mason. We held check-ins every Friday afternoon at Mrs. Hernandez’s bakery—case updates with a side of donut. It was a win-win.

  I’d nearly reached the door of the shop when it flew open and a small figure barreled past. “Watch it!” I yelled after him. The blurry shape of Ivy streaked by next, successfully sending me to the pavement. “What’s happening?”

  “Thief!” Ivy yelled back at me. “Chase! Come on, Howard Wallace!” I scrambled to my feet and took off after them.

  There were only so many places to run in Grantleyville, and our suspect seemed determined to hit them all before we caught up to him. One left turn followed another. Pretty soon we’d made a full circuit around the main drag. My partner and I pounded down the sidewalk in hot pursuit, our heels sinking in the mid-February slush.

  “Hurry up, Howard,” Ivy called. “We’ve almost got him!” She surged ahead and followed the perp down a side street. Tightening up my lucky coat, I chased after them.

  Unfortunately, I still wasn’t fast enough.

  A crash rang out as I rounded the corner and was brought up short by a pile of arms and legs rolling around on the ground. “Ivy,” I said, panting. “We talked about this. Tackling is never the answer.”

  The mess of limbs sorted themselves out. Ivy emerged, sitting on top of the kid, pinning him to the ground. “But it works so well,” she said, grinning.

  “What’d he do?”

  “Stole Mrs. Hernandez’s purse. Went right behind the counter, then took off. Little punk.”

  Taking a closer look at his face, I sighed. I actually knew this particular punk—as did Grantleyville’s Finest. I crouched down beside the poor twerp who was getting an asphalt facial. “Toby,” I said. “Let’s talk about your choices. Petty crime being what led you here, and fessing up being your only way out.”

  “What?” Eleven years of living hadn’t done much for Toby’s listening comprehension skills.

  “Give us the bag, Toby,” I said. “I bet Mrs. Hernandez is willing to take it easy on you.”

  “Ooh, slight problem with that, partner,” Ivy said. “He ditched the goods.”

  I shook my head. “Where?”

  She jerked a nod over her shoulder. “Dumpster.”

  “What’d you go and do that for?”

  “Think I’m an idiot?” Toby said, struggling under Ivy. He curled his lip at me. “Evasive maneuvers. Trying not to get caught.”

  “Didn’t really work out, did it? Next time don’t swipe a purse in front of a double-A-plus detective,” Ivy said.

  “Let him up,” I said. “We have to figure out how we’re getting that bag back.”

  She hopped off Toby, brushing the dirt from her pants. He quickly followed suit. I pulled a pack of Juicy out of my pocket and popped a piece.

  “I thought you quit,” Ivy said, holding out a hand.

  “I did.” Tossing her the pack, I snapped a bubble in my mouth. “Yesterday.”

  “Bet Dr. Hunt was pleased.”

  “Gave me three toothbrushes,” I said. I reached out and hauled Toby back by the collar to stop his inching escape. “We’re not done with you. Let’s talk.”

  Ivy and I faced off against our perp, hitting him with a double-edged glare. “What were you thinking?” I asked. “Stealing Mrs. Hernandez’s bag like that?”

  “My sister dared me,” he said, puffing out his chest like a tiny, scraggly haired chipmunk. “She didn’t think I could do it.” Toby was a Turner, a clan as extensive and entitled as the town’s namesake, the Grantleys, but without the wealth to wipe away their crimes. The Turners had their own heading in the misdemeanors section of the Grantleyville Herald. A kid like Toby started out small change, working his way up in the family business.

  Ivy and I exchanged a look. Turning him in wasn’t going to do him any favors. “Stay here,” I said. “You know we’ll catch you again if you bolt.”

  He scoffed. “Like I’m afraid of a kid in a bathrobe.”

  I held out the sides of my lucky coat, half-hidden by the winter coat that Ma made me throw on over it. “In detective circles, this is what’s known as a trench coat,” I said. “And if you run, Ivy’ll just tack
le you again.”

  Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

  Toby deflated a bit, walking over to stand by the fence backing the alley. I took it as acceptance of his fate. A quick examination of the dumpster told me this wasn’t going to be pretty. Ivy gave it a kick. “Who’s going in?”

  “You should go in,” I said. “You’re the one who watched him toss it.”

  “We would have caught him sooner if you hadn’t been such a slowpoke.”

  “Should we settle this like professionals?” I rolled up my sleeves.

  “On three,” Ivy agreed.

  “Wait, on three, or one, two, three, go?”

  “You do this every time,” Ivy said. “One, two, three, go would be ‘on four.’ On three is on three.”

  “I’m merely trying to make sure we’re on the same page here,” I said.

  “You’re trying to psych me out so you win, and it ain’t happening, Howard Wallace,” she said. “I know all your tricks. Now. On three.”

  “One, two . . .” I said, then hit my fist in my hand, two fingers out. “Oh, man.”

  “Ahaha!” Ivy crowed. “Rock crushes scissors. Get in there, friend.”

  I climbed up the side of the dumpster and peered over the edge. My head began to swim. Heights and I were not close friends, and clinging to the side of the bin wasn’t helping matters. It looked less than inviting. Smelled even worse. Unseasonably warm weather had melted the snow piled inside, resulting in a sludge dotted with garbage-bag dumplings. Bits of loose debris bubbled up to drift lazily around the cesspool of junk. On the far side, perched on a tiny mountain of dry bags, was the purse. It was going to survive this ordeal in better shape than whoever went to retrieve it.

  A particularly strong whiff of the potent concoction cleared my head enough for a genius idea to pop through.

  Hopping off the dumpster, I trotted over to where Toby was shivering by the fence. I should probably have felt worse about what I was about to do, but there was a reason they called it learning the hard way. “Up and at ’em, Toby,” I said. “You’re going in.”

  “Me?” Toby blinked. “In there?”

  “Howard,” Ivy hissed behind me, “what are you doing?”

  “We’re teaching him about consequences,” I said. “Now, Toby, it was your bright idea to steal the bag and then dump it, so it seems fair to me you retrieve it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Toby said. “I’m good right here.”

  “Let me spell out your options.” I stomped my feet against the wind picking up down the alley. “One, we leave the bag there and call the cops to deal with the both of you.”

  “Fine by me,” he said with a sneer that left me tempted to follow through on option one.

  In the spirit of education, I carried on. “Of course, when the police come, everyone will find out you got busted by a couple of seventh-grade detectives—”

  “Awesome seventh-grade detectives, and one did more busting than the other,” Ivy interjected.

  I raised an eyebrow and she motioned for me to continue. “Something tells me that situation won’t win you any points with the family,” I said. “Option number two is we settle this quietly. You grab the bag, give it back to Mrs. H, apologize—”

  “Sincerely.” Ivy waggled a finger at him.

  “—you’ll owe us a favor, and the whole thing is settled. Take your time. Mull.”

  Ivy pulled on my sleeve and motioned me over. “He’ll owe us a favor?”

  “Seemed like a good idea to tack on,” I said.

  “I thought we were trying to steer him away from trouble.”

  “First rule of private investigation, Ivy?”

  She screwed up her nose, keeping one eye on our perp. “How does ‘work with what you’ve got’ apply here?”

  “Every P.I. worth their salt has a thief on tap,” I said. “Gotta build up the resources.”

  “It makes a bizarre sort of sense,” Ivy said. She pulled her hat down over her ears and sighed. “Carry on.”

  We looked over at Toby. “Time’s up,” I said. “What’ll it be?”

  He muttered an answer and I cupped my ear. “Speak up, young offender.”

  “Option number two,” he snapped, dragging his feet over to the bin. We boosted him up, stepping back as he landed with a plop. After a moment of silence, his voice drifted over. “It’s really gross in here.”

  “Think about this moment next time you try your hand at petty crime,” I called out. We listened to him squidge his way over to the purse.

  “Heads up.”

  Ivy caught the bag as it went whizzing by. “Got it.”

  Toby’s head emerged over the side. “Are you guys going to help me out of here?”

  “Let me see your hands,” I said.

  He held up garbage-free mitts, and we each grabbed one to yank him out, leaping back as his pants left a trail of muck along the ground.

  “This is going back to Mrs. H,” Ivy said, tucking the purse under her arm. She held up a finger to test the wind before pointing at Toby. “And you are going to walk ten feet ahead of us. Try not to drip.”

  We marched him back around the corner to Mrs. Hernandez’s coffee shop. With some less-than-gentle prodding, he offered his apology, and she accepted. Mostly she was overjoyed to see her belongings returned intact. “Thank you so much! What do I owe you?” she asked Ivy and me.

  “It was a case of right place at the right time.” My partner waved her off. “I couldn’t stand by while someone pulled a lift right in front of me.”

  “Well, I appreciate it,” Mrs. Hernandez said before disappearing into the back. She returned with a white envelope in hand, sliding it across the counter. “Consider this a bonus.” I peeked inside. Cold, hard cash: my favorite kind of payment. Ivy rolled her eyes as I pocketed the envelope.

  “What?” I grinned. “I helped. Partners share, right?”

  “I’m taking a tackling bonus out of there,” Ivy said.

  “I should get a tackling bonus,” Toby grumbled.

  “Crime doesn’t pay, Toby,” I shook my head. “Crime doesn’t pay.”

  Mrs. Hernandez smirked. “I’m going to take Toby into the back to discuss compensation for what he’s put me through today. I think we’ll start with mopping up whatever it is you trailed in here, yeah?” She skated a glass dish over toward me and Ivy. “Help yourself to some treats before you go.”

  A cookie in each hand, Ivy and I wandered back to my neighborhood. “Being paid in baked goods isn’t half bad,” she said between bites. “We should incorporate that into our fee structure.”

  “It’s not bad, but I prefer money,” I said, tapping the envelope in my pocket. “I’ll take a wad of green over a handful of chocolate chips any day. Especially for such an easy job.”

  “Says the guy who didn’t do any of the tackling.”

  “You don’t get points for that,” I said. “I’ve specifically asked you not to do that.”

  “I’m giving myself points,” Ivy bounced down the sidewalk toward my house. “It was awesome.” She stopped in her tracks to peer back at me. “This is the third case we’ve solved this week. Why aren’t you more excited?”

  Anyone’s excitement paled next to Ivy’s vibrating exuberance, but she wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t been feeling the usual post-case buzz lately. “They’ve all been open-and-shut cases. We haven’t had a challenge since October.” I smiled at the memory—a blackmail case that almost cost me my job and ended up saddling me and Ivy with multiple weeks of detention. Worth it. Kids were hiring us all the time now—and some adults, too.

  “Weren’t you the one who told me most of the jobs in a town like Grantleyville were going to be boring? That a case like Meredith’s was the exception and not the rule?”

  I hated when she listened to what I said. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for at least one to not be a total cakewalk.” Each time we caught a new case, I hoped it’d be another doozy. The wait continued.

 
Ivy bumped my shoulder and the subject at hand. “Got your bag ready?” My parents had instituted “Date Night” a few months ago. Every other Friday they shipped me off to Ivy’s and my sister, Eileen, to her best friend Angela’s house. Previous attempts at leaving me in Eileen’s care had proved disastrous.

  “Yup,” I said, perking up a bit. Maybe a crime wave would hit Grantleyville while we had movie night. A fella could dream.

  Chapter Two

  Ivy’s grandma was waiting at the door when we arrived at her house.

  “How’s business?” she asked, tying a hot-pink apron around her waist.

  “Messy,” I said, toeing off my shoes and depositing my coat on the rack.

  “It’s about to get messier.” She grinned at us. “Drop your stuff in the living room, and let’s get going.”

  “What are we making tonight, Mrs. Mason?” I tossed my stuff onto the couch and wandered into the kitchen.

  “Howard, for the last time, call me Lillian.” She shook her head and tossed me my usual polka-dotted apron. “We’re making breakfast for dinner. Pancakes are an eternal crowd-pleaser.”

  Mrs. Mason—Lillian—had decided from the get-go that we’d be in charge of our own Friday night meals. Apparently it was never too early to learn how to fend for yourself. Under her supervision, we’d only set off the smoke alarm twice.

  Their kitchen was tiny and warm and more than a little bit crowded with the three of us huddled around the stove. Ivy and I both manned a burner, spatulas at the ready. After a few failed attempts, I was on the road to mastering the perfect flip, acquiring a small stack of flawlessly round and fluffy pancakes.

  Ivy had taken an alternate approach.

  Glancing over at her pan, I squinted. “What’s that one?”

  “Pterodactyl,” she said, frowning in concentration as she lifted it onto her stack of odd, semiburned shapes.

  Glad I didn’t voice my guess of a palm tree.

  “Is that breakfast for dinner I smell?” Ivy’s dad poked his head into the kitchen. “My favorite.” He wandered into the room, one hand rubbing at tired eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses.