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  “Someone’s been stealing our lunches. Trevor even had his locker broken into. So, we decided to catch whoever was taking our food. We put blue food coloring inside a Twinkie so that when the thief bit into it, we’d have proof.”

  “I see,” said Ms. Thorsen. “So why are you saying Cray is the thief?”

  “Because he gave the Twinkie to this boy,” Robyn said. “Cray admitted it.”

  “Is that true?” Ms. Thorsen asked Cray.

  “Yeah,” Cray said, glaring at Robyn.

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  Ms. Thorsen crossed her arms. “You must have a reason, Cray, and no one leaves this room until we hear it.”

  Cray just shrugged, but he looked at the floor and refused to meet Ms. Thorsen’s eyes.

  “There’s no way you’ve been pigging out on five or six sandwiches every day,” Robyn said.

  “He’s not,” the grade four boy said. He’d been so silent, I’d almost forgotten he was there. “He’s been giving food to me and my sister and some other kids.”

  “Why?” Robyn asked.

  The boy turned away and didn’t answer.

  “Because they don’t get much for lunch, that’s why,” Cray answered.

  Everyone was silent, even Robyn.

  “I remember what that’s like. Last year, both my mom and dad were out of work for a couple of months. We didn’t have much extra money, so my lunch was thin, man. I was lucky if I had a sandwich. No juice, no fruit, and for sure no Twinkies.”

  “So you decided to steal food from other people?” Robyn said in disbelief. “How do you figure making us go hungry is any better?”

  “Because you’re not really hungry. Face it, Robyn. None of you is going to starve. I see kids dumping stuff from their lunch in the trash all the time. So what’s the difference if I take it and give it to someone who really needs it?”

  “Stealing is wrong,” Robyn said, but her voice lacked conviction.

  “Starving is wrong too,” Cray shot back.

  “Cray...” Ms. Thorsen hesitated. “Why didn’t you tell someone? The teachers could have helped. There are emergency lunches in the office for students who’ve forgotten theirs.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not for every day,” Cray said. “And it’s not like I can bring enough food from home. I had to swipe lunches.”

  Ms. Thorsen looked thoughtful. “Cray, I understand why you did this, but you still took things from other people. You opened lockers that didn’t belong to you—”

  “I only did that twice,” Cray interrupted. “And that’s because Trevor’s locker partner leaves the lock open.” He looked at me. “Your locker is brutal, man.”

  I grinned. “Why do you think I hardly ever leave my lunch in it?”

  “Every other time, I took stuff that was just lying around,” Cray said.

  Robyn couldn’t contain herself. “Lunches that are left on a table while we’re working in the library aren’t exactly lying around, Cray.”

  Cray shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “And what about the Gretzky book?” Robyn demanded. “What did you do with that?”

  “I never took that!” Cray said fiercely. “Look, I know the Gretzky book is worth a wad, but I still never touched it. So you can just shut up, princess!”

  Ms. Thorsen held up her hand.

  “Stop it,” she said. “Let me finish. Cray, there are other ways to solve this problem. I think we need to talk to the principal and see what can be done.”

  “So that’s it?” Robyn said. “He’s not even going to get in trouble?”

  “No, that’s not all,” Ms. Thorsen said firmly. “All of you will serve another week’s detention at lunch hour—Cray, for stealing lunches, even if it was for a good cause, and you three for rigging the Twinkie. Vigilantism is not encouraged at this school, and tampering with food can be dangerous. I’ll also be speaking with your parents. You kids can go now, but don’t let me catch you doing something like this again!”

  Robyn made a sour face as we walked toward the door. “I’ll bring extra for your friends,” she muttered into Cray’s ear before we left. “But if I ever catch you swiping my pickle sandwiches again, Cray, you are roadkill.”

  “Don’t worry, Robyn,” Cray whispered back. “That’s exactly what your sandwiches taste like!”

  chapter nine

  The man wore a dark suit, shiny black shoes and a drab tie.

  “Who is that guy?” Robyn whispered, staring as he walked past. Lunch hour was almost over and we were in the library, serving yet another day of detention. We’d been working on posters for the literacy fair.

  “I have no idea. He doesn’t look like a teacher,” I answered.

  “He’s going over to the desk,” Robyn said in a low voice.

  “Let’s get closer.” I dropped down and crawled on all fours behind the shelves, past the entire nonfiction section. Robyn followed me. I squirmed up against the picturebook display next to Mrs. Pringle’s desk area. I stared at the cover of a Curious George book and listened.

  “Arlene Pringle?” the man said. I peered out and saw him shake Mrs. Pringle’s hand. “I’m Ron Shaw. I’m here to appraise the artifact you found.”

  “The artifact?” Mrs. Pringle’s eyes widened.

  “Yes. I understand you found a vintage hockey book with Gretzky’s signature. Your principal asked me to authenticate the signature.”

  “Oh...uh, yes. We did.” Mrs. Pringle’s face flushed. “It’s...quite unfortunately...not at the school today. I’m afraid I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Robyn sucked in her breath and dug her elbow into my ribs.

  The man frowned. “Is there any way to get the artifact here?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Pringle said.

  “I don’t like to waste my time,” he grouched.

  “Then next time I suggest you make an appointment,” Mrs. Pringle said crisply.

  “Good for you, Mrs. Pringle!” Robyn whispered.

  The man turned on his heel and walked out.

  Mrs. Pringle’s face appeared over the picturebook display. “You two can come out now.”

  Robyn stood up and brushed off her knees. “How did you know we were back here?”

  “Teachers know everything.” Mrs. Pringle smiled.

  “We have to find that hockey book,” I said.

  “I know.” Mrs. Pringle looked worried. “It was my responsibility, and I think it’s quite valuable. I hope it turns up soon.”

  “So do we,” Robyn assured her. “We’ll find it, don’t worry.”

  “You kids go eat lunch, before noon hour is over,” Mrs. Pringle said.

  We found Nick in the lunchroom, fresh from detention in Ms. Thorsen’s room, where he’d been stapling science worksheets into booklets.

  “It was awful. The desk was piled three feet high with paper,” he moaned, relishing his salami, mustard-and-hot-sauce-submarine sandwich. He’d already given half the sub, plus a juice box, to our grade four Twinkie victim. Robyn had donated oatmeal cookies, and I gave him an apple before school started this morning. That kid had been eating like a king since the Twinkie episode, but we all felt good about it. Stealing is one thing but sharing is another.

  We told Nick what had happened in the library. “The missing lunches were no big deal compared to Mrs. Pringle losing her job,” Robyn concluded. “The Gretzky book is valuable, and Mrs. Pringle is going to take the blame for losing it. We have to get it back.”

  “I don’t see how. It could be anywhere,” Nick said with his mouth full.

  “We look for clues, Nick,” Robyn said.

  “There aren’t any,” Nick said.

  “Yes, there are. There always are,” Robyn insisted.

  I dumped the contents of my lunch bag on the table. “Okay, let’s look at what we have. Cray turns out to be the lunch thief, but swears he had nothing to do with the hockey book. We have no other suspects, no other evidence, and no way to trap
the culprit, since the book disappeared over a week ago.”

  I shook my head, but then I remembered when I bumped into Ms. Thorsen in the hall and she dropped her box of books. I’d seen a hockey book in that scattered pile, before she scooped everything up. She was pretty mad, and she wouldn’t let me help, either. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Maybe we do have another suspect.” I briefly told Robyn and Nick what had happened.

  “Ms. Thorsen?” Robyn said in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Well, think about it. I know what I saw, Robyn.” I remembered something else. “And you know what?” I said. “She was wearing an Oilers cap that day.”

  “So what?” Robyn said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Robyn! The Oilers! Hockey! The team Wayne Gretzky played for when he signed that book.”

  “Oh.”

  “We need to find a way to check out those books,” I said. Blake Pringle threw some stuff in the trashcan nearby, and he paused when he heard what I was saying. “Hey, Blake, you’re in Ms. Thorsen’s class, right?”

  “Yeah. So?” Blake answered.

  “So, we need to find out where she took a box of books from the library last week,” I said.

  “She has three boxes full of them in the classroom.”

  “Really?” I wondered. I’d seen her going toward the doors to the parking lot that day. I thought those books would be long gone.

  “Yeah, we helped her take them out to her car last week, but nothing fit. Her car is stuffed with junk. She said she’d have to wait until she cleaned out her car to take them to the Salvation Army.”

  “That’s great!” I said with enthusiasm. Blake gave me a weird look. “I mean, we just need to look through them.”

  Blake shook his head. “She’s pretty testy about those books. She keeps yelling at us to quit messing with them. I don’t know if she’d let you look at them.”

  I exchanged glances with Robyn. “It’s really important,” Robyn said. “We think the missing hockey book with Gretzky’s signature might be in one of the boxes.”

  Blake looked thoughtful. “And you don’t want to ask, because you don’t want Ms. Thorsen to find out you think she’s the thief.” Blake gave us a sly grin. “Sounds like fun. I think I can find a way to help you guys out.”

  “Ow! Trevor, get your elbow out of my ear!” Robyn whispered, giving me a jab with her finger that nearly separated my ribs.

  I tried to move away from Robyn, who was crouched on the floor. “Nick, you’re standing on my toe,” I said.

  “Sorry. I can’t see a thing.” Nick shuffled to the side.

  “Shhhh!” Blake whispered. “I think she’s leaving.”

  The four of us were stuffed into a broom closet just outside Ms. Thorsen’s classroom after school. She’d helped a student with a homework problem and talked to a parent about someone’s grades. Now we were waiting for her to leave for home.

  Ms. Thorsen’s heels clicked down the hall. As the sound faded, we unraveled ourselves and burst out of the broom closet like microwave popcorn from the bag.

  “She’s gone. Come on,” Blake whispered. “They’re back here.”

  The boxes were stacked neatly with the cardboard tops folded shut. We wrenched them open and began taking the books out. Within about thirty seconds, all three boxes were dumped on the floor.

  “We’ll never get this put back the way she had it,” Robyn looked at the sea of books in despair.

  “Never mind. Just start looking.” I sifted through the books. There were textbooks, old paperbacks and hardcover book jackets in all colors with pictures of everything under the sun, except hockey.

  “Any luck?” Nick called out. He was stationed at the classroom door, keeping a lookout.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Start tossing the books you’ve checked back into the boxes,” Robyn suggested. “That way we can narrow the search.”

  Blake showed only mild interest, leafing through the books nearest him. Robyn and I worked at a frenzied pace, spurred on by the knowledge that Ms. Thorsen was likely to fry our butts if we were caught after the Twinkie episode.

  “Are you sure you saw the Gretzky book in here, Trev?” Robyn asked.

  “I saw a hockey picture. That’s all I know.” I stacked a set of almanacs from the 1970s, and then threw some old romance novels on top.

  We tossed several armloads of books into the boxes, but the Gretzky book was nowhere to be found. I looked at Robyn dismally. She shrugged, and then froze as Nick gestured frantically.

  “You guys!” he hissed. “Hide!”

  Too late. The door opened.

  “What is going on here?” I felt my blood turn to ice. Ms. Thorsen was back.

  We were caught.

  chapter ten

  Shock rooted us to the spot. Ms. Thorsen regarded us calmly, but I read the anger in her eyes. “What are you kids doing?”

  We had no choice but to explain. We didn’t accuse Ms. Thorsen of actually stealing the Gretzky book. We just said that we were worried it had been packed by mistake.

  “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t double-check these boxes myself?” Ms. Thorsen said crossly. “And really, how many detentions do I have to give you before you get it through your heads that this detective work is a bad idea?”

  Only if you don’t suspect a teacher, I thought but didn’t say.

  “All of you just earned another week of lunch-hour detention. I know you’re trying to find the missing Gretzky book, and I appreciate the effort, but it’s not here! If I catch you guys messing around where you shouldn’t be again, we will be discussing suspension with the principal. Now clean this mess up and go home for supper.” Ms. Thorsen’s eyeballs bulged. “And Blake, don’t even tell me why you’re here. Explain it to your mother. She’s waiting for you in the library. Go. Now.”

  Ms. Thorsen narrowed her gaze as Nick, Robyn, and I cleared up the rest of the scattered books. “You know, if you guys worked as hard at schoolwork as you do at solving mysteries, you’d be on the honor roll,” she said as we left her classroom.

  “Yeah,” Robyn muttered. “Except that we can’t seem to solve anything. Nice going, Trevor.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  “You said that you saw the Gretzky book when Ms. Thorsen dropped the box in the hallway.”

  “No, I said I saw a hockey picture. I never said I was sure. Besides, this was a dumb idea. If Ms. Thorsen did take the Gretzky book, do you really think she’d keep it with the other books? Not likely. She probably took it home, or hid it in the classroom.”

  “We can’t risk staking out her classroom again,” Nick said. “If we’re caught, we’ll get suspended for sure.”

  “But we don’t have any real clues,” Robyn complained. She zipped up her jacket as we walked outside.

  “I wish we’d had more time.” A raw wind blew icy snow into our faces. I jammed my hands into my jeans pockets. “We might have found something if Ms. Thorsen hadn’t come back.” I felt a papery lump in my pocket and pulled it out, hoping it was money. Instead it was a folded note that had obviously been through the laundry.

  “What’s that?” Robyn asked.

  “I don’t know.” I unfolded it carefully. A row of numbers was still legible on the paper, in spite of the washing machine. “It’s not homework, and it’s not my handwriting.”

  Robyn leaned over my shoulder. “Those are ISBN numbers. I remember them from when we sorted books for Mrs. Pringle. Where did you get this?”

  I thought for a minute before I remembered. “It was in the detective novel that Mrs. Pringle gave me. It fell out, and I stuffed it in my pocket.”

  “The detective novel that’s missing?” Robyn said. Her eyes widened.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you think that’s kind of a coincidence?” she asked.

  “What are ISBN numbers?” Nick wanted to know.

  “They’re like serial numbers. They’re a way of keeping track of b
ooks,” Robyn said. “Look, there’s a dollar amount beside each number.” They ranged in price from fifty to four hundred dollars.

  “So, if we looked up these numbers on the website of an Internet store, the books would come up?” Nick said slowly.

  “Probably.” Robyn and Nick stared at each other.

  “What are you guys talking about?” I said.

  “It’s a clue!” Robyn shouted. “I know it! Come on, let’s go. My house is closest. We can look it up there.” She took off running through the icy snow. Nick sprinted after her, and I was close behind.

  Robyn burst through her front door, kicked off her shoes and raced into the family room, where the computer sat on a desk in the corner. Nick and I followed her. Robyn’s dad poked his head out of the kitchen, where he was cooking supper—spaghetti, judging from the great smell in the house. My stomach growled just thinking about it.

  “Robyn?” he called.

  “Hi, Dad!” she answered. “Nick and Trevor are here. We need to look up something on the computer for school.”

  “Okay.”

  Nick booted up the computer and clicked the mouse on the Internet icon. Then he searched for a cyber-bookstore. “Give me that note, Trevor. I’ll type in the numbers.”

  We could only search one number at a time, but each one was a book from the detective series that Mrs. Pringle was tossing out. Every book was out of print, and some were more expensive than others. Nick tallied up the prices and wrote down the titles. When he had plugged in the final

  ISBN number, he started adding up the total amount. Nick frowned and erased, then frowned again.

  “I don’t believe it,” Nick said at last.

  “What?” Robyn and I said together.

  “Those books—if you have the whole series—are worth over five thousand dollars!”

  “What!” Robyn cried.

  “No wonder someone took that book out of my locker,” I said.

  Nick’s voice was serious. “Someone in our school knows about this. The Gretzky book is valuable too, but it’s nothing compared with this.”

  A sharp realization stabbed through me. “Yeah, and who in our school knows a lot about books?” I said.