Swiped (6 page)

“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 books,” 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.

“I don't know. Who?” Nick asked.

I paused. “Mrs. Pringle!”

“No way, Trevor.” Robyn shook her head. “There's no way.”

“Think about it, Robyn. No one but us knows those discards are worth a ton. But she would! She knows all about books, and she'd never get caught, because everyone else thinks they're worthless. It makes total sense!” I said.

“Yeah, except she gave you one of those books,” Robyn pointed out.

“Maybe she didn't know how much they were worth then,” I said.

“She must have,” Nick argued. “There are prices on that list.”

“Well, why would she risk her job by taking the Gretzky book?” Robyn persisted.

“That I don't know,” I answered. “Unless she thought the risk was worth it. Maybe she
figured she was going to lose her job anyway, so why not take the money and run?”

“I don't believe it,” Robyn said stubbornly. “Mrs. Pringle is too nice. She'd never do anything like that.”

“Robyn, whether you like someone or not doesn't change the facts. You thought Cray was behind everything, just because you don't like the guy. Well, he did swipe lunches, but not for the reasons you thought, and he never touched those books.”

“That hasn't been proven, yet,” Robyn interrupted.

“And now,” I continued. “You don't believe Mrs. Pringle could do anything wrong, just because you think she's great!”

“Look, you guys,” Nick broke in. “Let's just say Mrs. Pringle does have the books. Where would she hide them?”

“Not in the library, because they could get mixed up with the other books,” I said.

“I don't think she would leave them in the school,” Nick mulled. “It would be too risky, with the literacy fair and everything. Someone could pack them up for the sale.”

“You guys are nuts,” Robyn said.

“I'll tell you where I'd hide them. In my car!” I said.

“Mrs. Pringle drives a van. There'd be plenty of room,” Nick added.

Something tugged at my memory. “And I'll bet they're still there. Mrs. Pringle had to get me to help her load boxes of the discards onto a trolley. There's no way she could get those boxes out of her van without help.”

Nick and I looked at each other.

“No way! No way are we breaking into her van.” Robyn shook her head.

“She's working late tonight organizing all the donated books,” I said.

“Are you out of your mind?” Robyn demanded. “We just got nailed for staking out Ms. Thorsen's classroom, and you want to add car prowling to the list?”

“We don't have a choice!” I argued. “Are you going to let her get away with five grand?”

“You don't know it's really Mrs. Pringle!” Robyn said hotly.

“We don't have any suspects left, Robyn,” Nick replied. “If you have another one, let's hear it.”

Robyn remained glumly silent, but Nick and I nodded at each other.

“Let's go!” We jumped to our feet.

We ran through the icy darkness toward the school, our sneakers pounding on the sidewalk. It was only 5:30, but the early winter sun had already set. The street lamps made pools of light on the road.

“Do you think she'll still be there?” Robyn puffed.

“Probably,” I wheezed. “Mrs. Pringle was still working when we left, and that was less than an hour ago.”

There were a few lights on in the school, but the parking lot was dark and nearly empty. Mrs. Pringle's van was in the farthest corner.

“That's great,” Nick whispered. “No one can see us trying to get inside.”

“That's because no one can see, period,” Robyn complained. “Did anyone bring a flashlight?”

“Uh...no,” Nick and I answered.

Robyn sighed. “Well, this is useless. The windows are tinted and we can't see a thing. So now what?”

“Check the doors?” Nick suggested.

“You can't do that!” Robyn said. “That's trespassing.”

“What do you think we're here for?” Nick said in disbelief. “A tea party?”

“If Mrs. Pringle really has the stolen books, she could get in a lot of trouble,” I said.

“So could we!” Robyn retorted as Nick tried the door handle.

The door swung open with a rusty creak. I swallowed. “See anything?” I said as Nick climbed inside.

“Not yet.”

I peered into the interior. Nick had moved to the back and was searching the trunk area by feeling along the walls and floor. I craned my neck to see if there was anything in the passenger seat and then stepped inside to help Nick.

“Nothing,” Nick said.

I was about to check under the seats, when I heard the crunch of gravel.

“Someone's coming!” Robyn hissed.

I leaped backward in panic, bashing my head on the doorframe. Nick tripped over me and we fell out the door, landing on Robyn. The three of us collapsed in a heap.

“Get off!” Robyn shoved me. She leaped to her feet and closed the door as gently as possible. Nick yanked me to my feet.

“Run!” he said.

My head throbbing, we ran as hard as we could, until we disappeared into the blackness at the edge of the parking lot.

“You know, you guys,” Robyn said the next morning as we walked down the school
hallway toward the library, “since we caught Cray stealing lunches, we haven't found proof of anything, except that someone stole Trevor's detective novel and the whole set is worth a ton of money. The Gretzky book has been missing for ages. All we've done is nearly get suspended. So much for your brilliant plans.”

“Well, Ms. Sherlock,” Nick said, “have you got any better ideas?”

“Actually, yes,” Robyn answered smugly. She pushed open the library door. “I do.”

Nick and I looked at her. “And?” I said. “What is it?”

But Robyn gasped. Her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. “Look!” she croaked. She took off running through the library at top speed.

I stared at Nick. He shrugged. “We followed Robyn. She had collared a younger kid—he couldn't have been older than seven— and had pulled a book from his arms.

“Hey!” the boy cried. “That's mine!”

“No, it isn't,” Robyn said. “Where did you get this?” She held it up so Nick and I could
see. It was the missing Gretzky book.

“From here,” the boy said in disgust, as if the question was so obvious anyone should know the answer. “I took it out.”

“You stole it, you mean?” Robyn said.

“No. I borrowed it,” the boy answered. “That's what you do in a library.”

“Did you sign it out?” Robyn's eyes narrowed.

“Sure. I used my library card.”

“But you couldn't have. It doesn't have any bar codes or anything.” Robyn flipped open the cover.

“I signed my name on the card in the back,” the boy said stubbornly.

A look of understanding crossed Robyn's face. “You signed the old card, from the library that had this book a long time ago!”

“So?” the boy said.

“We need to talk to Mrs. Pringle.” Robyn's voice was decisive. She marched over to the librarian's desk, just as Mrs. Pringle came in.

“What's going on?” Mrs. Pringle asked, setting down a stack of papers.

Robyn held up the book and explained. Relief and joy flooded Mrs. Pringle's face. She took the book and held it tightly. “I'm so glad you found it!” she exclaimed.

By now, the younger boy understood. “I'm sorry I took it,” he said. “I just really like hockey. I didn't know it was old.”

“That's all right,” Mrs. Pringle patted his shoulder. “It was a mistake, that's all. I'll help you find another book about hockey that I bet you'll like even better. Okay?”

The boy's face brightened. “Okay.”

“Thank you, Robyn, for finding it,” Mrs. Pringle said. She led the younger boy away to the nonfiction section.

“I guess that wraps up that mystery,” Nick said in relief. “Which is good, because I need to work on my research project. It's due tomorrow, and I need to use the Internet.”

“You need to use the Internet, all right, but not for your project,” Robyn said. “Have you forgotten about Trevor's missing detective novel?”

“Oh, come on, Robyn,” Nick complained. “Three mysteries are too much for any
detective to solve. Trevor probably flushed the book down the toilet or something.”

“He did not! Someone broke into his locker and took it, and we know the series is worth about five thousand dollars. That money should belong to the school. We could use it to pay part of Mrs. Pringle's salary if the school has to cut her job.”

“I don't think they would let us do that,” I said.

“Well, we could buy new books for the library, at least. Tons of them, for five thousand bucks,” Robyn said.

Nick sighed. “Okay, Robyn. What do you want us to do?”

“First, we need to find out if the detective series is missing from the books that were dropped off at the Salvation Army,” Robyn said. “I brought change to call from the pay phones by the office.”

“We have class,” Nick said.

“We can't wait. Tell Mr. Kowalski we need to be excused for a few minutes for the literacy fair. Make something up.”

Nick shot her an exasperated look, but
he left. Robyn led the way down the hall, reached the lobby pay phone, and began leafing through the phone book attached to the base. She deposited the coins and began dialing.

“Hello. I'm wondering if you could check some items that were dropped off from our school.” Robyn listened, and then told the clerk the name of the school. “You have? That's great! We think some books we need were donated by mistake.”

Robyn turned to me. “What's the name of the series?” I told her, and she gave the information to the clerk.

“Okay,” she said after a few moments. “Yes, thank you very much.” She hung up the phone, her eyes bright with excitement. “They have the books from the school, and the detective series isn't there. The lady checked twice for me.”

“So that means...,” I said.

“Someone else has them,” Nick finished, catching up in time to hear Robyn's comment.

“Mrs. Pringle has probably taken them
somewhere to sell. They weren't in the van,” I said.

“Not if she's using the Internet,” Nick answered. “Think about it. Books like that don't get sold in a second-hand store. They're probably antiques, and the best way to find someone who's interested in buying them would be on the Net.”