The Case of the Crooked Carnival (2 page)

Drake stopped warming his hands.

Nell stopped shining her flashlight around.

Edgar stopped sighing.

Poe snored, moaning a wee bit.

And they all stared at each other (except Poe, who had his eyes closed).

“Great Scott!” whispered Drake.

“What
is
that?” whispered Nell.

“It’s the ghosts,” whispered Edgar. “They’re singing.”

Now, if one could have used a heart-o-matic meter at that moment, one would have seen three hearts hammering like crazy.

Edgar’s heart was hammering especially hard. He wrung his hands, his face turned white as glue, and he moaned, “Oh, gloom and doom! Oh, spiders and bats! Now the ghosts are haunting us during the day, too!”

But Drake Doyle and Nell Fossey were science detective geniuses. And, like all science detective geniuses everywhere, they had a job to do, hammering hearts or not. They had no time to waste on gloom and doom.

Drake scribbled in his notebook,
ghost music, not bad, bebop maybe,
and then he drew a quick chart. (In a pinch, all good scientists draw charts.)

Meanwhile, Nell put her ear next to one of the open pipes. “Mr. Glum, where do these pipes go?”

“Oh, woe!” wailed Edgar. “I—I don’t know where they go. I only live here!”

Nell frowned. “The music appears to be coming from these pipes.”

“Curious.” Drake knelt next to Nell. “Hellooooooo. Aaaaaanybody theeeeeeere?” he called into one of the pipes.

And, just like that, the music stopped.

“Fascinating,” said Drake.

“Eerily so,” said Nell.

“See what I mean?” cried Edgar.

Nell cocked an eyebrow and looked at Drake. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

Drake nodded. “At least I
think
I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”

“Well then,” said Nell, sticking her pencil behind her ear, “I think we’ve seen enough.” And up the stairs they went.

To everyone’s surprise, Edgar’s grandmother was standing at the top of the steps. She looked rather upset, as if she’d forgotten her name, or perhaps left her favorite book out in the rain. “They’re here,” she said.

“Who?” said Drake and Nell and Edgar together.

She lowered her voice to a whisper and glanced over her shoulder. “The ghosts. The ones Edgar’s always talking about. I—I heard them.”

Drake patted her hand. “Never fear, Grandmother Glum. We heard the ghosts, too.”

Grandmother Glum gasped. “You—you did?”

“Indeed,” said Nell, handing her a business card. “Only we have a hunch that it’s not what you think.”

“Now, without further ado,” said Drake, “Scientist Nell and I must return to the lab.”

“And then?” asked Edgar and Grandmother Glum together.

“Expect our report before nightfall,” said Nell.

Edgar sighed sadly. “You probably won’t call. No one ever does. And even if you do, it’ll be too late.”

And on that cheery note, out the door they went, blinking in the brilliant sunshine, leaving Edgar and his grandmother behind in the dark.

B
ack at the lab, Drake pulled a book off the shelf and thumbed through it to find the right section: “Haunted House Analysis: What to Do When Ghosts Moan, Play Bebop, or Just Clank Their Chains, and Everyone Is Quite Gloomy.”

And while Drake and Nell read the section aloud, Drake’s mom, Kate Doyle, stuck her head around the door. “Had breakfast yet?”

“Negative,” they replied.

“How do cinnamon pancakes sound, with whipped cream and strawberries?”

“Make it so,” said Drake.

“Like a dream,” said Nell.

“Affirmative,” replied Mrs. Doyle. “Hot chocolate anyone?”

“No, thanks,” said Drake.

“Just coffee,” said Nell. “Decaf. Black.” (Real scientists don’t drink hot chocolate. It makes them sleepy, and as everyone knows, it’s more difficult to crack cases when one is sleepy.)

“Roger that,” said Mrs. Doyle, and she was back in five minutes twenty-two seconds with coffee and breakfast. (Scientifically speaking, Mrs. Doyle was a whiz. You see, she owned her own catering company and so was quite used to whipping up specialties in nothing flat.)

So after saying “Thanks a billion!” to Mrs. Doyle, Drake and Nell washed their hands and sat at the lab table. They ate their breakfast and shared their observations. Then they developed a hypothesis. (Of course, as any scientist knows, a hypothesis is simply an educated guess.)

“Based upon our observations, Scientist Nell, I believe the haunting of Edgar’s home is being caused by …”

Nell took a few notes, and nodded. “Agreed, Detective Doyle. Let’s test our hypothesis.”

So, for the rest of the morning, that’s what they did. Using the latest in scientific gadgetry (their lab was filled with gadgets, compliments of Mr. Sam Doyle, who owned his own science equipment and supply company), they assembled a mini-simulation of what they believed was occurring at Edgar’s home. After lunch (peanut butter and banana sandwiches with apple slices on the side), they tested the simulation.

“Ah-ha! Just as we thought,” said Nell with a satisfied smile.

“Our hypothesis is correct,” said Drake. And without wasting another second, he phoned Edgar. “Meet us in the lab, Mr. Glum. Bring Poe. Ten minutes and counting.”

Nine minutes fifty-six seconds later, Edgar rushed into the lab with Poe at his heels. “Give me the gory details.”

Drake sat on a stool with a drum in his lap. “Allow Scientist Nell to explain.”

Nell clasped her hands behind her back and paced around the room. “Let us begin with a loud noise. Detective Doyle, if you would be so kind?”

“Certainly.” Drake banged the drum with a drum stick.
BOOOOM!

Nell stopped pacing and looked quite serious. “Did you hear that, Mr. Glum?”

Edgar frowned. “You’d have to be deaf not to hear that.” (And indeed, Poe, being quite deaf, had settled into what looked to be a nice afternoon nap, completely undisturbed by all the ruckus.)

Nell continued, “Sound is caused by a vibrating object, in this case, a drum.”

“You see,” Drake explained, “the vibrating drum causes the molecules in the surrounding air to vibrate also, creating a sound wave that travels in all directions.”

“And when that sound wave reaches your ear it signals your brain that you have heard a sound,” finished Nell.

“But what does this have to do with ghosts and ghouls?” asked Edgar.

“Ah, yes,” said Nell, stopping her pacing. “Now we’ve come to the heart of the matter. Imagine, if you will, a gigantic football stadium. Imagine the announcer calling the game play-by-play. Now I ask you, if you’re sitting in the crowd, how are you able to hear the announcer?”

“But—but I’ve never been to a football game.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Glum,” said Drake.

Edgar crumpled and put his face in his hands. “I—I don’t know!”

“It’s because,” said Nell, “the announcer’s voice is
amplified.
”

Now it was Drake’s turn to pace. “Amplification is when a sound is made louder. Even the shape of your own ears helps to amplify sound. Your outer ear funnels the sound into your ear canal, concentrating the sound. You can funnel even more sound by cupping your hands around your ears. Try it, and you will hear the difference.”

And while Edgar cupped his ears, Drake placed a pipe next to Poe, who by this time was running in his sleep, moaning and howling a wee bit, while his license tags clinked and clanked. “Put your ear on the other end of this pipe, Mr. Glum.”

Edgar listened through the pipe, and his mouth dropped open. “It’s—it’s my
ghost!
The howling, the moaning … it’s him … it’s
Poe.
”

“Quite right,” said Drake. “We first became suspicious when you said that Poe stopped sleeping in your room on the
same
night the haunting started. And not only that—you had a new furnace.”

Nell nodded. “A
warm
furnace, to be exact, one that burns wood—the perfect spot for sleeping if you’re an old dog living in a chilly house.”

“Very simply,” said Drake, “Poe’s moaning and howling, not to mention the sound of his license tags clinking together, were amplified through the pipes, which, no doubt, went all over the house, as old pipes often do.”

“But what about the music we heard?”

“Elementary, really,” said Drake. “It was simply your grandmother’s radio being amplified to us in the basement. And when I hollered to ask if anyone was there, she heard
my
voice amplified, thought it was the ghost, and immediately turned off her radio to listen.”

“It’s all very logical once you think about it,” said Nell. “Just plug up the pipes. Should take care of the problem.”

“Thank you,” Edgar said. “I’ll tell my grandmother all about it.” And suddenly, without any warning, rather like the sun bursting through fog, Edgar smiled and gave them each a hug. It was quite astonishing, scientifically speaking.

Later that evening, Drake wrote in his lab notebook:

Case solved.
Poe the sleepy culprit.
Invited Edgar to football game.
Received pet spider as payment.
(Gave to Nell, who named it
“CREEPERS.”)

Paid in full.

I
t was a splendid afternoon for hanging upside down while drinking a strawberry soda. In fact, Drake was doing just that when there was a
woof!
and a
scratch!
at the lab door. “Enter.”

A dog nudged the door open with his snout.

“Ah, Dr. Livingston.
Slurp!
Ahhhh
…
Just checking the force of gravity versus the body’s ability to keep things moving in the right direction. Now, come a little closer, my boy. That’s it.”

Drake reached into the pouch around the dog’s neck and withdrew a note. On the outside, it read:

To: Detective Doyle
From: Naturalist Nell

Nell Fossey was not only a superb scientist, good with calculations and bubbling beakers, but she doubled as a naturalist. Simply put, Nell loved nature. Whether it was a sunset, a buffalo, or a clam, Nell was fascinated.

Drake opened the note.

An ordinary-sounding note. Nell’s mother taught wildlife biology at Mossy Lake University. It was only natural that Nell would want to visit Professor Fossey. And Drake knew that
Psycho Alien Invasion!
was a pretty good movie—he’d seen it eleven times and counting. But, mothers and movies aside, Drake knew that this was no ordinary note. No, indeed. Drake knew it was a secret code for something else entirely….