Puzzle Master by Carly Anne West

Author:Carly Anne West [Anne West, Carly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2021-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

It’s weirdly difficult to find a teacher’s address in Raven Brooks. It’s almost as though they don’t want to be found.

“She’s a big contributor to the Community Action Fund,” Trinity says. “Mom and Dad say she’s basically the only one who ever donates to the Emergency Preparedness Plan.”

Which is how Trinity is able to get her hands on the address of Mrs. Ryland, geography teacher, Weather Lover, and apparently Emergency Preparedness Enthusiast.

“I mean, it makes sense,” Enzo says. “If you’re constantly ready for the Big One, I guess you’d want the rest of the town to be, too.”

I have no idea how waiting for a giant earthquake makes Mrs. Ryland the only person in all of Raven Brooks who knows who the Puzzle Master is, but that hardly matters now. What matters is, she knows. And once I know, too, maybe I can finally figure out what it is he’s trying to tell me.

We arrive at the curb of a small, one-story house, white-trimmed and bright blue, an overgrown flower garden spilling onto the sidewalk with weeds poking through patches in the grass. On our street the house would fit right in. A little shabby maybe, just enough to look lived-in, not neglected. On this street, though, every house is magazine perfect, flower boxes in every window, every picket of every fence soldier straight.

A woman in yellow rubber gloves crouches in the yard across the street, wielding a pair of pruning shears like a garden ninja.

“So, should we just knock, or …” Maritza says, and it occurs to all of us at the same time that we don’t really have a plan now that we’re here. Are we just supposed to ring the doorbell and demand the name of this crossword mastermind who has gone to such great lengths to remain anonymous?

The answer doesn’t come from any of us, though.

“If you’re looking for Rita, you won’t find her topside.”

It’s the garden ninja across the street. I’d thought she was too focused on her begonias to notice us, but her eyes are trained on us now, clearly suspicious.

“Rita?” Enzo asks.

The lady eyes us more closely, squinting through the late-afternoon sun. She probably just realized we must be students, not small adults.

“Mrs. Ryland,” she clarifies. “You won’t find her in front of the house.”

The woman returns to her pruning, apparently deciding we’ve been sufficiently dealt with.

Mrs. Ryland’s backyard is a far cry from the front. Weeds and some overgrown grass might actually make it look better.

Two sprawling maple trees occupy the majority of the space, their leaves shading nearly every part of the patchy lawn that probably never had a chance to grow, given the jumble of cracked paving stones, discarded flowerpots, snarled vines tumbling out of untended planters, and a spigot slowly dripping water against the siding on the house, an orange rust stain carving a path down to the ground.

“Yikes,” Maritza says. “I guess landscaping isn’t really her thing.”

Enzo picks up a rusted iron bistro chair that’s tipped on its side, setting it beside the matching table randomly placed in the middle of the yard.

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