The Spaghetti Detectives by Andreas Steinhofel

Author:Andreas Steinhofel [Steinhöfel, Andreas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-545-38922-8
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2008-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

ALMOST WEDNESDAY

the special edition

About ten minutes ago both of Mickey Mouse’s arms showed twelve. So it’s already after midnight.

In the backyard an enormous shadowier shadow has just moved, I’m sure of it. That’s why I’ve moved from my room into the living room, into the thinking chair.

All the lights are on, but even if they were off you still couldn’t see the moon through the window. It’s darkest night outside. A stormy wind is moving the branches of the trees, rustling their leaves and driving drizzly rain against the windowpanes.

I’ve brought my bedspread with me and covered my legs with it. I’m sitting in front of the computer, writing my diary. I have to write down what happened this evening right away, otherwise I won’t be able to get to sleep. And I have to think up a plan.

If only I could think more quickly.

Mrs. Darling knows nothing.

If I call Mom, I’ll just worry her.

It’s up to me.

I’m really scared.

Just before seven thirty I went upstairs to Mrs. Darling’s. I didn’t want to miss the local evening news. Well, actually, I didn’t want to miss the whole wheat crackers, but saying I didn’t want to miss the evening news sounds less greedy.

Anyway, I rang Mrs. Darling’s bell. No reply. I pressed my ear to the door and listened. Nothing. Then I remembered. Mrs. Darling and I almost always see each other on Saturdays, which is her day off. I’d completely forgotten that she works until eight during the week. She couldn’t be home yet. At that very moment she was probably standing behind the meat counter, wrapping up the final pork chop. Sometimes I can be such an idiot!

On the floor above me somebody was crunching around on the stairs. Then I heard a cheerful little whistle. It couldn’t be Mr. Fitz; he has to be the least cheerful person on the planet. A door closed. Then there was silence.

So I went up to the fourth floor. A heavy blue bag of garbage was sitting in the stairway. Strips of wallpaper and bits of plastic wrap splattered with red and yellow and orange were poking out. Great! Mr. Haven was at home, and I had half an hour to spare. If I went about it the right way, I was sure he would let me into his apartment.

When I rang, he opened the door immediately. He looked at me in astonishment. With concern, almost.

“Rico! Did something happen?”

Why do so many people ask if something has happened when a kid rings their doorbell?

I shook my head and stretched out a hand. “Good evening! My name is Frederico Doretti. I’m—”

“Ehm … I know who you are.”

He wouldn’t let me finish! Some people can’t even keep quiet for ten seconds, and what I had to say was almost as difficult as the thing about Mr. Marrak’s Alarms, Safes, and Locks business. Somewhere in my head a small switch flicked on almost by itself and started up the lottery machine. I was hot and uncomfortable.

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