Boardwalk Bust Page 2

  Dad was staring at Joe’s black eye now. He put a hand up to it. Joe flinched at the touch.

  “What happened, son?”

  Joe hesitated, so I just jumped in. “He got kicked by a cow.”

  “Shut up,” Joe muttered, shooting me a look.

  “A cow?”

  “I … thought it would be a hoot to milk it,” Joe said with a sigh. “You know, we were just hanging around in the barn, waiting for this scuzzball to show up …”

  “Well, you’d better get in there and wash up before your mother and aunt see you like that,” Dad said. “That way, you won’t have to explain any of this.”

  We started for the kitchen door.

  “And Joe—you might want to do something about that eye. You don’t want to go telling people you got in a fight with a cow and lost.”

  “Dad’s right,” I said. “You might want to put some makeup on it.”

  Joe scowled at me. “Do I look like I would wear makeup?”

  “Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug.

  We went into the house through the kitchen door. There are back stairs from there that lead up to our bedrooms—and, more importantly, the bathrooms.

  We tiptoed our way along and were almost around the corner to the stairs when we heard Aunt Trudy’s voice booming out from the living room. “Frank! Joe! I hear you clomping around in there!”

  She came into the kitchen with Playback on her shoulder.

  Playback is our pet parrot, and he loves to perch on Aunt Trudy’s shoulder and nibble on her earlobe. It’s probably because she lets him get away with it.

  Aunt Trudy doesn’t have any kids of her own, and she sure doesn’t spoil us, either—but I’m telling you, as far as she’s concerned, that parrot can do no wrong.

  The funny thing is, when we first brought Playback home she hated him. She was totally grossed out by the way he pooped all over everything.

  But one thing about our Aunt Trudy—she’s a tough old bird. Tougher than Playback, anyway. Before too long, she had him toilet trained! No lie. That bird would not poop anywhere but in his cage, and from that time on, he was Aunt Trudy’s baby.

  “Got a good lie?” Joe whispered to me.

  “I’ll make one up.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” our mom gasped when she came into the kitchen and saw us.

  “Holy mackerel!” Aunt Trudy nearly dropped the folded sheet she was holding.

  Playback whistled long and low. “Aaawrk! Bad boys! Bad boys!”

  “Joe! Your eye!” Mom said. “What in the world happened to you two? And no crazy made-up stories this time.”

  “Well,” I began, “we kind of got caught in this grain bin … doing some research on farm safety devices …”

  “Yeah!” Joe chimed in. “It’s an over-the-summer school assignment!”

  “Grain bin?” Aunt Trudy repeated. “Summer assignment? Ha! A likely story. They were probably at it again, Laura—chasing after another gang of crooks!”

  “Now, Gertrude,” our mom said, putting a calming hand out. “Don’t condemn the boys before you check the evidence.”

  She went over to Joe and gently picked off a few grains of corn from his collar. “See? Corn. They’re obviously telling the truth this time.”

  “Hmph,” Aunt Trudy said. “Don’t tell me. Evidence or no evidence, I know these two, and they’ve been up to no good.”

  “Crime-fighting isn’t exactly being ‘up to no good,’ Aunt Trudy,” Joe said.

  Aunt Trudy raised one eyebrow, and Joe stopped right there.

  “You’d better get yourselves cleaned up,” she said. “These sheets will be all wrinkled by the time they get folded.”

  “Hop to it!” Playback squawked. “Hop to it!”

  We ran up the stairs and got washed and changed as fast as we could, then came back down and started folding the sheets.

  This has been a regular drill around our house since Joe and I were five years old. Every Saturday, Mom and Trudy wash the sheets, and Joe and I fold them. At this point we could do it in our sleep.

  Still, Aunt Trudy never stops telling us how to do it just right. She’s a laundry fanatic, coaching us like we’re medical students doing our first brain surgery. Everything has to be done exactly her way.

  “Pull on it—no, not like that … that’s better. Left front corner over right rear, now right front over left rear … and make sure the corners match up!”

  Et cetera.

  After a half dozen or so sheets, we were just about done folding when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Joe said, eager to be the first one out of there.

  Too late. I had already beaten him to it, dumping the sheet in his arms and heading for the front door.

  “Hey!” I heard him shout behind me.

  I opened the door—to find a Girl Scout, of all things.

  “Hi!” she said, flashing me a big smile that showed off her very shiny metal braces. She had to be at least thirteen, maybe closer to fifteen. Kind of old for a Girl Scout …

  “Wanna buy some cookies?”

  She held out a box of Thin Mints.

  “Um, no thanks,” I said. “I think we’ve still got a few boxes from the last time. Hey, come to think of it, weren’t you just here last month selling cookies? I thought it was a once-a-year kind of thing.”

  “Oh!” she said, her cheeks reddening. “Well, that was, um, another Girl Scout troop. Yeah, that’s right. Our troop does it a month later.” She laughed nervously.

  “Oh, yeah? How come?”

  “Um, just to be different?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and giggled some more.

  This was getting weird.

  I had half a mind to say, “No, thanks” again and get it over with. We had enough Girl Scout cookies in the pantry. But this girl was pretty cute—even with her braces. And when cute girls smile at me, it always makes me nervous. I kind of choke up and, well … I start acting like a complete moron.

  “Hmmm,” I said. “How about some vanilla Trefoils?”

  “Um, no,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re out of those. Try these Thin Mints instead.”

  Again, she thrust the box of cookies at me.

  “No, really,” I said, pushing them away. “I don’t even like chocolate and mint together. It’s … not my thing.”

  “Frank?” I heard Aunt Trudy calling. “Are you coming back in here? These sheets aren’t going to fold themselves.”

  “Coming, Aunt Trudy!”

  I turned back to the Girl Scout. “Look, I’ve gotta go,” I said. “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

  “You dummy,” she said, freezing me in mid-turn.

  “Huh?”

  “Just take them, okay?”

  “I don’t underst—”

  Before I could finish, she shoved the dreaded box of Thin Mints into my hand.

  “They’re not cookies, doofus,” she whispered, widening her eyes and staring at me.

  “Not … cookies?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Ooooh. Okay, then,” I said, getting it at last. “Sorry. I’m a little dense sometimes.”

  Especially around girls.

  “Bye!” she said, giving me a wave and another big metal smile. “Good luck.”

  I opened the box, just to take a peek. Sure enough, there were no cookies inside. Instead there was a video game CD, with a label that read: BOARDWALK BUST.

  Good luck?

  Hmm. Maybe Joe and I were going to need it.

  Turns out our cute little friend was no Girl Scout—she was from ATAC. And she had just brought us our next case.

  3. Shore Thing

  I was in the living room, trying to do, by myself, what is impossible to do without someone else helping you: fold a queen-size fitted bedsheet.

  And where was Frank? At the front door, talking to some girl.

  I could hear them from the living room—when Playback wasn’t screeching, that is. That parrot was busy usin
g his feathers to mess up the sheets we’d already done. His idea of fun.

  It’s a strange thing about Frank and girls. They make him go all weird. He starts acting like a complete geek, which is not normally him. Well, maybe it is, just a little—but not as much as when girls are around.

  Funny thing is, it seems to make the girls like Frank more than ever.

  It gets me crazy sometimes. Frank can’t dance, has no smooth moves, no dimple in his chin, no big muscles. All of which I’ve got in spades, by the way. But that doesn’t seem to matter at all. Girls like Frank’s bumbling shy act better.

  I just don’t get it.

  Finally, Frank came back into the living room, and we started folding sheets again.

  “What was that all about, dear?” Mom asked him.

  “Girl Scouts,” Frank said, looking at the floor. “Selling cookies.”

  “Well, I hope you didn’t buy any,” Aunt Trudy said. “Why, they were here just last month. I think it’s nervy. How many cookies do they expect one household to buy?”

  “Aaarrck!” Playback started in. “Get lost! Scram! Fuggedaboudit!”

  “I didn’t buy any,” Frank said.

  Then he noticed we were all staring at the box of Thin Mints sticking out of the back pocket of his cargo pants.

  “Oh … these were a … uh … a free gift!”

  “Free gift?” Aunt Trudy said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, now, that’s different!” She smiled. “Frank, why don’t you put them out on a platter and let’s all have some?”

  “Cookie! Cookie! Playback wanna cookie!” the parrot screeched, flapping his wings.

  The panic in Frank’s eyes was plainly visible, but he was looking at me. His back was to Trudy and Mom—and it was a good thing, too.

  Obviously, he needed my help. I didn’t know why, but I knew enough not to ask.

  “Hey, Frank,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Don’t you and I have to finish that farm project for school? You know, write up the report?”

  “For school?” Aunt Trudy said, raising her eyebrow so high it was halfway up her scalp. “It’s July!”

  “It’s part of our summer project,” I explained. “We have to do a blog. Daily entries. And we’re way behind, aren’t we, Frank?”

  “Uh … yeah!”

  “Hmmph.” Clearly Aunt Trudy didn’t buy it.

  Lucky for us Mom was there. “Oh, let them go, Trudy,” she said. “Can’t you see they’re tired of folding?”

  “It’s all that amateur detective nonsense,” Trudy grumbled. “I don’t know why you put up with it. If they were mine—”

  “I know, dear,” Mom said in the most soothing voice you ever heard. “It’s just awful. You boys are going to cut down on all that amateur sleuthing, aren’t you? Promise me.”

  “Sure, Mom,” we both said, crossing our fingers behind our backs. “You bet.”

  “All right, then, go on,” she said. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!” Playback squawked as we ran up the back stairs to Frank’s room.

  That parrot is gonna get it one of these days, I swear. He’s just lucky I’m a bird lover.

  “Greetings, and welcome to Ocean Point, your very own paradise on the Jersey Shore!”

  Frank and I sat glued to the computer monitor as the CD came on.

  At first it looked like a typical travel advertisement aimed at potential tourists—except that it was computer animated, like any video game.

  Our “host” was a voice-over, and the pictures showed a boardwalk crowded with happy beach-goers. There were people eating ice cream cones, cotton candy, and hot dogs. Little kids raced around in their bathing suits playing tag. In the background was the beach, with surfers riding the waves and swimmers bobbing up and down in the water.

  Then the whole picture went to static. When it came back into focus, we were staring at the face of Q.T., the director of ATAC.

  “Hello, boys,” he said, not smiling. (Q.T. never smiles.) “Unfortunately, there seems to be a bit of trouble in this particular slice of paradise. Trouble in the form of a rash of burglaries.”

  The monitor showed pictures of broken display cases, shattered plate glass, and bits of gold and silver scattered around everywhere.

  “In the past month three jewelry stores in town have been broken into, causing heavy losses to the stores’ owners. More serious, though, is the effect a crime wave could have on a beach resort like Ocean Point. The tourist season is just starting. You boys have got to stop these jewel thieves in their tracks before they scare the tourists away.”

  “Some time on the beach sounds good,” I said to Frank, but he wasn’t listening. When he’s concentrating, nothing breaks through to him.

  “In recent years, Ocean Point has become a haven for young people like yourselves,” Q.T. went on. “And since the heal police seem to be stymied, I thought we’d put you two on the case. You’ll find some spending money and one or two other things we thought might come in handy. Good luck—and you know where to reach me if you run into any trouble you can’t get out of.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “how come we didn’t try that when we were in the grain bin?”

  “No cellular service,” Frank reminded me, his eyes still glued to the monitor. “Dead zone.”

  Dead zone. Yeah, I’d say that grain bin was a dead zone, all right. We were lucky to have those gadgets on us.

  “As you know, this CD will reformat to an ordinary music CD in five seconds. Your mission, as always, is and must remain top secret.”

  Frank and I silently counted to five. Sure enough, the picture went to a neutral background pattern, and music by the Surfaris started blaring out of the speakers. If Mom or Aunt Trudy had happened to open the door and peek in, everything would have looked normal—and that was the idea.

  “Hmmm … jewel heists, eh?”

  I reached into the cookie box and pulled out a nice-sized wad of cash. “Yes!” I said, starting to count it. “There’s a good $500 here! You and I are gonna have a par-taaay on the beach!”

  Frank gave me a smile and shook his head. “Born to be wild,” he said, and shook out the rest of what was in the box.

  There was a cheap disposable camera and a night vision telescope that collapsed down to the size of a shot glass.

  “Hey, this is pretty cool,” Frank said, playing with the scope.

  Then he spotted the PDA. “Sweet!” he said, picking it up and turning it on. “Here we go. We’ve got all the names and addresses of the jewelry stores that have been hit, and some others that haven’t been—yet.”

  He scrolled down and whistled. “Wow! Two hundred thousand dollars worth of stuff stolen from one store alone!”

  “I’ve got a great idea,” I said, hefting the wad of cash. “You and I could ride our bikes down there, but…”

  “Yeesss?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel sore all over … and we’d be sitting in Sunday traffic for hours and hours….”

  “So …?”

  “Well, we’ve got enough money that we could fly down there,” I suggested.

  Oh, yeah—by the way, Joe and I are certified pilots, another one of the cool pluses of being ATAC agents.

  “I don’t know, Joe. That money has got to last us for who knows how long.”

  “Dude, how long could it possibly take to round up a gang of jewel thieves?” I said. “And anyway, the sooner we get there …”

  “Okay.” Frank gave in. “I guess you’re right. I am sore all over. Flying down will be relaxing.”

  “Exactly!” I said, slapping him—gently—on the back. “Now you’re getting into the beach party spirit!”

  “There’s just one problem,” Frank said, looking up at me.

  “Yes?”

  “How are we going to explain this to Mom and Aunt Trudy?”

  I thought for a minute.

  “Easy,” I said. “We’ll lie through our teeth.”
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br />   4. Lies, and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them

  When Joe says, “We’ll lie through our teeth,” he means I’ll lie through my teeth.

  Joe’s a terrible liar. I don’t know if he’s just too honest, or just a bad actor. All I can say is that somehow, whenever we have to fib our way out of—or into—a situation, it’s always me who winds up doing the talking.

  I’ve come to accept this. I used to fight it, but eventually I realized it was no use.

  If we wanted our parents to let us fly down to the Jersey Shore for a few days of unsupervised “rest and relaxation,” I was going to have to come up with a good line of baloney. No way could we risk revealing our true purpose.

  There’s a very good reason why ATAC is top secret, see. If bad guys knew about it, they might try to get even with us agents—or even our families. On the other hand, you can’t get information out of someone who doesn’t know anything. So the fewer people who are in on the secret, the better.

  Not that Mom and Aunt Trudy don’t get suspicious sometimes.

  It goes back to the days when Joe and I were kids, solving cases we weren’t supposed to even get involved with. We got pretty well known there for a while, but ever since Dad created ATAC, we’ve tried to keep our activities quiet.

  That means a whole lot of lying to everyone we know, except Dad. I don’t like it, and neither does Joe, but it’s the price we have to pay if we want to fight crime in a big way.

  So the next morning I had my bag of lies all ready to go.

  “Um, Mom,” I said as I toyed with my scrambled eggs, “Joe and I would like to go down to the Jersey Shore for a week. Could we go?”

  “By yourselves?” Aunt Trudy broke in.

  She was sitting between us, looking from one of us to the other like we were out of our minds.

  “I don’t know, Frank,” Mom said. “You boys just got back from a trip, and now you want to go away again so soon? Fenton, what do you think? Shouldn’t they be spending more time at home?”

  Dad lowered his newspaper—the one he likes to hide behind whenever there’s a family dispute—and looked straight into my eyes.

  I tried to signal him that this was important.

  He seemed to get it. Turning to Mom, he said, “Well, dear, it is the summertime, after all. I think the boys are old enough to go to the beach on their own.”