Mystery of the 19th Hole (Taylor Kelsey, Mystery 1) (5 page)

             
Abby laughed.  “So!  My dad is solving a mystery at the private golf course he works at.  And I’m helping him.”

             
“Big whoop,” said Taylor.  The school bell rang.

             
Taylor Kelsey sat behind the wheel of her old, sad-looking jalopy—an old Chevy, like the kind one might see in an Elvis movie or a black-and-white TV show.  Susan Beckette sat in the passenger seat. 

The seats were large and comfortable.  Furthermore, the shape of the car made the inside seem more spacious than it actually was.  It was quite nice.  But people often times don’t recognize the good things they have while they have them, and this was the case with Taylor.

             
Susan on the other hand liked the car, though she couldn’t drive because she didn’t have a license.

             
It was Saturday and the girls got to dress in something other than their school uniforms.  Taylor was wearing a colorful skirt that fell over black ribbed tights.  She was also wearing a blue blouse, which reminded her of something Nancy Drew might have worn.  Or any kind of intelligent woman detective.

             
Susan was wearing her school uniform, that way she could speak with an English accent and pretend she went to a boarding school nearby.  She could fool most anyone with her routine.

             
Alternating between an English and American accent for practice, Susan asked, “So how long is this going to take?”

             
“I don’t know.  I’ve never been to a police station before.”

             
“So when do we get to go to the fair?”

             
“I told you, I don’t know.  I just want to see what the police are doing about the café case and what progress they’ve made.  We might find something out we need to know.  Remember, there’s a reward involved for all of this.”

             
“Yeah,” reminded Susan, “for the robbery of the big painting.  Not for the murder.”

             
“But I think they’re connected.”

             
“Think.  You think.  Think, think, think.”  Susan said the first “
think”
with an English accent, the second with an American and the third with an English.

             
“I almost know they’re connected,” said Taylor.  “Does that help?”

             
“Not a bit.  But I’ll help you because there is a slight, however small, chance of money, and I have nothing better to do than to study Copernicus’s heliocentric model of the planets.”

             
“Nice.”  Taylor made a turn.  “So, why don’t you let anyone else know that you’re smart?  Because you are really smart, you know.”

             
“I know I’m smart.  After all, I’m not dumb.  And I don’t like people to know because I don’t care if they know.  I know what I know, and that’s what I know.”

             
“If you say so.”

             
“So.”

             
“What?”

             
“You said, ‘If I say
so
.’”

             
“
So
I did,” said Taylor.  “I must tell you, however, that not all of your jokes are funny.  Some of them are just dumb.”

             
“You can’t win ‘em all,” was Susan’s response.  Then in a more serious tone, “Can you let me know when I tell a dumb joke, so I don’t embarrass myself.”

             
“I didn’t think you cared about embarrassing yourself,” said Taylor.  “But okay.”

             
“I don’t care about embarrassing myself.  But I do care to tell only funny jokes.  What should our code be if I tell a funny joke vs. a dumb joke.”

             
Taylor pretended to be in deep thought.  “Let’s see… if it’s funny… I’ll laugh.  If it’s dumb, I won’t laugh.”

             
“I still think we need code words.  How about police codes?”

             
“You know police codes?” asked Taylor.

             
“All of them.  I have a good memory, as you, your parents, and my parents only know.  Oh, and my teachers.”

             
“That’s true.  So what should the codes be?”

             
Susan thought about it.  “How about 10-3 if the joke is dumb.  10-3 means
stop transmitting
.”

             
“Sounds good.  If the joke is good, then I just won’t say anything, okay.”

             
“Fair enough.”

             
Two minutes later the girls pulled into the parking lot of the police department.  The building was huge: three stories tall and a quarter of a block long.  Large reflective office windows lined every level.  A few stairs with wrought-iron railings on either side led the way to the glass double-door entrance.

             
It was all very daunting, but Taylor, who’d wanted to be a detective for as long as she could remember, was shaking with excitement.  Susan spoke first, “Who do you think we’ll be allowed to talk to?”

             
“If we’re lucky, a sergeant.”

             
“Why not a lieutenant?” asked Susan.

             
Taylor just laughed and turned toward Susan.  “What do you mean?”

             
Susan, squinting under the bright sun, looked over at a black Dodge Charger from which a man was emerging.  Taylor followed her gaze.  “How do you know that’s the lieutenant?”

             
“Easy.  Badge on the belt.  Dress clothes.  Gun draped over shoulder.  Exempt license plates.”

             
“Yeah, but he could be the captain or a sergeant.”

             
“No, he can’t.  I read a newspaper story,” Susan explained, “about a patrol officer who accidentally ran his car into the ocean and lived.  The guy was promoted to a lieutenant for doing accidental daring things though he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.  And that’s him.  I recognize the picture.”

             
The man was slightly overweight and uncouth.  His hair was combed over in an awkward way, and his face was unshaven, stubble poking out noticeably on his chin and cheeks.  But despite the discrepancies, he didn’t look bad.  It actually rather suited him.

             
“Well, then, let’s talk to him,” said Taylor.

             
The two girls fast-walked to the lieutenant and Susan spoke first, in an English accent.  “Hey, Lieutenant, good work running your car into the ocean while avoiding that Chinese couple.”

             
The lieutenant looked confused.  He tentatively responded, “Thank you…”

             
Taylor spoke next before Susan had a chance, “My name is Taylor Kelsey, and this is my best friend Susan Beckette.  We go to a private school a few blocks from here, and—”

             
Susan interrupted, “Well, I go to a boarding school near hers.  It’s actually a division of hers.  I live in England with my family during the summer, though.”

             
“Not the winter?” asked the lieutenant.

             
Taylor and Susan both responded at the same time—Taylor said, “Yes in the winter, too,” and Susan said, “I live in Japan in the winter.”  Their words got jumbled together and didn’t make any sense.

             
The lieutenant just stared at them a few moments before asking, “And you guys are best friends?”

             
“Well, we’re not sure,” said Susan.  “We were pen pals for fifty years minus forty-six.”

             
“Four years?” said the lieutenant.

             
“Exactly.  But when I arrived in America everyone from her class was at the airport to meet their pen pals.  We think we may have accidentally got switched during the pandemonium.  Whoever her pen pal was, though, was very much like me.  So we got along.”  Susan was still using her English accent and the lieutenant, of course, was fooled.  “So tell us about yourself,” prodded Susan.

             
“My name is Lieutenant Jeff Arterman—”

             
“Is your first name really lieutenant, Lieutenant?” asked Susan.

             
Taylor flicked Susan in the arm and said, “10-3.”

             
At this, the lieutenant laughed.  “Doesn’t that mean
bomb threat
?”

             
The girls looked at him, confused.  “No,” responded Taylor.

             
Now the
lieutenant
looked confused.  In a slow and thoughtful tone, he said, “That makes a lot of sense,” as if he was recalling an experience.

             
Taylor and Susan shrugged.  “Well, like I was saying,” continued Taylor, “we’re investigating the robberies—the robbery of the large painting, in particularly—and the café murder.  We’re wondering if we could get any useful information on those cases.”

             
The lieutenant’s gaze lingered on Taylor as if judging her character.  Like he was able to tell just by looking.  He finally responded, “What is it to you?”

             
Susan started, “I’m related to—”

             
Taylor was quick to interrupt, “10-3!”  Then to Arterman, “I’m just a concerned citizen.”

             
Speaking quickly, Susan said, “And I’m not a citizen, but I’m concerned.  I’m also keen on reward money.”

             
Arterman pretended to understand.  “So you’re treasure hunters, then?”

             
“We’re hunters.  We’re also treasurers of our personal money.  So you might say we’re treasure hunters.”

             
“She’s just joking,” said Taylor.  “She does that.”  Then, “10-3”

             
Jeff laughed.  “I suppose I could share some information on the cases.  That is, if you are who you say you are.”

             
Susan nearly broke out in laughter, for Jeff still thought she was from England.  “That would be nice,” said Taylor, and they followed Lieutenant Jeff Arterman into the department and into the offices.

             
The lieutenant’s office was small with tall windows framing the door and a large window on the back wall.  His desk was clean and organized, as if he didn’t do much work on it.  When they walked in, Taylor noticed the light was on, all the pencils in the cup on the desk were sharpened, and the calendar on the wall was practically clean of appointments.  There was a dead plant in one corner of the office next to a bottle of bug killer, respectively.  An overhead fan spun lazily.

             
Taylor and Susan pulled up two chairs in front of the lieutenant’s desk as he took a seat in his high-backed leather chair, rolled out his keyboard, and turned on his computer.

             
“Are people supposed to be in your office?” asked Taylor.  “Like, when you’re gone?”

             
“No, why?”

             
“Because someone was.”

             
The lieutenant squinted at Taylor and Susan as if to say, “How do you know?”

             
Susan already knew what Taylor was thinking so she explained, “The light and fan were on when we came in.  You didn’t notice?”  Her English accent made the summation sound funny.

             
Jeff’s eyes discreetly darted about.  “Oh, yeah.  I noticed…”

             
Taylor just shrugged again.  “Well, Mr. Arterman, here’s what I think about the cases: the robberies and the café murder are connected.”

             
“Robberies?” said the lieutenant.  “You mean, you think all the robberies are from the same people?  Like a gang?”

             
“Yeah, you’re the one who suggested it.”

             
“I know, I know, but no one believes me.  Not even my wife.”

             
“I do.  And so does the eight o’clock news.”

             
“Really?”

             
“Yeah.”

             
“So”—Jeff leaned back in his chair—“what makes you think the
robberies
and the
murder
are connected?”

             
“One: they are all happening around the same time.  Two: Aaron Cadell’s father worked at the café until the day before the murder.”