Mistaken Identity, Part 1

Night had fallen on Tacoma.  The cold, black shadow bathed the town, only partially dispelled by lights.  The skyscrapers stood out, sending eerie beams through the moist night air.  It was cold, and slush covered the ground from an earlier storm.  The City of Destiny was sleeping.

At least, it would be slumbering in a few hours.  It was winter, which meant that it was only seven o’clock.

Inside his room, Jack Barnes sat at his desk, the glow of a lamp reflecting off his face.  He wished snow was present, but that wasn’t what he was focusing on right now.  He was working on homework, but not just your typical homework.  A science fair was coming up at Jack’s school, and this year, he aimed to win.  He’d come in second the year before, and the person to best him had gradu—well, moved on to another school (keep in mind Jack was only 12).

“There,” said Jack, tightening a screw.  “That might be it.”  The weather had calmed down outside, and the atmosphere inside was now more tense.  Through his closed door (or through vents), Jack could hear his younger sister, Emma, crying about something.  It sounded like there was some dispute between her and Jack’s mom.  Jack didn’t know what it was about, nor did he care to know.  He put his experiment down on his desk and thought how glad he was to be in his room.

“Now all I need to do is test this,” said Jack to himself.  “I wonder what the range will be on—”

The door swung open.  It was his dad.  “Jack,” he said.  “Could you by any chance take Emma for a walk?  She’s really driving your mother crazy.”

Taking Emma for a walk was the last thing Jack wanted to do.  “If I have to,” he said.  “I’m almost done with my project, though.”

“I understand,” said his dad.  “Tell you what.  You take Emma for a good twenty-minute walk, get her to stop crying; and I’ll buy you a ticket for whatever you want to see at the Movieplex this Friday.”

“The Movieplex?” said Jack.  “Okay!  It’s a deal!”

Pocketing part of his device, Jack headed downstairs with his dad.  Mrs. Barnes and Emma stood in the living room.  Emma looked distraught.  Mrs. Barnes, on the other hand, looked relieved when her husband and Jack came in.  She gazed at them, not daring to hope—

“Jack’s going to take Emma out for a little walk,” said Mr. Barnes.  “They’ll be back soon.”

Mrs. Barnes knew her role of a mother too well to start cheering, but you could see the relief in her eyes if you looked carefully.  Instead, keeping her composure, she said, “Make sure you all bundle up.  It’s in the forties.”

“We will,” replied Jack.  Emma sullenly stalked to the hall closet.  Jack wisely let her grab her jacket first before he attempted to meddle.

When the two of them had their boots on, they left the house, Jack leading the way.  Their footsteps made soft splunching sounds in the wet mix outside.  Exhaust from trucks had left traces of brown all over the road, but you couldn’t see them at night.  It was partly cloudy, but the moon was visible, and a cool breeze blew.

Jack led the way down the street, with Emma following silently behind.  After waiting a tactful five minutes, Jack said, “Okay, what happened?”

Emma looked up, a tear glistening off her cheek.  “Mom was cleaning my room, and she stepped on Whizzy.”

Oh dear.  That was bad. Whizzy was a mouse.  A wind-up mouse made out of plastic.  Jack had no doubt that the miniscule toy was now quite misshapen.  Cheering Emma up wouldn’t be easy.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “Whizzy and I had a lot of fun together.  I’m sure Mom’s sorry about it too—”

“Now I can’t sleep with Whizzy anymore!”

“What about Sparkle?” asked Jack, referring to Emma’s rainbow unicorn toy.  “Sparkle used to sleep with you all the time.”

“No!” said Emma.  “We had an argument.”

“Oh,” said Jack.  “What about?”

Emma thought.  “I can’t remember,” she cried, “but I’m still mad!”

As the pair walked under a streetlight, Jack ran over the list of other toys.  Surely there was something—“What about Teddy?”

“I’m mad at Teddy, too,” said Emma.  “He hopped too much the last time I slept with him.”  Contrary to what you might think, Teddy was a rabbit.

Apparently, none of Emma’s toys were in good standing with her.  There were two options.  Either try to get Emma to make up with them (a difficult thing to do, considering the toys were only alive in Emma’s mind), or—

“Emma?” said Jack.  “Remember Patches?”

“Your dog toy?” asked Emma.

“Yes,” said Jack.  “Patches outgrew my bed a couple years ago, and he’s never really had a place to sleep since.  If you’d take him in, he’d greatly appreciate it.  Your bed would be so much more comfortable than the plastic box—”

“I’ve seen that plastic box,” said Emma.  “You’re right.  Alright, I guess I’ll sleep with Patches tonight.”

Problem solved, Jack focused on the street ahead.  It was quite dark.  His and Emma’s boots made soft sounds in the slush as they tramped down the sidewalk.

All at once, Jack was aware of another set of slushy footsteps coming from slightly behind them.  He turned to see who it was, but it was too dark for him to make out anything.  However, the noise stopped when he turned around.  Jack kept looking, then turned forwards again.

Instantly, a third set of footsteps was heard.  Or was that two other sets of footsteps Jack was hearing besides his and Emma’s?

Jack didn’t know.  Nor did he care.  Instead, he quickened his stride, only to hear the footsteps behind him quicken their stride as well.  Worse, they were not in rhythm with his, meaning they were not just the product of a mysterious echo.

A side street was coming up to Jack and Emma’s right.  Quickly, Jack took Emma’s hand.  “Get ready,” he whispered, “’cause when we hit that side road, we’re going to fly.  Got it?”

Emma gave him a funny look.  Jack gave her an urgent one in return.  She nodded.

They reached the side road and, without the least bit of warning, took off down it as fast as possible!

Behind them, the mysterious footsteps did exactly the same thing.

[Catch part 2 next week!]

The Vanishing Painting

Usually, Jack Barnes was at home when the Detective Club got a call. This was convenient.  That way, he and the other members (Kurt Morris, Robbie Ransom) could get over to wherever the case was right away and start working on a crime.  Ahem, working on solving a crime.

Thus, you can imagine Jack’s chagrin to get home one afternoon only to find that there was a message.  For him.  About a case.  He’d missed the call!

Fortunately, he’d missed it by five minutes.  The call was from the Destiny Art Gallery, a local art museum not too far from Jack’s house.  A painting had vanished, and the proprietor (Cecil E. Edwards) wanted Jack, Kurt, and Robbie to find it.  Quickly, Jack dialed up Kurt and Robbie, and the three detectives were soon on their way to the museum.

“You said the Destiny Art Gallery, right?” said Kurt.

Jack nodded.

“That’s got to be one of THE most boring places I’ve ever visited in the city,” said Kurt.

“Well don’t tell them that,” said Jack.  “They want us to solve a mystery for them.”

“I’ve already solved it,” said Kurt.  “Someone thought said painting was trash, and they threw it out.  It’s lying in a trash can right now, and it will hopefully be in a dump by the time we find it.”

“Maybe they’ll incinerate it,” joked Robbie.

“Even better,” said Kurt.  “I hope they have a picture of it waiting when we get there.”

“Well, there’s the place,” said Jack.  The two-story stone structure rose above the street, though a good view of it was blocked by a knockoff of the pyramid from the Louvre in Paris.  This pyramid, however, was much smaller than its French counterpart.

“Parking lot’s not too crowded,” commented Kurt.  “People are getting smarter.”

“Shhh,” said Jack.  He walked up to the entrance and tried the handle.  It was locked.  However, the door was soon opened by Officer Sanders, who the boys knew from prior cases.

“Oh, did you boys get called in on this?” said Sanders, opening the door.

Jack nodded.

“I don’t blame them,” said Sanders.  “This case has me stumped.  I think it would have anyone stumped.  This way, please.”

“How’s Officer Williams, by the way?” Jack asked.  Officer Williams was another friend of the boys.  He’d gotten shot in a prior case and was off duty while he recovered.

“Much better,” said Sanders.  “He’s supposed to be back in a couple weeks.  I don’t think he’d be able to solve this any better than—oh, here’s the proprietor.”

“Greetings,” said a man in a white suit.  He was bald, except for a sharply pointed goatee.  He also had wire-rimmed glasses.  However, he looked nothing like Scott Grissom (from “Madness at the Movies”).  This man had a more slender build and was quite a bit older.

“You’ve come about the painting, I see,” said Edwards.  “I can’t understand it.  We had truly top-of-the-line security in place.”

“What was the painting, first of all?” asked Jack.

“It was a local piece.  Moonlight on the Cowlitz River, by Anthony Churilov.

“I’ve heard of him,” said Robbie.  “Wasn’t he killed in a plane accident a couple months ago?”

“Yes, that was the same one,” said Edwards.  “It was quite a loss, too.  Churilov was poised to be one of the best artists in the world.  His death was a great blow to us personally.  As a result, Moonlight on the Cowlitz River is one of the few works in existence by him.”

“What did it look like?” asked Jack.  “Do you have a picture?”

“I do,” said Edwards, holding up a large photo.  It showed the painting, which was of…well, it was of moonlight glinting off the Cowlitz River.  What else would it be of?  (Don’t answer that!)  The painting was actually quite realistic.

“Wow!” said Kurt.  “That’s actually alright?”

“Alright?” Edwards looked sternly at him.

Jack changed the subject.  “Where was it displayed?”

“I was coming to that,” said Edwards, forgetting Kurt’s comment.  “It was in the Bergmann Gallery, which is—well, follow me.”

Edwards led the boys through a door into a large room covered with artwork.  He kept going, though, and led them through another door into a smaller room in the middle.  Then, he led them through another door into an even smaller room in the very center of the building.

“This is the Bergmann Gallery,” said Edwards.  “It’s where we keep all our most valuable paintings.  Each of the doors you passed through to get in here, however, is equipped with a very sensitive sensor.  The sensor is activated by a small chip on the back of each painting displayed within these walls.  However, none of them went off when the painting disappeared!”

Edwards motioned to the wall, where an empty golden frame surrounded an empty space of about two feet by four feet.

“Didn’t anyone see it disappear?” Robbie asked.

“Negative,” replied Edwards.  “There were three people in the room when it happened.  A security guard at the door saw them go in.  When the painting actually disappeared, the power had gone out.  However, that wouldn’t have affected the sensors, because they’re on a backup.  Also, the guard reported that no one went in or out during the outage.  The guard around the next ring says no one came in or out there, either.  It wasn’t until the lights came back on that the painting was discovered missing.”

“How long was the power out?” asked Kurt.

“About thirty seconds,” said Edwards.  “Long enough, I’m afraid.  None of the guests had the painting on them.  We searched them carefully and took their names, but they were all allowed to leave.”

“The sensor’s not in the room, either,” said Sanders.  “We searched to see if the thief might have taken it off, but we couldn’t find it.”

“It just seems to have vanished into thin air,” said Edwards.  “I hope you boys can figure out the solution.  You’ll get a nice reward if you do.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” said Jack, but Edwards cut him off.  “I insist.  That painting’s worth thousands of dollars.  Whoever recovers it will be doing us an invaluable favor.”

“Are there any other ways out besides the door?” asked Robbie.

“None,” said Sanders.  “We searched to make sure none were added, but none were.  The door’s the only place the painting possibly could have gone out.”

“Then the painting must have been carried through the door somehow,” said Kurt.

“Maybe,” said Robbie.  “Mr. Edwards?  What are those paintings on the wall across from where the missing one was?”

“Oh, those?” said Edwards.  “They’re on loan to us.  That’s the DeVrille Collection.”

“And those didn’t get stolen,” said Kurt, winking at Jack.  The Devrille paintings were nothing like the moonlight one.  They were gaudy assortments of the most meaningless shapes imaginable.  Neither Jack nor Kurt could understand how they’d become so valuable.

Robbie, however, seemed quite interested in them.  He walked over to the wall, turned to face the paintings, and put his head against it.  Immediately, he stepped back and walked over to one titled The Cone of Life.  This painting had only one cone in it, a small green one at the lower left-hand corner.  The rest of it was covered with other shapes that didn’t make any sense and didn’t blend well together at all.  Robbie stopped right in front of it—

And yanked it off the wall!  He slammed it against the floor, breaking the frame.  Out fell the ugly cone picture—

And out fell Moonlight on the Cowlitz River!

“I heard that in an old detective story once,” said Robbie.  “It’s a pretty clever trick.  Your alarm didn’t go off, Mr. Edwards, because the painting was never actually removed from this room.”

“Well I’ll be!” said Mr. Edwards.  “No wonder we couldn’t find it!  The DeVrille paintings are about the same size, so they’d cover it up easily.”  He frowned.  “But what could a thief possibly gain by hiding it there?  The DeVrille paintings aren’t for sale.  They’re due to go back to Chicago in another month.”

“Then this one would have gone with them,” said Robbie.  “You might want to check on the owners of the DeVrille paintings.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they had something to do with this.”

They had, and they confessed readily.  Unfortunately, they were not arrested!  You see, since Moonlight on the Cowlitz River had never left the building (or even the room, for that matter), it hadn’t technically been stolen.  There wasn’t anything the police could arrest the DeVrille Collection’s owners on.  However, they did not escape punishment.  Edwards made sure the press found out all about the crime, and it is quite certain that no museum in America will be hosting the DeVrille Collection anytime soon.

The Flying Steamroller Mystery

[Author's Note: Sorry for my lack of posts lately.  Honestly, I don't really have a good excuse.  I'll try to do better in the future, though.  Thank you for checking, and I hope this story is worth the wait!]

 

It’s common knowledge that concessions at professional sporting events are expensive.  This should come as no surprise, however.  If the only food allowed inside a stadium or arena is whatever’s sold there, the dealers have a monopoly on it.  To get this monopoly, however, vendors must pay a special fee to the athletic club.  The result?  Either pay up or go without food during the game.

Or eat elsewhere, of course.  Such was the choice Jack Barnes and Kurt Morris had made.

“I’m glad this restaurant’s so close to the Dome,” said Jack.

“Me too!” said Kurt.  “This oyster stew is delicious.  I like the diner setup.”

Yes, the restaurant the boys had chosen was like a diner.  It also had a bar, but that was in the back room.  The old-fashioned building had its own special character to it, but Jack and Kurt had chosen it because it was conveniently situated by the Tacoma Dome.

“Who are we playing tonight?” Jack asked.

“The Sacramento Roughriders,” said Kurt.  “So far, though, they’re not riding too rough.  They’re 0—6.”

“We’ll run over them for sure,” said Jack.  “I can’t understand, though.  Why did the owners decide to name our town’s team the Flying Steamrollers?”

“Beats me,” said Kurt, “but the winged logo is cool!  The green and blue colors remind me of the Seattle Mariners.”

Kurt stood up.  “I’m going to go use the restroom.  Wait here; I’ll be right back.”

Jack leaned back in his seat and allowed his gaze to wander.  His and Kurt’s table was right by the entrance to the bar, and loud chatter and laughter came from inside the dark room.  One conversation disentangled itself from the fracas, and Jack listened in, not having anything better to do.

“Here’s the money,” said a man.  “I don’t care what you do, as long as it helps them out.”

“Don’t worry,” a deep voice replied.  “I’ve been playing long enough to know what to do.”

Jack turned to see who had spoken and saw two men walking out of the restaurant.  One was tall and wiry.  The other was also tall, but not wiry.  He was a big guy.  “Looks like a football player,” Jack thought to himself.  Kurt came back at that moment, and Jack forgot all about the two men.

Until later.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“What a dismal game,” Jack moaned, a couple hours later.

“Dismal doesn’t describe it,” lamented Kurt.  “We’re not flying tonight.”

No, the Tacoma Flying Steamrollers weren’t flying.  They were sputtering.  The quarterback had—oh, did I mention what sport they were in?  You’ll probably never guess.  Indoor football!  Indoor football was somewhat similar to the NFL, but the field was only half as long.  A wall running around the field diminished the amount of out-of-bounds plays.  There were some other rule differences to, but those were the main things.

The ironic thing about the Tacoma team, though, was that the Tacoma Dome could actually fit an NFL-sized field.  It was a round stadium with very versatile seating.  However, when it was expanded out to that, it sat only 10,000 (compared to 67,000 at CenturyLink Field, the home of the Seattle Seahawks just up Interstate 5).  Thus, the venue housed an indoor team and took on more seating.  This was still ironic because the Flying Steamrollers averaged only about 8,000 fans a game.

Their attendance had been 8,271 on this particular evening, but it was dropping off fast by the second quarter.  Tacoma was down 40—2 already.  It wasn’t an insurmountable deficit, but it was a tough one.

“I can’t believe Morrison let that ball slip through his fingers,” said Jack.  “He was wide open!”

“That’s one of the few goofs that haven’t been LeFramboise’s fault,” said Kurt, referring to the quarterback.  “He’s thrown three interceptions, and it looked like he was trying on the first two.  They’d have been beautiful passes if they hadn’t been aimed at the other team.”

“Well, don’t forget Cutler, the running back,” said Jack.  “He fumbled earlier.”

“If Siegrist had only made that interception,” said Kurt, “this would be a different ballgame.  He would have been wide open for a touchdown.  I know he broke up the pass, but he should have had that ball.”

“At least the first half can’t get much more worse,” said Jack.  “Sacramento’s only got time for one more play.”

That play was a pass by the Sacramento quarterback, Phillips.  It was to the end zone, but it glanced off his receiver’s fingertips.  That would have stopped the clock had not time run out on the play anyway.

“Do you want to stay until the end?” asked Kurt.

“Do I?” said Jack.  “I never leave these games early.”

“Then I’m sticking around too,” said Kurt.  “It’s possible we could come back.”

It was possible, but it didn’t happen.  The Flying Steamrollers were steamrolled themselves, 75—9.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A couple days later, coming downstairs, Jack was surprised to find the Tacoma Flying Steamrollers on the front page of the newspaper sports section.  The Tacoma paper always gave them some coverage, but rarely on the front page coverage.  If any somewhat obscure sport ever took front and center, it was tennis or soccer.

Unfortunately, there was a reason for this heightened publicity.  “Indoor Football Game Thrown!  Local Sports Bookie Implicated in Bribing!”

Quickly, Jack read over the story.  Evidence had surfaced showing that Cesar Antigua, owner of a local sports betting ring, had bribed a player to throw the game the other night.  The odds had been very much in Tacoma’s favor, and Antigua had stood to make quite a collection off Sacramento’s upset.  Of course, he was unable to make anything, now that he was in jail.  However, there was something very interesting in the story.  The police had no idea who Antigua had bribed, yet.  The evidence they had just showed Antigua had bribed someone.  There was something else in the article that interested Jack too, and he wasted no time in calling Kurt.

“Kurt!  Did you hear about the game the other night?”

“Which game?  The Flying Steamrollers one?”

“Someone threw it!” said Jack.

“No!  Really?” said Kurt.  Jack filled him in on the story, then added, “-but get this, Kurt.  I saw Cesar Antigua at that restaurant the other day.”

“You did?” said Kurt.  “How do you know?”

“I recognized his picture in the paper,” said Jack.  “I didn’t get a good look at his face, but he’s tall and wiry.”  Jack told Kurt about the conversation and said, “I’ll bet that man he was with was the player that threw the game.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” said Kurt.  “Call the police.  Tell them about it.  They’ll be happy to know who it was.”

“I would,” said Jack.  “Only—”

“Only what?”

“Only I can’t remember what the man who Antigua was with looked like.”

“Jack!  You’re the only witness!  You’ve got to remember.  Wait a minute.  It’d have to be whoever deliberately messed up the other night.”

“There’s several people that could have done that, though,” said Jack.  “Remember?  LeFramboise the quarterback, Morrison the receiver, Cutler the running back, and Siegrist the cornerback.  They all looked like they were trying to mess up.”

“Check the program,” said Kurt.  “It should have their pictures in it.”

Jack checked.  “Still didn’t help,” he told Kurt.  “It could have been any of them.  I can’t call the police and guess who did it.  That wouldn’t be fair.”

“There’s got to be something you noticed, Jack.  Think now.  Exactly what in the conversation did you overhear?”

“Here’s the money,” said a man.  “I don’t care what you do, as long as it helps them out.”

“Don’t worry,” a deep voice replied.  “I’ve been playing long enough to know what to do.”

“Long enough!” said Kurt.  “Did he really say that?  If so, wouldn’t that imply that the guy’s been playing for a while?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jack.  “Indoor football players don’t stick around for a while.  He’d probably just referring to his college career.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Kurt.  “Look; check their bios.  Find out how long they’ve been pro.”

So, Jack did.  Cutler, the running back, had been undrafted out of Central Washington University.  He was in his first year.  Morrison, the receiver, had been a backup in the UFL for two seasons before heading indoors.  He was in his third year in the arena leagues, but only his first with Tacoma.  Siegrist, the cornerback, was a rookie from the University of Montana.

But LeFramboise, the quarterback, had been bouncing around different arena leagues for 11 seasons!

“It must be LeFramboise, then!” said Kurt.

“I’m still not sure, though,” said Jack.  “What if I called the police, and it turned out not to be him.  The poor guy’s had enough trouble, as it is.”

“I know,” said Kurt.  “Call the police and get permission first.  This system will go off without a hitch.  He told Jack his plan.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

An hour later, Jack and Kurt sat at the police station.  As honored guests, not as criminals awaiting punishment.  A phone was set up on the table, and Jack lifted it, as several officers (including Officer Stieg, whom the boys knew from previous cases) sat watching and listening.

There were two rings on the other end, then, “Hello.”

“Are you Dan LeFramboise?” Jack asked.

“Whaddya want?” the voice on the other end said.

“I saw you with Antigua the other day,” said Jack.  “Now, I might be willing to forget it, though.”

Silence.

“I want a tenth of whatever he gave you.”

LeFramboise’s reply was prompt.  “You got it.  Where should I leave the money?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jack.  “Why don’t you meet me at the same restaurant in about an hour?  I’ll be wearing a RoughRiders hat, backwards.  You should have no trouble finding me.”

“See you then,” said LeFramboise, hanging up.

Only, he didn’t see Jack then.  He saw Officer Stieg and a couple other officers from the Tacoma Police Department.   Thus confronted, LeFramboise confessed.  He’d never had much success in his career, and he’d decided to put what talent he did have up for sale.  He had deliberately tried to lose the game the other night.

The Chicago White Sox might have survived the Black Sox scandal, but they were a Major League Baseball Team.  The Tacoma Flying Steamrollers were an indoor football team.  Such a scandal was too much for them, and that game Jack and Kurt went to wound up being their last.  They folded that week, forfeiting all remaining games on their schedule.  To this day, Tacoma doesn’t have an indoor football team.

This story doesn’t have to end on a sad note, though.  If you have however much money it takes to start an indoor football team, consider putting one in Tacoma.  The City of Destiny waits for you, successful businessman, wherever you are.  Feel free to use the name Flying Steamrollers, if you wish.