Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion (3 page)

“But what about the note?” asked Sonya.

“I can't explain the note,” said Ricki. “But the police seem to think it's a prank. And maybe they're right. Perhaps I overreacted, closing up the shop so fast.”

I looked around the near-empty store.

Some of the chairs had been knocked over in people's haste to get out. Chocolate milk shake still dripped from the wall behind where I'd been standing. The place seemed to be a huge mess of dirty plates and cookie crumbs—an ugly scene.

It occurred to me that in her rush to clear out Sonya's Sweets, Ricki hadn't actually waited for people to pay their bills. That meant she'd given away all her food for free.

“What a horrible way to end a grand opening,” said Ricki. “This is pretty much the opposite of grand. I'd say it's been one big failure.” I saw tears well up in Ricki's eyes, but she blinked them back in her struggle to put on a brave face.

It's hard seeing your friend's mom so upset. I wanted to offer up words of encouragement, but I couldn't think of a way to put a positive spin on things.

Still, I had to do something, so I pulled Ricki aside and said, “Something tells me this is more than a simple prank. I'm going to look into it.”

“Thanks, Maggie.” Ricki smiled at me weakly. Her expression told me she didn't have much faith, probably because I'm just a kid. I understood why she felt this way.

I just hoped I'd be able to prove her wrong.

Soon.

“What now?” asked Milo once the four of us had spilled out onto the sidewalk.

“I need to go home and do some serious homework,” said Finn, checking his watch. “If I don't finish before dark, my mom won't let me go out tonight.”

“I'll come, too,” said Lulu. “I still have to write that English paper for Mr. Dean.”

“You guys didn't finish yet?” I asked.

“Of course not. It's only Saturday. What kind of nerd finishes their homework before Saturday?” asked Finn.

“No comment,” I said, turning red.

“I did my homework, too,” said Milo.

“Really?” asked Lulu. “Or are you just trying to make Maggie feel better?”

“Well, I did most of my homework.” Milo shrugged
his skinny shoulders. “I'm lucky because my grandma doesn't care when I do it, as long as it gets done. I'll probably finish Sunday night. That's what I usually do.”

“You and most people,” said Finn. “Hey, where did you put your homework, Maggie?”

“Why do you ask?” I feigned innocence even though I knew exactly where Finn was going with this line of questioning.

I knew not because we're twins and we can read each other's minds—we can't. Or at least I can't read Finn's mind, and if he can read mine, he's not telling me. I knew because Finn always tries to copy my homework. This has been going on ever since we started getting homework, in kindergarten or whenever; I can't even remember. That's how far back it goes.

“Nice try,” I said. “But you're not copying.”

“I never said I wanted to copy,” said Finn. “I just want to check my answers against yours once I'm finished—make sure you didn't make any mistakes.”

“Don't sweat it,” said Lulu, grabbing Finn's hand. “I know all of her hiding spots.”

“Cool. I knew there was a reason I hung out with you,” said Finn.

I shot Lulu a dirty look, but she winked and giggled.

“You were my friend first!” I told her, only half in jest.

“Don't worry,” she called as she pulled my brother away. “We're not going to steal your precious answers.”

And before I could say another word they took off down the street, leaving me and Milo in the dust.

Milo cleared his throat and brushed his floppy bangs off his forehead. Tried to, anyway. They flopped right back down, as usual. “I'm heading over to Southpaw to check out this month's concert schedule. Want to come?”

“Sure,” I said. “If we can stop for frozen yogurt on the way. I never got my dessert fix.”

“Sure you did,” said Finn. “You got it right in the face.”

“Ugh, don't remind me.” I ran my fingers through my still-sticky hair and tried not to think about the giant brown stain on my shirt. At least my leather jacket covered it up, for the most part.

“Chocolate malted is the best perfume around,” said Milo. “So, where are we heading? Wait—Culture, right? I shouldn't even bother asking.”

I grinned; Milo knows me so well. Or at least he knows my taste in frozen yogurt. Culture serves the best in Brooklyn, and they've got the lines to prove it. Seriously—half our school eats lunch there. Last time I went, I waited so long I barely had time to finish before I had to head back to class. And in case you
were wondering, brain freeze from frozen yogurt is just as painful as the ice cream variety.

Milo and I headed straight for Culture, where we joined the line. It was humongous. Even today, on this chilly “keep-your-jacket-zipped-all-the-way-up” Saturday, we waited for half an hour. But the waiting is worth it, because their plain tart yogurt with miniature dark chocolate chips is awesome. Regular chocolate chips aren't anything special, but something about having them in miniature makes them so much better.

It's the texture, I suppose.

I explained this to Milo as we strolled toward Southpaw, a cool and grungy concert hall. It's a twenty-minute walk, but I didn't mind, because walking helps me think. And today I had plenty to think about.

What was going on at Sonya's Sweets? Who would shatter that window or write that note? Why were Felicity and Joshua laughing when things were so obviously bad? Did they know something the rest of us didn't? Could the two of them have anything to do with the note? Or were they simply wrapped up in their own joke?

I needed to investigate, gather evidence, the works. It was just that today, for some reason, I wasn't sure where to begin.

When we were about halfway to Southpaw, Milo asked, “You okay?”

I guess I'd been pretty quiet. “Sure. I'm just trying to sort things out.”

“You mean about the whole broken window?”

“Well, yeah, and not just that.” I kicked a stone and watched it bounce into the gutter. “That note was so creepy. ‘Take your cookies elsewhere'? Who would write that?”

“What if the police were right and it's all someone's weird idea of a joke?” said Milo.

“That sounds sort of like a cop-out to me,” I said.

“Then maybe it was a Girl Scout,” he said.

I laughed.

“I'm serious,” said Milo. “The note
was
written on the back of a Girl Scout cookie box. So think about it: some evil zombie Girl Scout attacks the ice cream parlor. What could be more simple? This case is closed. You're done!”

I grinned up at Milo and asked, “Why zombies?”

“Zombies are trendy,” Milo said matter-of-factly. “Aren't they?”

I shrugged. “I guess so. But don't you think a Girl Scout—either zombie or mortal—wouldn't be so obvious about her crime? Wouldn't she try to use regular paper, at least?”

“You have a good point,” said Milo. “And I'm sure you'll figure it all out. You always do.”

“Yeah, but usually I start with some sort of clue.”

“What about the note?”

“Sonya's mom has it,” I said.

“But I'll bet you've memorized the words, the color of the ink, the size of the paper, and everything else about it.”

“True,” I said with a nod. “And it's cardboard, not paper, remember? And the writing was extra neat. It was written in pale blue, like the kind of ink that comes from a highlighter, not a regular marker. Probably a wide tip, but perhaps regular size. Definitely not a fine point. Plus, the note had tape at the top of it. Except it wasn't just taped to the window, obviously.”

“Maybe someone taped it to a rock and then threw it in.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “Except I didn't see a rock. The box was just lying there. But now that you mention it, I actually have no idea what broke that window. I should've looked harder.”

“We all looked, and we couldn't find a thing,” Milo reminded me.

“Which is almost a clue in itself,” I said, thinking out loud. “How did it disappear so quickly? Maybe someone from inside the shop took it with them.”

Milo thought about this for a few moments. “Maybe. I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're a natural.”

“I don't think I am,” I replied.

“Don't put yourself down,” said Milo. “That's just crazy.”

“No, that's not what I mean. I know I'm good at solving mysteries, but it's not because I'm talented. I think I'm good because it's something I like doing. And the more mysteries I solve, the easier it gets, because solving mysteries is simply what I choose to devote my time to. It's all about focus and hard work and concentration. My dad always says the question you should ask yourself shouldn't be, ‘What are you good at?' it's ‘What do you
want
to be good at?' And ‘How can you make yourself good?'”

Milo nodded. “I know what you mean. It's the same thing with me and my chess game. I used to be lousy, but I didn't care. When my mom first taught me how to play, I thought it was the most boring game in the world.”

“So what changed?” I asked.

“She got sick, and I had to play the game with her, because it was all she had the strength to do.”

“Oh.” I never know exactly what to say when Milo talks about his mom. She died a few years ago, before I knew him.

“Chessboards are easy to bring to the hospital,” he said. “Also, you can start and stop, interrupt a game at any moment, then pick up and play days or even weeks later. That's what we had to do when my mom was
getting her treatments. Sometimes she was too weak to play. But she always came back to it.”

Milo stopped talking, and I felt like I should respond, except I didn't know how to. “She sounds amazing,” I said quietly, awkwardly.

“I don't know,” said Milo. “She was my mom. She was cool, for the most part. I mostly just remember the good stuff. Her curly hair, and how it always smelled like coconut. Which, it turned out, was from her shampoo.”

Even though Milo was standing right next to me, his voice sounded a million miles away. “She loved chess. And it wasn't until she was gone that I really got into it. It's almost like I wanted to be good for her. Even though she's not around anymore. I feel closer to her when I'm playing.”

“That's beautiful,” I said.

Milo laughed, embarrassed. “Whatever.”

Afraid of saying the wrong thing, I stayed quiet. I don't know that many details about Milo's mom's death; just that she was sick for a while and then she died and left him and his dad alone—except Milo lives with his grandma now. His dad is in Brooklyn, too, but in another part of the borough. The two of them don't get along so well. Milo's grandma is sweet, and she's not even old, by grandma standards. Her hair is brown and everything—not white. And she bicycles all over town.
She's his mom's mom, and I wondered if they looked alike, whether his mom liked biking everywhere, too. I wanted to know more about Milo's mom, but I didn't want to ask because it seemed rude, somehow, or at least uncomfortable.

So we walked in silence for the rest of the way, and when we got to Southpaw, Milo picked up two schedules and handed one to me. Scanning it, he frowned. “Everything I want to see starts after my curfew. It totally blows.”

“How come concerts have to start so late?” I asked.

“Don't know.” Milo crumpled the schedule and tossed it in the trash. Then he bent down to pet a passing poodle that promptly bared his pointy white teeth and growled.

“Sorry,” said the owner—a hipster in skinny jeans with a tattoo of a dragon on his neck and a bowler hat on his head. “He's kind of a jerk sometimes. Don't take it personally.”

“I won't,” Milo replied, standing up straight again.

The jerky poodle reminded me of something, but I couldn't remember what. Oh, wait—that's it. Dog walking! “I've got to walk Nofarm this afternoon!” I said.

“But it's Saturday,” said Milo. “Don't you take weekends off?”

“Usually, but Nofarm's family just moved, so they asked me for this special favor.”

“What time are you supposed to be there?” Milo asked.

I checked my watch. “Ten minutes ago.”

“Let's go,” he said.

Milo and I sprinted all the way to Eighth Avenue and Carroll Street—an uphill journey, I'd like to note.

Once there, I bent over and tried to catch my breath. “Tried” being the key word in that last sentence. I was huffing and puffing, sweat pooled in the small of my back, and my legs felt achy from sprinting. I gazed up at the building. Nofarm's family had moved to a fifth-floor walk-up, and I wasn't yet ready for the steps.

Milo didn't seem to be, either: his hands were also on his knees. He squinted at Nofarm's new place—a beautiful but run-down old mansion made of large red bricks. The staircase leading to the oversize double front doors was wide and sweeping. Three tall spires met up at the top to form the roof. They were super pointy, as if poking the blue sky above.

“This is where they live?” he asked.

“Not in the whole building,” I said. “It's a bunch of apartments now.” I walked toward the front steps and started to climb.

“Hold on!” said Milo. “Do you know what this place is?”

I turned around to face him, wondering why he hadn't moved. “I just told you,” I said. “It's Nofarm's
family's new building. Are you coming, or would you rather wait for me down here?”

“Neither,” said Milo, gazing up at the place with dread.

“Why not?” I asked.