Pretty Close to the Truth (eBook)

JoAnna Rowe (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
300 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-7264-1 (ISBN)

Infos

Mysterious bags picked up at school, suspicious new characters in town, one dead millionaire, and lots of gum. What do they all have in common? Not one thing until Icabum Plum and the Gum Chews begin to connect the dots. It's an open-and-shut case for a quick-talking master detective like Icabum Plum--if something far more serious wasn't clouding his judgment.

Learn more about this author at www.JoAnnaRowe.com

Textauszug

Log Entry: Wednesday

Time: The Afternoon

Location: School to The Cravin’ Shack

“Nice outfit, Ica-dumb,” I hear from behind me in the school hallway.

In a smooth motion, I step forward—away from the voice I know too well—turn, catch the bully’s glare, and step backward out of reach. “Good of you to notice, Steaky.” I’m a favorite rattle of the massive eighth-grade bully, so we’re on pet-name terms.

The kid steps forward with a snarl and spits down at me. “Freak.”

I brush off my waistcoat as if I can brush off the word.

Nothing unnerves a bully more than kindness. “May the sun shine down on you always, dear Steaky.” Steaky’s left shoulder leans for the attack. I notice his unlaced shoe. I shift, so he’ll have to cross his legs to get to me.

The beast snarls again. His short-cropped hair is like the nape of a bristling wolf. My eyes grow wide. He steps, catches his laces, and stumbles. Without another thought, I quickly find somewhere else to be.

Outside, I survey the grounds of Don Kiwi Middle School. I’m riding the wave of a new case, but my job as a detective doesn’t allow a break. My field notebook is in my hand to mark any curiosities.

A shadow covers me from behind. My gut clenches. “Hmph,” I hear and release my breath. I know that sound as well as I know my birthmark. It’s my best friend, Enzo Lemon. At six feet high and growing, he’s the tallest eleven-year-old I’ve ever seen. He hates that he stands out.

Enzo looks down at my outfit and frowns. His black, bowl-cut hair covers his green eyes completely. He’s a kid of few words, and his voice is a whispered mumble when he does speak. I pat my buddy on the back, telling him my ego will get over the sweatshort situation. We don’t need words. I know him, and he knows me.

Enzo stares at his shoes and tightens his backpack on his back, a silent signal he’s waiting for me.

“Let’s go,” I reply. “I need a soda.” My friend follows beside me. I buy a can for each of us from the vending machine. We chug them as we walk three blocks to The Cravin’ Shack, the diner where my mom works.

When we swig our drinks simultaneously, Enzo hits the back of my head with his elbow. I think he forgets I’m thirteen and a half inches shorter than him. I give him a shove with zero effect, and he rumbles a donkey laugh.

My smirk lowers. “The delivery happened again today.”

Enzo’s lips purse.

“Yep. We need to alert the other Gum Chews that this is an active investigation.”

“Humph.”

“No. Not all hands on deck yet. You and I need to do a little more sniffing.”

I see his brow raise when he tilts his head.

“I need your help tonight. I saw a suspect sketch out a code on a sticky note. I want to check it out. Meet me at the dock tonight at 6:50.”

Enzo blinks and nods.

I take another sip. “I’m calling this the Black Bag case.”

“K.”

After several minutes of walking, sweat soaks my collar. I forgot to put sunscreen on this morning, and my fair flesh is burning.

When we reach The Cravin’ Shack, Enzo waves goodbye and continues home to the more expensive part of town. He may be rich, but he’s pretty much on his own most of the time. His parents travel a lot, leaving him with his nanny or with me when I can swing it.

I yank open the door to the diner. A stench blast of grease slaps me. Mom works the drive-through speaker. She smiles at me with a mountain of love and holds up a pointer finger.

I toss a lazy wave, slide into a red vinyl booth, and settle in. The last sip of my soda swirls in my grip as I sweep my eyes across the dining room. I search for the owner of the joint, Big Herb, to mark his movements. No sign of the big slob. It’s a good thing. I’m finding it harder to watch my tongue around him. It’s important I keep away from his attention. He’s scum between my toes. He’s every loogie I’ve hawked into the sewer. I hate how he treats people. I hate how he talks to my mom—

My mom spots me again and smiles. I smirk, but it dips when she turns back around. I shake the thoughts out of my head and get back to work. Big Herb’s not here, so my attention walks the room. All a bunch of nothing.

The last sip of my soda is flat. I hiss and push it away. Without slowing the easy flow of my eagle eye, I unwrap a Bubble-Yo gum, pop it into my mouth, and chomp on it while easing back against the cracked cushion.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom says, out of breath. She blinks and chuckles. “Where are your clothes?”

“Mishap,” I mumble.

“Oh.” She knows it must be something bad if I allow people to see me like this. She’ll try to fish it out of me later, but I won’t bite. There’s no need to add more worries to her plate.

“Ready to go?” she adds.

I cock my brow with lazy amusement. “Certainly, Angel,” I reply, barely moving my lips and not my teeth.

Mom knows my favorite character impression all too well: the one and only detective Sam Spade from the classic movie The Maltese Falcon.

She swirls a finger at my face and the look I’m holding. “Those black-and-white Humphrey Bogart movies you watch all the time have soaked your brain.”

“If you are referring to the art form known as classic Hollywood crime drama, then yes, I know every masterpiece film, many of which include Bogart.”

“While I’m glad you appreciate things that are dated—”

“Dated?” My voice cracks, dropping me out of character. I throw her an offended glance and go back to searching the diner. “Classic is history, Mom.” My eyes stop on a lone man who checks his phone.

“Bogart’s characters are violent and kind of vulgar, and I hope they don’t influence you to cross the line too far that you get in serious trouble—Icky, stop spying on that man. Do not stick your nose into people’s business anymore. You may no longer be grounded from your spring break recklessness, but let’s remember why I took away your podcast.”

I wince. Two weeks into my home arrest for my misadventure to the Classic Film Festival during spring break, my eye on the world became the size of my living room window. I grew mad with boredom and fixated on Maude Punch’s extra-large purse as she walked by several times a day. She became the focus of my crime podcast episode, “Eye on the World.” I may have been too convincing that the eighty-year-old was part of an international smuggling ring. My podcast grew to over 10,000 followers, including the FBI, who soon surrounded tiny Maude, her huge purse, and the pet ferret that lived inside it.

I quickly redirect the conversation away from myself. “Bogart movies aren’t violent and vulgar. They’re PG-13 compared to movies today.”

“You’re eleven, not thirteen.”

“I’m basically thirteen. And if not for Humphrey Bogart playing the character Sam Spade, I would never have developed my supreme self-awareness or the ability to spot that man over there placing illegal gambling bets on his phone.”

Mom steps to block my view of the man I’ve been eyeing. “Leave crime for Sheriff Bass. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll let this one go because your mom-face is unsettling.”

She gives a devilish grin. “My mom-face is your kryptonite.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be referencing Spiderman?”

“It’s from Superman.” She chuckles. “And no, I’m not too old. Classic is history, remember?”

I tap my temple with a finger. “With our brains and looks, we can go places,” I say with a detective tough-talk strain in my voice and my gum lodged in my cheek.

Mom sighs and walks away, unwrapping her apron from her waist. She lets the door crash shut between us. I slide out of the booth and follow her to our car, a Chevy Chevette—the actual definition of dated.

“School okay today?” she asks, pushing a clump of auburn hair out of her face that’s fallen from her bun. We have the same color hair, but mine looks darker when I have it plastered down with EZ GEL, just like Humphrey Bogart wore his.

“A pile of dung with a new tag,” I reply. My head collides with the headrest as our car jerks out of the parking spot.

“Watch your mouth, Icky. I do not like your manners these days.”

The dialogues from all seventy-five of Humphrey Bogart’s films swirl through my mind in an endless loop. I lock my jaw, gravel up my voice, and act out one of my favorite Bogart scenes: “And I’m not crazy about yours. I didn’t ask to see you. I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. I don’t like them myself!”

“Icky!”

I don’t let up and keep in character. “My manners are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings. I don’t mind your ritzing me while drinking your lunch out of a bottle. But don’t waste your time trying to cross-examine me.”

“Icabum Plum. Stop—”

“It’s from Bogart’s movie The Big Sleep, 1946.”

“I don’t care if it’s from a movie—the original or the remake.”

“Nothing great should ever be remade. It’s why you should always identify the date of a...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.9.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Kinder- / Jugendbuch
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-7264-1 / 9798350972641