“He’s so vain,” continued Miss Priddock, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “He’s always going on about being on a diet. But a number of times I’ve caught him secretly gobbling a chocolate bar. And last week a lemon tart went missing off my desk. I swear it was him.”

  “Interesting,” said Friday as she turned and left with Melanie.

  “What’s interesting?” asked Melanie. “The stuff about the Headmaster eating chocolate or the fact that Miss Priddock is wildly indiscreet?”

  “Both,” said Friday.

  So Friday and Melanie went back to their PE class. Mercifully, when they got there Vanessa Dieppe had broken her nose playing dodgeball, so they got to spend the rest of the class standing around waiting for the ambulance to arrive while Miss Spitzer tried to pretend she wasn’t having a panic attack as she imagined the inevitable lawsuit from the girl’s parents.

  Chapter

  16

  The Sticky Substance

  Friday and Melanie returned to sit on the bench outside the Headmaster’s office at ten the following morning. Friday had told Simmons to meet them there. He’d arrived first because he didn’t want his limp to make him late.

  “Do you have proof of my innocence?” asked Simmons.

  “No,” said Friday, “but we will soon.”

  The Headmaster did not make them wait too long this time. It was just eight minutes past ten when he emerged from his office and saw the three students sitting there.

  “You,” said the Headmaster uncivilly as he eyed Friday. “I saw your name on my schedule and I had hoped it was a mistake.”

  “No mistake,” said Friday. “We needed to meet with you to redress an injustice suffered by Simmons!”

  Simmons nodded.

  “Shall we come into your office, or would you like to conduct the meeting out here?” asked Friday. “We don’t mind waiting while you fetch yourself a chocolate cookie.”

  “A chocolate coo—” the Headmaster began to splutter, but then he gave up. “How on earth did you know that was what I was after?”

  “I’ve done a statistical analysis of the amount of time you make people wait before they come in to see you,” said Friday. “Parents are left to wait three minutes, teachers six minutes, and students seventeen. No doubt this is a Sun Tzu’s Art of War–inspired intimidation tactic they teach you at headmaster training camp. So the question was, What would make you emerge from your office nine minutes before your self-imposed schedule? You don’t have the uncomfortable look of someone who needs to use the bathroom—”

  “Oh dear,” said Melanie. “I don’t like to think about the Headmaster as being someone who uses the bathroom.”

  “But it is just after ten,” continued Friday, “which means it is three hours since you ate breakfast, so you are probably getting peckish, and you are an intelligent, observant man—”

  “Thank you for noticing,” said the Headmaster sarcastically.

  “So, like me,” Friday went on, “you would have noticed that Miss Priddock has an open packet of chocolate cookies sitting on her desk. You have probably been thinking about those chocolate cookies for the last hour, knowing you shouldn’t eat one because you must be familiar with the heart attack statistics for overweight men in their sixties with stressful jobs. You would also be deterred by the fact that you would have to smile and be nice to Miss Priddock. Not a pleasant experience for a man of your stature, especially since she accused you of stealing her lemon tart last week. So it would have taken you a full sixty-eight minutes for your hunger to overwhelm your dignity, by which time you were so brain-addled with chocolate-longing that you forgot I would be sitting here.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if you are startlingly gifted,” said the Headmaster, “or you simply have access to some sort of illicit counterintelligence mind-reading device.”

  “It is all just a matter of simple observation,” said Friday. “But rest assured, you won’t have to demean yourself to Miss Priddock. I took the liberty of bringing two chocolate cookies with me.”

  Friday produced a sandwich bag holding two cookies.

  “Is this a bribe?” asked the Headmaster.

  “Not at all,” said Friday. “I simply don’t want you to be making the decision you are about to make in a hypoglycemic state.”

  The Headmaster looked at the chocolate cookies. They were the good kind, with a thick layer of chocolate on the outside and another layer of chocolate cream in the middle. “All right,” he said, giving up and taking a bite as he led the three students into his office. “What’s this all about, then?”

  “We have to wait for one more person to arrive,” said Friday.

  “Will that person be bringing me chocolate cookies as well?” asked the Headmaster, half sarcastically and half hopefully.

  “No,” said Friday. “Although I bet he smarms one off Miss Priddock.”

  They heard the opening swoosh of the external door and the pneumatic hiss as it slowly retracted.

  “This will be him,” said Friday.

  “Good morning, Miss Priddock,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “Maclean,” groaned the Headmaster. “What do we need him for?”

  “Shhh,” said Friday. “Listen.”

  “Miss Priddock,” began Mr. Maclean, “are those chocolate cookies I spy on your desk? Would you like me to relieve you of the temptation of eating one by eating it myself?”

  Miss Priddock giggled.

  They heard Mr. Maclean’s footsteps, then the sound of him using his key to open his pigeonhole. “Miss Priddock, I love the blouse you’re wearing,” said Mr. Maclean. “Sienna brings out the highlights in your hair. It’s like a breath of sunshine.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said Simmons.

  “I know,” said Friday. “Breath of sunshine. It’s an absurd mixed metaphor. You have a breath of fresh air. Or a ray of sunshine.”

  “Is that what this is all about, then?” asked the Headmaster. “You’re making a complaint about Mr. Maclean flirting with Miss Priddock?”

  “Indirectly, yes,” agreed Friday. “Although we don’t have a problem in principle with Mr. Maclean making a fool of himself in front of the younger members of the school’s secretarial staff.”

  Mr. Maclean stuck his head around the Headmaster’s door. “I got a message you wanted to see me, Headmaster,” he said.

  “Not I,” said the Headmaster. “No, you have been summoned here because you have somehow transgressed in the eyes of the great Friday Barnes.”

  Mr. Maclean looked at the small, dull-looking girl before him. His brain was struggling to understand what was going on. “Oh, Balmes. Yes, what’s the problem?”

  “Mr. Maclean, we are here today because you wrongly accused Simmons of handing in his assignment two days late,” stated Friday.

  “What?” said Mr. Maclean. He was unused to being challenged. When you practiced smiling as much as he did it just didn’t happen very often. “Don’t be ridiculous. I check my pigeonhole every day. And I mark the date on the papers as soon as I get to my desk.”

  “Hmm,” said Friday, “I shall accept that statement. I have no reason to disbelieve it.”

  “Then what on earth are you talking about?” said Mr. Maclean.

  “If we all adjourn to the pigeonholes, I shall show you,” said Friday.

  “Do we have to?” asked Mr. Maclean.

  “Yes, you do have to,” said the Headmaster. He was enjoying seeing Mr. Maclean being discomforted. He resented the fact that Mr. Maclean had greater access to chocolate cookies just because he was good-looking.

  They all trudged out into the lobby and over to the pigeonholes, except for Simmons, who of course limped.

  “This is a ridiculous waste of time,” grumbled Mr. Maclean.

  “I can assure you that as a geography teacher your time isn’t really that valuable,” Friday pointed out. “If we had to monetize it using salary data and quality-of-life estimates, I would say the three minutes this interaction has taken us so far would, at best, be worth about two dollars and thirty cents.”

  “Can we move it along please, Friday?” said the Headmaster. “I imagine that crime fighting is enormously amusing for you, but you really should try to attend some of your classes during the course of the day.”

  “Of course,” said Friday. “Now, Mr. Maclean, you just emptied your pigeonhole, didn’t you? This pigeonhole at the end in the top row? And before you answer, I should inform you that we know the answer is yes because we heard you do it.”

  “Well then, yes, I just emptied my pigeonhole,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “And what did you find in your pigeonhole?” asked Friday.

  “I haven’t had a chance to look yet,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “Look now,” said Friday.

  Mr. Maclean looked at the stack of papers in his hand. “These are eighth-grade assignments.”

  “Is that all there is in that stack?” asked Friday.

  “I think so,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “Check,” said Friday.

  “This is preposterous,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “Yes, yes,” said the Headmaster. “Just do it.”

  Mr. Maclean leafed through the assignments. “It’s just assignments,” he said. “Hang on, wait a minute. At the bottom there is something else.” Mr. Maclean took out the bottom sheet of paper from the stack. There was something typed in the middle of the page. Mr. Maclean balked.

  “What does it say?” asked Friday.

  “It says, ‘You missed something,’” said Mr. Maclean.

  “How interesting,” said Friday. “Now, if you would be so kind as to open your pigeonhole, we can see just what you missed.”

  Now even Mr. Maclean was curious. He took out his key and opened the door. The pigeonhole was above his eye line, so none of them could see anything inside.

  “Put your hand in and feel around,” said Friday.

  Mr. Maclean reached in. “There’s nothing … Hang on, there is something.” He reached in a little farther and pulled out some more paper.

  “What do those sheets say?” asked Friday.

  “You missed me, and me, and me,” said Mr. Maclean, reading off the pages. “What is the meaning of this? I’ve been set up. You put these in my pigeonhole.”

  “Yes I did,” agreed Friday. “To prove a point. When you empty your pigeonhole you always turn and flirt with Miss Priddock, the receptionist, as you do it.”

  “I do no such thing,” protested Mr. Maclean.

  “Ahem,” said the Headmaster. “I heard you doing it myself, just this morning.”

  “Well, I like to make friendly chitchat with the support staff; it’s good for morale,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “Yes, well, luckily, we are not here to discuss your dubious behavioral standards,” said Friday. “I am merely trying to establish that you don’t pay attention to what you are doing when you empty your pigeonhole. The pigeonhole is quite high, and you can’t see into it easily. So if a paper became partially stuck to the bottom, you probably wouldn’t notice.”

  “But why would a paper become stuck to my pigeonhole?” exclaimed Mr. Maclean. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “You really need to consult a thesaurus,” said Friday, shaking her head. “Your vocabulary lacks variety and precision. Your pigeonhole would become sticky if someone left something sticky in there. Allow me…”

  Friday stepped toward the pigeonhole. She had to stand up on her tiptoes, but she reached in and scraped the bottom of the pigeonhole with her finger. She looked at her finger, then sniffed it.

  “Gross!” said Simmons.

  Friday then dabbed her finger against the taste buds on her tongue as she concentrated. “Confectioner’s sugar, lemon zest, and custard. Tell me, has anyone given you a lemon tart recently?”

  Mr. Maclean blushed. “No.”

  “Hmm,” said Friday. “Perhaps I should have phrased that differently. Have you been in possession of a lemon tart recently?”

  Mr. Maclean looked shifty. “Maybe,” he conceded.

  “Did you perhaps steal one from Miss Priddock’s desk?” asked Friday.

  “No!” exclaimed Mr. Maclean. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”

  “Let’s examine the facts,” said Friday. “There was a lemon tart in your pigeonhole. And a lemon tart went missing from Miss Priddock’s desk. I believe you took it when Miss Priddock was away from her desk. You reasoned that she would have given it to you if she was there, so it was all the same. And yet you had a guilty conscience because when Miss Priddock entered, you quickly dropped the illicit lemon tart through the slip in your pigeonhole to hide the evidence, waiting until you would be able to hide it better by eating it secretly in the privacy of the office.”

  “This is ridiculous,” spluttered Mr. Maclean.

  “Five times,” said Melanie.

  “Five what?” asked the Headmaster.

  “He’s said ‘ridiculous’ five times,” explained Melanie.

  “You make it sound like a criminal conspiracy,” said Mr. Maclean. “It was just a lemon tart.”

  “A lemon tart that fell facedown in your pigeonhole, causing lemon custard to smear on the bottom, which adhered to Simmons’s assignment. It did not slide out with your other paperwork; it sat glued to the bottom for an extra two days. At that time you docked his marks and he was expelled from the lacrosse team,” said Friday. “I call that a lemon tart with serious consequences.”

  “Well, Maclean,” said the Headmaster, “it sounds like you’ve got two marks to adjust. You need to correct Simmons’s grade for the unjust time penalty, and you’d better buy a new packet of lemon tarts for Miss Priddock, in the interests of staff morale, specifically mine.”

  Simmons leaped in the air. “Hurray, I can play lacrosse again!” Then he collapsed on the ground because, of course, his knees hurt.

  “I have one more question for Mr. Maclean,” said Friday.

  The Headmaster sighed. “Friday, you’ve won your argument. You really need to learn to quit while you’re ahead.”

  “It is in relation to another matter,” said Friday. “I’d like to know what Mr. Maclean was doing yesterday in the swamp. You weren’t impersonating a yeti, were you? We know you like to impress people. And what better way to impress people than to dress up like a wild beast and scare the daylights out of them, particularly Miss Harrow, who is very attractive and probably not easily impressed by a practiced smile?”

  Mr. Maclean looked confounded for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Balmes,” he said between chuckles, “perhaps your IQ test was a statistical error after all. As if I’d ever dress up as an ape-man! I’m a geography teacher. I was in the swamp preparing a lesson on the ecosystem of the wetlands.” Mr. Maclean smiled one of his practiced smiles.

  “He’s lying,” said Melanie.

  “Melanie Pelly,” snapped the Headmaster, “accusing a member of the teaching staff of lying is a very serious matter indeed.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t accusing him,” said Melanie. “I was just letting Friday know. She’s brilliant with facts but not so strong on social nuance.”

  “I am not lying,” said Mr. Maclean.

  “Okay,” said Melanie, who turned and looked at Friday while raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

  “It’s okay, Melanie,” said Friday. “Even I can interpret that one.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Friday was sitting in the dining hall eating breakfast when the bursar brought over a large package for her.

  “Who sent that?” asked Melanie.

  “It’s from my uncle Bernie,” said Friday. “It must be the clothes I asked for.”

  Friday tore open the package. There were three pairs of jeans, several black T-shirts, and two brown cardigans. Friday picked up a cardigan and pressed the soft acrylic-wool blend to her cheek.

  “Wasn’t he going to get you something nice?” asked Melanie.

  “I asked him to,” said Friday with a smile, “but Uncle Bernie likes me just the way I am.”

  At the bottom of the package was a separate box. This wasn’t wrapped in brown packing paper like the rest of the clothes. It was gift-wrapped properly with shiny red paper. Friday tore this open a little more carefully. Inside was a hatbox. There was a handwritten note from Uncle Bernie sticky-taped to the lid.

  Dear Friday,

  It is traditional for all great detectives to wear a silly hat, so I thought you would be needing this.

  Love,

  Uncle Bernie

  Friday opened the box. Inside was a green felt porkpie hat. Friday lifted it out with care. She smiled, then put her new detective hat on her head. It fell down to her eyebrows. It was too large.

  “People are going to think you are eccentric if you wear that,” said Melanie.

  “And they will be one hundred percent correct,” said Friday. She grinned at Melanie. “I love it.”

  Chapter

  17

  The Case of the Missing Homework

  “Barnes … Barnes!”

  Friday was sitting in the dining hall, eating dinner. It was Wednesday and the meal was pot roast, which was the second-best dinner of the week, so Friday did not enjoy having it interrupted.

  She turned to see Parker, a ninth-grade boy, running toward her.

  “You’ve got to help me!” he cried as he came to a panting halt beside her.

  “I’ve got to, have I?” said Friday.

  “You should have said ‘please,’” said Melanie.

  “Please, Barnes,” said Parker. “I’m in big trouble.”

  “My first name is Friday,” said Friday. “I know you boys insist on referring to each other by your surnames, but I’m not a boy, so I don’t like it.”

  “Sorry, Friday,” said Parker. “You will help me, won’t you? I’ll pay you. Here…” He rummaged in his pockets and found a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ve got a twenty right here if you just come and have a look. And I’ll give you another twenty if you can find it.”

  “Find what?” asked Friday. Her irritation with Parker could not dampen her natural curiosity for a mystery.

  “My assignment. It’s worth 80 percent of my final grade for the year,” said Parker. “And someone stole it. I think it was”—he leaned in close—“the swamp yeti.”