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  But Ted had read a lot of mysteries. The police? And bossy grown-ups? They always seemed to get in the way of good detective work. No way was Ted going to let a bunch of other people spoil his investigation. But he wasn’t going to be stupid about it either. If the situation looked like it might be dangerous, even a little bit, then he’d tell everyone else right away.

  But for now, this was his mystery, and Ted wanted to solve it on his own.

  Chapter 3

  STAKEOUT

  There’s no such thing as a shortcut in Plattsford, Nebraska.

  The streets and roads run straight north and south, or straight east and west. As the crow flies, the Anderson farm was only a mile and a half from his school. As the bike rolls, it was twice that far.

  To get where he was going, Ted had to ride west on F Street for half a mile, then turn right and travel the full one-mile length of Main Street, then turn left onto County Road 7 and head out of town toward the intersection with Route 92.

  But Ted didn’t mind the distance. It was still a beautiful day, and out on the prairie, three miles isn’t much. Besides, the ride gave Ted some time to come up with a plan.

  Because there’s also no such thing as sneaking up on someone in west central Nebraska. Most of the land is flat as a boot print. There are some little hills, but nothing that’ll hide a kid on a bike for more than a minute or two. There are small stands of trees here and there, but mostly along creek beds, or where farmers have planted windbreaks. So Ted had to work out a way to get near the Andersons’ house without being seen. Until he could prove otherwise, Ted was going to act as if someone was there. Watching.

  He rode along the county road, and when he could see the roof of the farmhouse, he stopped and hid his bike in some weeds. Ted walked out into the tall grass until the Andersons’ old barn stood directly between him and the farmhouse. Then, as he walked in a straight line toward the house, the barn kept him hidden from view. In case there was someone in the house. Watching.

  The approach took about three minutes, including the time Ted spent flat on his stomach in the grass so people passing in a pickup couldn’t see him. Because if someone saw him, chances were good they’d know him, and when he delivered tomorrow’s paper at the diner, someone would almost certainly say, “Heard you were poking around at the Andersons’ old place.” The last thing a detective wants is publicity.

  When Ted reached the north end of the barn, first he tugged the handle of the big sliding door, but it was chained shut from the inside. So he looked around until he found what he needed—a couple of wide boards that were weathered and shrunk up enough so he could get his fingers into the crack between them. The nails gave way as he pulled on the old siding, and he was able to pry one board out just far enough to wiggle through.

  Ted had been in the Andersons’ barn once before. He’d come with his dad to the auction. The bank had held the big sale on a Saturday, two days before the Andersons went to stay with relatives in Illinois. All the tools and farm equipment had been spread out on the front yard and the driveways and the paddock by the barn. There was furniture, too, loads of it, and an old upright piano.

  Mr. Anderson had put on a brave face, and he even came over to Ted’s dad to talk and joke a little, just like always. But he didn’t fool Ted. The man was hurting inside, all torn up about having to leave his home and his land. And Mrs. Anderson had kept her eyes down and her lips pressed tightly together as she carried out box after box of the canning supplies and utensils and all the kitchen goods she wasn’t going to need anymore.

  Mandy Anderson was in fourth grade back then, and when Ted had smiled and said hi to her that day, she’d made a face at him and run back into the house.

  It was over two years ago now, but Ted remembered it all so clearly. And he also remembered the promise he’d made himself as the auctioneer banged the gavel down again and again on that bright October morning: “This is never gonna happen at our farm—not at my farm.”

  Ted walked to the south end of the barn. He needed to get a good look at the house, but the wide double doors at this end were also chained, no spaces or cracks anywhere. To the left of the doors there was one window in a small storage room, but it was covered with plywood from the outside. Ted stepped back about ten paces, and, looking up, he saw a wide gap between the hayloft doors on the second story. Some ladder rungs had been nailed to a post, and thirty seconds later, he was up in the loft with one eye at the opening, scanning for signs of life.

  His perch gave him a clear view of the backyard, the kitchen door, and the whole north end of the house. Ted wished he had his mom’s little binoculars, the ones she used for bird-watching. With those he’d have been able to study the yard around the back porch for footprints. He saw some long grass that might have been stepped on recently, but that could have been deer. Or even rabbits. And the porch door looked like it was still boarded up tight, and so did all the ground floor windows he could see.

  Nothing seemed disturbed or out of place, nothing obvious. No hint of recent human visitors.

  But Ted wasn’t in a hurry. Good detective work takes patience. He had to be home by four to start his afternoon chores, but that gave him almost thirty minutes before he had to leave. So he dragged half a bale of hay into the right spot and tried to make himself comfortable. After another careful look at the house, Ted pulled a small black notebook from his back pocket, found a stubby pencil, looked at his watch, and made an entry.

  May 18

  3:19 p.m. Got a stakeout spot in the loft. Good view of the house. No activity.

  Ten minutes crept by. Then Ted thought he heard a thump from the direction of the house. But it could have been from down below in the barn, too. Probably just that loose board banging in the afternoon breeze.

  After five more minutes, Ted was tempted to go outside and sneak right up to the house. He wanted to do a walk-around, look at every window, check the area for footprints, put his ear against a wall and listen for sounds, things like that. Detective work. But he stayed put, and a while later he made another log entry.

  3:41 p.m. No suspects observed.

  One possible noise. No solid clues.

  And as Ted tucked the notebook in his pocket he admitted that whoever he’d seen this morning might be long gone. And then he faced the fact that he might never know who it was. He even reconsidered the idea that he might have imagined that face.

  He stood up and stretched, walked to the edge of the hayloft, and then carefully backed down the ladder to the ground floor of the barn. Time to head for home. Three new calves had been born in the last week, and two of them weren’t steady enough to be out in the pastures yet. They were inside in two different holding stalls, one cow and her calf in each. The mothers took care of feeding the calves, but it was Ted’s job to feed and water the cows and clean out the stalls every afternoon.

  It was his favorite chore. The calves were shy and awkward, and they always made him laugh. And the animals liked him. His dad knew that, which is why he gave the job to Ted. The boy had a natural talent for putting animals at ease. Ted felt like he could tell what they were thinking. Sort of the way a good detective can figure out what’s running through a criminal’s mind. Except a newborn calf is probably less complicated than your average crook.

  Back at the north end of the Andersons’ barn, Ted found a short piece of iron pipe, and before he went outside, he used it on the loose board, bending the rusty nails down flat. He didn’t want to get poked or scraped as he wriggled back through the opening. It would also make it easier to get in the next time.

  Maybe he’d come back on Saturday. He’d bring some food and a thermos, and those binoculars. Then he could set up a real stakeout, take a good long look around, and figure out if anything was going on.

  Ted pushed the board aside, and as he backed out, the sudden brightness of the afternoon sky almost blinded him. But he could see clearly enough to be sure it was a girl. She was right there, leaning with her back aga
inst the barn, waiting for him.

  She wasn’t big, and she wasn’t holding a gun or a knife or an ax, but that didn’t stop Ted’s heart from pounding away like mad. As he blinked and tried to look brave, the girl glared at Ted the way a cat looks at a dog who’s come one step too close.

  And in a voice that sounded all twangy and nasal, she said, “Are you gonna tell on us?”

  When Ted gulped and sort of stuttered, she stepped away from the barn and squared her shoulders at him, her fists tight, eyes narrow. “Well, are you? Are you gonna tell?”

  And because he couldn’t think, and because this girl looked like she might take a swing at him, Ted said the only thing that made sense at the moment. “T … tell? No … no, I’m not telling.”

  “Promise?”

  Ted nodded. “Promise.”

  With his chest thumping and his mouth dry as straw, Ted was certainly surprised. And he was also confused by this sudden face-off with an angry girl.

  Still, as a detective, Ted was thrilled. The Case of the Face in the Window had just blown wide open.

  Chapter 4

  DETAILS

  “Could prob’ly use some food—since you’ve got to come by here tomorrow anyway.”

  It was the last thing the girl said to him before he left, more like an order than a request.

  And Ted nodded and said, “Sure thing.”

  He didn’t like having to take off from the Andersons’ farm in such a hurry. Especially since it might look like he was afraid. He didn’t want that girl to think he was afraid. Because it wasn’t true. No way.

  But Ted had no choice about leaving. Chores are serious business on a working farm. He had to be home for chores at four o’clock, so he had to go.

  The worst part was that he hadn’t had time to get her whole story. Because that’s what he wanted. He wanted the details, all of them. And he hadn’t even gotten the girl’s name. Or where she’d come from. Or how she’d ended up here in Plattsford.

  Ted was out of breath from running back to where he’d stashed his bike, and when he hopped on and took off, the schoolbooks in his canvas newspaper bag banged against his legs as he pedaled for home. Even though it was partly a downhill ride, he knew he had to pump like mad if he was going to be on time.

  Dozens of questions bounced around in his head, but Ted silenced all the noise except the wind in his ears and began reviewing the facts. Because a good detective always starts with the facts. And he knew that if he got his thoughts in order now, while everything was still fresh in his mind, it would be easier to write up his case notes later.

  So Ted began at the beginning and talked himself through it.

  When I came out of the barn, she was there, waiting. So … she must have seen me coming. Or been expecting me. Or heard me. Or all three.

  And then she said, “Are you gonna tell on us?” She didn’t say “tell on me.” She said “on us.” So there’s her and someone else. At least one other person. Maybe more.

  Ted had to swerve his bike to keep from running over a dead rabbit lying on the road. It hadn’t been there on his way out. He hated to see any animal get hurt, but he understood it happened. He also understood that death was a regular part of life on a farm, especially if you raised cattle.

  Still, just half an hour ago that rabbit had been skittering across a field, its feet barely touching the ground. And now it was crow food, pasted down flat on the highway. It made Ted think, and a quarter of a mile whizzed by before he got back to his detective work.

  Okay … when the girl asked me the second time if I was going to tell? She had her fists up, and she looked like she was ready for a fight. So she’s kind of tough. Maybe she’s a boxer. Or a karate expert or something. Could be dangerous.

  And the way she talked? She said, “Come on around the barn,” and the word “around” sounded like “a-RAY-ound.” And “barn” sounded like “BAW-ern.” So she’s from somewhere south. Maybe Texas or Louisiana. Or even Mississippi. Somewhere south.

  And she asked if I could bring some food tomorrow. So whoever’s there, either they don’t have any money for food, or else they don’t want to go into town. Or both.

  As he rumbled over the railroad crossing at County Road and Main Street, Ted remembered the mystery he’d read about a boy who wanted to be a police sketch artist. The kid in the story had learned to look at someone for ten seconds, and then draw a perfect picture of them. He was like a human digital camera. That book had taught Ted a lot about noticing important details.

  Ted had been with the girl for only a minute or two before he’d had to leave. And she’d taken charge and done most of the talking, asking him where he lived, and how far was it to town, and did he ride past here every day. But during the time she was quizzing him, Ted was busy taking mental notes. And now he played them back. He pretended he was talking to that kid, the one who could draw like a genius.

  She’s a white female, age … eleven to thirteen. Sort of a skinny build, a little more than five feet tall, same as me. Narrow face, pale skin with freckles on her upper cheeks, a thin nose that’s sort of long, brown eyes, straight brown hair that comes down to her chin—sort of a grown-up haircut. And her teeth haven’t had braces. Last seen wearing dirty pink running shoes, blue jeans with a little rip on the right knee, and a pale blue T-shirt with a yellow smiley face on it, except the smiley face is frowning. She chews her fingernails, and on her left—no, on her right hand there’s a little silver ring with a small red stone in it.

  Ted was pleased with himself for giving that fine description, and as he leaned his bike low and took the left turn onto Toronto Road a little too fast, he glanced at his watch—3:56. His dad’s farm was exactly 1.1 miles up ahead, and the macadam road was flat and smooth.

  Ted knew from years of experience that he was going to make it home on time. Because if you go fifteen miles an hour—which isn’t that hard with a good bicycle on level ground—you travel one mile every four minutes.

  At exactly four o’clock Ted’s tires crunched on the gravel driveway of Hammond Acres, and Shep ran out to meet him, barking and running half circles the way a Border collie does. The driveway was neat, edged perfectly, and completely weed free—another one of Ted’s chores.

  As he put his bike away in the garden shed, Ted was still going over what he’d learned, reviewing every scrap of information to see if he’d missed anything. And he remembered something. Something he’d seen but hadn’t really noticed, not until just now. It was there on the girl’s left sneaker. Some writing.

  Ted pushed himself, trying to sharpen the image, trying to make his fellow detectives proud of his excellent observation skills and his fantastic memory.

  And as he walked across the yard toward the barn, the picture snapped clear. It was a name, written down near the sole of her shoe in faded black marker.

  Suddenly the girl who was hiding out at the Anderson place was a little less mysterious. Because now she had a name, and Ted knew what it was. And he also knew the first letter of her last name: T. So he had two pieces of real information.

  Inside the barn now, he pulled off his school shoes and stepped into his work boots, and the cows and calves swung their heads and looked at him between the boards of the stall doors. Ted spoke, but he wasn’t talking to the animals. He nodded politely and said, “Pleased to meet you, Alexa.”

  Chapter 5

  BOY SCOUT BURGLAR

  The rest of Ted’s Tuesday went quickly. After his chores came dinner, then homework.

  When his school assignments were finished, he could have watched a little TV, but instead Ted went right to his room and started a new case file about the girl, writing down every fact and observation and guess he could think of. New ideas rushed into his mind, and he kept asking himself, Have I missed anything? When he was sure he’d done a thorough job, Ted lay on his bed and opened his newest mystery book, The Footprint on the Wall. He let the book pull him into the action, glad to forget about that girl for a while.<
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  After an hour Ted made himself stop. He wanted to keep reading, but there was one more thing he had to do before bed. It was time for a late-night raid.

  Ted had been a Boy Scout for more than half of his fifth-grade year, until the scoutmaster and his three sons moved from Hulton to Denver. But Ted still took his Scout Law seriously. A Scout is trustworthy. So that meant he had to be honest. But a Scout is kind, too. That meant he had to help that girl. And whoever else was out there with her.

  So Ted, the kind and honest Scout, found an envelope in his room and wrote on it, “Homeless Food Fund.” Then he put six dollars of his own money into the envelope, because he was going to pay back his mom for every bit of food he took.

  With his conscience taken care of, Ted the Boy Scout was free to transform himself into Ted the cat burglar.

  He had to get from his upstairs bedroom to the kitchen without being seen or heard by his brother Lucas, his sister Sharon, his dad, or his mom. And then he had to get back again with the food. He wished his newspaper shoulder bag was black instead of a weathered gray color. Cat burglars always prefer black.

  What Ted lacked in equipment, he hoped to make up for with his skills. He floated along the upstairs hall, crept down the staircase, drifted through the parlor, and melted into the darkened kitchen. Then he slipped into the large pantry and pulled the door shut behind him without a sound.

  Using the flashlight he had tucked into his belt, Ted scanned the shelves. He needed to build a balanced diet for at least two people. And he was guessing that they didn’t have a stove, plates, bowls, or utensils.

  So first he chose three cans of beef stew, because you could eat it cold, right from the can. With your fingers. He’d done that himself a few times on his first and only Boy Scout camping trip. Cold beef stew wasn’t half bad.