The Great Shelby Holmes and the Haunted Hound Read online

  I mean, really. Who would know that besides Shelby Holmes?

  Seriously, how does she do it? I was exhausted just listening to her. But it did make me realize I needed to study more about my new neighborhood. The rest, well . . .

  “It’s clear the person pulling the strings is clever, but not clever enough to study etymology.”

  “Eta-what?”

  “The study of word origins and how their meanings have changed through the years.”

  “Yeah, okay, sure,” I agreed with her because I didn’t understand how word origins were going to solve this case.

  “So if we agree the article is fake, shouldn’t we tell Bryant?”

  “As you may recall, I’d already referred to it as a sham article in front of Bryant, but we shouldn’t divulge our findings.” Shelby gave me a pointed look. “All the tenants are suspects, including Bryant and his mother.”

  “But they’re our clients!” I protested.

  Shelby scowled. “Don’t you think Bryant would just love to have a case that tripped me up? Not as if he had the ability to make that happen.”

  I hung my head. “Okay, so can we not share that with Bryant?”

  Here I thought that maybe this case would bring them closer together.

  Nope.

  “It’s important we don’t share much with Bryant or any of the other tenants. One of them did this, and I don’t want them to know how close we are to figuring it all out.”

  “We’re close?” I asked. I hoped that meant I never had to hear that beast again.

  Shelby smirked. “Yes. We’re definitely getting somewhere.”

  The subway pulled into the Times Square station, and Shelby had us exit. Once we got aboveground, I stopped in my tracks. There were so many people and lights in Times Square, I always got overwhelmed.

  “Let’s move along,” Shelby stated as she began to weave between the tourists and costumed characters on 42nd Street.

  I was following her when I felt the buzz of my cell phone in my pocket. I picked it up and smiled when I saw who the text was from.

  “Who’s the girl?” Shelby asked pointedly.

  How did she—you know what? Why did I even ask? Although I’d seen pretty clearly with Ms. Lyons and my mom (groan) how body language could show feelings.

  “Aisha,” I replied. “She’s asking about my Halloween plans.”

  Shelby’s face scrunched up. “Aisha from the figure skating rink? Why on earth are you still in communications with her? We solved that case.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “You like her?”

  “I mean, yeah. She’s cool.”

  And pretty and had these big brown eyes and was an amazing skater and I could go on for days.

  Shelby stuck her tongue out in disgust. “Okay, Romeo.”

  “It’s not like that,” I replied unconvincingly.

  “How many friends are necessary?” Shelby asked, then growled—actually growled—at a family of tourists blocking the sidewalk in front of Bryant Park.

  “I like having friends,” I stated.

  “Yes, but how many does one require? Is there some sort of qualifier on the ideal number of close friends or acquaintances?”

  I often had to remind myself that friendship was a very foreign concept to Shelby, but it wasn’t something that could be broken down in terms of statistics.

  “It depends,” I admitted. “I meet people. I get to know them. It sort of comes naturally.”

  Shelby nodded. “Watson, would it be okay if I only have you as a friend?”

  Aw man. That was such a nice thing coming from Shelby.

  Before I could reply, she added, “Because I find the con­cept of having multiple people like you in my life extremely exhausting.”

  So yeah. Maybe not really a compliment.

  When Shelby stopped, I finally looked up to see one of the stone lions that flanked the New York Public Library’s main building staring back at me.

  “The library?”

  “Yes. As I said, it’s where all good detectives are raised.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  I followed Shelby up the steps to the main library entrance. There were people sitting on the stairs hanging out, drinking coffee, or taking pictures of the iconic building.

  “Hey, Shelby!” one of the guards greeted us as we walked through the front door.

  “Salutations, Frank,” Shelby replied.

  “Well, hello, Miss Shelby,” a woman in a head scarf said as Shelby handed over her backpack for inspection.

  “Fatima,” Shelby said with a nod of her head.

  Was there anybody here Shelby didn’t know?

  (Probably not.)

  We started walking down a long corridor.

  “You’re going to look at the archives for the New York Times to see what we can find out about Hugo Baskerville,” Shelby stated. “You’ll use microfilm as it can’t be hacked.”

  “Okay,” I replied like I had any idea what she was talking about. “What are you going to do?”

  “I need to do some research on real estate and gentrification in Harlem.” After I stared blankly back at Shelby she clarified, “Gentrification is when an area is transformed to appeal to a high-income bracket. Basically, what’s happening to Harlem with all the condos going up and white people taking over what was once a predominantly African American neighborhood.”

  This time my stare back at her was blunt. I mean, really? So I didn’t know the word gentrification, but I certainly was more impacted by it than Shelby.

  Shelby held her hands up. “My parents have been in Harlem for nearly two decades. But your point is taken, Watson. I don’t enjoy all the new buildings being built around us. It diminishes the character of the neighborhood.”

  We arrived at a small room lined with black file cabinets and a cluster of computers in the center.

  “Hello, Shelby!” an older white woman with short salt-and-pepper hair greeted her with a smile. “What can I do for you today?”

  Shelby handed me a form to sign in.

  “My colleague John Watson requires the New York Times archives. He’ll need your assistance as he’s a microfilm novice.”

  The librarian smiled warmly at me. “Not a problem at all. Why don’t you find out the dates you need, and we’ll go from there?”

  “Ah, Shelby,” I stated as I stared at the form. There was one item I couldn’t fill out. “I don’t have a library card.”

  “You what? Unacceptable, Watson!” Shelby snapped.

  So look, I had disappointed Shelby many times. Mostly because I didn’t seem to know some random fact, but this glare she was giving me now. Oh boy. I’d certainly done it.

  I couldn’t really blame her. I’d been meaning to get a library card since we arrived.

  “Aren’t writers also supposed to be readers?” she fired at me.

  “Yes, and I do read, but I’ve been using the school library,” I defended myself.

  “Ms. Shimick, it looks like we’ll also need a form so Watson may procure a library card.”

  The librarian handed me a form, which I put in my back pocket so I’d be sure to have Mom sign it tonight.

  Shelby and I sat down at a computer and typed in Hugo Baskerville’s name in a database, and a few dates appeared. Shelby wrote them down. I felt a twinge of panic that November 2, 1919, was one of the dates he’d been mentioned in the New York Times.

  So maybe that article wasn’t so fake after all.

  We walked over to the line of cabinets that listed dates as far back as 1851. Wow. There was so much history in these cabinets. Shelby opened one up, and it was filled with white-and-red boxes with dates written on them. Shelby grabbed two and handed them to the librarian, who moved us to one of the computers.

  Shelby gave me a flash drive. “Ms. Shimick will take it from here. I’ll be up on the third floor to work with the online databases. Save anything you find on Hugo Baskerville on the drive.”
/>   Shelby started to turn around, but then said, “Good luck, Watson.”

  “Thanks.” Although why did I need luck? Research was pretty straightforward.

  Then the librarian started to unspool a roll of film into the computer. “This one roll has a week of New York Times articles. You need to navigate this dial to find what you’re looking for.”

  Yikes. Looked like I was going to need more than luck. I was going to need hours.

  My eyes were glazed over, but I did it.

  At least I think I did. I saved seven articles about Hugo Baskerville’s real estate developments and his obituary. I looked at the entire November 2, 1919, paper, and the only article about Baskerville was the obituary. That article we were given by the tour guide didn’t exist.

  I was right! That article was fake!

  What that meant, I wasn’t so certain. But it did seem that the haunting was all a ruse. (Oh please, oh please be true.)

  “How are you getting on?” Shelby asked as she walked in with a big stack of papers.

  “Good.” I held up the flash drive. “No mention of hauntings.”

  “Yes, because the New York Times is a legitimate news source that doesn’t give credence to flights of fancy.”

  “Also, it said in his obituary that Hugo Baskerville died from a fall in his apartment. He wasn’t murdered. There was no hound. What did you find?”

  “Quite a lot, but there’s still more to do.”

  We got up to exit the library. My eyes were tired, but even though that article was fake, there was something weird happening in the building. And well, maybe there was something we could do to rule out the ghostly.

  “Hey, Shelby, when we get back home, I think we need to do my kind of research.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  This was probably a bad idea.

  “So you expect me to stare mindlessly at this screen?” Shelby asked as we sat down at her desk after we arrived back at 221 Baker Street.

  “You’ve watched TV before,” I stated, even though it was more of a question.

  I thought maybe it wouldn’t be that bad of an idea to watch one of those ghost-hunting shows, just in case. Besides, we could learn something.

  Yes, even Shelby Holmes could still be taught a thing or two. She kept declaring that we were close, but since she wasn’t sharing what her theory was, I was going to make her watch this show.

  Shelby leaned back on her chair. “On occasion, it’s been forced on us at school. Although I do recall watching a delightful educational program as a young child, perhaps around two years of age.”

  What? Who remembered being two?

  Scratch that: Who besides Shelby Holmes remembered being two?

  “Yes,” Shelby said as she pulled out some Twizzlers hidden in a book. “It was full of colors and puppets. I remember a sizable yellow bird.”

  “Big Bird!” I replied, with my hand out. Not like Shelby would ever high-five me, but it was nice to know that she watched Sesame Street like every other kid.

  “Yes, as I said, the bird was sizable.” She sniffed.

  “No, that’s his name.”

  “Whose name?”

  Never mind.

  Why did I even bother sometimes?

  I typed on Shelby’s computer and found a ghost-hunting show Dad and I would sometimes watch. I scrolled through the episodes and found one that took place in a haunted apartment building in New Orleans. I figured that was as close as we were going to get to what we were up against.

  I clicked on play and got my notebook out. Hopefully the show would have information that could help us.

  On the screen, a trio of white guys interviewed people who’d had haunted experiences in the apartment building. They mentioned a lot of the same things going on in Bryant’s apartment: unexplained noises, weird feelings.

  My heart began racing as I recalled everything I heard and felt last night.

  So what did these dudes decide to do after hearing all those stories? They were going to lock themselves into the building at night. Alone.

  These guys were crazy! No way would I ever do that. EVER.

  On-screen, one guy held a gadget that could capture spirits’ images.

  “They had a scientist build that specifically for them,” I explained to Shelby. “Isn’t that cool?”

  “I’m going to set it to a maximum scientific level,” the main guy said.

  Shelby snorted. “I could acquire something similar at one of the electronic stores near Times Square.”

  The gadget lit up.

  “See!” I pointed to the screen. “Proof there’s a ghost. Scientific proof.”

  “Watson, that gadget is most likely rigged. We’re sup­posed to simply take the word of these gentlemen—and I use that term loosely—whose livelihoods depend on this charade? I think not.”

  “Well, I take your word a lot of the time that you’re correct.”

  Oops. Did I say that aloud? Well, it was true. I mean, she usually proved herself right. Okay, always. But sometimes I didn’t ask her to explain and simply went along with the fact that what was said was correct.

  It was a little thing called faith.

  Shelby grimaced. “I am interested in facts, not ratings.”

  Okay, she had a point. What a shock.

  “Let’s watch and see if there’s something that could help us.” I didn’t want to argue with her anymore. Yeah, I knew she wouldn’t like this program, but maybe it would give her some ideas. “You got to admit, these guys are kind of like detectives.”

  “I find that comparison extremely offensive,” Shelby said with a huff.

  I crossed my arms as we settled into watching them explore the house at night. There were two guys, one a cameraman and the other the lead guy. The third was outside watching all the cameras that they had set up throughout the apartment.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling—my hand is cold,” the main guy said as he held out his hand. I also felt cold last night, even though the heat was on. “It’s like it’s been put in a freezer. ‘Are you here? Talk to me!’” he called out.

  There was a weird knocking sound.

  Both guys started talking loudly. “What was that?”

  “Dude, did you hear that?”

  “Dude! That was freaky.”

  “Do these ‘dudes’ have proper names?” Shelby asked with a tsk. “Additionally, they are talking over themselves instead of listening. Isn’t that the point of this farce: to observe, not to make a disturbance?”

  “But what could’ve caused that knocking noise?” I argued.

  “It was off camera. It could’ve been anybody.” Shelby paused. “Let me clarify: it could’ve been anybody with a pulse.”

  The program cut to another guy who was sitting in a room alone, the night vision camera close to his face. “Are you in here, dude?”

  Shelby sighed annoyingly. “The ghosts they are claiming inhabit this apartment are from a time before dude was a known slang term. They might as well be saying, ‘are you in here, Cyclops?’”

  We watched as the guy stared into the camera some more, breathing heavily. Then a lamp in the background fell over. I jumped a bit.

  “See!” I said as the guy started screaming and ran out of the room. The program then replayed the incident in slow motion. You couldn’t see anything or anybody moving it.

  Yeah, so watching this was a bad idea. I was even more anxious now.

  “Watson,” Shelby stated calmly. “There could’ve been somebody behind the couch to knock it over. There conveniently was an obstructed view of the lamp.”

  Okay, she had a point. Again. But still . . . ​All these shows couldn’t exist if they were all fake.

  We watched the rest in silence. As the credits rolled, Shelby stood up and stretched. “Well, that program failed in both its attempts at being informative and entertaining.”

  It was successful in making me more wary of ghosts.

  Yay.

  I gath
ered my backpack to head downstairs.

  “I’m going to need the evening to think, Watson. We’ll return tomorrow after school and stay until we have some answers. These strange occurrences usually happen in the evening. I’m quite looking forward to experiencing them firsthand.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to even walking back into the building. “You might think differently once you’re there.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt it is quite the spectacle.” A smile spread on her face. “We have a rather admirable person we’re up against.”

  That was what I was afraid of.

  CHAPTER

  15

  When I walked into our apartment, Mom was at the kitchen counter cutting up some vegetables.

  She gave me a kiss on the forehead. “How was last night?”

  “It was good,” I lied.

  She looked at me and placed the back of her hand on my forehead. “You don’t seem well. Are you feeling okay?”

  You mean besides the fact that we were dealing with something or someone scary and unpredictable? And that I just watched a TV show that had put me more on edge?

  That would not go over well with Mom.

  “Yeah, just a little tired.”

  She considered me for a moment. “This is exactly why I don’t like school night sleepovers. Sleep is important.” (SEE! She does say it!)

  I put my stuff down on the kitchen table. “What did you do last night?”

  She turned her back on me to get a pan. “Nothing much.”

  There was a bit of a pause when she said that. Huh. She wasn’t telling me the truth.

  Okay, okay, yeah, I knew I wasn’t being entirely truthful with her, either.

  I did a quick scan of the apartment. I saw two wine glasses on the drying rack. Why would Mom need two wine glasses?

  “Did you have someone over last night?” I asked.

  She stopped cutting the zucchini. She glanced quickly at me. “Why do you ask?”

  AHA! That was not an answer! She did the classic answer a question with a question to avoid answering. Yeah, the John Watson of a few months ago wouldn’t have thought anything of that.

  But now I knew better.

  I pointed at the drying rack. “There are two wine glasses.”