The Copycat Caper: Book 3 (Charlie Collier, Snoop for Hire) - Hardcover

John V. Madormo is a college professor and a screenwriter and he’s good at brain teasers, just like Charlie Collier. He lives near Chicago, in Naperville, IL. www.charliecolliersnoopforhire.com

 Chapter 1

The Well-Disposed-Of Caper

Scarlett appeared impatient. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than wait around here for clients who may never show up.”

“I’ve told you before,” Henry said. “We have to maintain certain office hours for walk-ins. It’s the way we’ve always done things.”

“Well, then I’d like to propose a new policy,” she said. “From now on, we don’t see anyone without an appointment. Then we won’t have to sit around here and waste our time.”

Henry made a face. “You can’t make up a new policy just like that. We have to vote on it—and I vote no. Charlie, what do you say?”

You would think that after weeks of working together, Henry and Scarlett would have at least learned how to tolerate each other. It was almost as if they enjoyed confrontation. Most people go out of their way to avoid fighting, but not these two. They seemed to embrace it.

“So what’s your vote?” Henry said. “Vote no if you want to continue to offer a necessary service to your fellow man . . . or yes if you’re self-centered, self-absorbed, or self-indulgent.” He smiled. He was proud of his command of the language. It didn’t hurt that our list of vocab words at school today all began with the word self.

I folded my hands and set them down on the card table. “Why don’t we just call it quits for today,” I said. “We don’t need to vote on any new policies. And besides, my mom’s due back anytime now.”

“Fine with me,” Scarlett said.

I removed my fedora and flipped it across the room in the direction of the hook that I always seemed to miss. I wasn’t even close this time. I unbuttoned my trusty trench coat and hung it up as Henry folded the card table and slid it behind a ladder on the wall.

“Bye, guys,” Scarlett said. “See you tomorrow.” She swung open the garage door and stopped in her tracks.

Standing in the doorway, completely out of breath, was Danny Reardon, one of the basketball jocks from school. He squeezed by Scarlett.

“I’m glad I found you, Charlie,” he said. “You’re still open for business, I hope.”

“We were just closing up shop for the day,” Scarlett said.

Danny was having a hard time catching his breath. “Listen, guys, this is an emergency. I need help . . . right now.”

Henry reached for the cash jar on one of the shelves and shook it for Danny’s benefit.

“There’s an additional fee for a rush job,” he said.

Danny threw up his hands. “Whatever, I’ll pay it. We just gotta hurry.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get to work.” While Henry and Scarlett opened up lawn chairs, I retrieved the card table and set it up. As I slid on my trench coat and fedora, I felt my heart racing. This is what I lived for—a chance to tackle a real caper—and one with urgency to boot. Danny had come to the right place. We wouldn’t rest until the client was completely satisfied. It was the only way the Charlie Collier, Snoop for Hire Agency did business.

“Okay, Danny,” I said, “what seems to be the problem?”

Danny stood and began pacing. “It’s Rita. She’s going crazy. I don’t know what to do.”

“Who’s Rita?” Henry asked.

“She’s my dog,” Danny said. “We just got her from a shelter.”

Scarlett folded her arms. “This is about some crazy dog? I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. Shouldn’t you be taking her to a vet?”

Danny shook his head. “No, you don’t get it. A vet can’t help with this problem.” He sat down and tried to compose himself. “Rita loves this one tennis ball. And it fell down this hole in our yard . . . and we can’t get it out. You just gotta figure out a way to get it for me.”

I leaned forward. “How deep is the hole exactly?”

“Ten or fifteen feet.”

“Why don’t you just go buy her another tennis ball?” Scarlett said. “If you can afford to pay us, you can afford a new ball.”

Danny plopped down into a lawn chair and squeezed the handles. “I’ve tried that already. It won’t work. She only likes this one tennis ball.”

“This doesn’t sound like a real emergency,” Henry said.

“Oh, no?” Danny said. He was getting upset. “Just how exactly would you define an emergency, then? Try this—Rita stayed outside all night. She refused to come in the house. She just stands over the hole and stares down into it. She hasn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours. Is that good enough for you?”

Before Henry could respond, I held up my hand. “Tell me, Danny, how wide is this hole exactly? And can you slide a ladder down into it?”

“No way. It’s only about five inches in diameter,” he said.

Henry got up and leaned against the wall. “What kind of hole is this anyway?”

“There was this old water pipe in there. Some workmen from the city came by yesterday and removed it.”

“And they didn’t fill it back up?” I said.

“They’re gonna do that tomorrow,” Danny said. “So we gotta get Rita’s ball outa there before they come back.”

I reached for a small pad of paper on a shelf behind me and began sketching images of the hole. I tried to think of what might be long enough to fit down there, as well as something that could grab the ball. The more I drew, the more frustrated I became.

“Have you tried using a long pole with some double-faced tape on the end?” Scarlett said.

“It won’t work,” Danny said. “The hole goes straight down for about six or seven feet, but then it turns to the right . . . maybe thirty degrees or so. There’s no way to get something down there. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“Why don’t you just trade this dog in for a less crazy one?” Henry said with a grin.

Danny didn’t seem to appreciate Henry’s attempt at humor.

I sat back in my chair. There just had to be a way—an easy way—to get that ball. I tried to recall any Sam Solomon episodes that might help us find a solution, but I kept coming up dry. Then just when I was about to surrender, I had it. Of course, Episode #41—The Well-Disposed-Of Caper. In this particular story, Sam was hot on the trail of a country doctor who had improperly prescribed a drug that had left his patient clinging to life. To avoid getting caught, the doctor decided to discard the empty pill bottle at the bottom of a dried-up old well. The bottle might have remained there forever had not a torrential downpour occurred that raised not only suspicion, but the evidence as well.

I slid my chair up to the table. “Danny, you said this hole is in your backyard, right?”

He nodded.