Page 117 of Secrets Along the Shore

Jake's serious expression almost makes me laugh, but I fight back the urge. He's an intense kid, curious and super smart, and about six inches shorter than most kids his age. The first two land him in trouble with adults, and the last two, with his classmates. I’m not sure what trouble with which group brings me here today.

“I’ve got a problem,” he says, then sucks down a straw-length of soda.

Again, I have to work to not chuckle at the slurpy sound. “I figured. Your Gigi said I should come.”

The last time Jake insisted on a “client-meeting” he was five and ran home from school after the teacher blamed him for starting a fight which he swore he didn’t. She didn’t believe him, so he took off. Ran eight blocks to the pub. That time he wanted me to investigate and prove Callum Barclay was the one who tripped Michael Jones on purpose, not him.

Of course, I took the case. After being paid in Cheez-Its, I proved to the teacher—through information casually obtained from other parents at a local middle school baseball game—that Callum had it in for Michael because Michael lost Callum’s glove. It was enough for the teacher to renege on the time-outs for Jake, although I’m not sure whether that was because of the evidence, or because she wanted me to leave her alone.

“Lay it on me,” I say.

Jake sighs, then starts in. “There’s this kid in my class. Dale Peyton. A real dummy.”

“Hey, bud. That’s not nice.”

“Maybe not, but it’s true. Anyway, Dale is a bully. He likes to eat his foodandeverybody else’s. Lately, he’s been snatching my lunches sometime before we go to the lunchroom. The last two days he got my ham and cheese melts.”

“Not cool,” I say, folding my hands on the table in front of me, though I can’t say I blame Dale. Grace’s ham and cheese melts are the stuff of legend.

“No, not cool. And even not cooler is that Ms. Palmer doesn’t believe me.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“Five times in the last two weeks.”

“And your teacher doesn’t believe you?”

“Well”—Jake tips his head—“I mean, I haven’t actuallyseenhim do it. That's why Ms. Palmer says she can't do anything about it. That’s why I need you.”

He slides a snack bag of Cheez-Its across the table and this time I have to cough to cover up the chuckle that leaps from my throat. “Will you do it?”

I lay my hand on the bag, slowly pull it to my side of the table with the most sober expression I can muster. “Absolutely, I will.”

For the next fifteen minutes Jake regales me with tales of the missing ham-and-cheeses and I pepper him with questions about the room setup, the timing of recess and lunch breaks, and how he thinks Dale is spiriting the sandwich away and eating it without being seen.

“Bathroom breaks. I’m sure of it. He takes atleasttwo before lunchtime.”

“Hmm.” I pause, thinking. “Does Dale have any allergies? Food or whatever?”

“If he does, then he’s being pretty stupid eating other people’s food.”

“True. But does he?”

Jake shrugs. “Don’t think so.”

“Well, I’ve already got a few ideas, but I need a little time before I put a plan in motion,” I tell him. “I’m gonna think this over and get back to you. I should be ready for you on Monday. You think you could pack a second lunch, something hewon’twant to steal?”

Jake shakes his head, his brow furrowed in consternation. “Like what? I’ve seen Dale eat a worm on the playground on a dare after another kid stomped on it.”

“Fair point. Maybe plan to buy lunch on Monday—I’ll tell your Gigi what’s going on…unless, did you tell her already?”

“Nah. I didn’t want to worry her.”

“She’ll be okay. Let’s bring her in on this, agreed?”

Jake nods. “If you say so.”

“Good man.”