Sam Spry, Private Eye

I was five coins and one hundred meters away from beating my best score in Temple Run when she walked in. Like a snot rocket to a birthday cake, she always ruined the moment. Ellen—my little sister—wore her matching neon pink jumpsuit the same way a Sith Lord wears his black robe. Her eyes sparkled innocence and need but the tingle in my spine told me to be wary.

“Hey Sam,” she purred.

“What’d’ya want Ellen?”

A hurt expression sank all too naturally into her four-year-old face.

“I’m in trouble, Sam. I need your help.”

I scoffed reflexively.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The hurt expression morphed from puppy dog to baby Jesus with professional timing.

“It’s different this time, Sam. I’m in real trouble.”

Silence was my derisive reply. I turned my eyes away from my room’s intruder and back to my game. Maybe if I ignored her like I did the monsters in my closet at night she’d get bored and go away.

“I lost Dad’s binoculars.”

The pit of my stomach dropped like a pair of pants after last night’s Spicy Burrito Grande.

“You did what?!”

My reply was less a question than a death sentence. Dad was nothing near an amateur birder, but he wanted to be. Between his job and his family, he hadn’t the time to sit in silence for hours on end waiting for birds to flutter by. But those binoculars were a constant reminder of possible future moments of peace. More than that, the binoculars belonged to his grandfather—long dead but not forgotten.

Ellen was next.

And our parents had made it quite clear on several occasions that forgetting her would not be too difficult.

“I’m sorry. Family makes bad clients. I don’t do it.”

She didn’t relent.

“Then don’t do it for me; do it for you. Dad’ll be home soon. He’s going to notice. And he’s going to be mad. You didn’t do it, but no one’s getting dessert tonight.”

I sucked my teeth in thought. A bad habit, I know. She made a good point. Just as a high tide raises all ships, so too does a low tide pull them down. Dad would be furious. And though he wouldn’t consciously take it out on me, he wouldn’t be happy. That means we’d all have to be on our best behavior. Best behavior takes work. But working for Ellen was like playing with vipers. It’s only a matter of time before you get bit.

“I’m sorry. It’s still not worth it.”

Then it happened.

Her face lost the innocence. Like someone had pulled the plastic lever of my Red 3D View Master, Ellen’s expression went from the manger in Bethlehem to the cross on Golgotha.

“I thought you might say that.”

She walked toward me with oily smoothness, holding out what looked to be our Mom’s smartphone. There was a picture displayed, but I couldn’t quite make it out.

“I haven’t seen Optimus around today. I wonder where he might be.”

My chest seized like it was caught in the coils of a deadly constrictor. Optimus? Where was he?

“Don’t worry. He’s safe . . . for now.”

The picture said it all: a cute fluffy teddy bear in an unidentified location, tied up, with a plastic gun held to his head. A plastic gun held by the hand of one four-year-old nightmare. Notwithstanding, Optimus looked okay; maybe a little lonely. His sad eyes stared at the camera. A piece of paper with crayon scribbles read the only word Ellen could spell: “E L L E Z”

She had troubles with her “N’s”.

“What did you do with him!”

“Nothing . . . yet. But the world’s a dangerous place. And I can’t be held responsible for every destructive act of man or nature.”

Ellen jerked the phone away before I could look too close, stuffing it back into the pocket of her sporty jacket.

“I’ll tell Mom.”

It was a weak threat, I knew. But it was all I could think to do. Ellen’s response exposed the weakness and dashed my hopes—a cackle of evil victory.

“And risk waking her and Anna up? After she spent an hour getting the baby to sleep? You wouldn’t dare. You’re stuck, Sam Spry. And you know it!”

I had to hand it to her, she had me.

“Fine. I’ll help. But I want Optimus back and in perfect health whether we find Dad’s binoculars or not.”

“Agreed. You help me look and I’ll help find Optimus.”

The grin on her face as she spoke the words would have made a politician’s skin crawl. She was destined for great things. But not good ones.

I looked at my clock. The red LEDs read 4:45.

“Dad’ll be home in about 30 minutes. Mom will be up about the same time. Geeze, Ellen, you didn’t leave us much time.”

Her apology was a half-hearted shrug.

“I didn’t realize until just now that they were missing.”

“Sure, and Optimus just conveniently happened to be missing too.”

I said it, but my own words didn’t sink in. I should have smelled the trap.

“Do you want to keep complaining or do you want to find those binoculars?”

“Okay, when did you last see them?”

A pensive look crossed my sister’s deliberate face. Her eyes looked up and to one side.

“Well, I took them this morning when Mom was cleaning up breakfast. She thought I was washing my hands and didn’t see me sneak into Dad’s office. From there, I took them upstairs to the loft to look out the window at our neighbors. Mrs. Gilbert likes to vacuum in her underwear and Mr. Franklin sometimes pretends he’s fighting the Battle of Waterloo. That’s the last place I remember seeing them.”

“Well that’s where we’ll begin.”

We snuck quietly from my bedroom to the adjacent loft. Kid books and baby dolls lay strewn about the floor like the aftermath of war. In between, small blocks and Barbie paraphernalia rounded out the mess. Mounds of costume pieces covered the L-shaped couches. The TV played Elmo in silence in the background. Finding anything in this wreckage was going to take focus, especially with the 30-minute clock running down.

My eyes searched the carnage in disbelief before swinging back to Ellen. I could have sworn the last vestiges of a smile played at her lips like a vampire slinking into the dark. But there was no time to ponder. We had work to do.

Inch by inch we scanned the floor. Me with my trusted magnifying glass. Old school—I know—but sometimes the classics work best. Ellen, as usual, worked in a haphazard and sloppy fashion. She pushed and kicked the rubble from one place to the next. She focused for moments on one tiny spot (probably at a toy of interest) then moved without reason to some distant location, giving no thought to the real estate in between. Finally, after removing the umpteenth toy she had tossed into my focused view, I lost my patience.

“Ellen! Do you mind? We’re never going to find the binoculars if you keep moving everything around. For all you know, you’ve shoved it aside five times already without seeing it! Please, just get out of my way so I can finish this case and get Optimus back.”

Ellen shook her head with all the indifference of a bored monarch.

“Fine. I have to pee anyway.”

“Fine. Pee then.”

And with that, Ellen sauntered downstairs. Why she did that when the upstairs bathroom was closer, I didn’t have time to analyze. But I did react quick enough to shoot off a “And be QUIET!”

I went back to work, frustrated that Ellen and I had wasted twelve minutes of my 30-minute countdown.

I mentally divided the room into a ten-by-ten grid. That gave me one hundred searchable squares to work with. I had already searched ten before Ellen’s departure, but her sloppy assistance had both slowed me down and contaminated seven. That left only three worthwhile searches. Still, some were relatively clear or filled with only books so they would quickly be crossed off the list. I decided, however, to start afresh and begin near the windows as those were where the binoculars would most likely have been.

After a deliberate search of the area around the windows, I found more toy particles, plenty of dead flies, and even some cracker crumbs. But there wasn’t a trace of Dad’s binoculars. I then went to the couches. Same result. Every passing second splashed cold water on our chances of success.

That’s when I heard Ellen’s feet thumping up the stairs again. The sounds of movement in my parent’s downstairs bedroom followed faintly behind.

“Ellen, if you don’t quiet down you’re gonna finish us. I think I heard Mom.”

Almost out of breath, Ellen related that I had.

“She’s getting up soon. But I think I have a lead. I think the binoculars might be in the living room.”

The living room?

“Yeah, I was sitting on the potty pooping when I remembered that I brought the binoculars downstairs for just a bit to see if the Spanglers would kick their dog again. Mom was taking a shower at the time and almost caught me. I must have dropped them somewhere when I ran to hide.”

My head dropped with heavy vexation. All the time I had wasted upstairs! Then a thought occurred to me. I didn’t know where its logical conclusion was going.

“Funny thing,” I said, “I didn’t hear the toilet flush.”

Ellen’s response was immediate.

“Because I haven’t flushed it yet. I barely wiped. I ran right up the second I remembered.”

Disgust from the visual and the sure knowledge of the smell she left behind distracted me from the suspicion that had moments before been pounding at the door to my brain. She was a clever girl, I had to give her that. And just when the knocking came again, another sound drew both our attention.

Outside and close.

The hum of a car pulling up a driveway floated through the windows of the second story of our house.

Dad was home!

As fast as fiber optics, we both rushed to the stairs. Me first with Ellen close behind.

The sounds of Anna’s waking cries of annoyance began to reverberate through the house. Downstairs to upstairs. Back to front.

I made it to the living room.

And stopped in mid-stride.

Something was wrong . . .

Where was Ellen?

She was right behind me a second ago . . .

My gaze took in the scene in an instant, not sure what was out of place. But something was. Something glistened on the floor. A small sparkle.

What happened next took place in a moment. Like dominoes falling on fast forward.

The front door closed just a heartbeat before my mother opened her bedroom door. Then the crash—a delicate but distinct cacophony of crystal misery. Small somethings beat against my pant legs and stocking feet. An object white and thin blurred by my peripheral sight.

I looked down. The floor was littered with white shards of dead, porcelain sheep.

My mom’s statue! The one she had from college! Her prized memory of show choir’s 2002 Christmas Concert! It lay in pathetic splinters that gleamed anything but Merry Christmas. And all the evidence pointed at me.

I was the only one nearby.

Before the shouts could form on the lips of my outraged parents, the pieces fell into place in my mind. Ellen got me. She set me up. And I knew how she did it.

It was all a ruse, even from the beginning. Some time—maybe before I got home from school, maybe after—Ellen had broken Mom’s beloved sheep. She was dead meat. And she knew it. So she concocted a plan.

Step one, she needed a patsy. Enter one Samuel Spry, dope detective.

Step two, she needed to get me alone with the corpus delicti. No problem; concoct a story about missing binoculars and send your brother off on a wild goose chase. She probably made the mess on purpose, knowing I’d lose patience and send her away. She was never pooping. She was setting up for the grand finale.

Which leads to step three, break the sheep anew when only Sam is nearby.

She got me downstairs just as Mom and Dad entered the living room. Then she used a string or fishing line to upset the already broken sheep. Everyone’s attention would be focused on me and the sheep. They’d never see the string.

But how did she know I’d participate?

She didn’t. That’s why she had Optimus ready for insurance.

Optimus!

He was my ticket out of this.

My parents’ yells came in stereo. Loud and shocked, they screamed their simultaneous moral outrage and loss.

But those yells were cut short by parental concern. After all, one step and myriad vicious shards would pierce the bottom of my vulnerable feet.

Swift as justice, my Dad strode over and swooped me from peril’s covetous grasp. He sat me at the kitchen chair and took a breath, fighting the natural urge to jump to judgment. After all, he witnessed it, right? We all did.

“Samuel. I’m going to ask this one time. What happened?”

His words were measured and strained, like dough stretched to its breaking point.

Mom was right by us. Her face white as flour. Her eyes cold and hard as the granite countertop.

Ellen was predictably absent. But she called out nevertheless to finish establishing her alibi.

“What happened? I could hear you all from upstairs.”

The query was innocent and distant. After all, she had just been playing with Barbies the whole time, right? Not even on the same floor.

The thought made me sick.

My parents ignored her.

“Sam?”

The controlled outrage and pain in my mom’s voice demanded immediate compliance.

“Mom, I think I know. But first, I need you to find your phone. I believe Ellen still has it.”

My parents looked at each other with grim determination, telepathically deciding whether to humor me or beat me. Recognizing my predicament, I hastily added some additional defense.

“Despite what we all witnessed, I believe Ellen broke your sheep, Mom. I just need your phone to prove it. I didn’t do it. I promise.”

I was as sincere as I’d ever been. And desperate. Lucky for me, I had made it a rule to always be honest with my folks—even when the outcome meant trouble. This built-up goodwill is what saved my neck.

“ELLEN!”

Their shouts rang out in unison. And rang out again when Ellen didn’t materialize immediately.

Slowly, the villain slinked down the stairs like a cartoon version of Marley’s Ghost.

I decided to take the initiative. Victory goes to the bold, after all.

“Mom, Dad; I believe Ellen still has Mom’s phone in her jacket pocket. I suggest you inspect any recent photographs.”

My parents moved quickly to recover the contraband. This was not their first rodeo. The scowl on Ellen’s face proved that I had hit pay dirt. Her upper lip curled like a monkey’s ear. The tip of her nose pointed like a number 2 pencil. And the fire in her eyes smoldered loud enough to hear them. Few facial expressions before or since have brought me such profound gratification.

From the mix of disgust and concern on their faces, I could tell my parents had found the photo of Optimus. Disgust because of the sheer inhumanity. Concern because Ellen was only four.

But then my mother swiped to earlier photos. Both pairs of eyes squinted in unison. Both jaws set. Both sets of lips pursed. And both heads bobbed.

The more swipes, the more extreme each of the changes. Until my mother calmly placed the phone on the countertop with a resigned sorrow and both parents hauled Ellen away to her room. Waiting for privacy to blast her to smithereens.

Ellen’s glare didn’t move from me until the ceiling blocked her view. Her lips moved silently as she was being dragged away. “I’ll get you,” they mouthed. “I’ll get you and your little bear too.”

But I knew Optimus was okay for the time being. My parents would find him. And I’d have to do a better job at finding a safe place for him while I was away at school.

At that moment, I was more interested in seeing the other pictures on my mom’s phone. My request for the camera bad been a Hail Mary, after all. And the result had blown me away. What had they found?

Taking the phone, entering Mom’s passcode, I opened Mom’s camera role to find Optimus’s pleading puss. The picture before that? A broken sheep. Not shattered as it was now, but split in half. Lying pathetically on the floor. Before that was a series of shots. Ellen in the living room. Twirling in circles. Foam Viking sword in hand. Destroying one foe after another. You could see the sheep in the background. Getting closer. And closer. And closer.

The evidence was devastating.

The damage totally self-inflicted.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Nor could I forgive my naivete. But Optimus had been in great danger. And I’m not the U.S. Government. I can’t afford a strict non-negotiation policy. Not when the terrorist was my little sister.

I guess sometimes—for those you love the most—you just have to hold hands with the devil.

It wasn’t the first time I’d done it.

Nor would it be the last.

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