As Mrs. Abernathy continues her thermal energy demonstration, her enthusiasm has significantly decreased.

  Karen's face lights up with that particular gleam of mischief I've come to recognize as both promising and dangerous. She nods toward the teacher's desk, then back at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I give her the slightest nod possible—detective communication at its finest! Ollie catches our exchange, his shoulders slump, already resigned to whatever trouble we're about to drag him into. Poor Ollie, always our reluctant accomplice, always essential to our success.

  The morning passes by painfully slowly. Mrs. Abernathy persistently touches the empty spot at her neck, where the locket should be, her fingers performing a nervous dance that reveals her deep attachment to the missing item. My detective senses tingle with every distracted sigh she releases.

  When the bell finally signals for lunch, Karen and Ollie converge on my desk like magnets to metal. Karen's practically vibrating with excitement, while Ollie looks like he's preparing to attend his own funeral.

  "Tell me we're breaking into her desk," Karen whispers, green eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Please tell me we're doing something that would make my mother's heart palpitate."

  Ollie groans, running a hand through his meticulously combed brown hair. "We're going to get detention. Again. My mom's still mad about last time."

  "We're not getting detention," I say with the confidence of someone who has, in fact, gotten plenty of detentions. "We're helping a teacher in distress. That's practically community service!"

  I gesture for them to follow me to the cloakroom, where we can speak more freely, then pull my notebook from my bag and flip to a fresh page.

  "Here's what we know," I begin, channeling how Dad talks while working through a case at the dinner table. "Mrs. Abernathy had her locket this morning. The locket had vanished by the time class began. That gives us a time frame."

  Karen nods appreciatively. "Good thinking, Luce. What do we do?"

  I tap my pencil against the page. "Of course, we need to search the crime scene."

  "And when exactly are we supposed to do that?" Ollie asks, his voice pitching higher with worry. "We can't just waltz in there during class."

  "Recess," I announce. "Mrs. Abernathy always takes her coffee in the teacher's lounge during recess. We'll have at least fifteen minutes."

  Karen claps her hands softly. "Perfect! But we need a distraction in case she comes back early—or if the janitor walks by, or if that tattletale Patricia decides to spend recess inside again because 'the sun causes premature aging'."

  Her portrayal of Patricia's prim voice is so accurate that even Ollie cracks a smile.

  "That's where you come in," I tell her. "You're the Distraction Expert."

  Karen straightens, clearly pleased with her assignment. "I was born for this role. What am I distracting, and who am I distracting them from?"

  "Butch," I say decisively. "If you can keep him and his cronies occupied outside, away from the windows, they won't see us slip back in."

  "Leave it to me! I'll challenge him to something he can't resist—his ego's bigger than his brain."

  I turn to Ollie, who's chewing on his bottom lip. "Ollie, you're with me. We're the Search Team."

  "Why me?" he protests weakly, though we all know it's just for show. Ollie never actually says no to our adventures, despite his complaints.

  "Because you have the sharpest eyes," I explain patiently. "And you're the only one tall enough to check the top shelf."

  This is partially true. The other part, which I don't mention, is that Ollie's the only one conscientious enough to make sure we leave everything exactly as we found it. Karen tends to consider "close enough" an acceptable standard when returning things to their original positions.

  "Fine," he sighs. "But we're sticking to the 'forgot my lunchbox' excuse if anyone catches us."

  "Absolutely," I agree solemnly, though we all know that excuse has been worn thinner than the knees of Tommy’s corduroys.

  "Operation Stolen Locket is a go!" Karen declares with unnecessary drama, then adds, "Let's eat lunch. I can't concentrate on detective work when my stomach's growling."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  That afternoon, we put our plan into action. Karen approaches Butch in the cafeteria, loud enough for several kids to hear.

  "Hey, Dumbo, bet you can't skip a rock across the whole fountain," she challenges.

  Butch scoffs, his face reddening. "Course I can! Better than you, anyway."

  "Prove it," she taunts. "Unless you're scared you'll lose to a girl."

  It works like a charm.

  Butch, Eric, and Fredrick follow Karen outside like dogs chasing a squirrel. Several other kids trail after them, eager to witness either an impressive display of rock-skipping skill or—more likely—someone causing an accident.

  Karen catches my eye as she exits, giving me a subtle thumbs-up.

  Ollie and I wait five minutes, then casually stroll back to class. Through the window, we can see the fountain area where Karen has organized a full-blown rock-skipping tournament, complete with cheering and Tommy keeping score.

  "She's good," Ollie admits reluctantly.

  "That's why she's essential to our operation," I reply as we slip through the door, our footsteps echoing in the hallway. "Remember, if anyone asks—"

  "Forgotten lunchbox," he finishes. "Though I'm not sure why I'd be helping you find your lunchbox."

  "I suggest you're just an excellent friend, Ollie."

  "An excellent friend would talk you out of these things," he mutters but follows me anyway.

  The classroom is eerily quiet without the usual rustle of papers and hushed conversations. Mrs. Abernathy's cucumber sits abandoned on her desk, wrapped in its aluminum foil coat.

  "You take her desk," I instruct Ollie. "I'll check her coat."

  Ollie approaches the desk with the caution of someone disarming a bomb. He slides open the top drawer, peers inside, and then works through each compartment.

  "Chalk," he reports. "Many papers. A magnifying glass. Some weird rocks. A tiny bottle of something labeled 'Essence of Mystery'—I'm not touching that. No locket."

  Meanwhile, I check the pockets of Mrs. Abernathy's cardigan on the coat rack. They contain a handkerchief embroidered with tiny stars, three peppermint candies stuck together in their wrapper, and a folded newspaper clipping about meteor showers, but no locket.

  We meet back at the center of the room, both empty-handed.

  "Where else could it be?" Ollie whispers.

  I scan the classroom, my eyes drawn to the corner where Butch had been sitting. The radiator against the wall is now silent; the morning's chill burned off, but several paper wads still litter the area around it.

  A faint glint catches my eye—something metallic wedged below the radiator's grate.

  My heart quickens. "The radiator," I say suddenly. "I see something!"

  We hurry over to investigate. Its metal ridges create perfect slots for things to fall into. I kneel beside it, and Ollie crouches beside me. My fingers cannot reach the lodged metal object.

  "Maybe it's the locket," I whisper excitedly. "But how do we get it out?"

  Ollie's face lights up with unexpected confidence. "Gum," he announces, rummaging in his pocket. "And a ruler."

  I raise an eyebrow at him, genuinely impressed. "That's shockingly useful, Ollie. Since when do you carry gum?"

  A flush creeps up his neck. "Since Karen convinced me it's important for emergencies. She didn't specify what kind of emergencies."

  He produces a slightly squashed stick of Dubble Bubble and his metal ruler. He unwraps the gum and pops it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.

  "It needs to be sticky," he explains between chews. "Not too wet."

  After what felt like fifty years of the most awkward gum-chewing on record, carefully attaches the gum to the end of his ruler.

  The precision with which he performs this operation reminds me of a surgeon preparing for a delicate procedure.

  "Here goes nothing," he murmurs, lowering the gum-tipped ruler into the grate.

  With careful maneuvering, Ollie extends the ruler until the gum touches the object. He presses gently, then holds it in place.

  "The gum needs time to form a bond," he explains, sounding like he's quoting a scientific journal.

  We wait in tense silence. Then, with excruciating slowness, Ollie begins to withdraw. The object comes with it, adhered to the gum like a prize fish on a line.

  I can see a small oval pendant on a delicate chain, now dusty but otherwise intact.

  "Victory!" I whisper triumphantly as Ollie deposits the locket into my palm.

  But as I examine our prize, I notice something still stuck in the grate—a small thread of wool, almost invisible against the dark metal.

  "Wait," I say, peering closer. "There's something else."

  Using the other end of his ruler, I carefully fish it out. It's about an inch long and made of soft wool in a distinctive shade that's not quite blue or gray.

  "What's that?" Ollie asks, adjusting his glasses to get a better look.

  I study the soft, high-quality wool thread. "Maybe nothing," I say slowly, "but maybe something."

  I carefully tuck it into the small pocket of my dress, separate from the locket.

  Reading detective novels has taught me that the smallest threads often lead to the most significant clues.

  Ollie glances nervously at the classroom clock. "We should get back outside. Karen can only keep Butch distracted for so long before he pushes someone into the water."

  I nod, carefully wrapping Mrs. Abernathy's locket in my handkerchief. "Mission accomplished, Deputy Grayson. Let's make our exit."

  As we slip back outside into the sunshine, I can't help but feel that familiar thrill of a case well solved. However, something about that blue-gray thread piques my curiosity. Although we've solved the locket mystery, I sense there's still more to uncover.

  Veronica Vane would say this is just the beginning.