Review Of The Chapter 'A Bluster Or Worse: A Mean Nasty Ghost'

Chapter Twenty-Two
A Bluster or Worse: A Mean Nasty Ghost

Autumn seemed to arrive abruptly in Whodunit Hill that year. The morning was crisp as we marched across the rumbling road toward downtown, the fumes of car exhausts and the breath of pedestrians glistened like cobwebs in the frosty air.
“Luke sang like a canary after the swat team scooped up Ping-Pong and his pack of freaks,” Seth explained. “Now they’re all up to their necks in hard times and striped paper suits.”
“I heard that Ping-Pong pick-up basket weaving?” Twist said.
I had received one of his baskets and a handwritten letter on Sing-Sing’s Correctional Facility paper. I pulled the crinkled paper out of my pocket and read it aloud:
Dearest Madison,
Please place the stone inside
Ping-Pong
“I gave the brightly colored—and if I dare say, nicely woven—bin to Miss McBride, who used it for her knitting needles and yarn. Then I wrote back something about, sorry, no-can-do. The Stone was sold, and the monies received were used to pay off Emma’s mortgage and restore Thornewood Hall. I guess she’s going to turn the place into a museum.”
“What about the list?” Twist asked.
“I mailed it to Emma and she destroyed it.”
“Why?” The Chihuahua Seth had on a leash weaved between a bus stop and a sign. The commuters stared curiously at its green toupee.
“She didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”
The Chihuahua shivered. He was a pilfered mutt named Peanut we concluded had opened the gate and took himself for a walk. Long story short: he was trying to multitask while running which, for a directionally challenged animal was a big no-no and he gotten himself lost. We found him in a bat acid (even longer story) and were escorting him home.
“It’s sad that all his fur is gone.” I bent down and patter the Chihuahua and he growled. “But the hairpiece does kind of set off his eyes.” “So,” Seth glanced at me over his shoulder, “why did Ben cave in to
“What a schmuck.”
“His aunt should send him to camp,” Twist told us. “The staff uses positive reinforce techniques to teach reasoning skills.”
Twist spent a month at smart-kid camp so that he could further his learning, which was becoming an ever-growing storehouse of knowledge. He now spoke three languages and was an expert at linear algebra.
While he was away, my story was published in the school paper. It wasn’t awarded a scholarly star, but even Ms. Hobbs found it riveting. I’d also discovered my talent for code cracking, and was hired part-time as a secret agent, decrypting most of the intercepted spy messages in Clandestine County.
The breeze I’d predicted was more like a tornado. The Dead Wood Detective Agency has been twirling to keep up with business ever since we unraveled the mind-boggling haunting of Whodunit Hill. I mean, nonstop, wall-to-wall customers.
We’ve handled a turtle abduction and a goldfish murder. Seth broke the news: “Your mother mistakenly thought Jaws bit the dust and flushed him down the toilet. Sorry, kid,” he’d explained his voice grim.
When we reached the house, Twist knocked on the door. “I don’t think he’ll notice Peanut’s missing fur