Free Bonnie of Evidence by Maddy Hunter

the room, while at the same time insuring she was first out of the blocks in the upcoming race for the dining room. “So if Isobel stole the wrong container, whose container did she steal? Won’t the owner be mad when he goes back to get it and discovers it’s missing?”
    “No one’s going back for it,” Isobel ranted. “It’s a piece of junk. Who wants a crummy box with a crummy knife inside anyway?”
    “You mean, besides you?” asked Bernice. “How do we know you haven’t bamboozled us? How do we know your crummy knife isn’t worth a whole lot of money that you don’t want to share with the rest of us?”
    “Cameron found it singlehandedly!” Dolly reminded us as she slanted a flirtatious smile at Dasher. “If it turns out to be worth a fortune, he’s the one who should receive all the proceeds. And then he can dole out whatever monetary settlement he chooses to the team members he deems worthy.” She gave her hair a little pouf. “You know. The ones who aren’t thieves.”
    “Morons,” grumbled Isobel as she reached for her zebra print backpack.
    Uh-oh . This wasn’t good. Not only was Isobel stealing other people’s property, she was stealing Bernice’s lines.
    She slapped the backpack onto the table, unzipped the closure, and riffled through the contents like a petulant child before yanking out a metal box that was the size and shape of a hardback novel. She slammed it down in front of her. “Here it is. The ill-gotten treasure that’s worth a fortune. Good luck finding someone dumb enough to pay you.”
    The metal was so eroded with rust that it looked to be suffering from a fatal case of psoriasis.
    “Looks pretty old,” I said as I stepped closer for a better view.
    “It took a little elbow grease to pry the lid off,” said Cameron. “It wasn’t completely rusted shut, but it was getting there. I’d guess it hadn’t been opened in a really long time.”
    “Is the knife still inside?” I asked Isobel.
    She wrestled the lid off and banged it onto the table with a noisy clatter. “The knife,” she said, eying my dad sourly as he tiptoed in for a close-up shot.
    “Do you mind if I pick it up?” I asked.
    “I don’t give a flip what the hell you do with it.” She gave the box a shove toward the edge of the table. “It’s not doing me any good. You can give it away for all I care.”
    “I’ll take it!” Dolly and Bernice cried out at the same time.
    I waited indulgently while Dad stood over the box, zooming in, and out, and in, and out. “Done?”
    “Yup,” he said, panning seamlessly to a floor shot as he skulked off in Mom’s direction.
    I plucked the knife out of the box, surprised by its heft. The blade was as long as my hand, double-edged, and narrowed into a point like a Viking spear. The hilt was intricately carved into a pattern that mimicked the corkscrew twists of a licorice stick. An inch below the hilt, a band of uncarved wood circled the grip, its smoothness marred by a series of deep scratches.
    “Hold it up so the rest of us can see it!” demanded Bill Gordon.
    I elevated it above my head and rotated in a slow circle.
    “Well, would you look at that?” marveled Nana.
    “Is something about the dagger familiar to you?” Tilly asked her.
    “Nope. I was just noticin’ that the fog’s lifted.”
    “Have you found the ‘Made in China’ designation on that thing yet?” Stella Gordon wisecracked.
    I examined the dagger more closely, noticing that the blade was tarnished in long streaks near the tip—like sterling silver in need of a good polishing. Oddly, though, the oxidized streaks were rust brown instead of gun-metal gray. “I’m not seeing where it was made anywhere,” I confessed, “but it’s a great looking knockoff, right down to these smudges that I suspect are supposed to be blood stains. I bet someone used it as a prop for a play or something.”
    “But why was it stuffed in a tree trunk?” asked Lucille.
    I shrugged. “Before