Free Confessions of a Teen Sleuth by Chelsea Cain

planted with
     rosebushes. How many eavesdroppers had we caught behind those rosebushes over the years? How many times had my father's study
     been burgled? But now a moving van sat outside. I stared at it gloomily. I had lived the happiest days of my life in that
     house. Now my teenage years would finally be truly lost to me. The acute passage of time seized me with despair.
    Bess, seeming to sense my difficulties, straightened up. "Well, are we going to make the scene or what?" she demanded.
    I sighed and tried to think of something pleasant like hula hoops and coonskin caps. "Let's go," I replied, forcing a smile.
    My stepmother, Marty Drew, nee King, and I had never gotten along, though I had made an effort to remain civil toward her.
     Now she had convinced my father, who was retiring, to sell my childhood home and move to Flagstaff to be closer to her relatives.
    When Bess and I walked inside, we found my spacious, comfortable former home stripped of the belongings I had known and instead
     stacked full of moving boxes. Even the mantel, always a focal point of the living room, was bare. Marty had sold the old clock,
     fan doll, and ivory charm that I had displayed there since high school at a garage sale a few weeks before.
    My father, still distinguished looking though far less handsome, approached us from the living room with an excited expression.
     He was slightly stooped and his hair had thinned to just a few wisps that seemed to tremble independently of his movements.
    "Hello, girls," he wheezed. "You'll never believe what came in the mail."
    He led us to the kitchen, where a strange wooden figurine sat propped next to the electric refrigerator.
    "What's the beef, Daddy-o?" asked Bess.
    "It's a Congolese puppet," my father explained. "A nice one, if I'm not mistaken."
    "Where did it come from?" I quizzed him.
    "It was delivered yesterday." He paused. "It was addressed to your mother!"
    "My missing mother?" I asked, momentarily taken aback.
    "Yes. To Constance Drew."
    "Far out," exclaimed Bess.
    I examined the puppet and the open packaging that lay beside it. There was no return address. The postmark indicated that
     it had been mailed from overseas. But my mother had not gone by the name Constance Drew in more than thirty years.
    "It's a pretty nice puppet," my father commented.
    "What am I supposed to do with it?" I asked. My enthusiasm wavered. "It looks hard to clean."
    "I don't know," my father shrugged. "Take it home? I'd take it, but Marty says there's no room in Flagstaff."
    The puppet, carved out of ebony, was in the shape of a laughing man. It was dressed in tribal finery and looked quite old.
     It wasn't really my style, but I thought it might look nice displayed in the new bomb shelter, so I stowed it carefully in
     the back of the station wagon. I admit that I allowed myself a small thrill at the notion that some small relic had been saved
     from Marty.
    Once it was safely tucked away in the wagon, we said goodbye to my father and started home. We had just turned off Center
     Street onto River Drive when I noticed that we were being followed by a handsome, blond, well-muscled young man in a black
     Jaguar.
    To confirm my suspicions, I made a quick turn onto River Lane, past Riverside Hospital. The black Jaguar was still behind
     us!
    I doubled back and pulled into the hospital parking lot. The Jaguar followed.
    "Where are we going?" Bess asked, sitting up. "Are you sick? Is it your cholesterol?"
    "I think we're being followed," I explained. I watched the young man get out of his car and stride purposefully toward us.
     "And I want to see what he wants."
    Bess's eyes widened.
    I placed my hand lightly on the car horn, so that I could attract help if needed, and watched as the young man appeared at
     my window. He was wearing a slim, dark suit and wore his blond hair stylishly feathered. He smelled faintly of hair spray.
    "Nancy Drew," he declared. "I'm Christopher Cool, TEEN agent."
    "You're a teen