Free What Happened on Fox Street by Tricia Springstubb

a mile.
    Mo sat beside her. Back and forth they went, Mercedes’s foot thumping off the ground hard. Mo rummaged through her brain, trying to think whatit would take to get Mercedes to agree to come downtown. At last she settled on the truth.
    â€œI really need your help. I’ve got something I can’t do myself.”
    There it was—two sticks rubbed together, sparking a light in Mercedes’s eyes. It was the same spark as last summer, when the city closed down the pool’s high dive, which Mercedes adored. She and Mo staged a sit-in demonstration, and even though the high dive never reopened, they got their photos in the paper, plus a personal letter of regret from the mayor. The same spark as two summers ago, when Leo Baggott blew off half his finger with a Fourth of July bottle rocket. Mercedes was the one who found it in the grass, and knew to put it in milk and give it to Mrs. Baggott, who fainted dead away. Later Mercedes and Mo held a bake sale, to help pay the medical expenses.
    â€œWhat’s the problem?”
    â€œMy dad got a second letter from Buckman.”
    Mercedes halted the glider with such force, it nearly dislocated Mo’s head.
    â€œThe plot thickens,” Mercedes said.
    â€œDid Da get a letter?”
    â€œNo. I’ve been watching the mail. As far as I can tell, he’s targeting your dad.”
    â€œMy dad’s on the way down to meet with him. It’s getting serious.” Mo swallowed. “I’m afraid he…I’m just afraid.”
    â€œLet’s go.”
    Skipping the details, they told Da they were headed downtown with Mr. Wren. Da gave Mo an appreciative wink. Mercedes flung open the door, then stopped abruptly.
    â€œWhat the…”
    A bucket brimming with roses sat in the middle of the porch. Red roses, white roses, roses the pink of a baby girl’s blanket. A trail of scattered petals, like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs, led down the front walk and out into the street.
    The porch across the street stood empty. But the lace curtain at the front window twitched.
    â€œRose bubble bath. Rose roses. I guess…” Mo remembered Mrs. Steinbott leaning over her porch railing, yearning to hear that Mercedes had appreciated the bubble bath. “She really did,” Mo had promised. Not to say lied.
    That lace curtain quivered. “I guess she thinks you like roses, Merce.”
    â€œOnce again proving she doesn’t know the first thing about me! Roses make me sneeze.”
    The scent of those roses was a fragrant river. Lift one to your nose and it flooded you, swept you right off your feet. Mo held one out. “Smell! It’s heaven!”
    But Mercedes’s ridiculously sensitive nose accordioned up, her eyes shut down, her shoulders heaved, and out flew a deafening sneeze.
    Beep beep! Mr. Wren was backing the car down the driveway, the side mirror missing Mrs. Steinbott’s house by approximately one inch. Dottie waved merrily from the backseat. Just before climbing in, Mo turned and waved to the lace curtain.

On the Case
    M R . W REN DROVE ALONG the shore of Lake Erie, beneath a sky heavy with clouds. Far out on the water, whitecaps rolled and broke. Any other time, it would have looked like rain, but this summer, rain was an impossible dream.
    He took the long way round, careful not to pass the water-main project. They parked on a side street, in front of a shoe store with a GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign in the window. Next door was a restaurant plastered with FOR RENT signs. Peering in, you could see tables still set with plates and silverware and plastic flowers in vases.
    â€œCool,” said Dottie, flattening her nose against the glass. “A ghost restaurant.”
    A scrap of paper blew against Mo’s legs.
    In the lobby of the building, the elevator wore an OUT OF ORDER sign, so they climbed three flights of stairs. UCKMAN AND BUCKMA read the peeling sign on the door. As they