Free Mean Ghouls by Stacia Deutsch Page A

the base of a mountain.” Mr. Jones wrapped his arms around himself and with a shiver, warned Brett, “It’s cold in Siberia. Very, very cold.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Brett scampered off to the dorms.
    â€œYou have something to tell me?” Mr. Jones asked Megan when they were alone. He tapped a flip-flop impatiently. “Something vital?”
    â€œUmm.” Megan was grateful for the rescue. But at the same time, the man made her very nervous.
    Sam had told her he was nice. She trusted Sam.
    Megan took a deep breath. “The Bs stole the zombitus cure.”

Mr. Jones’s house looked amazingly similar to Dr. Shelley’s office. If they didn’t know each other already, they should. When Megan had first come down with zombitus, she’d gone to see Dr. Shelley and been surprised at all the monster-movie stuff that decorated the doctor’s office. Mr. Jones had more of the same kind of things. If they ever met, they could trade monster-movie lunch boxes and play make-believe with their zombie figurines.
    Of course, mixed in with all his monster collectables, Mr. Jones also had his Hawaiian thing going. Hula-girl bobbleheads danced on a shelf next to werewolf figurines. A small, child-size coffin sat in the corner of the room on top of a grass-woven rug. A black painting (could it be Happy’s work?) washanging inches away from a photo of the sun setting over a beach in Honolulu.
    Megan scooted herself back into one of Mr. Jones’s overstuffed floral-print chairs. The chairs matched his shirt and Megan couldn’t help but wonder what the famous Yeverman parents would think of designing a room to match a wardrobe. Or a wardrobe to match a room, Megan wasn’t sure. Might be a new trend. She tried to laugh at the situation, but her nerves were on fire.
    Mr. Jones left the room for a minute and when he returned, Megan discovered something important. Yes … drinks at ZA were served with mini umbrellas. Her Coke had a pink one stuck in the straw.
    Megan sipped her soda for a long quiet moment. Mr. Jones sat down in a comfy chair that faced hers.
    â€œYou’ve made a broad accusation,” he said while sipping a Coke of his own. “What brings you to your conclusion?” His accent seemed stronger at night. He sounded an awful lot like what Megan imagined Dracula sounded like.
    Megan toyed with her umbrella, trying not to notice that soda was gurgling out the sides of Mr. Jones’s mouth, making the bloodstains there turn a muddy brown. She took a deep breath. “BecauseI saw …” She tapped her chin. “I saw … What did I see?”
    Blasted zombitus brain fog!
    Unable to remember all the details, she opened her red notebook and reviewed her notes.
    â€œThe Zom-Bs —” She paused to make certain Mr. Jones knew who she was talking about. When he identified Brooke, Betsy, and Brenda, she went on. “The day after the cure was stolen, I saw the Zom-Bs coming out of the research center,” Megan said. “They were carrying a bag of glass tubes. I think they had the vials of the cure.”
    Mr. Jones was intrigued. “Go on,” he told her, wiping his face on a handkerchief.
    â€œThey came out a broken window.”
    â€œDid you see them break the window?” Mr. Jones asked. He was now taking notes in his own ZA notebook.
    â€œNo,” Megan said honestly.
    â€œHmmm. Did the girls say they had taken the cure?” Mr. Jones asked.
    â€œNo,” Megan admitted. “But they said that after whatever they’re planning to do on Visitors’ Day, no one will care that the cure was stolen.”
    â€œDo you know what they are planning?” Mr. Jones chewed the end of his pencil until it splintered.
    â€œUhh.” This wasn’t going so well. “No,” Megan said again.
    â€œI see.” Mr. Jones tucked his pencil into his notebook and closed the cover. Megan waited to hear what