Minerva Clark Gives Up the Ghost by Karen Karbo

thinking I’d crash on the living room sofa, but the second my bare legs came into contact with the scratchy upholstery, I realized I could never fall asleep there. Why did I have to be so hot? Why did Mrs. Dagnitz have to be so annoying? Why hadn’t Angus Paine told me his parents had sold their store to Paisley of Paisley’s on 23rd? I was figuring this out about people who wanted mysteries solved—they never told you the whole truth. I wandered into the kitchenand got a Mountain Dew, then went to the computer room, where I fired up Mark Clark’s PC and Googled “Paisley’s on 23rd.”
    There weren’t many listings. She had a Web site under construction. One review on CitySearch.com said that the napoleons at Paisleys on 23rd were the best in Portland. There was an article in the paper about Paisley O’Toole catering a party for an organization that helped find jobs for people who’d been in car wrecks, and another one about the special green oatmeal cookies she baked in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. There was nothing about the bakery’s move to 222 S.W. Corbett, or really, anything of any interest at all.
    On impulse, I texted Angus Paine: U didn’t say ur rents were selling the store.
    Just as I was drinking the last of my Mountain Dew, my phone rang.
Oooo-oooo-oooo-ahhnn!
Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.
Oooo-oooo-oooo-ahhnn!
Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. I choked on the soda, practically spitting up on the keyboard. Who was calling me at one thirty in the morning?
    Angus Paine, of course.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked, still coughing and gasping for breath.
    â€œGot your text,” he said, as if it were one thirty in the afternoon. He lowered his voice, all flirt monster–like. “I was thinking about you.”
    â€œYou were?”
    â€œAbout our mystery,” he said. “I really wish I could get you to see it was arson. What would I have to do to make that happen?”
    â€œGiving me all the facts would be good, just for starters. Why didn’t you tell me your parents sold the building to the lady who owns Paisley’s on 23rd?”
    Angus was silent for a few seconds, so silent I thought I’d lost him.
    â€œHello?” I was irritated.
    â€œWait, I’m trying to understand this here.”
    â€œPaisley O’Toole,” I said, “who’s moving her pastry shop from Northwest Twenty-third to 222 Southwest Corbett.”
    â€œThat’s our address,” said Angus.
    â€œI
know
. That’s my
point
.” Was he playing dumb? I thought only girls played dumb.
    â€œYou’re not talking about the lady who’s opening the Artery Hardening Department?”
    â€œArtery Hardening Department?” Suddenly I felt tired. My stomach gurgled and sighed like a haunted house. It was a result of Mountain Dew on an empty stomach in the middle of the night. It was the result of Angus Paine acting like a complete and utter tool.
    He laughed. “It’s what my parents call the dessert section that’s going in by the deli. You know how now grocery stores have, like, a little shrunken Starbucks right inside the front door? That’s the concept. Nat andNat thought it would help business to have some really smokin’ sweet stuff, gourmet like. Right now they only stock those vegan cookies that taste like dog biscuits. They thought they needed to offer something that was actually edible.”
    I wanted to laugh, but I wasn’t going to give Angus Paine the satisfaction. “So Paisley O’Toole who owns Paisley’s on 23rd has not bought the grocery from your parents?”
    â€œYou’re one tough chick, Minerva.”
    â€œExcuse me, but could you be more random?”
    â€œThat was one of my best jokes, about the cookies tasting like dog biscuits. Most girls crack up. But you’re not most girls, are you?”
    What was I supposed to say to this? I muttered something about the sign