The next morning, the whole kitchen smelled like buttered toast and eggs. Sunlight cut through the lace curtains, casting gold stripes over the table—already a mess of notebooks, pencils, and crumbs.
Clara's mom hummed as she handed out breakfast. "Hey, where's Max?" she said, sliding plates in front of everyone. "He's usually the first to attack the jam."
Tom poked at his eggs. "No clue. He's so late it's almost suspicious."
Ivy sat cross-legged in her chair, eyes on her notebook. "Maybe he's still embarrassed about yesterday."
Clara's mom's eyebrows went up. "Embarrassed? What happened?"
Clara froze with her fork halfway up. Tom jumped in fast, his laugh a little too loud. "Oh, nothing, Auntie. Just—well, Max and Ivy had a little argument. You know how it goes."
He made air quotes. "Investigative differences."
Clara's mom gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. "That boy always has something to say. He better apologize when he gets here."
"Yes, Mother," Clara said, trying to sound chill.
Her mom tied her apron tighter, patted everyone's shoulders, and grabbed her purse. "Clara, I'm off. Tell Max I'm sorry to miss him—even if he deserves a good scolding."
"Okay, Mom," Clara said, and the door clicked shut behind her.
For a few seconds, all you could hear was the ticking clock and Biscuit's tail thumping under the table.
Then the front door creaked.
Max stood there, framed in sunlight, looking guilty as anything. His hair was a mess, his grin half-hearted. Biscuit trotted in next to him, wagging like everything was normal.
"Hey," Max said, voice too cheerful. "Good morning, detectives."
Nobody answered. Three pairs of eyes locked onto him.
He tried again. "What? No welcome committee? No applause for the prodigal son?"
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Your shoes," she said.
He looked down. "What about them?"
"They're muddy."
He shrugged. "Uh—Earth happens?"
Ivy just kept staring. "Looks like night mud," she said, twirling her pencil in the air.
Tom snorted. "What does that even mean?"
"The kind you get," Ivy replied, still watching Max, "when you sneak out at night."
Max froze. "That's a pretty wild accusation coming from someone who alphabetizes her snacks."
"Answer the question," Clara said, voice quiet.
He blinked at her. "Wait—am I being interrogated now?"
"Depends," Clara said. "Is there something worth interrogating?"
Max's grin wobbled. For a second, he almost looked honest. Then Biscuit whined, saving him.
Tom stood, grabbed a leftover bone, and held it out. "Here, boy. Take this outside. And seriously, no more paw prints in the house."
Biscuit barked and bounded out the door, tail wagging.
As soon as he was gone, the quiet settled in again.
Max rubbed his neck, eyes jumping between them. "Alright. Fine. I went for a walk last night. Couldn't sleep. Sue me."
Clara folded her arms. "You didn't tell us."
"Didn't know I had to report my insomnia to the midnight police."
Ivy tapped her pencil on the table, her voice softer. "Next time you play detective solo, maybe let the club know."
Tom leaned in, trying to keep it light. "She's right, man. Remember what happened last time someone went off alone?"
Max tried for a lopsided smile. "Yeah. We solved the case faster."
Clara shot him a look, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "You're impossible."
He shrugged. "And yet, indispensable."
Biscuit barked outside, tail banging on the door. The tension thinned a bit. Ivy rolled her eyes, Tom laughed, and Clara sighed. Somehow, the club felt like itself again.
...
They stepped outside, sunlight warming their backs. Ivy's notebook caught the light as she pulled it from her bag. Biscuit, nose to the ground, was already busy checking every lamppost like he expected treasure.
"Alright," Tom thought, piecing together last night's clues. "We're back on Hargrove today. That's the plan."
Ivy nodded, quoting him. "'Should'."
Clara tipped her hat. "What are you getting at?"
Ivy just pointed. "That's the point."
Across the street, near the festival, Nora—Belcroft's assistant—stood in the fountain's shade, talking to Hargrove. The violinist looked sharp in his suit, way too fancy for the crowd. Nora's hands shook as she took an envelope from him.
Max gave a low whistle. "That's not suspicious at all."
Tom's eyes went wide. "Didn't she say she barely knew Hargrove yesterday?"
"People lie, Tom," Ivy said, flipping open her notebook. "Some do it with style—Nora's got that down."
Clara's detective instincts flared. "Let's follow her."
Tom blinked. "Shouldn't we be focused on Hargrove? How do you just switch targets in the middle of all this?"
Max grinned. "Come on, Tom—didn't you hear Clara? If something feels off, you follow it. Trust her plan. Maybe we'll stumble onto something big."
They trailed after Nora, ducking behind a fruit stand and doing their best to look like vegetable sellers every time she glanced back. Biscuit, the club's so-called spy, nearly ruined everything with his tail thumping against the crates.
"Ivy, grab him!" Ivy hissed at Max.
"He's trying, Ivy! Lay off." Max clamped his arms around Biscuit, whispering, "Please, be good. Just this once."
"Spies don't get anywhere by being reckless, you two!"
"Shh!" Clara cut in, voice low. "She's heading down the hill!"
The wind had died down since they'd left the town hall. The market wasn't loud anymore, either. Now it was just them, walking through a warm, quiet street, slipping past locals still buzzing about Maestro Renaldi's stolen Stradivarius.
"Did you hear? They say this will be Renaldi's last concert," one woman said.
"No way. He's a legend."
"They say Hargrove will take over if Renaldi really retires."
Clara listened, thinking about Renaldi. If she saw him again, she'd ask about all of this.
They didn't even notice when they stopped in front of a tall iron fence. Ivy gave Max a look, then scrambled up with his help. She peeked over and read the sign: Belcroft Manor. The oldest, most secretive place in town.
Tom stared. "You've got to be kidding."
Ivy dropped down, brushing her hands off. "Nope. We're breaking in."
"Why are we—why Nora—"
Max cut him off, grabbing Tom's arm and shoving him toward the fence. "Everyone here's hiding something. Belcroft's no different."
Clara crouched low. "Let's just peek. In and out. Quick and quiet."
They crept up, hearts pounding—
A sharp voice snapped through the air.
The door swung open.
There stood Mrs. Belcroft, wrapped in a silk gown, eyes boring straight into them.
She looked them over—four kids and a dog, caught red-handed.
"Well," she said, lips curling, "what an elegant surprise. Four children and a dog at my front door."
Clara's heart nearly stopped. Ivy clutched her pen so hard her knuckles turned white. Tom just opened his mouth, no words coming out.
Max stepped forward, hand half-raised. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Belcroft. This is going to sound weird—"
"I hope it's hilarious, son," she said, eyeing him.
"It is. Really. See, we're working on this group project for the holidays…" He looked at the others, begging for backup.
"Yeah, it's for…history! We want to learn about this house. Local history."
Ivy gave Max a look, silently pleading with him to stop. Tom just coughed to cover his laugh.
Mrs. Belcroft arched an eyebrow. "Is that right?"
"Yes, ma'am," Max said, acting like he had a clue. "Nothing to do with you personally—or anybody you know. Not even Nora."
The others glared at him. Max, what are you doing?
Mrs. Belcroft's eyes narrowed. "Nora?"
Max blurted, "Not that we know her! We just saw her at the festival. She's…uh, pretty."
Mrs. Belcroft studied them for a long moment, then looked down at Biscuit, who wagged his tail as if he could fix everything. "I think you'd all better go, before I call the police about this little stunt."
Clara jumped in. "Sorry, ma'am. We got carried away."
Max gave a lopsided grin. "Totally my fault, ma'am. I dragged them here. Bad influence."
She stared at Max for what felt like forever. Clara's stomach did a flip. Finally, Mrs. Belcroft turned away. "Children shouldn't meddle in grown-up things. Off you go."
They bolted down the path, not realizing Nora had missed the whole disaster.
—
Once they were clear, Ivy smacked Max's arm.
"You! He's definitely going to remember you. Why'd you have to stir things up?"
"That's the whole point," Max said, rubbing his arm. "Better just one of us gets blamed. Now he thinks I dragged you all here for some dumb project, not to poke around. If he suspected all of us, everyone would know what we're really up to."
Clara glanced at him, her voice gentle. "You didn't have to do that, Max."
He shrugged. "Someone's gotta take the fall. I'm built for it. Right, Biscuit?"
Biscuit barked, tail wagging.
Tom groaned. "We're going to get thrown out of town."
They all laughed, even though their nerves were still jangling.
Maestro Renaldi sat by the hotel window, alone, staring down at the chaos of the festival. The lights blurred together, buzzing in the night like fireflies. All day, he'd been trapped by reporters, cops, festival staff—everyone wanted something from him.
He looked worn out. Empty, really. His Stradivarius was gone.
He reached for his tea, hand shaking just a little. That's when his phone buzzed. One message lit up the screen:
If you want your violin back, come see me tomorrow night. After the festival. Come alone.
Renaldi read it again, then again. His hands wouldn't stop trembling. Outside, fireworks exploded, colors flashing across his face, but the celebration felt hollow now. Music drifted up from the street, all bright and cheerful, but to Renaldi, every note sounded like a threat.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued