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pulled a tiny notebook from his shirt pocket and made a small black X by Jake’s name.
    â€œQueen Elizabeth’s offspring need royal names, which could mean research,” I said. Research is to Miss Retzyl as bird seed is to squirrel.
    â€œMo,” she snapped. “We’re talking about—”
    â€œIsotopes,” Harm said, very smooth. “Unstable atoms release particles called isotopes. Radiation’s pretty much made out of them, which is hard to imagine because you can’t see it. But like bad breath, it’s still there,” he added, smiling at Attila.
    Attila snarled, but when he turned away she breathed into her cupped hand.
    Dale gave me a thumbs-up.
    I relaxed. My keen Detective Senses told me Mr. Macon was gone from our lives, maybe forever. Life would settle back to dull normal. The Desperado Detective Agency would find a new case, one that would bring us wealth and glory.
    Naturally, then, the next break-in hit me broadside.

Chapter 8
    The Next Break-in
    â€œGlad
that’s
over,” Harm said as the school door closed behind us and Dale tripped down the steps. “Dale, how do you stay cool, with people talking like that?”
    Dale flipped his collar up. “I’m Tupperware,” he said, very suave.
    Harm’s smile froze.
    â€œHe means Teflon,” I said. “Nothing sticks.”
    â€œHey Harm, where’s your bike?” Dale asked as we headed across the schoolyard, Attila on our heels. “Is Mr. Red scared of Daddy too?”
    â€œHe’s a little jumpy, yeah,” Harm said. “He dropped me off this morning. Most folks did,” he said, hooking a thumb at the empty bicycle rack.
    A nearby Buick tootled its horn. “Yoo-hoo, Desperados! Over here,” Grandmother Miss Lacy called, just as Attila’s mother’s stealth beige Cadillac oozed to the curb.
    Mrs. Simpson purred her window down. “Good news, Anna,” she called, sneering at Dale. “They found Macon Johnson’s camp stove on the side of I-95. He’s gone, andgood riddance to white trash. Hop in, honey. I’m late.”
    White trash? Who does she think she is?
    â€œHey you!” I shouted before I could think of anything to say. “Most witches ride broomsticks. How’d you rate a Cadillac?”
    Attila puffed like a blowfish and dropped her books. I started for her, my hands balled into fists. Harm grabbed the back of my jacket and spun me toward the Buick as Dale opened the front door. Harm slung me in and slammed the door. The boys dove in the back, and Grandmother Miss Lacy put the pedal to the metal.
    â€œAnna will get you for that,” Harm warned, sounding happy.
    â€œYeah,” Dale said. “Thanks.”
    I been fighting for Dale since our Diaper Days. He hates fighting. I, on the other hand, enjoy it—especially if Attila’s my target. Dale leaned across the seat to study Grandmother Miss Lacy’s face. “Is it true Starr found our camp stove?”
    Grandmother Miss Lacy, who ain’t much taller than me, sits on a pillow to see over the dash. “It’s true. And I should warn you. Capers’s jailbreak story is front-page news all over the state. The café phone’s ringing off the hook. Reporters, gossips . . .”
    â€œIs that all she wrote?” I asked, thinking of Miss Rose’s break-in.
    â€œShould she have written more?”
    So, Capers Dylan kept her word.
    Grandmother Miss Lacy went for a change of topic. “How was school, Dale?”
    â€œSchool lasts twelve years and people are trashing us worse than ever and I hate it, but except for that it was fine,” he replied. “We gave out adoption forms. I’m hoping Mo will take glamour photos of Liz so we can post them too,” he added.
    Being a best friend carries a heavy price. “Sure,” I mumbled.
    â€œMiss Thornton, may I offer you a puppy?” Dale asked, in a move