Maxwell Masters and the Case of the Missing Model Horses

Chapter One

Morgan Mores

On a cold, snowy, Saturday morning, Morgan Mores’ chauffeur drove her over to Pinnacle Lane, and I escorted her into my office. The room contained a desk along with a few chairs in a space located by the laundry room. My desk, a small card table rescued from the side of the road and given new life with the help of gray duck tape, provided adequate surface area for carrying on official business. Two folding screens blocked the washer, dryer, and soiled clothing from view. A red cloth door, made from a stained bed sheet, hung suspended on a clothesline attached to the basement’s ceiling and covered the entrance into the enclosure. This splendid space housed The Maxwell Masters’ Laundry Room Detective Agency.

I am Max, the founder, and Destiny Roman is my assistant. She teamed up with me last year after I helped her nab the person who wrote trash on her locker at school. This marks our first case together as partners.

Morgan sat in one of the director’s chairs, and I took a seat on the bar stool that I swiped from the attic for this meeting. Boy, I bet I looked scummy to her, dressed in my holey faded jeans and stained tee shirt. Man, I was probably a mess! Didn’t even comb my shaggy, curly, brown mop. She didn’t seem to notice, not that I really cared.

The girl appeared ready for a modeling contract and looked mighty pretty with her satiny, straight, shoulder-length, blond hair and her slightly tanned skin. She had painted her lips with sparkling pink lip gloss and accented her emerald-green eyes with a dab of light-brown eye shadow and brown mascara. She moved like a model on a runway, pasting a blank expression on her face and looking eager to meet her audience.

I couldn’t sit still. Didn’t understand why I felt so uncomfortable having her here in my personal quarters. I found myself staring at her. She looked hot, as baked as any girl could look. I felt heat rising in my cheeks and hoped she didn’t notice. I gazed away from her as quickly as I could and prepared for what would be a long meeting.

Sitting straight up on the stool, I began speaking.

“Aye, uh, Morgan. What brings you here?”

Wiggling in her chair, she adjusted her pink cashmere sweater and pulled up her knee-high, black-leather boots over her suede, black, pant legs. She cleared her throat, looked down at her diamond wrist bracelet, and then slowly raised her eyes to meet mine.

“Help,” her voiced quivered. “I need your help.”

I heard her, repeated what she said in my head, but didn’t understand what a seventeen-year-old girl expected an unsophisticated fifteen almost sixteen-year-old boy like me to do for her. I didn’t belong in her league nor would I ever want to be.

“Uh, really, you think I can help?”

“Listen, boy, because I ain’t going say it again. You’re my last hope.”

Morgan put a lot of emphasis on last. She must have meant it.

“But me,” I managed to say, feeling totally incompetent.

She didn’t seem to enjoy my response and copped an attitude big time. She stuck her head up, threw her hair back, and snorted. She sounded like a wild animal had come alive within her.

“Look, kid, you might be right, but I’m desperate. Will you help me or not?” she asked as she jumped up, walked swiftly over to me, and screamed in my face. Then she returned to her seat, plopped down, crossed her arms over her chest, and awaited my decision.

As I intently glared at her, I remembered what I hated most about the girl. She acted like a capital S N O B. My friends called her snob-face Morgan behind her back, even though each one of them secretly carried a huge crush on the richest girl in high school. Any time she glanced their way and flirted with them, they giggled like sissy girls and acted just plain sickening most of the day. Their behavior made me want to lose it on them, especially since they carried on so over such a witch.

“Well, okay. Shoot. Tell me about it.”

“My horses—find my horses?”

“Your, what?”

“My model horse statues. Someone stole them. Not all—just some.”

“But your dad can’t he . . .”

“My dad hired a detective. No luck. He fired all our servants. My horses are gone and others keep disappearing.”

“Oh,” I replied, not able to think of anything worth saying.

I saw rings of droplets streaming down her cheeks. I swiveled my stool from side to side, waiting to see what she’d do next. I finally grabbed a box of tissues and handed it to her, glancing away and shuffling my feet as I returned to my seat.

As soon as Morgan finished blowing her nose, Destiny entered the office. I met her at the door, and we stepped out into a private space in the cellar. I filled her in on the girl’s problem. We then returned inside, and I introduced the two of them to each other. Destiny dropped in the other chair.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around,” Morgan whimpered. “You’re the girl with the locker . . .”

Destiny interrupted. “Yep, that’s me. What’s your story?”

Morgan stiffened, raised her chest, and shot piercing looks from Destiny to me.

“It’s my model horses, Ms. Locker. I’ve already told him.”

“Okay, chill, Morgan. And remember, I’m Destiny. We need the story. Like, when did this start?”

I was getting hot under the collar, or should I say, around my tee’s neckline. I had enough of her snootiness. I didn’t have to put up with her attitude. I started to lose it on her just as she began speaking again.

“It’s been going on for at least six months now. My black stallion went missing. I thought I misplaced it or didn’t unpack it from the last horseshow.”

“Horseshow?” Destiny asked.

“Girl, are you deaf? Horseshow. Anyway, I finally gave up searching. The horse later appeared on the shelf. About a week later, I discovered the horses in my horse collection display cases moved around, and the stallion had disappeared once again. Every one of my horses has a special place in the cases, all of them sorted by breed and size. Someone mixed them up, and five horses vanished besides the stallion. I ran down to Pops and gave him an earful.”

“What happened next?” I said.