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thick red cover.
    Along the side, in big black letters it read:
The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes
.
    I felt a little shiver as I looked at the picture of the great man with his deerstalker hat.
    â€œBOING-BOING-BOING!” Og called impatiently.
    â€œOkay, okay, I’m going to open the book,” I squeaked back. “We’ll find out how to be detectives soon!”
    I reached up to touch the edge of the top cover.
    â€œUmph!” I pushed hard with both paws.
    Nothing happened.
    I pushed again—harder.
    Nothing happened.
Again!
    â€œIt’s very heavy, Og!” I squeaked, but I was so out of breath, I’m not sure he could hear me. “I wish there weren’t quite so many stories about Sherlock Holmes!”
    When I failed to budge the cover the third time, I decided to try something else. I looked around the desktop and saw a pencil. Maybe I could use that to push the cover open.
    I rolled it over to the book, propped it up under the cover and gave it a mighty push.
    It pushed right back, I guess, and I fell backward. The pencil rolled off the edge of the desk. (I hate to think what would have happened if
I’d
rolled off the edge.)
    As I tried to catch my breath, I heard Og splashing wildly.
    â€œBOING-BOING-BOING-BOING-BOING!”
    â€œI’m all right, Og,” I called to him. “But I can’t get the book open.”
    I’m not one to give up easily, but I was exhausted and I knew it wouldn’t be long before school began. It hadn’t been a successful night, but it would be even worse if I got caught outside my cage.
    So I slid down the side of the desk (much faster than when I’d climbed up). I raced across the floor and grabbed on to the long cord that hangs down from the blinds.
    Then came that hard part where I had to swing back and forth, higher and higher, until I was level with the top of the table. I let go and slid across the table, past Og’s tank, right up to the door of my cage.
    â€œI made it, Og!” I told my friend.
    â€œBOING!” He sounded relieved.
    I was planning on a nice doze when I got back in my cage. But when I closed my eyes and was about to drift off, I remembered Mrs. Brisbane saying, “A clue is information that helps you solve a mystery. Sherlock Holmes is very good at finding clues.”
    I didn’t just remember her words; I could hear them in my tiny ears.
    I jumped up and raced to the side of my cage. “Og! Mrs. Brisbane said to look for clues. Let’s see if we have any clues to what happened to her.”
    I grabbed the tiny notebook Ms. Mac gave me long ago and the teeny pencil that goes with it. I keep it well hidden behind the mirror in my cage.
    I opened it and began to write.
    Â 
    Clue 1: Mrs. Brisbane didn’t plan to be absent. The day before, she said, “See you in the morning.”
    Clue 2: Mr. Morales didn’t know Mrs. Brisbane would be absent. He said they were trying to reach her. That’s why he took over the class until they could get a substitute. Whatever happened was unexpected.
    Clue 3: Mrs. Wright said she was sure Mrs. Brisbane would be back tomorrow. But later in the day, Ms. Mac and Mr. Morales both said she might be out for a while. So the story changed as the day went on.
    Clue 4: Aldo seems worried that something happened to Mrs. Brisbane. And that makes me unsqueakably worried, too.
    Â 
    My paw started shaking, so I quit writing.
    I wondered if Sherlock Holmes was ever as worried as I was that morning.
    Miss Swift unlocked the door to let Mr. E. in. He had on a button with a big smiley face, and his big cloth bag looked even fuller than it had the day before.
    Once my fellow classmates arrived, Mr. Morales came in. His tie for the day had little red birds on it.
    â€œClass, your families were all notified last night about Mrs. Brisbane,” he said. “As you know, Mr. E. will be taking over.”
    My friends all looked perfectly happy, but