Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers by Chris Grabenstein Page A

she and Emma took off in the car.
    Riley and his crew went to Jake’s house, put together the poster, and printed it up.
    Then they spread out. Canvassed the town.
    When Riley’s mom got off work, she helped, too. So did Jake’s and Briana’s parents.
    By eleven p.m., every utility pole, parking meter, and shop window in Fairview was covered.
    At midnight, Riley finally went to bed, totally frustrated.
    Noodle was still missing. Not one person had seen the puppy or her flashy pink collar.
    That all changed first thing Saturday morning.

13
    AT 9:01 A.M. ON SATURDAY, Jamal Wilson sent Riley Mack an urgent text message with a photo attached.
    Riley called Jamal back at 9:02 a.m.
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œThe flea market in Sherman Green,” Jamal whispered back. “Near the gazebo.”
    â€œWhich booth?”
    â€œThe sign says Grandma’s Antiques. You see that Lava Lamp in the picture I sent you, Riley Mack?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œShe’s got my iPods, too, man! Only she messed with the engraving on the back. Says, ‘This is mini Jam son’ because she scratched out a bunch of the lettersin ‘This is mine, Jamal Wilson’ and changed the e in mine to an i !”
    â€œHang tight, Jamal. Don’t say anything to anybody. This is a whole lot bigger than you think.”
    â€œOh, is that so? Because I think it’s colossal, enormous, elephantine!”
    â€œJamal?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œChill. I’m on my way.”
    Â 
    Riley’s mom had to work Saturdays at the bank. That meant he was on his own.
    He grabbed his bike—a fire-engine-red Frantic with twenty-inch wheels, aluminum rims, mud flap fenders, and BMX pads—and headed over to Sherman Green, a small park about a half mile from his house on Maple Lane. Every weekend, the town hosted a farmer’s market and flea fair. Vendors set up canopied booths and sold everything from goat cheese and apple cider to embroidered blouses and grandfather clocks. The tents on stilts, some with flapping banners and fluttering flags, surrounded a small gazebo in the center of the park, making Sherman Green look like a pop-up Renaissance festival.
    Riley chained his bike to a rack and headed into the open-air flea fair. He passed a guy selling sand candles,a lady hawking perfume, and what seemed like a million jewelry tents. As he neared the gazebo, he saw a weedy patch cluttered with crap. Mirrors, baskets, chairs, garden statuary, floor lamps with beaded shades. Behind the price-tagged trash, he saw a sign in frilly froufrou letters:
    Â 
    Grandma’s Antiques
    One Man’s Trash
    Is Another Man’s Treasure
    Â 
    Make that, “One kid’s stolen iPod is another kid’s bargain,” thought Riley.
    Grandma, or whoever was moving the merchandise, had three white tents linked together to cover at least ten cafeteria-sized tables piled high with junk: old tin signs, musty magazines, chipped crockery, an avocado-green coffeemaker, discarded Christmas decorations—a whole landfill’s worth of yesterday’s garbage.
    As Riley moved closer, he saw a nasty old lady with a red-and-white checkered kerchief covering her head. Her nose was the size and shape of a yam. Her baggy cheeks resembled sagging bags of mud. Her eyes were tight black olive pits and her mouth was furrowed in a frown so deep it made her chin look like the one on aventriloquist’s dummy.
    She had to be Grandma.
    â€œPssst! Riley Mack! Over here, man!”
    It was Jamal. Hiding behind a rack of handbags in the booth directly across from Grandma’s Antiques.
    â€œWhat took you so long?”
    â€œHad to bike it. My mom’s working today.”
    â€œMy mom dragged me here. She digs the local produce. I ditched her back at the goat yogurt and rutabagas.”
    â€œWhere’d you snap the shot you sent?” asked Riley.
    â€œIn the back of Grandma’s tent, man. Over there