The Case of the Mossy Lake Monster by Michele Torrey

I t was a crisp, clear Saturday morning in the small town of Mossy Lake.
    Just down the street, a little to the left, and high in an attic, Drake Doyle worked in his homemade laboratory. His hair looked as if he’d stuck his finger in a light socket. Rather messy, really, and the color of cinnamon toast. On the end of his nose perched a pair of round glasses.
    Drake looked up from his microscope, his eyes a little squinty from staring so long. “Just as I thought,” he murmured as he scribbled in his lab notebook.
    Just as I thought.
Hypothesis correct.
THEY’RE ALIVE.
    As Drake slapped his notebook shut, the phone rang. (Serious scientists always slap their notebooks shut.)
    “Doyle and Fossey,” he answered, shoving a pencil behind his ear.
    You see, Drake Doyle was his name. Science was his game. And Nell Fossey was his partner. (Besides being his best friend.) They were in business together. Serious business. Their business cards read:
    Doyle and Fossey:
Science Detectives
call us. anytime. 555-7822
    Already they had solved many cases, using their fantastic scientific and detective skills. No case was too difficult for Doyle and Fossey, the best science detectives in the fifth grade.
    “Drake?” said the voice on the phone. “Drake Doyle?”
    “Speaking. Who is this?”
    “It’s Caitlin Rae.” Caitlin was in Drake’s class at school. And just as Drake was the science sort, Caitlin was the cat sort. She loved cats, and everybody knew she had a bunch of them at home. Every day she came to school covered in cat fuzz, and once even coughed up a hair ball.
    Caitlin said, “I—I have a terrible problem.”
    “No problem is too terrible for Doyle and Fossey,” Drake said in his most professional voice. But instead of saying something like, “How wonderful!” or “Sign me up!” Caitlin burst into tears. She cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and CRIED!
    Using the latest scientific techniques for hysteria control, Drake said, “Now, now,” and “There, there.” Ten minutes later, just as the phone receiver was getting a little soggy, Drake finally got the story from her.
    “It’s my cat Zappy.” Caitlin sniffed. “He’s not eating.”
    “Have you called the vet?”
    “( Sniff, sniff. ) My dad says no more vets. I have eighteen cats, and Dad says if I can’t take care of them myself, then it’s off to the pound with them all. He’s sick of them. I didn’t know who else to call ( sniff, sniff ) except, maybe, Frisco.”
    Great Scott! thought Drake, almost falling off his stool. If he didn’t take the case, Caitlin was desperate enough to hire his competitor, James Frisco! Frisco would likely tell Caitlin something horrible. Something like, “Forget it, kid. Zappy’s a goner.” And then charge her five bucks anyway.
    Like Doyle and Fossey, Frisco was a scientist. But he was a bad scientist. More like a mad scientist. If an experiment said, “Don’t do this or that,” he did it anyway. If an experiment said, “Clean up your mess,” Frisco left the mess for his mother. If an experiment said, “Don’t use your little sister as your test subject” … well … some things are better left unsaid.
    Frisco’s business cards read:
    FRISCO
bad mad scientist
(Better than Doyle and Fossey)
Call me. Day or night. 555-6190
    Drake could not let Frisco take this important case. “Never fear, Caitlin Rae. Drake Doyle and Nell Fossey to the rescue!”
    Immediately he phoned Nell. “It’s a matter of life or death. Not a moment to lose. Caitlin Rae’s house. I’ll pick you up in two minutes flat.”
    “Check.”
    Click.
    Actually, it was more like two minutes, six seconds. As soon as Drake and his dad drove up, Nell flew out of her house and into the car lickety-split. She was never one to waste time. She was, after all, the fastest runner in the fifth grade. Not only that, Nell was a no-nonsense woman of science. Her coffee-colored hair was pulled back into a