Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (24 page)

Jamal was at the wheel. Briana was riding in the passenger seat, balancing something in her lap.

Riley smiled when the cart skidded to a stop because he could see what Briana was holding: a plate stacked high with fluffy pancakes.

“Here you are, Mr. Paxton,” said Briana.

“What on earth are those?”

“Protein-Power Pancakes,” said Jamal. “We asked the country club chef to whip you up a batch.”

“We told him they were your favorite,” added Briana.

“And to make sure he used the right pancake mix,” said Jamal, “we asked him to take photographs, every step of the way.”

He pulled a digital camera out of his pocket.

“Chief Brown?” said Mr. Paxton. “Do something?”

The chief held up both his hands. “I believe this is a military and/or EPA matter now. In either case, it's out of my jurisdiction.”

“Can I see that, Jamal?” asked Riley.

“Sure.” Jamal tossed the camera over to Riley.

“Wow. Here's some pictures of late-night landscaping crews burying black plastic trash bags under this very same green. . . .”

“We saw those already,” said Mr. Kleinman.

“They were also in your daughter's music video,” added the general.

“Chief Brown?” pleaded Mr. Paxton.

The chief threw up his hands again. “Out of my jurisdiction.”

“Here we go,” said Riley, holding the camera's display so Mr. Paxton could see it. “There's the bag of Protein-Power Pancake Mix we dug up back here a couple days ago. Here's the chef putting the powder in a bowl. Adding water. Whisking it all up. Ladling the batter onto the griddle.”

Riley's mom hummed a snatch from “The Pancake Song” while Riley described the photos.

“Yep. He made them just like they make 'em in the mess hall.”

“So?” said Mr. Paxton. “There is nothing wrong with Protein-Power Pancakes.”

“Is that why you issued that product recall?” asked General Clarke.

“No, sir. The powder shipped overseas simply reached its expiration date earlier than anticipated.”

“
Two years
earlier?” said the general.

“Yes. It's hot over in Afghanistan. The mix broke down faster than projected.”

“So there's absolutely nothing wrong with these pancakes?” asked Riley.

“Of course not. And I'll prove it in court when I sue you for slandering the good name of Xylodyne Dynamics!”

Riley shrugged. “Okay. If you say so.” He pulled the handy talky out of his sport jacket. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“You there with Sara?”

“Yeah. In the dressing room. She's kind of hungry. Seems she skipped dinner before the show, on account of her nerves.”

“I can relate,” said Briana.

“But singing about pancakes has made her super-hungry for some.”

“Well, tell her to dig in. Her daddy says there's absolutely nothing wrong with Protein-Power Pancakes.”

“See? I told you!” said a voice that sounded an awful lot like Sara Paxton. “Thanks, Daddy! I'm so totally craving pancakes right now!”

“Wait!” shouted Mr. Paxton.

“Yes?” said Riley.

“You made her pancakes from the same mix?”

“Well, duh. You think the chef had time to whip up two different kinds of pancakes and still pull off a fancy banquet?”

“Give me that darn thing!” Paxton grabbed the radio out of Riley's hand. “Sara? This is your father. Do not eat those pancakes. Do you hear me? Do not even touch them! They could kill you! They're full of chemicals that will make you sick!”

Riley looked over to his mom.

She was smiling. “You think they heard that all the way over in Afghanistan?”

“Definitely,” said Riley. “In fact, I believe it went through ‘four-by-four.'”

MR. PAXTON WAS SURPRISED TO
learn, a few minutes later, that his daughter Sara had actually stormed off the stage the instant people started paying more attention to the video screens than her singing.

“Take me home, Mommy!” she had demanded. “This instant!”

Mrs. Paxton had agreed.

That voice on the handy talky?

Pure, prerecorded Briana.

By 11:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Savings Time, 7:30 a.m. in Afghanistan, Riley's father was totally exonerated.

The board of inquiry, although initially startled by the “unorthodox methods used for the presentation of evidence in this matter,” promptly apologized and promised Colonel Richard Mack that they would get to “the bottom of this matter.”

General Clarke made a quick phone call to the Pentagon and initiated the paperwork that would terminate “any and all” contracts between Xylodyne Dynamics and the U.S. military “effective immediately.”

“Call your lawyers and insurance companies, Prescott,” the general said to Mr. Paxton in the country club parking lot while they waited for the valet parking attendants to bring their cars around. “Your company will be paying for all the medical expenses of each and every one of those soldiers your product so grievously wounded.”

“B-b-but, Jack,” Mr. Paxton stammered.

“You're right. Why am I bothering to talk to you about this? You won't be CEO of Xylodyne after the market opens on Monday. Not after Wall Street learns what you and your company have done and sends your stock price tumbling down the toilet!”

Mr. Kleinman rushed off to his EPA lab to analyze the pancake powder, even though Riley suggested he could save himself some time and trouble by calling Ms. Kaminski's boyfriend, who had already done the test and confirmed the presence of melamine and cyanuric acid.

After Mr. Kleinman left in his government-issue sedan, Riley's mom and Tony Peroni were the only judges still available to award the first-place trophy to the winner of the talent show.

“We're giving it to songbird Briana Bloomfield,” the wedding singer announced. “The Rockin' Rollers come in second, and Jamal the Magnificent, third. Both of those acts will be receiving a fabulous consolation prize: a complete collection of my greatest hits.”

“Wow,” Jamal whispered to Briana. “That's even sweeter than your ten-thousand-dollar scholarship!”

Before they left the country club, Riley heard a man say to a group gathered in the 19th Hole Lounge, “We need Stuart Sowicky back on the job, first thing tomorrow! He can dig up the rest of whatever that nincompoop Paxton buried under the fairways and give us back our ‘green' greens!”

A lot of people in tuxedos and evening gowns said, “Hear, hear!” to that, so Riley felt pretty confident that Mr. Sowicky would be officially
un
fired first thing Sunday morning.

When Riley and his mom finally got home, they linked up once again with Afghanistan for a family chat with Riley's dad (who, in under an hour, had already ID'd the local Xylodyne Dynamics contractor, a guy named Crumpler, who had started spreading the false rumors against him as part of the Protein-Power cover-up).

“You two did an awesome job,” he said proudly.

“Thank you, hon,” said Riley's mom.

“So how come you guys were hot-wiring backhoes in Indiana?” asked Riley.

“They were tractors,” said his dad. “And, I'm sorry, Riley—you do not yet have clearance for that information.”

“And you probably never will,” added his mom. Then she leaned in closer to the computer. “Mack, I know there was a lot going on tonight, but did you happen to notice my earrings?”

Riley's dad grinned. “Roger that, Mrs. Mack. They looked almost as amazingly beautiful as you did in that dress.”

Riley rolled his eyes while his mom and dad said a bunch more mushy junk. (This was why he and his mom usually had separate chats with his dad: Riley preferred operating in a no-cooties zone.)

Finally, the conversation turned to Riley and his upcoming vacation.

“So,” said his dad, “now that school's out, what else do you guys have planned for the summer?”

“Hard to say, Dad. It's kind of like pancake powder under a putting green. You just never know what might pop up.”

TO ANDREW HARWELL, BARBARA LALICKI
, and everyone at Harper who make writing these Riley Mack stories so much fun.

To J.J., my extremely talented (not to mention gorgeous) wife, who is the world's best first editor.

To my agent, Eric Myers.

To the city of Austin's Watershed Protection Department, Sara Heilman, and the middle school earth science teachers in Austin, Texas, who put together the Country Club Creek Ichthycide curriculum that taught me so much about investigating water pollution.

And to all the Known Troublemakers out there who stand up for what's right and defend those who cannot defend themselves.

CHRIS GRABENSTEIN
is a
New York Times
bestselling author and the winner of multiple awards for his Haunted Mystery series. He lives in New York City with his wife, JJ, two cats, and a dog named Fred, who starred on Broadway in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
.

You can visit Chris (and Fred) online at www.chrisgrabenstein.com.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors and artists.

Cover art © 2013 by Ben Huen

Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons

R
ILEY MACK STIRS UP MORE TROUBLE
. Copyright © 2013 by Chris Grabenstein.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

www.harpercollinschildrens.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grabenstein, Chris.

Riley Mack stirs up more trouble / Chris Grabenstein.

p. cm.

Summary: “Riley Mack and his friends are back in action—making trouble in the name of justice—this time to stop a pollution cover-up and protect one of their own from talent-show sabotage”—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-06-202622-4 (hardback)

EPub Edition February ISBN 9780062202970

[1. Heroes—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Pollution—Fiction. 5. Talent shows—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

13 14 15 16 17
CG/RRDH
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FIRST EDITION