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  “Go, Bud!” Mrs. Winthrop shouted, and I looked over my shoulder to see Mr. Jefferson lumbering along behind Mackenzie and me. He was red in the face and sweating profusely, and if you asked me, which nobody ever did, he was the one that Mrs. Winthrop should have been worried about when it came to heatstroke, not Lucas.

  After a disagreement last March during the big Maple Madness Bake-Off (Maple Madness, a celebration of all things maple, was another of our town’s traditions), the blooming romance between Lucas’s mother and Bud appeared to be back on track. The town’s residents were keeping a close watch on all of the current couples, thanks to Ella Bellow’s frequent bulletins from A Stitch in Time. Over at the General Store, I’d heard a number of bets placed as to who’d get engaged first: Mrs. Winthrop and Bud, Belinda Winchester and Augustus Wilde, or my aunt and Erastus Peckinpaugh.

  Secretly, my money was on Aunt True. And secretly, I couldn’t help thinking it would be fun to have a wedding in the family. I hadn’t been to a family wedding since I was eight, when Uncle Brent married Aunt Angie.

  “Go on ahead,” I panted, flapping my hand at Mackenzie as we spilled out the other end of Main Street.

  She nodded and broke away, and I didn’t see her again until I managed to huff and puff my way up Hill Street and then circle back to the finish line, where what seemed like the entire gaggle of Giffords was waiting for me.

  “Well done, Truly-in-the-Middle!” said my father, giving me a sweaty hug, and Hatcher dumped a bottle of water over my head.

  After all of the runners were accounted for, the judges withdrew inside First Parish Church to tally the scores. Meanwhile, the crowd drifted over to the bandstand to wait for the results.

  “We still have a chance,” Hatcher told me as the brass band struck up another medley of tunes, John Philip Sousa this time.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! I was one of the last ones across the finish line.”

  “Yeah, but Professor Rusty delivered the goods. Aunt True was right about him being our secret weapon. Our average time is way up there.”

  A podium had been set up on the bandstand, and behind it stood Augustus Wilde, who had been selected by the race organizers to hand out the prizes. I watched as he taped a poster of his latest novel to the front of it. Augustus didn’t have a stealth mode. He was what Aunt True called a guerrilla marketer, someone willing to go to great lengths to promote their own work. Not surprisingly, after the judges emerged and passed him an envelope with the results, during his moment in the spotlight he also managed to wedge in a plug for his new book.

  “As I wrote in my latest best seller, Fortune’s Forbidden Fruit,” he told the crowd with a sweeping gesture toward the poster on the front of the podium, “there are no winners in life, only finishers.”

  This didn’t strike me as the most inspiring of quotes, but it brought a ripple of polite applause anyway. Pumpkin Falls supported its own.

  Hatcher nudged me with his elbow. “Captain Romance strikes again.”

  I smiled. “Captain Romance” was our secret nickname for Augustus.

  The awards presentation began with the low-hanging fruit—gift certificates for free ice cream cones at the General Store, which were given to everyone in the crowd wearing a race bib; a prize for the youngest racer to finish (Annie Freeman got that one, which she accepted with a squeal of “G-R-A-T-I-T-U-D-E!”); another for “most improved time from last year” (that went to Principal Burnside); and finally, an award for the last person to cross the finish line—which I was really truly grateful I didn’t win.

  Reverend Quinn took a bow as he stepped forward to accept the bright orange ribbon with LAST BUT NEVER LEAST emblazoned on it. “Blessed are the meek,” he quipped, holding it up.

  Overall fastest time was awarded to an elite runner from Connecticut who regularly qualified for the Boston Marathon.

  “This race has been on my bucket list for years,” he told the crowd. “I’m only sorry we out-of-towners don’t qualify for your famous trophy. There’s nothing I’d like better than to add that to my shelf. In fact, I may have to move to Pumpkin Falls so I can have a shot at it next year!”

  He took his seat again to cheers of encouragement from the crowd.

  “And now,” said Augustus, striking a dramatic pose, “the award we have all been waiting for—the silver pumpkin!”

  Ella Bellow was standing beside me, arms folded tightly across her chest. Much to her displeasure, Team A Stitch in Time had been disqualified. Bud Jefferson had dropped out halfway up Hill Street. On the other hand, one of the Team Kwik Klips members had stumbled and hurt her ankle, and they had also ended up disqualified. That meant the odds were still even, as far as the Pumpkin Falls Beautification Project competition went. As for the winning team, Hatcher had said our time was solid. Was there a chance we might pull it off? I started envisioning a window display at the bookstore featuring the coveted trophy.

  Augustus turned to the brass band behind him. “May I have a drumroll, please?” They obliged. He opened the envelope and peeked inside. “And the trophy goes to”—he paused again to wring every last drop of drama from the moment—“Team Starlite!”

  Hatcher and I exchanged a rueful glance.

  “Oh well,” said Mackenzie. “At least Mr. Henry’s project won, right?”

  I nodded. The children’s room at the library would get its renovation.

  “There’s always next year,” Mr. Henry said to Ella, whose expression looked like she’d soaked it in pickle juice. She gave a curt nod and stalked off. Ella was not a good sport.

  The gaggle of Giffords were, though. My relatives and I all whooped and cheered as Cha Cha, her parents, and the other members of Team Starlite climbed the steps of the bandstand to collect their prize. The big silver pumpkin was going to look great in the Starlite Dance Studio window, gleaming under the twinkle lights.

  Augustus bent down and reached under the podium for the trophy. A moment later, he snapped upright again. He was frowning.

  “Where did you put it?” he asked Belinda in a stage whisper.

  “Under the podium,” Belinda whispered back. “You saw me.”

  “Well, it’s not here!”

  Belinda clambered up the bandstand steps to look for herself. Ella joined her, as did Mr. Henry. The four of them scoured the podium, then the bandstand itself and the bushes that surrounded it.

  But Captain Romance was right—the silver trophy was gone!

  CHAPTER 6

  One good thing came from the Great Pumpkin Trophy Heist, as the Patriot-Bugle quickly dubbed it: The Gifford Family Reunion got knocked off the front page.

  At first, everybody thought that Belinda Winchester was confused, and that maybe she’d just forgotten to retrieve the trophy from the window of Mahoney’s Antiques before the race. But she protested that she most certainly had retrieved it, and she even had a cell phone photo to prove it—one she’d taken on the bandstand earlier in the day that showed Augustus Wilde hoisting the trophy in mock victory.

  Residents and tourists alike quickly spread out all over town looking for it, but in the end, everyone came up empty-handed. The silver pumpkin was definitely gone.

  “Who would want to steal a dumb trophy?” I asked, as Mackenzie and Cha Cha and Jasmine and I retreated to the shade of one of the trees on the village green. The rest of my family was gathered nearby, and over by the bandstand, the town council was holding an emergency meeting with the police—well, policeman. Pumpkin Falls only had one: Officer Tanglewood.

  “It’s not dumb,” Cha Cha scolded in her deep voice, the one that had earned her the nickname “the kazoo” from Hatcher. “It’s tradition.” She was obviously disappointed. I’d be disappointed too if my team had won, and the trophy we were entitled to show off all year had vanished.

  “You have a point, though, Truly,” said Jasmine. “I can’t think of anyone around here who would do something like that.”

  We were quiet for a moment, considering.

  “Ella?” I suggested, glancing over at the bandstand, where our former postmistress-turned-knitting-shop-owner was lecturing Officer Tanglewood. “She was pretty unhappy about losing.”

  Cha Cha didn’t look convinced. “Ella wouldn’t sink that low, would she?”

  “It could be anybody!” said Mackenzie. “A local, a visitor—there were a ton of people at the race today who aren’t from around here. Including all of us Giffords.”

  I looked at her, astonished. “None of us stole it!”

  “I know that. I’m just saying!”

  “I’ll bet it was one of those marathoners.” Jasmine’s dark eyes narrowed as she watched the runner with the winning time laughing with his friends. “That guy, for instance. I’ll bet he made that joke about moving here so he’d be eligible to win the trophy next year just to throw everyone off track.”

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Cha Cha cautioned. “Don’t forget what happened over Spring Break.”

  This past March, during Maple Madness, the sap lines at Freeman Farm and Maynard’s Maple Barn had been cut. Everyone suspected sabotage, and things had gotten pretty heated for a while. It had been like the Hatfields and the McCoys around town, with accusations flying and neighbors taking sides against neighbors before my friends and I had finally caught the real culprit.

  “Hey,” said Scooter, sauntering over. Calhoun and Lucas were with him.

  “Hey back,” I replied.

  “Did you guys have any luck?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Neither did we,” said Calhoun.

  The three boys sat down on the grass beside us.

  “If the trophy were smaller, I’d say maybe a magpie took it,” I told my friends.

  “What’s a magpie?” asked Scooter.

  “A bird that likes shiny things.”

  The problem was, you’d need a bird the size of an ostrich to carry away a trophy like the silver pumpkin, and ostriches were in short supply in New England. We did have eagles, though. Gramps had taken me to see them out at Cherry Island on Lake Lovejoy.

  “Sounds to me like a case for the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes,” said Scooter, glancing at Mackenzie. Like Lucas, he had a crush on her too.

  “This is the last day of our family reunion,” I told him. “We don’t have time for that.”

  “Where’s your civic spirit?” he protested. “We should at least pool our knowledge and do a little preliminary investigating together.”

  I didn’t want to investigate. I wanted to go the lake, where Grandma G had a big picnic prepared, and where there were paddleboards and kayaks and swimming. It was my reward for running the stupid road race.

  “Mackenzie’s leaving tomorrow,” I told him. “We want to spend the day together.”

  “You would be,” Lucas pointed out, crossing his pale arms over his chest and trying to sound grown-up and important. “Plus, the trail’s going to go cold if we don’t hop on it.”

  “Lucas is right,” Calhoun agreed. “We should move on this.”

  “Fine,” I snapped, getting to my feet. It was unlikely we could solve this mystery before tomorrow, but it was also unlikely that my friends would shut up about it if we didn’t at least try. There was one obstacle, though. “Our parents will say no,” I warned. “They’re sticklers about us all staying together during our family reunion.”

  Surprisingly, though, this time they weren’t.

  “Sure,” said both my father and Uncle Teddy, when Mackenzie and I asked if we could hang out with our friends for the afternoon instead of joining everyone at the lake.

  “Just be back home in time to freshen up for the clambake,” my mother added.

  My sister Lauren, who had officially become a member of the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes over Spring Break, was torn between staying with us and going swimming with our younger cousins.

  “This is a wild-goose chase,” I told her. “Go to the lake. You have to go back to camp tonight after the fireworks, remember? It’s the last chance you’ll get to hang out with everyone.”

  “Promise you’ll tell me if anything interesting happens?”

  I nodded. “I promise.”

  Hatcher opted for the lake too. “Sorry, Droo—I mean Truly,” he corrected himself. “I won’t see our cousins for a whole year otherwise.”

  Uncle Teddy gave Mackenzie money to treat us all to lunch at the food truck, and then my family left. After we ate, we retreated to Lovejoy’s Books, which was air-conditioned, for our meeting.

  The bookshop was busy. We’d been planning to close for the Fourth of July, but with all the tourists in town, my father and Aunt True had changed their minds.

  “Gotta make hay while the sun shines,” Aunt True had said.

  Good call, I thought, eyeing the throng of customers. Belinda had volunteered to man the fort so that my father and aunt could spend the afternoon at the lake, and she’d corralled Augustus into helping. He was holding court over at Cup and Chaucer, dispensing beverages along with recommendations for books—most notably his own.

  “I see you like Earl Grey tea,” I overheard him tell an older lady who was hanging on his every word. Augustus had a lot of fangirls. “You may enjoy my own Earl of Hearts.”

  I smothered a grin. I’d have to tell Hatcher about that one later.

  “It’s too crowded to meet here,” said Calhoun, glancing around.

  I agreed. “The library is open. How about we go there?”

  The library was usually closed on Sundays, but Mr. Henry and the staff had decided to keep it open for race day, so that visitors could use the restrooms. No unsightly porta-potties for Pumpkin Falls, no sirree. We headed back down Main Street toward the village green. Our town’s lone police car was parked outside the library. Inside, we found Officer Tanglewood at the front desk, chatting with Mr. Henry.

  Officer Tanglewood smirked at us. “Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew and—what is it you call yourselves? The Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes?”

  “As I recall, John,” said Mr. Henry, giving us a discreet wink, “these enterprising young people were the ones responsible for finding the sap rustler last March. And Truly here proved herself a real-life Nancy Drew indeed! You’ll remember that she was the one who found her sister when she went missing.”

  That wiped the smirk off Officer Tanglewood’s face.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Mr. Henry, and I explained that we were looking for a quiet spot to meet.

  “There’s no one in the children’s room at the moment,” he told us. “It’s all yours. I assume you’re turning your attention to the missing trophy. Any strategies you can share?”

  My friends all looked over at me. For some reason they’d decided I was in charge of the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes. Which I wasn’t.

  “Well,” I began, then stopped. We didn’t really have a plan yet. Officer Tanglewood saw me hesitate. His lips started to curl again, and I felt my face flush with annoyance. “I thought we’d ask Janet at the Patriot-Bugle if we could look over the photographs she took of the race this morning,” I said, plunging ahead with more confidence than I felt. “She may have taken one that shows where the trophy went, or who took it, if it’s been stolen.”

  “Brilliant!” said Mr. Henry. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Unless you’ve already taken care of that, John?”

  Now it was Officer Tanglewood’s turn to redden. “I was just about to.”

  “Crowdsourcing!” blurted Lucas. We all turned and stared at him, and not just because his voice had cracked.

  “Crowd what?” asked Jasmine.

  “Sourcing,” said Mr. Henry, who was a walking dictionary. Most librarians are. “Also brilliant. It means tapping the collective wisdom of the public—asking for their help, often through social media.”

  “Plenty of people besides Janet took pictures,” Lucas continued. “I saw them. We can put the word out online to send us anything that looks suspicious.”

  Mr. Henry turned to Officer Tanglewood. “I’m sure you’ve thought of that, too.”

  “Of course,” the policeman blustered, making it perfectly obvious that he hadn’t.

  “Well, it certainly can’t hurt to have these intrepid young people here duplicate your efforts,” Mr. Henry said smoothly. “The more the merrier when it comes to solving a mystery, right? Especially one involving such an important symbol of our town’s heritage.”

  Officer Tanglewood looked like he was wishing we’d all just disappear, Mr. Henry included. My friends and I headed upstairs, only too happy to oblige.

  “I love this place!” said Mackenzie happily.

  I did too. I’d been coming to the children’s room at the Pumpkin Falls Library since I was a little kid, and despite the fact that it was definitely in need of renovation—the paint was faded and peeling, for starters, and the chairs and sofas were nearly threadbare, and I suspected that the weird blotch on the ceiling meant there was a leak in the roof—it was one of the coziest places in town.

  We headed automatically for the floor pillows under the big bronze sculpture in the corner that depicted a scene from Charlotte’s Web. Everyone in the room except Calhoun, who had only moved here a couple of years ago, and Mackenzie, who had visited for the first time over Spring Break, had grown up sitting in the doorway of Zuckerman’s barn for story hour, beneath the bronze cobweb that contained Charlotte. At least now, at our age, we didn’t fight over who got to sit next to Wilbur and who got stuck next to Templeton.

  “What do we have so far?” I asked, pen poised over my notepad to start making a list. We almost always began our meetings by making a list. I jotted down two headings: What We Know and What We Don’t Know.

  “We know the trophy is missing,” said Lucas.

  Scooter shot him a look. “Duh!”

  “Scooter!” Mackenzie chided, which earned her a worshipful glance from Lucas.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Scooter. If anyone could make him behave, it was my cousin.

  “Maybe add a column for ‘Suspects,’ and one for ‘Action Items,’ ” suggested Calhoun. “I like Lucas’s idea for crowdsourcing—and yours, Truly, for looking at Janet’s photos.”