The Great Shelby Holmes Read Free Page B

hair emerged from the deli. “Look at what they did to my storefront!”
    The metal security gate that was drawn over one side of the deli had A GHRA spray-painted across it in big red letters.
    “Tell me everything that happened, Kristos,” Shelby insisted.
    The deli’s name was Kristos, so I deduced he was the owner.
    (See, Shelby wasn’t the only person who could figure out things without being told!
    So there.
    John Watson: one. Shelby Holmes: a gazillion.)
    Before Kristos could tell his story, a woman with a badge on her belt appeared from inside the deli. She groaned upon seeing Shelby. “Leave this to the police, Holmes. We can handle this without your interference.”
    “I’m sure you can, Detective Lestrade.” Shelby smiled sweetly at her. It was the first time I’d seen her smile, and it looked really unnatural on her.
    “It’s a basic case of vandalism, end of story.”
    “Then you shouldn’t mind if I take a teensy look around?” she asked the detective, her tone innocent. Shelby then turned toward Kristos. “Would you get me a Fudgsicle? I’m going to need a lot of sugar for this.”
    Kristos obediently ran into the deli.
    “Holmes,” the detective scolded. “I told you, we’ve got this.”
    “Just like you had the guy who robbed Sal’s last month?”
    Lestrade narrowed her eyes. “That was pure luck, kid.”
    Ah! The free pizza finally made sense. (Shelby turning down said free pizza was still a mystery.)

    “Just a quick glance.” Shelby reached into her backpack and took out a measuring tape. She began to measure the graffiti from every angle. She took a few steps back and then paced some more, talking to herself the entire time, until Kristos handed her the Fudgsicle.
    Sir Arthur was lying on the ground, his legs stretched out. He knew we were going to be a while.
    While Shelby studied the graffiti, I tried to think of what A GHRA could stand for.
    This was what I came up with: absolutely nothing.
    It was five letters. That wasn’t a lot of evidence.
    For a regular person.
    Shelby approached the detective, who was talking to a fellow officer. “I assume you’ve been able to deduce that the vandal was Irish, about six foot one, with a rotator cuff injury on their right arm? Most likely a baseball pitcher. I doubt there are a great many people in the area who fit that description.”
    “Is that true?” the police officer asked Lestrade. “How does she know that?”
    “It’s quite simple,” Shelby began to explain. “Generally, people write at eye level, and this graffiti is fairly high up on the gate, which explains the vandal’s height. Also, handwriting tends to slope upward. This gradually slopes downward. That leads me to presume that the person’s shoulderhas limited range. A ghrá is Irish for ‘my love.’ The apartment building across the street is known as Little Dublin since the majority of residents are Irish students attending Columbia. This appears to be an act of love.” Her nose twitched as if she smelled something gross.
    “That’s incredible,” the officer remarked with his mouth slightly agape. His eyes lit up. “You’re that girl? I’ve heard about you!” Lestrade quickly waved him off.
    “New guy,” Lestrade muttered. “While it’s always a pleasure to watch you work”—Lestrade said it in a way that let you know she felt exactly the opposite—“there’s no need to blow this out of proportion. Vandalism happens every day. We’re not going on a wild-goose chase for some guy solely because of your hunches. Seriously, Holmes, what do you expect us to do?”
    Shelby stood up tall to the detective, although she was still two feet shorter than her. “How about your job?”
    Uh-oh.
    I might’ve been new to the neighborhood, but I was pretty sure getting sassy with a police officer was never a wise move. For anybody. I took a few steps back, wondering if I would draw suspicion if I ran as far away from Shelby as I could. Although I realized