The Pizza Mystery Read Free

oven isn’t going. Usually it’s warm as toast in here.”
    Henry shook the door so the little bell would jingle again. “Maybe the Piccolos didn’t hear us.”
    Finally, an old, white-haired man came out from the kitchen area in back. He looked at the Aldens as if they were strangers. The man almost seemed a stranger, too. But he wasn’t. He was the Aldens’ good friend, Mr. Piccolo, but he seemed much older.
    â€œI’m sorry, but my oven isn’t working today,” the old man said. “But my wife and I can make you a sandwich or salad if you want.”
    Watch pulled away from Jessie and went up to the old man. The dog kept on wagging his tail eagerly until the old man noticed whose head he was patting.
    â€œOh, my!” the man cried. “It’s Watch! And the Aldens! Oh, my, oh my! What a poor day it is when I don’t recognize my old friends!”
    Mr. Piccolo pulled his glasses from the pocket of his white apron. As soon as he put them on, his face lit up.
    Mr. Alden put his hand out for a handshake. “Good to see you, Mr. Piccolo. Sorry we didn’t call ahead from Tom’s garage. We left there in a bit of confusion.”
    Mr. Piccolo pulled on one side of his bushy, white mustache. “No apologies, Mr. Alden. You know you and your family can come here anytime.” Then his voice dropped so low the Aldens could hardly hear him. “Well, I guess this is not the best time—no, not the best time at all. But here, sit down. I’ll tell Nina you’re here. She’s trying to coax the little oven in the empty apartment upstairs to make a pizza.”

    Jessie ran out back and tied up Watch in the small back garden. Then she joined her family around their favorite table.
    Benny looked around for the basket of crispy breadsticks. The Piccolos always kept them on the table for hungry customers. But there were no breadsticks to be seen. There was a stack of the red-and-white check tablecloths folded on the counter, but the tables were bare.
    â€œI guess Tom was right about something being wrong,” Violet whispered sadly. “There’s no one here but the Piccolos. The tables aren’t even set.”
    Henry shook his head. “Something doesn’t add up. That big factory right next door—there must be hundreds of hungry workers in there. Why aren’t they in here?”
    â€œAh,” Mr. Piccolo answered, when he came back and overheard Henry’s question. “I knew your family would see how things are. Today, well, today is another bad day. So many like this one. So many,” he sighed. “This week it’s the gas line to my oven not working. You know my oven. My father built that oven brick by brick when he came from Italy years ago. Not once did that oven quit. But now? No more gas in it. The builders digging at the factory, they cracked the gas line last week. You think we can make our pizza in a tiny apartment oven upstairs? No! No! No!”
    â€œYes! Yes! Yes!” Benny cried. “Hi, Mrs. Piccolo.” He smiled at the woman who walked toward them with a tray of pizza.
    She set the pizza in front of Benny. “For you,” she said to Benny. After Henry cut the pizza into sections, Mrs. Piccolo frowned. “This pizza—it’s not what you came for. But it’s all we could manage with what I have. Go on. Take a bite.”
    The Aldens ate politely. None of them had the heart to tell the truth. This was not Piccolos’ famous hot, crispy pizza. This pizza from the apartment oven upstairs was lukewarm and rubbery. Still, this didn’t matter to the Aldens. Their dear friends had made this food, so they ate every bite.
    Mr. Alden put down his napkin. “Tell us, why aren’t you busy as all get out with that big new factory next door? Those workers must get hungry at lunch.”
    Mr. Piccolo pulled on his mustache and shook his head. “They are hungry, too