The Case of the Disappearing Corpse Read Online Free PDF Page B

kneed jeans, sloppy Harry Potter tee-shirt and scuffed sneakers and a tiny negative thought tried to sneak its way back in again. I growled and batted it away. Okay, these clothes may not be standard Private Investigator gear, but hey, I could always poke around in the Op shop—see if they had a trench coat, beret and a long silk scarf. Today would be a practice run.
    From this moment, I am Chiana Ryan, Private Investigator, ready to grill witnesses, take notes and get a lead on the two dodgy painter guys.
    Who knows, if I cracked this case wide open, I might even make a name for myself. In six months’ time, when I turned thirteen, Ken could nail a brass plate on our front door, saying, Chiana Ryan: Teenage Private Investigator for Hire .
    I paused for a mega-chilling thought.
    What if I got myself killed looking for Frank Skinner’s murderer and never made it to thirteen?
    Pushing that image from my mind as too icky to spend time on, I used my fingers to tame my wind-blown long hair. Then I put on the chewed sunglasses Leroy had mistaken for a Tim Tam and strode toward the first house. It was an old cottage, rusty, run-down, and tired looking. Lace curtains out of place with the crumbling window frames and the front door had a crack wide enough to stick two fingers in.
    I knocked softly. Waited. Nibbled my thumb nail. Then waited some more. Butterflies and moths and even a couple of possums started having a party in my stomach. What was I really doing here? No-one in their right mind would talk to a twelve year old kid with bird’s nest hair and freckles marching across her nose.
    I stood first on one foot then the other, but no-one answered the door. Good. Now, I could go spend the two dollars in my pocket on a chocolate bar and eat it sitting on the beach watching seagulls peck at each other. Instead of investigating bad guys. There were plenty of true crimes already solved that I could use for my book. Why did I need a ‘happening now’ crime?
    In self-disgust, I trudged towards the half-open gate, kicking at the sea of junk mail on the path. This wouldn’t have happened to a real P.I. A real P.I. would ring first to arrange an appointment.
    “Yeah. Wottayawant, kid?” The abrasive voice came from behind, making me jump. “If ya after money, I aint got any.”
    One hand on the rusty iron gate, I turned and pasted a size ten smile on my face. “Good afternoon, madam, do—”
    “Nah…don’t want none.”
    The woman peered at me through her long dirty yellow hair, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from her stained fingers.
    “But I’m not selling anything,” I bleated as the woman went to shuffle back inside. She turned and stood one hand on her hip, the other on the door handle.
    “Well,” she barked, “I aint got all day, kid. Spit it out! Wottayawant?”
    My smile a bit wobbly, I took a step forward. “Hi, I’m Chiana Ryan and I’m here about a murder. I’d like to—”
    The door banged. The hinges jerked. And the crack widened to three fingers.
    Hmm…perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up the word ‘murder’ quite so early in the conversation.
    Across the road, a bent old man in a gray cardigan and baggy trousers was pruning his roses. Okay, I was a fast learner. This time I wouldn’t come on so strong. I’d just lean over the fence, not mention the word murder and ask if he’d seen anything suspicious going on outside the church hall the day before.
    I hitched my shoulder-bag a little higher, pushed the stained hem of my tee into my jeans out of sight, and crossed the road.
    “Hi, Mister,” I began, checking him out for ‘scary’ or ‘dangerous.’ “Bit cold and windy today.”
    “I love the cold,” the old man answered, looking at me and smiling. “I was born and raised in Tasmania. High up in the snow country.” His smile was really sweet, even if his false teeth did distract me by jumping up and down as he spoke.
    “Do you spend much time outside?” I asked, leading him on