“This could be the case that puts our bodacious private investigative firm on the map!”
Climbing the ladder to my garage attic hideout, this minister’s second-born son waved a letter from James “Jim” Rankin, head football coach of the Ellwood City Wolverines, on the Saturday after Easter.
Bursting with excitement, I blurted out the good news to my boon companions — Robert “Robbie” G. Brough Jr. and Robert “Magsy” Magnifico — about the good fortune awaiting Trinity Detective Agency, our shared business enterprise.
“And the best part?” I said, smiling with a Cheshire cat grin. “We’d get paid 50 smackeroonies if we can solve the crime. That means we could split the unexpected windfall and still have enough left over to celebrate with a New York-style pepperoni pie from Johnny’s Pizza.”
“Let’s get back to the subject at hand,” Magsy — a bloodhound in disguise — urged, nudging Colonel Mustard three spaces forward on the Clue board spread across the coffee table. “If you don’t spill the beans about this mysterious case, I know a couple of gridiron ballers that are gonna treat you to an extra special dogpile.”
“I’m shakin’ like bacon,” I snickered, settling into the side chair opposite the police chief’s youngest son. “Coach Rankin walked through the Commons Area a week ago last Wednesday and noticed the championship trophy — awarded to the 1944 Wolverines for their undefeated season — was missing from the display case. He’s convinced foul play was involved.”
“You’re right!” exclaimed Robbie, sliding Professor Plum into the Conservatory to make an educated guess. “This case could be just the thing we need to shine a spotlight on our sleuthing venture — one that will have prospective clients lining up down the alley!”
“We might even get our photo splashed across the pages of the Ellwood City Ledger,” I proclaimed, fantasizing about fame and fortune.
“Dagnabbit,” fumed the Riverside High School administrator’s oldest son as I discreetly revealed the candlestick among my Clue cards.
“Hopefully, finding the missing trophy will be easier than playing this confounded board game!” he fumed.
By Monday morning, rumors about the missing “cherished” trophy were flying like gunshots across a battlefield. Stepping into the Commons Area, we found ourselves dodging the would-be bullets of speculation and gossip.
These mystery-solving crime busters found themselves immersed in a “real-life” game of Whodunit.
Whether as a sibling, spouse or grandchild, many of our teachers, caretakers and classmates shared a special connection to a member of the 1944 football team.
They’d all heard the sensational tales of that legendary team’s exploits, anchored by the illustrious trophy that had now vanished from the school’s most prominent display case.
Robbie pulled an oversized magnifying glass from his backpack and began inspecting the wall-mounted glass enclosure for fingerprints or jimmied locks; whereupon he overheard one of our fellow upperclassmen discussing the matter nearby.
“Francis ‘Fritz’ Keller, my grandfather, was the team’s equipment custodian,” remarked Gary Keller, a high school sophomore, chatting with his friends near the ramp to the educational wing. “Because of his gimp leg, he couldn’t play, but he made sure the gear was always pressed and ready for every win that season.”
Later that morning, Magsy and his eighth-grade science class got an earful from their teacher, who shared the tale of how Riverside cheerleaders had toilet-papered “Lady Liberty” at the main entrance to the campus back when he was a young buck.
“Eugene Luxenberg, my brother-in-law, was a member of the 1944 football team,” touted Mr. Lee Ghere, pulling his young charges into his web of suspicions. “He’d love to see that trophy turn up — even if the evidence points straight to our arch rivals across the county line.”
While passing through the lunch line for Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes, I overheard one of the lunch ladies sharing her thoughts on the matter with a coworker behind the counter.
“Do I think something nefarious happened to that trophy?” wondered Mrs. Rose Paglia as she scooped canned corn onto students’ trays. “My husband, Nick — who was a senior that season — suspects it’s one of the custodians, probably Felice ‘Fuzzi’ Fazioli, playing a practical joke on all of us.”
However, I was on a mission to track down a specific photo after learning that the Y-Teens held a dance in the school cafeteria on the night in question, with the yearbook photographer there to capture the celebrated event.
A certain snapshot captured a shadowy figure wearing a hat as they opened the trophy case.
During history class, I showed the black-and-white glossy photo to our resident crime sniffer. He instantly recognized not just the signature hat, but the man wearing it.
As soon as the bell rang, the black-haired Italian told us to stay by our phones while he checked something out at the police department.
Once I stepped into the house after getting home from school, the phone rang. It was the leader of the pack, requesting my presence at a jewelry shop on Lawrence Avenue downtown.
Skipping my after-school snack, I darted out the back door, grabbed my infamous purple bike from the two-car garage and pedaled across the Fifth Street Bridge.
Our trio of two-wheelers pulled up to the rendezvous point — Kimpel’s Jewelers — at the same time. Through the front window, we spotted Mr. Dominick Magnifico, our assistant principal, clasping the championship trophy.
The precocious redhead and I exchanged glances, our eyes landing on Magsy, who, as it turned out, was none other than the school administrator’s nephew.
“My uncle was the shadowy figure in the photo,” he noted. “He removed the trophy for routine cleaning and repairs.”
“I had a feeling you super sleuths might be waiting for me here,” chuckled the tall man with a receding hairline, clutching a piece of Wolverines pride. “When Magsy’s dad called me earlier, I never imagined the whole school would be caught up in this so-called brouhaha over a missing trophy — or that youns had been hired to crack the case.”
“Not long after I hunted down a photograph taken by the yearbook photographer,” I said, “this sharp-nosed bloodhound of ours wasted no time pointing the paw squarely at you as the prime suspect.”
“From the sounds of it, you boys had quite an adventure,” Mr. Magnifico chuckled. “I just hope it didn’t interfere with any of your schoolwork.”
“No way, Jose!”
“Under the circumstances,” mentioned the debonair gentleman, making eye contact with each one of us. “I think it would be more than appropriate for your newly formed detective agency to take credit for solving the case.”
The following day, a photograph of these three private investigators handing the 1944 championship trophy back to the football coach was splashed across the front page of the local newspaper, labeling them hometown heroes.