Middle school retrieval specialist Jeremy Wilderson must team up with preteen private detective Becca Mills once again to solve his most mind-boggling case yet in this action-packed MAX novel. Ahh, summer vacation! Jeremy Wilderson, Scottsville Middle School’s first (and only) retrieval specialist, is enjoying a slower-than-usual season of retrieving (NOT stealing) lost objects in order to help the under thirteen population of Scottsville. But crime doesn’t take a vacation! And when sabotage strikes Scottsville’s event of the year—the Summer Art Show—threatening to ruin the burgeoning painting career of Jeremy’s best friend, Case, it’s up to Jeremy to figure out what’s going on. Of course, his archrival Becca Mills, who just happens to think Jeremy, Case, and their friend Hack are involved in the crime, is also looking into it. Jeremy has only a few precious hours to stop the sabotage before more contest entries—and kids’ dreams—are slashed and burned. But Jeremy’s specialty is retrieval…not detective work! The only solution is to team up with Becca to solve the case, something Jeremy’s not exactly thrilled to do. Not to mention, he has to keep his alliance with Becca a secret from Case and Hack, who will disown him if they see him working with the enemy. Somewhere between being stuck inside an air vent and slathered in red paint, Jeremy has to wonder: is he in over his head? Allison K. Hymas holds an MFA from Brigham Young University and currently lives in Utah. She is the author of Under Locker and Key and Arts and Thefts . Arts and Thefts I HAD NO IDEA TROUBLE was brewing until Case busted through my back door at sunset one Thursday during summer vacation. Hey, don’t think that because I didn’t have my thumb pressed to the pulse of Scottsville’s criminal activity, I’d been slacking at my job. I’m not a crime lord, and I’m not a detective. My job starts after the crime has been committed, when the victim comes to me with a sob story and a slice of chocolate cake. That’s when I sneak in and retrieve the stolen object from under the thief’s nose. But I had tried to pay a little more attention that summer. If I’d been more attentive during the school year, I’d have known that Mark Chandler was a dirty criminal psychopath posing as an innocent victim—definitely not someone who needed my help. My contacts who usually told me when a potential client was looking for my skills, or any information I needed to retrieve something successfully, were gone. Cricket had packed up his impressive collection of denim clothing and left with his family for a few months in Canada, and Tomboy Tate had given me one last list of kids who were feuding (and thus may steal from one another) before going to summer camp. The silence on the underground wasn’t too odd, or even worrying. Summers are generally pretty chill work-wise for me, so on the sunny July day when our story begins, I had biked, swum, and played video games with Case and Hack. Then Case went off to meet Elena Trujillo at Comet Cream, which is an ice cream parlor that he frequents because it’s a good place to find clients from all over town. I avoid it because Becca Mills—the tiny yet terrifying private detective whose goal was to see me in detention for life—knows this fact. Fast-forward to an hour later, when Case burst into my house without knocking, eyes wild. “Dude,” I said. I had been sitting near the back door, waiting for a job if one came along and wasting time with summer reading (To Kill a Mockingbird), so I was there to greet him. “Next time, don’t hold back. Just kick the door off its hinges.” “We have a problem,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Yes,” a voice said. “A devious kid, wearing fingerless Eagles gloves and a shifty look, just infiltrated our house through the back door.” My seventeen-year-old brother, Rick, had made an appearance, coming in from the kitchen with a can of root beer. “Yet another illicit exchange for our Dr. Evil, and I appear to have stepped right into the middle. Oh my, what am I to do?” “How about shut up and go away?” I said as Case pulled a pencil out of the back of one his Philadelphia Eagles gloves (which he always wore to protect his artist hands) and anxiously tucked it over his ear. “How about no?” “J,” Case said, peering out the back door’s window. “We don’t have time for this.” “It’s summer,” I said. “We have all the time in the world.” “She’s right outside.” I went to the window and looked. Becca Mills was in my backyard, arms folded, grinning at Case and me through the window. “I’m sorry, man,” Case said. “I didn’t know she followed me.” “I expected better of your criminal friends, Wilderson,” she called. “Your forger should have known not to come straight here.” I turned back to Rick, who was taking a long gulp from his can of soda. He didn’t seem to have heard. But I had to get rid of him before words like “criminal” and “forger” infiltrated his thick skull