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      It is steaming in the room, and I am sweating through 

my dress. I am annoyed that I had to wear a dress. We are 

in the court, where most of my job is. Don’t get the wrong 

idea. I’m no lawyer; I am a spy. Top in my grade level and 

amazing for how young I am. 

     I am chewing on the inside of my cheeks because I’m 

bored and want to go home. My floating chair is getting 

uncomfortable, and strangely it smells of rotting fruit.

    I am writing down what everyone says and what 

they look like when they say it. You never know when a 

clue might slip by. 

    “Okay, Mrs. rrrr Skittles, what is your case? Why 

did you sue this man?” The judge asks.

    “Skit-tells,” the old lady says, emphasizing the last 

syllable. 

    “What?” the Judge spits out in a confused manner. 

    “You are supposed to pronounce it skit as in a 

small play and tells as in the girl tells you something. You 

pronounced it like the kind of candy.” 

      “Yeah, okay,” The judge responds, but I think she 

meant whatever, let’s get on with this. 

    “I had a necklace, a valuable necklace, stolen from 

me.”

    “Are you sure you didn't lose it?” the judge asks, 

more interested this time.

    “I am sure,” Mrs. Skittells says dramatically. “It 

was stolen.” 

    “I need evidence that you ever owned a necklace,” 

the judge says impatiently. 

      Mrs. Skittells trots up and slowly puts some photos on 

the judge’s huge desk. 

      The judge glances at them; then she yells, “Elizabeth 

Van Corkse!” She looks at me through her big glasses. She 

has hazel eyes and gray hair, but surprisingly she looks 

young yet. “Come look at these!”

      “Okay,” I say happily and skip up to the big, wooden 

desk. It was a picture of an old lady (Mrs. Skittells) and a 

young girl sitting on a bench. Wrapped around Mrs. 

Skittells neck was a swirling, curling, shiny, beautiful 

necklace with a huge, blue gem that looked like the ocean 

smack dab in the middle of the gold swirls. 

      “Can you find my misting necklace?” Mrs. Skittells 

asks me. 

       I ask, “You mean missing?”

      “Huh?”

      “You said misting instead of missing -- oh, never mind,” 

I say.

     Then the judge takes a large gulp of her coffee, and in 

that gulp, Mrs. Skittells ever so slightly, something that no 

one else noticed, tugs on her earlobe. A suspicious 

character a few seats away tugs in response. I write the 

action down. I definitely have a mystery to solve.

      Finally, we stop talking, and I get into my car. You 

might think I am too young to drive, but not with this car. 

The car drives itself. I just have to type in where I am going 

-- one of the awesome things about living in my time 

period.

    I drive to a restaurant where my interview with the man 

who was sued by Mrs. Skittells is. I ask the guy questions 

for about an hour. I could tell that he did not take anything. 

After the interview, I walk to my car when I see two people 

talking in the alley. I walk up close and hide behind a bush. 

It is Mrs. Skittells and the suspicious character who tugged 

on his earlobe back at her. I grab my phone and film their 

conversation. 

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