The Gum Chews: Pretty Close to the Truth

By JoAnna Rowe

Mysterious bags picked up at school, suspicious new characters in town, one dead millionaire, and lots of gum. What do they all have in common? Not one thing until Icabum Plum and the Gum Chews begin to connect the dots. It's an open-and-shut case for a quick-talking master detective like Icabum Plum--if something far more serious wasn't clouding his judgment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350958836

JoAnna Rowe

Learn more about this author at www.JoAnnaRowe.com

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Cover of The Gum Chews: Pretty Close to the Truth by JoAnna Rowe

The Gum Chews: Pretty Close to the Truth

© 2024 JoAnna Rowe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 979-8-35095-882-9

eBook ISBN 979-8-35095-883-6

For Jack

Contents

Day 1:

The One & Only

Day 2:

Two-Point Pocket Square

Day 3:

Three-Piece Suit

Day 4:

My Forte

Day 5:

Five-Fingered Mother Snatcher

Day 6:

Sixth Jessica

Day 7:

Seven Trombones

Day 8:

Magic Eight Ball

Day 9:

Nine Lives

Day 10:

Ten Bubble-Yo

Day 11:

Eleven Rices and Beans

Day 12:

Twelve Inquiries

Day 13:

Thirteen-Ten Dovetail Drive

Day 1:

The One & Only

The stuff that dreams are made of.

– The Maltese Falcon, 1941

Log Entry: Wednesday

Time: The Afternoon

Location: School Office

Crime is slow, and I have myself to blame for my boredom. I’m too good of a detective and even better at training my team of Gum Chews to sweep our sleepy town of Circle’s End. My fellow investigators know to stay vigilant and not ignore suspicion—even if it means suffocating in this stuffy school office right now. Someone needs to follow this lead, and my friends are caught up watching funny cat videos.

I drag a breath. It feels like used gym socks suck up into my nostrils. Summer’s encroaching on the concrete jungle I call school, and the air conditioner is on the fritz. A casual move to wipe sweat from my brow allows me to scan the office. Drab and mundane. A perfect place for a stakeout.

I think through what has led me here.

On Monday, I wandered into the school’s parking lot while crossing out dead-end clues from my field notebook when a black van nearly hit me. The driver double-parked and walked purposefully to this office. I stormed after him with a lecture on my tongue. Our new secretary, Ms. Peppermint, redirected the man before I could hear where. He smelled expensive. Too expensive for an average deliveryman. He was there and gone before I knew it. That was at 3:05 p.m. Five minutes later, I caught the man again. He exited the gate to the schoolyard with a black trash bag in his hands and drove away. I jotted down the license plate AB3GN55. Apple-Berry-3-Gorilla-Nuts-5-5, I repeated to myself.

I had the itch—the detective itch, that is—which feels somewhere between a mosquito bite and a peeling sunburn. After a string of dead-end leads, I had nothing better to do than stake out the front office the next day. But I was too late. At 3:10 p.m., the van drove off when I reached the parking lot. License plate: Apple-Berry-3-Gorilla-Nuts-5-5. Before I could question witnesses, someone paged me over the intercom, Icabum, your mom is looking for you.

Two black bags in a row is a cause for suspicion. If it happens today, the Gum Chews and I will launch an investigation.

The heat weighs on my concentration, but I’m a trained detective. Stakeouts are my specialty. Tap, tap, tap. I blink toward the noise.

Ms. Peppermint raps a red-clawed finger on the counter. I’ve messaged Janitor Honey with your concerns, she says. Find somewhere else to sleep, Icabum. I stand up straighter. Is she trying to get rid of me?

I observe her closer. Ms. Peppermint is an ink drop of fuchsia clothing and lipstick in this colorless room. She’s the only person ever in the office and may know the deliveryman. The sheen of perspiration on her brow is spoiled evidence. Everyone is sweaty these days, not just nervous criminals. The secretary returns to typing slowly on her computer. Zombies move faster.

I read the time on my pocket watch with an inconspicuous flick of my wrist before slipping it back into my waistcoat pocket. The bag pickups have happened between 3:05 p.m. and 3:10 p.m. There are still a few more minutes. I can’t abandon my watch yet.

I get an idea. Behind me, I open and close the side door to the office, pretending to leave, and then I watch Ms. Peppermint. She blinks away a glazed look from her eyes, but she doesn’t react to my leaving. Is she distracted or tired? Her teeth clench when she lets a stifled yawn seep out of her flared nostrils, making a noise like a mewling midnight cat. Her eyes are glossy when she recovers. A broken fingernail gets her attention next. She’s completely oblivious to me standing here.

Gum Chew and master hacker Tyler Chokeberry ran a background check on the new secretary earlier today. All we found out was that Ms. Peppermint relocated to Circle’s End after a divorce. I observe her now. A helmet by her purse implies she rides a two-wheeler. Her bright shirt is covered in hair. It’s either from a pet or she’s a werewolf. There are two windows open on her computer screen: one for a local dating site and one for Taekwondo lessons.

Ms. Peppermint yawns again. Was she up late? I consider the werewolf theory again and shake my head. She checks her phone with a frown. Waiting for someone, Ms. Peppermint? Maybe someone in a black van? I lean over the counter. My pocket watch chain clinks against the wood.

The secretary yelps. Goodness, how long have you been standing there?

Tires screech. I snap my gaze to the window and grin. I’ve been here long enough, it seems. A black van has arrived. License plate: Apple-Berry-3-Gorilla-Nuts-5-5.

I’m ready to karate kick this investigation into drive, but I steel myself as the deliveryman approaches. Tall, dark, handsome, I suppose, in a black polo and pants like last time.

Ms. Peppermint is on her feet. She wets her fuchsia lips as purposefully as a serpent or as sloppily as a hungry dog. I can’t tell which is more accurate, but it’s something.

Bells jingle when the man pushes through the door. It’s a different man than I remember. A wail from excited students outside invades the room before the door slams shut. I busy myself with a pencil nearby, but I’m not missing one detail. 3:05 p.m. on the dot.

Sir? Ms. Peppermint’s voice reaches a wedgie-induced pitch. Is she worried? Her eyes are no longer sleepy but twinkle with life. Wait, is she excited? She pats her blonde, aerosol-abused curly hair.

When the man stares at me longer than the courteous three-second rule, my other senses take over. I look without looking, lowering my eyes to the countertop and listening.

I was directed to send 3:00 p.m. pickups around the building, Ms. Peppermint announces.

Directed? By whom? I think to myself.

Find the first door past the basketball court and knock.

I tilt my head. I don’t know what door that is.

I know, the man replies with a growl. Just buzz me in. I hate his tone.

My eyes lock on the man once he leaves and passes the windows to the schoolyard gate. He holds an angry, annoyed expression the whole time. This is not your standard delivery service.

Ms. Peppermint seems to have woken from her stupor. Her eyes find me. She frowns. Can I help you with anything else, dear?

Nope. I try to crack her under my hard-boiled detective stare.

She winces. Are you feeling okay? Why don’t you go see the nurse?

She’s still trying to get rid of me. I release my ocular grip and spin a grin. I’ve never felt better.

Good. Well, that’s a fine vest you have on today.

Vest? Grandmas wear vests. This is a waistcoat. I serve the uncultured Ms. Peppermint another endearing smile. Yes, Ole Tolliver at Farney Fig’s Fit and Flare Tailor Shop cuts a fine waistcoat.

She chortles. Do you always wear one with your PE clothes?

A shiver runs through me, reminding me that I’m in sweatshorts still. Someone tossed my clothes in the locker room toilet while I worked on an excuse to get out of PE class.

I brush sarcasm from my tongue. A mishap. I keep an extra waistcoat in my locker.

I try not to sneer and fail when she says it’s a trend to mismatch these days. I’m joshin’ with you, Ms. Peppermint adds and flinches. She grabs a fluorescent pink sticky note and scribbles one sentence with haste. It says Butternut at the dock at 7 p.m.

I pick a flake of triumph off my waistcoat. This case has tentacles, and it looks like it’s given me plans for tonight.

A gate outside thunks. I control my hoot as the deliveryman marches past the row of windows with a bulging, black trash bag in his hands. I note his disheveled collar.

Is that someone’s dry cleaning? I say. The bag is clearly not dry cleaning, but I risk my stakeout to get a reaction from the ogling secretary. No response.

Her storm-gray eyes follow the deliveryman. Ms. Peppermint sighs wistfully. When she remembers I’m there, she purses her lips before pulling them into the minimal definition of a smile. She nudges her head toward the door. Good day, Icabum.

My grin is feral with the thirst for a new investigation. Good day, Ms. Peppermint. I back out of her hair—for now.

Log Entry: Wednesday

Time: The Afternoon

Location: School to The Cravin’ Shack

"N ice outfit, Ica- dumb ," I hear from behind me in the school hallway.

In a smooth motion, I step forward—away from the voice I know too well—turn, catch the bully’s glare, and step backward out of reach. Good of you to notice, Steaky. I’m a favorite rattle of the massive eighth-grade bully, so we’re on pet-name terms.

The kid steps forward with a snarl and spits down at me. Freak.

I brush off my waistcoat as if I can brush off the word.

Nothing unnerves a bully more than kindness. May the sun shine down on you always, dear Steaky. Steaky’s left shoulder leans for the attack. I notice his unlaced shoe. I shift, so he’ll have to cross his legs to get to me.

The beast snarls again. His short-cropped hair is like the nape of a bristling wolf. My eyes grow wide. He steps, catches his laces, and stumbles. Without another thought, I quickly find somewhere else to be.

Outside, I survey the grounds of Don Kiwi Middle School. I’m riding the wave of a new case, but my job as a detective doesn’t allow a break. My field notebook is in my hand to mark any curiosities.

A shadow covers me from behind. My gut clenches. Hmph, I hear and release my breath. I know that sound as well as I know my birthmark. It’s my best friend, Enzo Lemon. At six feet high and growing, he’s the tallest eleven-year-old I’ve ever seen. He hates that he stands out.

Enzo looks down at my outfit and frowns. His black, bowl-cut hair covers his green eyes completely. He’s a kid of few words, and his voice is a whispered mumble when he does speak. I pat my buddy on the back, telling him my ego will get over the sweatshort situation. We don’t need words. I know him, and he knows me.

Enzo stares at his shoes and tightens his backpack on his back, a silent signal he’s waiting for me.

Let’s go, I reply. I need a soda. My friend follows beside me. I buy a can for each of us from the vending machine. We chug them as we walk three blocks to The Cravin’ Shack, the diner where my mom works.

When we swig our drinks simultaneously, Enzo hits the back of my head with his elbow. I think he forgets I’m thirteen and a half inches shorter than him. I give him a shove with zero effect, and he rumbles a donkey laugh.

My smirk lowers. The delivery happened again today.

Enzo’s lips purse.

Yep. We need to alert the other Gum Chews that this is an active investigation.

Humph.

No. Not all hands on deck yet. You and I need to do a little more sniffing.

I see his brow raise when he tilts his head.

I need your help tonight. I saw a suspect sketch out a code on a sticky note. I want to check it out. Meet me at the dock tonight at 6:50.

Enzo blinks and nods.

I take another sip. I’m calling this the Black Bag case.

K.

After several minutes of walking, sweat soaks my collar. I forgot to put sunscreen on this morning, and my fair flesh is burning.

When we reach The Cravin’ Shack, Enzo waves goodbye and continues home to the more expensive part of town. He may be rich, but he’s pretty much on his own most of the time. His parents travel a lot, leaving him with his nanny or with me when I can swing it.

I yank open the door to the diner. A stench blast of grease slaps me. Mom works the drive-through speaker. She smiles at me with a mountain of love and holds up a pointer finger.

I toss a lazy wave, slide into a red vinyl booth, and settle in. The last sip of my soda swirls in my grip as I sweep my eyes across the dining room. I search for the owner of the joint, Big Herb, to mark his movements. No sign of the big slob. It’s a good thing. I’m finding it harder to watch my tongue around him. It’s important I keep away from his attention. He’s scum between my toes. He’s every loogie I’ve hawked into the sewer. I hate how he treats people. I hate how he talks to my mom—

My mom spots me again and smiles. I smirk, but it dips when she turns back around. I shake the thoughts out of my head and get back to work. Big Herb’s not here, so my attention walks the room. All a bunch of nothing.

The last sip of my soda is flat. I hiss and push it away. Without slowing the easy flow of my eagle eye, I unwrap a Bubble-Yo gum, pop it into my mouth, and chomp on it while easing back against the cracked cushion.

Hey, sweetheart, Mom says, out of breath. She blinks and chuckles. Where are your clothes?

Mishap, I mumble.

Oh. She knows it must be something bad if I allow people to see me like this. She’ll try to fish it out of me later, but I won’t bite. There’s no need to add more worries to her plate.

Ready to go? she adds.

I cock my brow with lazy amusement. "Certainly, Angel," I reply, barely moving my lips and not my teeth.

Mom knows my favorite character impression all too well: the one and only detective Sam Spade from the classic movie The Maltese Falcon.

She swirls a finger at my face and the look I’m holding. Those black-and-white Humphrey Bogart movies you watch all the time have soaked your brain.

If you are referring to the art form known as classic Hollywood crime drama, then yes, I know every masterpiece film, many of which include Bogart.

While I’m glad you appreciate things that are dated—

Dated? My voice cracks, dropping me out of character. I throw her an offended glance and go back to searching the diner. Classic is history, Mom. My eyes stop on a lone man who checks his phone.

"Bogart’s characters are violent and kind of vulgar, and I hope they don’t influence you to cross the line too far that you get in serious trouble—Icky, stop spying on that man. Do not stick your nose into people’s business anymore. You may no longer be grounded from your spring break recklessness, but let’s remember why I took away your podcast."

I wince. Two weeks into my home arrest for my misadventure to the Classic Film Festival during spring break, my eye on the world became the size of my living room window. I grew mad with boredom and fixated on Maude Punch’s extra-large purse as she walked by several times a day. She became the focus of my crime podcast episode, Eye on the World. I may have been too convincing that the eighty-year-old was part of an international smuggling ring. My podcast grew to over 10,000 followers, including the FBI, who soon surrounded tiny Maude, her huge purse, and the pet ferret that lived inside it.

I quickly redirect the conversation away from myself. Bogart movies aren’t violent and vulgar. They’re PG-13 compared to movies today.

You’re eleven, not thirteen.

I’m basically thirteen. And if not for Humphrey Bogart playing the character Sam Spade, I would never have developed my supreme self-awareness or the ability to spot that man over there placing illegal gambling bets on his phone.

Mom steps to block my view of the man I’ve been eyeing. Leave crime for Sheriff Bass. Come on. Let’s go.

Fine, I say. I’ll let this one go because your mom-face is unsettling.

She gives a devilish grin. My mom-face is your kryptonite.

Aren’t you a little old to be referencing Spiderman?

It’s from Superman. She chuckles. And no, I’m not too old. Classic is history, remember?

I tap my temple with a finger. With our brains and looks, we can go places, I say with a detective tough-talk strain in my voice and my gum lodged in my cheek.

Mom sighs and walks away, unwrapping her apron from her waist. She lets the door crash shut between us. I slide out of the booth and follow her to our car, a Chevy Chevette—the actual definition of dated.

School okay today? she asks, pushing a clump of auburn hair out of her face that’s fallen from her bun. We have the same color hair, but mine looks darker when I have it plastered down with EZ GEL, just like Humphrey Bogart wore his.

A pile of dung with a new tag, I reply. My head collides with the headrest as our car jerks out of the parking spot.

Watch your mouth, Icky. I do not like your manners these days.

The dialogues from all seventy-five of Humphrey Bogart’s films swirl through my mind in an endless loop. I lock my jaw, gravel up my voice, and act out one of my favorite Bogart scenes: And I’m not crazy about yours. I didn’t ask to see you. I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. I don’t like them myself!

Icky!

I don’t let up and keep in character. My manners are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings. I don’t mind your ritzing me while drinking your lunch out of a bottle. But don’t waste your time trying to cross-examine me.

Icabum Plum. Stop—

"It’s from Bogart’s movie The Big Sleep, 1946."

I don’t care if it’s from a movie—the original or the remake.

Nothing great should ever be remade. It’s why you should always identify the date of a classic.

Whatever. If your dad—

Wasn’t in Savannah with his new family? Silence sucks the oxygen from the car. I wish I could pick each of those words out of the air where they linger and shove them back into my mouth.

My cheeks burn, but she knows better than to bring up my dad.

Sorry, I mumble, watching her stare out the windshield. No looking ahead. No tomorrow, just today.

She chuckles sadly and pinches my knee.

"It’s from Only Angels Have Wings, 1939. See? I don’t only learn bad things from my movies." I crack a smirk when her smile grows, but mine falters when I see a bluish-purple bruise on the back of her upper arm—a V impression from a thumb and pointer finger.

Someone has hurt her, and I know exactly who it is. I turn forward and gaze blankly through the glass, fighting the heat of anger snaking around in my chest. Patience, I tell it.

I’ll get Big Herb. I swear it.

Log Entry: Wednesday

Time: The Evening

Location: My Home

The hot dog slices sizzle in the pan. The water for the mac and cheese boils. When ready, I drop the pasta with a thud into a strainer. My mouth moves to every word of The Big Sleep , 1946, which I have blaring on the mini kitchen TV. I can recite this whole movie as quickly as I can count.

Actress Lauren Bacall, portraying the character Vivian, says, What will your first step be? 

Icon Humphrey Bogart, as the equally iconic character Philip Marlowe, replies, The usual one. 

Vivian says, I didn’t know there was a usual one. 

Turn it down, Icky! Mom shouts from the living room.

After this! I yell back.

Philip Marlowe: Well, sure there is. It comes complete with diagrams on page 47 of ‘How to be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons’ correspondent school textbook— 

Now, Icabum! Mom yells. Or I’ll stop hemming these pants.

"They’re called trousers, Mom. Very well, you cruel woman, you. I turn the TV off. Food’s ready, but I need to go. I’ll eat later."

In a blink, Mom appears like a wraith in the doorway. Where are you going?

Enzo needs help stringing sentences together and adding punctuation and such for an English worksheet about sentence structure and punctuation.

"Is your homework done?"

I cock my head and smirk. Three years of straight As didn’t make themselves.

She pinches her lips to the side and nods. I want no trouble.

In this sleepy town?

You always manage to wake it up. Need I remind you of spring break? You are fresh off of being grounded.

I wave a surrendering hand to the broken record. She will hold that over my head for the next ten years. No trouble, I promise. The fingers of my other hand are crossed in my pocket.

She folds her arms. One hour. Okay?

I’ll try.

"Icabum."

Gotta change.

You’re already in a suit.

This is daywear. I need my double-breasted coat.

Is a double-breasted coat necessary for tutoring?

Is breathing necessary? I need to dress for business, not pleasure, but both mean the same thing to me.

She sighs. "Here, take your trousers. They’re ready."

But you said—

She smirks and tosses me the trousers.

Ah, you’re a doll, a real doll.

I hurry to my room. I have thirty minutes until I need to meet Enzo.

Log Entry: Wednesday

Time: The Evening

Location: The Dock

I speed through the streets to the dock a mile away. My collar flaps in the wind. The day is closing its sleepy eye. The night is young, and the cooling air brightens my spirits.

Enzo looks up from the bench he’s on when he hears my bike tires skid. He tilts his head to see beneath his thick bowl of shiny, black hair.

Sup, he mumbles.

I sigh when I see what he’s wearing. Navy blue sweatpants, size fifteens of those new basketball shoes people fought over, and a ridiculous T-shirt that says Let’s Get Ridiculous. I’ll never get him to dress the part.

I dump my bike next to his and check the time. 6:50 p.m. Enzo watches me slip into stakeout mode. As I taught on one of my podcasts, The Anatomy of a Proper Stakeout, I push up my collar to hide my face.

Rest in peace, podcasts. At least the old episodes are still online to support future generations. My