I sat in the kitchen. I was eating 🎵 a waffle with a thick layer of powdered sugar. I pressed the red button 🎵 on my dad’s tape recorder.

“Detective’s log 🎵. Tuesday, ten o’clock in the morning. The sun is glaring like a spotlight in an interrogation room. It is too quiet in Maple Heights. Quiet always means trouble.”

I took a bite of my waffle. Trouble had just knocked on the door 🎵.

At the door stood Igor, known around the neighborhood as the Sandbox Informant. He rarely leaves his territory. He reads books about dinosaurs and space, and he knows the answers to questions no one has even asked—but he only talks when he gets paid. Usually in gummy bears.

“It’s gone,” he said. “My Golden Shovel. Someone swiped it before breakfast.”

The case was serious. The Golden Shovel was to Igor what waffles were to me.

“I will find it,” I said firmly.

I put on my bright yellow raincoat 🎵. I buttoned it all the way up to my neck. I put on my sunglasses 🎵. I was ready. Suddenly, from down the hall came the voice of The Chief:

“Timmy, take Boris on patrol!”

I sighed. Boris is my two-year-old brother and my silent partner. I packed him into his stroller. I pressed a rattle into his hand 🎵. We headed out into the field. The stroller wheels 🎵 squeaked on the pavement like an old door.

We reached the sandbox. The scene was untouched, except for one detail. Right in the middle was a hole—a perfect square. I bent down to look for clues. Just then, Boris leaned out of the stroller, grabbed a handful of sand, and tried to eat it 🎵.

“Leave that, partner,” I muttered, wiping his face. “That’s evidence.”

I had a lead. A square hole meant only one name.