The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes, #3)

by Brittany Cavallaro

MY FATHER PLAYED MADONNA ALL THE WAY TO NEW YORK City. Not the hits, the stuff you’d generally hear on the radio, but deep cuts. Weird stuff. My father was more of a Bob Dylan guy, so I’d already raised an eyebrow at his choices, but this was weirdness squared. Especially since he apparently knew all the words to “This Used To Be My Playground.”

This album is GOLD.

The dean and the detective and the headmistress all peered at me. “You’re saying that a man named Moriarty ate your homework,” the dean said. “So to speak.” Detective Shepard cleared his throat. “It isn’t totally impossible.”

“Seriously?” The words flew out of me. “Are you serious? Are you actually, totally serious?” My father looked faintly worried. “Jamie,” he said. “‘Wuz.’ They spelled it ‘wuz.’ ‘Wuz’! I’m in AP English! I read a lot! I read books. Big fucking books! I read Tolstoy, and Faulkner, and—‘wuz’?”