She cocked her head to one side, her blonde hair cascading over her right shoulder like a shampoo commercial. “Huh. Well, then I guess I’ll be typing up my notes. See you tomorrow, Bender.”

For a second, I swore a glimmer of triumph sparked her eyes, and I suddenly found myself wondering if maybe the blonde wasn’t as dumb as I’d originally thought.

Before I could protest, she’d turned on her kitten heels and was sashaying to her tiny little bug.

I clenched my jaw. So help me, if I wasn’t being watched by a dozen security cameras right now…

“Ready to go?”

I turned to find Cal behind me, hands in his pockets.

“More than ready.”

Because I had a sinking feeling that if I didn’t get my version of the hearing in to Felix tonight, there was a strong chance Blondie might conveniently forget my name on that byline.

By the time Cal dropped me back off at my bike and insisted on following me home, it was dark and I was starving. Luckily, Aunt Sue had actually remembered the lasagna recipe. Unluckily, she’d forgotten to take it out of the oven. I pushed through the front door and into a thick cloud of marinara-flavored smoke. Coughing, I staggered through the kitchen, removed the offending casserole—which resembled a charred brick now—and opened up all the windows.

“Peanut, that you?” Aunt Sue called from the living room. I could hear the strains of The Price Is Right on the Game Show Network in the background.

“It’s me. How long has this lasagna been in the oven?”

“I put it in just after Deal or No Deal.”

Five hours. No wonder the place reeked.

“I think we might be having takeout tonight,” I shot back.

“Oh, let’s have Chinese,” Aunt Sue agreed happily, shuffling into the kitchen. “Or maybe Indian. You know how I love curry.”

“I do know.” I used a spatula to try to wedge the noodle brick out of the pan. No luck.

“Oh, or Italian! That’s my favorite.”

“I know.”

“I make a mean lasagna,” Aunt Sue said, a faraway look in her eyes.

I sighed. “I know.”

I gave up on the spatula and stuck the whole thing in the trash. I’d buy a new pan tomorrow.

“What’s that awful smell?”

I turned to find Hattie Carmichael standing in the front doorway, wrinkling her nose.

“We had a little cooking mishap,” I said, pulling the number for the Peking Palace off the refrigerator and dialing the phone.

“I made lasagna,” Aunt Sue said.

“Ugh, it smells like you overcooked it,” Mrs. Carmichael said.

“Ya think?” I mumbled, listening to the phone ring on the other end.

“Anyway, I came over because there’s this strange car parked across the street. I just don’t know who it belongs to, so I was about to call the police.”