“Yes, Miss Pacini?” he said, looking into the rearview mirror.

“Please send three cases of our noodles and sauce to these poor Americans.”

“I’ll do it the second we return, Miss.”

“Thank you.” She looked back at Tick. “He’s such a good butler. You really should get one.”

“Yeah, right,” Tick said, sharing a laugh with his dad. “The only thing my family’s invented is Edgar Stew, and trust me,”—he lowered his voice into a pretend whisper—“it wouldn’t sell.”

“At least your mom’s a good cook,” his dad chimed in, ignoring Tick’s insult. “I bet we could get rich off her if we knew how.”

“What,” Sofia teased, “does she make a good hamburger and French fry?”

“Do you really think that’s all we eat?” Tick asked.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot. She makes a good hot dog, too?”

Even as they laughed, Tick couldn’t get over the craziness of it all. Here he was, joking around with a girl from Italy in the back of a butler-driven car, in the state of Alaska, having just escaped from a runaway Oldsmobile.

His life had certainly changed forever.

~

Once they got back to Norbert’s, Tick’s dad called Aunt Mabel and told her they wouldn’t be back until the next day, then he called the police and began the long process of dealing with the car accident. Frupey and Norbert scrounged around in the kitchen, trying to find food for everyone. Car chases evidently make people hungry, Tick thought as his own stomach rumbled.

Tick and Sofia sat together on the pitiful couch in the front room, discussing the latest clue they’d received. They had to use Sofia’s copy because Tick’s bit the bullet along with the rental car—he’d failed to slip it back into his journal during the frantic rush of excitement. The only light in the room came from a junky old lamp without a shade, its bare light bulb blinding if you looked at it directly.

“Well, it’s obviously just like the first clue,” Tick said as Sofia scanned the words again. “Except this one tells us the time instead of the day.”

“You Americans are so smart,” she replied. “How did you ever figure that out?”

“Man, you sure are smart-alecky for a rich Italian girl.”

“Girl?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Do I look like a little baby doll to you?”

Tick laughed. “I never would’ve guessed you’d actually be scarier in real life than in the e-mail.”

Sofia elbowed him hard in the stomach. “Just remember what I told you—I beat up seventeen boys last summer. No one messes with a Pacini.”

“It’s okay, I don’t usually go around picking fights with gi—, I mean . . . young women . . . who own spaghetti companies.”

“That’s better, Americanese Boy. Now let’s figure this out, huh?”