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Mr. Garvey looked at Winston in the rearview mirror, surprise in his eyes. “Who are you calling? Your policeman friend again? You can’t call the police on this guy when you don’t have any proof.”

“I’m not calling anybody. Mal is.”

Mal sat up straight at the mention of his name. “I am? Who am I calling?”

“Carl Lester’s wife.”

They were getting close to the potato chip factory. Winston was a bundle of jittery nerves. A whole lot of things had to work out in the next few minutes. For one thing, he didn’t know if Carl Lester was married. For another, would his telephone number be in the phone book? Would the wife, if she existed, be home? After a day when luck had turned against them at every opportunity, it seemed like Winston was now asking for an awful lot to go right.

The first part worked out: They called information and got the number of the only Carl Lester in the phone book.

“Do you know what to do?” Winston said to Mal.

“I got it,” Mal said. “No problem.” He had Mr. Garvey’s cell phone.

“I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this,” said Mr. Garvey.

“Do you want to make the call yourself ?” Winston asked.

Mr. Garvey said loudly, “I don’t think we should be calling this woman at all.”

“Too late,” said Mal. “I’m dialing.”

Mr. Garvey pulled into the parking lot of Simon’s Snack Foods and navigated around to the visitors’ area. He pulled into a spot and shut off the engine. Winston looked at the modern building connected to the old-fashioned factory. It felt like a year since they had been here last.

Mal finished dialing the number. Everyone in the car was watching him. He cleared his throat like an actor about to take the stage, which is exactly what he was.

“Are you sure he can do this?” Mr. Garvey asked.

“I’m sure,” said Winston. “Shhhh.” He’d never shushed a teacher before.

Someone must have picked up the line, because Mal suddenly said, “Ah, hello, is this Mrs. Lester?” The voice that came out of his twelve-year-old body was, all of a sudden, surprisingly mature and adult. Mr. Garvey’s jaw dropped a few inches. Brendan Root wasn’t the only kid who could disguise his voice on the phone.

Mal continued, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lester. I’m Malcolm, I’m calling from Bronco Towing. I believe it was your husband—Carl Lester, is that right? Yes. I believe it was your husband who had a flat tire a couple of months ago and required our services, and we like to call our customers and see if they were satisfied. Is he there?” Mal listened for a moment. “No? Well, do you know if he was pleased with his towing experience?” He listened again. “This was for a flat tire he had. About two months ago. Drove over some broken glass as I recall . . . ?” He looked up at them, his eyes shining as he continued the conversation. “No? There was no flat tire? Are you sure?” He nodded again. The woman was sure. “Well, maybe I have the wrong Carl Lester. What does your husband do for a living?” Now Mal gave a euphoric fist pump, punching the roof of the car. “He’s an educator. No, I think my Carl Lester did something else, I must have the wrong number, you have a good day anyway. Thank you very much. Good-bye.” He hung up, smiling broadly.

Winston and Jake applauded with gusto. Mr. Garvey shook his head in wonder. “I was told you worked backstage in the drama club,” he said.

“I’ll get onstage yet,” Mal said happily.

“I believe you will.”

“So they didn’t get a flat tire,” Mal said. “Not two months ago, not as long as she can remember. Carl Lester lied! That proves it!”

Mr. Garvey held up a hand. “It doesn’t prove anything. It’s a very interesting piece of information, but it’s a long way from proof.”

“What else can we do?” Jake said.

Winston looked out the back window. More cars were pulling in—more teams coming back to see who had won. And here, right on time, was the team from West Meadow. Carl Lester, at the driver’s wheel, looked jubilant. Brendan was in the passenger seat, and the two other teammates were in the back. One of them was pounding his fists on the ceiling and howling