by Bruce Hale
I could hear the hubbub from down the hall. The administration building sounded like a summer camp cabin hopped up on s’mores and sleeplessness.
Pushing open the door, I surveyed the scene.
About fifty kids packed the waiting area, jabbering, arguing, flinging paper clips, and generally causing a ruckus. I spotted model students and bullies alike, all behaving like junior thugs.
Bitty Chu was yelling at a parrot. Igor Beaver was thwacking a squirrel with a rubber band.
I fought my way to Igor’s side. “We’re making progress on the case.”
“Big whoop,” he snarled.
“Don’t you care about the math team?” I said.
He aimed the rubber band at me. “Math, schmath.”
“We’ll talk later,” I said, and slipped away.
Mrs. Crow, the school secretary, had retreated behind her counter. Her feathers were ruffled, her eyes wild.
“Settle down, you monsters!” she croaked.
I noticed Principal Zero’s door was ajar. How in the world could he ignore all this noise? Edging past a pair of battling bluebirds, I moved along the wall and poked my head into his office.
The big cat was head-to-head with Dr. Tanya Lightov.
“If you ask me,” she was saying, “ve could solve zhis in no time.”
“How’s that?” said Mr. Zero.
“A simple chip implant, and all ze behavior problems vanish.”
The principal scowled. “Turning students into robots is not the answer. We—” Just then, he noticed me snooping. “Gecko, shut that door!”
“Aye, aye, boss man,” I said. I left them to their chat and got back to my investigation.
Talking sense to this mob wouldn’t be easy. I stuck my little fingers in my mouth and gave a piercing whistle.
The racket lowered a notch or two. Heads turned.
“Greetings, sports fans,” I said. “A couple of questions.”
“Stuff a sock in it, Gecko!” cried the parrot.
“Yeah!” several nerds-turned-punks shouted.
I hopped up onto the counter. “Have any of you ticked off the witches?”
“Witches?” said a burly badger. “Which witches?”
“Stuff a shoe in it, Gecko!” cried the parrot.
The noise level rose. Students started shoving one another again. I only had a few seconds more before I lost them.
“How many of you ate lunch in the cafeteria today?” I shouted.
A few kids raised their hands. Most just glared or ignored me.
“The pizza tasted like glue,” the badger growled.
“Stuff some, uh, glue in it, Gecko!” said the parrot.
A skunk snarled, “Who said you could ask us questions, anyway?”
“Yeah!” the crowd yelled.
“I’m Chet Gecko, Private Eye. Questions come with the job.”
The skunk bared her teeth. “Well, I think you’re a nosy nitwit.”
I bristled. “And I think you’re a stink bomb with stripes.”
“Get him!” cried the badger. They surged for me. Then the skunk turned and did a handstand.
How nice, I thought, she’s a gymnast.
But then the little voice in my head said, She’s no gymnast. That’s what they do just before they spray.
My legs turned to lead. I was caught dead in the crosshairs.
Maybe you shouldn’t have made that crack about the stink bomb, said the little voice.
“Now you tell me,” I muttered.
6
By Hook or By Cookie
“Aaah!” The troublemakers scattered like cockroaches under a spotlight.
I leaped from the counter onto the side wall—just in time.
Pffffffhhht!
The skunk blasted her stench like a pirate’s cannon. Boom! Right into Mrs. Crow.
“Eeeuch!” the secretary cried. “You are in big trouble, girlie!”
The skunk noticed that she’d missed her target. When she spotted me on the wall, the little stinker spun around for another try.
I decided not to wait and see if her aim improved. Quick as a hungry flea, I zipped along the wall and out the open doorway.
Pfffffhhht!
The second blast whizzed past, nailing Mr. Kent Hoyt, bad-tempered bobcat and sixth-grade teacher.
“Reeoww!” Mr. Hoyt reeled back, wiping his eyes and cursing. Then, with a savage growl, he dived through the door.
I considered for a moment: Should I go back in? The office was wall-to-wall punks. One mischief-maker more or less wouldn’t make any difference.
Down the hall I went.
Something was seriously screwy at this school. It had gone beyond spring fever and heebie-jeebies into some kind of full-on flu.
And Dr. Gecko had to find the cure.
My feet turned toward the cafeteria. I was starting to think that Natalie’s hunch about the lunches might be right. And even if it wasn’t, at least the lunchroom was a place to start.
The dimly lit building reeked of lemon floor wax, stale milk, and peanut butter—the after-smells of a thousand meals. Someone was clattering around in the kitchen. I eased up to the gleaming steel counter.
Peering around the Munchmeister 2000, I spotted the broad back of Emerson Hicky’s head cafeteria lady, Mrs. Bagoong. A burly iguana with a heart of gold (or at least chocolate), Mrs. Bagoong was my connection for second helpings in the lunch line.
She was all right. For an iguana.
But just then, the queen of the lunchroom was making a strange sniffling sound.
“Caught a cold there, Brown Eyes?” I said.
She turned. Mrs. Bagoong’s mouth pulled down and her eyes were watery.
“Oh, Chet, honey,” she said. “I had to do somethin’ real hard this morning.”
“Give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the aspara-gasp?”
She shook her leathery head. “No use trying to cheer me up. I had to lay off my assistant chef.”
“Lay off?” I said. “Like, fire him?”
“That’s right. With this new machine, we only need one cook: me. I prepare the raw materials and the Munchmeister turns them into lunch.”
Hmm. This was the second staff member to get the boot, if you counted Cool Beans’s close call. A fired chef, eh? Maybe this guy had been mad enough to squirt loony juice in the school lunches.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Albert Dentay.”
I’d seen the guy. A solemn bullfrog, he hopped about the lunchroom, rarely saying a word.
“Do you think old Al might have put something funny in the gloop?” I asked.
The big iguana frowned. “What do you mean?”
I told her about the recent rash of nutty behavior. “It could be witches, but it might be, well, lunches.”
Mrs. Bagoong straightened. “My food is healthy and nutritious,” she huffed.
“I know, but—”
“You never had a problem asking for seconds.”
I held up my palms. “Whoa now, Top Chef. Nobody’s knocking your chow. I’m just asking, could Al have monkeyed with the food?”
The iguana glanced over at the lunch machine, then back at me.
“Maybe,” she grunted. “Things get mighty busy around here.”
“So keep an eye out for him,” I said.
She sniffed. “If anybody’s slippin’ something into the food, it’s that inventor.”
“Dr. Lightov?”
Mrs. Bagoong folded her thick arms. “I don’t like the crisp of her bacon.”
“You think she might be a few eggs short of an omelet?” I asked.
The lunchroom queen raised an eyebrow. “Why just yesterday, she was goin’ on about her precious gadgets. She claims she wants to make our school efficient, but I don’t think she even likes the students.”
I cocked my head. “Huh. That’s food for thought. And speaking of food . . .”
“Yes?”
“You don’t happen
to have any real food around here, do you?”
For the first time, a slight smile curled her lips. “Well, as a matter of fact, I like to bake when I’m feeling blue. And I just whipped up a batch of peanut butter bark-bug cookies.”
My eyes went as big around as dinner plates. My stomach rumbled.
“Care to have some?” asked Mrs. Bagoong.
I licked my lips. “Sister, we’d be fools not to.”
7
Knock on Woodchuck
Time sure flies when you’re eating cookies. As I finished my snack break, I noticed it was almost second recess.
Leaving the cafeteria with pockets loaded, I had more than cookies to chew on. I had another suspect to investigate.
When the bell rang, I was waiting under the scrofulous tree for my partner. Soon, Natalie glided to a landing.
“Chet, you gotta hear this one,” she said. “Why was Cinderella such a lousy soccer player?”
“Search me. Why?”
“Because she ran away from the ball and had a pumpkin for a coach!” Natalie cackled. “Get it?”
I got it. With Natalie, there was no missing it.
“Can you spare some time from your joke telling?” I asked.
“Depends,” she said. “Is it for our case?”
I filled her in on the latest—the mob scene in the office, the disgruntled chef.
“I think the inventor’s behind it,” said Natalie.
I chuckled. “Dr. Lightov? I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“First off, she’s a dame.”
“Hey!” Natalie squawked.
“Sorry, a lady.” I stood and started walking. “And I don’t think a da—lady could pull off an underhanded caper like this.”
Natalie followed. “Oh, yeah? How about Mata Hari, Nadia Nyce, and other female masterminds?”
“Okay, okay, maybe you’ve got a point,” I said. “But why would Dr. Lightov sabotage her own invention?”
Natalie shrugged. “Part of her evil plan for world domination?”
I stopped and looked at her. “You won’t give up on this until we eliminate her as a suspect, will you?”
“Nope.”
I blew out a sigh. “Come on, let’s go get the low-down from her nephew.”
“Zhis ees mahvelous idea,” said Natalie, in a dead-on impression of Tanya Lightov.
After a brief search, we tracked down Pete Moss. The woodchuck was all by his lonesome at the edge of the playground.
I gave him a cheery greeting. “What do you know, Joe?”
“My name is Pete.” He pouted.
“I know,” I said. “But ‘how’re your feet, Pete’ just doesn’t have the same ring. You know my partner, Natalie?”
The groundhog nodded, looking down. “Yeah, you two investigate things.”
Natalie smiled encouragingly. “That’s right. We just wanted to ask you a few questions about your aunt.”
“My aunt?” Pete’s lower lip stuck out far enough to make a landing strip for a family of gooney birds.
“Is something wrong?” asked Natalie.
“No,” said Pete, scuffing at the grass with a foot. “It is just . . . embarrassing, having a famous relative.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” I said. “My grandpa Gecko was a trapeze artist. For a long time, he got all the attention, and I was sore.”
“Then what happened?” Pete looked up.
“I got into the swing of things,” I said.
Natalie groaned.
“But we didn’t come here to make funny,” I said. “Let’s talk about your aunt.”
“What about her?” Pete wandered toward the sandbox. We joined him.
“How does she feel about the school?” asked Natalie.
The groundhog lifted a shoulder. “She likes it, I guess.”
“And the students?” I asked. “She likes them, too?”
Pete gave me a sideways look. “Sure, why not?”
“She doesn’t have any grudges against anyone?” said Natalie.
He scowled. “Why all the questions?”
“No reason,” I said. “We’re nosy.”
Pete stopped at the edge of the sandbox and chewed his lip. “I cannot think of anyone she holds a grudge against. Except my dad. But that is family.”
He sat down and started aimlessly digging a hole. Groundhogs do that.
I caught Natalie’s attention and waggled my eyebrows. “Okay then,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Um, bye, now,” said Natalie. She looked a question at me as we took off.
“Why didn’t we stick with him?” she muttered.
“I know you suspect Dr. Lightov, but it’s a dead end,” I said. “She has no motive, and Pete was about as useful as a kickstand on a tricycle. We tried.”
My footsteps led toward the library.
“So, are you planning to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to get psychic?” Natalie asked.
“Should be pretty easy,” I said. “You’re already psycho.”
“Ha, ha.”
I pushed back my hat and let the sun warm my face. “All right. Since we can’t check out Albert Dentay until after school, I thought we might get some background info on those witches, just to be thorough.”
Natalie glanced at the library. “Are you planning to look them up on Witchi-pedia?”
“Naw,” I said. “I thought we’d chat with our local expert on the supernatural.”
“Cool Beans,” said Natalie.
“Partner, you read my mind.”
She smirked. “I’ve seen picture books that were harder to read.”
We found the massive possum shelving books. He took a breather and sat back on his haunches.
“Witches?” Cool Beans said, in his slow-as-syrup voice. “Oh yeah, daddy-o, I’m hip to those heavy hexers.”
“Can they really cast curses?” asked Natalie. “I mean, does it work?”
Cool Beans nodded. “Those weird sisters can blow some mighty dark juju.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“One time, I saw this cat get turned into a wiener dog.” The possum adjusted his blue beret. “And we’re talkin’ a real cat, not a cool cat.”
“Well, we’ve got witches at Emerson Hicky,” said Natalie.
“Do tell,” Cool Beans said.
I leaned on a shelf. “And they might be casting a spell to make kids act like brats and bullies.”
The big marsupial grinned. “You mean y’all need a spell to act that way?”
I rolled my eyes. “Everyone’s a comedian,” I said. “Seriously, could witches do that?”
“Most witches are peaceful, tree-huggin’ types,” said the librarian.
“Yeah, yeah. But if they wanted to, could they curse the kids?”
The big possum stared off into space.
“Cool Beans?” said Natalie.
His voice seemed to come from the bottom of a barrel, somewhere in the next county. “Could they? Jackson, you don’t ever wanna get in the way of a weird sister with a mad-on.”
The skin on the back of my neck prickled.
“Why not?” I asked.
The librarian’s shades seemed as full of darkness as Darth Vader’s closet. “They might take you for a walk on the wild side,” he rumbled. “And Sherlock, you might never come back.”
The bell rang, the mood was broken, and we returned to class. But all the way, Cool Beans’s words stayed with me.
To solve this investigation, I might have to confront those witches.
And if he was right, I could be risking much more than a slap on the wrist.
Dang. I hate it when cases get all supernatural.
8
Raging Bullfrog
Mr. Ratnose was no fool. Rather than ride herd on a class of unruly students, he packed us off to Coach Beef Stroganoff for a double dose of torture—also known as P.E. class.
Not that I have anything against exercise
. I could sit and watch other kids do it all day. But Coach takes exercise seriously.
He ran us, ragged on us, and worked us out. By the time school ended, I was just a puddle of sweat with a hat on it.
Natalie found me propped up against the flagpole, half conscious.
“Ready for some detecting?” she chirped.
“Ready for a bath and a nap,” I said, “maybe at the same time.”
Natalie punched my shoulder. “Come on, Chet, we’ve got a suspect to interview. Get the lead out.”
I groaned and levered myself upright. “Funny, that’s what Coach Stroganoff said. But now my legs are full of it.”
By the time Natalie and I walked the five long blocks to Albert Dentay’s house, I felt just fine. Like the newspaper at the bottom of a parakeet cage.
“You gotta get more exercise,” Natalie said, waiting for me to draw near.
“Either that, or a pair of robot legs. Maybe Dr. Lightov can fix me up.”
We reached the corner of Whippoorwill Lane, and I checked the address I’d copied from the phone book. “There’s our guy,” I said.
Two doors down, a brawny bullfrog was puttering in his yard.
Natalie grabbed my arm. “So who are we?”
“Chet and Natalie, birdbrain. Who did you think?”
“No, we need a cover,” she said. “Who are we pretending to be?”
“Um, circus freaks?”
She shook her head. “Newspaper reporters.” Natalie slipped on a pair of glasses. I turned up my hat brim, and fished a pencil and some paper from my pocket.
We approached the bullfrog, who was hacking his hedge with a vengeance. Thick, ropy muscles danced beneath his olive green skin like baby snakes doing the mambo. His frown was wide and deep enough to swallow Cuba, with a little room left over for Buenos Aires.
To top it off, the frog wore a white chef’s hat. For doing his yardwork.
I cleared my throat. “Are you Albert Dentay?”
He sized us up with a pop-eyed stare. “Yeah?”
“We’re from the school paper, y’know,” said Natalie in her best airhead voice. “And we’re, like, totally reporting on the new machines at school.”
“Got time for a few questions?” I asked.