by Bruce Hale
Never Been Tryst
When I returned to my trusty desk after lunch, something was different. A sixth sense told me someone had been snooping. Maybe it was the chocolate paw prints smeared on the desktop that tipped me off, or the fact that all my papers were scrambled.
Or maybe it was the small paper tag that read: THIS DESK INSPECTED BY NO. 563.
At least they take pride in their work, I thought.
I scoped out my classroom, but nobody slunk away guiltily or shouted out, I confess!
Sometimes detecting can be a challenge.
Rooting through my mess, I discovered nothing had been taken. . . . But wait!
Something lay inside the desk that hadn’t been there before: a frilly pink envelope with my name on it.
I bent close, sniffing carefully. It smelled faintly of strawberry perfume and dirt. Alert for a booby trap, I slit the envelope.
Be mine, Valentine? read the card inside.
After all that, a stinking mash note?!
My instincts said, trash the thing. I should’ve listened to my instincts.
Instead, I opened the card. In a round, girlish hand, the message read:
Dear Chet—
Roses are red
Garlic is stinkin’
Someone stoled the ticket,
But it ain’t who you’re thinkin’.
—Muchas smoochas,
a friend
P.S.: Meet me in the auditoryum alone at three o’clock. I’ll tell you the rest.
It sure was nice to have a friend—especially one with clues. But what did he or she mean? Who was I thinkin’ stole the ticket? Bert? Sally? Little Gino?
And was this note legit? Or was it just some Valentine’s Day ruse to get me alone and douse me with cooties? I eyeballed Shirley Chameleon, but she turned up her nose at me. Wasn’t her.
Hmm. This was some mystery.
“Class, open your science books to page seventy-five,” said Mr. Ratnose. “Let’s discuss tectonic plates.”
Almost as much of a mystery as how I’d get through an hour of science without having a nap attack.
Somehow, I managed to do my schoolwork. By the time the recess bell finished chiming, I was as long gone as Dad’s tie-dyed bell-bottoms.
I dropped by Maureen DeBree’s office to give her the cookies I’d promised. (And while she was busy with them, I returned the borrowed locker key.)
From there, this gecko hightailed it to Al LeGator’s classroom. If Sal had tossed the valentine envelope, she might have tossed it in Mr. LeGator’s wastebasket. After all, he was her teacher.
Natalie was waiting by the fifth graders’ building.
“Why is it,” she said, “that we always end up Dumpster diving for clues?”
“It’s a glamorous life,” I said.
Sometimes, detective work is harder than a sowbug gingersnap straight from the freezer. And sometimes, Dame Fortune smiles on you like a parent at a straight-A report card. (Like I knew anything about that.)
We were lucky. Not only was Mr. LeGator tied up with yard duty, but also his classroom was dark and empty. Perfect for snooping.
“Keep a lookout,” I told Natalie.
She watched for sneaky muskrats while I tried the doorknob. Locked. I guess Dame Fortune was only smirking.
Still, locked doors pose no problem for a detective with flexible morals. And it just so happens, I am that detective.
I poked the tip of my tail into the keyhole and wiggled it. After a few seconds, something gave. Turning the knob, I felt the satisfaction of a successful lock picker . . . and—ow!—the pain of a pinched tail.
The door eased open, and we slipped into the room. The stale-milk smell had ripened. It was now strong enough to hold up the roof.
I cased the joint, searching for a wastebasket.
“Oh, look!” said Natalie, pointing to a corner.
“What? A clue?”
She smiled. “Nope, they’re celebrating Bird History Month. Check out these cool dioramas.” Natalie admired the students’ handiwork.
I glanced at the row of boxes containing cardboard figures of famous birds.
“That’s just peachy. Now, can you tear your eyes off Leonardo da Finchy long enough to help me?”
“Please, that’s Mahawkma Gandhi,” said Natalie.
I squinted at the box. It held a cutout of some serious-looking bird in a shawl—Mahawkma Gandhi, I guess. Big whoop.
“Okay, swami,” I said. “Can we snoop now?”
We found the wastebasket under a rubbish landslide, sat down, and started digging. Several minutes later, we had unearthed brown apple cores, soggy tissues, scads of candy wrappers, bad poetry, worse English papers, and enough valentine envelopes to wallpaper Mount Rushmore and the girls’ bathroom.
Clump-clompeda-clump!
At the sudden noise, we startled. What sounded like a herd of wildebeests tromped down the hall. But none of them came inside. We resumed working.
Natalie and I rummaged through valentine envelopes—some reeking with vile perfume, some smeared with cheap lipstick. It was enough to make your hair stand on end (if you had hair, which I don’t).
But we didn’t see any envelopes with Bert’s name on them.
I was almost ready to throw in the towel when Natalie said, “Hmm.”
“Hmm what?” I asked.
“Just hmm.”
She uncrumpled a pink envelope. Clumsy block letters spelled out Bert + Lili.
“Ah-ha!” I said.
“Nuh-uh,” she answered. “Does that look like Lili’s writing?”
I leaned closer. “Nope, it doesn’t. And she told us it’d say Lili + Bert.”
Natalie opened the envelope and showed me what was inside. Nothing.
Rats. No Malted Falcon ticket. Visions of that stupendous dessert danced in my frustrated head.
“Hmm,” I said.
“Hmm, indeed,” said Natalie.
I tucked the envelope into my coat. We searched the area, but no tickets waved their little hands and sang out, Here I am.
“Maybe someone pocketed it.” I scratched my chin. “Natalie, why don’t we just—”
Rrring! went the bell.
“Scram?” she asked. “Good idea.”
When the bird’s right, she’s right. We scrammed.
14
Ticket or Leave It
After the school day limped to a close, I hotfooted it over to Natalie’s classroom. We were running as short on ideas as a ten-year-old TV sitcom. When we interviewed the last of her classmates, I’d be fresh out of leads.
And that’s a bad place to be, when you’re facing Mr. Big in just a couple of hours. Me and my big mouth.
Working quickly, we chatted up an opossum and a couple of crows. No luck. They had about as much useful information as a Pig Latin–Chinese dictionary.
The last stragglers tidied up their desks as Natalie and I compared notes.
“Who’s left?” I asked.
“Paige Turner, the titmouse . . .”
“Why is she called a titmouse when she’s a bird?”
“It’s a mystery,” said Natalie. “And there’s Bona Petite, that little French chick.”
I gaped. “Natalie! Even I know you’re not supposed to call girls chicks.”
“Why not?” she said. “She’s a chickadee.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Let’s get ’em.”
Paige Turner was just heading out the door, a gloomy gray bird in a pink cashmere sweater.
I caught her wing. “Can I have a word?”
“Sure,” she said, “if it’s sayonara.”
“Look, sister,” I said. “My temper’s shorter than a flea’s jump rope, my patience is thinner than a first grader’s lie, and I’m plumb out of time. Just answer my questions.”
Her beak fell open. “Okay.”
“Did anything unusual happen here yesterday?”
“Well, yes,” she said.
“What?”
Paig
e’s chin quivered. “M-my Malted Falcon ticket disappeared, and I c-can’t find it anywhere.”
The caboose of my brain collided with the engine of my theories in a major train wreck. Confusion spattered everywhere. It wasn’t pretty.
I choked out, “Huh?”
“And if I d-don’t find it by tonight, I’ll miss out on a year’s worth of dessert.”
Paige looked bluer than a bandicoot on an iceberg. She sniffed.
My brain struggled to get back on track. I shook my head.
“Hang on,” I said. “Your Malted Falcon ticket?”
The titmouse pouted. “I got it two nights ago,” she said. “But I brought it in for show-and-tell yesterday, and it disappeared.”
“O-okay then, what’s it look like?” I asked.
“A brown cardboard ticket shaped like a falcon, about so long.” Paige indicated a wing feather. “I wrote my name on the back.”
By then, Natalie had finished chatting with the chickadee and joined us.
I pointed at Paige. “Her Malted Falcon ticket.”
Natalie stared at the titmouse, who nodded. My partner ruffled her feathers. “That Lili!” said Natalie. “When I get through with her . . .”
“But wait,” I said. “How do we know Paige is on the up-and-up?”
“Paige?! What about Lili? She hasn’t played straight since the beginning.”
I held up my hands. “All right. No need to get feisty.”
Paige coughed delicately. “Excuse me?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
We filled her in on the whole caper—how two of her classmates had hired us to find the missing ticket. When we finished, she was bug-eyed.
“Well,” said Paige, “I can’t afford to bid for your loyalty. But I hope if you find it, you’ll do the right thing.”
“Absolutely!” said Natalie. “We—mmf—”
I clapped a hand around her beak. “We’ll think about it,” I said. “Come along, Natalie.”
Just down the hall, we stopped.
“‘We’ll think about it’?” said my partner. “Come on, Chet. It’s her ticket.”
“Finders keepers. Besides, I don’t think it’s ethical to sell out our clients.”
“Yeah, but it’s right!” Natalie frowned. “And you know it.”
I paced. “I don’t know much. But I do know this: If we can’t figure out where the ticket is before meeting Mr. Big, it doesn’t matter who gets it.”
“Why?”
“’Cause we’re gonna get it.”
15
Tea for Tuatara
My mind was racing like a cheetah on espresso. Which one of Natalie’s classmates was telling the truth? Where was that ticket? Had we already interviewed the one who swiped it? My money was on Little Gino.
Speak of the devil.
As Paige walked past us, I saw beyond her a familiar lumpy reptile. The sweet-tempered tuatara himself, Little Gino.
“Come on, Natalie,” I said. “We’ll get a straight answer out of this crooked character, or my name’s not Chet Gecko.”
She followed. “I don’t think he cares what your name is.”
Arms crossed, the tuatara leaned against a wall. His sneer was so bad it had a sneer of its own.
“Let’s talk turkey, turkey,” I said.
“Gobble, gobble,” said Little Gino.
“How come you’re always lurking around?”
He looked me up and down. “How come you are, mate? This is my building.”
Natalie cocked her head. “We’re working on a case.”
“Yeah?” said the tuatara. “Looked like he was workin’ on suckin’ up to that titmouse.” He pushed off the wall and gave me the hairy eyeball.
“What?” I asked.
“Stay away from her, you drongo.”
Suddenly, Natalie laughed. “I get it,” she said. “He’s sweet on Paige.”
“Am not,” Little Gino growled. His face turned three shades of red—not bad for a non-chameleon.
“Aww. Widdow Gino’s got a widdow cwush on someone,” I said.
Fooshhh! His punch passed harmlessly above me as I ducked.
I sprinted down the hall. “Thanks, Lumpy!” I shouted. “You just saved us a lot of investigative work.”
The tuatara chased us awhile, but his heart wasn’t in it. When we reached the library steps, Natalie and I slowed.
“What time is it?” I asked.
She glanced through the doors. “Almost three o’clock,” said Natalie. “Why?”
“I’ve got a lead to follow.”
She perked up. “I’ll help.”
“Naw, it’s not that kind of lead.” I didn’t know why, but I felt too embarrassed to tell her about my valentine rendezvous. “Try to figure out where the ticket is and who has it. Meet you here just before four o’clock?”
“Okeydokey, artichokey,” she said with a doubtful look.
I hustled down empty halls toward the auditorium. By now, the cafeteria ladies would’ve left. I half expected to find the building locked and deserted.
Who was I kidding? I hoped it’d be deserted. This whole “muchas smoochas” thing had my palms sweating like a penguin in a sauna. I reached for the door.
Click-eeeeeak.
It swung open.
“Hello?” I called into the dimness. “Um, friend?”
A faint aroma of floor wax and burnt grasshoppers hung in the air like the threat of rain. I stepped inside.
“Anybody home?” I said, tiptoeing between rows of Formica-topped benches. When no reply came, I sighed. Just a wild goose chase, I thought.
“Over he-ere!” A girl’s voice called from the front of the room.
My eyes strained, but I couldn’t see anyone. I walked forward, row by row. Now I was just steps away from the stage and its moth-nibbled curtains.
“Where?” I asked. “I can’t see you.”
“Back he-ere.” Closer now, the muffled voice came from behind the curtains.
I hopped onto the stage and fumbled with yards of heavy velvet. Why didn’t they just paint a big arrow and an OPEN HERE sign on these suckers?
At last, I parted the curtains. “Okay,” I said, sticking my head through the opening. “What’ve you got for me, valentine?”
A figure moved in the darkness. “This!” it said.
A rough sack slipped over my head. It stank of putrid potato bugs, skunk armpits, and something sickly sweet. Strawberries?
I reached for the sack, but four strong hands pinned my arms. The girl’s voice said, “Sorry!” And—whonk!—something harder than a ten-page history test smacked me over the head.
Not as sorry as I am, I thought.
And the lights went out.
16
Big Business
Time flies when you’re knocked out cold. Trust me. I know.
When the lights came on again, they were shining right in my face. Too bright.
I blinked. My head throbbed. Some heavy-handed hippo had been playing bongos with my skull. And while he was at it, he’d dipped my eyes in molasses.
I squinted into the glare of two sun-bright lamps. Shadowy figures drifted behind them. I found myself trussed to a chair, neat as you please.
“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” a deep voice rumbled.
I tried to turn my head. Two webbed paws grabbed it and kept me facing front. It seemed like I was in some kind of classroom, but where?
A ripe smell slapped my nose around, but I couldn’t place it (the smell, not my nose).
“If you cooperate, this will all go much more smoothly,” said Deep Voice. “You know why you’re here, of course?”
“Uh, let me guess.” My throat was as dry as a camel’s crackers. “I made the semifinals of the detective roping contest?”
A chuckle came from behind the brightness. “Wonderful,” said Deep Voice. “Ever the jokester. No, this is about the Malted Falcon ticket.”
“Gee,” I said. “Doesn’t ring a be
ll.”
“Do you remember calling this meeting in the first place?”
I shook my head to clear it. “Mr. Big?”
“Correct. Tell me what I need to know, and you can go back to your little gecko games.”
The more he talked, the more familiar that voice became. I knew I’d heard it before. Looking down, I glimpsed candy wrappers and piles of papers.
“And what do you need to know?” I asked. “The phone number of a good interior decorator?”
Mr. Big paced slowly, accompanied by a dragging sound. That also seemed familiar. Hmm.
“The ticket, Gecko. Where is it?”
“Ah, that.” I shifted against my ropes. “When I said I had it, I actually meant I knew where I could lay my hands on it.”
Mr. Big stopped. “And where is that?”
My mind raced. How could I stall this big palooka?
“Uh, I’d have to lay hands on my partner first. She has that information.”
Mr. Big let out a snort like a water buffalo inhaling a golf ball. “He’s bluffing. Hit him with the board again.”
“Please, not again,” said a girl’s voice behind me. Wait, I knew that voice.
“Lili?” I said.
She sighed. “Yes. But I’m not proud of it.”
“And you’ll recognize another of your ‘clients,’ too,” said Mr. Big.
“Good afternoon, Mr., er, Gecko,” came a voice behind the lights.
“Freddie Nostrils?”
“One and the same,” said Freddie.
Mr. Big chuckled again. Quite the jolly villain. “You see, they’re both in my employ. The irony is delicious.”
Wait a minute—both my clients were working for the bad guy? I hoped this didn’t get out. What would the other detectives say?
“Well?” said Mr. Big. “Time is running short, Gecko.”
And finally, I placed his voice. “I never would have guessed a teacher was behind this,” I said. “You can drop the act now, Mr. LeGator.”
“Ah, well, I suppose you were bound to guess it sooner or later. All right, boys. Hit him.”