by Bruce Hale
At recess, only the little kids carried on with the same gusto as usual. Natalie and I tried to rustle up some clues, but we were as luckless as the only chicken at a fox family reunion.
"Could the Stinkers have tunneled under that classroom?" I asked.
Natalie preened her shoulder feathers. "Not their style. And can you picture Erik Nidd trying to dig with all those legs?"
"Good point."
We eased along the edge of the grass.
"What about Jerry Dooty?" said Natalie.
"What about him?" I scanned the clumps of kids engaged in soccer, tetherball, and quiet conversations.
"He is a gopher," said Natalie. "Maybe he undermined the building."
"So he could clean up the mess he made? Bzzzt—I'm sorry, wrong answer."
Natalie touched my arm with a wing tip, stopping me. "Okay, hotshot, I know where we might get an idea who sunk the classroom."
"Where?"
She pointed to Mrs. Crow, who was waddling up the hallway. "She knows which teacher's classroom collapsed. Maybe that teacher can give us a lead."
"Mrs. Crow!" I called. "Can we talk?"
She narrowed her eyes. "What's in it for me?"
Before I could tell her, fate got in the way—again.
With a loud ka-whompf! flames burst from the next building down the hall.
The sprinklers above us exploded into action with all the enthusiasm of an un-housebroken puppy, soaking the three of us to the skin.
Ring-ah-ring-ah-ring-ah-ring! The fire bell blared.
"This flippin' school," said Mrs. Crow, hunching her shoulders against the spray. "What's next? A rain of cockroaches?"
I took her wing. "This way!"
We squished out onto the grass.
"I'll go get Mr. Zero," said Natalie. She spread her wings and flapped off.
"I suppose I should tell the fire department which building is burning," grumbled Mrs. Crow. She pulled a cell phone from her fat red purse and waddled off, tapping buttons.
What did that leave for me? The dangerous stuff.
I edged closer to the blaze. Pure heat beat against my face and body, like I was stepping into an oven (and one without fresh cookies, to boot).
"Hello!" I shouted at the two-story building. "Is anybody in there?"
No response.
"Hello? Anyone?"
Still no answer. Maybe all the students were safely out on the playground. For once, things would go the easy way.
I glanced behind me. Kids stood at a safe distance, gawking. Nothing like a blaze for break-time entertainment. Might as well waltz on over and join them.
I had almost reached the group. Then I heard a sound that chilled my blood.
"Helpity-help-help!" someone cried. It came from the building.
"Who's that?" I shouted.
"It's—koff!—mu, mi, mo, me!" It sounded like a dame. I knew of only one dame who talked like her sentences had gone through a blender set on mixed-up.
"Popper?" I called. "Where are you?"
"Inside the—koff koff!—clickety-clockety-classroom!" cried Popper. "I'm stickety-stuck!"
Dang and double dang.
I scoped out the high windows of the burning building. They were open, and flames crackled from two of them. Smoke poured from a third. And in between those billows, a yellow-green froggy face peeked out.
Popper.
"Hang on, short stuff!" I yelled. "I'm coming!"
I tugged off my soaking-wet trench coat and wrapped it around my shoulders and face. Then I beat feet, straight for the inferno.
Fire sirens screamed in the distance.
Funny what passes through your mind in an emergency. As I approached the building, running low and fast, I thought about Popper.
She was a pain-in-the-neck third grader who'd befriended us on a case, and we'd been paying for it ever since. She was a loudmouthed, overenthusiastic, triple-talking tree frog.
And she was in trouble.
I leaped directly onto the wall of the burning building.
Not a good idea.
"Whoa! Hot-hot-hot!" I cried, sounding more like Popper than I cared to admit. Scuttling up the wall as quickly as a grasshopper on a griddle, I made straight for the window.
"Here!" shouted Popper. "I'm—kaffity kaff koff!— here!"
I reached the windowsill and sucked in a great lungful of smoke. It felt like I'd stuck my head into an
active volcano. The heat swallowed me like a hungry python after a fast.
I hacked and coughed. My eyes watered.
"What—koff!—are you—koff koff!—stuck on?"
Popper grabbed my shoulder. "This caba-aba-abinet!"
Squinting through the smoke, I could just make out the problem. Popper's face and arms hung out the window, but one leg was pinned to the inside wall by a supply cupboard that had fallen against her.
Oh, boy.
Disobeying my every instinct, I thrust my arms and head into the burning room. I gripped the top of the cabinet, anchored my feet against the outside wall, and pushed.
It didn't budge.
"Kick your—koff!—leg, peewee!" I said."One ... two... koff koff koff !"
She kicked, I shoved, and at last the tall cabinet tilted back enough for Popper to snatch her leg out from under.
Whump! The cupboard thunked back against the wall. Flames licked up its side, dancing nearer.
Yikes.
Popper dove out the window.
Time for this detective to make like a grocery checker and bag it.
I tried to squirm backwards, but I felt weaker than a kitten's threat.
"Unh! Aargh!" I thrashed around. My head was spinning. Too much smoke.
A deafening wail tore at my ears. Were my classmates mourning the end of Chet Gecko?
Then, suddenly...
"Oof!" Something yanked on my feet and lifted me out. And...
Sprisssssh! Jets of water blasted like rap music in a rain barrel. A burly bobcat in a yellow firefighter's jacket hauled Popper and me away from the flames and across the grass.
She propped us against a wall by the crowd of onlookers and headed back to work the hoses. A team of firefighters was drenching every building in sight.
Golden flames sizzled out. Everything reeked of smoke.
"Too bad I—koff!—didn't bring ingredients for s'mores," I said.
"Kaff! M-m-marshmallowy goodness, said Popper.
For some reason, this struck me funny. My lip twitched. A chuckle erupted, and soon Popper and I were giggling together like fools.
Must have been the smoke inhalation.
Natalie landed beside us in a flurry. "Chet! Are you all right?"
"I—hee, hee, hee! I—ha!" Laughs kept bursting out of me like cricket popcorn in a skillet.
She scowled. "It's not funny! You could've been fricasseed. What were you doing in there?"
I waved my hand at Popper and the building. "Ha, ha—rescue—hee—mission."
The tree frog recovered first. "I went in to get my coo-caw-cousin's—ha—bracelet. She forgidetty-got it."
"And then?" asked Natalie.
Popper hopped to her feet, vibrating like a paint mixer. "The classroom burn-baby-burned!"
Natalie leaned closer. "Did you see anyone suspicious? Someone who might have set the fire?"
"Yep, yup, uh-huh," said Popper, wiping a smear of soot from her forehead.
I jumped up, shocked sober. "Well? Who was it?"
Popper's mouth dropped open. She pointed across the grass. "Her-her-her."
"Who, her?" I said.
"Maureen De-bubba-Bree!"
10. Sick and Fired
I gasped like a trout tourist in the Painted Desert. "Ms. DeBree?!"
"Are you sure?" asked Natalie.
The little tree frog shrugged and nodded and blinked. "Yup, yeah, yo! At least I think, I think so."
"Reeeally?" rumbled a deep voice.
I looked up.
Principal Ze
ro loomed over us. His whiskers bristled. His fangs flashed. He didn't look like a nice kitty-kitty.
I gripped Popper's arms. "Are you absolutely dead certain?"
The frog shrugged again. "I only saw her from behee-behind the backside, but ... longity-long tail, brown fur, and criss-cross-criss thingies." Popper pointed at Ms. DeBree's bandoliers full of cleaning products. "And she was bow-bow-bow-bounding away, lickety-split."
"That's all I need to know," said Mr. Zero."Come with me, Miss LaFrogg."
He plucked Popper from my grasp and steered her over to where Ms. DeBree was talking with the firefighters.
"Uh-oh," said Natalie.
"You can say that again."
"Uh-oh, squared."
"That'll do." I bit my lip and watched the heated conversation between principal and janitor.
By this time, the fire was mostly out. A few tendrils of smoke rose from the half-burned building. Kids and teachers looked on, waiting for the next disaster.
And I had a sinking feeling I knew what that would be.
"Come on," I told Natalie.
We reached Principal Zero and Ms. DeBree just as the fire chief called out, "Hey!" He held up a buckled, blackened thing in his glove. "Think we found what started it. Cleaning solvent—highly flammable."
"That's it!" growled Mr. Zero at the mongoose. "You're fired! No, not just fired, you're under arrest!" His tail bristled like an electrified pinecone.
"You can't fire me!" cried Ms. DeBree, eyes blazing. "I quit! It's plain as the noise on my face: You're trying for blame me for everything wrong at this school!"
"Take her away!" snapped the principal.
Two dogs in blue cop uniforms stepped forward and seized the mongoose. "Come along, you."
Ms. DeBree searched the faces of the crowd. "I'm innocent, I telling you. Innocent as a lamp."
"That's lamb," I muttered.
"Chet!" The janitor reached out a paw. "Help me—prove I didn't do it!"
I swallowed hard. "Popper saw you. It doesn't look good."
Ms. DeBree's eyes widened. "What? I never was there! I was fixin' the girls' bathroom sink." As the cops hauled her off, her cries grew fainter. "Ask anybody! Chet! Natalie!"
Principal Zero turned to glare. "You will not try to prove she's innocent," he growled. "You will keep your nose to yourself, Gecko—something you desperately need to practice."
I gave him my Bambi-eyed "Who, me?" expression.
Mr. Zero snorted, pointed a claw at me, and then padded over to talk with the firefighters.
Natalie and I gazed at the distant Ms. DeBree. Could Popper and Mr. Dooty have been right?
"Could our janitor really be that sloppy?" I said.
"Or that evil?" said Natalie.
I looked at her; she looked at me. We shook our heads.
"But I see-saw her!" said Popper, bouncing up and down.
I'd forgotten all about the munchkin. (Hard to imagine, I know.) "Tell us everything again," I said. "Slowly."
"Okey-dokey-dokey," said the frog. "I was hippety-hopping down the—"
But just then, the all-clear bell rang.
"Back to class, students!" shouted Principal Zero. "Nothing to see here."
Popper shrugged three times. "Sorry, Chet and Nat, Nat and Chet. Gotta go, go, go! Thanks for saving my lee-lo-life!"
"Can you talk to us after school?" I asked.
The tree frog shook her head so fast, it blurred. "No, nope, nyet. I've got studity-student council. See ya tomorrow a.m. in the morning!" And she bounded off like a perpetual motion experiment gone screwy.
"You're not planning to keep investigating after Mr. Zero told you not to?" Natalie asked. "Are you?"
"Do I look like the kind of PI who would ignore a direct order from his principal?"
She cocked her head. "Yes, come to think of it, you do look a lot like Chet Gecko."
"Birdie, you know me too well."
Soaked and smoky, I joined the tide of kids heading back to class.
Mr. Zero was right. I did need practice minding my own beeswax. But then, what card-carrying detective doesn't?
11. Alibi, Bye, Baby
After school, Natalie and I set about proving Ms. DeBree's alibi for the fire. I figured it shouldn't be too hard. I mean, how can you miss a bushy-tailed mongoose fixing a sink?
None of the teachers near the bathrooms remembered seeing her at recess. None of the bathrooms Natalie checked showed any signs of sink repair. But that didn't mean much. Our janitor was the queen of clean, after all.
We stopped by the custodian's office to talk with Mr. Dooty. The gopher was out.
"Nothing but dead ends," said Natalie.
"Like kids sitting through a four-hour assembly on a concrete floor," I said.
The school was emptying out. Soon there'd be no one around to investigate. We strode up the halls, hoping for a little blind luck.
What we got was a blind corner.
I rounded the edge of a building and ran straight into Mr. Dooty, hurrying along with his head down. We both staggered back.
"Excuse you, you didn't see me," I said.
"Sure, run me down," he said. "Everyone else does."The gopher brushed dirt from his paws.
"Do you have a minute?" I asked.
Mr. Dooty rolled his eyes. "Oh, right. I'm suddenly head janitor, and I've got to clean up the whole school by myself and hire an assistant, too. I've got nothing but time."
"That's swell," I said, ignoring his sarcasm. "So, we were wondering, how do you guys get your jobs?"
Mr. Dooty scowled."The principal hires us. Don't you know diddly?"
The gopher pushed past us and trudged down the hall. We followed.
"Not your job," said Natalie, "your jobs. You know, the work assignments?"
"Either we do what we see needs doing, or somebody calls us," he said.
"They call?" I said.
"Yeah, this thing called a telephone. They pick it up and dial M"
"M?" said Natalie.
Mr. Dooty shrugged. "For mongoose. Kinda dumb, but that's Emerson Hicky for you. Full of little indignities. Like she's the only janitor."
He stopped a few steps from his office door. A slim brown weasel leaned on the wall, fiddling with a small gadget.
"Here for the, uh, job interview?" said Jerry Dooty.
The weasel nodded.
I held up a hand. "One last thing: Did someone call in a repair for a sink?"
The janitor turned the doorknob. "Nope. Just get it through your head, kid. The mongoose got sloppy, or worse, and now she's paying the price."
"But—" said Natalie.
"Heck," said Mr. Dooty, "I'm paying the price. All this work, and now I've got to interview this guy, too. Come on in," he told the weasel. "Waste some more of my time. Everyone else does."
His guest sauntered into the office after Mr. Dooty, flicking his long tail. The door swung shut, leaving us alone in the silent hall.
I scratched my head. "Is it just me, or does this case not make any sense at all?"
Natalie grinned."It's you. You often don't make any sense at all."
"When things get twisty and confusing, you know what does make sense?"
"Sugary snacks?" she said.
"At my house," I replied.
A half hour later, we had demolished most of a package of frosted earwig balls and were starting in on the lice-cream sandwiches. Natalie and I sat in my home office, cleverly disguised as a big refrigerator box. (The office was disguised, I mean. Not us.)
"It just doesn't fit together," I said. "Food thefts and fires?"
"Cave-ins and missing cash and big stinks?" said Natalie, grooming a tail feather. "You're right. Maybe it's five different troublemakers and five different cases."
"In that case," I bit into the lice-cream sandwich, "we're—yum—in trouble. We're not getting anywhere on any of them."
Natalie pecked at her treat. "But if they are connected, what do all these things have in comm
on?"
I took another bite. "Mmf they make Emerson Hicky a dangerous place to spend the day?"
"Or they give someone money, food, and a school without Ms. DeBree," she said.
"But why single her out?" I said. "What's she ever done to anybody?"
Natalie shrugged. "Busted them for littering?"
"Slapped their wrists for leaving gum under the seat? No, there's something else going on here."
"What?" said Natalie.
"Beats me," I said. "Me detective. Me figure things out as me go along."
Natalie raised an eyebrow. "Detective also flunking grammar?"
"Grammar, shmammar," I said. "Pass me another lice-cream sandwich, and let's get down to some serious thinking."
12. The Da Vinci Toad
The next morning dawned as fresh and sweet as a potato-bug pie right out of the oven. At least I think it did. I dawned grumpy and groggy, so I might not have been seeing straight.
Mornings are murder.
Natalie and I hadn't managed to crack open the case with our superior brainpower the night before. That meant we had to do things the old-fashioned way: running down leads and burning up shoe leather.
"Don't forget, tonight is Parents Night," said my mom as I shuffled out the door.
"Who, me?" I said.
"I can tell from your voice that you'd forgotten."
"You can't tell anything from my voice," I said. "I'm a detective."
I stumbled to school on the early side, hoping to get the lowdown from Popper. Natalie was already waiting by the flagpole, slurping up a worm like a fat spaghetti noodle.
She grinned at me. "You know what the early bird gets," she said.
"Yeah, and she can keep it," I said. "That's why I sleep in—usually."
I surveyed the school entrance. Parents were dropping off children on the front sidewalk, and the kids were rushing through the gate with all the zest and enthusiasm of garden slugs on a salt lick. In another ten minutes or so, class would start.
"Any sign of Popper?" I asked.
Natalie shook her head. "Not a peep."
"Let's go beat the bushes."
We circled the school grounds, keeping a sharp eye out for the hyperactive tree frog. She wasn't at the swings. She wasn't under the scrofulous tree. Popper was proving harder to find than a truant officer's soft spot.