by Bruce Hale
My partner trilled, “What’s the story, morning glory?”
I grunted.
“Aw, someone didn’t eat his sunshine flakes,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s morning,” I grumped. “What else?”
Natalie held up a wing. “I can make you smile. Knock-knock.”
I just stared, but she wouldn’t give up. “Oh, all right. Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cow,” she said.
“Interrupting co—”
“Moo.”
“Ha, ha, that’s—”
“Moo,” she said again.
“Okay, Nata—”
“Moo.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I think you’ve milked that one long enough.”
“My jokes are an udder disaster.” She sighed and, mercifully, dropped it.
We worked our way through the parade of parents leaving their kids at the curb. The office windows glowed like radioactive cheese patties. Inside, we pushed past the usual whiners, malingerers, and parents with excuse notes.
We had a date with Maggie Crow, school secretary.
The secretary is a bulldozer under a lace hankie, the thinly disguised power that runs any school. Without her, even the principal would be lost.
Maggie Crow was the mother of all secretaries.
“That’s no excuse note,” she squawked at a mama Chihuahua. “That’s a major work of fiction. If little Tiffany was sick, how come she’s tanned?”
The mother blushed and hustled little Tiffany away.
I slapped a friendly grin onto my kisser. Although Mrs. Crow was hard on fakes and phonies, she had a soft spot in her heart for detectives.
“What’s cookin’, brown eyes?” I said.
“Not you again,” she said.
See what I mean?
“We’re looking for Scott Freeh,” I said. “Got anything?”
“Yeah, a hot tip.”
Natalie and I exchanged a glance. A break at last!
“What’s the tip?” asked Natalie.
Mrs. Crow looked down her beak at us. “Never bother a secretary between her first cup of coffee and sunset.”
“But . . . that’s the whole day,” I said.
The secretary tapped her head. “And they told me you were slow on the uptake.”
Before she could turn to the next parent, I leaned over her desk.
“A student is missing,” I said. “Don’t you care?”
She gave me dead eyes.
“Let me rephrase that,” I said. “What would it take to make you care?”
A minute later, we’d exchanged the pledge of a night-crawler pie for some information. It turned out that Scott’s teacher was right—his parents hadn’t sent an excuse note to the office.
“And when I called ’em, they said Scott wasn’t missing,” said Mrs. Crow. “They told me he went to school, same as usual.”
Natalie cocked her head. “But he’s not here,” she said.
“It ain’t my problem,” squawked the crow. “It’s the truant officer’s. Now step aside; I’m a busy bird.”
We left with as many questions as we’d come in with—something that usually happened only in Mr. Ratnose’s class. Hashing it over, we ambled.
“You get the feeling something’s fishy?” I asked.
“Yup,” said Natalie, “but I can’t figure it trout.”
I groaned. “Just for the halibut,” I said, “let’s assume someone is lying.”
And before Natalie could try to top my pun, someone let out a psst.
“Want some more beans with your birdseed?” I said.
Natalie stopped. “Wasn’t me. It came from there.” She pointed to the corner of the building.
We poked our heads around it and saw what appeared to be another building. But this one looked mean.
I blinked. In the shadows stood a beetle-browed badger. He wasn’t quite as tall as the Eiffel Tower, and his shoulders weren’t as broad as the Rockies. But still you could tell: When this guy sat around the house, he sat around the house.
“C’mere,” he grunted.
We kept a wary distance. “The view’s better from over here,” I said. “So what’s goin’ down, aside from your IQ?”
The badger growled like a thunderstorm in a subway tunnel. But when his voice emerged, it was thick as frozen peanut butter and surprisingly high.
“Dude, I got a message,” he said.
“Really?” I said. “Is it a singing telegram, or were you gonna say it with flowers?”
“Huh?” he grunted.
I could tell we were moving too fast for him. But even a crippled snail would be too swift for this musclehead.
“What’s the message?” asked Natalie.
“Stop it,” he said.
“That’s it?” she said. “Just stop it?”
He gnawed his lip with a fang like a stalactite. He searched his mind. It was a long, long tour of an empty cave. Finally, the badger said, “Yeah.”
“Stop what?” I asked. “Playing hopscotch on the railroad tracks?”
“Making bad jokes that kids don’t get?” asked Natalie.
The big lug’s eyebrows met like caterpillar wrestlers. “Y’ know . . . stop . . . looking for the missing dude, dude.”
“You mean Scott?” I said.
“Uh, yeah.”
This badger was no Einstein. In fact, the League of Barking-Mad Morons could sue him for giving morons a bad name.
He hadn’t hatched this idea on his own.
“Who asked you to send the message?” I said, trying the direct approach.
The badger waved a wicked claw as long as a cavalry sword. “Ah-ah-ah. The furry one said don’t tell.”
Not as dumb as he looked, this badger. (But not by much.)
“Anything else?” asked Natalie.
The badger grinned. “Yeah,” he said. In a flash, he swung a fistful of claws and took a chunk out of the building. “You should take me serious.”
I backed up. “Serious as a summer without vacation,” I said.
He growled.
Even a bad actor recognizes his cue. We took ours and bowed out.
8
The Diva Made Me Do It
Morning rehearsal was as hard to escape as that funky-smelling aunt who always wants to hug you at holiday parties. It was no use resisting (and Mr. Ratnose knew all my hiding places, anyway), so I went along.
Outside the auditorium, the demonstrators marched—more numerous than yesterday. And burlier, too. I noticed some broad-shouldered beefcakes that didn’t look like poetry lovers. Didn’t these goofballs have classes to attend?
Several protesters bumped and shoved the cast members as they passed. A surly bullfrog menaced Shirley Chameleon with his KOWS sign.
She hooked his feet with her curly tail, pulled, and sent the goon sprawling. The sign hit his head with a hard thwock!
The frog should’ve known better. Don’t mess with a diva.
Shirley flounced through the doors. I made to follow her, and a familiar bowlegged weasel blocked my way: Scott’s teammate Angie, the soccer player.
“Not so fast,” she sneered.
“Okay,” I said. “How ’bout if I walk reeeeally slooowwwly?”
The weasel loved my wit. I could tell by her clenched jaw and laser gaze.
“Since when have you been acting in stupid plays, detective?” she asked.
“Since when have you cared about Shakespeare, jockette?”
She pouted. “Jockettes can like Shakespeare, too. His movies are, um, killer-diller. And this play, uh, does bad stuff to his, um, work.”
I tilted my head. “Uh-huh. Tell me, who put you up to this?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You don’t give two toots about Shakespeare,” I said. “Who told you to come wave signs with these nerds?”
“Co—Uh, no one,” said the weasel.
I looked her up and down. “Okay then, who’s the
head of KOWS?”
“Nobody you know.”
“How do you know who I know?”
She tapped her head. “Know-how.”
“No,” I said. “How?”
The weasel leaned close, smelling of sweat and a hint of lavender. She said, “Know what else? This play is doomed. Get out while you can.”
I pushed her back and strolled into the building.
Natalie was waiting. “Wasn’t that a soccer player from yesterday?”
“Maybe,” I said, “but she’s a KOW now.”
“Wow.”
“No, KOW.”
“How, KOW?”
I shrugged. “How do I know? But there’s something funny about them.”
“Besides their name?” Natalie smoothed her shoulder feathers.
“Besides that.”
She mused as we walked past groups of gabbing students. “I’m beginning to think Scott’s disappearance is connected with this play,” she said.
Before I could follow up on that thought, Mr. Ratnose clapped his hands. “Okay, people. Time’s a-wastin’. Let’s begin.”
As we headed for the stage, I dug a sandwich from my pocket and started munching.
Natalie fanned her wing. “Pee-yew!” she said. “What’s that?”
I held up my garlic-Limburger-stinkweed sandwich. “Let’s call it . . . insurance.”
“Call it what you want, but keep it away from me.”
Rehearsal went smoothly. The songs were offkey. The dancers kept tromping on each other’s feet. The acting was awful. It was as lovely to behold as a team of waltzing rhinos falling down a flight of stairs.
Boo Dinkum rolled his eyes in disgust. He exchanged looks with his father, who leaned on a wall, watching me.
Then came my big scene with Shirley Chameleon, and I forgot all about the case. My palms got clammy. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a poodle. And it wasn’t just the aftertaste of the sandwich.
Shirley made goo-goo eyes. In a voice like a soap-opera queen, she said, “Oh, Omlet, you’re my sweet patootie.” She puckered up and aimed her bazooka lips.
“Hahhhh, sweet Azaleahhh. My main squeeze-ahhh.” My stink breath gushed like Old Faithful (if that geyser had smelled like a baboon’s gym shorts).
Shirley’s eyes watered. Her lips wilted. After a couple of coughs, she turned aside. Not even a squadron of hoochie-mamas could withstand that stench.
“Can we . . . ack . . . do the kiss later?” she choked out.
“How’s next week?” said Mr. Ratnose. “Do you need some water, Miss Chameleon?”
Shirley nodded and stumbled toward the drinking fountain by the bathrooms at the back. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Mr. Ratnose took a step back. His long schnoz wrinkled. “What’s causing that smell?” he asked.
I raised a shoulder. “In-stinked?”
Rehearsal resumed with the castle party scene. A few minutes later, it was time for Shirley to make her entrance.
“Shirley Chameleon,” said Mr. Ratnose, “it’s your line.”
Nothing.
“Miss Chameleon,” he said, “chop-chop. You’re on.”
But she wasn’t.
I scanned the room, feeling a little guilty.
“Maybe your stink breath sent her to the nurse’s office,” Natalie said.
“Ha, hahhh,” I said, but she fanned the fumes away.
Waldo the furball and Bosco Rebbizi searched the auditorium. They even checked outside, but Shirley was nowhere to be found.
“Darn that lizard,” said Mr. Ratnose. “Isn’t that just like an actress? Bitty Chu, read Shirley’s part.”
As the scene continued, I grew more and more uneasy.
No way would Shirley skip out on her big role. Had she disappeared like Scott Freeh?
We were working the final dance number when I got my answer. First, a weird, high singing began—quietly, then louder and louder. Just like yesterday, no one could place its source.
“M-maybe this place is haunted,” said Hiram the toad, shuddering. “And m-maybe the ghosts don’t like our play.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Ratnose. “If this auditorium is haunted, then I am the Queen of the May.”
BOCK-A-DOOM!
A thunderclap rang out, and a cloud of purple smoke appeared in the middle of the stage. We coughed and backed away. As the smoke cleared, a figure emerged: a stunned and scared Shirley Chameleon.
I turned to Mr. Ratnose. “Your Majesty, would you like your crown and gown?”
9
Actions Spook Louder Than Words
The hubbub bubbled for several minutes. Some kids crowded by the doors, ready to bolt. Some pressed forward and babbled questions.
Through the smoke wisps, I saw Natalie’s face. Like my own, it held a question: What the heck is going on here?
Finally, a rhythmic thumping cut through the noise. What fresh strangeness was this? A quick check revealed Mr. Ratnose banging an old boot on the stage.
“Settle down, everyone,” he shouted.
We settled.
Mr. Ratnose advanced on Shirley. “Where did you go, young lady? And what’s the idea of breaking up my rehearsal?”
Shirley shrank into herself like a homesick butterfly returning to the cocoon.
“S-sorry,” she said. “I was g-getting a drink when something grabbed me from behind and covered my mouth.” She shivered.
“A ghost!” squealed Bjorn Freeh. “This play is cursed!”
Several kids gasped. “That’s enough,” said Mr. Ratnose, silencing them with a scowl. “Go on, Shirley. What happened next?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. I felt all dizzy, a-and I blacked out. Next thing I know, something went . . .”
BOCK-A-DOOM! The thunderclap roared again.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Shirley. “And here I was.”
Natalie fanned the new smoke cloud with her wings and plucked something from the heart of it.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She held up a note. “Listen to this,” she said.
“The play must not go on, or worse things yet will happen. This I swear by the scarlet skull.
—The Phantom
P.S. Stop the show if you want to see Scott Freeh alive again!”
“It’s got my brother!” wailed Bjorn. The lizard collapsed in a faint.
A low moan rippled through the cast, like winter wind through swamp grass. If I’d had any hair, it would’ve stood on end.
“Well, rehearsal was just about over, anyway,” said Mr. Ratnose.
The rest of the morning was pretty tame, compared to that. Mr. Ratnose gave us quiet reading time while he soothed his frayed nerves behind a book. When the recess bell buzzed, I knew just where to go.
Natalie was waiting on the steps of the library, whistling a spooky tune.
“Partner, you read my mind,” I said.
“When the going gets weird . . . ,” she said.
“The weird get going . . . to the librarian.”
Inside the air-conditioned quiet of the library sat a massive possum in a blue beret. His name was Aloyicious Theonlyest Bunk, but for reasons known only to his mom (and maybe his therapist), everyone called him Cool Beans.
Emerson Hicky’s resident expert on the supernatural, Cool Beans had seen it all. He was as hard to shake as a steel magnolia tree.
“Uh-oh,” he said as we approached his desk.
“Uh-oh?” I asked.
Cool Beans surveyed us from behind wraparound shades. “Every time you cats come ’round, trouble follows. What is it this time: werewolves on the jungle gym or vampires in the cafeteria?”
“Uh, neither,” I said.
“It’s a ghost,” said Natalie.
“Ghosts?” rumbled the possum. “Don’t that just blow your gasket? Man, I guess the ghoul repellent ain’t workin’. All right, lay it on me from the front.”
“Um, okay.” We told him about the strange doings at the audi
torium—the eerie singing, the crashing light, the note, and Shirley’s dramatic reappearance.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
“Weirdsville,” said Cool Beans, scratching his chest. “Could be a real phantom. Hard to say.”
“If it is,” I said, “what are we up against? Can a ghost be a kidnapper?”
For a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me. He kept staring down.
“Uh, Cool Beans?” said Natalie. “Are you trying to reach the spirits?”
“Nah.” The huge possum pinched his arm. “Just the fleas.”
I couldn’t help him there. A gecko will eat just about any insect, but I draw the line at fleas. Too salty.
“Getting back to the ghost?” I said.
He popped the flea into his mouth. “Right you are, daddy-o. Your typical ghost usually haunts for a reason, like . . . unfinished business.”
“Okay,” I said. “How far will they go?”
“Way gone,” he said. “And ghosts can really wail. They can move stuff, make loud noises, give a mean wedgie—almost anything a person can do.”
Natalie ruffled her feathers. “So how do we make sure it’s a ghost?”
“And then,” I said, “how do we get rid of it?”
“You exorcise it,” said Cool Beans.
I raised an eyebrow. “Right. Because . . . ghosts are afraid of jumping jacks?”
“Actually, sit-ups are scarier,” said Natalie.
“Not exercise, exorcise,” said the possum. He leaned onto his thick forearms. “You drive it out with a ritual ceremony.”
“I knew that,” I said.
Natalie smirked.
“And if the hullabaloo stops after the exorcism, you had a ghost,” the librarian said. He leaned back.
“And if it doesn’t stop?” asked Natalie.
“Then,” said Cool Beans, “you got a real problem.”
10
In the Nick of Slime
We decided to leave the exorcising for later, and try detect-orcising first. All through lunchtime, Natalie and I chased down leads and looked for Scott Freeh.