by Bruce Hale
"Good point." She turned to go.
"Natalie, I was framed."
"Prove it," she said.
"I can, if you help me. Look, I'm starving now," I said. I wolfed down the Sugar Frosted Ladybugs. "Would I be so hungry if I'd eaten all that food?"
Natalie looked pointedly at my gut. "Yes."
I grimaced. "Okay, bad example. But that photo was faked, and if we can find it, I'll show you."
Natalie narrowed her eyes.
I swallowed my pride. It wasn't as tasty as the ladybugs.
"Please, Natalie. I can't do it without you."
That did it. Natalie likes to know she's indispensable.
"Okay, I'll help," she said. "But if it turns out you're lying, I'll never speak to you again."
I grinned. "Promise?"
She glared.
"Just kidding, just kidding," I said.
I led the way down the halls toward Principal Zero's office.
Natalie asked, "Uh, Chet? Where are we going?"
"To snatch those photos from the principal's office."
Natalie smirked. "I don't recommend it."
"Why not?" I said. "How else can I prove I'm innocent?"
"Try visiting the library."
The library? She walked off. I followed her, with my brain full of questions and my mouth full of ladybug aftertaste. Kinda crunchy.
Natalie pushed through the library doors and walked up to the bulletin board. "Here you go," she said.
Someone had posted the photo on the main bulletin board. It didn't show my good side. Together, Natalie and I studied the picture.
"Looks pretty bad, Chet," said Natalie. "I swear, if you're lying—"
"Hang on," I said. "What's this?"
In the photo, my eyes were closed and I was wearing a wide belt around my waist. I touched my waist and felt a sticky spot—probably leftover banana goop—but no belt.
"Natalie, I never wear a belt. What's that?" I pointed at the picture. She bent closer.
"Hey," she said, "you're right. And look at the floor. I see your footprints in the flour, but there're too many wavy lines for just your tail prints."
"What's going on?" I said.
"That's what I'd like to know," a low voice snarled behind me.
We whirled around. It was Mrs. Toaden, my dreaded first-grade teacher. "Are you admiring your handiwork, or just trying to add to your crimes?" she hissed.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Old Toady pointed a sharp-clawed finger at the library wall, where the sign says QUIET, PLEASE. She shook the finger at us. "Are you looking for worse punishment?"
"Worse than repeating your class?" I said. "Not in this lifetime. Come on, Natalie."
As we passed through the doors and hit the playground, Natalie admitted, "You're right; something's fishy. How can I help?"
"Come with me," I said. "We're going to talk with someone we should have seen at the beginning."
Silly me. I had forgotten the first rule of the school yard: If you want to get in trouble, ask the principal; if you want to know what's going on, ask the janitor.
12. Grime War
I rapped on the office door of Maureen DeBree, head janitor at Emerson Hicky. Ms. DeBree knew the name of every candy wrapper that fell at our school, and who dropped it. Not a wad of gum was stuck to a desk without her knowing—and catching—the culprit.
Some kids said she had trash radar.
The door opened. There she stood, with tool belts slung across her narrow chest like bandoliers. Her bright eyes twinkled watchfully, and her fuzzy mongoose ears twitched.
Maureen DeBree was a warrior in the battle against grime. Even her bushy tail had a sponge attachment.
"Whassup, kids?" she rasped. Natalie and I got a whiff of ammonia strong enough to build a house on. It was rumored that Ms. DeBree drank it straight, with a twist of lemon and a WD-40 chaser.
She wasn't squeaky, but she was clean.
"We're on a case and we need your help," I said. "I've been framed for the cafeteria food thefts. We think Rocky Rhode is guilty, but we can't prove it."
Ms. DeBree wrinkled her nose and rubbed her paws together thoughtfully. "Stealing food, eh? That's one serious charge."
"Have you seen anything at all that could help us?" I asked.
Ms. DeBree motioned us into her room. Mops, buckets, and brooms stood at attention along two walls. Canisters of gas—propane, helium, laughing—were ranked against another wall. Bottles of ammonia and polish were lined up like good soldiers.
Ms. DeBree was just a few products shy of opening her own warehouse outlet.
She upended a gleaming bucket and planted herself on top of it.
"Detective, eh?" she said, eyeing me. "Let me tell you, searching for the truth is a tricky business. Don't want to take any wrong turns or cast nasturtiums on anybody."
Natalie leaned closer. "You mean, cast asper sions?" That Natalie and her vocabulary words. "Do you know something?" she asked Maureen DeBree.
"Do I know something? Nah," said the mongoose.
I slumped.
"But do I suspect something?" she said. "You betcha."
My head snapped up. "What is it? Something about Rocky?"
Ms. DeBree sucked thoughtfully on an old Q-tips swab. "Can't say. But check out what I found in the bushes by the cafeteria last week."
She reached for a trash bag on a low shelf. Opening it, the mongoose fished out the longest snakeskin I'd ever seen. You could carpet a three-bedroom house with it and still have enough left over for furniture doilies.
Her lip curled in a sneer. "Cobra." She spat. "We got a dirty rotten cobra on campus. There's nothing I hate more worse."
Natalie and I exchanged a puzzled look. The cobra couldn't be a student, because no poisonous or constricting snakes were allowed at Emerson Hicky. Not since the El Monte Python Incident.
"But what does a cobra have to do with the thefts?" I said. "Is Rocky in cahoots with a poisonous snake?"
"How could she be in Cahoots," said Natalie in a Groucho Marx voice, "when she's here with us at Emerson Hicky?"
I shot her a deadpan look. Mockingbirds can be a pain sometimes.
Ms. DeBree scratched behind her ear. "Beats me. You're the detectives; use your powers of reduction."
"That's deduction," I said absently. I didn't see the snakeskin's connection to my case, but a detective can never have too many clues. I thanked Ms. DeBree, and we turned to go.
"Hang on," said the mongoose. "Ain't you gonna ask me, have I seen anything else suspicious? Cheez, what kine detective are you, anyway?"
I turned and gave her my serious frown. "So," I said. "Seen anything else suspicious?" Gotta keep your sources happy.
Ms. DeBree leaned back and smiled. "Yeah, as a matter of fact. We got something more worse than food thieves. We got ghosts."
"Ghosts?" said Natalie.
I stroked my chin. Maybe Maureen DeBree had slurped one too many ammonia cocktails. "What gives you that idea?" I said.
"After school, lately I been hearing voices," said Ms. DeBree. Her ears twitched. "High, whispery kine voices."
Natalie and I looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow. "Have you talked to the school nurse?" I asked.
"Naw," said Ms. DeBree, "only to the voices. But they never talk back. It's the strangest thing."
Natalie and I backed out the door slowly. It's never a good idea to spook a mongoose gone mental.
Maureen DeBree stood and called after us. "Hey, maybe the ghosts is taking the food. Maybe we got one of them—what-you-call—poultrygeists."
We waved good-bye and started up the hall.
Natalie cocked her head. "What did all that have to do with Rocky?"
"Beats me," I said. "Hey, can you ask around at lunchtime, find out Rocky's whereabouts yesterday afternoon?"
"What about you?"
I shook my head. "I've got a date with Mrs. Bagoong."
Natalie narrowed her eyes. "That re
minds me," she said. "You've got a date with my brother, too. He wants to talk to you about what happened to his camera."
The bell rang. Recess was done—as done as my career, unless I could piece together some of these strange clues.
"Tell him to get in line," I said, and shuffled off to my next torment: history class.
13. Dishwater, Dishwater Everywhere
All through history class I puzzled over the clues. Mr. Ratnose droned on and on about the Protestant Deformation and the Spanish Armadillo (or something like that; I wasn't paying much attention).
I just pasted a good-student look on my face and let my mind run like a hamster at a fox convention.
How had Rocky stolen the food from a locked room, and framed me? What was her connection, if any, to Ms. DeBree's mysterious cobra?
And how the heck was I going to buy lunch without any lunch money? (That last question worried me most of all.)
After the lunch bell rang, I sleepwalked into the cafeteria, still wrapped up in my problems. I had a rude awakening.
Someone snarled, "You! I got a bone to pick with you." Rolling toward me like a horned tank was Rocky Rhode.
"Oh yeah?" I sneered. "Which bone you wanna pick, your nose bone?"
I've never been one to pass up a wisecrack, even in the face of a serious bruising.
Kids near us scooted back to form a half circle. They grinned expectantly. Nothing like a lunchroom brawl to quicken their hearts, the little angels.
Rocky circled me like a string around a yo-yo. Her horns bristled. "What's the big idea, nosing around, telling everyone I'm stealing food? You're cruisin' for a bruisin', Gecko."
No matter the situation, a trained detective always keeps his cool.
I lost mine.
"Nice try, you cockroach-muncher," I said. My tail twitched as I orbited Rocky. "But it won't work. You framed me, and you're taking the fall for your crime."
Rocky snorted and flexed her spiny shoulders. "Framed you?" she said. "Bucko, when I'm finished with you, you won't fit in a frame. They'll have to use a spatula."
Just then, two scaly paws grabbed me from behind and hoisted me into the air. A voice reeking of garlic potato bugs snarled in my ear.
"Chet Gecko, you've gone from thief to bully in one day," said Mrs. Bagoong. "Leave my lunch monitor alone and eat your lunch. It's on me. I want you nice and strong for dish-washing."
Rocky gave me the evil eye, but she turned and trundled off. She knew that fighting in front of Mrs. Bagoong was about as smart as playing Marco Polo with piranhas.
The queen of the lunchroom set me down. She swatted me toward the lunch line.
"Eat!" said Mrs. Bagoong. "Then report to the kitchen sink in ten minutes. Your tush is mine."
She didn't need to tell me twice. Ah well, at least we were still on speaking terms.
If you called that speaking.
I scarfed down my food, keeping an eye out for Rocky and her friends. I didn't even notice what was on my plate—a first for Chet Gecko.
Ten minutes later, I stood by a sink full of soapy water and awaited my punishment.
Whomp!
Mrs. Bagoong dumped a stack of dirty trays right by the sink. It loomed over me like the Leaning Tower of Pizza Crusts.
Whap!
She slapped a pair of scummy rubber gloves into my hand.
"Wash!" said Mrs. Bagoong.
"What, no pep talk?" I said. She growled and stomped off.
I put my wit on hold. Somehow I didn't think she'd like hearing that private eyes don't do dishes. I rolled up my sleeves, put on the gloves, and started rinsing crud off the trays.
Globs of grease, stinkweed beans, spoiled cockroach casserole, and harsh soap blended into a bouquet strong enough to knock a horsefly off a garbage truck. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but greasy soapsuds landed on my tongue.
Yuck.
If I didn't solve this case soon, I'd be facing life as a school outcast with prune fingers and body odor straight from the city dump. What I needed was a break in the case, some good grades in math, or a long vacation on a warm beach.
What I got was another confusing clue.
14. Everybody Needs a Ladle Love
The line of kids at the counter had trickled out. Mrs. Bagoong was keeping order in the lunchroom with a pretty big spatula and a pretty ugly expression.
Ms. Stroney wiped her hands on her apron and headed past me, deeper into the kitchen. Her bulging eyes shot me a funny look—pity mixed with amusement and a dash of contempt.
Maybe it was my winning personality, maybe it was just my stench.
Psssssss!
A loud hissing came from somewhere near the back door, like a busted teakettle trying to learn to whistle. Minnie Stroney rushed to the door and cracked it just enough to look out.
"Are you crazy?" said Ms. Stroney to whoever was outside. "What are you doing here?"
From where I stood, I couldn't hear the response. I took a couple of steps toward the door.
If only I could hear the other half of this onesided conversation....
Bap!
A speeding spatula collided with my fanny.
"Chet Gecko! Back to your post!" shouted Mrs. Bagoong in my ear. I jumped like a toad rocket. Iguanas sure can move quietly when they want to.
Mrs. Bagoong turned to her cook. "Minerva, give me a hand with those dirty trays. Hop to it!"
Minnie Stroney slammed the door and hopped. I grabbed another slimy tray and plunged it into the soapy water. From the corner of my eye, I watched Ms. Stroney bring a new stack of trays to the sink.
"So," I said casually, "who was that?"
The cook's eyelids dropped like the curtain on a third-rate magic act. She studied me through slits. "Who was what?" she said, even more casually.
I jerked my head toward the door. "Your visitor."
Her wide mouth tightened. "Oh, just my ex-boyfriend," said Ms. Stroney. "What a pest."
She hustled back into the lunchroom.
Hmm. I mused as I rinsed. Was there more to Minnie Stroney than met the eye? Or was I so desperate, I was scraping the barrel for suspects?
One thing I knew: If the other private eyes found out I had dishpan hands, I'd be laughed out of the profession. It was time to make my move.
If only I knew what move to make.
15. Necessity Is the Mother of Detention
Maybe it was my imagination, but back in the classroom Shirley Chameleon seemed to slide her desk a little farther from mine. At least there were some fringe benefits to smelling like a trash heap.
I brooded over my situation while the afternoon passed as sweetly and gently as a nightmare in a dentist's chair. And as for my classes—well, they were classes. What can I say?
At last, the final bell rang. I hopped from my seat and pushed through my classmates toward the door.
"Don't forget," yelled Mr. Ratnose, "open house is Monday. Be prepared!"
School was over for the week. The halls swelled with babbling students bouncing off walls, driven mad by the thought of a weekend's freedom. But my spirits were lower than an earthworm's belly button.
I trudged toward the cafeteria, thinking to nose around for some clues. Then I heard something that made my spirits dive even lower.
"There you are!" rasped a buzz-saw voice. It sounded like someone who wanted to be feared and usually got what she wanted.
I whirled and found myself staring up at the Beast of Room 3, Ms. Glick. From the tips of her red-painted claws to the top of her pillbox hat, she was trouble, pure and simple. And detention hall was her own private theme park of evil.
Ms. Glick showed me a toothy alligator smile as phony as a first grader's forged permission slip. "Did you forget about detention, Mr. Gecko?" she said. "Remember, you and I are going to be close friends for quite a while."
Sure we were. And parents really mean it when they say, This is going to hurt me more than it does you.
"Why, Ms. Glick," I said. "Wha
t a treat. I was just wrapping up some business before stopping by."
The Beast of Room 3 thrust her sharp snout in my face and gave me an educational close-up of her dental work. "When you have detention with me, you come straight to my room after class. Remember that, mister."
"I'll tie a string around my finger," I said.
She growled deep in her throat, a sound like Bigfoot's belly digesting a small bear. I had pushed things as far as I could.
My shoulders slumped. "Lead on," I said.
I followed Ms. Glick's broad scaly back as she plowed down the hall, parting kids and teachers like a sword through butter. As we neared Room 3, Natalie appeared at my elbow.
"You'll never guess what I found out," she muttered from the side of her mouth.
"What?" I whispered back.
Ms. Glick wheeled on us. "Zip your lip, Gecko," she said. The Beast of Room 3 fixed her beady eyes on Natalie. "And no fraternizing with the prisoner."
She turned and waddled through the door. I whispered to Natalie, "Call me tonight."
Natalie leaned forward. "But Chet, it's about—"
"Gecko!" snarled Ms. Glick.
I sighed and shuffled into Room 3. Only a handful of prisoners—er, students—huddled inside its booger green walls today. A bedraggled hamster, a sneering turtle, a couple of evil little weasels...
And over by the windows, my new best friend, Rocky Rhode. The look in her eyes would've melted a concrete vest.
Ms. Glick pointed a thick claw at a chair two seats behind Rocky. "Park your carcass, mister," she told me.
I parked. It was the scenic side of the room. Rusty heating vents lined the wall, and the floor tiles featured clever graffiti from earlier captives.
Detention bites! read one comment. Glick is thick read another. It wasn't Shakespeare, but it got the point across.
I felt a laser burning a hole in the top of my head. I glanced up. It was Rocky, sending me her meanest evil eye.