by Bruce Hale
“Eh, uh . . .” The answer was right on the tip of my tongue.
But then it, and the rest of me, vanished down a long, long tunnel that opened into blackness.
3
Dr. Heckle and Sister Hide
I awoke on a hard pallet that smelled of disinfectant, tears, and lollipops. My forehead felt colder than a tattletale’s heart.
Nurse Marge Supial poked me in the leg. “Does that hurt?” she asked.
“Not much,” I groaned.
The sturdy wombat prodded my stomach. “And this?”
“Hee, hee—no!”
She lifted the ice pack and felt my head. “How about this?”
“Oooh. Only when I blink.”
Nurse Supial shook her gray-furred noggin. “Lad, your talents are wasted here.”
“Really?”
“You should be on the stage.” She shook a couple of aspirin from a bottle and handed them to me with a cup of water. “Take these.”
I swallowed the pills. “What, no lollipop?”
Nurse Supial crossed her arms. “They’re for sickies, not sickos. Off with you.”
So much for the healing touch.
I shuffled back to class. The pain faded, but it seemed my headache was just beginning. Word of my foul-up had spread like melted yak butter on toast.
There’s no news like bad news.
And I got another dose of it when I scuffed into my classroom. That pesky penguin, James Bland, was sitting at a desk up front.
The new kid was in my class.
I eased into my seat.
The prissy gopher in the next row looked around. “I heard you blew a case today,” said Bitty Chu. “Got knocked out by a little old bush.”
She giggled, and Olive Drabb the field mouse joined her.
“Watch out for Mr. Ratnose’s fern,” she droned. “It’s got a mean left hook.”
They chortled together.
“Settle down!” said Mr. Ratnose. “This is quiet reading time, not a sewing circle.”
I propped a copy of A Wrinkle in Slime on my desk and pretended to read, but questions whirled around in my brain like a weasel in a washing machine.
How could I have been so careless on the playground? Where had Connie gone? And what was the capital of Mississippi? (We had to memorize ten state capitals for tomorrow’s quiz.)
I fingered the lump on my forehead. It throbbed. My teeth clenched.
Those punks couldn’t bop me and get away with it. No badger makes a monkey out of Chet Gecko.
I hopped to my feet, ready to roll. Nothing could stop me.
“Chet Gecko, where do you think you’re going?”
Except my teacher.
“Um, I . . . still feel woozy,” I said, swaying.
The lean rat squinted at me. “Ten-minute bathroom break.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ratnose.” For maximum sympathy, I weaved toward the door. My acting would fool anyone.
“One more thing,” said Mr. Ratnose.
“Hmm?”
“Come right back, Chester Gecko.”
I hate it when they call me by my full name.
As soon as I was out of sight, I hightailed it down the hall, making for the scene of Connie’s abduction. With luck, maybe I could pick up some clues before the trail grew cold.
The playground was as still as a vampire condo at high noon. I trotted straight to the bushes where I’d last seen Connie.
Thanks to a recent watering, the mud held footprints. I recognized badger, skunk, gull, and sparrow tracks, as well as the imprint of a big gecko booty.
Hmm . . . I must have really landed hard.
On the far side of the shrubbery, the gull and paw prints continued, but the sparrow tracks disappeared. Odd.
Bent low, I scanned the ground in widening circles, but picked up no further sign. Ginger’s sister hadn’t just sprouted wings and flown away. Had she?
Oh, wait. She was a sparrow.
So maybe she had flown, or been carried off. But where to?
I straightened and surveyed the school yard again. Nothing. No use trying to find the kidnappers now; they were either off studying or playing hooky.
What to do, what to do?
Fresh out of ideas, I returned to class. They like it when you do that once in a while.
Late recess found me raring to go. In the logjam at the door, I heard the penguin call, “I say, Chet old bean!”
I turned. “Yeah, old . . . carrot?”
James Bland straightened his bowler. “In just a bit, I’m going to treat some of the lads to a cricket match,” he said. “Care to join us?”
“You’re lighting crickets?”
“No, actually,” said Bland. “Playing it.”
I frowned. “I don’t play crickets; I eat them.”
“Oh,” he said. “Perhaps some other time.”
When warthogs learn to play kazoo, I thought. But I only said, “I’m on a case.”
“Do let me know if you need my help, won’t you?”
Grandma Gecko would’ve been proud. I didn’t say any of the thirteen nasty things that came to mind. I just nodded stiffly and skedaddled.
Fast though I was, Natalie already waited beneath the scrofulous tree. “Ready for a rematch with that shrub?” she said. “Or are you feeling bushed?”
“Ha and ha,” I said. “I’d rather go grill our client, Ginger Vitus.”
She stretched a wing. “Not sure she’ll like that. Last time I saw Ginger, she was bad-mouthing you all over school.”
I squared my shoulders. “I don’t care if she’s taking out TV ads calling me a bug-eating boob. Her sister vanished on my watch, and nobody knows more about Connie than Ginger. She’s got to talk to us.”
“If you say so, slugger,” said Natalie.
We waded into the swirl of kids that washed over the school yard like a snot-nosed tide. At last, we found Ginger in a small herd of nerds, chattering away.
(How did I know they were nerds? I’m a trained detective. Plus, there were enough calculators, pocket protectors, and clunky glasses among them to supply a small geek convention.)
They were the chemistry club. And they looked it.
The group fell silent as we approached. Someone whispered loudly, “Isn’t that the lame-o gecko who lost Connie?”
I winced. My reputation may not be worth much, but it’s all that I’ve got.
“Ginger,” I said, “can we talk to you alone?”
The sparrow peered past one of the ugliest bunnies I’ve ever seen. “Why should I?” huffed Ginger. “Have you found some new way to, uh, ruin my life?”
“We’d like to know more about Connie,” said Natalie.
“She’s missing, and you’re responsible,” said the sparrow. “What more is there to know?”
Her beak quivered, and Frankenbunny patted Ginger’s shoulder.
“Basic stuff,” I said. “Her friends, her usual haunts, the names of the punks she went off with.”
“Why in the, uh, world would you want that?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Because in case you didn’t notice, Miss Smartie-Beak, we’re trying to find your sister.”
“Don’t. You’ve done enough damage already.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Natalie. “That’s our job.”
“Not anymore,” said the sparrow. “You’re both fired.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“But how will you find your sister?” asked Natalie.
A half smile played across Ginger’s face. “I’ve found a real detective.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
A familiar chubby bird stepped out from behind the nerds. “No worries, chap,” said the penguin. “James Bland is on the case!”
4
Raging Gull
My gut clenched, worse than that time I won the scorpion burrito-eating contest. Words staggered from my mouth like a centipede trying to cha-cha.
“You . . . uh, he? How
. . . er? I mean . . .”
“Pip-pip,” said the penguin. “I’ll have this all sorted out by teatime, won’t I?”
“You will?” I said.
Ginger favored Bland with a grateful smile. “Thanks, James. You’re the best.” She glared at me. “I should know; I’ve tried the rest.”
“Hey,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault.”
The sparrow turned her back on me, and her friends followed suit.
“Were any of you there when Connie was snatched?” asked Natalie. “Can you help us? Anyone?”
Nobody looked our way. Nobody spoke.
“No problem,” I said. “We’ll solve it without you, or I’m not the finest detective at Emerson Hicky.”
“That’s right,” someone muttered. “You’re not.”
I stiffened.
Natalie grabbed my arm. “Easy, big gecko.” She steered me away across the grass. For a while, neither of us spoke.
“That,” I said at last, “was about as useful as lacy bloomers on a raging bull.”
“But not nearly as colorful,” she said. “So, what’ve we got, Mr. Private Eye?”
I looked across the playground. “Well, we’ve got no clues.”
“No client,” said Natalie.
“No class,” I said.
“Then what’s left?”
Jingling the coins in my pocket, I said, “Fifty cents and our good looks.”
“Think that’s enough?” said Natalie.
“It’s enough for a snack,” I said. “And that’s a start.”
Fortified by half a Pillbug Crunch bar, Natalie and I decided to kick the case into high gear. We would find Connie’s kidnappers or know the reason why.
At the scene of the crime, we spotted two third graders playing Frisbee. One was a rat whose wavy fur looked like she’d had a bad perm job. The other was a dim-looking mole wearing a hand-lettered T-shirt that read, PROUD TO BE RILLY COOL.
“Hey, señorita,” I said to Wavy Rat. “Were you here at lunchtime?”
“What if I was?” she said.
“Did you see those tough guys take Connie Vitus?” asked Natalie.
The rat glanced at her pal. “What if we did?”
“Can you tell us anything?” I asked. “Their names? Where they hang out? Where they went?”
“Ur, what’s in it for us?” asked Cool Mole.
“Why do you two always answer a question with a question?” asked Natalie.
“What do you mean?” said Wavy Rat.
I sized them up. They were pretty wise for third graders, but they were still third graders.
“What’s in it for you?” I said. “The satisfaction of helping Justice triumph, and rescuing an innocent girl from the road to ruin.”
The pair looked at me, then at each other.
“What else do we get?” said Cool Mole.
Tch. Kids today.
“What’s the big deal?” I said. “Just say what you know. It’s not like we’re asking you to rat on anybody.”
Wavy Rat narrowed her eyes.
“No offense,” I said.
“None taken,” she said. “But I have a bad memory.”
I reached into my pocket. “Would half a Pillbug Crunch bar help it?”
The chocolate vanished from my grip in the blink of a mosquito’s eyelash.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said the mole. “Ur, what did you want again?”
The rat broke the candy bar in two and handed half to her buddy. “They wanted to know about Charles de Gull and his gang.”
“Is that the seagull’s name?” asked Natalie.
“Yeah,” said Cool Mole. “But I wouldn’t mess with him if I was you.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Ur, you know the bike rack bullies?”
I nodded. Everyone knew the punks who hung out by the bike racks.
“These guys are even worse,” said Wavy Rat.
Natalie’s eyes grew big. “Connie was last seen with them. Now she’s gone.”
The rat glanced behind me. “Uh-oh,” she said. “Time for us to get gone.”
I swiveled.
Speak of the devil. Charles de Gull, the skunk, and the badgers stood by the swings, big as life and twice as surly. The badgers held two first graders suspended, while the gull demanded something.
I turned to thank our informants, but all I saw were their tails, hightailing it away from the scene.
Detectives are made of sterner stuff.
“Ready?” I asked Natalie.
She spread a wing. “After you, tough guy.”
When we reached the swing set, Charles de Gull was counting a fistful of change, and the first graders had run off, sniffling. At our approach, the badgers flexed and growled.
“You Charles de Gull?” I asked the bird.
“Phht,” the seagull scoffed. His sneer was strong enough to curdle mantis milk. A black eye patch hid one eye. “You ’ave come to geev us ze money?”
“No, we have come to ask the questions.”
“Woh, ho, ho!” he laughed. “Ze saucy gecko eez looking for trouble.”
The skunk burped. “He’s come to the right place,” she said. “We got trouble up the wazoo.”
“I don’t care about your digestive problems,” I said. “Tell me about Connie Vitus.”
De Gull pouted thoughtfully. “Zees name, she rings no bells with me. Zibo?”
“Don’t know any Connies,” said the skunk, frowning. “But I got Kristas and Brittneys for days.”
“Cute as a bucket full of kittens,” I said. “I’d almost believe you if I hadn’t seen you with the girl at lunchtime.”
“Where’s Connie?” asked Natalie. “Did you kidnap her?”
The teasing tone disappeared from the seagull’s voice. It was all steel and gravel now. “Zees eez a very serious charge,” he said, waddling toward us with menace. “And I am getting sick and tired of answering eet.”
The twin badgers stepped forward. Natalie and I backed up.
“What do you mean, tired?” said my partner. “Who else accused you?”
The seagull spat. “Zat foolish penguin who thinks he eez a private eye.”
Well, at least de Gull and I agreed on one thing.
“And what did you tell him?” I asked.
“What I tell you,” said the bird. “Zat I never heard of zees Connie. Eef you keep sticking your nose in my beeswax, I will knock your biscuit all the way to Bogotá.”
Charles de Gull snapped his wing tip (no mean trick) and the badgers moved.
I didn’t wait around to witness their biscuit-knocking skills. Natalie and I beat feet, with the goons hot on our heels. We scrambled across the blacktop and blundered into a game.
Thonk!
Getting nailed by a dodgeball probably didn’t help the lead badger’s mood. The big oaf stopped to threaten the ball thrower.
Natalie and I blasted through a basketball practice and didn’t stop until we reached the shelter of the nearest classroom. Our pursuers had given up.
“Well, that was . . . something,” said Natalie.
I panted, hands on knees. “Something I . . . don’t care to repeat. What do you . . . think?”
Natalie cocked her head. “They got awfully steamed by some simple questions.”
“Maybe it’s just a . . . smoke screen,” I said.
“Maybe,” said Natalie. “And where there’s smoke . . .”
“There’s coughing.”
“So why don’t we—”
But before we could hatch a plan, the class bell rang.
I groused. “Real detectives don’t have these interruptions.”
“Not true,” she said. “Even Sherlock Holmes had to answer to a school bell.”
“Yeah?” I asked. “What kind of school bell?”
“Elementary, my dear Chetson.”
5
TV or Not TV
Afternoon lessons limped by. Science class was a snooze. Why we can’t
study something useful, like robot design or alien autopsies, I’ll never know.
Maybe it was my imagination, but when I botched a geology question, more than the usual scorn and laughter showered me. And when James Bland shared an iceberg tale from his Antarctica field trip, the class applauded.
The penguin half bowed from his seat.
I chewed my lip.
After a couple more rounds of boredom and humiliation, our teacher turned on Emerson Hicky’s student news program. I welcomed the distraction.
Vice Principal Shrewer’s sour puss filled the TV screen. “Listen up, students,” she snapped. “It’s Wednesday, and time for the news. So shut your yap.”
The camera lingered on her face for long seconds, while Ms. Shrewer held the pained grimace that passed for her smile. Finally, she hissed at the camera operator, “On the anchor, you lamebrain!”
The image jerked and swung wildly, ending up on a bird’s clawed feet. “I’m Elise—On my face, you dweeb!” said a girl’s voice.
Ah, the glamour of live television.
Finally the camera tilted up to reveal a robin sporting a cheery grin. “I’m Elise Navidad, and this is Emerson Hicky Today,” chirped the bird. “In our news: A child goes missing, and fourth-grade detective Chet Gecko is to blame.”
Oh, great. My day was complete.
Elise ran down the basic details with an evil perkiness. For visuals, they used my rejected school photo—the one where I’d crossed my eyes.
I sank lower in my seat. My classmates stared and hooted.
After what felt like an ice age, the jolly robin wrapped up her report. “But the administration isn’t worried. The school’s newest detective, James Bland, is hot on the case, and expects to find the missing sparrow by tomorrow.”
James Bland’s clueless mug appeared on-screen. The real James tipped his bowler to the TV.
“So classy,” sighed Bitty Chu.
“So handsome,” murmured Shirley Chameleon.
So sick. My lunch threatened to make a reappearance.
The class buzzed. Bland smirked and nodded to the room.
On TV, Elise’s sprightly grin threatened to unhinge her eyelashes and send them fluttering off like butterflies. “And here with sports is Neil Down.”