by Bruce Hale
The camera switched to Neil, who blathered on about the usual sports stuff. Our crosstown rivalry with Petsadena Elementary, blah blah blah . . . the big soccer game on Friday, yada yada yada . . .
The report washed over me like lukewarm bathwater. All I could think was: Gotta beat that penguin to the punch.
The rest of the school day passed in a haze (the way it usually did). But when the final bell clanged, I was ready.
I brushed past the pitying glances of my classmates and out into the halls, scouting for Natalie in the after-school crowd. Like kids everywhere, the other students were sympathetic and tactful.
“Hey, Gecko,” squawked a parrot. “Way to blow a case!”
A squirrel giggled. “I’ve got a brother I’d like to lose. Wanna watch him?”
I gritted my teeth and plowed onward. Just outside her classroom, Natalie was coaxing a couple of extra-credit homework questions from her teacher, Amanda Reckonwith.
Some dames can’t get enough torture.
I pulled her aside. “Think you could forget about schoolwork for a minute and focus on the important stuff?”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Our reputation.”
Natalie smirked. “You mean your reputation. They didn’t mention me.”
I rolled my eyes. “You gonna help or not?”
“Don’t get your tail in a twist,” she said. “I’m coming.”
Methodically, we cast our dragnet, looking for any sign of Connie, or failing that, of the Gull gang.
We searched behind the portables. Nothing.
We scoped out the rooftops. Nada.
We poked around the cafeteria. Not even a stray butterscotch cricket cookie.
“We’ll never find her,” I said.
“Can’t you be more positive?” asked Natalie.
“Okay. I’m positive we’ll never find her.”
On our way out to the playground, Natalie asked, “Did anything about our last meeting with Ginger seem weird to you?”
“Like what?”
“Think about it. She hires us to protect her sister, and then when Connie really needs our help, she fires us.”
“Hmm. When you put it that way, it does seem a little wacko.”
With a stroke of good luck, we bumped into Connie’s teacher, Claire Voyant, doing bus duty at the playground’s edge. With a stroke of bad luck, she had no helpful information.
The mud hen fluffed her feathers. “I think it’s best you don’t get involved. Let the pro handle it. Have you heard that James Bland found the Lost City of Atlantis? Or was it the Abominable Snowman?”
“I’ll show him abomina—” I began.
Natalie towed me off. “Thanks a bunch!” she told the teacher.
“I’d like to clean that penguin’s cuckoo clock,” I said as we crossed the grass.
“If you really want to show him up, you know what you do?”
“What?”
“Find the girl,” said Natalie.
I couldn’t argue with that. Halfheartedly, I scanned the playground again. Then Natalie clutched my arm.
“Over there,” she said. “De Gull and his gang.”
Before they could spot us, we hustled behind the slides. Natalie and I peeked out around the edges.
“Perfect-o,” I said. “We follow them; they lead us to Connie.”
Charles de Gull and his buddies terrorized a straggling third grader. After the little wren flew off, the gang split up. Charles and Zibo headed toward the gym, while the badgers trundled over to the last bus.
“Shall we?” said Natalie.
“After you, birdie.”
We gave seagull and skunk a head start. Then Natalie and I trailed behind, dodging from bush to pole to trash can. That’s the PI way.
The punks suspected nothing. They never once looked back.
“How could they have stashed Connie in the gym?” I said. “We went over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Maybe we should’ve used a brush, too,” said Natalie.
Charles and Zibo pushed through the wide gymnasium doors.
We lurked outside for a ten-count, then pussyfooted after (or in my case, gecko-footed).
Late afternoon rays slanted through the skylights. The gym was emptier than a promise from a hungry shark.
I pointed toward the locker rooms. Natalie took the GIRLS; I took the BOYS. No point in risking cooties by mixing it up.
Someone was banging around inside. Had de Gull squirreled Connie away in a locker? (Could you squirrel a sparrow?) I crept forward and peeked around the corner, down low.
It was the seagull, all right—slipping into a golden soccer jersey.
Clever disguise. But it couldn’t fool Chet Gecko.
Charles slammed his locker and boogied out the back door. I eased over and checked it out. Nothing but Ace bandages and stinky sweatsocks.
Cautiously, I poked my head out the back door. Charles de Gull flapped his way toward the field, followed closely by a jogging Zibo, also in a jersey.
Hmm.
Natalie slipped around the corner of the building. We tailed the pair. Bleachers and high bushes blocked our view of the field.
A whistle blast knifed through the air.
“Is de Gull signaling the rest of his gang?” said Natalie.
“One way to find out,” I said.
We hustled over to the bushes and flopped onto our bellies. (Maybe we didn’t need to, but that’s how they do it in spy movies.) Together, we wormed along to a gap in the greenery and peered through.
What we saw made my jaw drop.
“They’re playing soccer,” said Natalie.
“Now what,” I said, “is up with that?”
6
On a Wing and a Player
Although Natalie and I watched for half an hour, Charles de Gull and Zibo did nothing suspicious at soccer practice. (Unless you count kicking the ball out of bounds, but half the team did that.)
Mostly they warmed the bench and sulked.
Coach Beef Stroganoff bawled encouragement at the players. “How you gonna beat Petsadena? My mother plays better than you!”
(Of course, he didn’t mention that his mother, a former pro wrestler and rugby star, could also bench-press a Buick.)
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What does soccer have to do with a missing girl?”
“Beats me,” said Natalie. “But here’s another question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What tea do soccer players drink?”
“Huh?”
“PenalTea!” She cackled.
I groaned. Obviously we’d learned nothing useful watching the practice. And I didn’t know how many more of Natalie’s jokes I could take.
We retrieved my skateboard and rolled on home.
The next morning dawned as cloudy as my brain. I couldn’t make heads or tails of this case. Nobody had any leads on the missing girl, and the supposed kidnappers would rather play soccer than send ransom notes.
Recess that day brought its fair share of surprises. And I don’t mean the finding-a-Three-Mosquitoes-bar-in-your-book-bag kind, or the teacher-forgot-all-about-the-homework-which-you-didn’t-do-any-way variety.
The fun began while I punched a tetherball, brooding on the case. Bitty Chu trotted up with a smug expression. (Not an unusual look for a teacher’s pet.)
“Chet, did you hear the news?” she asked.
“What, you finally saved up enough for that lobotomy?” I said.
Bitty planted her paws on her furry hips. “Guess again, wisenheimer. Someone else found Ginger Vitus’s sister.”
“Connie’s been found?” I stopped dead. The ball swung around the pole and bopped me in the gut. “By—unh!—who?”
“By whom,” said Bitty, a lifelong member of the Grammar Police. “It’s James Bland! Not only is he cuter, he’s a way better detective than you are.”
“That yo-yo? He couldn’t find his left nostril with a flipper jammed i
n it up to the third knuckle.”
Bitty batted her eyes. “Ooh, jealous?” she said.
“That’ll be the day.” I turned and swaggered off toward the scrofulous tree.
Never let ’em see you sweat.
“I guess it’s true what they say,” the gopher called after me. “You’ve lost your touch.”
“Maybe, but I’ve found your smell,” I said, fanning a hand before my face.
Once away from Bitty, I dropped the pose. Found your smell? What a weak comeback. My touch wasn’t all I was losing.
I deflated faster than a blimp that bumped the Eiffel Tower. How could a doofus with the IQ of a soggy cucumber find the missing girl when I couldn’t?
It wasn’t fair.
As I dragged my sorry tail over to the tree, Natalie glided down to land.
“Hey there, frowny face,” she said. “Hang on, I’ve got just the cure.”
“Not now,” I said.
But my mockingbird pal was unstoppable.
“Knock, knock,” she said.
I stared, mute.
“Who’s there?” Natalie answered in my voice.
“Euripides.”
“Euripides who?” said Natalie-as-me.
“Euripides pants, I breaka you face!” She spread her wings and grinned.
When I didn’t react, Natalie leaned closer. “Hey, you really are blue. What’s got you down, partner?”
I sank onto a tree root and spilled the beans.
“That can’t be right,” said Natalie.
“It’s not,” I said. “But it’s what I heard.”
“But you can’t—I can’t—we can’t just take this,” said Natalie. She hopped to and fro, clawing the dirt. “We’ve gotta get up, get out there, and . . . and . . .”
“He found her,” I said. “I didn’t. Case closed.”
Natalie gazed at me a moment. Then she rested a wing tip on my shoulder.
“Chet, I still think you’re the best detective ever.”
“Really?”
“No, I think you’re a bug-eating moron,” she said. “Of course, really. Something’s odd here, and we’re going to get to the bottom of it.”
“But—”
Natalie pulled me to my feet. “But me no buts,” she said. “You’re a private eyeball. Let’s do some private eyeballing.”
She bumped me with her head to get me moving.
“Hey, I thought you said no butts,” I said.
It wasn’t hard to find James Bland. We just looked for his penguin posse. He stood near the cafeteria, ringed by a mob, smiling and making modest faces.
Beside him were Ginger Vitus and a smaller sparrow, probably her sister.
The school’s TV camera captured their every move.
“Can never thank him, uh, enough,” Ginger was droning into a microphone. “James is the best detective at this—”
Elise Navidad whisked her mike away before the sparrow had half finished. “Great, whatever,” she burbled. “And now let’s hear from the bird of the hour, the dashing James Bland.”
A dark expression flashed across Ginger’s face. Nobody likes to lose the spotlight.
The tubby penguin held up a flipper. “All in a day’s work,” said Bland. “I just sussed out the situation, grasped the nettle, and had done with it, didn’t I?”
“Er, did you?” asked Elise.
“Was it dangerous?” cooed Frenchy LaTrine.
“No more than when I single-handedly trounced an evil genius and his army of laser-eyed barracuda. I stowed away aboard a submarine, you see, and—”
The reporter frowned. “Connie was in the submarine?”
“Er, no,” said Bland. “You’ve got your stories muddled, old girl.”
At the edge of the crowd, I turned to Natalie. “She’s not the only one. He stole that barracuda bit from a James Bond movie.”
“Shh!” she said. “I’m trying to listen.”
Elise leaned closer to Bland. “So, Jamesy, who kidnapped Connie?”
“Oh, the usual bad lot,” said the penguin, adjusting his bowler. “But after a bit of argy-bargy, they packed it in. And I brought the bird home, I did.”
The reporter furrowed her brow. The crowd applauded.
Bland gave Connie a squeeze, and she forced a smile.
“Poor thing,” I said. “She must still be in shock.”
“Mmm,” said Natalie, thoughtfully.
As the cheers died down, I shouted, “What clues led you to Connie?”
“Eh?” said Bland. He looked about. “Oh, uh, the usual bits and bobs. Paw prints, secret codes, the dog that didn’t bark—that sort of thing.”
My teeth gritted. “Can you be any more vague? Exactly how did you solve it?”
At last, the penguin spotted me. And so did the TV camera.
“How I found the poor girl is not important,” said Bland. “What jolly well matters is that I jolly well found her, eh?” He appealed to the crowd.
“That’s right!” a buff bobcat growled.
Elise Navidad gripped her mike. “Rival detective Chet Gecko is challenging the plucky penguin. Has he gone green with jealousy?”
The rabble rumbled.
“I’m already green,” I said. “I was born that way.”
“Leave James alone!” shouted a feisty porcupine. “He’s a hero!”
“Yeah!” chorused the mob.
I held up a hand. “I’m just asking how this fish-slurping bozo did it. Something’s screwy here.”
“Yeah, your attitude,” snarled an iguana the size of a washer-dryer.
Natalie tapped my shoulder. “Uh, Chet? This might be a good time to—”
“And the crowd is getting ugly,” trilled Elise Navidad. “They’re going to show this has-been PI a thing or two.”
She was right. In a blink, the group’s mood had switched from celebration to outrage. It wanted blood—my blood.
And I wasn’t in the mood to donate.
“Natalie, let’s—”
Wings beat behind me, and claws snagged my collar.
“Hang on!” cried Natalie.
She flapped like mad and we rose. Paws snatched at my tail and feet.
Too slow.
We needed a miracle.
Rrrrring!
The class bell cut through the clamor like a hot knife through mealworm pie. What a sweet sound. Kids blinked and looked around, giving up the chase.
But the beefy iguana wasn’t finished. He seized my tail and yanked hard.
Ka-toom!
Natalie and I tumbled from the sky, smack into a trash can.
“Ow!” I glared at the big reptile. “What’d you do that for?”
The iguana shrugged. “I hate to leave a job half finished.” Then he wiped his hands and joined the other kids heading back to class.
“Just our luck,” said Natalie. “A perfectionist.”
7
Sparrow Change
All through the long stretch before lunch, I nursed my jangled nerves. How could everyone have turned on me? And how could I have been out-detected by Bland—someone so clueless he thought Meow Mix was a CD for cats?
I had no idea.
At the front of the class, the penguin basked in his fame. Shirley and Cassandra slipped him notes. Mr. Ratnose beamed each time he walked past the chubby doofus. And even Waldo the furball left a Termite Twinkie on his desk.
Lunch didn’t improve matters. My stock was sinking faster than a lead doughnut. Even tick taco salad and mosquito burritos couldn’t lift my spirits.
After the meal, Natalie stretched. “Ready to investigate?” she said.
“Connie?” I said. “I dunno. Everyone will think it’s just sour grapes.”
“So, we’ll make sour grape juice.”
To humor her, I followed my partner to the playground. At the jungle gym, we spotted Connie Vitus climbing with a bunch of other second graders.
“Hey, Connie,” said Natalie. “Can we have a word?”
The little sparrow eyed us from her perch on the bars. “Um, I guess so.”
“I wanted to report on your kidnapping for our current events unit,” said Natalie. “And I was wondering: Where exactly did they hide you?”
“In a nest—uh, a nest of crooks.”
Natalie nodded. “And who were these crooks?”
“Didn’t James say?”
I jumped in. “We, uh, haven’t been able to talk to him yet.”
The sparrow spread a wing. “Oh. Well, they were crooks, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Natalie smiled encouragingly.
“What did they look like?” I asked.
Connie shrugged. “Um . . . big? Mean?”
“Was it Charles de Gull and his gang?”
“Well, uh—hey,” she said, wide-eyed. “Aren’t you that gecko detective?”
“Yup,” I said modestly. At least the lower grades still respected me.
“The one everybody’s laughing at?”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah.”
“Tell us, did Charles kidnap you?” asked Natalie.
The little sparrow frowned. “Um, I don’t know if I’m s’posed to say—”
With a flurry of feathers, someone rushed between us and Connie.
“Leave my sister alone!” squawked Ginger Vitus.
“We were just—” said Natalie.
“I know what you were doing!” shrilled the sparrow. “You were making her relive her, uh, nightmare.”
She pecked at Natalie and me, driving us back.
“But we didn’t mean—” I began.
“I don’t care!” said Ginger. “Keep away, or I’m telling Principal Zero.”
And with that, she fluttered up to her sister, hissed, “Come, Connie!” and they flew off together.
I scratched my chin. “Touchy birdie, ain’t she?”
“I’d say we’re off her Valentine’s list,” said Natalie.
We stood and stared after the dwindling figures of the sparrow sisters.
“Any more bright ideas?” I said.
Natalie frowned. “None that won’t get you detention.”
And that’s how it was, all through lunch period. Nobody would talk to us—not Charles, not Connie, not Ginger. And the only player who could talk—James Bland—was harder to pin down than a roomful of river eels.