The Possum Always Rings Twice

by Bruce Hale

  I looked at Natalie. “Two votes, eh? Would one of those be yours?”

  She whistled and stared up at the clouds. “I’ll never tell.”

  “Birdie,” I said, “here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”

  1

  Penguin Pal

  It all started with a muffin. And despite my best intentions, it went downhill from there, quicker than a walrus on roller skates.

  Wednesday is Italian Day in the cafeteria. On this particular Wednesday, Mrs. Bagoong and her cooks had worked their usual magic—spaghetti with millipede meatballs, eggplant a la fungus gnat, and honey-glazed Madagascan Hissing Cockroach muffins.

  The muffins set off a taste explosion that had my tongue dancing the Madagascan Mambo (or whatever kind of hoofing they do over there).

  I pushed back from the table and headed over to score another one. Most kids don’t get to have seconds.

  But I’m not most kids.

  Bellying up to the lunch counter, I could tell that the baked goodies had been a hit. All had vanished but one.

  And that one had Chet Gecko’s name on it.

  “Hey, Brown Eyes,” I said to Mrs. Bagoong. “What would it—”

  A plump figure barged in front of me. “I say, dear madam,” he said. “Could a poor bloke please have another of those heavenly muffins?”

  Mrs. Bagoong’s smile sent dimples burrowing into her scaly face. “Why, how you talk,” said the big iguana. “There’s one left, just for you.”

  She lifted the golden muffin with her tongs.

  “But!” I squawked. “That’s mine!”

  The queen of the lunchroom raised an eyebrow. “Now, now. This charming penguin asked first, and he asked politely.”

  “But—”

  Mrs. Bagoong’s frown could have brought on an eclipse at high noon. “Why, Chet Gecko,” she said. “I’m surprised at you. Can’t you be generous with the new boy?”

  “New boy?”

  I stepped back to size up the muffin thief.

  His webbed feet were planted wide, to support his swollen belly. The penguin’s broad butt tapered to a small head, giving him the look of a bowling pin that needed to hit Weight Watchers.

  Topping it all off were a midnight blue bow tie and bowler that would’ve looked better on a banker than a school kid.

  Having snagged my treat, the creature turned with a vague smile.

  “Don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending a flipper. “The name’s Bland. James Bland.”

  He reeked of fermented fish and onions.

  My eyes watered. I returned the briefest handshake. “Gecko. Chet Gecko.”

  Mrs. Bagoong beamed. “So nice to see y’all getting along. James, you’ve found a new friend already.”

  “Friend?” I said. “Now, wait just—”

  The lunch lady’s glare cut me off like a sushi chef hacking a halibut. “Chet will be happy to show you around, introduce you.” Her eyes completed the thought: If he ever wants to have seconds in my lunchroom again.

  I heaved a sigh. A good detective can tell when he’s outmaneuvered.

  “All right, Bland. Come on.”

  “Good-o,” said the penguin. “Ta-ta, madam!” He waved a flipper at Mrs. Bagoong, who simpered back at him. And if you don’t think the sight of a simpering iguana is enough to curdle your French fries, think again.

  I shuffled toward the nearest table. “So, uh, where are you from?”

  “Down Under actually, but I’ve spent donkey’s years in Albion,” he said.

  “Living with a donkey?”

  “No, living in England.”

  Swell. Not only was he a muffin bandit, the guy could barely speak English.

  I eyeballed his plate. “Pretty big dessert after such a full meal. Need help?”

  “Oh, I’ll muddle through,” said James Bland. He plunged his beak into the treat and gobbled down about half of it.

  So much for the old guilt trick.

  A ragtag group of kids ringed the table. Among them sat Frenchy LaTrine, Bo and Tony Newt, Cassandra the Stool Pigeon, and Shirley Chameleon (who had a wicked crush on me)—all eating, laughing, and spraying food.

  “Hey, sports fans,” I said. “This is James Blond.”

  “Bland,” said the penguin.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I said. “Anyway, he’s a new kid, from Down Over.”

  “Under,” said Bland.

  “Whatever.” I gestured to the group. “James, guys; guys, James.”

  The penguin bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  Frenchy LaTrine giggled. “Cool accent!”

  “Do you know any kangaroos personally?” asked Tony Newt.

  “A few,” said the penguin. He scarfed down the rest of the muffin as I watched sadly. “I say, do you know what they call a lazy kangaroo?”

  “No, what?” said Frenchy.

  “A pouch potato,” said Bland.

  The girls shrieked with laughter; even my buddy Bo chuckled.

  I didn’t care. So what if the new guy was funny?

  Shirley Chameleon elbowed Bo Newt. “Scoot over for James.”

  She didn’t suggest they make room for me.

  The penguin squeezed his bubble butt in between them. He vacuumed the last muffin fragments off Shirley’s plate.

  “What do you do for fun, James?” she asked, batting her eyes.

  I didn’t care. Although Shirley had a crush on me, she was free to fling her cooties wherever she wanted.

  Bland angled his hat. “Actually, I do a spot of detective work,” he said.

  Now, wait just a boll-weevil-pickin’ minute.

  “Fascinating!” said Frenchy, resting her paw on his flipper. “Tell us more!”

  The penguin leaned forward. “Well, on one occasion, Her Majesty rang me up for a special—”

  My face went all hot.

  “You know the Queen of England?” I said.

  “Rather.”

  “Sure, and I know the pope.”

  “Really?” said Bland, half turning. “Does he mention me often?”

  I spluttered.

  The kids shushed me. “Ignore the lizard,” said Frenchy. “Go on, James.”

  “So when the crown jewels went missing—I say, you’re not saving that last bit of eggplant, are you?”

  Wordlessly, the mouse slid her tray over.

  My tail curled.

  “Thanks awfully,” said Bland. He slurped up her leftovers. “Now, where was I . . . ?”

  “The crown jewels,” said Shirley. She shouted over to the next table, “Hey, you guys! He was a detective for the queen!”

  “You don’t actually believe this bozo?” I choked. “He’s making it up!”

  Shirley twisted to look at me. “Oh, Chet,” she said. “You, of all people.”

  “Yeah,” said Frenchy. “Listen and learn!”

  “Learn?!”

  The table of kids ignored me. They were riveted by Bland’s bogus tale of jewel thieves, secret passages, and narrow escapes.

  Someone tugged on my arm. “Chet?”

  It was my partner, a wisecracking mockingbird named Natalie Attired. She nodded toward the door. I followed.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Why, despite years of daylight saving time, we’ve still only got twenty-four hours in a day?”

  “No,” I said. “Why they fall for that . . . that potbellied fraud.”

  “What’s wrong with the penguin?” asked Natalie.

  I ticked off his faults. “He stuffs his face constantly, all the girls flirt with him, he tells bad jokes, and on top of that, he claims to be a detective.”

  Natalie eyed me. “Hmm, sounds a lot like someone I know.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Ah, the green-eyed monster has raised its ugly head.”

  “Herman?”

  “No, bug breath. Jealousy.” She rested a wing tip on my shoulder. “You’re jealous
of him.”

  “Of James Bland? No way.”

  “Yup,” said Natalie. “And I know just how to get you over it.

  “How? Drop him into a vat of boiling broccoli?”

  She shook her head. “Start a new case.”

  Despite my grumpiness, the corners of my lips tugged upward. “All right, then. But this penguin PI better keep his beak out of it.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Natalie.

  But I did, a little. And before long, I’d wish that I’d worried a whole lot more.

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  Look for more mysteries

  from the Tattered Casebook of Chet Gecko

  Case #1 The Chameleon Wore Chartreuse

  Some cases start rough, some cases start easy. This one started with a dame. (That’s what we private eyes call a girl.) She was cute and green and scaly. She looked like trouble and smelled like . . . grasshoppers.

  Shirley Chameleon came to me when her little brother, Billy, turned up missing. (I suspect she also came to spread cooties, but that’s another story.) She turned on the tears. She promised me some stinkbug pie. I said I’d find the brat.

  But when his trail led to a certain stinky-breathed, bad-tempered, jumbo-sized Gila monster, I thought I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Worse, I had to chew fast: If I didn’t find Billy in time, it would be bye-bye, stinkbug pie.

  Case #2 The Mystery of Mr. Nice

  How would you know if some criminal mastermind tried to impersonate your principal? My first clue: He was nice to me.

  This fiend tried everything—flattery, friendship, food—but he still couldn’t keep me off the case. Natalie and I followed a trail of clues as thin as the cheese on a cafeteria hamburger. And we found a ring of corruption that went from the janitor right up to Mr. Big.

  In the nick of time, we rescued Principal Zero and busted up the PTA meeting, putting a stop to the evil genius. And what thanks did we get? Just the usual. A cold handshake and a warm soda.

  But that’s all in a day’s work for a private eye.

  Case #3 Farewell, My Lunchbag

  If danger is my business, then dinner is my passion. I’ll take any case if the pay is right. And what pay could be better than Mothloaf Surprise?

  At least that’s what I thought. But in this particular case, I almost paid the ultimate price for good grub.

  Cafeteria lady Mrs. Bagoong hired me to track down whoever was stealing her food supplies. The long, slimy trail led too close to my own backyard for comfort.

  And much, much too close to the very scary Jimmy “King” Cobra. Without the help of Natalie Attired and our school janitor, Maureen DeBree, I would’ve been gecko sushi.

  Case #4 The Big Nap

  My grades were lower than a salamander’s slippers, and my bank account was trying to crawl under a duck’s belly. So why did I take a case that didn’t pay anything?

  Put it this way: Would you stand by and watch some evil power turn your classmates into hypnotized zombies? (If that wasn’t just what normally happened to them in math class, I mean.)

  My investigations revealed a plot meaner than a roomful of rhinos with diaper rash.

  Someone at Emerson Hicky was using a sinister video game to put more and more students into la-la-land. And it was up to me to stop it, pronto—before that someone caught up with me, and I found myself taking the Big Nap.

  Case #5 The Hamster of the Baskervilles

  Elementary school is a wild place. But this was ridiculous.

  Someone—or something—was tearing up Emerson Hicky. Classrooms were trashed. Walls were gnawed. Mysterious tunnels riddled the playground like worm chunks in a pan of earthworm lasagna.

  But nobody could spot the culprit, let alone catch him.

  I don’t believe in the supernatural. My idea of voodoo is my mom’s cockroach-ripple ice cream.

  Then, a teacher reported seeing a monster on full-moon night, and I got the call.

  At the end of a twisted trail of clues, I had to answer the burning question: Was it a vicious, supernatural were-hamster on the loose, or just another Science Fair project gone wrong?

  Case #6 This Gum for Hire

  Never thought I’d see the day when one of my worst enemies would hire me for a case. Herman the Gila Monster was a sixth-grade hoodlum with a first-rate left hook. He told me someone was disappearing the football team, and he had to put a stop to it. Big whoop.

  He told me he was being blamed for the kidnappings, and he had to clear his name. Boo hoo.

  Then he said that I could either take the case and earn a nice reward, or have my face rearranged like a bargain-basement Picasso painted by a spastic chimp.

  I took the case.

  But before I could find the kidnapper, I had to go undercover. And that meant facing something that scared me worse than a chorus line of criminals in steel-toed boots: P.E. class.

  Case #7 The Malted Falcon

  It was tall, dark, and chocolatey—the stuff dreams are made of. It was a treat so titanic that nobody had been able to finish one single-handedly (or even single-mouthedly). It was the Malted Falcon.

  How far would you go for the ultimate dessert? Somebody went too far, and that’s where I came in.

  The local sweets shop held a contest. The prize: a year’s supply of free Malted Falcons. Some lucky kid scored the winning ticket. She brought it to school for show-and-tell.

  But after she showed it, somebody swiped it. And no one would tell where it went.

  Following a strong hunch and an even stronger sweet tooth, I tracked the ticket through a web of lies more tangled than a rattlesnake doing the rumba. But the time to claim the prize was fast approaching. Would the villain get the sweet treat—or his just desserts?

  Case #8 Trouble Is My Beeswax

  Okay, I confess. When test time rolls around, I’m as tempted as the next lizard to let my eyeballs do the walking . . . to my neighbor’s paper.

  But Mrs. Gecko didn’t raise no cheaters. (Some language manglers, perhaps.) So when a routine investigation uncovered a test-cheating ring at Emerson Hicky, I gave myself a new case: Put the cheaters out of business.

  Easier said than done. Those double-dealers were slicker than a frog’s fanny and twice as slimy.

  Oh, and there was one other small problem: All the evidence pointed to two dames. The ringleader was either the glamorous Lacey Vail, or my own classmate Shirley Chameleon.

  Sheesh. The only thing I hate worse than an empty Pillbug Crunch wrapper is a case full of dizzy dames.

  Case #9 Give My Regrets to Broadway

  Some things you can’t escape, however hard you try—like dentist appointments, visits with strange-smelling relatives, and being in the fourth-grade play. I had always left the acting to my smart-aleck pal, Natalie, but now it was my turn in the spotlight.

  Stage fright? Me? You’re talking about a gecko who has laughed at danger, chuckled at catastrophe, and sneezed at sinister plots.

  I was terrified.

  Not because of the acting, mind you. The script called for me to share a major lip-lock with Shirley Chameleon—Cootie Queen of the Universe!

  And while I was trying to avoid that trap, a simple missing persons case took a turn for the worse—right into the middle of my play. Would opening night spell curtains for my client? And, more important, would someone invent a cure for cooties? But no matter—whatever happens, the sleuth must go on.

  Case #10 Murder, My Tweet

  Some things at school you can count on. Pop quizzes always pop up just after you’ve spent your study time studying comics. Chef’s Surprise is always a surprise, but never a good one. And no matter how much you learn today, they always make you come back tomorrow.

  But sometimes, Emerson Hicky amazes you. And just like finding a killer bee in a box of Earwig Puffs, you’re left shocked, stung, and discombobulated.

  Foul play struc
k at my school; that’s nothing new. But then the finger of suspicion pointed straight at my favorite fowl: Natalie Attired. Framed as a blackmailer, my partner was booted out of Emerson Hicky quicker than a hoptoad on a hot plate.

  I tackled the case for free. Mess with my partner, mess with me.

  Then things took a turn for the worse. Just when I thought I might clear her name, Natalie disappeared. And worse still, she left behind one clue: a reddish smear that looked kinda like the jelly from a beetle-jelly sandwich but raised an ugly question: Was it murder, or something serious?

  Case #11 The Possum Always Rings Twice

  In my time, I’ve tackled cases stickier than a spider’s handshake and harder than three-year-old boll weevil taffy. But nothing compares to the job that landed me knee-deep in school politics.

  What seemed like a straightforward case of extortion during Emerson Hicky’s student-council election ended up taking more twists and turns than an anaconda’s lunch. It became a battle royal for control of the school. (Not that I necessarily believe school is worth fighting for, but a gecko’s gotta do something with his days.)

  In the end, my politicking landed me in one of the tightest spots I’ve ever encountered. Was I savvy enough to escape with my skin? Let me put it this way: Just like a politician, this is one private eye who always shoots from the lip.

  Case #12 Key Lardo

  Working this case, I nearly lost my detective mojo—and to a guy so dim, he’d probably play goalie for the darts team. True, he was only a cog in a larger conspiracy. But this big buttinsky made my life more uncomfortable than a porcupine’s underpants.

  Was he a cop? A truant officer? A gorilla with a grudge? Even worse: A rival detective. His name was Bland. James Bland. And he was cracking cases faster than a . . . well, much faster than I was.