by Bruce Hale
“Uh, feeling bushed?” I said, glancing around for Natalie.
The shrew leaned on her windowsill. Her face looked like a poster for National Rudeness Week. “That glib talk may work with your teacher,” she snarled, “but it doesn’t fool me.”
Skritch, skritch, skritch. A new sound caught my attention.
It was Natalie, with cap and shades in place, raking the grass.
If looks could speak, mine would’ve said, Beat it, you bubblehead!
“You there, gardener,” said Ms. Shrewer. “Was this student in my office?”
“No, ma’am,” drawled Natalie in an accent as thick as the cheese on a deep-dish termite pizza. “This young’un’s been a-bushwhackin’ long as I been here.”
Natalie’s mockingbird voice talents could’ve fooled her own mom. But would her disguise hold?
The shrew frowned at my partner. “Don’t I know you?”
Natalie gulped. The silence stretched like a giraffe’s suspenders.
“Uh, she’s—he’s a new gardener,” I said. “From, uh . . .”
“Tallahassee,” said Natalie.
“Timbuktu,” I said over her response.
“Where?” said Ms. Shrewer.
“Out of town,” Natalie and I said together.
The bad-tempered shrew looked from one of us to the other. Then Ms. Shrewer nodded at the “gardener” and turned back to me.
“I’ve got my eye on you, mister,” she said. “You’re on final-jeopardy probation. If even a shred of evidence connects you with this blackmail scheme, out you go—just like your no-good, diddly-poo, mockingbird friend!”
“‘Diddl’—” Natalie fumed.
I coughed loudly. “Uh, diddle . . . you say ‘final-jeopardy’?”
“Not another word!” barked the vice principal. I’d never heard a shrew bark before. (And I don’t care to again.)
I shot Natalie a look. Muttering, she shouldered her rake and strolled onward. With a deep bow to Ms. Shrewer, I backed away, saluting.
“Not even a gesture,” she called.
I could think of a few choice gestures, but my dad spanked me the last time I used one. Dignified as always, I beat my retreat.
Somehow, the school day lurched to an end, like a seasick water buffalo staggering to its bunk. (Or nest, or corral, or wherever water buffalo sleep. I forget.)
Homeward bound, I was turning things over in my mind.
“Hey, Chet,” called Waldo the furball. He caught up to me. Half the fur had been singed off his face, and what was left was blacker than a warthog’s nostril.
“Pretty cool diversion, huh?” he said.
“The coolest.” Actually it would’ve been cooler if he’d kept Ms. Shrewer busy a bit longer. But beggars can’t be choosers.
“So . . . got any other assignments?”
“Yeah.” I kept walking. “Your homework.”
The furball frowned. Then his face cleared. Waldo looked around at the other kids walking past us toward the school gate.
“Oh, I get it,” he said with a broad wink. “Go do my homework. Riiight, Chet, hur, hur, hur.” He whispered, “What’s homework a code word for?”
“For doing the work that keeps you from flunking.” I waved him off.
Just outside school property, I was passing a knotty pine tree when a figure leaned from its shadows and said, “Psst.”
I turned. “Waldo, for the last ti—” The words froze in my throat.
“Howdy, Chet,” said a familiar voice.
“Natalie!” I grabbed her shoulders. “Are you completely bonkers?”
“Well,” she said, “I am your partner, so I’ve probably got a screw loose.”
“Ha, ha.” I steered Natalie down the sidewalk. “That was some dumb trick you pulled. She almost caught you.”
Natalie shuddered. “Tell me about it. But, Chet, you don’t know what it’s like, staying home all day. I can’t take much more.”
“Well, suck it up, birdie,” I said. “You’ve gotta let me handle this.”
We walked in silence awhile, past kids and car-pools and crossing guards. Finally, Natalie and I stopped in my driveway.
“So?” she said. “Shall we stake out the scrofulous tree at sunset?”
I folded my arms. “We’re not doing anything. I’m handling this stakeout.”
Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “The heck you are,” she said. “This is my suspension; I should be there.”
“Dream on, birdie,” I said, heading for my backyard office. “I go alone.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
And an hour later, we did. Loaded with snacks, I headed back to school. With Natalie. Never underestimate the persuasive powers of a dame—especially one with the mouth of a mockingbird.
11
For Heavens Stakeout
If you’ve never tried nesting under krangleberry bushes, I don’t recommend it. The berries smell as sweet as a gorilla’s armpits on a muggy day. And the leaves? Well, let’s just say when you lie on them you learn what put the krangle in krangleberry.
Still, the bushes were the best place for us to stake out the scrofulous tree. Natalie and I wormed our way in under the low branches and settled down to wait.
At least we had snacks.
Long shadows stretched across the playground like elastic black mamba snakes. Sunset was close at hand.
I tore the wrapper off a pack of Earwig Newtons. “Cookie?” I asked.
Natalie shook her head and stuck her beak into a bag of Entrail Mix—a combo of bug guts and granola. Health food.
“So, who do you think will pick up the loot?” she asked. Natalie fiddled with the camera we’d brought to catch the blackmailers in action.
“My money’s on T-Bone,” I said around a mouthful of cookie.
“Yeah . . . ,” she agreed, “but what’s his motive for blackmail?”
“He wants to join the Stench Bombs?”
“Maybe. But that’s a long way to stick your neck out, just to play rock and roll. I think the Stench Bombs will pick it up themselves.”
I chewed on that awhile. “But why would the Stench Bombs be blackmailing Ms. Shrewer? Why do they need the moola?”
Natalie placed a wing tip on my forearm. “Chet, look!” she said. “It’s the diddly-poo shrew herself.”
I glanced up.
A compact shape marched across the playground, as relentless as the first day of school. The last rays of the sun cast her shadow before her like the carpet at a blockbuster movie premiere—only this carpet was as black as her mood.
Even at a distance, I could tell: This was one surly shrew.
Natalie and I pulled the branches lower, to hide our faces.
Ms. Shrewer trundled up to the scrofulous tree, only fifteen feet away. She scanned the area and stared up into the tree. Then she wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air.
“I hope you took a bath,” Natalie muttered. “Shrews have sharp noses.”
“But just because she smells well doesn’t mean she smells good.”
It wasn’t that funny. Still, Natalie and I had to clamp our hands over our mouths to keep from busting up.
We made no noise, but the bushes quivered. Ms. Shrewer squinted in our direction. She sniffed again.
Natalie and I held our breath. I didn’t dare look at her.
At last, the vice principal turned away and dug a paper bag from her purse. The shrew shinned a little ways up the tree, placing the bag in the lowest fork.
“I know you’re out there,” she called as she climbed down. “I’m leaving what you asked for, but if I ever find out who you are, your tush is mush and I’m the blender.”
With a last glance at the bushes, Ms. Shrewer stomped away, growling.
I waited until she was beyond earshot. “Did you catch that?” I said. “Sounds like she knows you aren’t the blackmailer.”
Natalie cocked her head. “Or maybe she thinks I’ve got an accomplice. You’d better watch your st
ep.”
“My step?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Don’t step out of line.”
“But can I step up my investigation?”
“As long as you take it step-by-step.”
“Ah, step off, birdie.”
Darkness pooled on the playground. The sun disappeared. Twilight fell.
The shrew’s figure vanished. Soon, a car engine gunned.
I slipped out from under the bushes, camera dangling.
“Chet, wait!” said Natalie.
“No way.” I hotfooted it for the tree. “I wanna check the bag for clues before the blackmailers show up.”
Natalie crept forward and stood searching the night. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
I scaled the tree. Inside the paper bag lay five stacks of crisp bills and a Three Mosquitoes candy bar. I’d like to say my keen detective sense led me to check the bills first, but I’d be lying.
Even in the dictionary, chocolate comes before investigation.
I grabbed the bar, unwrapped it, and took a bite.
“Come on, Chet,” said Natalie. “There’s no time for—shh! What’s that?”
I froze. Then I heard it: Soft voices in the gloom, drawing closer.
“Hide!” hissed Natalie. She dived back under the bushes.
Too late to jump—they’d spot me for sure. I dropped the rest of the candy in the bag and scrambled up the branch.
Footsteps crunched over leaves. “See anything?” said a rough voice.
“Nah . . . choo,” said a higher voice, with a sneeze. “Too gloomy.”
As long as I stayed mum, I was safe. I’m glad it’s dark, I thought.
Just then—click—someone turned on a flashlight.
Oh, darn.
12
Tree-for-All
The mysterious visitors shone the flashlight up into the fork of the tree, just below the branch I clung to. I held my breath. My tail curled.
“There’s the bag,” said the first voice. “Boom-chukka, grab it.”
By the flashlight’s gleam, I made out three punks below: The ferret, Twang; the kingfisher, Lamar; and the burly raccoon, Boomchukka. So the Stench Bombs were behind the blackmail scheme. But why?
The raccoon stretched for the bag and handed it down to Lamar. The bird barked out commands. “Twang, Boomchukka, search the area.”
The ferret circled the tree, nose to the ground. Her pal pawed the bushes.
“So?” said Lamar.
“Well,” she said. “I think we’re alone.”
“Ya think?” asked the kingfisher, shining the light on her.
“Ah-ah-allergies!” said Twang, with a sneeze. “Pollen stuffs up my sniffer.”
Lamar waved a wing. “No prob. Let’s check it out.” The three mugs surrounded the sack, gloating. They were going to get away with it.
Not if I could help it. I grabbed the camera still dangling from my neck. Time for a Kodak moment.
The kingfisher pulled out a wad of cash and whistled. “Looky, looky.” He tucked some bills into his T-shirt pocket and dropped the rest back in the bag.
“Lamar!” said Twang. “What if he misses it?”
“Don’t be a worrywart.” Lamar examined the candy bar. “Hey, someone’s been into this. What’s—”
I raised the camera. “Watch the birdie, birdie!”
The three Stench Bombs looked up.
Pah! The flash exploded light.
“It’s the gecko!” said Boomchukka.
“You’re dead meat, bub,” said the kingfisher.
“No,” I said. “You are.”
Fzzzt! The Polaroid camera spit out the photo. I grabbed for it, fumbled, and down it fluttered.
The kingfisher caught the photo. “Nice shot,” he said. “Get ’im, Boom!”
“Uh, is this fair, three against one?” the massive raccoon asked.
“Get ’im!”
“Oh, okay.” Boomchukka dug in his claws and began climbing.
Yikes!
I leaped onto another limb and scrambled farther up. The flashlight followed me like an annoying little sister.
Leaves slapped my face, branches tore my hide. Then the camera strap snagged.
I tugged. Stuck.
Boomchukka climbed steadily. He stepped onto my limb. It swayed.
I tugged again, and the strap unsnarled. In a flurry, I climbed to the end of the branch. It dipped like a deranged tango dancer.
The raccoon shinnied out, closer and closer.
The limb creaked and bobbed like a fishing rod landing Moby Dick.
I was too far out to reach another branch. Only one thing could save me. “Natalie!” I cried.
Wings flapped in the darkness. “Going my way?” she said.
With legs wrapped around the swaying branch, I reached for her feet, missed, and grabbed again. This time I got my mitts on her.
“Fly!” I shouted.
Natalie flapped her wings madly.
Boomchukka’s outstretched hand grazed my foot. “No faaiiiiir!” he cried, missing me and losing his grip.
A quick glance back showed a dark shape crashing down through branches and flattening two other shapes like a bomb—a Stench Bomb.
Whump!
The flashlight fell. Voices clamored.
Natalie’s wings flailed, trying to carry the extra weight. We plummeted groundward. My stomach tried to climb into my throat, and my throat wasn’t pleased with the company.
“Any chance you’re . . . starting . . . a diet soon?” Natalie panted.
“No, but another dip like this and I’ll ralph.”
The ground zoomed up to meet us.
Luckily for the future of the detective biz, my mockingbird pal pulled out of the dive and set a course toward home.
I took another gander at the Stench Bombs. Their flashlight beam weaved, and shouts reached my ears. But we had a head start on the three goombahs.
Flap, flap, flap. Natalie’s wings thrummed a ragged drumbeat.
As we cleared the bushes on the playground’s far side, a pointy-eared figure reared up out of the gloom.
“Hey!” shouted the creature.
“Look out!” I cried.
Natalie wheeled away. Her breath rasped like a sore-throated Santa croaking his last carol. When she flapped over the school fence, the wire scraped my tail.
“Watch it!” I said.
“This . . . is . . . far . . .”
Natalie dipped, my feet caught a trash can, and we belly flopped—ka-thomp!—onto someone’s lawn.
“Enough?” I said.
I helped my partner stand, and we staggered along the street toward home. Good thing the Stench Bombs didn’t follow us; we had as much pep as two fizzled firecrackers in a toilet bowl.
“Close call,” said Natalie.
“No foolin’,” I said. “We almost bit off more trouble than we could chew.”
I turned up my driveway.
“But the trouble’s not over yet,” said Natalie.
“What do you mean?”
She looked up at the figure of a gecko in my doorway, hands on its hips. “Chet, did you bother to tell your mom you’d be late for dinner?”
13
Bright-Eyed, Ambush-y Tailed
The next day, sunrise sparkled with all the colors of a baboon’s butt—lavender, violet, and crimson. Oblivious, I plodded to school. I wasn’t depressed, exactly; it was just morning, the armpit of the day.
Thoughts rattled around in that rusty bucket of nuts and bolts I call my brain.
I knew who the blackmailers were—in fact, it seemed like a broad conspiracy between the Stench Bombs, T-Bone LaLouche, and the mysterious, pointy-eared watcher in the bushes.
Only problem was, I had no solid proof. If I told Principal Zero what I’d seen last night, it’d be the Stench Bombs’ word against mine.
And I knew what kind of weight my word carried with the principal—about as much as a gnat’s nostril hair in deep
space.
I pushed my way between kids clogging up the sidewalk.
Two robots directed traffic at the crosswalk. “What’s with the droids?” I asked a nearby sixth grader.
“It’s our class project,” she said. “Robots Lend a Helping Hand. They’re working all over school.”
“Huh. Whaddaya know?”
This was probably saving Mr. Zero a pretty penny in crossing-guard salaries.
But even that wouldn’t put Big Fat Zero in a good mood.
As I stepped past a robot, it whirred and motored toward me. “Cross . . . withcare,” it droned, running over my foot.
“Ow! Watch it, bucket-head!”
The robot’s eyes gleamed. “Have a, bzzz . . . niceday.”
I’d swear the thing was laughing at me. Crummy machine. It somehow dodged my kick, so I moved on.
With one eye peeled for Stench Bombs, I hustled to the library. Our librarian, Cool Beans, was one savvy possum when it came to the criminal and supernatural. Maybe he’d know how to stop these blackmailers.
I made it to the library steps. So far, so good. But as I started up them, a voice grated, “Ah-ah-ah. Hold it right there.”
I whirled. A crow, a kingfisher, and a ferret stood before me. Three little Stench Bombs, all in a row.
“Well, well,” I said, “if it isn’t the Stenchy Chapter of the Chet Gecko Fan Club.” I eased up a step. “If you want autographs, you’ll have to wait in line.”
“Smart mouth, Gecko,” said Lamar.
“It’s been to school.” I took another step back and stretched out my hand for the door. “Say, aren’t you missing a Bomb? Where’s Boomchukka?”
The door swung open. A funky whiff of damp fur and B.O. washed over me.
“Uh, right here,” said Boomchukka.
I ducked under his grab and sprang for the wall, scrambling up it as fast as I could scram. On the library roof, I faced them.
“Ha, ha, suckers!” I said. “Try to catch me now.”
The kingfisher and crow flapped their wings and started after me.
Oops. Memo to self: Don’t taunt enemies who can fly. I hightailed it across the roof and leaped down to the top of the covered walkway.