by Bruce Hale
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Frontispiece
A private message from the private eye . . .
Cheat, Stink, and Be Hairy
Shirley, You Jest
Jackdaw Ripper
Petty Note Junction
Ratty or Not
A Yail of a Tale
Trick or Cheat
Rich as Rocky, Feller
E-Mail & Female
Rimshot Binkley
The Whole Kitten Caboodle
Ways & Beans
Goon with the Wind
Shrink Rapped
Stakeout & Potatoes
To Catch Some Grief
The Feast That Launched a Thousand Chips
Up the Creek without a Tattle
Grime and Punishment
That’s Olive She Wrote
Sample Chapter from GIVE MY REGRETS TO BROADWAY
Buy the Book
Look for more mysteries from the Tattered Casebook of Chet Gecko
Read More from the Chet Gecko Series
About the Author
Copyright © 2003 by Bruce Hale
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
www.hmhco.com
Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Harcourt, Inc., 2003.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Hale, Bruce.
Trouble is my beeswax: from the tattered casebook of Chet Gecko, private eye/by Bruce Hale.
p. cm.
“A Chet Gecko Mystery.”
Summary: Chet and his partner, Natalie Attired, investigate a cheating ring at Emerson Hicky Elementary school.
[1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Cheating—Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories. 6. Humorous stories.]
I. Title.
PZ7.H1295Tr 2003
[Fic]—dc21 2003001105
ISBN 978-0-15-216718-9 hardcover
ISBN 978-0-15-216724-0 paperback
eISBN 978-0-547-54601-8
v2.1215
For my one and only Love Possum
A private message from the private eye . . .
Sooner or later, temptation knocks on everyone’s door. Some of us throw the dead bolt, some ask it in and offer up a hot cup of cocoa—it all depends on your character. (Of course, as my mom likes to point out, having character isn’t the same as being a character.)
Temptation has rapped plenty of times on my door—down at the end of Danger Street, around the corner from Trouble Avenue. Stenciled on the smoky glass you’ll find: CHET GECKO, PRIVATE EYE. (Or you would, if I had a door with glass.)
Some say I’m the best detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary. I hate to argue when they’re right.
Truth is, being a tough private eye, I can resist anything . . . except temptation. I can’t say no to a silverfish sundae supreme; I’ve never met a cinnamon beetle crisp I didn’t like. And when a mystery entices me, I dive right in and solve it.
But I draw the line when tempted to cheat.
Not everyone does, of course. This one time, I uncovered a cheating ring so underhanded, so successful, it exploded the myth that “cheaters never prosper.” These crooks were so clever, they made Sherlock Holmes look like Elmer Fudd.
They led me on a wild-goose chase longer than an anaconda’s suspenders. I got so discouraged, I almost gave up. But when tempted to surrender, I always recall my grandpa’s words of wisdom: “If quitters never win and winners never quit, who came up with the saying ‘Quit while you’re ahead’?”
1
Cheat, Stink, and Be Hairy
It was no use, no use. I had followed a lead as thin as a dragonfly wafer until it finally petered out here, in a blind alley. Swiveling my head right and left, I could tell—
I was trapped. A whisper of fear tickled my neck.
Then it hit me—foom! A shapeless something, heavier than a heartache, dropped onto my head and shoulders, dragging me down . . . down . . . when—
“Chet Gecko?” A voice cut through the red darkness.
“Are you with us?” said my teacher, Mr. Ratnose.
What was he doing in the alley?
My eyes blinked open. “Wuzza?” With a supreme effort, I raised my head.
“If you can’t stay awake, I’ll have someone pinch you,” he said.
Several voices tittered.
Mr. Ratnose’s classroom swam into focus. Kids, chairs, chalkboards, and cream cheese—Bo Newt grinning, Shirley Chameleon simpering. I was back at my desk, at school, facing down Public School Enemy Number One: boredom.
It was a humdrum morning at Emerson Hicky Elementary. You ask yourself, How dull can it get? Then you go to Mr. Ratnose’s class, and you find out.
The school newspaper on the corkboard said it all: BOREDOM EPIDEMIC FLATTENS SCHOOL. No duh.
Mr. Ratnose shot me one last glare, then scrawled some numbers on the board. He claimed to be explaining fractions, but he might just as well have been describing his vacation in Left Armpit, Arizona.
I longed for something, anything, to break the monotony.
He turned with a flourish. “And now, time for history.”
Anything but that.
But the lean rat had a surprise in store. He grabbed a stack of papers with one hand and thwacked them against his open palm.
“They say, ‘History repeats itself,’” said Mr. Ratnose. “But I sincerely hope yesterday’s won’t.”
Bewildered faces greeted his remark.
Mr. Ratnose began pacing. “I’m referring, of course, to your grades on yesterday’s history test. I am deeply disappointed in you.”
Igor Beaver, a teacher’s pet’s pet, raised his hand. “Wh-what do you mean, teacher?” he whined. “Did I get a bad grade?”
Mr. Ratnose’s whiskers bristled. “No, Igor,” he said, keeping his voice even. “You got a good grade. In fact, far too many of you got a good grade.”
Igor gasped. “You mean . . . ?”
“I do. We’ve got cheaters!” Mr. Ratnose waved the stack of papers.
“B-but how do you know?” asked Igor.
“Because,” our teacher snarled, “I added a dummy question.”
I thought, Giving a dummy question to these dummies is like sending snow to Eskimos. But I didn’t say it.
Mr. Ratnose looked like he was ready to take a bite out of our tests. “It was a trick question—none of you could’ve known the answer. But too many of you did.”
He tossed the offending tests onto his desk. His gaze raked the classroom. “Look at the student on your right.”
Igor and Cassandra the Stool Pigeon looked right. The rest of us stared at our teacher, beaming confusion like a country-western station beams corniness.
“Look right!” snarled Mr. Ratnose.
We looked.
“Now look left.”
We looked again.
Mr. Ratnose bared his yellowy teeth. “One out of three of you is a cheater.”
Cassandra raised her wing tip. “You mean, one-third of the class?”
Say what you will about the dame, she understood fractions.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Ratnose. “And do you know what this means?”
Several students shook their heads.
“You’re all taking the test again—right now.”
The groan that followed could’ve been heard as far as Zanzibar. Given a choice between
boredom and torture, I’ll take boredom any day.
But we had no choice.
Igor and two other kids passed out the tests. I scanned mine. It was the same one we took yesterday.
And I didn’t remember any more answers than I had the first time. While we sweated through multiple-choice madness, Mr. Ratnose patrolled the aisles, hairless pink tail dragging behind him.
Suddenly, he stopped. “Hmm?”
Mr. Ratnose bent and plucked a sheet of paper from the floor, beside Shirley Chameleon’s desk. His forehead furrowed like a mole’s front yard.
“Miss Chameleon, what is the meaning of this?” he said.
“Of what?” she asked. Shirley watched our teacher with one eye, while the other one shot me a worried glance. It’s gross, but you get that from chameleons.
Brandishing the paper, Mr. Ratnose leaned over her. “This, as if you didn’t know, is the answer key to the test!”
“No!” said Shirley.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Ratnose. “You, missy, are a dirty rotten cheater. One week of detention for you!”
Shirley crumpled like a paper pagoda in a rainstorm. Her eyes teared up.
That did it. I can’t stand to see a reptile cry.
“Uh, Mr. Ratnose,” I said, “let’s not be hasty.”
He turned his laser-beam gaze on me. “How’s that?”
“I mean, how do you know it’s Shirley’s paper? She’s never cheated before.”
Mr. Ratnose’s expression turned colder than a snow-snake’s belly button. “Do you want to share her detention?” he asked.
“Um, no . . .”
“Then put a lid on it, mister.” Mr. Ratnose turned to the class. “Everyone, back to your tests.” He stalked off down the aisle.
Shirley swung her sorrowful puss in my direction. Her eyes held a plea. Her mouth framed a question. “Help me?” she whispered.
I nodded. After all, what self-respecting private eye would turn down a dame in distress?
A smart one, as I soon discovered.
2
Shirley, You Jest
Lunchtime came, as lunchtime will. I shouldered my way through the press of kids at the door, bent on sampling the marvels of our cafeteria. According to the menu, today’s casserole would be drizzled with fungus gnat sauce, and a side order of—
Someone tugged at my sleeve.
“Um, Chet?” said Shirley Chameleon.
Oh, yeah. My client.
She looked as downtrodden as the doormat at an elephant’s housewarming party. Shirley wrung her hands.
“What’s the story, morning glory?” I said, leading her outside.
Shirley’s cheeks glistened with tears, and her tail curled in a sad spiral. She was the kind of girl I could fall for—if someone pushed me from a great height.
Shirley trailed after me as I strolled down the hall. “Thanks for standing up for me,” she said.
I shrugged.
“Chet, I didn’t cheat. Please believe me.”
“Doesn’t matter what I believe, green eyes,” I said. “Tell it to Old Man Ratnose.”
“But can’t you find some evidence to help me convince him?”
I looked her over. “Maybe. If you are innocent . . .”
“Why, Chet Gecko!” she said. “You know I’m not a cheater.”
She was right. But that didn’t mean I’d miss a chance to make her sweat.
“Swear it,” I said.
“Cross my heart,” said Shirley. Her fingers followed her words.
“Swear by something serious.”
She frowned. “I swear by all that’s chocolate.”
“That’s serious,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “What else?”
Shirley eyed me for a few seconds. “I swear by the stack of Katydid Chunk bars I’ll give you if you clear my name.”
That’s the kind of swearing I’d been waiting to hear.
“Good enough for me,” I said. “Dry your eyes, señorita. You just bought yourself a detective.”
As I savored my grub-’n’-tater casserole, I mulled over Shirley’s problem. She swore she had no enemies, but somebody had either framed her or dropped his own cheat sheet.
The obvious suspects were the kids on the aisle where Mr. Ratnose had found the paper. I squinted, picturing the seating layout. Moving clockwise, we had: Cassandra the Stool Pigeon behind Shirley, then Jackdaw Ripper, Olive Drabb in front of Jack, and finally, two new kids—one in front of Olive, the other in front of Shirley.
I mopped my plate with a butterfly biscuit and considered my classmates. Being the type of gecko who thinks better on his feet, I tossed my tray on the dirty stack, popped the biscuit into my fly trap, and wandered around the lunchroom.
Two tables of kids had broken into pandemonium over trading cards. Three bullfrogs were conducting a belching contest. And five blue jays chased a crow down the table, weaving through other kids’ trays like an obstacle course.
Pretty quiet for a Tuesday.
Cassandra stood by the door, shooting off her mouth to the lunch monitor. Drifting closer, I got an earful.
“. . . And then, Tiffany kept making this gross face until Brandon cracked up?” she said. “And he spewed his casserole all over me and the girl next to me? I swear, it was so sick. Can’t you do something about it?”
Hmm. Cassandra was such a tattletale, she’d even rat on herself. Scratch suspect number one.
I moved on.
All alone on a bench by the wall, Olive Drabb huddled over her tray. She was a dun-colored field mouse with all the charm and personality of a sawdust-and-liverwurst sandwich. But Olive made up for it with a voice that inspired massive dozing.
“Hey, Olive,” I said.
“Mm, hi,” said Olive.
I leaned against the wall and eyeballed her. “Pretty rough, what happened to Shirley during the test,” I said.
“I dunno,” droned Olive. “Cheaters never prosper, don’t ya know. Don’t do the crime if ya can’t do the time, is what I always say . . .”
She probably said something else, but an unplanned nap attack made me miss it. My head jerked. I forced my eyes open and tried again.
“So, uh . . . do you get along with Shirley?”
The mouse nibbled a biscuit. “A friend in need is a friend indeed. You know, the eyes are the windows to the soul, but if you ask me, her eyes are kinda shifty, the way they . . .”
Once more, I zoned out. It seemed the only cliché she’d missed was the one she most needed to learn: Silence is golden.
I rubbed my eyes. “Um, that’s fascinating,” I said. “Listen, I gotta go now, but will you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“On the way home from school, don’t talk to the bus driver.”
3
Jackdaw Ripper
The minutes were tearing through my lunch period like an avalanche through a wet paper towel. Time flies when you’re out of class.
I had just enough lunchtime left to squeeze in another interview before Mr. Ratnose’s prison gates clanged shut again.
The cafeteria was nearly empty. I scooted out the door to track down my third suspect, Jackdaw Ripper. This lunch period, I’d saved the worst for last.
The din of students at play echoed across the grounds. As I watched, a touch-football game went from touch to shove, to slap, to “You dirty little—” Then a teacher stepped in.
Girls swarmed over the jungle gym. (You wouldn’t catch me on it until the thing had been seriously disinfected.)
Around me swirled rabbits and robins, rats and reptiles—but no Ripper. I chewed my lip. Remembering that the junior thugs liked to hang out by the bike racks in their spare time, I started in that direction.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed movement. Something swooped down from the skies.
I hit the deck. “Oof!”
A dapper mockingbird landed beside me. “Call me crazy, but I think a pool might improve that swan dive,” said my par
tner, Natalie Attired.
“You’re crazy,” I said.
She smirked and preened her wing feathers, “Sorry,” she said, but wasn’t.
Natalie Attired was my right-hand bird, a true-blue friend with a truly awful sense of humor. If she’d cracked as many cases as jokes, we’d be in the detective Hall of Fame.
“Chet, will you answer me something?”
“Shoot.” I got to my feet and brushed off my shirtfront.
“Why didn’t the elephant cross the road?” she asked.
I sighed. “Okay, why didn’t he?”
“Because he didn’t want to be mistaken for a chicken.” She cackled.
See what I mean?
“Har-de-har,” I said. “Now, bring your brain along. There’s a case heating up, and it’s time to do some grilling.”
I filled her in as we trotted over to the bike racks. Sure enough, Jack Ripper was in a trio of toughs leaning on the racks, practicing their scowls. A delinquent horned toad named Rocky Rhode and a sullen ferret called Bosco Rebbizi flanked him.
Jackdaw Ripper was a magpie with attitude. His strong beak curved, cruel as a samurai sword, and his ebony eyes could count the change in your pocket from ten feet away on a dark night.
We stopped just out of reach. “Hey, sports fans,” I said. “What’s cookin’?”
“My fist and your face,” snarled Rocky.
Bosco leaned toward her and muttered, “I think that’s the answer to ‘Got a match?’”
“But we’re’s’posed to threaten him,” Rocky hissed.
“Yeah . . . ,” said Bosco. “But if he says, ‘What’s cookin’?’ you say, ‘Your buns in my oven.’”
She sulked. “I knew that.”
I coughed. “So, Jack,” I said. “How about Shirley getting busted for cheating, huh?”
“How about it,” he said flatly. Rocky’s ears perked up. (Or they would have if they hadn’t been just a couple of holes in her head.)
“Do you like Shirley?” I asked.