by Bruce Hale
The magpie squawked a laugh. “Like her? She’s a girl.”
“So?” said Natalie. “We were wondering if she really cheated.”
Jack cocked his head. “Why ask me?”
“You sit by her,” I said. “Thought you might have seen something.”
He regarded us both with an expression as hard to read as model-assembly instructions in Swahili. “Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t,” he said. “But I ain’t dumb enough to go shootin’ off my mouth in front of a private eye.”
“How ’bout if I turn my back?” I said.
“Beat feet,” said Rocky. “Yer breathin’ up all the air.”
Jack scowled. His practice had really paid off—his whole face bunched up like a muscle-man’s fist.
Rocky and Bosco pushed up to standing. Rocky’s brawny shoulders flexed like two camels playing Twister under a sheet. Bosco growled.
Knowing when to hoof it is a vital skill for a detective. I detected that it was time to hoof it.
“Let’s go, Natalie,” I said. “If any of you fine specimens has some information, you know where to find us.”
“Yeah,” said Bosco. “In serious trouble.”
I gave them a parting sneer. “That’s right, ace. Trouble is my middle name.”
As we walked away, Natalie said, “I thought your middle name was Sergio.”
“Aw, what’s in a name, Natalie Petunia?” I said.
For once, she shut up.
4
Petty Note Junction
Is anything sadder than the sound of the last lunch bell? (Okay, maybe the crumple of an empty bag when you’ve eaten the last Bar-B-Q Weevil chip.)
Natalie and I followed the bell’s command and shuffled back to class. But as we went, we puzzled.
“Did you notice Rocky perk up when we mentioned cheating?” said Natalie.
“Her favorite subject,” I said. “And Jack seemed like he was hiding something.”
“Wonder what?”
I pushed my hat back. “Wonder about this, while you’re at it: If a swallow named Fred is flying south with a pound of birdseed, and a sparrow named Mathilda is flying north with a pound of rice, which one—”
Natalie shook her head. “I won’t do your math homework for you.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough. So, why would someone frame Shirley?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Natalie. She ticked off the reasons on her feathertips. “One, they want revenge. Two, they want to hide their own cheating . . .” She paused.
“And what’s three?” I asked.
“It was just an accident.”
I snorted. “My money’s on number one or two.”
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Every time I use number three with my mom, she doesn’t buy it.”
Back in class, Mr. Ratnose gave his nerves a rest by assigning silent reading. Under cover of The Three Little Pigs: Bakin’ with Bacon cookbook, I scoped out my classmates. Most were actually reading—which probably surprised Mr. Ratnose.
I surveyed the kids near Shirley. Which one of them wanted revenge on her?
Cassandra kept glancing around—looking for nonreaders to tattle on, no doubt. Olive’s nose was buried in her book, but two of the new kids, Rimshot Binkley and Noah Vail, seemed restless.
Jackdaw’s eyes met mine when I looked his way. Those shiny black peepers held more mischief than a carful of sixth graders. It was too early for conclusions, but I knew who topped my list of suspects.
Bimp!
A folded-up wad of paper bounced off my book and onto my lap. I opened it. In Shirley’s neat cursive, the note read: So, what’s up? Do you know who framed me yet?
I scrawled underneath it: Not yet. Can you think of anyone who’s jealous of you or wants revenge?
I refolded the paper and—bink—flicked it back onto Shirley’s desk.
She read it, glanced my way, chewed her pencil, and wrote a response. But when Shirley sent the note back, she gave it too much spin. The folded paper ricocheted off my book and onto the floor—ka-bim-pok!
Mr. Ratnose looked up.
Quickly, I ducked behind my book, turned my head, and shot out my tongue. Th-zip! I pulled the note into my mouth.
“Chet Gecko?” said Mr. Ratnose. “Is there a problem?”
I straightened and shook my head. “Uh-uh.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Mm-hmm. Goodth bookh,” I mumbled around the paper.
Satisfied, he returned to his own reading. I fished the soggy paper from my mouth, read Shirley’s message, and almost gagged.
You mean someone’s jealous that I’m your girlfriend?
“You’re not my girlfriend!” I hissed.
She pouted.
“But don’t worry,” I muttered. “I’ll keep working on your case anyway.”
Shirley’s long tail curled around the chair leg. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“There is one thing,” I said, leaning closer.
“Name it.” Her eyelashes fluttered like a kite tail in a Force 5 hurricane.
“Don’t study for the next test. You’ve gotta look less like a cheater and more like a moron.”
The chameleon’s eyes went hard. “I’ll just follow your example,” she said, and turned back to her book.
Great. I wanted a client; I got a comedian.
5
Ratty or Not
Afternoon recess blew in like the scent of fresh-baked spittlebug cookies. I hooked up with Natalie in the hallway, and we kicked around our next move.
When Mr. Ratnose marched past, we followed.
“Hey, teacher,” I said. “Can we talk?”
He checked his watch, then Natalie and me. “If this is about your last math quiz,” he said, “you can forget it. I won’t raise that grade for love or money.”
Natalie smirked.
“You mistake me,” I said.
“Not often,” he said. “Now, what’s your gripe? I’ve got yard duty.”
“We wanted to ask about Shirley’s test,” said Natalie.
“Oh, that.” Mr. Ratnose’s lips clamped tighter than an elephant’s Speedo. He headed for the playground.
I hustled after him. “It’s just that we don’t believe a dame—” Natalie glared at me. “I mean, a girl like Shirley could’ve cheated.”
“Believe it,” he said.
“But she swears she didn’t do it,” said Natalie. “Can’t you give her a second chance?”
Mr. Ratnose looked daggers. “Cheaters don’t get a second chance.”
Hmm. He was as hard to crack as a concrete coconut. But still we had to try.
“I don’t suppose you’d let us see that test key you think she dropped?” I asked.
Mr. Ratnose’s ears twitched. “You don’t suppose right,” he said. “That’s evidence.”
Natalie and I exchanged a frustrated glance.
Mr. Ratnose strode onto the grassy expanse of playground, head swiveling, on the lookout for mischief makers. We had maybe one more chance before he shut us down for good.
“But how would she get the answers from you?” asked Natalie.
“She stole them from my desk, she sneaked them off my computer . . . what does it matter?” said Mr. Ratnose.
I tried a different tack. “Look, we think she might have been framed, maybe by a cheater covering his own tracks. Can you at least say who else you suspect of cheating?”
He stopped and fixed me with a hard stare. “I’ll say one thing,” he said. “I don’t suspect you, Chet Gecko.”
I smiled. “Gee, thanks. Because of my high morals?”
“No,” he said, “because of your low grade-point average. If you were cheating, you wouldn’t be hanging by your fingertips onto a C-plus in history.”
He wasn’t funny. But he was accurate.
“Can’t you tell me anything useful, Mr. Ratnose?” I asked.
He clapped a paw onto my sho
ulder. “Do your homework, study hard, and obey your parents.”
Just then, a squawk rang out from a knot of kids nearby.
My teacher stormed off to solve the situation. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses a tail,” he muttered.
Natalie watched him go. “Well, he’s sure Mr. Helpful.”
“This is nothing,” I said. “You should see him when we’re reviewing for a test.”
I scanned the playground. A pack of kids nearby was engaged in a spirited version of capture the flag (or full-contact tiddlywinks, I’m not sure which). But it didn’t matter. Natalie and I had higher-stakes games to play.
“Let’s roll,” I said.
“Like a rock,” she replied. As we strolled along, Natalie said, “Hey, that reminds me of a great joke I heard today . . .”
“It would.”
“What rock group do you find in an alley?” asked Natalie.
I shook my head.
“The Bowling Stones! Get it?” She cackled.
“Partner, you should be in the movies.”
“Really?” Natalie preened herself.
“Yup,” I said. “And if I had three bucks, I’d send you there right now.”
6
A Yail of a Tale
Recess rolled on. Hoping for enough time to grill some suspicious characters and still squeeze in some R and R, I made for the swings.
“Hey, Chet?” said Natalie. “Where are we going?”
“Hunting other suspects.”
“I’ve got an idea,” she said.
“Save it; if you ever get another, you could breed them, and maybe they’ll have babies.”
My insult bounced right off her. “You ever notice,” she said, “how, most cases we get, the newcomer tends to be the culprit?”
“Yeah?”
“So, let’s interrogate the newcomers.”
I grinned. “My thoughts exactly.” As we reached the sandbox, I swept my arm out in welcome. “Meet Newcomers Number One and Two.”
The six swings were in full . . . uh . . . swing. And there, waiting in line, stood the Vails, brother and sister.
The two mourning doves had been at Emerson Hicky for less than a month. In class, Noah Vail sat in front of Olive Drabb, while Lacey, his sister, sat another row over.
Saying they had different personalities was like saying Buckingham Palace was a nice house. True, as far as it went. But it didn’t go far enough.
Lacey’s pearl gray feathers shimmered like a czarina’s best bathrobe, and her eyes shone like a brand-new bicycle in a shop window. She dripped glamour like a snail drips slime—smoothly and without a thought.
Noah, on the other hand, was more hawk than dove. Rumor was, he’d been held back a grade at his old school, for fighting, feuding, and general rowdiness. His feathers were frazzled and his gaze was wild—like a werewolf at moonrise.
At that moment, his gaze lit on us.
“Morning, doves,” said Natalie, grinning.
“Gee, I never heard that before,” snarled Noah. I didn’t know a bird could snarl. “Got any others?”
“Well, actually—”
I cut Natalie off. “We just came by to say howdy-do and see how you’re getting along.”
Lacey beamed at me and rested a wing tip on my arm. Seeing her this close made me dizzy—a nice dizzy, like slurping a milk shake on a merry-go-round.
“Why, that is so nice of you to ask,” she said. “Isn’t it, Noah?” She shot him a glance.
“Uh, yeah,” he said.
“Truthfully, we like Emerson Hicky just fine,” said Lacey. “But it’s hard sometimes, having new teachers, meeting new people. It can get so . . . lonely.”
My heart went out to her. Poor little birdie; she just needed a friend.
Natalie cleared her throat. “Have either of you gotten to know Shirley Chameleon?”
“What’s it to you?” said Noah.
“Now, now, sunshine,” cooed Lacey to her brother. “You must excuse Noah,” she said. “He’s been having a hard time fitting in.”
Noah’s chest pumped up like a gimmicky sneaker. “Oh, sure, just blab my problems to everyone!” he cried. “Poor Noah—too bad he’s not perfect like his little sister!”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Lacey.
“Whatever,” said her brother. “I’m outta here; see you in class.” And with that, he flapped his wings and took off for the gym.
Lacey forced a chuckle. “He’s been under a lot of pressure lately. We both have. My parents expect nothing but the best.”
I patted her shoulder. “And I’m sure they get it—from you,” I said.
Where did that come from?
Natalie made a face, and I took my hand off the dove. “Um, about Shirley . . . ?” my partner asked.
Lacey smoothed a perfect wing feather. “Yes, she seems like a lovely girl. But I’m sorry to say I don’t really know her. I’ll tell you, though . . .”
“Yes?” I said.
She turned a thousand-watt smile on me. “She sure has some wonderful friends.” The glamorous dove glided over to an empty swing and sat down. “Ta-ta.”
I gave her a wave and stumbled away from the sandbox.
Natalie fell in beside me. “Ta-ta, you wonderful friend,” she said, in a dead-on imitation of Lacey.
“Hey, don’t mock the poor kid,” I said. “She’s just new, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” said Natalie. “But she uses the oldest lines.”
I led the way across the grass. “Well, I don’t know about her brother, but at least we know she’s not involved in framing Shirley.”
Natalie cocked her head. “Are you cracked? Nobody’s that perfect. I think we should keep both of them on the suspects list.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” I said. “But there’s one thing we know for sure.”
“What’s that?”
R-r-r-ring! went the bell.
“It’s time to go back to class.”
7
Trick or Cheat
When the last bell ended the day, our classroom exploded like the stink bomb in the school toilet that time that I—well, never mind.
Kids flew out the door (the birds did, anyway), laughing and chatting.
With the most mournful stare this side of a first grader’s bedtime, Shirley dragged herself off to detention. But her sadness was real.
I looked away. A half day of snooping, and we hadn’t uncovered anything to prove Shirley’s innocence.
I scanned the classroom for our other new-kid suspect, Rimshot Binkley, but he’d already hopped down some rabbit hole and pulled it in after himself.
So I did what any self-respecting detective would have done in my shoes. I went home for snacks with Natalie.
The afternoon shouldn’t be a total waste, right?
The next morning, I sat down at my desk and found we were front-page news. CHEATERS PROSPER AT EMERSON HICKY, screamed the headline in our school newspaper, The Daily Tattletale.
The article revealed that one-third of Mr. Ratnose’s class had cheated on a history test. Uh-oh. I knew of at least one pointy-nosed teacher who wouldn’t be crazy about that story leaking out.
Speak of the devil. Mr. Ratnose stalked into the room looking like Hurricane Ratty. His eyes were slits, and his teeth ground together like a pencil sharpener on overtime.
The room fell silent so fast it almost hurt itself.
“Class,” he said. “I am very, very, very, very unhappy with you.”
Only an oblivious teacher’s pet like Igor Beaver would follow a comment like that with a question.
“You didn’t like my book report?” he asked.
The storm struck. “Hang your book report!” snapped Mr. Ratnose. He took a shaky breath. “In grading tests yesterday, I found that many of you are still cheating. Have you no sense of decency? No respect?”
It didn’t seem like a good time to point out that we’d never had any decency or respect. I stayed mum
.
Mr. Ratnose’s gaze swept the room like a machine gun in the kind of movie your parents won’t let you watch. “You will retake that test again,”— this time, nobody dared to groan—“and again, with different questions each time, until I’m satisfied. Is . . . that . . . clear?”
Heads bobbed in agreement. Waldo the furball dared to raise his hand.
“Yes, Waldo?” said our teacher.
“Ur, what if—what if you’re never satisfied?” he said.
Mr. Ratnose stood like an old-time gunslinger, with feet spread wide. “If I’m not satisfied,” he said, “everyone takes summer school.”
8
Rich as Rocky, Feller
“That’s it!” I told Natalie at recess. “I’m solving this case and putting the cheaters out of business if it’s the last thing I do.”
We were crossing a patch of new grass while around us spring had its way with Emerson Hicky students. A sixth-grade skink danced hip-hop in the hallway. A pack of my classmates thundered past, making for the library. A kitten and raccoon huddled close on a nearby wall.
Yuck. Spring makes for strange playmates.
“You really think we can solve two cases at once?” asked Natalie. She fluffed her feathers.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not going to summer school, and I’m not gonna retake that stupid test until I’m a grandpa gecko. So, any bright ideas?”
She tilted her head back and stroked her chin feathers. “Try wearing a hot-pink T-shirt.”
“Birdie, I’m warning you . . .”
“Or . . . hmm . . . to catch a cheater, think like a cheater.”
I smiled. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day. So if I were a cheater, where would I get the test answers in advance?”
Our eyes met. “Rocky Rhode,” we said together.
We found the low-down horny toad tormenting a first grader over by the krangleberry bushes. If anyone was selling stolen test answers, chances were, Rocky would have her claw in the business.