by Bruce Hale
She was the wrongdoer’s one-stop shop.
Natalie and I decided to fake some shopping. As we approached, Rocky’s victim was just handing over half his sack lunch to the spiky lizard.
“And next time, bring some candied carpenter ants,” said Rocky.
“I don’t eat ants,” whined the first grader, a shrimpy vole.
“But I do,” said Rocky. She thanked him for his generosity by punting the little guy halfway to the basketball courts. Then she turned to Natalie and me.
“Wanna ride?” She sneered.
I coughed. “Maybe later. We’re here on business.”
“Monkey business?” Her eyes narrowed.
“The monkiest.” Nat grinned.
“But can you mind your own beeswax?” asked Rocky.
“Trouble is my beeswax,” I said.
“So it’s no trouble to mind it,” added Natalie.
Rocky frowned. We were moving a little too fast for her. Time to spell things out.
“We’re in the market for some test answers,” I mumbled.
Rocky Rhode eyeballed the two of us. We tried to look dishonest.
She stroked her jaw while suspicion wrestled with greed. Greed won. Rocky shifted from bully to businessperson.
“Whaddaya want?” she said, opening a book bag to flash a sheaf of papers. “I got quizzes; I got tests; I got true-false; I got multiple-choice.” She leaned closer. “Essays cost extra.”
“How is the multiple-choice?” asked Natalie.
“It’s choice,” said Rocky.
I leaned closer. “Have you got the answers for Mr. Ratnose’s history quiz—the one he’s giving today?”
“What are ya, cracked?” said Rocky. She pushed my shoulder like a pile driver.
“Some think so,” said Natalie.
“I can’t get answers for a same-day test—it’s too quick,” said the massive horned toad. “Only way to get those answers is to copy off some brainiac’s paper.”
I rubbed my shoulder. “But lots of kids have been cheating in my class—not by copying, ’cause I’ve checked. Didn’t you sell answers to some of them?”
“I can’t say,” said Rocky. She pretend-zipped her lips. “Professional ethics.”
“Professional ethics?” I said. “You’re selling test answers!”
“Even so,” said the horned toad.
Natalie stepped forward. “Chet’s class took a test yesterday, and a bunch of kids cheated. If you didn’t supply the answers, someone did.”
A cloud passed over Rocky’s lumpy features. Her fists tightened.
“Yeah, someone did,” she said. “And when I get my paws on that someone, they’re gonna wish they . . . they’d never been born.”
“Or hatched,” said Natalie helpfully.
“Or hatched . . . ,” said Rocky.
“Or foaled.”
Rocky pointed a clawed finger at my partner. “Don’t push it.”
“So,” I said, tilting back my hat, “big bad Rocky can’t handle a little competition?”
“Can so,” growled the horned toad. She took a threatening step closer.
Natalie and I backpedaled.
My partner held up her wings. “Whoa, Nellie,” said Natalie. “We’re just saying, it’d be a shame if some newcomer put you out of business. You’re like . . . an institution.”
Rocky let her shoulders slump. “Ain’t it the truth. But my customers got no respect for tradition. They’re going to this new kid, with his newfangled ways.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Rocky looked bluer than a click beetle on ice. “I heard he’s got some high-tech way of stealing the answers.” She stared into her book bag. “Why don’t he just break into desks, or sell last year’s tests, like we always done?”
I elbowed Natalie. We left the mournful sixth grader with her memories and pointed our toes toward class.
The bell rang. Kids began flowing off the playground like dirty bathwater sluicing down the drain. I noticed, over by the basketball courts, Jackdaw Ripper in deep conversation with a burly raccoon.
“Hey, Natalie, who’s the shifty-looking guy with Jack?” I asked.
She looked over. “I dunno. Some raccoon—they always look shifty.”
“Must be the mask,” I said.
We walked in silence awhile.
Natalie spoke up. “So, Mr. Private Eye? What do you think?”
“I think they oughta just give up and put chocolate milk in the drinking fountains, already,” I said.
“About our case, ding-a-ling,” said Natalie.
“I’m not sure. So far, we’ve got some unknown kid selling test answers . . .”
“Which he steals from teachers . . .”
“Using some unknown high-tech method,” I said. “Oh, and we’ve also got someone framing Shirley for reasons unknown. We don’t know much.”
Natalie clapped me on the shoulder. “They say ignorance is bliss,” she said.
I sighed and stepped into my classroom. “If that’s true, birdie, we should be the happiest mugs on campus.”
9
E-Mail & Female
Usually, computer lab is the bright spot in an otherwise drab day. (Or it was, until they found the games we’d sneaked onto the machines. Why Principal Zero doesn’t consider Tiki Taki Boom educational material, I’ll never know.)
That morning, Mr. Ratnose packed us off for a half hour of computer time. We spent it under the supervision of Cool Beans, our librarian, media guy, and local expert on the supernatural. (The big possum also blows a mean kazoo, but that’s neither here nor there.)
When my turn came on the computer, I logged in, pulled up my book project, and started to work. It was a literary masterpiece designed to rescue my English grade. I called it Pat the Bunny Meets King Kong.
But before I could type more than a sentence, the computer made a soft poot. Digital farts? I looked closer at the screen.
There, in the corner, a blinking envelope announced, “Instant Mail!” Mail for me? I clicked on the envelope. The message opened:
Chasing cheaters?
Need a clue?
Don’t forget about computers!!! :-)
I looked up from the screen and scanned the room.
My classmates were working on their projects, playing games, or making rude faces at each other. At one table, a couple of kids from the school paper, a blue jay and a kitten, typed on their own computers. Cool Beans patrolled the aisle, slow as a molasses landslide.
Nobody gave me a sneaky wink or knowing nod.
No way to tell who’d sent the message. The return address said only FooFoo.
I typed a reply:
Foo—
Huh?
What about computers?
In less than a minute, I had my answer, if you could call it that:
Do I gotta spell it out?
Okay. Here’s a hint:
What kind of web doesn’t catch flies?
That was all. I sent several more messages, but no reply came. My mysterious informant kept mum.
Finally, when I was ready to toss in the towel, the computer went poot! Another blinking envelope appeared. This message read:
Gecko—
Keep your beak outta things what don’t concern you.
Lay off, or else!!!!!
No signature, but the return address was StinkyUnderWare. A survey of the room revealed no scowling bad guys or, for that matter, stinkers, either. Even Jackdaw Ripper was busy with his project.
Was this some kind of prank?
My brooding was cut short by Mr. Ratnose, who rounded us up and marched us off to class. My body went, but my mind stayed behind. Who are FooFoo and Stinky? I wondered, and, What’s all this about flies?
Mmm, flies. Thinking about them made my stomach rumble.
Shirley had promised some Katydid Chunk bars if I cleared her name. But right now, the chance of enjoying them seemed as remote as a restroom on Pluto—too far away to count on.
This time, Mr. Ratnose had a surprise. He’d imported some parents as monitors. They quickly passed out the tests and began roaming the aisles with sour expressions.
“Just remember,” said Mr. Ratnose. “I can keep this up as long as you can. If you want to spend your summer in this room, just cheat on your science test tomorrow. I love summer school.”
The idea of spending summer watching Mr. Ratnose in Bermuda shorts was too scary for words. I hoped my classmates would cool it. But a good detective knows animal nature. I braced for the worst.
As the test began, I was determined to spot the cheater near Shirley. Throughout the exam, I kept sneaking peeks at her neighbors: Jack, Cassandra, Olive, Noah, and Rimshot. I could’ve used a third eye to watch for Mr. Ratnose and the parents, but geckos only come with two.
At last, my snooping paid off. Rimshot Binkley, the edgy rabbit, kept glancing down to his right before writing his answers.
Ah-ha!
From my angle, I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, but it had to be the test answers. I leaned over my desk, craning to see . . .
“Chet Gecko,” hissed Mr. Ratnose. “Eyes on your own paper!” He stiff-armed me back into my seat.
“Just stretching, Mr. Ratnose,” I whispered.
He snorted. “Stretching the truth is more like it.”
I settled back into test-taking with an easy mind. Rimshot Binkley was in my sights. I had a break at last, and before too long, that rabbit would sing like a silver-tongued thrush at a karaoke club.
A smile tugged at my lips. Katydid Chunk bars, here I come.
10
Rimshot Binkley
By the time the test ended, Mr. Ratnose’s nerves were shot. I could tell because he gave us quiet reading until lunch, and it wasn’t even quiet-reading time.
But I didn’t care. It let me check out my cheater. I swapped seats with Bo Newt, in front of me, to get a better gander at Rimshot Binkley.
The rabbit looked shiftier than a sackful of jumping beans. His nose twitched like sow-bug sushi; his sunken eyes were black as raisins and his cheeks puffy as potato-bug muffins. (Or maybe I was just ready for lunch.)
Binkley hunched over his book but did a poor job faking reading. His eyes jittered around the classroom, and his book was upside down.
When the lunch bell rang, I slipped out the door behind him. We rounded the corner, and I snagged his elbow.
“Heya, slick,” I said. “How’d you do on that test?”
The rabbit’s raisin eyes nearly popped from his head. “T-t-test?” he stuttered. “Wh-what do you mean?”
I gripped his arm and steered him around the side of the building, out of sight. Rimshot Binkley started shaking like doodlebug Jell-O.
“Come on, you can tell me,” I said. “I know you had some kind of system going. What, did you write the answers on your arm?”
“A-a-arm?”
I pushed up his jacket sleeve, but the right arm was empty, except for his watch. “Is it in your pocket?” Fishing in his pocket yielded nothing but lint and the stub of a moldy carrot.
“I d-don’t know wh-what you’re—”
“Cut the hip-hop, Bugsy,” I said. “I saw you cheat.” Grabbing the rabbit by his jacket, I shoved him against the wall. “Spill the beans or—”
“All right, all right!” Binkley held up his paws. “I’ll spill.”
I kept a loose hold on the jacket, in case his feet got itchy. “I’m listening.”
Rimshot Binkley’s chin sunk onto his gray-furred chest. “I cheated,” he whispered. “Please, d-don’t tell.”
I felt sorry for the guy, he looked so whipped. But I put my sympathy on hold—I had a case to crack.
“I might not rat you out,” I said, “if you tell me what I need to know.”
His head rose, and his eyes went wide. “Anything!”
“Why’d you do it?” I said.
Binkley bit his lip.
“Well, I’m new at school, and the classwork is so hard . . .”
“No, cabbage-head, why did you frame Shirley?”
“Wh-what?” he said. “Who’s Shirley?”
I tightened my grip and shook him. “Can the charade. You dropped your answer sheet and let her take the rap for cheating. Why?”
The rabbit’s nose wiggled like a worm trying to escape the early bird.
“I d-didn’t do that,” said Binkley. “I swear!”
“Come on . . .”
“Really. I d-didn’t even use an answer sheet.” He glanced nervously at his watch.
“Come clean,” I said, grabbing his arm. “The answers to this test aren’t on your watch, buddy boy.”
He blinked. “You’re right. It’s got the answers to tomorrow’s quiz.”
“Huh?” I took a closer look at the wristwatch.
Rimshot Binkley pressed a button, and the digital display changed from the time to a sequence of numbers and letters—1C, 2A, 3A. He touched another button, and the display scrolled, giving test answers up to question twenty.
Twenty questions, twenty answers. I had to admit it was pretty slick.
“I’ll g-give it to you,” he said, slipping off the watch. “Just d-don’t tell.”
I released the rabbit’s arm. “So, if you didn’t frame Shirley,” I said, half to myself, “who did?”
Rimshot Binkley shrugged, holding the timepiece out to me.
I’d be lying to say I wasn’t tempted. But Mrs. Gecko didn’t raise no cheaters. (Language manglers, maybe.)
I pushed his hand back. “Where’d you get this gizmo?” I asked.
He clasped the watch to his chest and jumped. “N-no, I can’t tell!” he cried. “Stripes w-would skin me a-alive!”
And as I watched, the gray rabbit realized I wasn’t holding him. His bunny legs did what bunny legs do: get hoppin’. And before you could say, “slow-witted detective,” he was gone.
11
The Whole Kitten Caboodle
I had plenty of food for thought, but what I needed right then was the other kind. Making tracks for the cafeteria, I considered Binkley’s reactions.
He’d been too scared to lie, probably. But if he was telling the truth, it opened up a whole new can of worms. And this gecko doesn’t like worms—even the butterscotch kind.
Who was Stripes? Had he or she sold other watches to cheaters? And how did that tie in with Shirley’s predicament? The questions chased through my noggin like alley cats after a wagon load of tuna-fish sandwiches.
I pushed my tray past the tubs of grub while Mrs. Bagoong and her lunch ladies piled my plate high. Tuesday was chef’s choice, and that meant pond-scum quiche. Yum.
But lunch didn’t last. Before long, I’d cleaned my plate and was ready to move on to trickier fare: tracking down cheaters.
I stepped through the double doors and strolled alongside the building. Out across the grass, Jackdaw Ripper was weaving his sneaky way between groups of kids. I leaned on the railing to watch.
A voice broke my concentration. “You’re Chet Gecko?” someone purred.
“If I can trust what my mom tells me,” I said. I swiveled my head.
A kitten stretched luxuriously and leaned on the railing beside me. “I hear Old Man Ratnose made you guys take that test over. Twice.”
“Yeah. So?”
I checked her out. The kitty’s ginger-striped fur was fluffier than a cloud soufflé, and it shone like moonlight in a glass of milk. She must spend a fortune on conditioner, I thought.
“I hear it was because so many people cheated,” she said.
“My, my, Grandma. What big ears you have.”
“I’ve got twenty-twenty hearing, Mr. P.I.” Her ears swiveled.
“And where’d you get your scoop?” I asked.
The kitten watched kids playing tag. “A little bird told me,” she said.
Cassandra the Stool Pigeon, no doubt. That bird’s mouth ran like
a bully with a wedgie: fast and furious.
I turned toward the kitten and rested an elbow on the rail.
“Did you know that a couple of the sixth-grade teachers have also been having problems with cheaters?” she asked.
“No, but then I don’t know how a Kickapoo gets his kicks, either,” I said. “Why so many questions?”
The kitten straightened her whiskers. “It’s my job to be nosy,” she said.
“What, you’re a principal?”
“No, silly, a journalist.” She offered me her paw. “Kitten Caboodle, ace reporter for The Daily Tattletale.”
Great. Just what I needed—a reporter sticking her snoot into my business.
“Well, whoop-de-doo and Kalamazoo,” I said, ignoring her outstretched paw. “What’s all this got to do with me?”
Kitten batted her mismatched eyes—one blue, one gold. “Come on,” she said. “What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“First-class.”
Her smile was as painted-on as a chocolate-milk mustache. “You’re a detective,” she purred. “And Emerson Hicky has a cheating ring. It’s obvious: You’re trying to bust it wide open.”
“What?”
“Tell me,” she said, pulling out a notepad. “What progress have you made?”
I gritted my teeth. “None. I’m not on the case.”
“Really? That’s not what I heard.”
“Maybe your hearing’s only fifty-fifty.”
She ignored me and scribbled on her pad. “I can see the headline now,” Kitten said, “‘Cheating Ring Baffles Detective.’”
I crossed my arms. “Look here, kitty cat. In the first case, I’m not investigating a cheating ring. In the second case, I’m not baffled. And in the third case . . .”
“Yes?”
“What does baffled mean, anyway?”
Kitten arched an eyebrow. “It’s journalism talk,” she said smugly.
“And this is private-eye talk,” I said. “Sayonara, fuzz-ball.” I pivoted on my heel and marched off to find Natalie.