by Bruce Hale
“But—” she said.
“Gotta split, Kitten. People to go, places to meet . . .”
“Wait!” she called. “Don’t you want to give me a comment?”
I had one, but my dad had washed my mouth out the last time I made it. A cheery wave would have to do.
I hustled across the playground. The reporter watched from the railing but made no move to follow.
My full belly appreciated it when I slowed to a trot. Pond-scum quiche does better when it’s stirred, not shaken.
As expected, my partner was roosting on a low limb of the scrofulous tree, with eyes closed and a tiny string of drool trailing from the side of her beak.
“Rise and shine, Frankenstein,” I said. “We’re not gonna catch any cheaters with you catching Zs.”
Natalie’s eyes popped open. “Who’s sleeping?” she yawned. “I was resting my eyes, waiting for you.”
“Uh-huh.”
The mockingbird spread her wings and floated to the ground. “I was just thinking,” she said. “Do you know what happened to the survivors of a wreck involving a red ship and a blue ship?”
“What?”
“They were marooned!” She cackled. “Gotcha, hotshot.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Do you dream in bad jokes, too?”
12
Ways & Beans
Before she could tell any more stinkers, I filled Natalie in on the latest events: Rimshot Binkley’s confession, Kitten’s news about other cheating classrooms, and my mysterious e-mail messages.
“Gee,” she said, “you’ve been a busy lizard. Leave something for your partner, why don’t you?”
“I did,” I said. “Can’t you figure out my e-mail clue from FooFoo?”
Natalie chuckled. “You mean the riddle, ‘What kind of web doesn’t catch flies?’ That’s too easy.”
I put a hand on my hip. “Oh, yeah? Then, what’s the answer?”
“A Web site,” she said. “Don’t you ever use a computer?”
“A Web site? I don’t get it.”
My partner started heading off the playground. I followed.
“Hello?” she said. “Computers? World Wide Web? Web site?”
“I know what a Web site is, worm-breath.”
Natalie raised a wing feather. “Okay, what was that first message?” she said. “Something like, ‘Wanna catch cheaters? Don’t forget about computers,’ right?”
“Right.”
“So . . . somebody’s using a Web site to cheat.”
I scratched my head. “But how?”
“Beats me.” She shrugged. “That’s why we’re asking the expert.”
I looked up to find she’d led us to the doors of the library. Inside, we’d find the air-conditioned coolness of the computer lab, and the natural coolness of our media expert, Cool Beans.
“Quick thinking, partner,” I said.
“And that ain’t birdseed.” She winked.
“Whatever.”
Together we pushed through the heavy oak doors.
Chilly and crisp as a polar bear’s pajamas, the library was lightly populated at lunchtime. A handful of kids pored over picture books at the low tables ahead of us. Off to the left, the computer lab stood nearly empty—just Lacey Vail, a bullfrog from Nat’s class, and the queen of nosiness, Kitten Caboodle.
I grabbed Natalie and spun away from the lab. “That’s her!” I hissed.
“Her who?”
“Kitten Caboodle, over by the computers. That snoop.”
Natalie swiveled back to see.
“Don’t—” I started.
“Well, well,” a familiar voice purred. “Big-shot detective brings in his partner.” Kitten grinned at us and licked a paw. “This case must be heating up.”
I gave her my steely-eyed look. “For the last time, pencil-pusher, we’re not investigating any cheaters.”
“For your information,” she said, “I use a computer to write my stories—not a pencil. And I’ve got a nose for news. You two are onto something.”
Natalie flashed a smile. “Well, maybe your nose stinks,” she said. “Chet and I are here to get help with our book reports.”
The reporter looked from one of us to the other, frowning. She didn’t quite buy our story, but she didn’t know why.
“Later, tater,” I said. “Schoolwork calls.”
Natalie and I ambled back to the circulation desk of Cool Beans, an opossum in shades and a snappy blue beret. He nodded.
“Well, if it ain’t the shamus and his sidekick,” he rumbled. “What’s shakin’, green gumshoe?”
“Nothing but the knees of my teacher,” I said. “We need your help with a little, um, research.”
“I’m your possum.”
Natalie jerked her head toward Kitten Caboodle. The ginger-striped cat was watching us, with ears poised like satellite dishes.
“Maybe we should talk somewhere else,” said Natalie.
“Ankle on over to my private pad,” said Cool Beans.
We followed as he moseyed slo-o-owly down a short hall to his office. I guess for a possum, that was hustling.
Once inside, he leaned on a battered desk stacked high with jazz CDs and magazines like Young Werewolf Quarterly and Modern Vampire. Joe Normal he wasn’t.
“What’s the scoop, Betty Boop?” said Cool Beans. “Need my help investigatin’ some evil supernatural power?”
“In a way,” I said. I pushed back my hat. “What do you know about computers?”
In short order, the librarian had given us the lowdown. Yes, the cheaters could be using a Web site, he explained. If someone posted test answers on the site, anyone with a password could download what they needed.
“But how are these computerized crooks getting the answers in the first place?” asked Natalie.
Cool Beans scratched under his beret. “I’s’pose they’re just liftin’ ’em from the teachers,” he said. “Wouldn’t be too hard. You just break into the classroom all quietlike and heist the answer sheet. Or . . .”
“Yes?” I said.
“If they were really hip . . .”
“What?” said Natalie.
“They’d hack,” said Cool Beans. He looked at us expectantly.
“Go ahead and spit if you need to,” I said.
Natalie elbowed me. “No, bug-brain; he means they hack into the teacher’s computer to get the answers.”
I frowned at Cool Beans. “With an ax?”
“Negatory, daddy-o,” he said. “With another computer.”
“I see,” I said. (Actually, I didn’t.)
“Wait a minute,” said Natalie. “I’m about to have a brainstorm!”
I shot her a look. “I’ll fetch my umbrella.”
Natalie glanced from me to Cool Beans. “Rocky Rhode told us some kid found a high-tech way to get test answers,” she said.
“Right . . . ,” I said.
“What if that kid was hacking into the teachers’ computers?”
I folded my arms. “Well . . . call me old-fashioned, but my money’s on the tried-and-true breaking-and-entering method.”
Natalie began to pace. “Either way, the thief could post the answers, then his customers could buy a password, right?”
“Righty-ro,” said the librarian.
The lights came on in the attic of my brain. “Then kids like Rimshot could load the answers onto their fancy watches and cheat away!”
“Right under the teacher’s nose,” said Natalie.
I bit my lip. “There’s only one thing . . .”
“Yes?” said Cool Beans.
“What the heck does all this have to do with framing Shirley for cheating?”
The big possum shrugged. “Search me, Sherlock,” he said. “That’s for you to decipher.”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” I said.
Natalie and I thanked Cool Beans. We hustled through the library, out into the sunshine, without picking up any pesky reporters.
“That to-do list isn’t too bad,” said Natalie.
“Nah,” I said. “All we’ve gotta do is figure out who framed Shirley, get ’em to confess, sort out who’s running a cheating ring and how they’re doing it, and shut ’em down.”
“You forgot one thing,” said Natalie.
“What?”
“Study for the history test, in case Mr. Ratnose makes you take it again.”
Oh, yeah. Schoolwork. It sure does put a crimp in a private eye’s day.
13
Goon with the Wind
Wouldn’t you know it? Just before we could make our next move, lunchtime ran out like the last of the Halloween candy. It was back to the salt mines (also known as Mr. Ratnose’s class).
Everyone seemed shell-shocked from the barrage of testing, including our teacher. He tottered through the science lesson like a robo rat running low on batteries. (Not that it mattered. That class was dull, no matter how he felt.)
When recess came, it was as welcome as a candied bee in a birthday cake. I hit the playground to resume our investigation. We needed a break, a lead, something to link our two cases—but I didn’t know what.
Natalie and I climbed onto a low limb of the scrofulous tree to spy on the scene. From our perch, I spotted Bo and Tony Newt grappling like Antone “the Stone” Jones, a popular wrestler on TV.
Farther off, Lacey and Noah Vail were arguing by the tetherball courts, Olive Drabb was boring some poor kid to sleep, and Jackdaw Ripper—
“Natalie, check that out!” I pointed to where the magpie stood with a burly raccoon near the bushes. “That’s the same coon he was with earlier.”
She nodded. “Yeah, so?”
“What did Rimshot say when I asked him to tell where he got the answers?”
“Stripes would skin him alive,” we said together.
Natalie grinned. “That guy’s tail looks pretty stripy to me.”
“Shall we?”
But by the time we’d scrambled down from the tree and hoofed it over to the bushes, Jack had pulled a vanishing act. Only his compadre stayed behind.
We approached the hefty coon with caution. Those things could bite. But we needn’t have worried.
The raccoon was as fat and sassy as a kid who’s locked himself in a candy store. A dark mask ringed mild, curious eyes, which crinkled in a smile as we drew closer. He beckoned to us with a paw smeared with brown chocolate. (At least, I hoped it was chocolate.)
“Don’t be shy, friends,” he said. “Right this way. Johnny Ringo’s the name. And, well, I guess you know my game, or you wouldn’t be here.”
I told him our names.
“So, amigos, what’ll it be?” he said, rubbing his paws together.
“Uh . . .” I looked at Natalie. Small detail. We hadn’t discussed a plan.
“We, uh, were just curious,” she said. “What were you talking about with Jackdaw?” The direct approach—simple but effective.
A slight wrinkle appeared between Johnny Ringo’s eyebrows. “I’m afraid that comes under the heading of nunya.”
“‘Nunya’?” I asked.
“Nunya business,” said Johnny Ringo. So much for the direct approach. “And speaking of businesses, I’m trying to run one here. If you’re not going to buy anything, I suggest you move along.”
I looked around. “Where’s the merchandise?”
The raccoon squinted at us and gnawed his upper lip. “Not so fast,” he said. “You could be stool pigeons. How do I know I can trust you?”
“Well,” said Natalie, “first of all, I’m a mockingbird, not a pigeon . . .”
“Cute,” said Johnny.
“And second of all,” I said, “Rimshot Binkley sent us. He really liked the watch you sold him.” I gave him a big wink.
Johnny’s face shut down like a bank vault at closing time. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.
Two identical wolverines, thick as fur-coated refrigerators, stepped out of the bushes. Menace rolled off them like waves at Waikiki, and their fang-filled smiles said, Snack time, at last.
“Wha—” I said, stumbling back.
“It’s quite simple,” said Johnny Ringo. “Only my sales representatives can make referrals, and Binkley is definitely not one of my reps.”
Wolverine One growled, “Hey, boss. You want we should bloop these bozos?”
The raccoon rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I think a little blooping is in order. And when you finish with these two, visit that blabbermouth Binkley.”
You didn’t need to be a Psychic Friend to figure out that “blooping” would be bad for the health.
Johnny Ringo’s two goons advanced.
I pointed behind them. “Great golliwogs! Is that Principal Zero?”
Only a moron would fall for an old trick like that. Fortunately, the two wolverines were morons. They looked.
Before Johnny could snarl, “Get them!” Natalie and I skedaddled. We raced across the playground, with the wolverines in hot pursuit.
“I think we hit a nerve there,” Natalie puffed, as she flapped herself airborne.
“Really?” I said. “How could you tell?”
After that, we saved our breath for fleeing. The raccoon’s muscle-heads chased us past the sandbox, through a tetherball game, down the halls, and out into the parking lot.
They would’ve chased us all the way to Tierra del Fuego, if Natalie and I hadn’t hit on the bright idea of climbing the flagpole. As it was, they nearly shook us off it.
Only the ring of the bell and the actual arrival of Principal Zero stopped the wolverines’ shenanigans. He grabbed each one by the scruff of the neck.
“Don’t tell me; let me guess.” The hefty tomcat addressed Natalie and me. “You were just minding your own business, when these two rascals started chasing you.”
“Something like that,” I said.
Principal Zero shook his head. “Gecko,” he said, “the day you tell me the whole truth is the day I have kittens.”
“Cat’ll be the day,” said Natalie.
The principal groaned at her pun. For once, we saw eye to eye on something.
14
Shrink Rapped
The final period of the day lasted as long as the Roman Empire, but without all the old guys in bedsheets and olive leaves. The students sagged, the teacher slumped. Even the chalkboard looked bored.
Mr. Ratnose’s whiskers drooped as he droned through a discussion of Razzleberry Finn, our assigned reading.
Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my mind on ol’ Razzleberry and his problems. I had my own worries—like sussing out who had gotten Shirley in trouble.
Sure, it looked like Johnny Ringo was behind the schoolwide cheating, but he had no beef with Shirley. That made it one of my double-dealing classmates, but which one?
I scratched my chin. It’d sure help if I knew more about a cheater’s mind . . .
Then I had a bright idea. (It happens sometimes.)
I slapped a sad look onto my kisser and waited for Mr. Ratnose to notice. When he kept droning on, I heaved a sigh heavier than a hippo in a baby sling, then whimpered.
Mr. Ratnose eyed me. “What’s up with you?” he said.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, and just like that, my eyes watered. (I’d road tested this technique at home.)
My teacher closed his book. “Is something wrong?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, shook my head, and muttered, “The horror . . . the horror.”
Mr. Ratnose walked over to me. He took my chin in his paw and raised my face. I maintained the woeful expression that usually worked when I needed a sick day.
“You seem awfully stressed out,” he said. “Maybe you should visit the school counselor.”
I played my trump card. “No, I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re going, and that’s that.” Mr. Ratnose scrawled on a hall pass and handed it to me.
Shoulders slumped, I dragged out the door. Shirley’s worried gaze followed me, but I couldn’t slip her a signal; Ratnose was watching.
Outside, I trucked down the halls with a happy whistle. If I played him right, the school counselor might give me some answers. And even if he didn’t, I was out of class and fancy-free.
The counselor’s office perched at the far end of the administration building. Small and stuffy, it was as full of books as an older brother is full of trickery.
I poked my head through the doorway.
“Ye-es?” came a quavery voice. “Was there something?”
Whip Van Wrinkle leaned on the desk, looking like a strong sneeze would blow him over. The network of creases covering this whiptail lizard looked like the root system of a redwood tree. Even his wrinkles had wrinkles.
But his eyes were sharper than the hidden pins in a store-bought dress shirt.
“Take a seat,” he said.
I sat. “Listen, shrink, I’m on a case and I’m hoping you can help me.”
“That’s my job.”
“Then tell me,” I said, “what makes a cheater cheat?”
Mr. Van Wrinkle scratched the wattles under his chin. “A cheater, eh? Well, sonny-boy—”
“The name’s Chet.”
“Well, Jet, it’s a complicated thing. Yessir. Kids cheat for many reasons.”
I put my hands on my knees and leaned forward. “Such as?”
“Some students need approval, and some have parents who expect perfection,” he said. “Some feel they can’t keep up with schoolwork, while others . . .”
“Yes?” I said.
“Well, Jet—”
“That’s Chet.”
“Just what I said, Pet. Other children have flexible morals and will exploit an opportunity.” Whip Van Wrinkle’s eyes bored into me like a mole into a dirt sandwich.
I shrugged. “What?”
“Tell me, why did you really come in here?”
“Like I said, I’m working a case.”