Tru and Nelle

by G. Neri

  That’s when it hit them: the smell. “Golly, what is that stink?” said Nelle. “I think I’m gonna lose my breakfast—”

  Queenie tore the leash out of Truman’s hand and sniffed his way around the side porch. “Queenie, come back here.”

  Truman followed the dog and the smell kept getting stronger and stronger. Queenie rounded the corner to the back and became hysterical, yapping and jumping around like his feet were on fire.

  Nelle tried to stop Truman. “Don’t—”

  “Could be the big break we’ve been waiting for!” he said. Nelle hung back but Truman continued around the corner with thoughts of murder and mayhem dancing in his head.

  When he saw where the smell was coming from, he froze in his tracks.

  Nelle was afraid to look. “What is it, Tru?”

  “I think I found where the stink is coming from . . .” he said, gaping.

  “Mrs. Skutt?” she asked.

  Truman nodded.

  “Is she . . . ?”

  “Dead,” he said.

  Nelle wanted to run but found herself moving toward him.

  “There’s something else . . .” he said.

  “What?” she asked. “Should I look?”

  “No!” He held up his hand. “I think she’s been dead awhile.”

  “How can you tell?” She could feel her breakfast rising in her throat.

  “Um . . . cockroaches.”

  Nelle tried to shake the image from her head. “What?”

  “Cockroaches. Hundreds of them. Crawling up and down her legs . . . and arms . . . and in her . . . mouth—”

  Right then, Ed the egg man came up from behind Nelle. “What in tarnation is that smell?” He turned the corner and came to a stop too. Then he busted out laughing.

  “Great balls of fire!” yelled the egg man. “This is better than when Twit Tutweiler was struck by lightning!”

  Nelle couldn’t stand it anymore. She poked her head around the corner and saw what they were gaping at: not dead Mrs. Ida Skutt, but a pile of rotting, festering garbage topped with weeks of putrid eggs and coated with maggots!

  The egg man couldn’t stop laughing. “Well, she complained about the eggs going up a penny, and she vowed revenge. Said she would make a special delivery at our farm, and now I see why she was taking her time. Good and ripe. Oh Lordy. My boss is gonna love this one!”

  Nelle wanted to take a swing at Truman for playing her, but she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I had you going, didn’t I?” said Truman. “You shoulda seen your face, Nelle Harper!”

  She blushed. Queenie went over and licked her bare foot. “Well, if you’re so smart, then where is she? Maybe she is dead, for all you know, trapped inside, rotting away, but no one can smell her ’cause of all this!”

  Truman shrugged. “Good point. In that case, we’d have a new mystery, wouldn’t we, Watson?”

  They would have to wait for another opportunity. Still, Truman saw Queenie was a good addition to the team.

  13

  The House of Mystery

  The summer days grew shorter, and September, along with Truman’s eighth birthday (for which his parents made a rare visit), came and went, but no big mysteries revealed themselves. Except for school. Truman began attending Monroe County Grammar School, but he didn’t care for third grade, finding his teacher’s attitude toward his braininess puzzling. Especially since that teacher was his cousin Callie.

  “You’re too smart for your own good,” Callie said on day one.

  “But how can I be too smart? Isn’t that why we’re in school, to get smarter?” he asked.

  “It’s those kinds of questions that make it hard for me to teach you anything,” Callie said back. “An eight-year-old should know better.”

  Every day was a struggle. All he wanted to do was read stories or tell tall tales. But Callie gave him nothing but grief for reading too far ahead of everyone else and disrupting class with his wild tales about tigers or the exploits of his father the explorer, which she knew to be false. Every time he told a fib, she smacked him on the hand with a ruler. By the end of the week, his hand was usually bright red.

  Truman began to dislike school because of all the headaches it caused him. Mondays were hardest because that meant there was a whole week still in front of him. So on Mondays, he, Nelle, and Big Boy took their sweet time getting to school, having little adventures or trying to scare one another along the way. Especially any time they walked by the Boulars’ house.

  The house was two doors down from Nelle’s. Big Boy was certain it was haunted. From the outside, it sure looked foreboding and unkempt. Even on sunny days, it was downright gloomy, desolate and dark with the shades pulled shut, hidden by the shadows of ancient pecan trees that kept the sun away. Sometimes, Big Boy would cross the street just to avoid its gaze.

  It was owned by Mr. Boular, who was about the meanest man in town. He never said hi to anyone. According to Nelle, one of his daughters had been killed by an alligator, and since then, the house felt more like a lonely cemetery than a home. Even though he still had a wife, a son, and another girl, happiness was not a word to use in describing the Boular family.

  “There he is,” whispered Truman one day. As usual, Mr. Boular was dressed all in black with a dour bowler hat and an umbrella. He was tall and thin and looked like an undertaker. He was walking straight toward them, his gaze absent, as if he were staring into another dimension.

  “Say something,” said Truman, nudging Nelle.

  Nelle shook her head and elbowed Big Boy. “You say something.”

  Big Boy gulped. Mr. Boular was almost upon them. “Um, morning, Mr. Boular,” he squeaked. “How’s Mrs.—”

  Mr. Boular passed by them as if they weren’t there. A chill went down Truman’s spine. It was almost like the man sucked the air right out of you.

  “Sook says he’s never said a word to anyone, ever,” said Truman.

  “How would she know?” asked Nelle. “She hasn’t walked into town since I been born.”

  “He’s a strange one, all right,” said Big Boy. “But he’s not the one I’m worried about—look!”

  Big Boy pulled them down behind the run-down fence that surrounded the Boular property. Big Boy pointed at an upstairs window. Truman saw it—the curtain was parted and a shadowy figure was watching them.

  “It’s Sonny . . .” he said.

  Sonny was Mr. Boular’s teenage boy. There were always rumors floating around about strange goings-on, and they were all blamed on him. Sook called him Caw because of the funny crow-like noises he made to himself. People said he ate squirrels alive, and if you saw his eyes, you just might believe it. They were big and round and never blinked. It was rumored that he’d killed old Mrs. Bussey’s black cat, cut it open, and stuffed it in a hole in one of the trees in the middle of the road. He was downright spooky—a boogeyman to every kid in the neighborhood.

  Truman ducked down, out of sight of the window. “He gives me the creeps. Last night, I went for a walk after dark and I heard these strange cawing noises by this fence . . . Caw! Caw!” said Truman. “I looked through the slates and there were these doll’s eyes staring back at me.”

  “No!” said Nelle. “It was Sonny?”

  Truman nodded. “And he spoke to me! He said, ‘Ain’t you the nicest boy I’ve ever seen.’ I started to walk away and he reached through the fence and tried to grab me!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran, of course! But then he called after me, ‘Come back! Please don’t be scared, I ain’t gonna harm you.’ I turned and saw him watching me and he looked so . . . lonely. I shrugged and told him I had to go home. Then his face grew dark and he started banging on the fence and hissing, ‘Come back here or you’ll be sorry. You’ll be the sorriest kid in the graveyard!’”

  Big Boy suddenly grabbed Nelle from behind and she screamed as only a little girl can. Truman and Big Boy couldn’t stop laughing.

  14

/>   The Big Break

  It was a Wednesday morning when everything changed. Truman and Nelle came out of their homes like any ordinary day. Except on this day, Big Boy was pacing about on the road, bursting with excitement. “Did you hear?” he said. “Did you hear the news?”

  “Hear what, Big Boy?” Truman said sleepily.

  “Somebody broke into the drugstore!”

  Truman blinked, looked at Nelle, then back at Big Boy. “Was anything . . . stolen?”

  Big Boy nodded eagerly and added, “Someone smashed up windows at the school too!”

  Truman’s eyes lit up. “Do you know what this means?”

  “Finally, a case, Sherlock!” said Nelle.

  Truman smiled. “The game is afoot, Watson.” He reached into his satchel, took out his deerstalker cap, and put it on. “Always be prepared, I say. Here.”

  He pulled out an old corncob pipe of Bud’s he’d found and was about to put it in his mouth when he saw Nelle staring at him. He handed it to Nelle. “Dr. Watson smokes a pipe, I think.”

  Big Boy seemed disappointed. “Who am I supposed to be?”

  Nelle jumped in. “Why, you’re the inspector who never has a clue, ya big oaf.”

  Truman corrected her. “Inspector Lestrade is the most famous detective at Scotland Yard. And a worthy member of our squad.” He pulled out his magnifying glass and gave it to Big Boy.

  Big Boy beamed, satisfied. “More famous than Watson?”

  Nelle rolled her eyes but Truman was gazing at the courthouse clock in the distance. “We have twenty minutes till school starts.”

  “Fifteen. That clock is always slow,” said Big Boy.

  Truman recalculated. “Then we must hurry! Inspector, lead the way.”

  Big Boy stuck his tongue out at Nelle and made a beeline for the Monroe drugstore, where they’d spent many an hour at the soda-fountain counter.

  When they arrived at the scene, A.C. was already there. Dressed in a brown vested suit and horn-rimmed glasses, he was standing outside, talking to the bearded policeman about some broken glass on the ground.

  Truman shook his head. “Looks like my brother, Mycroft, has beat us to the punch once more.”

  Nelle rolled her eyes again. “My daddy is not your brother. That would make you my uncle and you’re too much of a shrimp for that. Come on.”

  “I’m confused,” said Big Boy. “A.C.’s your brother?”

  “Morning, A.C.!” Nelle shouted. Her father barely glanced at her. He didn’t mind her calling him by his nickname, but in public she should’ve addressed him as Father.

  Truman took the magnifying glass from Big Boy and started examining the ground. “Morning, sir. Any clues?” asked Truman.

  A.C. lowered his glasses and studied this curious boy. “You’re Truman, aren’t you? I’ve heard a lot about you. I hear you’re the smartest lad in Monroeville.”

  Truman looked at Nelle, who blushed. Truman blushed too.

  “I read a lot, sir. People say I’m mature for my age.”

  “Well, as long as you don’t take after your father—” he said absent-mindedly, and then he corrected himself. “I mean to say . . .” He paused, looking Truman up and down. Truman certainly was the best-dressed kid in town. “I hear you’re good with the crossword puzzles. Perhaps some Sunday, you could help me out. Those highfalutin words always get me.”

  Truman almost reached for his dictionary but he already knew the term Sherlock would have used in this situation. “Indubitably.”

  A.C. was a serious man, but he cracked a smile. “I’d enjoy that.”

  Nelle butted in, pointing with her pipe. “A.C., don’t you know this is Sherlock Holmes?”

  “And I am Inspector Les Trade!” added Big Boy, taking the magnifying glass back from Truman.

  “Ah, I see. And you are here to help solve the crime, are you?” A.C. asked.

  A.C. Lee was one of the best lawyers in all of Monroeville. When things went wrong, he was usually called in to give his expert advice. He slowly checked his pocket watch. “Well, Inspector, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson . . . it would appear the real mystery is why you all are here and not on your way to school.”

  Truman pushed a piece of glass with his white shoe, then walked over the broken shards to stare into the drugstore window. “Were any items stolen, Mycrof—Mr. Lee?”

  Mr. Lee sighed. “As a matter of fact, yes. Some two-cent candy sticks and a plug of tobacco—”

  Truman took out the little notebook he always carried around to record his observations in. Usually, he wrote about how the sun filtered through the morning fog on the creek or described the smell of the blue hydrangeas that filled his yard.

  But now was business. “Dr. Watson, take note. The criminal is clearly a teenager. A boy, I believe. Maybe two.”

  Nelle whipped out her notepad and started writing too. “What makes you think so, Sherlock?”

  He turned to Mr. Lee. “A master criminal would have picked the lock and stolen money or linens or something of worth.” He scanned the ground. “A boy might use something lying around to smash a window. Hello . . .”

  He bent down and picked up a rock the size of a large marble. He held it up to the light, examined it, then stuck it in his pocket. “A girl might steal candy, but only a boy would steal both candy and tobacco,” he concluded.

  Big Boy jumped in. “Now all we gotta do is search every boy who eats candy and chews tobacca in Monroe County.”

  Nelle shook her head. “That would be every teenage lug-head who lives and breathes. We need to narrow down the list of suspects.”

  Mr. Lee cleared his throat. “Those are all very intriguing theories, but . . . there was one other stolen item: a cameo brooch.”

  “What’s a brooch?” asked Big Boy.

  “A cameo brooch is a pretty piece of jewelry with a carving in it,” said Truman. “Jenny has one. They can be worth a lot of money.”

  A.C. leaned down and whispered, “But this one was special. It was an emerald-green brooch with a carving of a snake on it. The snake had red stones for eyes.”

  Truman nodded eagerly. “Excellent. A jewel thief.”

  “Maybe. Or just some kid who thought it looked pretty,” said A.C. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time again. “Either way, children, you have exactly four minutes to get to school now. I suggest you mull over the possibilities on your way. Now scoot.” He gave Nelle a gentle push, but she didn’t go willingly.

  “You’ll let us know what you find this afternoon, right, A.C.?”

  A.C. winked. “Indubitably.”

  Truman grinned the whole way to school.

  15

  A Rock-Solid Case

  When they got within spitting distance of Monroe County Grammar School, Truman saw the broken glass by the front door. Callie and the other teachers were directing the students through a side entrance.

  “Do you think it’s connected, Sherlock?” asked Big Boy, looking through the magnifying glass.

  “Just like a button to a jacket,” he said as he slipped into the line. Truman broke away from the flow of traffic as soon as Callie wasn’t looking. He walked calmly over to the front door, where Hudson, the old janitor, was sweeping up.

  “Morning, Hudson,” he said, tipping his cap. He started scanning the ground for clues.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Truman,” said Hudson, staring at his odd cap. “Sure is a mess this morning.”

  Truman spotted something on the steps among the broken glass.

  “Hello . . .” he said to himself. He leaned down and picked up a small rock and studied it. He reached into his pocket and took out the other rock he’d found minutes before. They were about the same.

  Hudson noticed the stones. “Jus’ toss ’em over by the flagpole with the rest of ’em.”

  Truman followed Hudson’s gaze over to a small rock garden around the pole. All the rocks were about the same size and color.

  “The plot thickens,” he said, rubbing the st
ones. “Thanks, Hudson.” He ran over to join up with the others in line.

  “Well?” asked Big Boy. “Any clues?”

  Truman nodded, holding up the rocks. “What do you see?”

  Nelle grabbed Big Boy’s magnifying glass and examined the rocks. “They’re . . . the same?”

  “My conclusion exactly, Watson. Two broken windows on the same night? Any fool can see they’re connected.”

  When Truman pointed out the rock garden to them, Nelle and Big Boy had to agree. “I would conclude that they struck here first, got an appetite for recklessness, and went into town for more.”

  “Ain’t these rocks kind of small to break a winda?” asked Nelle, sucking on her pipe.

  “Isn’t a bullet small?” answered Truman. “The more important question is not how, but who.”

  “Who?” asked Big Boy.

  “Exactly,” said Truman. “An angry student? A bitter teacher? We need to find out if something was stolen from here too.”

  “Maybe the school has more brooches,” said Big Boy.

  “Maybe your brain is a brooch, Big Boy,” said Nelle.

  “Pay attention,” Truman said as they approached Cousin Callie. She wore her collar too tight and it made her look like she was always about to pass out. She was not in a good mood, as usual. Keeping the children in line was like herding cats, and she disliked cats.

  Truman tried to talk to her. “Callie, I was wondering—”

  “Truman. Can you not see how busy we are? This unfortunate accident has put us all behind schedule.”

  “Well, about the accident, do you know who—”

  “I am in such a state. Get back in line!” she yelled at another student who’d wandered two steps off.

  “But, Callie, who—”

  Callie grabbed Truman by the collar of his jacket and stared daggers at him. “Do. Not. Cause. Trouble. And take off that silly hat.”

  Truman, red-faced, nodded. Nelle and Big Boy stared at the ground and shuffled along.

  “She’s still mad because I can read two grades higher than her other students,” he hissed to Nelle. “Sometimes, I have to pretend not to know things just so she won’t look bad!”