Big Bad Detective Agency

by Bruce Hale

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1: In which a wolf faces death by porridge

  CHAPTER 2: In which pigs snarl and mops attack

  CHAPTER 3: In which nobody is turned into a newt

  CHAPTER 4: In which a pig gets tricksy

  CHAPTER 5: In which the world’s ugliest granny comes to call

  CHAPTER 6: In which a wolf gets fashion tips

  CHAPTER 7: In which someone gets a serious licking

  CHAPTER 8: In which things get buttery

  CHAPTER 9: In which a wolf gets knocked on the noggin

  CHAPTER 10: In which all is revealed

  CHAPTER 11: In which everyone goes happy-ever-aftering

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Once upon a time in Fairylandia, when magic was common and cheese was two shillings a pound, there lived a wolf named Wolfgang. Being a wolf, he was widely adored, called “cute” and “cuddly,” and invited to all the best parties.

  Not.

  What makes you think Fairylandia is so different from anyplace else? In truth, most of its citizens avoided him, feared him, and called him “Big Bad Wolf.” This was hardly fair. Sure, he was large and scary-looking, and yes, he’d stolen a few chickens (okay, a lot of chickens) here and there. But Wolfgang was really making an effort to reform himself and get his new gardening business off the ground.

  Did anyone care? They did not.

  So it comes as no surprise, then, that when someone trashed the Three Little Pigs’ houses, the prince’s guards arrested Wolfgang. They dragged him from his simple home up to the grand throne room, with its marble floors, graceful arches, and vaulted ceiling. But the wolf had other things than architecture on his mind.

  “I’m innocent” were the first words from Wolfgang’s mouth.

  “Innocent?” Prince Tyrone chuckled. “Impossible. You’re a wolf.”

  Wolfgang growled, which really didn’t help matters. “Let me rephrase that,” he said. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you did,” said the handsome Prince Tyrone, smoothing his hair. “I’m certain you did it, therefore you did it.”

  “I was home reading a gardening book last night,” said Wolfgang. “Where’s your proof?”

  “My guards found wolf prints on the path that runs by one of the pigs’ houses,” the prince said.

  “Maybe because that path also leads to my house,” Wolfgang said.

  “Don’t let him trick you, Highness,” said Captain Kreplach, commander of the guards. “Wolves is mighty tricksy, they is.”

  With an effort, Wolfgang controlled his temper. “Did you find any evidence inside the pigs’ homes?” he asked.

  The prince looked at the captain. The captain looked at the wolf.

  “Well, no,” said Captain Kreplach. “But that’s ’cause you’re so tricksy.”

  Wolfgang rolled his eyes.

  “That’s him, Your Excellency,” a grunty voice declared. “He’s the one.”

  The wolf turned to see the Three Little Pigs pushing aside the tapestries and emerging from a side room. Dieter, the biggest pig, was pointing directly at him.

  A word about the Three Little Pigs. Full-grown, well-fed porkers, they were anything but little. Dieter, Martin, and Hans ran PorkerBuilt, a successful construction company, which put enough food on the table to make them the Three Ginormous Pigs.

  But nicknames in Fairylandia, once given, tend to stick.

  “He wrecked our homes and stole our food,” said Martin, the second-biggest pig.

  Wolfgang snarled. Martin jumped back, bumping into Hans.

  “I didn’t trash your silly houses,” said the wolf. “In fact, I want nothing to do with you.”

  Except in the form of pork chops, thought Wolfgang. He’d been dragged away from breakfast, after all, and his stomach was grumbling. Plus, these bothersome pigs were always accusing him of one thing or another, and he’d had just about enough of it.

  “Oh yeah?” said Dieter, feeling brave with the guards in the room.

  “Yeah,” the wolf growled.

  Dieter jumped back, bumping into Martin. All three pigs went down like chubby bowling pins.

  Hans spoke up from the floor. “If you want nothing to do with us, how come you’re always pounding on our door at night?”

  “Because your music’s too loud,” said Wolfgang. “I can’t stand that racket.”

  Being a not-too-distant neighbor of Dieter’s, the wolf often heard them playing oompah music. Or trying to, anyway. Wolfgang loved a good tune, but to be perfectly honest, their playing was more oom-blah than oom-pah.

  Martin jabbed a stubby hoof at Wolfgang. “See? That’s why he did it. Music hater!”

  Dieter appealed to Prince Tyrone. “Please, Sire, chop off his head? Have some witch turn him into a newt?”

  The prince’s eyes narrowed. “First, don’t call me ‘Sire.’ ‘Sire’ is for kings.”

  Dieter frowned. “But it’s the Kingdom of Fairylandia.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Prince Tyrone through gritted teeth.

  “Kingdoms are usually ruled by kings.”

  “That’s … true.” A tic had developed in the prince’s right eyelid.

  “So,” said the biggest pig, “why aren’t you a king?”

  Prince Tyrone’s face turned scarlet. His eyelid twitched so fiercely, it looked like he was trying to wink in Morse code. “I. Don’t. Know,” he said. “And it drives … me … CRAZY!”

  He pounded his fists on the throne’s arms.

  Princess Ingrid rushed up to her husband, took his hand, and helped him from the chair. Murmuring soft words, she led Prince Tyrone away.

  “But, Si — er, Your Highness,” squeaked Hans. “The wolf must be punished!”

  “For the last time, I DIDN’T DO IT!” bellowed Wolfgang. The guards flinched.

  Princess Ingrid addressed Captain Kreplach. “The prince is unwell. Will you handle this, Captain?”

  The burly commander snapped to attention. “Count on me, Your Majes — um, Highness.”

  With a frosty look, the princess led her griping husband off to their chambers. Wolfgang didn’t know whether her turning matters over to the captain was a good thing or a bad thing. He soon found out.

  “Right, then.” Captain Kreplach fixed a glare on the three pigs. “You,” he snapped. “Stop your whinin’. Nothin’ I hates more than whinin’ — ’cept maybe blubberin’.”

  “Captain —” the wolf began.

  “And you,” the captain said. “What do I do with you?”

  Wolfgang smiled a toothy smile. Several guards gasped. “Let me go?” he said.

  Captain Kreplach gnawed on a piece of his massive mustache. “Hmm … it’s true we gots no evidence.”

  “But he’s a wolf,” whined Martin Pig.

  The captain held up a hand. “What did I just say about whinin’?”

  “You, um, hates it?” said Martin in a small voice.

  “Good boy.” Captain Kreplach paced before the throne, musing. “We gots no proof, but then again, we gots no suspects ’cept the Big Bad Wolf.”

  “I hate that name,” Wolfgang rumbled.

  “Tough tootsies,” said the captain. “Now, if you, Mr. Bad —”

  “Mr. Wolf,” the wolf corrected.

  “— were to catch the real culprit, I might just let you off the hook.”

  Wolfgang gaped. “Me? Catch a culprit?”

  “Yes, of course. Who else?”

  The wolf looked from the soldiers back to the captain. “Well, you,” he said. “You are the prince’s guards, aren’t you?”

  “Too right.” Captain Kreplach gestured at his troops.
“And we’ve got our hands full with guardin’. Nothin’ but guardin’, day in, day out.”

  His men nodded. “You tell ’em, Cap’n,” said one.

  “So you see,” said Captain Kreplach, “it’s up to you, Wolf.”

  Wolfgang scowled. “And if I refuse?”

  “Into the dungeon with you,” said Captain Kreplach.

  “Just because I’m a wolf?” said Wolfgang, his voice dangerously quiet.

  The captain nodded. “Just because.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  A dry chuckle escaped the captain’s lips. “Don’t let the name Fairylandia fool you, mate. Life ain’t fair. But, seein’ as how I’m a generous man, you’ve got till sundown to bring me the culprit.”

  “And if I fail?”

  Captain Kreplach’s smile was a fearsome thing. “You’ll spend your life in a dungeon, eatin’ porridge.”

  Wolfgang blanched. “No deer?”

  “No deer,” said Kreplach.

  “No rabbit?”

  “No rabbit,” said the captain.

  “Not even mouse?” asked the wolf.

  “Not even a cockroach.”

  “Porridge.” Wolfgang shuddered. “I hate porridge.”

  “Then you’d best get crackin’,” said Captain Kreplach.

  The wolf pushed aside his guards, nodded at the captain, and with one last scowl at the Three Little Pigs, stalked from the throne room.

  One day to find the criminal, or face death by porridge. Wolfgang shook his shaggy head grimly.

  He could almost feel the iron bars closing in around him. It was not a good feeling.

  Before we continue, a word about Fairylandia. It was not, as some suppose, a land of milk and honey where bluebirds sang all day and pixies did your housework. Far from it.

  Like anywhere else, Fairylandia had its fair share of problems. Witches were forever turning people into toads and then refusing to turn them back. Giants accidentally stepped on houses, and you couldn’t get insurance to cover the damage.

  And don’t even get me started on the magic goose poop.

  In short, the fairy tales you’ve heard were a bit off the mark. Heroes were not entirely good, and villains? In some cases they were just misunderstood.

  And speaking of misunderstood villains, let’s return to Wolfgang.

  The wolf stomped out of the castle, seething. Who was he, a top predator on the food chain and a talented gardener, to be threatened by some fuzzy-lipped punk like Captain Kreplach? Especially when he was innocent! It positively burned his butt.

  “Not fair!” he howled.

  But Kreplach was the prince’s enforcer, and Wolfgang, like it or not, was under Prince Tyrone’s rule. So the wolf contented himself with kicking a fence, scaring some townsfolk, and knocking down a mailbox.

  Tantrum over, he sat on a boulder to brood.

  First thought: Eat Captain Kreplach. No, that wouldn’t work. The prince would only send more guards, and besides, the captain would make a mighty gristly meal.

  Second thought: Leave Fairylandia. No, his family had lived here for ages, and Wolfgang would be double-dog-danged if he’d slip out with his tail between his legs.

  Third thought: Find the culprit.

  Hmm …

  The wolf was a hunter, after all. He trotted on down the road to Dieter Pig’s place to pick up the housebreaker’s scent.

  As Wolfgang approached the brick house, his keen sniffer was struck by a dreadful stench: ammonia, lemony polish, and all kinds of cleaning products. A cheery, off-key whistling pierced his furry ears.

  Someone was in the house!

  The culprit had returned to cover his tracks. The wolf’s tail wagged. Could it really be this easy?

  Fangs bared, Wolfgang rushed up the walkway and flung open the door.

  “Aha!” he cried. “Back at the scene of the crime!”

  A stout sow in an apron turned from her work, wet mop in hand.

  “You!” she gasped.

  “You?” said Wolfgang. He frowned. “You’re the housebreaker?”

  The sow’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m the what, now?”

  Wolfgang felt a little less sure. “The one who … um, broke into your sons’ houses, trashed them, and stole all the food?”

  Her mop rose like a club as Mama Pig advanced.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, mister,” she snarled. Wolfgang had never heard a pig snarl before.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking a casual step back. “I was voted nerviest wolf in my pack.”

  “How dare you accuse me?” Mama Pig demanded. “You, the real criminal? I should beat you like a Persian rug!”

  She swung the mop, and Wolfgang ducked. Dirty water sprayed over his back. Mama Pig swung again, and the wolf dodged out the door.

  “I’m innocent,” he growled.

  “Hah!”

  “Okay, okay. I mean, I didn’t do it. I was home with a good book.” Was his reputation that bad? he wondered. He really had to get out more, let people see the real Wolfgang. This constant mistrust was getting old.

  The sow glared at him. She had a pretty good glare, for a pig.

  “I hope they lock you up and throw away the key,” said Mama Pig, jabbing the mop into his gut.

  Wolfgang stumbled back. “I’m just trying to find out who really did this to your —”

  BAM! The door slammed shut.

  “— rotten little oinkers,” the wolf finished.

  Two locks clicked into place. “And stay out!” cried Mama Pig.

  Wolfgang snarled and snapped, but the door stayed closed. Grumbling and growling, he stalked back down the walkway.

  What now? he wondered. Eat Mama Pig? Tempting, but then he’d be in even more hot water than he was already.

  “Psst, hey!” said a squeaky voice.

  Wolfgang glanced behind him. Nobody there.

  “Down here,” said the voice.

  The wolf looked down. Standing on the path before him was a tiny pink pig, no higher than his waist, wearing a blue felt cap.

  “What now?” Wolfgang barked. He had more than enough pigs in his life already, thanks very much.

  The porker grinned. “I’m Ferkel.”

  “And I’m history if I don’t catch that thief. See ya.” He started off.

  “Wait!” cried the pig. “I can help you. I can! I’m cheerful, good with people, and I always wanted to be a detective.”

  “A what?” rumbled Wolfgang, tramping down the path as Ferkel trotted to keep up.

  “A detective. That’s what I call people who solve mysteries. I love mysteries, don’t you?”

  “No,” said the wolf.

  “But —”

  “And even if I did, I don’t need your help. Later, short stuff.” Wolfgang lengthened his stride.

  “Wait!” the pig cried. “I’ve already got a clue!”

  The wolf stopped so short, Ferkel ran right into him.

  “What clue?” Wolfgang asked.

  The pig gave a coy smile. “Promise first?”

  Wolfgang scowled. “Promise what?”

  “That you’ll let me help you solve the mystery of what happened to my brothers’ houses.”

  “Wait, you’re related to those three troublemakers?” The wolf didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. But the way his luck had been lately, it was probably bad.

  “Sure am,” said Ferkel. “I’ve been living at home with my mama, but she said I can leave if I find a job — like detecting. So … promise?”

  Their gazes locked. The wolf glared, but the pig gazed right back. Wolfgang blinked first.

  “Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “You can help. What’s the clue?”

  Ferkel reached under his cap and produced a brown-and-red head scarf.

  “Ta-da!”

  “That’s your clue?” Wolfgang asked.

  Ferkel nodded vigorously. “I found it in the bushes. It looks familiar, but then, it’s a common style. I think the thie
f dropped it.”

  Wolfgang sniffed. The scarf smelled, unsurprisingly, of pig. Big help.

  “Great,” he said. “Dust your furniture with it.”

  “Don’t you see?” said Ferkel. “We draw up a list of suspects, interview them, and find out if anyone is missing a scarf.”

  “Too much like work,” said Wolfgang. “I’ll just follow my nose, like always.”

  “Ferrrr-kellll!” Mama Pig’s voice echoed down the road. “Where are you?”

  The little porker tucked the scarf back under his cap. “Gotta go. Meet you in a half hour at Hansel and Gretel’s place.”

  “Why there?”

  Ferkel made a duh face. “Hansel and Gretel? Notorious housebreakers? Keep up, Wolfie!”

  Wolfgang growled, “Don’t call me Wolfie.”

  But the little pig had scurried off.

  A half hour later, Wolfgang stood at the edge of the sun-dappled woods by Hansel and Gretel’s house. Right on time, up trotted Ferkel.

  “Ready to start our first case?” said the little pig.

  “Our?” said the wolf. “First?”

  Ferkel grinned. “I have a good feeling. This is the start of something big!”

  “Yeah? So is the snowball that becomes an avalanche,” muttered Wolfgang darkly.

  Nevertheless, the wolf led the way across the lawn and up to Hansel and Gretel’s cozy cabin.

  A word about H & G, before we meet them. If you’ve heard their story, you probably think they were a pair of sweet kids who narrowly missed being gobbled up by a mean old witch.

  Yeah. Not quite.

  In truth, H & G were greedy, ruthless teenage twins who had started up their own sweets shop. One dark night, they’d entirely devoured their competition, Ursula’s Goodies, literally eating poor Ursula the Witch out of house and home and eliminating all her stock. In their free time, they enjoyed a bit of petty thievery.

  Wolfgang rapped on the stout green door.

  “Who is it?” a surly girl’s voice demanded.

  The wolf started to answer, then stopped short. This called for a little tricksiness — which was, in fact, a specialty of his. Much as he wanted to reform his image, reform would have to wait.

  His own voice went all high and innocent. “I’m collecting for charity.”

  “Beat it,” said someone else, probably Hansel.