by Bruce Hale
The crow swooped down, snatching the coins in its beak.
“Hey, my message!” cried Wolfgang.
As it flew off, the bird shook a leg, and the scroll fluttered down into a briar bush.
“Terrific,” growled the wolf.
A few scratches and scrapes later, he retrieved the message and unfolded it. In loopy handwriting, the scroll read:
“Why couldn’t he tell me in the note?” the wolf groused. But he slipped the message into his pocket and set off at a steady lope for the straw house. At long last, he was catching a break!
Down the road and over the creek he flew, hope making his steps lighter. Finally, Wolfgang rounded the bend and spotted it dead ahead: Hans Pig’s straw house. Although it looked a bit like a haystack with windows and fancy trim, he’d never been happier to see anything in his life. Panting heavily, he trotted up to the front door. It was unlocked — yes!
The wolf turned the knob and stepped inside.
Fa-WHISH!
A thick, iron-braided rope closed around his ankle, and …
Fa-WHOOSH!
The trap whipped his leg up toward the ceiling, causing Wolfgang to crack his head on the oaken floor.
Stars wheeled, and suddenly everything went dark.
* * *
When the wolf came to, he was dangling upside down by one leg and swaying back and forth like a clock pendulum. An actual clock ticked away the minutes somewhere in the house:
Ticktock, ticktock.
Trapped.
He was trapped like a bunny in a snare, and there were only — Wolfgang cocked an eye toward the clock — fifty minutes left until he must face the prince.
His head throbbed.
His ankle hurt.
And if he didn’t show up in time and reveal the culprit, he would be locked up until he was a very, very old wolf.
Wolfgang moaned. He tried to climb his own body and gnaw through the loop that gripped his leg. The strands held. He tried swinging back and forth to catch the rope that suspended him, but all that earned him was serious dizziness.
He stopped, feeling it was best not to barf upside down.
Ticktock, ticktock.
A deep despair welled up (or down) in him. His eyes got misty. Who cared about a big bad reputation at a time like this? If ever there was an occasion for a wolf to howl, this was it.
“Ah-wooooo!” he bayed in misery. “Ah-ah-ahwoooooo!”
Wolfgang howled until he was all howled out.
But no one heard.
No one came.
After quite a few minutes of this, Wolfgang began to take a dull interest in the interior of the straw house. After all, it would be the last home he’d ever visit, outside of the dungeon.
Unlike the other two pigs’ houses, it hadn’t yet been cleaned. Chairs sprawled on their sides, cornflakes littered the front room, and bits of broken plates and jars lay here and there. Almost directly beneath the wolf, a small painting of Hans Pig with a pretty young sow had been viciously sliced in half.
What a mess.
It looked like Wolfgang’s own house after a really good party. The whole place was a disaster area. Wait a second — not the whole place. A painting of Mama Pig still hung, perfect and intact, on one wall. And opposite the portrait, Wolfgang noted, hung a cabinet full of Hans’s fancy china, and not a cup or plate was out of place.
Odd.
Wolfgang felt a little prickle race along his spine, like he was getting a bad attack of fleas — or an idea. He took a deep sniff, hoping to catch the culprit’s scent in the dusty air. He smelled cornflakes, dirty dishes, the spilled contents of the trash can, filthy clothes, and pig. Lots of pig.
But not a whiff of whoever had done this.
“Double-dog dang it!” Wolfgang cursed.
“Something wrong?” squeaked a high voice.
The wolf raised his head to see a small pig standing on the threshold.
“Ferkel?”
“I came as soon as I heard your howl,” said the pig. “My mother gave me ever so many chores, but I left right in the middle of organizing the firewood logs by size.”
“Never mind that,” said the wolf. “Get me down from here.”
“Right away!”
In flashes, as Wolfgang spun slowly, he saw: Ferkel finding a kitchen knife in the mess on the floor, Ferkel approaching the wall where the trap’s rope was anchored, and Ferkel —
“Wait!” cried the wolf. “Don’t just —”
The pig cut the rope.
BONK! Wolfgang landed right on his head.
“Owww!” he groaned. Now his earlier bump had a bump of its own.
The wolf lurched to his feet. “Come on!”
“To the castle?” said Ferkel.
“To the castle,” said Wolfgang. “I just might know who did it, but I need your help to figure it out.”
“Really?” said Ferkel with a grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The throne room was packed. Word had spread that the Big Bad Wolf was about to get his just deserts, and it seemed like half of Fairylandia had turned up to watch the fun.
Besides the prince and princess, their guards, and the Pig family, there were all the lords and ladies, half of the maids a-milking, three pipers piping, two drummers drumming, several swans (not swimming), Jack, Goldilocks, Cinderella, and someone’s mangy dingo.
“Wow,” muttered Ferkel when they walked in. “Full house.”
“The better to hear us with,” said Wolfgang, his eyes glinting.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Captain Kreplach pounded the butt of his pike on the floor.
“Right, then!” he shouted. “Everyone, pipe down!” He glared at some tardy noisemakers. “You too, pipers.”
The room fell silent.
“Wolf,” said Prince Tyrone. “You are accused of vandalizing the Three Little Pigs’ houses and stealing their food. Do you have anything to say before we lock you up for the rest of your rotten life?”
“I sure do,” said Wolfgang.
The prince rolled his eyes. “Very well. Keep it brief.”
Wolfgang gazed around the room at all the blood-hungry expressions, coming last of all to Ferkel, who gave him a thumbs-up. “You all think I’m a killer,” the wolf told the crowd. “A dirty, low-down chicken plucker and all-around bad guy.”
“Well, duh!” called someone. “That’s ’cause you are!” People chuckled.
Gritting his teeth, Wolfgang continued, “Yes, it’s true, I may have stolen a chicken or two.”
“Or twenty!” called someone else. The prince glared, and finally the chuckles subsided.
“But this time,” said Wolfgang, “you’ve got the wrong wolf. I didn’t do it.”
A wave of jeers and catcalls swept the room. Captain Kreplach pounded his pike on the floor and bellowed, “Shut your pieholes, you cretins!” until all the pieholes were shut.
“And with the help of my friend Ferkel,” Wolfgang said, “I can prove who did it.”
Up until now, the Three Little Pigs and their mother had looked fat and sassy, not a care in the world. But when she heard this, Mama Pig frowned.
“Together, Ferkel and I talked to all the likely suspects — Jack, Goldilocks, Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, and so on,” said the wolf.
“And it was fun!” Ferkel burbled. At a glance from Wolfgang, he settled down.
“But there was something wrong with nearly every one,” the wolf continued.
The little pig couldn’t contain himself. “Some of them had alibis, some had no motive — that’s the reason you do it — and some of them” — here, he smiled at Cinderella — “just weren’t bright enough to pull it off.”
She smiled back, then asked the man next to her, “What does he mean?”
Wolfgang paced the cold marble floor. “The problem was, we hadn’t put all the facts together properly, like a real detective would have.”
“A what?” said Captain Kreplach.
“You know …” The
wolf waved his paw. “A figure-outer of things.”
“So here’s what we figured out,” Ferkel said, joining the pacing. “Fact one: The vandal left this head scarf behind.” He flourished the red and brown scarf.
“Fact two,” said the wolf, “it smelled like pig.”
“Fact three: In the straw house, only the good china and the picture of my mama were undamaged,” said Ferkel.
“Fact four: The whole place smelled like pig.” Wolfgang furtively swiped away a strand of drool.
“Fact five,” said Ferkel, “someone pretending to be me sent a message to Wolfgang, luring him into a trap.”
“Ooh,” said the crowd.
The wolf scowled. “And it really, really hurt my ankle. In fact —”
“Is this nearly over?” the prince interrupted. “I’ve got a feast waiting.”
Ferkel held up his hooves. “Almost there, Your Highness.”
“Fact six,” said Wolfgang, “Mama Pig visited her son Martin’s house last night while he was away.”
“Oh?” said the crowd.
Mama Pig’s eyes shifted back and forth, and she wiped her neck with a handkerchief.
Ferkel turned to face her. “And last of all, fact seven: Mama, you’ve been really happy today, now that all of your sons are back in your house.”
She beamed at him. “Well, that’s true. It’s so good to have my boys at home.”
“Why’d you do it, Mama?” asked Ferkel softly. “Why’d you trash my brothers’ houses?”
“I — I — I …” A faint red tinge came to her pink cheeks. Her gaze flicked from Ferkel, to the wolf, to the prince, to her sons.
The whole room leaned forward.
“I just wanted my piglets back home,” said Mama Pig. “Is that such a crime, for a mother to love her sons?”
“Aww,” said the crowd.
“That’s not a crime,” said Wolfgang. “But I’m pretty sure breaking and entering, thievery and vandalism, framing someone, and illegally trapping a wolf are.”
Captain Kreplach nodded. “He’s got you there, luv.”
The prince sighed. “Oh, all right. Captain, lock her up in the dungeon for a hundred years, there’s a good fellow.”
Two burly guards stepped forward.
The Three Little Pigs went pale. “Wait, Sire!” cried Dieter.
Prince Tyrone glowered. “What did I say about that ‘Sire’ stuff?”
“Sorry, Your, um, Awesomeness?” said Dieter. “But what if we don’t press charges? Is it still a crime, then?”
The prince stroked his handsome jaw and looked a question at Captain Kreplach, who shrugged. “No, I suppose not. If the wronged piggies — er, parties — don’t press charges, and the wolf doesn’t mind” — he glanced at Wolfgang, who also shrugged — “then she can go free.”
The Three Little Pigs clapped and laughed and crowded around their mother. Even Ferkel got in on the group hug.
“But next time you want to see them,” cried Prince Tyrone over the hubbub, “just invite your sons to dinner.”
“Mmm, dinner,” muttered the wolf at the thought of all those pork chops.
Outside the throne room, Captain Kreplach caught up with Wolfgang and offered his hand. “No hard feelin’s, mate. It was an honest mistake.”
“Honest?” said the wolf.
“Well, you are Public Enemy Number One and all,” said the captain. “You gots to admit, you make a dandy suspect, Mr. Big Bad — er, Wolf.”
The wolf sighed and shook his hand.
“A man can admit when he’s made a mistake,” said Captain Kreplach. “Course, that don’t mean I won’t catch you next time.”
The wolf smiled a toothy smile. “You’re welcome to try.”
The commander flinched at the sight of all those fangs and edged away. “Right, then,” he muttered. “Gotta get goin’, lots of stuff to guard.”
“Ta-ta, Captain,” said Wolfgang.
The Pig family stepped into the hallway, chattering happily. When Ferkel spotted the wolf, he broke away from his brothers and trotted over.
“That was quite a case,” said the pig.
“You’re quite a case,” said the wolf. “But I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Ferkel blushed. “Aw, thanks. And thanks for what you’ve done for my reputation.”
Wolfgang scratched his head. “What do you mean? You’ve been seen hanging around with Public Enemy Number One, a dirty, low-down chicken plucker.”
“Exactly,” said the pig. “And that’s done wonders for my reputation. Partners, Wolfie?”
“I’m not a detective, I’m a gardener. And don’t call me —” But before he could finish, Jack stumped over to them on his crutches.
“Hullo, you two,” said Jack. “Jolly well done! Of all the big bads, you’re the baddest!”
The wolf and pig thanked him.
“Hey, listen,” said Jack. “If you’re not too busy, I wonder if you might take on a new case.”
Wolfgang’s ears flicked in surprise. “New case?” he said. “But we’re not —”
“Go on,” said Ferkel.
Jack glanced from side to side. “See, here’s the thing: Someone stole Brutus the Giant’s golden goose, and he thinks it was me. I need you two to clear my name and catch the real thief, just like you did today.”
“But we —” Wolfgang tried again.
“Would love to take your case,” said Ferkel. “For four gold pieces, on retainer.”
At the sight of the coins, the wolf shut his mouth. Gardening could wait.
“All right, then,” said Jack, pressing them into Wolfgang’s grip. “Come ’round tomorrow, and I’ll give you all the details.”
Wordlessly, Wolfgang watched the lad clomp away on his crutches. His gaze was thoughtful.
“First thing,” said Ferkel, “we’ve got to come up with a name for our detective business.”
Wolfgang raised an eyebrow. “How does the Big Bad Detective Agency sound to you?”
Ferkel grinned. “Like the start of a beautiful partnership.”
BRUCE HALE is the Edgar-nominated author and/or illustrator of more than twenty-five seriously funny books for children, including the popular Chet Gecko Mysteries. He lives in Southern California, where he is also an actor, a Latin jazz musician, and an award-winning storyteller. You can find him online at www.brucehale.com.
Text and illustrations copyright © 2015 by Bruce Hale
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.
SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First printing, February 2015
Cover art by Red Hansen
Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-0-545-74728-8
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