by Dave Keane
Dave Keane
Joe Sherlock
Kid Detective
Case #000002: The Neighborhood Stink
For Paris, Jade, and Sutter,
my Baker Street Irregulars
—D.K.
Contents
Chapter One: Mystery Child
Chapter Two: Something Stinks
Chapter Three: Mrs. Fefferland Explains
Chapter Four: Collecting Evidence
Chapter Five: Help Around the House
Chapter Six: The Unusual Suspects
Chapter Seven: Suspect Numero Uno
Chapter Eight: Running on Empty
Chapter Nine: Barking Up the Wrong Tree
Chapter Ten: A Man’s Best Friend?
Chapter Eleven: The Pooper Strikes Again
Chapter Twelve: What’s at Stakeout?
Chapter Thirteen: My Pants Are Alive!
Chapter Fourteen: Fort Sherlock and the Wicked Gatekeepers
Chapter Fifteen: The Human Cork
Chapter Sixteen: Stand Back, I’m Going to Blow!
Chapter Seventeen: The Sherman Tank
Chapter Eighteen: When the Going Gets Tough, Consider Quitting
Chapter Nineteen: The Tip of the Iceberg?
Chapter Twenty: Run, Joe, Run!
Chapter Twenty-One: Animal Instincts
Chapter Twenty-Two: Alarm Bells
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Ghost Appears
Chapter Twenty-Four: Case Closed
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Mystery Child
My name is Joe Sherlock.
But everyone calls me Sherlock, even my own parents. It sounds crazy, but my little sister didn’t know my first name was Joe until she was almost six years old.
Of course, it makes perfect sense that I would be called Sherlock.
Why? Well, there’s a bunch of old books written about a guy named Sherlock Holmes who smoked a pipe, wore a creepy hat, and solved mysteries like nobody’s business. I’ve never read any of them. But I’ve seen lots of movies about him. So he’s kind of like my hero. We almost have the same name—except for the Joe and Holmes parts. And like the great Sherlock Holmes, I was born with a natural gift for solving mysteries.
Some kids my age can play the piano, break a board with a karate chop, or remember to make their beds every day. Not me. Not even close. But I can find just about anything that’s lost. I can figure out the answer to a riddle way before grown-ups can. And I just love a good mystery.
But don’t get the wrong idea. I’m no brain. In fact, I’m pretty crummy at school. Miss Piffle, my teacher, once told my parents at back-to-school night that I was “a bit daffy,” which is basically a nice way of saying “Your kid’s a dope.” But that’s okay with me. I was born with a gift.
Sometimes I get a little help from my little sister, Hailey, who is sort of like my assistant. Actually, she’s a bit of a troublemaker, so I have to make sure she doesn’t play in the kitty litter or drop Dad’s golf balls into the garbage disposal. She tags along sometimes. To be honest, sometimes she sees things that I miss…but mostly that’s because she’s a lot shorter than I am.
Anyway, before you start snoring like a banshee, I’d like you to sit back, relax, and watch your step as we plunge into my second official case as a private detective: Case #000002.
Chapter Two
Something Stinks
I’m in my room watching a Sherlock Holmes movie when I hear a knock on our front door.
“Is your son, Sherlock, at home?” I hear our neighbor Mrs. Fefferland ask my mom.
“He is, Mrs. Fefferland,” my mom answers. “Please come in.”
Mrs. Fefferland lives across the street from us. Her husband travels around the world selling plastic sprockets, gears, and other junk to people who need that kind of stuff. So Mrs. Fefferland has lots of free time to work in her yard, a well-clipped work of art that’s surrounded by a white picket fence and off-limits to everyone.
“Did Sherlock break one of your windows again?” my mom asks.
Already my heart is thumping in my chest. Not because I think I might have my second official case, but because I never knew that Mrs. Fefferland knew I broke her kitchen window. Geez, that was like eighty decades ago, and my mom is still bringing it up!
“Nothing like that,” Mrs. Fefferland says. “It’s just that there’s been some mysterious poop on my gated front lawn the past few days.”
“You think Sherlock is pooping in your yard?” my mom gasps.
Now I’m ready to barf. My head starts spinning. I’m ready to run out the back door and never come back…until I hear Mrs. Fefferland say, “Oh, no, dear. I just want to figure out whose dog is responsible. I want it cleaned up! Your Sherlock has a reputation in this neighborhood as a problem solver. I’m hoping he can help me catch that mystery mutt.”
Whew! I thought I was being accused of being the Mad Pooper…but now I know it’s just a mystery that needs solving. And like I said, I love a good mystery.
Chapter Three
Mrs. Fefferland Explains
Mrs. Fefferland wheezes like a bath toy when she breathes and makes loud clacking noises with her teeth. Maybe after I solve her poop mystery, she’ll let me figure out what’s making all that racket in her mouth. But for the moment, I concentrate on the interview.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fefferland. What seems to be the trouble?” I ask, trying my best to sound like Sherlock Holmes.
“I’ve got a mystery pooper, and I want the culprit caught!” she wheezes and clacks.
“Interesting,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. I wait for her to add something else, but she only fills the awkward silence with a steady, gurgling wheeze.
“Maybe it’s your own dog, Mrs. Fefferland,” I say with a shrug. “Could Tinker be the one pooping in your yard?”
The moment I say this, I know it’s a mistake. Mrs. Fefferland looks at me like I just reached down her throat and pulled out a rubber duck.
“Of c-course n-not,” she stammers. “Tinker…Tinker is never allowed in my front yard. Only the backyard. I’m the only one who is allowed in that yard!”
“Okay,” I croak. “I’d like to get to the bottom of this mystery for you. My fee is ten dollars a day…plus expenses.”
“Very well. I’d like you to get started right away,” she says, standing up. “I’d like this unpleasant situation resolved by this evening.”
“Certainly,” I say, although I’m really thinking that I can’t believe she said yes to ten bucks. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Mrs. Fefferland clacks. I close the door as she rumbles down the porch steps like a runaway piano.
“The game is afoot,” I whisper—although I have no idea what that means; it was something Mr. Sherlock Holmes always said when he got a new case.
Chapter Four
Collecting Evidence
“This looks like a poop farm,” exclaims my little sister.
“Thanks for that keen observation, Hailey,” I murmur. Mrs. Fefferland has just waddled into her house, wringing her hands and clacking away about catching the bandit that’s polluting her lawn. And I must admit, if you could see beyond the dog poops, her lawn was an amazing accomplishment—like a smooth, green carpet.
“I need to make a map of the evidence field,” I say, pulling out my sketch pad.
“Oh, like a treasure map for flies?” my sister giggles.
If you haven’t already noticed, my little sister, Hailey, has an amazing talent for driving me insane.
“Well, like it or not, Hailey, this is
evidence,” I explain. “The orderly collection of evidence is a key skill of the successful detective.”
“It looks like you’ve already collected some evidence on the bottom of your shoe,” she says, and begins laughing as loud as an opera singer.
“Oh, that’s a fresh one!” I gag, trying my best not to hurl on Mrs. Fefferland’s beautiful lawn.
“Oh my gosh…that is so gross!” Hailey manages to squeeze in between giggles and snorts, fully enjoying the first misstep of my investigation.
“Hailey, just go home and get me another pair of shoes,” I growl between clenched teeth.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Great Detective!” she says while saluting. Then she runs back across the street and into our house shouting, “Poop alert! Poop alert!”
That’s when I make my first discovery in the case: All the evidence looks like it came from a small dog, but the fence around this yard is almost three feet high and would be difficult for a small dog to jump over. “The game is certainly afoot,” I whisper as I scrape the bottom of my shoe on the curb.
“How about these, Sherlock?” Hailey screams from our front door. She flings her old pair of lavender ballet slippers onto our front steps. She squeals in delight and slams the door with a bang so loud that my teeth loosen.
“That’s some assistant,” I say, shaking my head.
Chapter Five
Help Around the House
“What do you know about dog poop?” I ask my older sister, Jessie, as she scribbles away at her homework.
I should mention here that not every decision a young detective makes is the right one. One decision I should have skipped was seeking help from friends and family.
“Wha’?” Jessie huffs. She looks at me with her mouth open and her eyes partially rolled back in her head. I’m never sure what this look means, especially since she makes this face no matter what’s happening around her. “Oh, it’s the turd nerd,” she finally moans. “Mom told me all about your big case, and if you tell anyone at school, I’ll kill you. Now get out, Inspector Dork.”
“Thanks for all your love and support,” I say as I shut her door. Saying something nice when you really mean something nasty is called sarcasm. My best friend, Lance Peeker, taught me this trick, and it drives Jessie crazy.
My next mistake is asking my mom for help. My mom baby-sits houseplants for people. She operates her business out of our living room, which is always filled with strange plants from around the neighborhood. She talks to these plants, which really spooks Lance whenever he comes over.
“Mom, have you seen any strange dogs lately?” I ask. She’s on the phone with a nervous owner of a sickly orchid. As she talks, she starts spraying my hair with her mister bottle and using her fingers to comb my hair into my dad’s goofy hairstyle. Now I look more like a nervous elf than a private detective. I exit quickly.
I find my dad catching up on his paperwork at the kitchen table. He’s a quality assurance engineer, which is a fancy way of saying he shuffles papers around his desk all day. Sometimes these papers even shuffle all the way onto our kitchen table.
“Dad, what’s your experience with dog poop?” I ask in an official voice.
After staring at me for a long time, he says, “Sherlock, have you given any thought to joining a sports team? Fresh air and exercise might be good for you.”
“Oh, just forget it,” I mumble.
When my mom hangs up the phone, I call Lance to see if he can come over and help with the case.
“No, thanks,” says Lance. “I have to watch TV.”
“You don’t have to watch TV, Lance,” I say. “You can come over now and watch TV later, after we solve the case.” “Well, I have to watch this educational show about flying squirrels with my grandma before I can play a video game,” Lance says very slowly, because he’s watching the flying squirrel show while we’re talking.
“Thanks for helping me out, friend,” I say.
“Hey, you’re getting good at that sarcasm stuff,” he says. “Grandma, did you see that crazy squirrel miss the tree? Uh…see ya, Sherlock.”
“Bye,” I say, hanging up the phone. Lance is my best friend, but he is extremely lazy for someone his age.
When I notice Hailey watching the same show about soaring tree squirrels, I sigh like a train that’s come to a complete stop and squirts out steam. “This is something I must do alone,” I say to no one in particular. Before I head out the front door, I do the single most important thing a detective must do to solve a crime….
Chapter Six
The Unusual Suspects
In detective movies, the main guy always writes up a list of people he suspects could have done the crime. Then he keeps scratching names off the list one by one. This is a good idea because it helps everybody watching the movie to start guessing who did it.
I create my first list of suspects by simply making a list of the neighborhood dogs.
I look over my list until I’m satisfied that these are all the suspects. I’m feeling better already, but time is slipping away. If I can nab the mystery doo-doo dog before dinner, I’ll be ten bucks richer by bedtime.
Chapter Seven
Suspect Numero Uno
“Take a good look at this,” I say, handing Mr. Castro an instant photo of a fresh pile of evidence. “Take your time,” I say, watching his face carefully for any signs of guilt. He stands in his doorway with a weird look on his face.
I borrowed (without asking, of course) Hailey’s Girl Chat Sleepover instant camera and snapped a few good pictures of the evidence. Her camera is pink and covered with flower stickers, but it sure spit out some good photographs. (I figured photos would work better than trying to scoop poop into a plastic bag.) A good detective must always preserve the evidence—and if he can avoid throwing up in the process, all the better.
“It looks like dog poop,” Mr. Castro states simply, looking back into the living room with the same funny look on his face. Meanwhile, his mountain-size dog is barking behind the fence like a crazy seal at feeding time.
“Aren’t you the Sherlock boy?” he asks while squinting his eyes. “Uh, I don’t get the joke, but we’re watching a real good show about flying squirrels right now. Are you selling these photos to raise money or something?”
“Someone’s dog left that on Mrs. Fefferland’s lawn,” I inform him, thinking about how fantastic that flying squirrel show must be since half the world seems to be watching it. I get to the point quickly. “Could that be Ranger’s poop, Mr. Castro?”
“Kid, Ranger sneezes things bigger than this,” he laughs, handing back the photo. “Ranger weighs over two hundred and thirty pounds. Try looking for a beaver or a pigeon,” he says, and closes the door with a loud thump.
“A beaver?” I say to nobody. “We don’t have beavers around here. And a pigeon dropping poops this size would have to be as big as a microwave oven.”
My second official case is certainly off to a slow start.
I sit on the curb and pull out my list of suspects. I’ve got way too many suspects if I plan to solve this mystery by dinner. I take out a pink Girl Chat Sleepover marker (which I also borrowed without asking) and cross out Ranger, Cujo (too big), and the ancient Vader (too old). “That leaves just four suspects,” I say—just as someone crashes a speeding truck through the Castros’ fence.
Chapter Eight
Running on Empty
I jump to my feet and look over my shoulder. With a combination of relief and utter panic, I realize that there’s no truck crashing through the fence behind me. It’s Ranger! His beach-ball–size head and his ham-sandwich–size paws are hanging over the fence…and the rest of him is working like mad to get over that fence, too!
I never find out if he makes it, because I’m four houses away before I even start screaming.
This may not be the bravest way for a detective to act, but when you’re about to become a moist and meaty doggie treat, there are few options. For a moment, I imagine all that would be l
eft of me: my right shoe, my list of suspects, and a suspicious-looking pink Girl Chat Sleepover pen.
As I huff and puff along, I think for a moment that I might be a better sprinter than detective…but then I calculate that this unusual burst of speed is eighty-seven percent pure fear, twelve percent hunger for a solution to this mystery, and five percent desire to eat several helpings of my mom’s spaghetti for dinner.
I finally run out of gas on the front lawn of the Moriartys’ house. This is no accident. If I go any farther, I will surely start barfing up the seven frozen waffles I ate for breakfast. Also, Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty just happen to be the owners of Peekaboo, one of the remaining suspects on my list.
After what seems like fifty-three minutes, my breathing returns to normal, and I wobble up the steps to the Moriartys’ front door.
Chapter Nine
Barking Up the Wrong Tree
Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty are a strange couple—they’re friendly, neat, and always very polite. They’re also often gone for weeks at a time. This gives the neighborhood gossips plenty to whisper and tsk-tsk about.
Lance has a theory that the Moriartys are aliens from the planet Uranus who visit Earth every few weeks to check out what’s on TV.
