The Neighborhood Stink

by Dave Keane

My grandmother once told me that my most distinguishing feature is my fat head. My uncle Mycroft likes to say that in an emergency my head could be used as a flotation device. Even Miss Piffle complains that I have an abnormally thick skull.

  I, on the other hand, have always thought my uncanny ability to solve mysteries was the result of a freakishly large brain.

  Either way, my super-size noggin weighs heavily on my mind as I run up to Elvis’s old doggie door.

  We once had a family dog named Elvis. Don’t ask why he was named Elvis—it wasn’t my idea.

  I still remember that every single time Elvis went out his doggie door, my dad would call out to nobody, “Elvis has left the building!” Elvis eventually ran away a few months ago and left our building for good—probably because all the “talking to plants” business started to give him the creeps, too.

  I enter Elvis’s door feet first instead of headfirst. I figure that by the time I have to squeeze my head through, I’ll have momentum on my side and the rest of my body will somehow pull my head through.

  I am terribly wrong.

  I become stuck just as my armpits squeeze through the tiny door. When I give up trying to squeeze in, I try to go back out. I squirm. I buck. I thrash. Still, I’m jammed into Elvis’s doggie door like a hearing aid in an old guy’s ear.

  Then—in total desperation—I try panic. But even kicking and flopping around like a fish on the carpet doesn’t do the trick. I’m stuck good, and my armpits hurt like crazy.

  I try to calm down and imagine what the great Sherlock Holmes would do if he were in this situation. But I quickly realize that he wasn’t stupid enough to get himself trapped in a swinging doggie door without his pants on.

  “Hey, Sherlock, I talked to Coach Lowney today,” I hear my dad announce from inside the house.

  “Uh…great,” I wheeze.

  “He says he saw you running down the street today like your life depended on it,” he says from his side of the door.

  “He’s right about that,” I gasp, wriggling like a dying worm on a hook.

  “He thinks you’ve got the kind of natural speed you can’t teach,” he says.

  “Certain death is a great motivator,” I say.

  “That’s not Inspector Wink-Wink underwear, is it?” he asks.

  “Dad! Hello! News flash! I’m stuck in a door here!” I shout.

  “So I signed you up for Coach Lowney’s track and field team,” he says casually, ignoring my cries for help.

  “Dad, all I’m running right now is late,” I simmer. “And this door is sure to slow me down at my first track meet, so could you please get me out of here?”

  “Oh, no, you’re becoming unhinged,” he laughs. “Get it?”

  “Nothing is funny when you’re being eaten by a door,” I rasp.

  Twenty minutes and half a bottle of olive oil later, I slip out of Elvis’s door and onto our back patio like some kind of greasy newborn pony.

  “Sherlock has left the building!” I hear my dad holler from inside.

  My sister Hailey has used up all her film recording my rescue on her Girl Chat Sleepover instant camera. “Where’s the family photo album?” she shouts to my mom, who’s busy on the phone with a frantic fern owner. Hailey gives me a fake smile as she holds up her camera. “Sherlock, did you know borrowing without asking is also known as stealing?”

  “Maybe we can find Sharon Sheldon’s address in the phone book and send her one of these cute candid shots,” Jessie says with a cackle as I stagger past her.

  I give Jessie and Hailey my double-dare, gamma-ray, stink-eye glare.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I grumble, rubbing the olive oil into my red armpits while still glaring at my sisters like some kind of crazy wild boar.

  “Now I’ve got a mystery to solve and only an hour until dinner,” I say, marching past my mother in my underwear and greasy skin.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stand Back, I’m Going to Blow!

  If I don’t get cracking on this case, I’ll be a grandfather by the time I actually get around to solving it.

  I sit on my bed and quickly write out a new list of suspects. I cross out all the names of suspects I’ve ruled out, keeping only those I still have to investigate. Fred, Smokey, and Ted still remain as possible poopers. I cross off Peekaboo because he’s busy barking his eyes out in maximum security while the Moriartys are out of town—or off the planet.

  Smokey is the best suspect to start with. He gets out several times a week and is often seen roaming the neighborhood to the beat of his own drummer. There’s just one problem: Smokey belongs to Sharon Sheldon’s family.

  The thought of knocking on Sharon Sheldon’s door so soon after she’s seen me in my Inspector Wink-Wink underwear makes me feel real barfy.

  But like any good detective, I decide I must do what’s best to keep my investigation moving forward. I ask my mom to call Sharon’s mom.

  “Forget it,” my mom says. “That woman is still upset about your volcano stunt.”

  This opens up a whole other can of worms, so I’ll just give you the short end of the stick….

  I was assigned one of those creepy group science projects a few months ago, with Lance and Sharon Sheldon on my project team. We decided to do a report about volcanoes. I was in charge of building a model volcano, Sharon Sheldon was to explain what happens during an eruption, and Lance was going to make loud volcano noises and stuff when I turned on the volcano.

  Sadly, I did not know that our dog, Elvis, had chewed on some of the electrical wires the night before our presentation. So just as Sharon Sheldon was starting to give her introduction and Lance started to make low, rumbling noises with his armpit, my volcano’s battery somehow melted, burst into flames, and burned a big, black, stinky hole straight through Miss Piffle’s desk.

  I didn’t think it was such a big deal, but some of the firefighters said a few sparks had burned some holes in Sharon’s shoes.

  Mrs. Sheldon was still ticked off at me and my family for putting Sharon in danger, even though it was basically the wire-chewing Elvis who had almost burned the school to the ground, not me.

  Just the idea of calling the Sheldon house makes me feel like I have hot molten lava swishing around in my stomach, all ready to come roaring out of my mouth just as I say hello. But as some famous guy once said, you gotta do what you gotta do. So I take a deep breath and dial.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Sherman Tank

  Hiding behind a wilting ficus tree in our living room, I listen to the phone ring once, then twice. Just as I become certain that right after the third ring I’m going to qualify for the Heaving Hall of Fame, the phone is suddenly answered.

  “Hello?” blurts out Sherman Sheldon, Sharon’s bulky older brother and the meanest sixth grader ever to walk the halls of Baskerville Elementary.

  “Is Sharon home?” I ask in a cleverly disguised voice.

  “Great balls of fire!” Sherman Sheldon barks. “It’s Sherlock, the human flamethrower! You want to burn our house down now, you little freak?”

  “No, I just want to talk to Sharon real quick,” I say, dropping the cleverly disguised voice.

  “She’s busy watching some disgusting show about frogs with extra legs,” he says with a loud sniff.

  “It’s just a quick question about some poop I’m looking into,”

  I reply.

  “You’re looking into poop? You really are a twisted little freak!” he shouts. He drops the phone with a loud bang, and I can hear him walking down the hallway calling, “It’s Volcano Boy for Sharon!”

  “What does he want?” I hear Mrs. Sheldon hiss.

  I decide right then and there that ten bucks is not worth all this.

  “Hi, Sherlock,” Sharon says after finally picking up the phone.

  “Sorry to bother you during your three-legged frog show,” I mumble.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  Although she’s the smartest kid in our class, Sharon Shel
don says “whatever” all the time. It’s her favorite thing to say. I’m never sure whether it means “I don’t have time to get into it with a creep like you” or “No big deal, so don’t worry about it.” Either way, I decide to get this over with before Mrs. Sheldon calls the fire marshal or I become a vomiting volcano.

  “Sharon, Mrs. Fefferland asked me to find out whose dog has been pooping in her yard,” I say quickly. “Do you think it could have been your dog?”

  “Smokey?” she asks. “Well, my dad took Smokey with him a few days ago on a hunting trip.”

  “Oh,” I say like a real genius. “Oh,” I say again, just to sound extra brilliant. “That means that it couldn’t have been Smokey. He’s in the clear.” I draw a line through Smokey’s name on my list of suspects—I’m actually getting somewhere!

  “Whatever,” she says.

  “Um, sorry about today,” I say, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  Whew! At least she’s not making a big deal out of the underwear thing.

  “I hope you find your pooper,” she says.

  “That’s sick!” her brother screams in the background.

  “Well, now my suspects have been narrowed down to just Ted and Fred.”

  “It’s not Ted,” she laughs. “The Martin family moved away last month.”

  “Really?” I say. “Nobody told me! That means it can only be—”

  “And Fred just had puppies two days ago.”

  “WHAT?” I squeak like I’m choking to death on a harmonica. I gape in horror at my list of suspects. “How can a dog named Fred have puppies?”

  “Fred is short for Frederica,” she replies.

  “Oh,” I say quietly. “This is terrible…horrible…shocking news.”

  “Whatever,” Sharon says. “Well, anyway, Sherlock, don’t feel so bad…. I used to watch Inspector Wink-Wink, too.”

  “Whatever,” I sigh, and gently hang up the phone.

  I stare at the phone for what feels like 112 years.

  I’m back where I started. I’m sunk. Sunk in deep doo-doo.

  Worst of all, I’m all out of suspects, and we eat dinner in twenty minutes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the Going Gets Tough, Consider Quitting

  After all I have been through, I have to admit I still have no idea who is pooping on Mrs. Fefferland’s lovely, carpetlike lawn. I need a break in the case, and I need it fast.

  I walk down the hall to my room like a zombie. The smell of olive oil floats up off my ribs and armpits and reminds me just how hungry I am. I plop down at my desk and write out everything I’ve discovered so far.

  This does not take very long. In fact, it barely takes eight seconds.

  In every detective movie, the main guy always goes back over the evidence he’s collected and looks for something he’s missed. A little scrap of overlooked evidence. A small fact that doesn’t add up. A clue that gets filed in the wrong drawer. Usually by the time he starts drooling and looking like a werewolf because he hasn’t shaved in seven and a half days, he stumbles across the missing clue, sits up straight, and shouts, “How could I have been so stupid?”

  Me, on the other hand? I just sit at my desk and mutter, “How could I have been stupid enough to take this dumb case?”

  I review my three instant photos of mystery dog poop, my poop map, and my list of suspect poopers. I have to face facts: I’m pooped out.

  “I heard Mrs. Fefferland hung up on you.”

  It’s Hailey. She’s poking her head into my room. Like most little sisters, Hailey can always sense when I want to be alone, and within seconds she moves just close enough to become the fly in my mental ointment. “Who told you that?” I ask without looking at her.

  “Mom told me,” she says, moving casually over to my desk. “She’s says you tried to trick her and kept talking on the phone, but it didn’t work.”

  “Can I help you?” I ask, trying my best to roll my eyes like Jessie.

  “I also heard Mrs. Sheldon thinks you tried to blow up her daughter,” she says, picking up my Inspector Wink-Wink pencil sharpener and turning it over in her hands.

  “Hey, that’s a rare collector’s item,” I say, plucking the pencil sharpener from her hands.

  “Touchy!” she says as if she’s totally unaware that she’s making me crazy. “Dad says he signed you up for Coach Lowney’s track and field team because he’s afraid you’re becoming weird.”

  “No!” I snap. “It was Coach Lowney’s idea. He thinks I have the kind of natural speed you can’t teach.”

  “Apparently you’re a lot better at running than solving mysteries,” she says, studying my face through one of my magnifying glasses. “You might want to get those nostrils looked at by adoctor.”

  I grab the magnifying glass out of her hand. “Hailey, I finally got my second official case as a detective, and it’s not going so splendid! So if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

  She’s silent as she thinks about this for a moment. “Sorry about that peanut-butter sandwich thing. And for telling Sharon Sheldon that you love her. And for taking your picture while you were stuck in the door in your underpants.”

  “You’ve been a great help,” I say, rubbing my forehead in my palms as I review all the mistakes I’ve made today.

  I consider knocking on Mrs. Fefferland’s door and calling the whole thing off. I consider heading over to Lance’s house for a quick game of Vengeance in Venice! I even consider hanging up my magnifying glass for good.

  “Remember who taught you your times tables?” Hailey asks, picking up my poop map.

  “You did,” I moan, certain that this line of questioning will have no point other than to make me irritated and miserable.

  “And who taught you the names of all the planets?” she asks.

  “You did,” I sigh.

  “And who taught you the names of all the state capitals?” she asks.

  “You did,” I reply, “but I’ve forgotten most of those.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” she says.

  I slump in my chair. “You mean this little pep talk of yours actually has a point?”

  “Look, Sherlock, I’m good at some things and you’re good at other things,” she says, pointing at me with my poop map. “I’m good at things that require complicated brain functions, like math and spelling and memorizing things and acting normal. You’re good at creative problem solving and using your imagination to try out crazy theories in your head. You also have a rare talent for getting yourself stuck in doors and other goofy situations that I would never even think of.”

  “You just had to add that last part, didn’t you?” I say, shaking my head.

  “Just don’t get all crabby and frustrated,” she says, walking toward the door. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I’m watching this show about frogs with too many legs and I just came in here to entertain myself during a commercial,” she says, closing my door slowly. “And Mom wanted me to tell you that we’re eating dinner in fifteen minutes.”

  “Some assistant you are,” I grumble.

  “Hey, if you end up a complete failure as a detective, you can always use all that natural speed as a pizza delivery boy,” she giggles, slamming the door before I can say anything else.

  I wonder if everyone’s little sister has to get the last word in. But she’s right. I always seem to manage to solve things one way or another. I’ll get to the bottom of Mrs. Fefferland’s poop. I just need a little luck.

  Then I get the lucky break I’ve been waiting for all day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Tip of the Iceberg?

  In detective shows on TV, the main guy sometimes has to admit that he is powerless to solve his case. And just as he plucks his worn-out jacket off the back of the chair to head home for a long weekend of stewing in his own horribleness, he gets a phone
call that cracks the case open like a stubborn jaw-breaker.

  At first, the caller on the phone sounds like just another wack job, some crazy nut trying to drive the detective bonkers. But then, with his eyes bulging out of his head like big, hardboiled eggs, the detective realizes that this is the tip he’s been waiting for. The music gets really loud at this point and the detective explodes out the door to solve the case.

  My hot tip—like all traditional hot tips you see on TV—comes from the last person on Earth you’d expect to call you with a hot tip.

  “Hello,” I say, taking the phone from my mom as I enter the kitchen.

  The smell of bubbling spaghetti sauce is now so powerful that my knees almost buckle. Since I’m so hungry and could easily faint and split my head open on a chair or something, I stumble into the jungle that was once our living room.

  “Sherlock, it’s me, Lance!” my best friend’s voice booms from the phone.

  “I can’t play video games right now,” I say.

  “Sherlock, I’ve got your mystery solved!” he announces.

  “What are you talking about?” I yelp.

  “I just saw a dog running loose in the neighborhood,” he says, “and it looks like a pooping machine.”

  “How does a dog look like a pooping machine?” I shout.

  “I don’t know,” he replies. “But it looked like it was up to no good. Something about the tail looked extra creepy.”

  “Whose dog is it? Where is it now?” I roar into the phone, forgetting my rumbling stomach for a moment.

  “I’m not sure whose dog it is, but it’s heading your way!” he says.

  “Go out and catch it for me and I’ll be there in thirty seconds!” I say.

  “That’s impossible,” he says. “I’ve got to watch this show with my grandma about these frogs with three legs—”

  I hang up, grunt in frustration, and race out the door at a full sprint. Finally it’s time to meet my mystery pooper face-to-face.