by Bruce Hale
I poked my head into her office.
“Whaddaya want?” she squawked. “I’m a busy bird.”
So much for the soft spot.
“I’m on a case,” I said.
“Well, whoop-de-do. What’s it to me?”
“I need some information. Can you pull the files on three football players?”
Ms. Crow crossed her wings. “That’s classified, buddy boy. School property.”
“I’ll make it worth your while. Say . . . a worm sandwich?”
“What?” she said.
“A fistful of worms?”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“A bucketful of worms and a year’s subscription to Better Crows & Garbage?”
She leaned forward. “What did you want to know?”
I left the office with three computer printouts—partial school records for the missing players. (Not even a truckload of worms could coax Maggie Crow into revealing all her secrets.)
Ambling along, I began scanning the sheets—until I hit a brick wall.
Fwomp! Papers and hat went flying.
It was Herman. Planted in front of me like a building with a bad attitude—my client, the lovable Gila monster.
I caught my balance and straightened my hat.
“Gecko,” he growled. “You find players?”
“Um, not yet, big guy. But the wheels are in motion.”
This wasn’t a fib; I actually had been spinning my wheels so far.
Herman the Gila Monster wasn’t big on trust. He was just big. A hand the size of a cafeteria tray reached down and hoisted me by my shirtfront.
“Tick tock, Gecko,” said its owner. “Find players fast. If Coach kick me off team, I kick you off planet.”
He wasn’t subtle, but he was effective.
“I’ll keep you informed.”
Herman grunted and set me down without breaking me. I picked up my papers and hurried off to share the players’ files with Natalie, just down the hall.
“You take Lou’s and Dewey’s teachers; I’ll take Hugh’s,” I said, passing over their records.
“Roger, dodger,” said Natalie.
“Oh, and by the way,” I said. “You owe Maggie Crow a bucketful of worms.”
“What?” Natalie’s feathers ruffled. “Why?”
“Information doesn’t come cheap.”
Hugh’s record revealed his teacher’s name: Ms. Burrower. She was a big mole, with fur soft as a preschooler’s snore and a nose like a celery stalk caught in a blender.
Ms. Burrower was punishing homework papers with a red pencil when I slipped into her classroom.
“Why, it’s wee Chet Gecko,” she said. “What brings you here, lad?”
“My two wee feet,” I said. “But enough small talk; I need the hot scoop.”
She pushed her Coke-bottle glasses up her nose with a thick foreclaw. “What’s the subject?”
“Your student, Hugh Geste. He took a powder last week, and no one’s seen him since.”
The mole’s brow wrinkled. “Took a powder?” she asked.
“Vanished, split, went on the lam,” I said.
“Ah, yes. He’s not in school.” She didn’t seem particularly worried about it.
I stepped close to her desk. “Tell me, did he have any enemies?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Hugh was smart and well liked.”
I gnawed my lip. “Hmm. Was he acting strangely before he disappeared?”
Ms. Burrower chewed her pencil and squinted. “Not that I recall. But I wouldn’t call it disappearing. He just went—”
Brrring! Recess ended not with a bang, but with a ding-a-ling.
“What were you going to say?” I asked.
“Nothing important,” said the mole. “Back to class with you, lad.”
I left, wondering what could make a burly beaver vanish before the biggest game of his football career.
I didn’t think I’d like the answer. But I knew I’d find it before long, or my name isn’t wee Chet Gecko.
5
Stroganoff the Wall
The last classes of the day sped by like a chariot pulled by crippled snails. Maybe it was my imagination, but Mr. Ratnose even seemed to be speaking extra slowly.
Finally, he droned, “Claaaasss dismiiissssed.”
Foom! Life shot into fast motion like a spider launched from a slingshot. I popped out the door behind my classmates. The halls rang with the jibber-jabber of happy students heading for home.
I had heavier duties. A detective’s work is never done.
Natalie caught up to me. “I talked to Lou’s and Dewey’s teachers,” she said.
“And?”
We strolled toward the football field and chewed over what we’d learned so far. It made for a small snack.
Like me, Natalie had drawn a blank. The teachers reported no lurking enemies, no suspicious behavior.
“Just one odd thing,” she said. “Lou’s teacher said she hoped he was enjoying camp.”
“Camp? Since when is kidnapping camp?” I shook my head. “They’ve got to stop serving that funky Jell-O in the teachers’ lounge.”
Natalie and I rounded the gym. Just over the fence, the cheerleaders sweated through their routines. Beyond them, a bunch of kids ran laps, and Coach Stroganoff supervised two players doing wobbly push-ups.
It didn’t look like much fun. But then, exercise never does.
We passed through a gate in the wire fence and stepped out onto the track. Bulky football players jogged past. Sweat covered them like chocolate sauce on a banana-slug split.
“Yuck,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that for love or lunch.”
Natalie arched an eyebrow. “You know, you could stand to get a little exercise, Mr. Sowbug Twinkie–muncher.”
I ignored her, watching the joggers. “Man, those guys must hate Coach Stroganoff.”
Natalie’s eyes went wide. She clapped her head. “That’s it!” she said. “I just had an idea.”
“See, there’s a first time for everything.”
“Chet, what if the kidnapper didn’t have a grudge against the players?”
“Huh?”
Natalie pointed at the coach. “What if he had something against Coach Stroganoff instead?”
I turned to her. “That’s why we couldn’t find their enemies. Good thinking, partner.”
Just then, the coach in question grimaced at us, then clomped over like a mountain with legs.
“You there!” he bellowed. “State your name and business.”
“Chet Gecko,” I said. “Trouble is my business.”
Natalie raised a wing feather in greeting. “Natalie Attired. His business is my business.”
“Hang on,” said Coach Stroganoff “His business is your business, and your business is his business?” He scratched his jaw. “I can see how that would be trouble.”
“We’re just nosing around,” said Natalie helpfully.
The coach’s eyes went wide. “Nosing?” he growled. “Who said you could do that?” He towered over us, a groundhog big enough to hog a small country.
“Um, the nostril fairy?” I said.
“Who knows?” Natalie said.
Coach Stroganoff put two paws the size of milk jugs on his furry hips. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, this is my field; keep away from my team.”
“But we’re trying to help find—” said Natalie.
“I don’t care if you’re studying sit-ups for the Abdominal Snowman,” said the coach. “Only football players and cheerleaders on the field during practice.”
He grabbed us both by the scruff of our necks and marched us to the fence. Easy as stinkbug pie, he lofted us over.
I watched Coach stomp off. “Well, that’s that,” I grumped. “Now, how do we find out what happened to Hugh, Lou, and Dewey?”
Natalie smiled a thoughtful smile. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, “but you’re not going to like it.”
“Nonsense. Lay it on me.�
�
6
Team & Sympathy
“No way!” I said. “Never in a million years!”
Natalie grabbed my shoulders and spun me back to face her. “Come on, Chet. It’s perfect. How else can you get next to the coach and players?”
“Have you lost your marbles?” I said. “I can’t join the football team! It’s, it’s . . . un-detective-y.”
“That’s why it’ll work,” said Natalie. “They won’t suspect a thing.”
“But I hate the game!”
She smiled sweetly. “I heard that the players get free bubble gum.”
Free gum?
“Hmm, that’s—wait a minute. I can’t even play football.”
“Neither can most of the team. Why do you think they have a 2–15 win-loss record?”
She had a point (other than the one at the end of her beak). The Emerson Hicky Gophers weren’t exactly the winningest bunch on the planet. Heck, they made the Bad News Bears look like Super Bowl champs (and the Bears were a baseball team). Still, that was no reason for me to get trompled trying to solve a case.
My tail twitched as I paced. “Unh-uh, sister. I’m not joining that team. I’d rather play patty-cake with the cheerleaders in . . .”
A thought struck me. “Oh, Natalie?”
“Hmm?”
“Just what will you be up to while I’m getting the bugs squished out of me on the football field?”
She shrugged. “Guess I’ll do some research, snoop for clues.”
I smiled. “I don’t think so.”
Of course, it was one thing to say we’d join the football team and cheerleading squad. It was another matter to pull it off.
Both outfits had at least some standards. I didn’t think we stood the chance of a balloon at a porcupine picnic. But we had to try.
Carrying a brown paper sack, I visited Coach Stroganoff’s office at lunchtime the next day. He was sitting behind his desk, gnawing on a sandwich the size of a sofa.
“Hiya, Coach,” I said. “How’s a guy go about joining the football team?”
He put down the sandwich. “What guy are we talking about?” he rumbled.
“Uh, me.”
Coach belched gently. It sounded like someone in the cafeteria had dropped a hand grenade in the haggis. “Don’t make me laugh,” he said.
I thought of mentioning that I’d actually made him burp, but decided against it.
“No, really,” I said. “I’d like to play.”
He did laugh then. Longer and louder than absolutely necessary.
It wasn’t that funny.
I crossed my arms. “I’ll have you know I’m the fastest gecko in my class.”
Coach laughed even harder, pounding his desk and smooshing his sandwich.
I took a deep breath. “Look,” I said. “You’re three players short, and the big game is Friday. You could use some help.”
Coach Stroganoff stopped laughing. His forehead wrinkled. For a long moment, the mammoth groundhog stared at me.
“Give me one good reason why I should let you join the team,” he said.
I opened the sack and held it out. “Here’s ten.”
His eyes widened at the sight of ten fresh-baked vanilla Grubworm Dream bars. I’d have to wash dishes for a month, but it was worth it. My mom’s treats are irresistible.
“Hmm.” Coach snatched the bag. He pondered, and his eyebrows flexed like little weight lifters. “But you’re not even in sixth grade,” he said.
“I’m old for my age.”
Coach Stroganoff put both meaty paws on the desk. “Meet me at the gym right after school.”
I grinned, nodded my thanks, and turned to go.
“Oh, and Gecko,” he said. “Remember to tell my assistant your next of kin.”
7
No Nurse Is Good Nurse
The afternoon flitted by like a butterfly stapled to a desktop.
I was resting my heavy head on my hands, listening to Mr. Ratnose make math even more confusing, when it hit me. That needle-sharp voice.
“Chet Gecko,” he said. “If you had twenty cents, and you asked your grandfather for thirty and your grandmother for thirty more, how much would you have?”
“Twenty cents.”
The tall rat’s whiskers twitched. “Young Gecko, you don’t know your math.”
“Mr. Ratnose, you don’t know my grandparents.”
He stared at me, clenched his teeth, and moved on to the next victim.
I checked the clock. One and a half hours till football practice. Drat. I had leads to follow up on, and class was cramping my style.
Hmm . . . cramps?
I doubled over, grabbing my gut. “Oooh,” I groaned.
Shirley Chameleon leaned across the aisle. “Chet?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
I sneaked a peek at Mr. Ratnose. He hadn’t noticed me.
“OOOOH!” I groaned louder.
Heads turned my way Mr. Ratnose got the message.
“Chet Gecko?” he said. “Is something the matter?”
I mustered all my acting skills. “I don’t feel so good, teacher. My stomach.”
Mr. Ratnose narrowed his eyes. “Hmph! Probably too many cockroach cupcakes, if I know you.”
Nevertheless, he scrawled on his blue pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to me. “Go straight to the nurse’s office,” he said. “And I want to see a note from her explaining your condition.”
“Oooh-kay,” I moaned. Bent double like a question mark, I shuffled out the door. Just for kicks, I shot Shirley a wink as I passed.
The school nurse, Marge Supial, saw busted-up football players on a regular basis. Maybe she’d talked to the missing players; maybe she had a clue for me.
(One thing was for sure: She had termite lollipops for each visitor—something every growing gecko needs.)
In the nurse’s office, a kindergartner slumped on the lumpy brown examination table, homesick and weepy eyed. I scanned the room. No nurse.
Marge Supial’s file cabinet beckoned. She probably wouldn’t mind if I took a quick peek at the players’ files. . . .
The drawer slid open with a soft shhick. I paged through the folders, looking for Hugh, Lou, or Dewey. A rumpled pink envelope caught my eye. Being a snoop by nature, I checked out the letter inside.
Dearest Smootchie-Poo,
I count the minutes until I can groom the fleas from your soft fur, and—
Ugh. A love note. And it was signed Your Beefie-Pie.
Hmmm. I knew someone named Beef. Could it be . . . ? Nah.
Hugh’s file turned up. I had just flipped it open when—
“Here we are, love, a lollipop for—eh? Who’s this?”
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I was busted.
8
Wombattle-ax
I grabbed my gut, spun, and nudged the file cabinet shut with my tail. My eyes met a wombat’s furry belly button. “Oooh, Nurse, I have a stomachache.”
“Do you now?” said Marge Supial. “And what were you looking for in there?” She pointed at the file cabinet.
“Um, a cure?”
The nurse plopped a sucker in the kindergartner’s mouth, patted her head, and showed her the door. She steered me toward the table. “Sit,” she said.
I sat. While Ms. Supial fetched her instruments, I gave her the once-over. She was a gray-haired wombat with regal bearing and steely gray eyes. Imagine the Queen of England with a stethoscope, fuzzy ears, and a nose like an eggplant—you get the picture.
She turned, wielding a tongue depressor like a scepter. “Open!”
I opened my trap. She planted the stick on my tongue while she probed my mouth with a miniature flashlight thingy.
“Hmph!” she sniffed. “Have you had plenty of leafy greens lately?”
“Tho,” I said.
“Been eating lots of fried foods?”
“Theth,” I said.
Marge Supial fixed me with a stare har
der than week-old cafeteria biscuits. “And why is that?” she asked.
“They thayss thoogh.”
She removed the tongue depressor and began prodding my gut. “That’s no reason to eat such swill.”
Her poking began to tickle.
“Fried foods—hee hee—can’t be bad,” I said. “They’re fried in vegetable—ha ha—oil, aren’t they?”
“I suppose,” she said.
“And vegetables—hee—are good . . .”
She frowned and gave my stomach another prod. “Yes.”
“So why—ho ho—aren’t fried foods good?”
Marge Supial stopped poking and frowned. “Why are you here, really?”
I gave her my best Bambi-goes-to-preschool look. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a cast-iron stomach,” she said. “You wouldn’t get sick if you ate a wallpaper-and-Brillo-pad sandwich. What gives?”
I shrugged. “Got me, sister. I’m here on a case.”
She didn’t toss me out on my ear, so I continued. “Some football players have done a vanishing act. You might know something.”
Marge Supial’s face was harder to read than schoolbooks in the summer. She looked like the critter that modeled for the Sphinx.
The wombat folded her arms. “All right, three questions only.”
Three questions? I’d have to make them count.
“Urn, okay,” I said. “Three guys—Hugh, Lou, and Dewey—have disappeared. Did they come in recently?”
“Yes.”
“Why were they here?”
“Complaining of malaise, qualmishness, and mal de mer.”
“Huh?”
Marge Supial bore down on me like the Queen Mary on an unlucky dinghy. “They felt sick to their little tum-tums,” she said. “That’s three questions; out you go!”
“But where did they—”
“Beat it!” she snarled.
Nurse Supial rushed me out the door. For a healer, she sure had a tough side. But was she capable of kidnapping? Hmm.
