by Bruce Hale
Natalie cocked her head. “So we scratch one suspect.”
“But there’s another one we haven’t scratched,” I said. “Buford the skunk.”
“Uh, if you don’t mind, Chet,” said Natalie. “You scratch him.”
13
Punk Skunk
We didn’t have to search long. On a low wall at the edge of the grass squatted Buford the skunk, our team’s water boy. His tail drooped. His matted black-and-white fur looked as soggy as a plumber’s hanky.
If Buford was a scientist, he’d be the guy who invented the Bummer-tron.
“Hey, water boy,” I said. “How’s tricks?”
His muddy brown eyes gave us the once-over. “I owe ya money, or what?” he asked.
“We just want to talk,” said Natalie. “I’m the new cheerleader, Natalie Attired, and this is Che—”
“I know who he is,” sneered the skunk. “Mr. Hotshot Football Player, Mr. No-need-to-try-out, Mr. I’m-so-cool-I-can-make-the-team-in-fourth-grade.”
Call it a crazy hunch, but something told me Buford didn’t like me. That was okay. I’d handled plenty of tough subjects before (especially if you count math and spelling).
“Relax, buddy boy,” I said. “After all, we’re on the same team.”
Buford shot me a look that could’ve fried moth-cakes without a griddle. “You mean, you’re on the team. I just carry the water.”
“And a darn good job you’re doing,” said Natalie. “I think you’re the best water boy this team’s ever had.”
Her flattery rolled off him like spit off a frog’s fanny.
“Gee, thanks,” he said. “That’s like being the best moron.”
The phrase If the shoe fits . . . crossed my mind, but I kept it to myself. I squatted beside Buford. “I’m just curious about my teammates. Thought maybe you’d know, since you’re in the thick of things.”
The desire to scorn me and the need to show off fought behind Buford’s eyes. Pride won. The skunk wiped his runny nose with a grubby paw.
“Shoot,” he said. “I could tell ya a lot—if I wanted to.”
“I bet you know all about the team’s history and everything,” said Natalie.
Buford’s chest swelled. “Sure do. Even though I only transferred from Petsadena this year, I’ve been following the Gophers for a while.”
I frowned. He’d transferred from Petsadena Elementary—our arch rival?
Natalie cut her eyes at me. She’d caught it, too.
“Yeah,” Buford told her, “I know the team stats, most valuable players—all that stuff. Ask me anything.”
“What do you know about Hugh Geste?” I said casually.
The skunk’s lip curled. He told Natalie, “That dweeb? He’s our best pass receiver ever—but he’s not as good as me.” Buford picked his teeth with the same paw that had wiped his nose earlier.
I shuddered.
My partner picked up the ball. “Whatever happened to ol’ Hugh, anyway?”
“Well, he—” The skunk broke off. “Wait a minute. You don’t care about the team at all. You’re sweet on that stupid football player.”
Buford stood. Suspicion darkened his face like a mud pie in a water glass.
“What? No way,” said Natalie.
The water boy’s scornful gaze raked us both. “Dunno why I’m wasting my time with you two losers.” He spun on his heel and slouched off.
Natalie watched him go. “As the worm said when her husband disappeared, what’s eating him?”
“The green-eyed monster,” I said.
Natalie frowned. “You mean Herman’s older brother?”
“No, featherhead. Jealousy.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “He wants on that team as bad as you want off it.”
I started walking. “And he can have my spot. Just as soon as we’ve solved this case.”
Natalie and I ambled across the playground. “Do you think Buford could be a double agent for Petsadena?” she asked.
“He’d have a hard time being a single agent,” I said. “But anything’s possible.”
Natalie grinned. “Anything? How about you acing your next science test?”
“Well,” I said, “almost anything.”
14
Have Gum, Will Travel
The rest of the school day was nothing to write home about. (Actually, they never are—except at report card time.) I did my schoolwork, I kept my mouth shut, I waited for the last bell.
When it rang, I headed for the gymnasium. If the only way off the football team was to solve the case, I had to get crackin’ before my head got cracked.
All padded and helmeted, I joined the rest of the gorillas—I mean, my teammates—on the benches at the edge of the field. They were slurping sports drinks and practicing operatic belches. Classy.
Stripy tail dragging, Buford walked down the line, passing out bubble gum. As he reached me, the skunk shoved a stick in my face. “Bite this!” he grumped.
I took the gum, inspected it carefully for boogers, then slipped it into my mouth. My tongue danced with a butterscotchy flavor. Mmm, pond slug.
A burning gaze prickled my neck, and I turned. From halfway down the bench, Herman’s electric stare bored into me. He didn’t speak, but I could feel his question: Well . . . ?
Coach Stroganoff paced the grass before us, Jim Schortz trailing him like a scaly shadow. The players fell silent under our leader’s gimlet-eyed gaze.
“In just two days,” he said, “we face the Petsadena Baboons. I don’t have to tell you, we’re in a tight spot.”
“Tight spot,” echoed Jim.
“We’re missing key players, including Tito the crow . . .”
The crow who got sick at yesterday’s practice! I searched Buford’s face for a reaction, but his sneer looked like it’d been carved on.
Coach continued, “And our win-loss record is atrocious.”
“Expi-ali-docious,” said Jim Schortz.
The coach glanced at the chuckwalla, who shrugged. The groundhog thrust his jaw forward. “We need to come up with something special to beat them.”
“Special, ’kay,” said Jim.
I braced myself for the big pep talk.
Coach paused to regard each of us in turn. “And so, to build team spirit, everyone gets . . . a nickname.”
“Nickname?” I muttered, glancing up at the quarterback, Justin. He rolled his eyes.
Jim Schortz wheeled up a chalkboard. On the left half were the months of the year, each followed by an adjective, like mad, deranged, mutant, or warped. On the right side were the letters of the alphabet followed by nouns, like monster, washing machine, barbecue, and bugmuncher.
Mr. Ratnose would’ve been pleased that I recognized nouns and adjectives. I don’t know what he would’ve thought about the coach’s list.
Beef Stroganoff grabbed a pointer and waved it at the board. “Find your birth month,” he said, “for the first half of your name . . .”
We dutifully found our months.
“Then add the word beside the first letter of your last name. Put ’em together, and that’s your new nickname!”
Several football players asked for help in spelling their last names. Others weren’t sure which month they were born. But eventually we all sorted it out.
“What’s your nickname?” I asked Justin.
“Angry Hairdryer,” he said. “Yours?”
I made a face. “Stinky Bottomchucker.”
He snorted. “Oh, yeah. That’ll scare our enemies.”
The team spirit was so thick you could barely breathe—especially if you were cackling at someone else’s nickname (Lumpy Toaster and Deranged Bugmuncher, for example).
We giggled all the way through the rundown of that day’s plays. Coach Stroganoff’s bristly eyebrows lowered like two caterpillars settling down for a nap.
“Ten laps, right now!” he growled.
Ten times around the track cut down on the giggle factor. In fact, it cut down
on the breathing. By the end, I was sucking wind like a jumbo vacuum cleaner.
My teammates trotted onto the field for scrimmage. I bent over with hands on knees.
“Oooh.”
Exhaustion brought on hallucinations. I swore I could hear my own moans, and I wasn’t making a sound (aside from panting).
“Oooh-ugh.”
My head swiveled sideways. There stood Justin Case, star quarterback and stud otter, grabbing his furry belly.
I gasped, “What’s wrong . . . Angry Hairdryer?”
He folded in half. “I—ooogh—don’t feel so good.”
The assistant coach spotted us and hustled over, wattles shaking. “What’s happening, Funky Bottombiter?” he asked me.
I pointed at myself. “Stinky Bottomchucker.” I jerked a thumb at Justin. “Sick Quarterbacker.”
Jim’s eyes went wide. He guided the ailing otter past the other players and through the arriving cheerleaders. I straightened to watch them go.
Jim and Justin weaved right by the water boy, Buford. The skunk flashed a little smile as they passed.
What was going on there?
I knew I’d have to figure it out later.
How did I know? Call it that keen detective sense.
Or call it a football shoved into my gut and a coach’s voice booming, “Let’s play some ball!”
15
Polecat in the Hat
Our practice session was fun. If you like oversized freaks with strange nicknames playing bumper cars with your body. And it was as relaxing as a long nap inside a cement mixer.
The cheerleaders practiced their routines in between gawking at the football players. My teammates showed off. Disgusting.
At long last, Coach blew his whistle, ending our torment. “Hit the showers!” he cried. I hit the bench to rest up for the trip while the other players jogged off.
“Not you, mister!” shouted Coach Stroganoff. He flagged down Herman the Gila Monster and pulled him aside.
Feeling snoopy, I scooted down the bench to listen. Neither of them noticed.
“Expected to see those missing players by now,” the brawny groundhog was saying as I came within earshot. “Well?”
The Gila monster glowered. “Not my fault,” he said. “Someone helping me—he slow.”
The coach planted a fist on his hip. “Don’t feed me that malarkey, buster. You’ve got one more day.”
Herman pouted. “Okay, Coach.” Then he rubbed his gut. “Oogh. Sore.”
Coach Stroganoff raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you see Justin get sick, and you think you can act sick for sympathy?” he asked. “No dice. Bring those missing guys tomorrow, or you’re off the team.”
Herman trudged off, still rubbing his belly.
The coach clomped over to the bleachers to consult with Jim Schortz.
I scanned the field. On the sidelines, the cheerleaders were finishing their practice and packing up their pom-poms. I shuddered. They had enough concentrated cooties to power the Space Shuttle of Love.
Near the far fence, Buford the skunk was chatting with an older polecat in a pillbox hat. She patted his shoulder and he jerked away.
I watched our water boy as cheerleaders crossed the field. What was his game, anyway?
Suddenly a pair of paws clamped over my eyes and the world went dark. “Guess who?” a girl’s voice asked.
“Typhoid Mary?” I said.
“No, guess again!”
“Someone who’s about to lose a finger?” I reached for the paws.
“No, silly! It’s me!” She let go. I turned to see Frenchy LaTrine, the mousy cheerleader. “Waiting for me?” she asked.
“Dream on.” I jerked a thumb at Buford. “I was watching him. Hey, who’s he talking to?”
Frenchy’s long nose wrinkled as she squinted at the critter. “Not exactly sure,” she said. “I think she’s a football mom. She’s been here before.”
Hmm. Had the polecat been spying on our practice? Was she working hand-in-stinky-glove with Buford the skunk?
“Thanks, Frenchy,” I said. “You’re all right, for a rodent.”
She ducked her head. “Thanks!”
I swayed to my feet and hobbled to the showers.
Halfway there, Natalie turned up. “Lots of sickos out there today,” she said.
“You gotta be pretty sick to play this sport.”
“Not that kind of sicko, Chet. I meant Justin and Herman.”
I took off my helmet and tucked it under my arm. “Justin was sick; I think our client was just faking.”
“Something’s fishy here,” she said, waving a wing.
“I’ll take a shower,” I said.
Natalie shook her head. “Not that kind of fishy. Think about it, Chet: First, Hugh, Lou, and Dewey get sick . . .”
I picked it up. “Then, Tito the crow . . .”
“And now, Justin and maybe Herman.” She grabbed my arm. “I think whoever’s behind the kidnappings is slipping something to the players that makes them sick.”
I stopped. “Of course!” I said. “But what? It’s not the gum.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve had it for two days, and I’m fine.”
Natalie smirked. “So?” she said. “You once ate a whole colony of chocolate-covered ants and didn’t even burp.”
I pointed a finger. “Yeah, but what about the other players? Everybody chews gum, but they only get sick one at a time.”
“Hmm . . . you’re right.” Natalie paced. “What about those sports drinks?”
“Same thing. Everyone drinks ’em.”
My partner stopped and cocked her head. “So if somebody’s doctoring food or drink . . .”
The light went on in the fridge of my brain. “It’d have to be someone with access,” I said. “Someone like . . .”
Our eyes met. “Buford,” we said together.
“That skunk,” said Natalie.
“You said it. And we’ve only got one more day to shut down his plot.”
She looked puzzled. “Why’s that?”
“Because if we don’t do it by tomorrow’s practice, Herman will shut me down.”
Natalie shivered. “Ah.”
“And what’s worse, he won’t give us any cake.”
She looked at me closely. “Chet?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got to have a talk about your priorities.”
16
Phone Vivant
There’s something to be said for spending your morning in the pursuit of knowledge. What that is, I don’t know.
The next day, I spent my morning running different scenarios on the jock kidnappings. Nothing quite clicked.
If Buford was our bad guy, how was he working his scheme? Did he have an accomplice—maybe that football mom? But what was her motivation?
This case had more angles than a pile of polygons. (And Mr. Ratnose says I don’t pay attention in geometry.)
At first recess, Natalie and I checked around for Justin Case and Herman the Gila Monster. No luck. We did find Queenie, who told us that neither player had shown up for school today.
I won’t say time flew (it limped), but eventually the clock rolled around to lunchtime. The bell set me free to pursue my two favorite things: food and detective work.
Mrs. Bagoong and her lunch crew had outdone themselves that day—dwarf spiders au gratin, sweet potatoes, and county fair fireflies. I was picking my teeth with a spider leg when Natalie leaned across the lunch table.
“Now can we go?” she asked.
I belched gently. “Now we can go.”
But the question was, Where to go?
Lacking a better plan, Natalie and I searched the school for the missing football players. I didn’t think we’d find them, and I wasn’t disappointed. They were better hidden than a snake’s belly button.
We gave up. Around us, kids and teachers followed their usual kid-ly and teacher-ly activities. It was a normal school day, like nothing had
changed.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Something doesn’t add up here.”
“Your math homework?” Natalie asked.
“Besides that. These football players have been missing for days—a week, some of them.”
“True . . .”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that nobody’s freaking out?”
Natalie fluffed her feathers. “Besides Herman and the coach, you mean?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Why hasn’t someone called the cops?”
Natalie polished her beak on a shoulder. “But Herman said that Coach Stroganoff had phoned their parents.”
I snapped my fingers. “What if he was wrong?” I said.
We hotfooted it for the pay phones while I searched my pockets for Hugh’s school record. I found it wrapped around a slightly squashed, half-eaten millipede sandwich.
Thank goodness for sloppy housekeeping.
“You’re on,” I said, passing the damp paper to my partner.
Natalie dialed Hugh’s parents while I finished off the sandwich. No sense in wasting good food. She twisted the phone receiver so we both could hear.
A man’s voice answered. “Hello, Geste residence.”
“Uh, hi, this is Mrs. Crow from your kid’s—I mean, your son’s school,” said Natalie in a fair imitation of the school secretary.
“Ask where Hugh is,” I whispered to Natalie.
“What?” asked the voice.
“What?” asked Natalie.
“Where’s Hugh?” I hissed, as loud as I dared.
“Gesundheit,” said the fake Mrs. Crow. Into the phone, Natalie added, “Someone sneezed.”
“Oh,” said the voice. “How may I help you?”
I didn’t dare whisper again, so I just waved my hands at Natalie. Being a bird, she winged it.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “We’re, uh, having a hard time finding your son?”
I pressed my ear to the phone for Hugh’s father’s reaction. It surprised me.
He chuckled. “Don’t you school employees talk to each other? We got a call last week from his coach, said that Hugh would be off at football camp through tomorrow.”
