Farewell, My Lunchbag

by Bruce Hale

  Farewell, My Lunchbag

  Bruce Hale

  * * *

  HARCOURT, INC.

  San Diego • New York • London

  * * *

  Copyright © 2001 by Bruce Hale

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,

  or any information storage and retrieval system, without

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the

  work should be mailed to the following address:

  Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.harcourt.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hale, Bruce.

  Farewell, my lunchbag: from the tattered casebook

  of Chet Gecko, private eye/Bruce Hale.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  "A Chet Gecko Mystery."

  Summary: When fourth-grade private eye Chet Gecko is

  called to catch someone who is stealing food from the

  school cafeteria, he finds himself framed for the crime.

  [1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction.

  3. School lunchrooms, cafeterias, etc.—Fiction.

  4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories.

  6. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1295Far 2001

  [Fic]—dc21 00-8596

  ISBN 0-15-202275-9

  Text set in Bembo

  Display type set in Elroy

  Designed by Ivan Holmes

  First edition

  A C E G H F D B

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  For all the teachers—from Miss Porter to Mr. Nash and beyond—who fanned my creative flame. Mahalo mucho.

  * * *

  A private message from the private eye...

  I've always loved a good mystery. Like, why is the alphabet in that order—is it because of the song? Does geometry actually have a use in the real world? And, what if the Hokey Pokey really is what it's all about?

  My hunger for mystery is matched only by my appetite for cockroach casserole, mosquito marshmallow surprise, and other cafeteria favorites.

  But one time, my taste for good grub landed me in the soup. I tried to help a cafeteria dame who was no honey bun, but a good egg nonetheless. After an appetizer of confusion followed by a main course of grief and aggravation, this detective was almost ready to throw in the dish towel.

  Did I stick it out until the end? Let me put it this way: Chet is one gecko who always gets his goodies.

  After all, danger may be my business, but dessert is my delight.

  1. Fright of the Iguana

  Mrs. Bagoong was a hundred pounds of tough, leathery iguana. Her eyes were like chocolate drops, her cheeks soft as AstroTurf and about the same color. Her thick, powerful body was wrapped in a blue apron that said kiss the cook.

  Yuck. Nobody in his right mind would try to smooch Mrs. Bagoong.

  She ruled the lunchroom as head cafeteria lady. If you wanted extra dessert, you had to go through her. Few tried.

  But I've always loved a challenge. Mrs. Bagoong was all right. For an iguana. So when I saw her frown at lunchtime that day, I was worried.

  "What's the story, brown eyes?" I said. "If your face were any longer, you'd have to rent an extra chin."

  Mrs. Bagoong piled lime Jell-O onto my tray. The green gelatin was packed with juicy dung beetles. Yum. My mouth watered like an automatic sprinkler system.

  The queen of the lunchroom sighed. It sounded like a small hurricane. "Chet, honey," said Mrs. Bagoong, "we've got problems."

  My heart raced. "You're not running out of mothloaf, are you?"

  "Not yet."

  I relaxed. "So it's not serious, then."

  "Serious enough!" she said. "Someone's stealing our food. If it keeps up, it could put me out of business."

  My fists clenched. Food thieves! Scum like that are lower than kidnappers, blackmailers, and people who don't return library books. They stink like leftovers from a hyena's lunchbox.

  A plastic tray bumped mine.

  "Hubba-hubba, Chet," said Tony Newt. "Sweet-talking the cafeteria ladies, eh?" He winked at me with a bulging eye, one scaly dude to another.

  This wasn't the best time for a chat, so I leaned toward Mrs. Bagoong and whispered, "Let's talk after lunch."

  "Ooh, lovers' secrets," cooed Tony.

  I turned to my classmate. "Hey, Tony, do you know the difference between you and a bug-eating moron?"

  His forehead wrinkled. "No, what?"

  "Beats me."

  Sometimes, I just kill me.

  I took my tray and found a seat. While I munched on mothloaf in gravy, I chewed over Mrs. Bagoong's problem.

  Food thieves at Emerson Hicky, eh? If they kept up their dirty work, the thieves might put the cafeteria out of commission. And that would derail my Jell-O train.

  I had to help Mrs. Bagoong. A dame in distress gets me every time—even when she's a hundred-pound iguana.

  Lunch finished, I dropped my tray on the dirty stack and waited for the place to clear out. The line of kids dribbled out the doors like snot from a runny nose in flu season, and the cafeteria workers started cleaning up. (The cafeteria, I mean, not the nose.)

  The queen of the lunchroom crooked one claw at me.

  "Come here, Chet," said Mrs. Bagoong.

  We walked behind the counter, she opened the storeroom door, and I went rubber legged in amazement. Food, food, and more food!

  The huge refrigerator sang a siren song louder than a fat lady in a French opera. I plunged my head inside and almost fell down in delight. Pickled spider-eggs and pudding and rat cheese and deep-fried termites and cockroach quiche and happy-spider lasagna and candied butterflies and fire ants in red sauce and—

  "Uh, Chet? Anybody home?" said Mrs. Bagoong. She rapped on the door with a thick fist.

  "Oh. Sorry." I slowly pulled my head out of gecko heaven and took a deep breath.

  "Let's get down to business," I said. "You've got a low-down food thief, and I'm just the gecko to find out who he is."

  "Or she," said Mrs. Bagoong.

  "Who he or she is."

  "Or it."

  "Who he, she, or it is." I sighed. "Did you used to be a teacher?"

  "For five years," she said, straightening her hair net. "How did you know?"

  "Lucky guess. Now tell me all about the food-napping. How did it start?"

  Mrs. Bagoong parked her massive bulk on a tub of lima beans. I shuddered. Even uncooked, those things are dangerous. She stroked her scaly chin.

  "I first noticed it last week," she said. "I was making carpenter-ant omelettes, and we ran out of eggs."

  "Maybe you forgot to buy enough."

  "That's what I thought. But then the next day, our candied butterflies disappeared. And two days after that, some bananas went missing."

  I held up a hand.

  "Let me get this straight," I said. "First, your eggs beat it. Then your butterflies flew. And then your bananas split?"

  "You might say that," said Mrs. Bagoong, groaning.

  "I just did. You've got problems, sister."

  "You're telling me." Her face crumpled like an empty bag of dragonfly chips. "And almost every day since, more food has disappeared. I asked my workers and the janitors to keep an eye out. Nobody has seen anything."

  Mrs. Bagoong whimpered. She sunk her face in her hands—or paws, or whatever iguanas call their front feet.
I forget. She looked sadder than a wilted bowl of broccoli on a muggy day.

  One thick, iguanoid tear slithered down her cheek. "If I can't stop this, I don't know what will happen. They might even fire me."

  The tear did it. I can't stand to see a reptile cry.

  "All right, enough of that," I said. I pulled my hat low over my eyes. "Chet Gecko is on the case. Food thieves, beware!"

  She cracked a tiny smile and sniffled. I swaggered to the door and flung it open, then saluted her.

  "See ya mañana, iguana."

  Ba-whonk!

  I'd walked into a stack of cans.

  "Uh, Chet, honey? That's the pantry."

  Another great exit, ruined.

  2. Lookin' for Lunch in All the Wrong Places

  Once I got outside the cafeteria, I cased the joint. That's detective talk for checking the place out. Three big double doors lined the sides of the building, and on the end, a smaller door led to the kitchen. A tiny window perched above this door like a pillbox hat on a hippo.

  I knew that the janitors locked up after school every day. I saw no broken locks or busted window-panes. So, either the thief could pick locks, or it was an inside job.

  I crouched down, searching the mud for footprints, secret messages, or some kind of clue. Nothing but wet dirt with wavy lines in it.

  "Hiya, Chet! Trying to figure out the recipe for mud pies?"

  It was my partner, Natalie Attired. The mockingbird comedian.

  "Nope, just shopping for your birthday present," I said.

  She cocked her head. "What's up? We haven't had a case in weeks."

  "We've got one now—a real doozy."

  I told her about the food thieves. Natalie agreed to help. She eats like a bird, but she still has a soft spot for cafeteria ladies in trouble.

  "So what's our first step, Mr. Detective?" she said.

  "I figured we'd talk to the lunch monitors and the other cafeteria workers. Maybe they saw something they didn't tell Mrs. Bagoong about."

  Just then, two lunch monitors left the cafeteria. Did I have good timing, or what?

  "Hey, ladies, can I bend your ears for a minute?" I said.

  The two mice looked puzzled. "I dunno. That sounds painful," squeaked the taller one.

  "He means we want to talk," said Natalie.

  "Oh," said the shorter one. She had a white, waxy-looking nose. "Why didn't he just say so?"

  I flipped up my trench-coat collar. "I'm a private eye, that's why. Tell me, have you seen anything funny going on lately?"

  "Well," said Short-and-Waxy, "yesterday, on a bet, Nadine Rat tried to stuff seven grapes up her nose."

  Tall-and-Squeaky chuckled. "Yeah, and when someone made her laugh, the grapes shot out like cannonballs!"

  They giggled together.

  "Not that kind of funny," I said. "We're investigating the missing food. Has anybody been snooping around?"

  "Nope," said Waxy.

  "Have any of the lunch crew been acting strange lately?" said Natalie.

  "Nope," said Squeaky.

  Two strikes. Before our investigation headed back to the dugouts, I thought I'd try pitching one more question.

  "Does anyone on the lunch staff hate Mrs. Bagoong? Maybe want to get her in trouble?"

  "No—wait a minute," said Squeaky. "What about Rocky Rhode?"

  The two mice eyeballed each other, nervous as a pair of elephants on ice skates. They checked to make sure nobody else was listening.

  "Spill the beans," I said.

  They spilled.

  "Rocky is the head lunch monitor," Waxy whispered. "She's tough. She fights with Mrs. Bagoong all the time."

  The bell rang. Lunch period was over. The mice turned to go.

  "Don't tell her we told you anything," said Squeaky.

  They scurried down the hall like a couple of rodents. Typical.

  "Don't worry," Natalie called after them. "We won't rat on you." She chuckled.

  I rolled my eyes.

  It wasn't much to go on, but at least we had a lead. I had crossed paths with the horned toad Rocky Rhode before. She was always guilty of something. Question was, Was she guilty of the thefts?

  "How's about we go check on a certain horned toad?" I said.

  "Right now?" said Natalie. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  Oh yeah.

  The only problem with being a grade-school detective is you still have to go to class. Teachers won't give you time-out to solve crimes.

  School is funny like that.

  3. Hit the Rhode, Jack

  If you want to meet roughnecks at Emerson Hicky Elementary, you visit the bike racks. Of course, most of us don't want to meet roughnecks. Most of us still have a few brain cells left.

  The bike-rack gang will steal your lunch money or give you an atomic wedgie faster than a quick-draw toad zaps a mayfly. Second graders take their lives into their hands when they walk past the bike racks.

  But I wasn't worried. I was a fourth-grade private eye—big and green, and full of beans.

  I waited for Natalie, just in case.

  We waded together through the stream of worn-out teachers and kids leaving school. And like a stream, the kids parted when they reached the bike racks.

  Mugs, lugs, and killer bugs leaned or sat there, thicker than lice on a field mouse. I saw a beefy scorpion with a tattoo, two poison toads, and some other characters who put the wild in wildlife.

  "Lookee here, it's Mr. Hotshot Private Eye." It was Erik Nidd, the giant tarantula. Erik was a real sweetheart. He'd slug me for a quarter, squash me for 50 cents, and toss me overboard in a concrete barrel for $1.75, plus sales tax.

  "Well, hello, Erik," I said. "Looks like the ugly lessons are really paying off."

  We had what you might call a real close relationship. If I got real close, he beat me up. If I stayed farther away, we could talk.

  "What's up, gecko?" he said. "You lookin' for trouble?"

  "No, I'm looking for Rocky. You seen her?"

  Erik laughed, a mean snort. "Whaddaya think I am—blind?"

  "No, but I think you're as sharp as an old butter knife."

  "Are you trying to get smart with me?" he said.

  "With you? It would take forever."

  He snarled and shook two thick fists at me.

  "Course I've seen her, you moron," he said. "She's sittin' right behind me."

  Erik pointed one hairy leg over his shoulder. We circled him cautiously.

  In Erik's broad shadow sat Rocky Rhode, a horned toad with a short fuse and a rap sheet as long as an elephant's suspenders. She leaned against someone's bike, carving her initials into the paint with a sharp claw.

  "Hey, Rocky," I said. "Can we talk?"

  She looked us over with heavy-lidded eyes.

  "Go milk a duck," she said.

  "It's about Mrs. Bagoong," said Natalie.

  "That noodle-head? She's just lucky I don't run her out of the lunchroom."

  "The way I hear it, you're not exactly her favorite lizard, either," I said.

  Rocky rolled one horned shoulder. Her muscles bunched like two bobcats wrestling in a sack. "Yeah, so?"

  "So, we were just wondering," said Natalie, "if you knew anything about all these food thefts in the cafeteria."

  Rocky looked as coy as a T-rex with a secret boyfriend. "Beats me," she said. "But I'm not losing any sleep over it."

  So much for the soft approach. I decided to try shock tactics.

  "Have you been stealing food to get Mrs. Bagoong in trouble?" I said.

  Rocky snarled and stood up. You might not think a sixth-grade horned toad is very big. But let me tell you, it was like facing an angry cactus on steroids.

  "Get this, peeper," she said. "I didn't steal the food, see? If you say I did, you're calling me a liar. Know what I do to people who call me a liar?"

  She grabbed a bicycle and twisted the front tire into an abstract sculpture.

  "Adopt them into your family?" I said. "Se
rve them Skittles and root beer?"

  Rocky growled and stepped toward us. Erik turned on us, too.

  "Scram, sonny boy," he said. "You too, birdie."

  Some days you fight, and some days you scram.

  We scrammed.

  Natalie and I stopped by the fence to catch our breath.

  "So, what do you think?" I said. "She says she's innocent."

  "Sure she is, peeper," said Natalie, in a dead-on imitation of Rocky's voice. "And Batman's really a bat, see?"

  I shook my head. Fish gotta swim, mockingbirds gotta mock.

  "You don't believe she didn't take the food?" I said.

  "You don't believe I don't believe she didn't take the food?" she replied.

  I scratched my head. "I guess you don't follow Mr. Ratnose's rule: Don't never make no double negatives."

  "Not nohow."

  I frowned. Sometimes Natalie's jokes go over my head. Sometimes it's just as well.

  "Maybe we should tail Rocky," I said.

  "She's already got a tail, Chet."

  I sighed. "Tailing someone means following them around. Jeez, don't you ever watch detective movies?"

  Natalie chuckled. "Gotcha, hotshot."

  "I'm serious. We need a plan. Do we tail Rocky, stake out the cafeteria, or head over to my place for a snack?"

  Dumb question.

  Half an hour later, we sat in my backyard office, full of pizza and empty of ideas.

  "We need to interview more of the cafeteria crowd," I said. "Let's do some serious legwork before school tomorrow." I thought about what I'd just said. "But not too early."

  Natalie got up to go. She turned at the office door and raised two wing feathers in salute.

  "See ya later, alligator," she said.

  "After a while, crocodile," I said.

  "Okey-dokey, artichokey."