Key Lardo

by Bruce Hale

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Penguin Pal

  When Bush Comes to Shove

  Dr. Heckle and Sister Hide

  Raging Gull

  TV or Not TV

  On a Wing and a Player

  Sparrow Change

  Grilling Me Softly

  Eat, Think, and Be Scary

  Countdown to Lockup

  Wild Wild Nest

  Bland Date

  Short Detention Span

  Ladder Rip

  Soccer Blew

  A Nerd’s-Eye View

  Swing Cleaning

  Sample Chapter from HISS ME DEADLY

  Buy the Book

  Look for more mysteries from the Tattered Casebook of Chet Gecko

  Read More from the Chet Gecko Series

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2006 by Bruce Hale

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Harcourt, Inc., 2006.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Hale, Bruce.

  Key Lardo/Bruce Hale,

  p. cm.

  Summary: When the new penguin at school turns out to be a private eye, Chet Gecko confronts not only a devious sparrow but also his own jealousy.

  [1. Jealousy—Fiction. 2. Geckos—Fiction. 3. Penguins—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories. 6. Humorous stones.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1295Key 2006

  [Fic]—dc22 2006006026

  ISBN: 978-0-15-205074-0 hardcover

  ISBN: 978-0-15-205235-5 paperback

  eISBN 978-0-547-54114-3

  v2.1115

  To that swell and swingin’ combo, the Collins Clan

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Without mysteries, life would be slower than two slugs waltzing (but not quite as slimy). Luckily for me, life is full of mysteries.

  Like, if peanut butter cookies are made from peanuts, what are Girl Scout cookies made of? If athletes get athlete’s foot, do rocket scientists get mistletoe? And if swimming is so good for your shape, why do whales look the way they do?

  Even if I weren’t Chet Gecko, Emerson Hicky Elementary’s top lizard detective, I’d be a mystery lover. But in my time, I’ve learned that some mysteries come with a steep price.

  Working this one case, I nearly lost my detective mojo—and to a guy so dim, he’d probably play goalie for the darts team. True, he was only a cog in a larger conspiracy. But this big buttinsky made my life more uncomfortable than a porcupine’s embrace.

  My reputation took a nosedive. And I nearly followed it—straight into the slammer. Fighting back with all my moxie, I bent the rules, blundered into blind alleys, and stepped on more than a few toes.

  Was I right? Was I wrong? I’ll tell you this: I made my share of mistakes. But I believe that if you can’t laugh at yourself . . . make fun of someone else.

  1

  Penguin Pal

  It all started with a muffin. And despite my best intentions, it went downhill from there, quicker than a walrus on roller skates.

  Wednesday is Italian Day in the cafeteria. On this particular Wednesday, Mrs. Bagoong and her cooks had worked their usual magic—spaghetti with millipede meatballs, eggplant a la fungus gnat, and honey-glazed Madagascan Hissing Cockroach muffins.

  The muffins set off a taste explosion that had my tongue dancing the Madagascan Mambo (or whatever kind of hoofing they do over there).

  I pushed back from the table and headed over to score another one. Most kids don’t get to have seconds.

  But I’m not most kids.

  Bellying up to the lunch counter, I could tell that the baked goodies had been a hit. All had vanished but one.

  And that one had Chet Gecko’s name on it.

  “Hey, Brown Eyes,” I said to Mrs. Bagoong. “What would it—”

  A plump figure barged in front of me. “I say, dear madam,” he said. “Could a poor bloke please have another of those heavenly muffins?”

  Mrs. Bagoong’s smile sent dimples burrowing into her scaly face. “Why, how you talk,” said the big iguana. “There’s one left, just for you.”

  She lifted the golden muffin with her tongs.

  “But!” I squawked. “That’s mine!”

  The queen of the lunchroom raised an eyebrow. “Now, now. This charming penguin asked first, and he asked politely.”

  “But—”

  Mrs. Bagoong’s frown could have brought on an eclipse at high noon. “Why, Chet Gecko,” she said. “I’m surprised at you. Can’t you be generous with the new boy?”

  “New boy?”

  I stepped back to size up the muffin thief.

  His webbed feet were planted wide, to support his swollen belly. The penguin’s broad butt tapered to a small head, giving him the look of a bowling pin that needed to hit Weight Watchers.

  Topping it all off were a midnight blue bow tie and bowler that would’ve looked better on a banker than a school kid.

  Having snagged my treat, the creature turned with a vague smile.

  “Don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending a flipper. “The name’s Bland. James Bland.”

  He reeked of fermented fish and onions.

  My eyes watered. I returned the briefest handshake. “Gecko. Chet Gecko.”

  Mrs. Bagoong beamed. “So nice to see y’all getting along. James, you’ve found a new friend already.”

  “Friend?” I said. “Now, wait just—”

  The lunch lady’s glare cut me off like a sushi chef hacking a halibut. “Chet will be happy to show you around, introduce you.” Her eyes completed the thought: If he ever wants to have seconds in my lunchroom again.

  I heaved a sigh. A good detective can tell when he’s outmaneuvered.

  “All right, Bland. Come on.”

  “Good-o,” said the penguin. “Ta-ta, madam!” He waved a flipper at Mrs. Bagoong, who simpered back at him. And if you don’t think the sight of a simpering iguana is enough to curdle your French fries, think again.

  I shuffled toward the nearest table. “So, uh, where are you from?”

  “Down Under actually, but I’ve spent donkey’s years in Albion,” he said.

  “Living with a donkey?”

  “No, living in England.”

  Swell. Not only was he a muffin bandit, the guy could barely speak English.

  I eyeballed his plate. “Pretty big dessert after such a full meal. Need help?”

  “Oh, I’ll muddle through,” said James Bland. He plunged his beak into the treat and gobbled down about half of it.

  So much for the old guilt trick.

  A ragtag group of kids ringed the table. Among them sat Frenchy LaTrine, Bo and Tony Newt, Cassandra the Stool Pigeon, and Shirley Chameleon (who had a wicked crush on me)—all eating, laughing, and spraying food.

  “Hey, sports fans,” I said. “This is James Blond.”

  “Bland,” said the penguin.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I said. “Anyway, he’s a new kid, from Down Over.”

  “Under,” said Bland.

  “Whatever.” I gestured to the group. “James, guys; guys, James.”

  The penguin bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  Frenchy LaTrine giggled. “Cool accent!�
�

  “Do you know any kangaroos personally?” asked Tony Newt.

  “A few,” said the penguin. He scarfed down the rest of the muffin as I watched sadly. “I say, do you know what they call a lazy kangaroo?”

  “No, what?” said Frenchy.

  “A pouch potato,” said Bland.

  The girls shrieked with laughter; even my buddy Bo chuckled.

  I didn’t care. So what if the new guy was funny?

  Shirley Chameleon elbowed Bo Newt. “Scoot over for James.”

  She didn’t suggest they make room for me.

  The penguin squeezed his bubble butt in between them. He vacuumed the last muffin fragments off Shirley’s plate.

  “What do you do for fun, James?” she asked, batting her eyes.

  I didn’t care. Although Shirley had a crush on me, she was free to fling her cooties wherever she wanted.

  Bland angled his hat. “Actually, I do a spot of detective work,” he said.

  Now, wait just a boll-weevil-pickin’ minute.

  “Fascinating!” said Frenchy, resting her paw on his flipper. “Tell us more!”

  The penguin leaned forward. “Well, on one occasion, Her Majesty rang me up for a special—”

  My face went all hot.

  “You know the Queen of England?” I said.

  “Rather.”

  “Sure, and I know the pope.”

  “Really?” said Bland, half turning. “Does he mention me often?”

  I spluttered.

  The kids shushed me. “Ignore the lizard,” said Frenchy. “Go on, James.”

  “So when the crown jewels went missing—I say, you’re not saving that last bit of eggplant, are you?”

  Wordlessly, the mouse slid her tray over.

  My tail curled.

  “Thanks awfully,” said Bland. He slurped up her leftovers. “Now, where was I . . . ?”

  “The crown jewels,” said Shirley. She shouted over to the next table, “Hey, you guys! He was a detective for the queen!”

  “You don’t actually believe this bozo?” I choked. “He’s making it up!”

  Shirley twisted to look at me. “Oh, Chet,” she said. “You, of all people.”

  “Yeah,” said Frenchy. “Listen and learn!”

  “Learn?!”

  The table of kids ignored me. They were riveted by Bland’s bogus tale of jewel thieves, secret passages, and narrow escapes.

  Someone tugged on my arm. “Chet?”

  It was my partner, a wisecracking mockingbird named Natalie Attired. She nodded toward the door. I followed.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Why, despite years of daylight saving time, we’ve still only got twenty-four hours in a day?”

  “No,” I said. “Why they fall for that . . . that potbellied fraud.”

  “What’s wrong with the penguin?” asked Natalie.

  I ticked off his faults. “He stuffs his face constantly, all the girls flirt with him, he tells bad jokes, and on top of that, he claims to be a detective.”

  Natalie eyed me. “Hmm, sounds a lot like someone I know.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Ah, the green-eyed monster has raised its ugly head.”

  “Herman?”

  “No, bug breath. Jealousy.” She rested a wing tip on my shoulder. “You’re jealous of him.”

  “Of James Bland? No way.”

  “Yup,” said Natalie. “And I know just how to get you over it.

  “How? Drop him into a vat of boiling broccoli?”

  She shook her head. “Start a new case.”

  Despite my grumpiness, the corners of my lips tugged upward. “All right, then. But this penguin PI better keep his beak out of it.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Natalie.

  But I did, a little. And before long, I’d wish that I’d worried a whole lot more.

  2

  When Bush Comes to Shove

  Natalie and I hoofed it past clumps of kids on the playground. They were chasing soccer balls, shooting hoops, running and screaming—in short, acting like this was their last lunch break on earth.

  That’s Emerson Hicky Elementary. Live fast, play hard, and hope the teachers don’t call on you.

  We were headed for our unofficial office—the cool shade of the scrofulous tree—where a client waited.

  “She was a little vague,” said Natalie. “But she really needs our help.”

  “That’s me, Helpful Harry,” I said.

  “Just so long as you’re not Cranky Chettie. She’s kinda shy.”

  When we reached the scrofulous tree, the place was deserted.

  “Sure you got the right time?” I asked.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” said Natalie.

  I scanned our surroundings again. “Then where’s our client?”

  “Right here,” said a voice as dry as a camel’s earwax.

  “Right where?” I asked.

  Squinting, I made her out: a little sparrow the same color as the scrofulous tree. “Sister, that’s some protective coloration,” I said.

  She was a symphony in brown—brown feathers, brown purse, and a brown wool cap that looked like it had come out on the losing end of a fight with killer moths. She was the kind of kid you could sit beside every day and never notice.

  “I’m uh, Ginger Vitus,” she said.

  “How nice for you,” I said.

  “Natalie says you’re detectives.”

  “We’ve been called that.”

  Natalie and I sat; Ginger stood and stared down at her claws.

  “So . . . what’s the job?” I asked when she didn’t speak. “Deranged boyfriend? Stolen documents? Killer robots?”

  The sparrow fiddled with her purse. “Um, not exactly. It’s my sister—”

  “She’s been kidnapped and you want us to find her!” said Natalie.

  “No, she’s, uh, fallen in with the wrong crowd—”

  “And you want us to infiltrate the gang!” I said.

  Ginger blinked. “Are you two always this, um, obnoxious?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s an off day.”

  “Usually, we’re worse,” said Natalie.

  The sparrow cocked her head. “I’d like you to keep an eye on my sister Conjuncti, uh, Connie. I’m afraid something might happen to her.”

  “Like what?” I said.

  “Something awful,” said Ginger.

  Natalie smirked. “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “Have you tried talking to your sister?” I asked.

  Ginger twisted her purse strap. Moisture gathered in her big brown eyes, like a science project on condensation. (So sue me; I got a good grade on that project.)

  “She won’t listen to me anymore,” said Ginger. Her beak quivered.

  I held up a palm. “Spare us the waterworks. Let’s get this straight: Basically, you want us to keep an eye on Connie and make sure nothing bad happens?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s all?” asked Natalie.

  “Um, yes.”

  I shook my head.

  “What?” asked Ginger.

  “You don’t want a private eye. You want a baby-sitter.” I stood up. “Natalie, let’s buzz this beehive.”

  “But Chet . . . ,” said Natalie.

  I turned toward the blacktop.

  Chinga-ching ching! A coin purse jingled.

  “I’ll pay you,” said Ginger. “Plenty.”

  I turned back. “Sister, that should’ve been the first thing you said. Now, where can we find sweet little Connie, and what does she look like?”

  Two minutes later, Natalie and I were leaning on a pole, watching a young sparrow in a pink crop top do the swing thing.

  “Yup, that’s her,” said Natalie, comparing the real Connie to the photo Ginger had given us.

  “Looks just like her sister,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  We watched the girl swing for another minute.

  “
Okay, I’m bored,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said Natalie.

  I scanned the area. “See any shady characters?”

  “Besides you?” said Natalie. “Nope.”

  We were quiet for another minute. Connie kept on swinging.

  “Okay, now I’m really bored,” I said.

  “Me, three,” said Natalie.

  Digging in my pocket, I fished out some coins. “No reason both of us should die of dullness. Why don’t I use some of our client’s money to buy sodas?”

  “Why don’t I do it?” said Natalie. “After all, you’re the one in the detective outfit.”

  I shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

  Natalie flew off for refreshments. I kept my eyeballs peeled.

  This wasn’t our most exciting case ever. It wasn’t even the second most exciting. In fact, it was about as thrilling as watching a garden slug marathon in Big Lump, Montana.

  The sparrow swung back and forth . . . back and forth . . . back and forth . . .

  The autumn sunshine warmed my bones with its gentle glow. I yawned.

  My eyes couldn’t have been closed for more than a couple seconds. But the next thing I knew, Connie was hustling off with a skunk, a seagull, and two rough-looking badgers.

  “Hey!” I pushed away from the pole and rushed after them.

  The gull slipped into the bushes, Connie right behind him. The other three shoved a thick branch aside and followed.

  I plunged into the greenery on their heels. “Connie, wait up—”

  Whunk!

  The branch whapped me in the face like a power hitter’s home-run swing.

  I did what any tough private eye would do.

  I collapsed like a ton of bricks.

  My memory of the next little bit was clouded by a King Kong–sized headache and the fact that everything was spinning like a kindergartner learning to cartwheel. But I can say this for sure: Two worried faces were leaning over me.

  “Are you all right, Chet?” asked Natalie.

  “All right?” shrilled Ginger Vitus. “I give him one simple task: protect my sister. Now she’s kidnapped, while he’s taking a nap. How is that all right?”