Key Lardo

by Bruce Hale

  At recess, I slumped on the swing, barely moving. My whole detective career flashed before my eyes. It wasn’t pretty.

  And it was all over much too soon.

  Grabbing the chains, I hung backward. Maybe the world would look better upside down.

  Nope.

  I found myself face-to-gut with a bird’s belly.

  “Why aren’t you chasing down leads?” said Natalie.

  “We’re fresh out.”

  “What happened to Chet Gecko, detective ace?”

  “He turned out to be a joker,” I mumbled.

  Natalie shook the chains. “Snap out of it!”

  “Aah!” I lost my grip and sprawled in the sand. “What’d you do that for?”

  She clenched her fists. “Because Chet Gecko is no quitter.”

  “He’s not?”

  “We’ve still got an hour and a half, and I won’t let you go down without a fight!” (Even if she had to fight me to make sure of it.)

  I held up my hands. “All right, all right.”

  Sheesh. These dizzy dames. A guy can’t even whine in peace.

  Natalie helped me up. “Let’s go over everything once more,” she said. “Because we’re missing something obvious.”

  “Okay,” I said, wandering onto the playground. “Um . . . Ginger hired us to protect her sister, who then disappeared with de Gull and his gang.”

  “But de Gull says he didn’t kidnap her,” said Natalie.

  “Well, duh,” I said. “He’s a bad guy; he would.”

  Natalie cocked her head. “But what if he was telling the truth?”

  “Sure, and if cows could fly, we’d all have to wear umbrella hats.”

  “No, really. Maybe they didn’t kidnap Connie Vitus.”

  “So who did?” I skirted a hopscotch game.

  Natalie lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know . . .”

  I stopped short. “Hey, maybe we’re asking the wrong question.”

  “You mean, Who put the ‘ding’ in the ‘rama lama ding dong’?”

  “No,” I said. “We’ve been asking, Who kidnapped Connie? Maybe we should be asking, Where did they keep her?”

  “Now you’re cookin’, Mr. PI. So where was she?”

  I scratched under my hat. “Let’s see . . . Connie said some kind of nest . . . a nest of crooks?”

  “Right,” said Natalie. “And where do you find a nest?”

  “At the nearest Nest Improvement Store?” I asked.

  “Nearer than that.” Natalie tilted her head back and gazed up into the branches of a nearby tree.

  At last the raisins landed in that bowl of oatmeal I call my brain. “So we’ve been searching in the wrong place.”

  “Bingo bongo,” said Natalie. “Time to take to the treetops.”

  I should have known. To find a bird, ask a bird.

  11

  Wild Wild Nest

  Time was running shorter than a principal’s patience, so Natalie and I split up. She took one side of the playground, and I covered the other.

  I hustled from tree to tree, scuttling up them to peer into high branches, then sliding back down. Although I caught a couple of sixth-grade tree frogs making out (eew!), my search was otherwise fruitless.

  Shading my eyes, I scouted the skies for my partner. Natalie was patrolling the wild patch of woods just beyond school property.

  Suddenly, she swooped into the branches of an oak.

  Had she found something? I hotfooted it across the grass. Natalie glided back over the fence and signaled me.

  Amanda Reckonwith, the teacher on yard duty, was breaking up a knot of squabbling second graders. She wouldn’t like us leaving the school grounds.

  But then, she didn’t need to know.

  Natalie’s face shone with excitement.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Come on!” she said. “Slip out, and follow me. It’s big!”

  With a few easy flaps, Natalie was airborne.

  I casually strolled to the fence and eyeballed Ms. Reckonwith. When the teacher’s back was turned, I scrambled up and over.

  “Hurry!” hissed Natalie from somewhere ahead and above.

  Quick as a hummingbird’s heartbeat, I dashed between the trees. We had a couple of minutes at most before recess ended.

  If we were late, we’d get detention. Of course, if I didn’t find Bland, I’d be in the hoosegow. I didn’t want to know how I’d serve detention in jail, but I knew my school would find a way.

  “Where are you?” I called.

  “Up here!” Her voice rang from the oak dead ahead.

  I scuttled up its trunk.

  A lazy horsefly circled in the still air.

  Za-zzip! I shot out my tongue and slurped him down.

  Heck, even a PI in a pickle needs a snack.

  “Stop feeding your face and get over here,” said Natalie from her perch.

  Resuming my climb, I soon reached the tree’s fork. “All right,” I said. “What’s all the fuss abou—”

  Bonk!

  “Ow!” My head hit something solid.

  Strange. I could have sworn I had plenty of headroom.

  Rubbing my noggin, I looked up. A massive, mud-daubed nest perched just above, disguised by painted leaves and branches to be invisible from below.

  I whistled. “A hideout.”

  “A hidden hideout,” said Natalie.

  “Mff! Ngg mf gnng!” said the nest.

  I cocked my head. “A talking hideout?”

  “No, bug brains, there’s someone inside,” she said. “Help me find the door.”

  We swarmed over the crash pad, which seemed almost half the size of my classroom. At the top, we found a hole.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said, and slid down it feetfirst.

  Foomp!

  A soft cushion of feathers, sweaters, and musty backpacks broke my fall. Somebody had raided the lost-and-found.

  “Okay,” I called, and Natalie scooted down after me.

  We took a gander at the lair. It had everything the well-appointed hideout should have: mysterious maps and charts; a laptop computer; a small fridge; a scale model of a volcano; a rack of colorful chemicals in tubes; and a chubby penguin, trussed up like a roasted green stinkbug at Christmas.

  “Bland!” I cried.

  “Mmf,” he answered.

  12

  Bland Date

  Hopping to it like grasshoppers on a griddle, Natalie and I untied the penguin and removed his gag. We helped him sit up.

  “Thanks awfully, old chums,” he said. “Sorry to be a bother.”

  “A bother?” I said. My fists clenched. He’d been so much more than a bother, there wasn’t even a word for it. “You ruined my reputation, you almost got me arrested, you . . . you . . .”

  Natalie stepped between us. “And he’s sorry for it. Aren’t you, James?”

  “Eh?” said the befuddled penguin. “Oh, ever so.”

  “Then, why the disappearing act, buddy boy? Trying to get me in Dutch?”

  Bland’s beak fell open. “I should say not. I really was kidnapped.”

  “By whom?” asked Natalie.

  “That dreadful little bird, Ginger Vitus,” he said.

  The freight train of my brain ran into a mountain of pudding. “Uh, Ginger?”

  “The same,” said Bland. “We were getting along famously, but then she turned on me, didn’t she?”

  “She did?” I said.

  “Rather. The little minx.”

  “Sparrow,” said Natalie.

  “Whatever,” said the penguin. “First, she engaged me to find her sister . . .”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said.

  “Then after I did, she lured me up here and kept me—without so much as a crumpet! I say, you don’t happen to have any sardine puffs, do you?”

  I shook my head. In spite of myself, I felt for the guy. All tied up and nothing to nosh.

  “So how did you find Connie?” asked Natalie.<
br />
  “Oh, an anonymous note,” said Bland. “It said to look up a certain tree, so I did, didn’t I? And there she was, all tied up.”

  I gaped. “An anonymous note? You found her when I couldn’t, just because of a stupid note?”

  Both Natalie and Bland eyed me warily.

  But instead of exploding, I guffawed. “Some detective you are!”

  The penguin avoided my eyes. “Uh, well . . . actually, I’m not.”

  “What?”

  “Not a detective,” he said, wincing. “It’s a, well . . . it’s a new school, and I thought if I pretended to be something glam, like a PI, then all the kids would jolly well want to be my friend.”

  Natalie cackled. “You don’t know many private eyes, do you?”

  “Watch it,” I said. “This is a classy job.”

  “Precisely,” said Bland. “And my bluff went smashingly, until I got nicked.”

  I frowned. “But why did Ginger kidnap you? You did what she asked.”

  The penguin rubbed his face with a flipper. “Yes, well, I seem to have overheard Ginger and her geek patrol plotting some dodgy scheme.”

  “They’re stealing a dodgeball?” I asked.

  “Not the ball,” he said. “The scheme—it’s dodgy, skeevy, wonky.”

  “Right.” I glanced at Natalie. “Are we speaking the same language?”

  Bland blew out a sigh. “They’re gonna bring the heat at the big game if we don’t bust a move, yo.”

  “That’s all you had to say,” I said. “Let’s stop that sparrow!”

  The class bell jangled.

  Uh-oh.

  “Hurry!” said Natalie, springing to the short tunnel.

  “Right behind you,” I said.

  We scrambled out onto the top of the nest.

  Behind us, James Bland grunted and huffed. “I say, lend a chap a hand?”

  Tugging on his flippers, we hauled the penguin up.

  “Let’s skedaddle,” I said, shinnying down the trunk.

  Natalie crouched, ready for takeoff.

  “Wait!” cried the penguin. “Don’t leave me.”

  “Come with us, you goof,” said Natalie. “Climb down.”

  “Can’t climb,” he said.

  “Then fly,” I said.

  “But I’m a flightless bird, aren’t I!” he wailed.

  I stared at him. “Then how the heck did you get up here?”

  The penguin blushed. “She lured me with a herring milk shake and a ladder.”

  “We’ll get you down,” I said. “Stay put.”

  Natalie took flight, and I legged it. With any luck, the playground would be empty, and we could slip onto it unnoticed.

  Reaching the fence, I saw the last of the kids heading back to class. Perfect.

  Up and over I scrambled, landing on the far side with a whump. If Coach Stroganoff knew I got this much exercise willingly, he’d never believe it.

  I checked left and right. The coast was clear. Natalie dipped a wing as she sailed past, headed for the buildings.

  Pouring on the steam, I lit out across the grass.

  “Chet Gecko!” A voice sliced the air like cold steel through warm eggplant.

  I skidded to a halt.

  Ms. Amanda Reckonwith, snapping turtle, rose from her seat on a low wall. “You, mister, are in big trouble. You left school property.”

  “But I found James Bland,” I said. “He’s over there—”

  “Oh, I’m sure he is,” said the teacher, marching over to me. “And you probably found the Loch Ness Monster, too.”

  “But I did find him,” I said. “Bland, I mean, not the monster.”

  She shoved her beaky nose in my face. “I don’t care what you were doing. You left school grounds, and rules are rules.”

  “But I—”

  “Shut . . . your . . . trap,” she growled. (I had never heard a turtle growl before, and I hope I never do again.) “You’ve got three days’ detention, buster—starting right after school!”

  There are two ways to argue with a teacher on yard duty.

  Neither one of them works.

  Ms. Reckonwith pointed to the buildings. “March!”

  What can you do when they’ve got your number? I marched.

  13

  Short Detention Span

  Back in class, kids stood in front of the room and blathered on and on about their relatives. Family history reports, they called it. My time was better spent brainstorming. Somehow I had to see Principal Zero, rescue Bland, and bust up Ginger’s dirty scheme—all before serving detention or landing in jail.

  I tried the direct approach.

  “Mr. Ratnose,” I said, raising my hand, “can I go to the principal’s office?”

  The lean rat frowned. “No, you may not. Sit still and listen to Waldo.”

  I tried charm.

  “Mr. Ratnose?”

  “What?” he said.

  “Can I please make one phone call—pretty please with grubworms on top?” I made Bambi eyes at him.

  “No,” he said. “Now settle down.”

  I even tried obnoxiousness.

  Leaning over my desk and waving like a teacher’s pet, I cried, “Ooh, ooh!”

  Mr. Ratnose twitched his whiskers. “Chet Gecko,” he said, “if you’re trying to annoy me so much that I send you to the principal’s office, it won’t work.”

  Dang. He was one wise rat.

  I fumed, but could do nothing more until class ended.

  When the bell rang, I blasted out the door. With a pinch of luck and some fleet feet, I might make the office before the Detention Queen nabbed me.

  Bent low, I wove through the after-school crowd. Kids laughed and shouted, trooping down to the field for the soccer game.

  At an exposed crossroads, I ducked behind a burly beaver. So far, so good.

  Confident in my sneaking skills, I was already deciding what to say to Mr. Zero. Maybe that’s why I didn’t spot the turtle planted directly in my path.

  “You there!” snapped Ms. Reckonwith.

  I froze. “Me here?”

  “Did you get lost?” She pointed a leathery arm. “Detention hall is that way.”

  “I, uh, just needed to see the principal first.”

  Amanda Reckonwith twisted her mouth into a parody of a smile. “If I had a shiny nickel for every time I heard that excuse, I’d have a villa by the sea.”

  And right then, I wished she was there. “But it’s not—” I began.

  “Hold your tongue, mister,” said the snapping turtle. “And haul your tail into Room Three. Ms. Glick is absent today, so I shall be conducting detention.”

  Great. The only thing worse than Warden Glick was Warden Reckonwith.

  She reached out, seized my shoulders, and spun me around. “Move it.”

  I trudged toward the booger green door of Room 3. How could I escape my fate? I swiveled, searching for Natalie. But my partner was nowhere near.

  Trapped, I entered the room. Four other low-down jailbirds shared my fate. They glanced up as I walked in, then slumped back into their private miseries.

  I collapsed on a chair. If I couldn’t bust out of there, I’d experience real prison, and detention would seem like a trip to the zoo on a shiny new bicycle.

  Ms. Reckonwith blew in and shut the door with a click. She cast an eye over us. “Keep your trap shut and your hands to yourself,” she said, “and we’ll get along just fine.”

  The turtle settled behind her desk.

  I eyed the window. Kids were still streaming past on their way to the game.

  Any minute now, I expected Natalie to spring me.

  Any minute now.

  But the minutes ticked by. No Natalie.

  Had my partner run out on me? Or worse, gotten into a jam with Ginger?

  It looked like I’d have to bail myself out of this one.

  Lucky thing Ms. Reckonwith didn’t know me as well as Mr. Ratnose did. I decided to try a technique that often wor
ked for my little sister Pinky.

  I raised my hand. “Teacher, can I go to the principal’s office?”

  “It’s may I?” she said. “And no, you may not.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I said so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you leaving this room,” she snarled.

  “Why?”

  “Because you might not come back and finish your detention.”

  “Why?”

  She gripped the edge of the desk. “Because you’re a shifty little snoop.”

  “Why?”

  “I DON’T KNOW WHY!” shouted Ms. Reckonwith. She scrawled something on her pink pad, stomped down the aisle, and thrust the sheet into my hand. “I’ve had enough of you. Go straight to Mr. Zero’s office and give him this.”

  “Will do.” I got up and walked to the door. “And Ms. Reckonwith?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  14

  Ladder Rip

  I caught Principal Zero just as he was heading out to the soccer game. The big cat seemed almost disappointed that I’d dug up James Bland. Maybe he’d been looking forward to a gecko-free year.

  Still, Mr. Zero gave me the green light to go and fetch the penguin.

  “But if this turns out to be one of your lies,” he said, “I’ll send you to jail in a red-hot jiffy.”

  “Could I take a taxi instead?” I asked.

  “Gecko!”

  Quick like a bunny, I hippety-hopped out to the playground fence. Natalie was waiting with the mongoose custodian Maureen DeBree and a ladder.

  “Took you long enough,” she said. Natalie shifted on her fence-top perch.

  “I had to bust out of detention all on my own,” I said, scrambling up the ladder to join her.

  Maureen DeBree stuck her furry fingers in her ears. “I’m not hearing this.”

  Natalie lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t pull a fast one on Ms. Reckonwith,” she said. “She’s my teacher.”

  The three of us wrestled the ladder up and over. “But it’s okay for me to pull a fast one?” I said.

  “It’s what you do,” said Natalie.

  Couldn’t argue with that.

  Ms. DeBree waited on the school side of the fence. “You private eyeballs better bring back my ladder in one piece, eh?”