The Possum Always Rings Twice

by Bruce Hale

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  The Boy Who Cried Wolverine

  Every Frog Has His Day

  Too Marvelous for Birds

  Full Speech Ahead!

  Throw Your Brat into the Ring

  The Fountain of Brutes

  The Squirrelly Bird Gets the Squirm

  Little Boys’ Blew

  Green Legs and Lam

  Bare and Square

  Campaign and Caviar

  Bright Fights, Big Kitty

  Taking the Bully by the Horns

  Vote Like a Butterfly; Sting Like a Flea

  Bubba Ganoosh

  Gopher Broke

  Bite the Ballot

  Sample Chapter from KEY LARDO

  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.

  The possum always rings twice/Bruce Hale.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Chet Gecko and his partner, Natalie Attired, try to find out who is sending threatening notes to Viola Fuss, candidate for student council president at Emerson Hicky Elementary School.

  [1. Politics, Practical—Fiction. 2. Geckos—Fiction. 3. Animals—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1295Pos 2006

  [Fic]—dc22 2005022197

  ISBN: 978-0-15-205075-7 hardcover

  ISBN: 978-0-15-205233-1 paperback

  eISBN 978-0-547-54397-0

  v2.1115

  To the cool Goff kids, Kellen and Jessie

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Down these mean streets a gecko must go. And as I’ve tramped along, I’ve picked up some hard-earned wisdom (along with the gum on my shoes). One thing I’ve learned: There’s just not enough peace, love, and understanding in the world.

  And that’s a good thing. Otherwise, I’d be out of a job.

  When life gets rough, tough, and tangled, that’s where I come in. I’m Chet Gecko, Emerson Hicky Elementary’s best lizard detective (and two-time dodgeball champ).

  In my time, I’ve tackled cases stickier than a spider’s handshake and harder than three-year-old boll weevil taffy. But nothing compares to the job that landed me knee-deep in school politics.

  What seemed like a straightforward case of extortion took more twists and turns than an anaconda’s lunch. It became a battle royal for control of the school. (Not that I necessarily believe school is worth fighting for, but a gecko’s gotta do something with his days.)

  While unraveling this sinister snarl, I also unearthed some ugly truths about politics. I discovered that politicians and diapers should both be changed regularly. (And for the same reason.)

  And that in this country, anyone can grow up to become president. I guess it’s just one of the risks we take.

  In the end, my politicking landed me in one of the tightest spots I’ve ever encountered. Was I savvy enough to escape with my skin? Let me put it this way: Just like a politician, this is one private eye who always shoots from the lip.

  1

  The Boy Who Cried Wolverine

  Let’s face it: Elementary school is a jungle. Want to survive? Know your beasts. The herds of nerds, the packs of bullies, the rich kids, the jocks—each creature in this jungle has its own identifying marks.

  Take Ben Dova, wolverine.

  One look told the tale. Dagger claws, check. Furry boulders that passed for shoulders, check. B.O. strong enough to make a stinkbug cry, check.

  Ben Dova might just as well have had bully stamped across his forehead.

  He was big.

  He was bad.

  And he’d been hogging the tetherball for ten minutes.

  Wolverine or no wolverine, I wanted to play.

  “’Scuse me, bub,” I said. “You almost finished?”

  “Grrr,” he replied.

  Did I mention that Ben was also a brilliant conversationalist?

  He planted a pair of hamlike fists on his hips, snorkeled some air through his nose, and scanned the scene.

  “Pee-yew,” he said. “What stinks?”

  I gazed up at Ben. “Your armpits come to mind,” I said. “As does your breath, your sister, and your grades. Pick one.”

  Ben’s lip curled, flashing fangs that a great white shark would’ve envied.

  I reached for the tetherball. “Hey, if you’re not going to play . . .”

  The wolverine hoisted the ball out of my reach. “Smells like barf,” he said. “Smells like a pukey little lizard.”

  This brought some girlish giggles. A weasel and a rabbit stood nearby watching.

  Sheesh. It’s always worse with an audience.

  My jaw tightened. “Look, pal. Why don’t you give someone else a turn, and get back to practicing your tough-guy talk?”

  Ben’s bullet-hole eyes burned yellow. “You gonna make me, punk?”

  Normally, I try to deal with bullies the Rodney Rodent way. (You know, the star of Rodney Rodent’s House of Cartoons?) Rodney always says: Don’t show fear; speak firmly but politely; and just walk away.

  I didn’t show fear. Speaking firmly, I said, “I don’t make beanheads, I bake them.”

  I’ve always had problems with the polite part.

  Turning to go, I nodded to the girls. A paw like a catcher’s mitt swung at my head.

  I ducked.

  The gleam in Ben’s eyes went from yellow to red. That was my cue.

  “Yaaah!”

  I pelted across the blacktop, straight for the nearest portable classroom. Mere steps ahead of the wolverine, I reached it.

  Fa-zzup! I scuttled up the wall.

  Whether you’re a PI like me or just a fourth grader trapped in a sixth-grade world, it pays to have serious climbing skills. In three shakes, I made the roof.

  “Come back here, Gecko!” yelled Ben Dova.

  I laughed. “If you think I’m coming down to get creamed, you’re so dumb you put lipstick on your forehead to make up your mind.”

  A snarl below told me the joke had found its mark. I savored the moment.

  “Verrry funny,” came an oily voice from behind me. “You should try stand-up.”

  A huge brown bat hovered in midair.

  “I did,” I said, “but I kept falling down.”

  “Too bad you didn’t fall farther,” she crooned.

  Swell. Another bully. Even for Emerson Hicky, this was excessive.

  “What is this, Let’s Pick on a PI Week?”

  The bat wore a dorky pink hair ribbon and a savage sneer. Her smooshed-in nostrils twitched as if she smelled something stenchy.

  As if that something was me.

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  I held up a hand. “I know, I know,” I said. “I’m a smelly little lizard and blah-blah-blah.”

  “Verrry perceptive,” said the bat.

  “Look, Flappy, can we just skip to the part where I ru
n away? It takes me a while to come up with new insults.”

  The bat smiled, baring fangs as yellow as a stale harvest moon.

  “But of course,” she said. Miss Flappy flexed her wings.

  I sprinted for the nearest treetop.

  Flump-flump-flump! The thrumming of bat wings grew louder.

  My leafy sanctuary was only steps away.

  Some instinct said duck! The bat’s swoop trickled chills down my spine.

  I stumbled headlong—off the roof and into a tree.

  “Unh—

  Ooh—

  Ach!”

  Plummeting downward, I bounced from limb to limb like a deranged pinball. Finally I landed—ka-whump!—in a heap on the grass.

  Dizzier than a carload of cheerleaders, I struggled to my knees. Then a large brown shape landed nearby. A massive black-and-tan figure rounded the corner.

  Bullies to the left, bullies to the right.

  I was doomed.

  2

  Every Frog Has His Day

  As I was composing my will, something that looked like a cactus on steroids strolled up between Miss Flappy and Ben Dova.

  My rescuer?

  “Well, well, a stinkin’ gecko.”

  Nope. It was Rocky Rhode, horned toad—torturer, shakedown artist, and tiddlywinks champion.

  Yet another bully. Was I a magnet for morons?

  But her next words surprised me.

  “See, what did I tell you?” she said to the other thugs. Rocky grabbed their shoulders. “Three of us tackling one chump, while out there”—she indicated the playground—“all those suckers are going to waste.”

  Ben growled. “No horny toad can be the boss of me.”

  “I don’t wanna be,” she said. “Just listen.” Rocky smoothly turned the bullies and led them away.

  “But,” said Miss Flappy, glancing back at me, “he’s—”

  “That yo-yo?” said Rocky. “Relax. He’s not going anywhere.”

  And just like that, they walked off.

  My jaw dropped. What was that all about?

  “Looks like you’re too boring for the bullies,” someone chirped.

  A spiffy-looking mockingbird perched on a limb of the tree, grooming her feathers. It was my partner, Natalie Attired. A true friend, she put the wise in wisecrack and the dis in disrespectful.

  Natalie had my back, and I had hers. Which reminded me . . .

  “Hey, I thought you were my partner,” I said.

  “Last time I checked,” said Natalie.

  I got to my feet and retrieved my hat. “So where were you when those mugs were getting ready to clean my clock?”

  “Just where you always said I should be: on the lookout.”

  “And what were you looking at?”

  She glided down to the lawn. “You, about to get pounded.”

  I shook my head, temporarily speechless.

  “I know,” said Natalie. “I’m amazing. You don’t deserve a partner like me.”

  “Birdie,” I said, “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

  Don’t get me wrong. A detective’s life isn’t always this chock-full of danger, chills, and near disaster.

  Sometimes it’s worse.

  Still, the next hour or so passed pleasantly enough. (If you don’t count the horrors of history class. Learning about the long-ago doings of dead people always gives me the willies.)

  Then came lunch—the only subject I always ace. The lunch ladies were dishing up blowfly burritos with grasshopper guacamole and mantis-meal cakes.

  Gotta love that south-of-the-border cuisine.

  After scarfing a second helping (thanks to my cafeteria contacts), I leaned back on the bench and patted my gut. Nothing beats a full belly.

  Even Natalie’s lame jokes couldn’t spoil my mood.

  “Hey, Chet,” she said as we left the lunchroom, “here’s one you should know. What do you call cheese that doesn’t belong to you?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  “Nacho cheese!” Natalie cackled.

  I groaned.

  Natalie and I ambled toward the playground and scoped out the scene. Two ferrets stuffed a toad in a trash can. A marmot spray-painted graffiti on the gym wall. And a bunch of sixth graders used a first grader as a volleyball.

  Some say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But sometimes, just showing up for school is what’s hazardous.

  We were strolling past a soccer game, when—

  Bim-bam-boomf!

  A blurry yellow-green ball bounced out of nowhere, straight into my gut.

  “Oog!” I staggered back, feeling my burritos rearrange themselves.

  “Hi, hi, hi!” said the ball. It was Popper, a hyperactive tree frog with all the charm and tact of a runaway chain saw.

  We had once befriended her on a case. We were still paying for that mistake.

  The third grader hopped around us. “I’m glad, so glad, I bumped into you.”

  “That makes one of us,” I said, rubbing my belly.

  “You guys gotta help, hippety-help me,” Popper squeaked.

  “No problem, short stuff,” I said, pointing. “The loony bin is that way.”

  Natalie elbowed me. “What’s up, Popper?”

  The frog looked from one of us to the other with eyes big as punch bowls. “Could you please, pretty please, sign my petition?” She thrust a paper at us.

  I glanced at it. “You’re running for student council president?”

  “Yup, yep, uh-huh.”

  “Been collecting signatures long?”

  Popper’s head bounced up and down like a BB on a bongo drum. “One, two, three-three days!”

  “But there are no names,” said Natalie.

  The tree frog shrugged. “My mommity-mom said student council would be a good way to make friends.”

  Natalie and I exchanged a glance.

  “We’ll sign it,” I said. “But don’t get any ideas.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Popper. “You guys are the best!”

  I couldn’t argue with her about that. We scrawled our names, and Popper bounced off to torment someone else.

  “What a weird day,” I said. “Bullies get bored, and Popper runs for president. What’s next?”

  “You, actually doing some homework?” said Natalie.

  “Don’t make me laugh, birdie.”

  But the answer wasn’t long in coming. And when it came, it brought more trouble than a busload of candy-crazed chipmunks on Halloween night.

  3

  Too Marvelous for Birds

  Natalie and I had just settled under the scrofulous tree to hash over our last case. I fished a package of Cheese Nits from my pocket. (No reason lunch should interfere with my snacking schedule.)

  Leaves crunched behind the tree. A bird’s beak poked around it.

  “Er, tell me, are you Chet Gecko?” asked the bird in a nasal voice.

  “If we can believe what his mom says,” Natalie chirped.

  I glared. “I’ve told you before: Lay off my mama.”

  The bird cleared her throat. “Er, Chet Gecko, the detective?”

  “No,” I said, crunching a couple of Cheese Nits, “Chet Gecko, the brain surgeon. We’re offering free lobotomies today. Want one?”

  The bird frowned. My wit has that effect on some folks.

  “Relax,” said Natalie. “He won’t bite—unless you’re a burrito.”

  “Very well,” said the bird.

  At that, a skinny sandpiper followed her long beak into view. Her licorice jujube eyes jittered from side to side, alert for trouble. A faded lemon yellow sweater draped her compact body, and she teetered on legs like a couple of bent shish-kebab skewers.

  “Viola Fuss,” she said with a nervous nod.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “vhy?”

  If birds had lips, hers would’ve compressed into a thin line. “Very funny. They said you were prone to mirth.”

  �
�Remind me to thank them. Who are you?”

  “Viola Fuss,” said the sandpiper again. “That’s my name.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Natalie.

  “Er, I want to hire you.”

  Natalie’s eyes found mine. A fresh case!

  I jumped up. “Why didn’t you say so? Sit down and take a load off, sister.”

  A twig fell from the tree, and Viola skittered away at the sound.

  “Too much espresso in your eggnog?” asked Natalie.

  The sandpiper retreated behind the tree. “Can we get out of the open?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “Oh, so we’re okay to hire, but we’re too low-class to be seen with?”

  Viola scanned the scene from her hiding place. “No, that’s not it—although I confess your reputation is spotted at best . . .”

  “You should see his T-shirts,” said Natalie.

  The sandpiper beckoned us closer. We moved in.

  “I’m afraid if I’m seen with you, whoever’s threatening me might learn that I’ve hired a detective. And if that happens, things could get ugly.”

  “Whoa there, cowgirl,” I said. “Back up your pony. Why are you being threatened? Have you been picking your toes in Pottawatomie?”

  “Blowing bubbles without using your mouth?” asked Natalie.

  The sandpiper did that disapproving thing with her beak again. “I’ll have you know I’m running for student council president,” she said. “And someone’s trying to stop me.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Positive,” said Viola. “Already I’ve received two notes in my locker.”

  “What’s your locker number?” asked Natalie.

  “Two thirty-three,” said Viola. “Why?”

  “Why not?” I said. “Go on.”

  She blinked. “Anyway, the first note said, er, You can’t win; drop out now.”

  I smirked. “Some threat. Sure it’s not about the spelling bee?”

  The skinny bird reached into a sweater pocket and handed me a much-folded paper. “I think not,” she said. “Here’s the second note.”