The Possum Always Rings Twice

by Bruce Hale

  I opened it. Crude block letters read:

  I’M NOTT KIDDING. U’LL NEVER BE PRESSIDNT IN A MILLYUN YEARS. GIVE UP NOW, OR U’LL BE IN RILLY BIG TRUBBLE.

  “Now, that’s more like a threat,” I said, feeling a thrill of the old excitement.

  “Well, we know one thing,” said Natalie.

  “What’s that?”

  “Whoever wrote it definitely isn’t in the spelling bee.”

  Viola took the note. “Track them down as soon as you can,” she said. “Then, report them to Principal Zero. The election is just two days off.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Now, there’s just the small matter of our pay. We get fifty bucks a day, plus expenses.”

  The sandpiper squinched up her face. “I happen to know you get fifty cents,” she said, “but I’ll pay you seventy-five.”

  “Dang,” I said to Natalie. “She’s tough.” I turned back to Viola. “Okay, we’ll get right—”

  But the sandpiper had slipped off through the trees.

  “See that?” said Natalie. “She gets us all stirred up, promises us money, and then disappears.”

  “That’s true.”

  “She’ll make a great politician.”

  4

  Full Speech Ahead!

  How do you dig up suspects? Well, you could go down to Crazy Jimmy’s Creeps ’n’ Cranks and pick a few off the rack. But you usually get the best results by asking one simple question: Who benefits?

  At least that’s what Natalie said as we headed off.

  “Who benefits from Viola dropping out?” I echoed. “Well . . . the other candidates, for one . . .”

  “Her enemies, for another . . . ,” Natalie said.

  “Um . . . her ballet teacher?”

  “Ballet teacher? Why?”

  I scratched my chin. “Because . . . if she’s not on student council, she’ll have more time to run around in a tutu?”

  Natalie raised an eyebrow.

  “Hey, I’m brainstorming here,” I said.

  “For now, let’s stick to the other candidates,” she said.

  “Like superglue shorts.”

  Just then, we were passing the gym. Natalie gawked at a fancy purple poster announcing a lunchtime speech by Perry Winkel, presidential candidate.

  “I believe that’s what we in the detective biz call a lead,” I said.

  “Ah, my wisdom is rubbing off on you.”

  “As long as that’s all that rubs off, birdie.”

  We made for the rally. I noticed the graffiti on the gym wall had spread. FUR IS FIRST! and DOWN WITH FEATHERS! had joined other popular slogans like KYLE RULEZ, JOANIE LUVS CHA-CHA, and 2GOOD + 2B = 4BIDDEN.

  And they say kids don’t like to write.

  Rounding the corner of the building, we ran smack into a good-sized crowd blocking the hallway.

  “Hey, watch it!” said the rat I’d bumped.

  “Is this all for Perry’s speech?” asked Natalie.

  The rat ignored her, so I scaled a pole for a better view.

  My perch revealed the tops of a lot of kids’ heads, and beyond them, a kit fox standing tall on a stage set against the gym’s outside wall. Behind him hung a banner: PERRY 4 PREZ! As he raised his paws, the hubbub quieted.

  “Friends,” said the fox, “I’m here to tell y’all that the trouble’s getting troublin’ at Emerson Hicky. We’re headed for big-time danger.”

  “I’ve been saying that for years,” I said.

  “Shh!” hissed the rat below me.

  The fox I took to be Perry Winkel furrowed his brow. “We have friends and we have anemones. And now, some low-down critters wants to undermine everythin’ we stand for.”

  “Moles?” asked a plump pigeon.

  “No, not moles,” he said. “Baddies. Terriers who hold our school hostile. They’re tryin’ to destroy our very Emerson Hicky-ness.”

  “Don’t let ’em!” someone shouted.

  “I will force these fightses of darkness,” said Perry. “I will sit in that presidental chair, standin’ tall. Together, I will make this school the kinda place you’ll be proud as punch to attend.”

  “He says he’s gonna give everyone punch,” I told Natalie.

  “No cookies?” she asked.

  “SHH!” said the rat again.

  A newt raised his hand. “Hey, who are these baddies and terriers?” he said.

  “Don’t bother your noggin,” said Perry Winkel. “I stand for things. So vote for me, and remember: A burn in the hand is worth two in the bush!”

  He flashed a smile and raised his arms in a V for victory.

  The group cheered. “Perry for Prez! Perry for Prez!” they chanted. Three weasels started passing out free bubble gum.

  Say what you will about the speech, this guy knew his voters.

  I slid down the pole and joined Natalie.

  “Let’s interview him,” she shouted over the din.

  “Great idea,” I yelled back, snagging some gum.

  Then a ripple swept the crowd, bringing silence in its wake. Kids cleared back as if you could catch ten pages of math homework just by breathing the air.

  Past a couple of cringing gophers, I saw the problem: a line of bullies, shoulder to shoulder, tromping down the corridor.

  Among them swaggered Erik Nidd, Herman the Gila Monster, Ben Dova, Miss Flappy, Bosco Rebbizi, and smack-dab in the middle, Rocky Rhode. They marched with a menace designed to intimidate.

  It worked.

  My tail twisted. What serious mischief were they up to?

  Kids jumped back into the shrubbery or flattened themselves against the wall to avoid the bully juggernaut. Rocky sneered left and right with satisfaction.

  “Boo!” said Erik to a second-grade shrew. She fainted dead away.

  “That’s what I’m speechin’ about,” shouted Perry Winkel, safe on the sidelines behind his supporters. “The dangers of the school is dangerous—augh!”

  He shrieked in fear as Herman glared at him.

  “Herman says zip it, fox,” the Gila monster growled.

  The fox zipped it.

  The line of thugs rolled on, smooth and steady as the Titanic on Rollerblades (and just as full of potential disaster). Strangely enough, they didn’t break ranks. Stranger still, they didn’t break any heads. They just kept tramping.

  “Eerie, isn’t it?” said Natalie.

  “Eerie doesn’t begin to cover it,” I muttered.

  As the marchers drew even with us, Ben Dova swiveled his head and locked eyes with me. His stare could’ve fried eggs in a blizzard.

  But the tough-guy effect was ruined when he stumbled into Herman.

  “Watch it,” rumbled the Gila monster.

  “You watch it,” said Ben.

  “Clumsy.”

  “Cheesehead.”

  “Dorkus.”

  Rocky Rhode broke ranks and slipped between them. “Guys, guys,” she said. “Try to get along just this once. Trust me—if we all pull together . . .”

  The rest of her comment was lost in a whisper. The band of bullies swept on down the hall. Around us, half a hundred kids let out their breath.

  “That whole thing was fishier than the bottom of a pelican’s lunch box,” I said.

  “What do you suppose it was all about?” asked Natalie.

  But before we could speculate, the class bell jangled, leaving us with a bad case of mysteriosus interruptus. I wanted to keep investigating, but school waits for no gecko.

  Not even if he begs.

  5

  Throw Your Brat into the Ring

  Afternoon recess couldn’t come soon enough to suit me. (Of course, that’s usually the case.) When the bell rang, I shot from my seat like a loogey from an anteater’s tongue.

  Natalie met me at the playground’s edge. “So what’s the plan, Stan?” she asked. “Check out the bully boys?”

  “Naw. Let’s grill Perry Winkel and Viola’s other rivals. Then we’ll see if the Thug Parade connec
ts with our case.”

  “Take it away, Trey,” she said.

  I gave her a look. “Just cool it with the rhyming names, okay?”

  “You bet, Chet.”

  We struck out, keeping an eye peeled for the kit fox. A commotion drew us toward the jungle gym. But something brought us up short.

  That something was a small green-and-yellow shape. It soared over the heads of the small crowd, bounced a couple of times, and landed at our feet.

  “Hey, hi, ho,” Popper the tree frog croaked weakly.

  “Making new friends on the campaign trail?” I asked.

  The little amphibian shook her head. “I already got all my siggy-saggy signatures,” she said. “I just wanted to play. But those biggity-bad bullies kicked me out.”

  Natalie helped Popper rise. “Why did they pick on you?”

  “No idea,” said the frog. “Beats mu-mi-mo-me.”

  I glanced at Natalie. We knew that Popper could annoy people in her sleep from a distance of twelve miles without even breaking a sweat.

  “Really, really, and truly,” said Popper. “They said, no frogs allowed, then they gave me the heave-ho-ho-ho.”

  “We should do something,” Natalie said to me.

  I looked at the knot of kids by the jungle gym—all ferrets, weasels, and badgers, all bigger than me.

  “You’re right,” I said. “We should mind our own beeswax. Popper, tell me: How do you feel about the other candidates, like Viola Fuss?”

  The tree frog frowned in confusion. “Um, they’re okely-dokely-doo,” she said. “Always been friendly to me. Why?”

  “No reason, squirt,” I said. “Stay away from those bullies, now.”

  The tree frog hopped slowly off. Natalie and I gave the jungle gym a wide berth, and the punks gave us the traditional punk salute. (It involved sneers, jeers, and multiple hand gestures.)

  “Okay,” I said. “Scratch one suspect.”

  “We could’ve done that before you talked to her,” said Natalie. “I can’t imagine Popper writing a threatening note.”

  I smiled. “Except for one saying she’d like a play-date. That’s pretty threatening.”

  We tracked down Perry Winkel by the swings. He and a slinky mink were buttonholing some kids as we approached.

  “. . . hope we can count on you to count your vote,” the fox was saying.

  “Yeah, definitely!” said one of the students, a cheery rabbit.

  Natalie and I stopped beside them. “Hey, Perry,” I said. “How’s about we ask you a few questions?”

  He eyed me dubiously. The mink said, “Do you mind?”

  “No, I don’t mind asking questions,” I said. “It’s my job.”

  I gave her the once-over. She was a long, tall drink of chocolate milk. Her eyes glittered like the prize in a Cracker Jack box, and she was wrapped from head to toe in the finest fur. (Of course, you’d expect that in a mink.)

  “I meant, do you mind waiting?” purred the mink, in a voice like butterscotch pudding over steel. “We’re busy.”

  I turned to the rabbit and his pals. “Look, Flopsy,” I said. “Why don’t you and your friends hop on down the bunny trail? We want a private chat.”

  “Yeah, definitely!” said the rabbit. He and his buddies bounced off.

  “Now you’re not busy,” said Natalie.

  The mink swished her long tail. “I’m not sure I like you interfering in our campaign,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I like twenty-page tests and surly teachers,” I said. “But they keep on coming. I’m Chet Gecko, PI. This is my partner, Natalie.”

  “I’m Nadia Nyce,” said the mink.

  “Of course you are,” I said.

  “What’s the subject of yer speakin’, friend?” asked Perry Winkel.

  “Oh, just a little skullduggery,” I said. “Been getting any threatening notes?”

  The kit fox’s pointed kisser wore a frown. “Me, personably? No . . .”

  “Been writing any?” asked Natalie.

  “Of course not!” said Nadia, cutting in. “That’s outrageous!”

  I crossed my arms. “Is it?” I asked. “Someone’s been trying to scare Viola Fuss into quitting the race.”

  “Why point the finger of fate at me?” said Perry. “I’m just a babe in the wolves.” His furry face was as blank as a blackboard in the summertime.

  The kit fox was either dumb as a stump or a very good liar, or, well, both.

  Natalie spread a wing. “What better suspect than Viola’s main rival?”

  The mink scoffed. “But why Perry?” she said. “It could just as easily have been another candidate. Popper, for instance.”

  “Nah,” said Natalie and I together.

  “Okay, then. What about Ben Dova?”

  “What about him?” I said. “He’s a mook.”

  “He’s a candidate,” said Perry. “Why aren’t y’all givin’ him the thirty-third degree?”

  I exchanged a puzzled glance with Natalie.

  “That lug, a candidate?” I asked. “Is he running on the Bully Ticket?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” said the mink, smoothing her fur. “And by the way, how do you know Viola’s threats are real?”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  The mink leaned in. “I heard that the pressure is getting to her, that Viola had a nervous breakdown. Maybe she’s imagining things.”

  “Wha-at?”

  “That’s silly,” said Natalie. “We saw the note.”

  “Did you?” said Nadia. “Or did she write it herself in a desperate bid for sympathy and votes?” She took Perry’s arm and started off. “I’d get your facts straight before you accuse innocent students.”

  “And then, I’d cast y’all’s vote for myself,” called Perry Winkel. “The election’s three days after yesterday!”

  Natalie and I watched them go, then we headed back across the grass.

  “What do you make of them?” I said.

  “A double twosome of two-ness,” said Natalie in a spot-on imitation of Perry’s twang. “His sentences sound like they’ve been through a blender.”

  “And I’m not sure whether Nadia’s giving us straight talk or hot air.”

  “Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Natalie, raising her eyebrows.

  “Let her blow up a balloon?”

  “Stake out Viola’s locker and see who shows up.”

  “Birdie,” I said, “sometimes you say the smartest things.”

  Natalie ducked her head. “Gee, thanks, Chet.”

  “Sometimes, but not often.”

  6

  The Fountain of Brutes

  Recess was disappearing like the last sips of a malted earwig milk shake. Time was short. But we had saved just enough of it for a quick stakeout.

  Natalie and I hustled down the hall to the lockers. With luck, we might catch some creepo in the act and answer two questions: Who was behind the threats, and was our client loonier than a dodo bird in a disco contest?

  We loitered by the drinking fountain near Viola’s locker. All seemed normal. Students flowed up and down the hall, retrieving books, chatting with friends, and savoring their last minutes of freedom.

  Twice, we thought we spotted kids trying to slip something into her locker, but it turned out to be neighbors stowing things in their own. Still, we waited.

  Detective work makes me thirsty. I turned to the drinking fountain, and put my hand on the lever.

  “Don’t look now,” said Natalie, “but we may have a live one.”

  While bending to drink, I casually glanced to the side.

  A sneaky-looking weasel in a fluorescent orange tank top lingered by Viola’s locker, fumbling in a book bag. Was this our suspect?

  Keeping an eye on her, I pressed the lever again and lowered my mouth to sip cool water.

  Instead, I sucked up a mouthful of hair.

  “Bleah!”

  I spit out the fur and swiveled my head. A thic
k paw blocked the fountain.

  “Do you mind, fuzzy?” I said. “I’m trying to drink.”

  “Not here, you’re not,” a voice rumbled.

  Straightening, I found myself eye-to-belly with a gray shag rug. I looked up, up, up and spotted a fat head at the top of it. A badger with a face like a frying pan stared down at me. His eyes were deader than a zombie’s houseplants.

  “It talks,” I said.

  “Actually, it doesn’t,” said Natalie. “The one behind it did the talking.”

  A familiar face leered over the badger’s shoulder. Ben Dova, wild wolverine and prime suspect.

  “Just the political animal I wanted to see,” I said.

  “Nuts to you,” said Ben.

  The badger scowled. “This ain’t your water fountain,” he squeaked, in a voice like a duck on helium. “Beat it, Gecko.”

  I eased back out of reach. “Not without some answers. Tell me, Ben, do you threaten all the candidates, or just Viola?”

  “You don’t listen so good,” said Ben. “Lousy lizards can’t drink here. Ain’t that right, Dum-Dum?”

  “You catch on quick, pal,” said the badger.

  A semicircle of kids had formed at a safe distance, glad to witness someone else’s troubles. No one stepped forward to help.

  “And a body can’t walk around without a brain,” I said, “but here you are. Anyway, the drinking fountains are for everyone.”

  The wolverine’s growl rumbled like evil dwarfs bowling underground.

  “Not no more,” said Dum-Dum. “Can’t you read?”

  I looked where his long claw pointed. On the wall above the spigot, a hand-lettered sign read, MAMMULS OLNY!!!

  What the heck?

  “You can’t do that,” said Natalie. “It’s not right.”

  “It’s right if we say it’s right,” said Ben.

  “I don’t mean fair right; I mean right right,” said my partner. “Right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Huh?” said the wolverine.

  “It’s misspelled,” said Natalie. “Only is o-n-l—”