Murder, My Tweet

by Bruce Hale

  Natalie hopped in agitation. “T-Bone dropped a letter outside the vice principal’s door. Ms. Shrewer caught me picking it up, and then she—”

  “Aha! There’s the blackmailer,” a tight voice snapped. It was the no-nonsense shrew herself, Vice Principal Shrewer, with Principal Zero close behind her. “Come along, missy,” she said. “I want you off this campus now.”

  Both of them clamped a paw onto Natalie’s shoulder and started to lead her away. Natalie twisted to look back at me.

  “You’ve got to clear my name, Chet. Hurry!”

  Ms. Shrewer spun my partner’s head to the front. And just like that, they marched her off.

  “Mmf! Mgmng mf!”

  What was that sound? A mutant mink with a speech impediment?

  Turning, I found that my hand still gripped Anne’s beak. I released it.

  “And what’ve you got to say for yourself?” I said. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until after my partner got kicked out of school?”

  “You,” she hissed, “are fired.”

  I shook my head. Where had I heard that one before?

  4

  You’ve Got Blackmail

  My mind spun like a giddy preschooler. I felt like I’d fallen into Bizarro World, where up was down, black was white, and big sisters want nothing more than your complete happiness.

  Natalie suspended? I was the one voted Most Likely to Be Booted Out of Fourth Grade.

  I left Anne Gwish listing my faults and wandered the playground like a homeless homing pigeon. Students frolicked all around me. I didn’t notice.

  Why would Vice Principal Shrewer accuse Natalie of blackmail?

  I stumbled, unseeing, through a dodgeball game. Kids shouted, but I kept puzzling.

  Okay, Ms. Shrewer saw my partner with some letter. But it was a long leap from there to blackmail. Unless . . .

  Two things hit me at once: a realization and—

  Whump!

  A dodgeball. I sprawled forward. Hands and knees on the rough asphalt, I stared ahead.

  Of course! Someone—probably T-Bone—was blackmailing Ms. Shrewer, and the vice principal had mistaken Natalie for the culprit.

  I could fix these crossed wires by doing one simple thing: explaining matters to the school’s head cheese, so he’d cancel my partner’s suspension.

  “We’re tryin’ to play here,” said a skunk. “You mind moving?”

  Okay, two simple things.

  With a jaunty step, I waltzed through the doors of the admin building. Principal Zero would understand. After all, he might be tough, but he was fair.

  His secretary, Maggie Crow, munched a take-out lunch at her desk. I looked it over: a millipede-and-garden-snail salad.

  “Lean cuisine?” I asked.

  The black bird eyed me over her slanted glasses. “I’m watching my girlish figure,” she rasped. “Whaddaya want? You didn’t come here to trade diet tips.”

  Behind the counter, a gleaming steel contraption stamped papers.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “Another spanking machine?”

  Mrs. Crow slurped a millipede. “Even better—a report card robot.”

  “Bzzz . . . fail!” said the machine as it stamped another sheet.

  I shuddered, thinking of my own report card. But then I bucked up. “I’m here to see your boss.”

  Mrs. Crow waved a wing toward the principal’s door. “Who’s stopping ya?”

  Principal Zero was a massive tomcat with all the charm and manners of Genghis Khan on a bad day. He sat behind a broad black desk, licking the remains of a tuna-fish sandwich from his paws.

  I eyeballed his desktop. A purchase order for the Encyclopedia Kittenica, stacks of report cards, an autographed photo of Bigfoot (signed, “From one party animal to another”), the latest issue of Catsmopolitan, and a desk calendar.

  I read his calendar upside down. Tomorrow’s entry said: “Lunch meeting w/M. Crow and Superintendent.” These are the benefits of being able to climb on the ceiling—you learn to read upside down.

  “Got a minute?” I asked.

  “For you?” he rumbled. “No.”

  “Come on, boss man . . .”

  “If it’s about Natalie Attired, you can save your breath.”

  I stepped forward. “But she’s—”

  “Innocent?” he growled. “Sure. They all are. Everyone thinks you kids are a bunch of blameless angels. But I know what kind of trouble you’re really up to.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, planting my hands on his desk and leaning forward. “I know her; Natalie would never blackmail anybody.”

  Principal Zero looked at my hands. I took them off his desk.

  “No, Gecko, you don’t understand. I’m not taking the word of some snoop over my vice principal.”

  “But—”

  His claws flashed out and dug into the scarred desktop. “Ms. Shrewer doesn’t lie,” he growled. “If you can prove she made a mistake, maybe we’ll talk. Until then . . .” His heavy-lidded eyes cut toward the door.

  “Take a hike?” I guessed.

  “All the way to Kathmandu. Now bug off!”

  I bugged. Never one to take defeat lying down (I prefer a comfy armchair), I headed straight for the vice principal’s office. In for a dime, in for a dollar.

  Ms. Shrewer sat talking on the phone, her back to me. I studied the shrew.

  Her fuzzy, bullet-shaped head rose from the neck of a dress that was last in style around the time of the Spanish Inquisition. Two ears burrowed into the head as if trying to escape her voice, a voice that sounded like a twenty-foot blackboard being dragged across a roomful of claws.

  I wished them luck. Ms. Shrewer had a poison tongue. Literally. If a shrew ever hocks a loogey at you, look out.

  “‘No’? You’ll have to do better than that,” she half whined, half snarled into the mouthpiece. “Keep looking!” The vice principal banged the phone down. Then, half turning, she plucked a piece of paper from her desk.

  “Ms. Shrewer?” I said.

  “Eh?” She flinched, shoved the paper into an open desk drawer, and spun to face me. “What do you want?”

  “World peace, a monthlong vacation, and a triple-decker beetle-larva sandwich,” I said. “But I’ll settle for justice.”

  The shrew’s tiny eyes narrowed. She threw a halfhearted smile on her face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Playing Mr. Reasonable, I plopped into her visitor chair. “Me, neither. I know my partner’s not a blackmailer, you know?”

  “No . . .”

  “And I know if you knew her like I know her, you’d know she wasn’t a blackmailer, too.” I spread my hands. “So now you know.”

  “No, no.” Her smile dropped so fast it nearly singed the carpet. “You’re talking,” she snarled, “about Miss Attired.”

  “Bingo,” I said. “Now, why do you think she was blackmailing you?”

  Ms. Shrewer slammed her desk drawer. “That’s private.” She marched around her desk. “As in, keep your nose out of my private business.”

  “I’m a private eye,” I said. “As in, I can keep a secret.”

  “Not mine.”

  I leaned forward. “Someone else is blackmailing you. I’ll find out who—no charge.”

  The shrew grabbed my shoulders and set me on my feet. “Get . . . out.”

  “I’m going,” I said, walking to the doorway. “But I’m not finished. I’ll prove Natalie’s innocence if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Ms. Shrewer pushed her pointy snout close to mine. Her breath reeked of fungus and grasshopper guts. “Mister,” she hissed, “if you go poking around in my affairs, it will be the last thing you do.”

  “Aw, shucks,” I said. “Does this mean I’m off your Christmas list?”

  And—bam!—just like that, she slammed the door in my face.

  Did I leave? Hey, even the world’s worst actor recognizes an exit cue when he hears one.

  5


  Owl Play

  First Mr. Zero shot me down, and then Ms. Shrewer clammed up. Two strikes. For Natalie’s sake, I couldn’t afford a third.

  I wondered about the paper Vice Principal Shrewer had shoved into her drawer. Could it be the blackmail note? Or just an invitation to join the National Crabbiness Coalition?

  Bright sunshine made me squint as I stepped outside. Sneaking into Shrewer’s office would take some planning. But in the meantime, I could check out the low-down, stinking blackmailer himself: T-Bone LaLouche.

  My feet led me to the edge of the sixth graders’ playground. Lunchtime might have been three-quarters over, but call me an optimist: I saw it as one-quarter full.

  What had T-Bone’s mole friend said? Ask Oliver or Trixie? I slipped on glasses, flipped up my hat brim, and approached the teacher on yard duty.

  “Hiya, chief,” I said to the beefy bobcat. “Know any kids named Oliver or Trixie?”

  He scowled down at me. “Who wants to know?” he said.

  “Uh, Ace Grabonowitz, star reporter. I’m on a story.”

  The bobcat looked me up and down with suspicion. “Right,” he said at last. “You’ll find Oliver Suddon in that tree . . . detective.”

  Dang. My disguise skills needed some work.

  Oliver Suddon was a plump screech owl with a face as memorable as the last word problem on a twelve-page math test. Everything about him screamed Industrial-Strength Nerd—from his Coke-bottle glasses to the pocket protector on his vest. His mild eyes were big as dinner plates. His feathers were brown as boredom.

  As I stepped around the tree, Oliver’s head rotated to watch me.

  Ugh. I hate when owls do that.

  “Howdy, sport, I’m—”

  “Ooh! Ooh! Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re that detective lizard.”

  I stowed the glasses and fixed my hat. So much for that disguise. “Chet’s the name; mystery’s the game,” I said.

  “Wow. I’ve heard about you. Are you on a case?”

  “Um, yeah, as a matter of fact.”

  Oliver flapped his wings in excitement. “Wicked cool!” he hooted. “You’re gonna interview me? Ooh! Ooh! I can’t wait to tell my friends.”

  His enthusiasm was touching. I know I’d be excited if I interviewed me. Hmm . . . that might be worth doing. I made a mental note to try it later.

  “Just wanted to ask you about T-Bone LaLouche,” I said. “For background.” I leaned on the tree.

  “Golly,” he said, shifting on his branch. “Go right ahead.”

  “First, do you know if T-Bone has any particular enemies?”

  Oliver frowned. “No . . . he’s a cool guy. Everyone likes T-Bone.”

  I scratched my chin. “Okay, what about bad company? You know, friends that might get him in trouble?”

  “Ooh! Ooh! You mean like the Stench Bombs?” he said. “He really wants to join the band.”

  My tail twitched. The Stench Bombs again? Interesting.

  “Is that so?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Oliver pouted. “Lately, T-Bone’s been spending more time with them and less time with our study group.”

  “And you think they’re a bad influence?”

  “Definitely!” said the screech owl. “He’s not studying as much.”

  Anything that took me away from studying was a good influence. But I didn’t mention that to Oliver Suddon, Dweebmaster of the Universe.

  “Thanks, flappy,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Ooh, keen-o! Anything else I can do?”

  I smirked. “Yeah, buddy boy. Point me to a girl named Trixie.”

  His feathered noggin spun on its shoulders again as Oliver scanned the playground. Yuck. I could never be an owl—too many trips to the chiropractor.

  “There,” he said, “in the lavender scarf. Trixie’s in our study group, too.”

  “Ain’t that just the bee’s knees,” I said. I strolled over to the bunny he’d fingered. Oliver flew off—to tell his friends he’d met me, no doubt.

  Ah, fame. It’s the burden we hotshot private eyes have to bear.

  From the back, Trixie looked just like any rabbit. Long ears, cotton tail. The usual bunny thing. But when I tapped her shoulder, I got a surprise.

  Trixie was Miss Fluffy—T-Bone’s chum at my morning mishap.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she said, chuckling. Trixie turned to her seagull friend. “Kylie, it’s the guy who fell off the wall! Remember, I told you?”

  The seagull squawked. “Whatsamatter, Gecko?” she said. “Did your feet run out of stickum?”

  I checked my finger pads. “Eew. It’s not stickum . . .”

  “It’s not?” said Kylie.

  “Yes, it’s snot,” I said, “and it’s yours. Use a tissue next time.”

  The gull’s beak shut with a snap.

  I snagged Trixie’s elbow. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  The rabbit raised an eyebrow. “Well, all right. If you’re not going to fall down on me again.”

  I led her away from Kylie the seagull. “It’s about T-Bone,” I said. “He’s . . . mixed up in this case I’m investigating.”

  “Is T-Bone in trouble?” asked Trixie, clasping her paws.

  “Could be,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Have you noticed anything odd about him lately?”

  “Like what?”

  “Has he been sneaky, or in a bad mood? Does T-Bone have any problems with the school staff?”

  “He—” Trixie glanced past me. “Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

  “Why? Has the big bullyboy threatened you?”

  “No,” said the rabbit. “But he’s standing right behind you.”

  Ah. That explained the smell.

  6

  ’Dillo Talk

  I turned and looked up into the snarling face of T-Bone LaLouche.

  The ringtail’s lean chest puffed out, and two buff armadillos leered over his shoulders like gargoyle bodyguards. A trio of troublemakers.

  “What’s the big idea, Gecko?” he growled. “Why you sniffin’ around me?”

  “Actually, I’m trying not to sniff,” I said, “in case you drop another stink bomb.”

  T-Bone sneered. “I don’t like your face, Gecko.”

  “No one does. I get a lot of complaints, but it doesn’t seem to get any handsomer.”

  His black eyes sizzled and his paws clenched into fists. “Beat it, chump. And stop talking trash about me.”

  I dug in my heels. “What trash?”

  “Word on the playground is, you think I’m a blackmailer.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Well, the playground lies.”

  His eyebrows puckered. “Sure. It lies beneath us.”

  “No, not lies, lies.”

  “Exactly,” he said, and pointed down. “It lies right there. What’s the big deal?”

  “Never mind.” I shook my head to clear it. “Um, anyhow, I don’t think you’re a blackmailer.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I know you’re a blackmailer.”

  “You shut your yap,” he snapped. T-Bone asked the armadillos, “Hey, guys, what do we do to lyin’ lizards?”

  “We bung up their boozle!” said the beefier armadillo.

  “What’s a boozle?” said the second one.

  “Aw, you know . . . ,” said Beefy ’Dillo.

  “Their schnozzola?” said Number-Two ’Dillo.

  “Naw,” said Beefy.

  “Their noggin?” asked T-Bone.

  “Unh-uh,” said the big guy.

  “You mean, you bash their faces in?” I asked.

  The trio turned to me. “Yeah, that’s it,” said Beefy ’Dillo with a smile.

  Me and my big mouth.

  The three toughs closed in like a shark’s jaws on a scuba-diving dentist.

  I stepped back. “You framed my partner. But you won’t get away with it.”

  “Big talk, little gecko,” sneered Number-T
wo ’Dillo.

  “Grab ’im!” cried T-Bone.

  I streaked across the playground with the three mooks hot on my tail. If only I could reach a building, I could scuttle up to safety. A sixth-grade classroom loomed just ahead.

  “Yaaah!” And suddenly, so did the ringtail.

  Blocked, I wheeled back onto open ground. But I was losing steam. Lunch sloshed in my stomach. My legs felt like lasagna noodles.

  R-r-r-ring!

  The class bell never sounded so good.

  T-Bone and his buddies gave up when their teacher called. Panting like a spaniel in the Sahara, I trudged back to class.

  I had escaped cruel and sadistic torture that would’ve maimed me for life.

  Mr. Ratnose greeted us with a cheery, “Pop quiz, everyone!”

  Or had I?

  Recess found me frazzled and frustrated under the scrofulous tree. I racked my brains but still couldn’t get a handle on the case.

  On the one hand, T-Bone said he wasn’t the blackmailer, but a real blackmailer could easily tell a lie.

  On the other hand, I didn’t know that his note actually threatened blackmail. It could’ve been a love letter to Ms. Shrewer. (Then again, maybe not.)

  And on the third hand, T-Bone had come on strong for an innocent guy with nothing to hide. . . .

  Hmm. I didn’t have three hands. I didn’t have a clear head. I needed Natalie’s brainpower. Maybe I could—

  “Hur, hur. Hey, Chet!”

  It was my classmate, Waldo the furball. Waldo was a . . . well . . . no one knew exactly what. He wasn’t a monkey, he wasn’t a mouse, he wasn’t a woolly mammoth. He was just . . . hairy.

  “Make it snappy, Waldo. I’m a busy lizard.”

  He grinned. “Okeydokey. I heard about Natalie. With your partner gone, you need a replacement. And here I am! Hur, hur.”

  My cheeks got hot. I jumped up. “Natalie’s not gone,” I said, “just suspended. And I’m not replacing her.”

  Waldo held up his furry paws. “Alrighty,” he said. “But please just let me help a little? I’ve always wanted to be a detective.”

  “Nothing doing.”

  He dug in his book bag. “Pleeease? I’ll give you all my Roaches Pieces.” The furball held out two bags of candy.