Trouble Is My Beeswax

by Bruce Hale

He steepled his fingers, and his tail switched slowly. “Mm-hmm.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means . . . mm-hmm,” he said. “Have you ever thought, Pet—”

  “That’s—aw, never mind.”

  “. . . That perhaps you’re investigating cheaters because you, yourself, want to cheat?”

  “What?” I said, getting to my feet. “You’re cracked!”

  The old lizard waggled a finger. “That’s mentally unbalanced. Now, tell the truth.”

  “I—I never . . .” My voice croaked, and my eyes went watery. What was this?

  “Ye-e-es? Tell me all . . .” Mr. Van Wrinkle’s voice soothed.

  With an effort, I snapped out of it. Dang, this guy was good.

  “Listen, wrinklepuss, I’m trying to stop the cheaters, not join ’em!” I turned and headed back out the door.

  “If the need to cheat gets too strong, come see me,” he called. “I’m always here to listen, Jet.”

  15

  Stakeout & Potatoes

  Sometimes a case ties your tail in knots. But sometimes Lady Luck smiles on you like a crocodile with a new set of choppers. This was one of those times. Not only did a strategy pop into my head on the walk back to class, but also I arrived just as the final bell rang.

  Can’t beat that for timing.

  Natalie and I had a quick confab outside my door while waiting for the classroom to empty.

  “Heya, Chet,” she said. “I did some poking around during computer lab, and I think I found the Web site with the test answers.”

  “What was it?”

  She smirked. “Cheatersalwaysprosper.com, of course.”

  “Did you get in?”

  “Naw, couldn’t crack it without the password.”

  I leaned on the wall. “Let’s leave the cheating ring for tomorrow. Right now, we’re gonna find out who framed Shirley.”

  I told her of my brainstorm.

  She frowned. “I dunno, Chet. If you think it’ll work . . .”

  “Don’t be a worry bird,” I said. “Of course it’ll work. And even if it doesn’t, I’ve learned something to help us spot the culprit.”

  I repeated what Mr. Van Wrinkle had said about the reasons kids cheat.

  Natalie cocked her head. “If that’s true,” she said, “our cheater should be Noah, Lacey, or Jack.”

  “How do you figure?”

  Natalie counted off the reasons on her feather tips. “Pressure from the parents—that sounds like Noah and Lacey . . .”

  “And Jackdaw Ripper is Mr. Flexible Morals,” I said. “Well, whoever it was, we’ll know pretty soon.”

  I peeked through the doorway. The last straggler had cleared the room. Mr. Ratnose strolled toward us.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said.

  “But what if nobody tries to sneak in?” asked Natalie.

  I clamped down my hat and scuttled up the wall. “Then I’ve wasted a perfectly good stakeout. Ssh, here he comes!”

  Mr. Ratnose stepped outside. I flattened myself against the wall above him.

  “Oh, Mr. Ratnose?” said Natalie. “Can you answer something for me?”

  He bent toward her. “Why of course, my dear.” For some reason, Mr. Ratnose was always nicer to other teachers’ students.

  “Sir, I was wondering,” Natalie said, as I eased around the doorframe behind my teacher’s back. “I have a question about English that my teacher couldn’t answer.”

  Mr. Ratnose smoothed his whiskers. “I’ll certainly give it a try.”

  “Why is it that writers write, but fingers don’t fing?”

  “Eh?”

  I was halfway through the door. He started to turn back toward me.

  “Also,” she said, “I’ve noticed that grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham. What’s up with this language?”

  Mr. Ratnose huffed. “Stop wasting my time, young lady.” In one smooth move he shut and locked the door—just as I pulled my tail through. Close call.

  My eyes adjusted to the dimness while my teacher’s footsteps faded.

  Natalie’s voice came faintly through the door: “Good luck, partner.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Uh, ‘fingers don’t fing’?”

  “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

  I climbed down the wall and looked for a likely hiding place. Behind the aquarium or back by the sink? Ah, the supply cabinet. I slipped inside.

  It was a tight fit amid the games and papers and such. Chalk dust tickled my nose and pencils poked me, but I closed the cabinet door, leaving a good-sized crack for spying.

  Minutes lolled around like lazy sloths at naptime. I yawned silently and scratched my nose. Just when I thought this had been a really dumb idea, a soft clickety-click sounded at the classroom door.

  I held my breath.

  The door swung open. A dark figure stood framed in daylight. As he entered the room, I made out the mug of . . . Jackdaw Ripper! That sneak thief.

  He strolled up the aisle, bold as brass, making straight for the teacher’s desk. The magpie rummaged through the drawers and slipped something into a sack he was carrying.

  Hah! I had him dead to rights. Just then, the chalk dust made my nose twitch. Pressure built behind my eyes. I pinched my nose and thought anti-sneezing thoughts.

  Jack looked up at the supply cabinet. A smile creased his beak, and the shifty bird prowled toward my hiding place.

  Uh-oh. I gripped the inside latch.

  He stepped up to the cabinet and reached for the handle . . .

  But just then, the front door rattled again!

  Jack’s gaze swept the room, settling on the aquarium. He fluttered over and took cover behind it.

  When the door opened, another fowl stood in the doorway. What was this, a jailbird convention? The invader closed the door and tiptoed toward the teacher’s desk, head down.

  The bird opened a drawer and leafed through file folders. That’s when I recognized her: the glamorous Lacey Vail! Was she a cheater, too? I bit my lip.

  The dove drew out a file and scanned its contents. She frowned, replaced it, and started back toward the door. Then Lacey stopped by a student’s desk and searched inside.

  The urge to sneeze gripped me again. My nostrils trembled, and my face stretched like earwig taffy. Down, boy! I told myself.

  The feeling passed. Mentally counting over from my own seat, I realized that Lacey Vail was searching her own brother’s desk. But why?

  Before I could figure it out, the dove shut the desktop and scooted out the door. Then Jack slunk from behind the aquarium and followed her.

  I slumped back against the shelves. Was everybody cheating in this class except me and Shirley? Lost in my thoughts, I heard a thump, which I assumed was Jack closing the door.

  When a stray air current sent more chalk dust my way, I didn’t fight it. I let rip with a loud “Ah-eh-ah-TZOOOO!”

  The force of my sneeze blew the cabinet door open. I stepped out. And there, standing at his desk, was Mr. Ratnose.

  “Exactly what,” he snarled, “is the meaning of this?”

  16

  To Catch Some Grief

  I held my palms out. “I can explain,” I said. “I was on a stakeout and—”

  Mr. Ratnose bore down on me, with teeth clenched and tail stiff as a frozen mantis burger.

  “No need for explanations,” he said. “I know exactly what you were doing.”

  I relaxed. “Good, ’cause this case—”

  “You, sir, are a cheater!”

  “Huh?”

  A few kids had filed into the room. They hung back near the doorway and watched with the happy fascination of bystanders at a train wreck.

  “I knew you were a so-so student,” said Mr. Ratnose. “But I never thought you’d stoop so low as to steal test answers and sell them.”

  The other kids gasped.

  “What?” I said. “But I didn’t—”

  “Hush!” he said. “Whip Van
Wrinkle just told me about you. And now I find you’ve broken into the classroom. What am I to think?”

  My tail curled. “I was just—”

  “Not another word!” thundered the furious rat. He grabbed my collar and towed me over to my desk. “Mister,” he said, “you are in a world of trouble. For starters, I’m giving you a full month of detention. And since I’m hosting detention today, you can begin right now.”

  He glared, daring me to speak.

  For once, I kept my trap shut. Though the world felt wobblier than a macaroni footstool, I pulled my shoulders back and sat down.

  Shirley parked herself beside me. She leaned over. “Chet?” she said.

  I turned. “Yes, Shirley?”

  “You are so fired.”

  “But—”

  She tossed her head. “Don’t speak to me again, you cheater. ”

  I sank my chin onto my hands. My tail drooped.

  There I was: no freedom, no reputation, no client. No way could things get any worse.

  Then Kitten Caboodle slid into a chair on my other side and broke out a notepad. “So tell me,” she said. “How does this make you feel?”

  I’ll spare you the details of my time in the hoosegow (that’s jail in private-eye talk) and how my dad took the news with such compassion. Let’s just say I had to sleep standing up.

  The next morning dawned bright and surly. I groused my way to school and met Natalie by the flagpole.

  “Why the grump, chump?” she chirped. Early birds are way too cheerful.

  “Just a month of detention and no more client,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “Oh, you mean this?” She held up a copy of the school paper.

  The headline blared, CHEATING RING ROCKS SCHOOL—DETECTIVE SUSPECTED.

  I snatched the newspaper and glanced at the story. How peachy. To add insult to injury, they’d used my school picture. I jammed the paper into my pocket.

  “I’m toast in this town,” I said.

  “Extra crispy, with butter,” Natalie agreed. “Now, how are we gonna turn this case around?”

  “What do you mean? I’ll go to class, do my detention, and try to forget all about it.”

  She tut-tutted. “Don’t be so negative. Say, I can cheer you up. How did—”

  I cut her off. “No jokes. I’m throwing in the towel.”

  Natalie grabbed my shoulder. “That’s not the Chet Gecko I know.”

  “Yeah? Maybe he wised up.”

  “Wisdom? Nah, that’s not the Chet I know, either.”

  “Funny,” I said. I sagged onto the flagpole base. “Partner, whoever’s behind this has been three steps ahead of us from the beginning.”

  “So?” she said. “We always figure it out in the end.”

  “Not this time.” I watched kids straggling, slow as the last hour of vacation, onto the school grounds. “I can’t tell whether Jackdaw or Lacey framed Shirley—and Shirley fired us, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Natalie sat beside me. “She’ll come around,” she said. “But meanwhile, we can work on the cheating ring, starting with that shifty raccoon Johnny Ringo.”

  “How?” I asked. “With those two wolverines around, we can’t get close. And even if we could, Johnny Ringo’s a tough nut to crack.”

  Natalie groomed her feathers. “To crack a tough nut, apply more pressure.”

  “Yeah, but the only one with that kind of weight is Principal Zero. And he’d never help us. We’ve got no proof.”

  “What if we gathered all our suspects together in the principal’s office? Think we could squeeze the truth out of them?”

  I turned to look at her. “But how could we get them there?”

  “Ah-ah-ah,” she said. “First, I’ve got to know: Are you on the case or off it?”

  I tugged my hat low. “Partner,” I said, “what’s on your mind?”

  Natalie raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking maybe . . . a lunch party.”

  17

  The Feast That Launched a Thousand Chips

  By the time morning recess ended, Natalie and I had set her plan in motion. With the Newt Brothers as messengers, we passed out invitations to all the suspects in the case.

  You wonder, how could we expect everyone to show up? Simple. We lied.

  Lacey Vail approached me as I entered our classroom. “Am I really invited to an exclusive lunch with Antone ‘the Stone’ Jones?” she asked.

  Her eyes were deeper than a mole’s root cellar, and her breath was sweeter than peppermint mothflakes.

  My throat went dry. “By . . . uh . . . special request,” I said.

  She clasped her perfect wings to her chest. “I don’t normally follow professional wrestling, you understand. But he’s the dreamiest.”

  “Pretty dreamy.” I fought a goofy grin that threatened to creep across my face.

  “But I wasn’t aware that you knew him.”

  “Oh, Antone and me, we’re like this,” I said. I figured my fib didn’t count, since my fingers were already crossed.

  The classes before lunch staggered by like a polka lesson with a three-legged dog. Although the threat of an afternoon test hung over us all, my gallery of suspects shimmered with delight.

  Ah, the power of a celebrity invitation.

  When the lunch bell sounded, I shot out the door like a lizard possessed. Even though the cafeteria ladies had promised to save us a table, the law of the jungle ruled the lunchroom. It was first-come, first-served, all the way.

  I skidded up to the table with the RESERVED sign on it. Somehow, Olive Drabb had beaten me there. Sneaky critters, those mice.

  “Olive, this says ‘reserved.’”

  “I can read, ya know,” she droned. “But this is my usual table, and I says to myself, Olive, there’s gotta be room at the inn for someone who’s . . .”

  Ay, that voice. I shook my head to keep from dropping into a standing nap. The lunchroom was filling up. No time to dicker.

  “All right,” I said. “You can stay.”

  “Gee, thanks, Chet, you—”

  I held up a hand. “Don’t speak. Just sit by the wall and keep your trap shut.”

  “Why, certainly, I—”

  “Don’t speak,” I said. “I’m serious as a detention slip.”

  “Sure thing, it’s—”

  “You . . . no . . . speakee!”

  Miraculously, she clammed up.

  Natalie brought our trays, and I looked them over. Besides the usual overcooked veggies and potato-bug chips, the cafeteria ladies were serving cricket potpie, horsefly pizza, and for dessert, parasitic-lice pudding.

  Perfect for our purposes.

  We directed the suspects to their seats as they came. Nobody wanted to sit beside Johnny Ringo’s wolverines, but we solved that by putting them between Johnny and Olive. That’d teach her to horn in on a party.

  When everyone was settled, I stood.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” I said. “Has everyone got their food?”

  As I scanned the table, I spotted a late, uninvited guest. The nosy kitty, Kitten Caboodle, had slipped onto the bench across from Olive. She returned my glare with an innocent smile.

  “Bring on the Stone!” shouted Jackdaw. The wolverines began chanting, “An-tone, An-tone.”

  I held up a hand. “Now, now. It gives me great pleasure to announce . . .” Everyone looked up expectantly. “. . . That Antone won’t be joining us today.”

  Their faces fell faster than steel-winged bumblebees.

  “What?!” squawked Natalie. “No Antone?” She scooped up her cricket potpie, and as I stepped behind Noah Vail, she let fly.

  Blorp!

  The gooey mess landed smack in Noah’s face.

  “Why, you—” I muttered, snagging a pizza slice from his tray. I took a quick bite, Natalie ducked, and I flung the pizza right into Johnny Ringo’s lap.

  Noah and Johnny seethed like a pair of volcanoes. The wolverines looked ugly. (Of co
urse, they always looked ugly.) The dove and the raccoon reached for their pudding, and at the last minute, Natalie and I dodged their throws.

  Plonk! Ploop!

  Parasitic-lice pudding dripped from the heads of Rimshot Binkley and Wolverine Two (or was it One?).

  “Food fight!” I yelled.

  From then on, animal nature took its course. Pizzas sailed, potpies wailed, and pudding plopped. Even the overcooked veggies vaulted into the act.

  Our suspects slung food like a road-show version of My Dinner with the Flying Karamazovs. Everyone got into the fight—even Olive and Kitten.

  Before the battle could infect the whole lunchroom, Natalie slipped away.

  “I’ll fraggle you for good, Gecko!” shouted Wolverine One (or was it Two?). He tossed a potpie my way. I didn’t duck this time, but just opened wide.

  Hey, a gecko’s gotta eat.

  Sooner than you’d think, we were wearing our lunches. The trays were bare. Johnny Ringo picked his up and started slogging toward me with murder in his eyes and pudding in his fur.

  I crouched, ready to spring onto the wall.

  FWEEEET!

  A whistle blast cut through the din.

  Beside our table stood a hefty tomcat with a bad attitude. Principal Zero. He didn’t waste time; he didn’t ask questions. He just said the five little words that warmed the cockles of my heart.

  “Everybody, in my office. Now!”

  18

  Up the Creek without a Tattle

  Principal Zero kept us cooling our heels in the waiting room, under the watchful eyes of his secretary, Maggie Crow, and Vice Principal Shrewer. Before we sat, Mrs. Crow spread paper towels on the seats.

  “And don’t drip on the carpet, if you know what’s good for you,” she squawked.

  We squished into chairs, dripping pudding and pizza.

  The spanking machine hummed in a corner. Nobody looked at it.

  The ten of us food-slingers sat avoiding eye contact—Johnny Ringo and his two goons, me and my five classmates, and Kitten Caboodle, who was scribbling on her notepad. Actually, Johnny and his wolverines didn’t so much avoid my eyes as send daggers, spears, and laser blasts my way with each glance.