The Mystery of Mr. Nice

by Bruce Hale

  “Wait,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Home to do my homework,” she said. “You might try it sometime.”

  “Hah!” I snorted. “Homework is for sissies.”

  But I’d never let my mom hear me say that.

  Natalie shook her head. “See you in an hour,” she said.

  Natalie took off. I rolled past the students and teachers leaving school. My radar was up. Every teacher’s frown set my nerves on edge. Even the crossing guards looked cross.

  Just before my house, I slowed to turn into the driveway.

  And then it came.

  “Yaaah!”

  A dark shape lunged from a bush. It knocked me off the skateboard. We tumbled onto the grass.

  As we rolled, I pinned my attacker to the ground.

  “Hah!” I shouted. “Got you, you—Pinky?”

  My little sister squirmed under me.

  “Get off!” she said. “I’m telling Mom.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” I said. “You’re the one who ambushed me.”

  I’ve matched wits with king cobras and tangled with Gila monsters. Not many foes could make this private eye lose his cool.

  My sister could.

  “Okay, roach-breath, I’ll let you up,” I said. “Stop bucking.”

  She stopped. We glared at each other, then stood and brushed ourselves off.

  “I swear, Pinky, you’d make a great criminal mastermind, given half a chance.”

  Pinky planted her hands on her hips. “Unh-uh!” she said, shaking her head. “Yesterday, the prince-apo’ came to our class, an’ he said I’d make a rotten crinimal.”

  I leaned forward. “What?”

  She stuck her chest out. “Yeah. Prince-apo’ Zero asked who thinks it’s okay to lie an’ steal. Some kids raised their hands. But I told him it’s wrong.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “Wrote down the kids’ names who raised their hands.”

  I shook my head. Stranger and stranger.

  “Thanks, Pinky,” I said.

  She ducked her head, shy as a goose at a barnyard boogie night. “For what?” she said.

  Pinky headed for the front door.

  I strolled into the backyard. Time to hit the office for some serious brainwork.

  “Chet!” My mom stood in the back doorway, arms crossed. “Do you have any homework today?”

  Oops. Not the kind of brainwork I had in mind.

  “Oh, uh . . . not much,” I said.

  “Well, make sure you do it before dinner . . .”

  Suggestions didn’t work with me.

  “Or no dessert for you,” she said.

  Threats did.

  “Okay, mom. In a minute.” I waded through the tall grass toward my own private think tank.

  My office sits up against the fence, behind a clump of bamboo. It’s cleverly disguised as a big refrigerator box. On one side, I have a Saran Wrap window with my name on it, just like the big-shot detectives have.

  The little details make all the difference.

  I crawled inside. I sat thinking about the case and reading my name on the window:

  CHET GECKO

  I hoped that when Natalie showed up, she’d bring some hot clues.

  Or at least some hot cocoa. I was hungry again.

  From my emergency stash, I pulled out a Three Mosquitoes candy bar. Small, but tasty. I got out my crayons and started sketching a new comic book.

  Sometimes drawing relaxes me and helps me think about the case I’m on.

  Not this time. I drew big-muscled hamsters and kindergartners in prison clothes.

  This case had me in a grip tighter than a turtle’s underwear.

  I had just started looking for another candy bar when I heard leaves crunching outside.

  Footsteps. I reached for my trusty rubber-band gun and held my breath.

  8

  The Plot Sickens

  “Who’s there?” I said.

  “Get your tail out here right now, young Gecko,” said a voice that sounded like Principal Zero’s.

  I pulled back the rubber band. “Wh-what?”

  “Gotcha! Chet, it’s me, Natalie,” said a voice that sounded like Natalie’s. You can never be sure with a mockingbird.

  “What’s the secret password?” I said.

  “Come on, Chet, let me in. I brought grasshopper cookies and cocoa.”

  “Close enough,” I said. “Come in.”

  We got settled, had our snack, and talked about the case. I told Natalie what I’d just learned from Pinky and showed her the mysterious list I’d found in the trash.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of to-do list,” she said.

  “If that’s the case, some crook’s going to be busier than a bunny at an all-you-can-eat salad bar. But why did they include spelling?”

  Natalie shrugged. “Beats me. But, hey, guess what I overheard at the nurse’s office. The principal had two visitors. I didn’t recognize their voices.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Something about the PTA meeting. Then one of them asked, ‘Is he still under wraps?’ And the principal said, ‘Yeah, he won’t give us any trouble.’”

  I drained the cup of cocoa and wiped off my chocolate mustache. “Anything else?” I said.

  “Just this,” said Natalie. “I poked around in back of the nurse’s office, where they keep the extra school supplies. And I found a big box of brass knuckles.”

  “Hmm . . . reading and writing and rhythmic hits,” I said. I paced back and forth, and bumped into the side of the box. I needed a bigger office. Or a smaller partner.

  “Natalie, anyone at school could be in on this plot.”

  “Anyone?” she said. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

  “Okay, maybe just half the school,” I said.

  Natalie snorted. “Come on, Chet. Think about it. Principal Zero just got weird this week, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And that phony janitor said he started work this week.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, maybe we should check out any teachers or students who just came to Emerson Hicky.”

  She was pretty smart. For a bird.

  “Let’s start tomorrow,” I said. “I have a hunch that we’d better solve this case before that PTA meeting on Friday. Something’s going to happen there.”

  “Then let’s start tonight,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday, Chet.”

  Details. They’ll get you every time.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ll start right away. Let’s—”

  “Chet!” called my mother. “Dinnertime! And don’t forget to do your homework afterward.”

  “Okay, Mom!”

  Natalie smirked. “Looks like you have more important business,” she said. “‘Only sissies do homework,’ eh?”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “I’ll meet you tomorrow before school. We’ll see what the early bird catches.”

  “Chet, come in right now!” my mom shouted. “I’m not going to call you again.”

  I went into the house. Mysteries are like meat and drink to a detective. But sometimes there’s just no substitute for Mom’s mothloaf smothered in gravy.

  9

  Armadillo Dallying

  Early the next morning, a rosy glaze covered the sky and dew sparkled on the grass as I left for school. At least I think it did. A rosy glaze covered my eyeballs, too.

  I hate mornings.

  Natalie waited by the cafeteria, whistling a happy tune and twirling a worm. Birds.

  “Hiya, Chet,” she said. “Ready for some first-class snooping?”

  “Ready to go back to bed and sleep until lunch.” I yawned.

  “Come on. Let’s catch some bad guys while they’re still groggy.”

  I grunted and led the way to the principal’s office. Maggie Crow was another early bird. She could tell us who was new at Emerson Hicky and point us toward s
ome suspects.

  If she wanted to.

  Natalie and I stopped in at Mrs. Crow’s desk.

  “He’s not here yet, kids,” she said. “You’re going to have to wait for the Paddle of Doom.”

  “We came to see you, sugar-beak,” I said. “Not your boss.”

  “Yeah?” said Maggie Crow skeptically. She groomed her wing feathers. “What about?”

  I glanced at Natalie. I hadn’t figured out that part yet. “Umm . . . ,” I said.

  Natalie took a sneaky approach. “Oh, Mrs. Crow,” she said, “we’re forming a Welcome Wagon. Chet and I want to welcome the new students and teachers here, make them feel at home.”

  “Why, that’s a lovely idea,” said Maggie Crow. She beamed at Natalie.

  Sucker.

  “We figured we’d start with the ones who just came this week,” I said. “Can you tell us who they are?”

  Maggie Crow leaned back in her chair and snagged a file from the stack on the filing cabinet. She paged through it.

  “Yep, here we go,” she said. “There are only four newcomers: Guido the janitor; Mr. Clint Squint, the vice principal; a sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Echo Darkwing; and a third-grade student named Popper.”

  We already knew about Guido. That left three suspects to investigate.

  “What happened to the old vice principal, Mrs. Shrewer?” said Natalie.

  “Funny thing,” said Mrs. Crow. “She calls up last Friday, talking in a weird voice. Says she’s quitting. Then, out of the blue, this new guy, Mr. Squint, shows up on Monday.”

  Natalie cocked her head. “Lucky coincidence?” she said.

  “You bet,” said Maggie Crow.

  Hmm. Some coincidence. Like it’s a coincidence how I show up whenever my mom bakes chocolate-ant cookies. I steered Natalie toward the vice principal’s office.

  “We’ll just go in and welcome Mr. Squint to our happy family,” I said. “Have a lovely day.”

  Mrs. Crow narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Maybe I had laid it on kind of thick.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “He gets here real early.”

  I rapped on the vice principal’s door. When a gruff voice barked, “What?” I turned the knob.

  An armadillo with a bad haircut, Mr. Squint was as short and squat as a bank safe. And his lips were shut just as tightly. He leaned on the edge of his desk, picking his nails with a wicked-looking letter opener.

  “Mr. Squint?” I said.

  “Who’s askin’?” he said.

  “We’re the Welcome Wagon,” said Natalie. “We want to welcome you to our school.”

  He blinked.

  “So . . . welcome,” I said.

  “Gee. Thanks,” said Mr. Squint. He watched us closely with beady black eyes. His ears twitched. Natalie had no more bright ideas, so I put in my two cents.

  “Been here long?”

  “Not long,” he said.

  “Where were you before this?”

  “Upstate.”

  “Have you taught class before?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Mr. Squint talked like it cost him a dollar for each word. It’d break my piggybank to get a whole speech out of him.

  “What did you teach?”

  “Boxing,” he said. “Why?”

  “That’s my business,” I said.

  Mr. Squint stood and flexed. His armor plates bristled.

  “I could make your business my business,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t like it,” I said. “The pay stinks.”

  Mr. Squint took a step, and his armored tail knocked a coffee cup off the desk. He bent and reached for it. Suddenly I knew all I needed to know about Mr. Clint Squint.

  “Well, it’s been swell,” I said. “We’re off to class.”

  “Welcome again,” said Natalie, “to our happy little home.”

  “Scat!” he said. We scatted.

  Outside the building, Natalie glanced back.

  “Why did we leave so fast?” she said.

  “Did you see that tattoo on his arm when he picked up that coffee mug? It had a knife stuck through a heart, and above it, it said PEN STATE.”

  “So?” she said. “What’s Pen State? A writing program?”

  “The state prison. Our Mr. Squint is a professional crook.”

  10

  A Froggy Day

  We still had ten minutes until school started. Natalie and I headed for the third-grade classroom to check out Popper, the new kid. As we turned the corner, Natalie slowed.

  “So, if Mr. Squint’s a criminal, what does that have to do with Principal Zero?” she said.

  I scratched my chin. “I don’t know. But he’s probably up to his no-neck in this plot. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Guido the janitor is a crook, too.”

  “‘Dollars to doughnuts’?” said Natalie. She shook her head. “Chet, you say the strangest things.”

  The doors to the third-grade classroom were locked tighter than a frog’s nostril. No lights showed inside.

  “Shucks,” I said. “Nobody here.”

  A couple of mice waited outside the door. They were playing the kind of deep and sophisticated game that young rodents love. When one made the other blink, he’d sock his classmate’s arm about ten times.

  It wasn’t chess, but it passed the time.

  “Hey,” said Natalie. “You kids know where we can find Popper?”

  “Poppies?” said the smaller one. A regular Einstein.

  “No, dummy,” said the bigger one. “They mean Popper, the new kid.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Mouse Einstein. “She likes to hang out at the jungle gym.”

  He turned to his friend.

  “Hey, ‘hang out at the jungle gym.’ I made a funny!”

  They giggled like a couple of bunnies on a sugar rush. We left them to polish their stand-up comedy act and headed for the playground.

  “Chet, that reminds me,” said Natalie. “Why was the tuna so sad when he lost his wife?”

  I hunched my shoulders. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me,” I said.

  “He lobster and couldn’t flounder! Ha, ha!” Natalie cackled and ruffled her tail feathers.

  I groaned.

  “Come on, wise up,” I said. “Here’s the jungle gym, and I bet that’s Popper.”

  Just ahead of us, a brightly striped tree frog was climbing the bars. She wasn’t very small—just small enough to fit into a book bag with room left over for books. And she wasn’t very energetic—just bouncing around the jungle gym like alien popcorn in a warp-speed popper.

  Maybe that’s how she got her name. Duh.

  “Hey, short stuff,” I said. “Are you the one they call Popper?”

  “Yup, yup, yup, that’s me!” she squeaked.

  “We’d like to talk to you,” said Natalie.

  Popper turned a triple back flip off the highest bar and landed at our feet. She kept vibrating even after she hit the ground.

  “Hey, hey, what’s up?” she said.

  “I’m Chet and this is Natalie. We want to welcome you to our school.”

  “Hi, hi, hi,” said Popper. “You guys are so cool. Better, much better, than the kids at my last school.”

  Her double-talk was giving me a double headache. Popper twitched and jiggled and quivered like an electric eel in a light socket. If we spent much more time with her, I thought I’d take a socket her myself.

  Mornings are not my best time.

  “Where were you before this?” I asked.

  “Oh, here and there, here and there.” She jittered and hopped. “Rotley Elementary, Doofus Junior School, Our Lady of Perpetual Confusion. I move, I move around a lot.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I said.

  “Have you ever been upstate?” asked Natalie.

  “Nope, nope, nope. Don’t think so.”

  “Do you know Mr. Squint or Principal Zero?” I said. “And how about a guy named Guido?”

  “Nope, nada, zip,” she s
aid. “Three strikes, three strikes—that means you’re out!”

  I gritted my teeth and clenched my fist. Natalie’s wing feathers brushed my arm.

  “Popper,” she said gently, “do you know anything about a vocational school?”

  “Hey, hey, hey!” said Popper. “I love vacations, love those vacations.”

  Natalie sighed. I snarled. The bell rang. No telling what I would’ve done if it hadn’t.

  “Bye-bye, you guys, bye-bye!” said Popper. She rocketed off the playground in a green-and-yellow blur.

  “Do you really think she’s a crook, too?” said Natalie.

  I unclenched my jaw. “She’s guilty of first-degree babbling and assault with intent to annoy. But those aren’t crimes, last time I checked.”

  “Too bad.”

  Natalie and I split for class. Popper was a dead end, deader than leftovers from a bullfrog’s breakfast. That left Ms. Darkwing, and then we’d be fresh out of leads.

  Somehow we had to uncover the plot, find our real principal, and stop the crooks—all before the PTA meeting that evening.

  But first, I had an even bigger challenge to tackle. A mean science quiz.

  And I hadn’t read the homework.

  11

  Like a Bat Out of Jell-O

  At recess I zipped over to Natalie’s classroom. We had fifteen minutes to get the scoop on Ms. Darkwing. The Welcome Wagon gag was wearing thin, so I chose a new angle.

  “Okay, Natalie,” I said, “this time we’re reporters for the school newspaper.”

  “That’s news to me,” she said.

  I sighed. “Come on, let’s interview our next suspect.”

  But when we poked our heads into Ms. Darkwing’s classroom, nobody was there. She must have had playground duty.

  “We missed her,” said Natalie. “What now?”

  My eyes roamed the room and settled on the desk. “We snoop.”

  Ms. Darkwing’s desk was so neat, it was scarier than a piggyback ride on a porcupine. All the pencils were sharpened to the same length. All the test papers lined up perfectly.