Hiss Me Deadly Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Sub Sandwich

  Bad Hare Day

  I, Chihuahua

  Bad Coon Rising

  Shirley, You Jest

  Snakey Breaky Heart

  The Missing Lynx

  Boy Meets Squirrel

  Clue in the Face

  Iguana Hold Your Hand

  Another Day, Another Mauler

  Rose Encounters of the Third Kind

  The Tree Stooges

  Every Which Way But Luz

  Hoedown and Dirty

  Bad, Bad Leroy Clown

  Egg, Borrow, and Steal

  Fair and Square

  Sample Chapter from FROM RUSSIA WITH LUNCH

  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 © 2007 by Bruce Hale

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] 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 Children’s Books, an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, New York, 2007.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Hale, Bruce.

  Hiss me deadly/Bruce Hale.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Chet Gecko is hired by Principal Zero

  to investigate the disappearance of valuable items from

  Emerson Hicky Elementary—including Mama Gecko’s pearls.

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

  PZ7.H1295Hi 2007

  [Fic]—dc22 2007002952

  ISBN 978-0-15-205482-3 hardcover

  ISBN 978-0-15-206424-2 paperback

  eISBN 978-0-547-54032-0

  v2.1115

  To my best buddy Betsu: Friends 4-eva, brah!

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  I’m Chet Gecko, best lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary. (True, there are no other lizard detectives, but let’s not quibble over details.)

  I am an only child. I have only one sister. And that’s plenty more than enough, believe me.

  I don’t have to look up my family tree because I know that I’m the sap. When my sister got robbed, she turned to me for help. And like a dope, I jumped in with both feet.

  But a simple case of theft soon grew more challenging than playing Chinese checkers on a bucking bronco. Valuables started vanishing from school, and the top brass called me in. True, I don’t know all that much about theft, but I do know what time it is when a possum steals your refrigerator: time to get a new refrigerator.

  I followed the twisty trail of clues until I’d unearthed more suspects than a zombie membership drive. The more I learned, the less I knew. (Of course, this happens to me at school all the time.)

  The heat was on. As I drew closer to uncovering the shadowy puppet master behind it all, I got myself in a spot tighter than a blue whale’s bikini. Would I make it out with my skin?

  Not to worry. As any detective will tell you, it’s always darkest before dawn. So if you’re going to steal your neighbor’s newspaper, that’s the time to do it.

  1

  Sub Sandwich

  You could attend Emerson Hicky Elementary for a long time without knowing its substitute teachers. And you could know its subs for a long time without meeting Barbara Dwyer.

  And that would be just swell.

  Barb Dwyer was a sourpuss porcupine with a face like a bucket of mud. From the tips of her many quills to the shapeless hat on her head, she was a surly sub, and she didn’t care who knew it.

  I could have gone my whole life without meeting her. But because Mr. Ratnose called in sick one gray Wednesday, we were stuck with the dame.

  Through math and English classes she had ridden us hard, like a rhino going piggyback on a house cat. We were taking a breather, doing some silent reading. Most of the kids favored Winnie the Poobah, our assignment.

  I had slipped the latest Amazing Mantis-Man comic book inside old Winnie.

  Private eyes like to live dangerously.

  A gentle whisper broke my concentration.

  “Chet?” It was Shirley Chameleon, leaning across the aisle.

  I gave her a look. She was worth looking at. Shirley had big green peepers, a curly tail, and a laugh like the pitter-pat of raindrops on daisies.

  Not that I cared about any of that. She was also a major cootie factory.

  “Mm?” I said, glancing back at my comic book.

  “Do you, um . . . are you going to the fair on Friday?” Shirley toyed with her scarf, one eye on me, one eye on the substitute teacher. (Literally. Chameleons have some gross habits.)

  I leaned over. “Depends. Will they have clowns?”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Because I hate clowns.”

  “Who’s whispering?” a voice snapped. Ms. Dwyer scanned the room.

  We clammed up. A minute later, Shirley bent back across the aisle.

  She batted her eyelashes. “I don’t know about clowns,” she whispered, “but I do know that they’re having a dance.”

  I knew it, too—the Hen’s Choice Hoedown, where girls ask boys.

  “I was trying to forget about that,” I said.

  Ms. Dwyer thundered, “No more whispering. Eyes on your books!”

  Shirley gave it a rest for another minute. Then she murmured, “If you’re, um, going to the fair, maybe you’d come to the dance with me? As my date?”

  “Your date?!” I spluttered, shattering the quiet.

  “That’s it!” cried Ms. Dwyer. She waddled up the aisle toward me, quills bristling. “You! What’s your name?”

  Although I wanted to say Seymour Butts, I stuck with the truth. “Chet Gecko.”

  “You’ve disrupted my class enough for one morning.”

  I let my book drop. “But she—”

  Ms. Dwyer noticed my Amazing Mantis-Man. “And you’re reading this . . . this trash? A comic book?”

  “It’s research,” I said. “For my science report.”

  “I don’t care if it’s War and frikkety Peace,” she growled. The porcupine held her hand out for the comic. I gave it to her. “You, mister, will sit outside until you learn some manners.”

  Bo Newt chuckled. “Guess I’ll see ya next year, Chet.”

  The substitute wheeled on my friend. “Would you like to join him?”

  “Uh, no sir,” said Bo.

  “Ma’am!”

  “No sir, ma’am,” said the newt.

  Ms. Dwyer gritted her teeth, then glared at me. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go and reflect on your bad behavior.”

  It’s no use arguing with a walking pincushion. Followed by Shirley’s mournful gaze, I rose and ambled out the door.

  Five minutes of sitting on the hard cement was enough reflection for any gecko. My tuckus was going to sleep. But the sub let me stew.

  On the far-off playground, little kids squealed with joy and freedom.

  I sighed. Idly, I twirled the tip of my tail. No case to solve, no comic to read. It would be a long, boring timeout.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Footsteps slapped down the hall. “Chet! Chet!”

  The last thing I expected was my little sister. And yet, there she stood, big as life—Pinky Gecko, first grader and first-rate pain in the tushie.

  “Little blister,” I said. “What brings you here?”

  She frowned. “My feet. But, but . . . how come you’re sitting in the hall?”

  “I’m on guard duty—watching out for cocka-poos.”

  “Cocka-whose?” she said.

  “Never mind.”

  Pinky turned her woeful eyes on me. “Help me, big brother.”

  I pointed. “Okay, the loony bin is that way.”

  “Not funny,” she said, pouting. “Mom’s pearls, they’re missing!”

  I scratched my head. “Run that by me again?”

  “The pearls.” Pinky shuffled her feet. “I, um, borrowed ’em for show-and-tell.”

  “Smooth move, moth-brain,” I said. “And what, you accidentally flushed them down the john?”

  “I’m not a moth-brain,” she said. “I showed ’em before recess. An’, an’ when I came back from recess, they . . . disdappeared from my desk!”

  I stood. “Have you told your teacher, Miss uh . . .”

  “Miss Flemm? I can’t.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Pinky’s lip quivered. “She’ll tell Mom.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Mom doesn’t know I borrowed ’em.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Ah.”

  “An’, an’, an’. . .” Her eyes misted up like dawn over Mosquito Lake.

  Before the waterworks began, I gently placed my hands on her shoulders.

  “And you want me to find the pearls, is that it?”

  She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

  I chewed my lip. We’d had plenty of crime at Emerson Hicky
Elementary—cheating, blackmail, vandalism, kids trying to take over the world. But no crook had made it this personal. No crook had ever picked on my family before.

  My fists clenched. This punk was going down hard, like a skydiving brontosaurus. Why, I’d even tackle the case for free.

  But I’d never let Pinky know that.

  “You realize if I do this, you’re gonna owe me big-time?” I said. “We’re talking breakfast in bed, sharing desserts, no hassling me for two—no, three weeks . . .”

  “A-anything you say.” Pinky sniffed. “Just find the pearls.”

  I hate to see a reptile cry—even if she’s my own flesh and blood.

  “Stop your sobbing, sister,” I said. “I’m on the case.”

  2

  Bad Hare Day

  After a long morning of pretending to learn stuff, a gecko needs to tuck into some serious grub. And I knew just where to find it—this funky little joint called the cafeteria. What it lacked in style, it made up for in quantity.

  That Wednesday, Mrs. Bagoong and her staff had gone all eastern European on us. The menu boasted squash-bug blintzes, fruit-fly borscht, and a bunch of other stuff I couldn’t even spell, much less identify.

  I munched a heaping trayful while waiting for my partner and pal, Natalie Attired. She’s an elegant mockingbird with a taste for puzzles and a wit like a razor’s edge.

  “Hey, Chet,” her voice chirped from behind me. “What do you get when you eat onions and beans?”

  “Ugh, don’t tell me.”

  “Tear gas!” She cackled.

  Make that a dull razor’s edge.

  Natalie settled in beside me at the table. “What’s the word, private eye?”

  “Kumquat,” I said.

  “Actually, I was hoping for two words: new mystery.” She pecked at a fly in my soup.

  “Hey! Keep your beak out of my borscht, and I’ll tell you what’s new.” In short order, I laid out the case for her.

  Natalie smoothed her feathers. “Your own sister, a client?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The same sister you called pure evil in a little pink dress?”

  “Well, yeah.” I forked another bite of blintz into my trap.

  “Either you’re going soft, or we’re getting paid a lot,” said Natalie.

  I chewed. “Listen, birdie. This goon picked on my sister. Nobody picks on Chet Gecko’s little sister.”

  She cocked her head. “Except Chet Gecko.”

  1 lifted a shoulder. “Well, of course. Anyway, I get to write my own ticket with her. Pinky says she’ll do anything to pay me back.”

  “And what big brother could resist that?” said Natalie. “Let’s vamoose!”

  Our first interviews should’ve been Pinky’s teacher and fellow students. Unfortunately, they were all back in class.

  Staggered lunch periods can make grown PIs weep with frustration.

  But not us. We switched to Plan B: a trip to the custodian’s office. You want to get in trouble? Ask the principal. You want the lowdown on the playground? Ask a janitor.

  Maureen DeBree’s cubbyhole was headquarters in the never-ending war on grime. Her assistants have come and gone. But Ms. DeBree remains—a mongoose without mercy—leading the cleanliness charge.

  I rapped on her half-open door. “Ms. DeBree? It’s Chet and Natalie. Do you have—?”

  A rabbit’s furry face peeked through the gap.

  “You’re not Ms. DeBree,” said Natalie.

  “And you’re not Ham and Rye, the world-famous food jugglers,” said the rabbit. “But let’s be friends, anyway. I’m Anna Motta-Pia, junior janitor.”

  I sized her up. Ms. Motta-Pia had the usual buck teeth and nervous nose you come to expect in a bunny. Her bulging eyes were brown as melted fudge, and her ears stood up like two tan ladyfingers.

  (Or maybe I was just craving dessert.)

  “Uh, Ms. Motta-Pia . . . ,” I began.

  “Anna, please,” she said. “Maureen is out. Y’all come on in.”

  We followed her into the cramped office. Buckets, mops, brooms, and an army of cleaning products lined the walls. One desk—Ms. DeBree’s—was as spotless as a Teflon necktie. The other, smaller desk overflowed with papers, parsley, and a half-eaten carrot.

  Anna Motta-Pia hopped onto a stool. “I was fixin’ to have a snack. Care for some greens?”

  “Only at gunpoint,” I said. “No, we’re here to investigate a theft.”

  The bunny’s eyes grew big. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Natalie. “A pearl necklace was stolen.”

  “Mercy!” said Anna. Her nose twitched like a mischief-maker in the principal’s office. “Right here at Emerson Hicky?”

  “Yep,” I said. “And we’re trying to find out who did it.” I leaned on her desk.

  “Heavens to Flopsy!” said the rabbit. Her eyes flicked to a photo on the wall that showed about twenty bunnies in two rows.

  “Your football team?” I asked.

  “My family,” she said. “But a theft, here? Maureen will be fit to be tied.”

  “It probably happened at recess, when the door was locked,” said Natalie.

  I nodded at a fat ring of keys hanging from a hook. “Who has keys to the first-grade classrooms?”

  Anna nibbled the flower in the buttonhole of her overalls. “Well . . . Maureen and I, of course. Then, the teachers, and . . . I don’t rightly know who-all. The front-office folks?”

  “Could anyone just slip in here and lift those keys?” I asked.

  “Mercy no!” said the rabbit. “They’re kept under lock and key—that is, when one of us isn’t using them.”

  “How about the office copies?”

  Her nose twitched some more. “You’d have to ask up there.”

  “We will,” said Natalie.

  Anna held up a furry finger. “I bet someone swiped the teacher’s keys. I bet you anything!”

  I eased up off the desk. “Leave the detecting to us, Anna. We private eyes try not to jump to conclusions until we have all the facts.”

  She hopped to her feet. “Ah, well, I’m sure y’all know best.”

  “That’s what he keeps telling his mom,” said Natalie. “But she still doesn’t believe him.”

  3

  I, Chihuahua

  Detectives have to knock on a lot of doors in the course of an investigation. No big deal. It’s all in a day’s work.

  Unless we’re knocking on the big red door that opens into Principal Zero’s office.

  A huge tomcat with a hair-trigger temper, Mr. Zero has munched up and spit out more tough guys than a champion gumchewer at a bubble-blowing contest.

  This gecko doesn’t like getting his tail chomped. That’s why I always check instead with the secretary, Mrs. Maggie Crow.

  When Natalie and I reached the office, we had to take a number. The black bird was already juggling two unhappy customers.

  “No, I must see him now,” said the first, a jumpy Chihuahua. “This just won’t do.”

  Mrs. Crow narrowed her eyes. “Look, Miss Flemm, it ain’t gonna happen. He’s with the superintendent.”

  Miss Flemm? I muttered to Natalie, “That’s Pinky’s teacher.”

  “Sometimes we’re good,” she said. “Sometimes we’re lucky.”

  The second visitor butted in. “You don’t understaaand,” whined the little alligator lizard. “Somebody stole my dad’s watch from my desk.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mrs. Crow rasped.

  “If I don’t get it back, he’ll killll me.”

  Mrs. Crow looked as if she wouldn’t mind that one bit. “I said I’d tell the principal when he’s free. Now, beat it.”

  Hmm . . . another theft? I waggled my eyebrows at Natalie.

  She nodded. When the lizard shuffled out of the room, she followed.

  “Honestly, Mrs. Crow,” huffed the Chihuahua, “I must get some action on this right away. Classroom thefts cannot stand unpunished.”

  I edged forward. Had Pinky changed her mind and told Miss Flemm about the missing necklace?

  The crow toyed with a shiny ring. “Sorry you mislaid your tiara,” she said.

  “It was stolen,” said Miss Flemm, “from a locked room.”

  “Whatever,” said Mrs. Crow. “Look, unless somebody’s actually lost a limb or been snatched by aliens, I ain’t opening that door.”