Murder, My Tweet Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Sneak and Ye Shall Find

  A Mole in One

  The Blaming of the Shrew

  You’ve Got Blackmail

  Owl Play

  ’Dillo Talk

  Bomb Before the Storm

  The Hardest Partner

  Fast and Furry-ous

  Shrewed Move

  For Heavens Stakeout

  Tree-for-All

  Bright-Eyed, Ambush-y Tailed

  Trouble or Nothing

  Mum’s the Bird

  Put on a Happy Chase

  Buy Low, Cell High

  Fresh Sprints of Bel-Lair

  Robo-Bop

  Salt, With a Deadly Weapon

  Sample Chapter from THE POSSUM ALWAYS RINGS TWICE

  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 © 2004 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, Inc., 2004.

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

  Hale, Bruce.

  Murder, my tweet: from the tattered casebook

  of Chet Gecko, private eye/by Bruce Hale.

  p. cm.

  “A Chet Gecko Mystery.”

  Summary: Detective Chet Gecko and his associate, Natalie Attired, take a case trailing what they think is a cheating boyfriend but are instead led to a school mystery that involves blackmail and robots.

  [1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Extortion—Fiction. 5. Robots—Fiction. 6. Humorous stories. 7. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title. II. Series.

  PZ7.H1295Mu 2004

  [Fic]—dc22 2004003597

  ISBN 978-0-15-205012-2 hardcover

  ISBN 978-0-15-205219-5 paperback

  eISBN 978-0-547-54261-4

  v2.1215

  For Steve Malk, ace agent and gecko true believer

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Life is brimming with mysteries. Like, if you toss a cat out of a car window, does it become kitty litter? If a cow laughs, does milk come out her nose? And if I’m a nobody, and nobody’s perfect, does that mean I’m perfect?

  I wonder about these things. That’s my job. I’m Chet Gecko, Private Eye, and mysteries aren’t just my bread and butter, they’re the maraschino cherry on my triple-decker banana-slug sundae.

  But to me, friendship is no mystery. Having a buddy you can count on is one of the finer things in life—right up there with all-you-can-eat buffets, summer vacation, and owning a comic book collection as big as a house.

  Some say that a friend in need is . . . a pest indeed. Not me. ’Cause when it’s your partner in trouble, that’s a whole ’nother can of chocolate-covered worms.

  A routine case took a turn for the worse when my best pal and partner, Natalie Attired, was framed like a four-million-dollar Rembrandt and booted out of school. I tackled the case for free.

  But clearing her name wasn’t as easy as potato-bug pie. As I traced the thread of clues, it grew longer and wider, until I found myself unraveling a conspiracy big enough to make a bib for a bronto-saurus. It led me to a criminal mastermind so brilliant, he made Einstein look like a dim bulb.

  Did I tough it out to the bitter end, despite danger to life and limb? Let me put it this way: Even though we geckos may be green-skinned, we can be true-blue, too.

  1

  Sneak and Ye Shall Find

  Never take on a wacko as a client. It wastes your time, and it annoys the wacko.

  Somehow I had forgotten this. And so, recess found me tailing a parakeet’s boyfriend to see if he’d been stepping out on her. (That’s detective talk for seeing another dame on the side. And a dame is a girl. And on the side is . . . on the side.)

  I shadowed T-Bone LaLouche through the halls of Emerson Hicky Elementary. Like any good detective, I used kids, bushes, and the odd teacher as cover. (And believe me, we have plenty of odd teachers.)

  T-Bone LaLouche was a lean and shifty ringtail. Ringtails have a cat’s body, a fox’s face, and a raccoon’s tail that’s been dipped in goo and slammed in a door.

  Oh, and one other thing: If you startle them, they give an ear-piercing shriek and shoot this funky musk from their butts.

  Don’t ask me how I know that.

  I watched as T-Bone stopped near the library to chat with a simpering mole in a tutu. Heads together, they seemed awfully chummy. Could this be his extra-credit baby-cake?

  When I leaned around a skreezitz bush for a better look, T-Bone suddenly glanced up. I dived for cover—kronch!—right into the bush.

  Through the spiky leaves, I could see the ringtail frowning my way, but he went back to his confab. Soon, the mole waved toodle-oo and toddled into the library. T-Bone took to his heels.

  I tagged along.

  In the hall by the cafeteria, the ringtail approached a fluffy European rabbit. (I could tell she was European by her spiffy scarf and her world-weary ways.)

  Miss Fluffy leaned against a pole and toyed with her whiskers. T-Bone cozied up. She passed him something—a love note?—and they giggled like a couple of teenage girls at a Brad Spitt movie.

  Man, this guy wasn’t just two-timing my client; he was three-timing her.

  Sensing something, T-Bone raised his head and started to turn.

  Fa-zoop!

  I scrambled up the wall, out of sight. In my racket, sometimes it pays to be a wall-crawling lizard.

  I crept along quietly. Then my foot slipped. Strange. We geckos can scale almost anything, including glass. I shook the foot and crawled closer . . . just across from the cuddly pair.

  A strange sight distracted me: squatty machines being wheeled into the cafeteria. And they were wearing what looked like . . . aprons? Was head chef Mrs. Bagoong getting some new cooking gizmos?

  I shook my head. Better focus on the job at hand.

  Miss Fluffy was saying, “. . . after you do me this favor, you and I can . . .”

  Someone had taped a wet paint sign to the pole she was leaning on. Silly rabbit. Didn’t she know—

  Fffffwwip!

  Suddenly, everything slipped. I scrabbled desperately, clawing a paper sign from the wall. It read, WET PAINT.

  Duh. The pole hadn’t been painted; the wall had.

  “Whoooah!” I cried, plummeting like a duck after a pond-scum sandwich.

  SKREONCH! A shrub broke my fall.

  “AAIIEEE!” T-Bone shrieked, like an air-raid siren singing opera. Under his scream, something went ffrappp!

  The rabbit and I clapped our hands over our ears. A second later, we covered our noses instead.

  The ringtail had blasted a paint-peeling musky stench, fouler than a roadkill casserole. It spread down the hall, clearing kids and teachers with its potent funk. Miss Fluffy fled.

  Eyes watering, I coughed and hacked and staggered to my feet.

  With as much dignity as he could muster, T-Bone stood tall and glared at me. “It’s your own fault,” he said. “Maybe you shouldn’t startle kids like that.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have had the cabbage-and-cheese breakfast burrito.”


  The ringtail snorted. “Oh yeah? Maybe you shouldn’t sass someone bigger than you.” He loomed over me.

  “Oh, really? Maybe you shouldn’t be two-timing your girlfriend,” I said.

  “My girlfriend?” he asked.

  “Yeah, your bubby-cakes, your doll-face, your smoochie-poo. Anne Gwish?”

  His face froze. “Anne what?” said T-Bone. “Who’s she?” He stalked away.

  Still holding my nose, I stumbled in the opposite direction.

  From above, a clap-clap-clap reached my ears. I glanced up.

  It was Natalie Attired, my spiffy mockingbird partner. An ace investigator, she thought she was quite the joker (but she was really just a card). Perching on the roof’s edge, Natalie looked me up and down, from my paint-smeared feet to the twigs in my hat.

  I held up a hand. “I know, I know. I’m scratched and filthy, and I smell like a ringtail’s butt.”

  “So, other than that,” she said, “how was your day, dear?”

  2

  A Mole in One

  Natalie and I retreated to a corner of the playground. While wiping paint from my hands and feet with paper towels, I told her about our new case.

  Or I tried to, anyway.

  “Hey, Chet,” she said, “why do seagulls fly over the sea?”

  “Look, I’m cranky, and I just blew a tail job. This is no time for jokes.”

  Natalie smiled patiently. “Why do seagulls fly over the sea?” she repeated.

  I sighed. “Okay, why?”

  “Because if they flew over the bay, they’d be bagels!” Natalie cackled.

  I hated to admit it, but that was almost funny. For a bird joke.

  “Pretend I laughed,” I said. “Now can I tell you about our crazy client?” I filled her in on why Anne Gwish, the parakeet, had hired us.

  Natalie raised a wing feather. “Wait, so she thinks her boyfriend’s two-timing her?”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “And she hired us to prove it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But he doesn’t even know her?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not kidding,” said Natalie. “She is crazy.”

  I shrugged and wiped my tail on the grass to remove the last of the paint. “But her money’s not.”

  “Ah,” said Natalie.

  “Nicely put. So . . . will you humor our loony client and tail this ringtail?”

  She saluted. “Aye aye, private eye.”

  I waved her off. “Ay-yi-yi, birdie.”

  The last minutes of recess were dribbling out like drool from a baby bobcat at feeding time. Even if my client was nuts, I figured I should spend those minutes working the case.

  Since I’d blown my cover with T-Bone’s bunny friend, I decided to try squeezing something out of the mole with the tutu. (Not squeeze her with a tutu, squeeze her for information . . . ah, you know what I mean.)

  Luck was with me. I spotted the ballet-loving beastie digging a hole behind the cafeteria. As I drew near, I flipped up the brim of my hat, donned some fake glasses, and whipped out a notepad.

  Chet Gecko, Master of Disguise.

  “Nice hole,” I said in a nasal voice.

  The mole started. She edged away from her hole and squinted up at me with eyes like two raisins sinking in a furry pudding.

  “Hnorf, thanks,” she said through a snout that looked like a handful of earthworms playing Twister. “It’s what I, hnorf, do.”

  “Uh, yeah. What’s your name?”

  “Sarah Tonin. What’s yours?”

  I grinned insincerely. “Um, Ace Grabonowitz . . . from the school paper? We’re doing profiles of outstanding sixth graders, and—”

  “Are you an, hnorf, artist?” she said, smoothing her tutu with muddy forepaws.

  “Um, no. A reporter.”

  She giggled. “Then how you gonna, hnorf-hnorf, draw my profile?”

  “Oh, hee hee. I get it.” My acting surprised even me. “Not that kind of profile—a story.”

  “Oh.”

  I raised pencil to pad. “It’s on T-Bone LaLouche. You know him, right?”

  Sarah brushed dirt from her paws. “T-Bone is one of the, hnorf, coolest guys I know. I mean, he, hnorf, plays drums well enough to be one of the Stench Bombs, and—”

  “‘Stench Bombs’?”

  “Yeah, the sixth-grade rock group. Hnorf, what kind of reporter are you?”

  “Huh? Oh, the tone-deaf kind,” I said. “Tell me more about T-Bone.”

  Her raisin eyes twinkled. “Hnorf-hnorf, well, he’s cute . . .”

  Ugh. Leave it to a girl to get right into the mushy stuff. But this time, the mushy stuff was just what I needed.

  I scribbled on the pad. “Uh-huh,” I said. “And does he have lots of girlfriends?”

  Sarah giggled again. Her giggle was lousy with hnorfs. “Silly,” she said. “Of course he does.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, there’s—”

  R-r-r-rring! went the bell.

  The mole looked past me and frowned. “Oops,” she said. “See ya later.” Sarah headed off.

  I glanced where she’d been looking but saw only kids bound for class. Dogging her footsteps, I said, “Hey! T-Bone’s girlfriends?”

  “Um, I don’t know if I, hnorf, should be talking about this.”

  “Why not? Is one of those girlfriends . . . you?”

  Her fleshy snout swung my way.

  I watched for a telltale blush. Then I realized: How ya gonna spot a blush on someone with face fur thicker than a shag carpet?

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “Look, you should, hnorf, talk to Oliver or Trixie. I gotta go.”

  Sarah chugged off, her pink tutu quivering with each step.

  I watched her leave. This mole had more than earthworms on her mind. Still, a tip was a tip. I resolved to check out the slim lead she’d given me.

  But first I had to chase down another slim lead: my passing grade in English.

  3

  The Blaming of the Shrew

  Anne Gwish put the koo in cuckoo. Even though she was a parakeet. Despite my better judgment, she was my client. And despite my best efforts, she cornered me by the swings at lunchtime.

  “What?!” she squawked. “You let T-Bone see you? How on earth can you tail him now?”

  “Well, I—”

  Anne hopped from foot to foot, waving her wings. “Of all the sloppy, smart-mouthed, jelly-bellied—”

  “You forgot ‘lazy.’”

  “Why, you can’t even follow my boyfriend without getting spotted.”

  I pointed at her. “Your ‘boyfriend’ claims he doesn’t even know you.”

  She blinked. “And you didn’t see through that? What kind of detective are you, anyway?”

  A dumb one, for taking this case, I thought. Through clenched jaws, I said, “Don’t worry—”

  “‘Don’t worry’?!” Anne screeched. “Now I’ll never know the truth about T-Bone.” She started plucking out her feathers.

  I held out my palms. “My partner, Natalie, is shadowing T-Bone now, and when we know something, you’ll be the first to know.”

  The parakeet sneered. “Oh, like that makes sense,” she said. “How can I be the first to know if you already know it?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. Mom always said to count to ten when I got steamed, but with this dizzy dame, it might take a hundred. (And math has never been my strong point.)

  “Chet! Chet!” My partner’s voice was as welcome as a jumbo cricket Slurpee after a ten-day trek around the sun.

  Natalie flapped pell-mell across the playground, straight toward us.

  “Ah, there she is now,” I said to Anne. “Relax. Everything is swell.”

  Natalie skidded to a landing. “Oh, Chet—something awful!” She panted.

  “I knew it,” snapped Anne Gwish, giving me a sharp, I-told-you-so look.

  I ignored her. “Natalie, you remember our client, Anne,�
�� I said, hoping my partner would take the hint and cool it in front of our customer.

  She didn’t. “The worst thing has happened. You’ll never believe—” she said.

  “They canceled Samurai Jackal?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “There’s a worldwide chocolate shortage?”

  “No, I—”

  “You’re in love with Placebo Domingo?”

  “No!”

  I gave up. “What?”

  “I’m suspended from school!”

  “Huh? You don’t have to go to school?” I scratched my head. “I thought you said it was something awful.”

  “It is, ” Natalie moaned.

  She was serious. The crazy mockingbird actually enjoyed schoolwork.

  Anne Gwish pecked my arm. “She’s suspended?” said the parakeet. “What kind of—”

  I brushed her off. “Button up, you,” I said, and turned back to Natalie. “Hey, it’s not so bad. You’ll be a soap-opera queen, just like your mom.”

  “Chet, it’s not funny. I can’t come to school. They won’t even let me work on cases with you.”

  “What?” I rocked back on my tail. “You’re right, that’s not funny. How could they suspend you? You’re Miss Straight-A’s-for-Days.”

  “That’s Ms. Straight-A’s-for-Days,” she said. “And Vice Principal Shrewer accused me of blackmail.”

  I stared, mouth gaping. This made about as much sense as my bogus science report on the sand dolphins of the Kalahari Desert.

  “Blackmail?” I said.

  Anne butted her green head into my shoulder. “She’s a blackmailer?”

  I butted back. “Park it and lock it, cheese-beak.”

  Tears trembled in Natalie’s eyes. Her chin quivered. “Chet, I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But why does Ms. Shrewer think you did?”

  “Well, I was tailing T-Bone, and I dunno . . . maybe he spotted me . . .”

  “He—mmf!” Anne tried to interrupt, but a firm hand around her beak put a stop to that.