The Hamster of the Baskervilles Read online

  Natalie shrugged. "He won't be losing any sleep over it."

  "But he didn't look guilty, he looked surprised."

  "You're right," said Natalie. "So scratch one suspect. Now what?"

  We stood in silence for a while. Two pigeons strutted past, heading for class.

  I snapped my fingers. "Ah!"

  "Thought of something?" asked Natalie.

  "Yeah," I said. "I forgot to bring money for a snack. I hate when that happens."

  "What about the case?"

  "Oh, that. Simple: We visit the janitor and see what trash she picked up from the classroom. Detective rule number two: When you hit a dead end, go back and check for clues."

  Natalie cocked her head. "What's rule number one?"

  "Always make sure you have a resourceful partner," I said.

  She beamed. "I've got resources."

  "Great," I said. "Can you loan me fifty cents for a snack?"

  4. Humpty Dumpster

  Before we could visit Maureen DeBree and go trash diving for clues, I had to dig my way through something even stinkier: history class.

  A battered classroom hadn't stopped Mr. Ratnose. He stood at the blackboard, scribbling furiously and creating so much chalk dust he looked like a yellow tornado with a scabby tail.

  As my teacher babbled on about the 100 Years' Bore (or maybe that was war—who knows?), I mulled over the case. A stray thought tickled my brain.

  True, someone had trashed the classroom, but why did it have to be a cranky former student? Why not a cranky current student?

  I surveyed my classmates. Frowns and bored looks hung on most faces, like a gallery of grumpitude. It could be any one of them, I thought. Even me.

  Actually, I had a pretty good alibi. I knew where I'd been all weekend (except when I passed out after drinking five root beer slushies). And I could probably cross other names off the list—too wimpy (like Waldo), too sweet (like Shirley), or too prissy (like Bitty Chu, teacher's pet).

  I was just sizing up the bad boys when a familiar name came to me.

  "Chet Gecko?" said Mr. Ratnose. "Perhaps you could enlighten us."

  My head snapped back to the front. I searched the blackboard to see what he was talking about. He'd erased it. I glanced right and left at my classmates. No help there, either.

  "The answer is ... um ... ancient crustaceans?"

  "Do you know what we're talking about?" said Mr. Ratnose.

  "I haven't a clue."

  His pink ears quivered. "Let's hope you're a better detective than you are a student," he said.

  I'll spare you the rest. Let's just say I don't recall much until lunch, which that day was truly memorable—cricket casserole smothered in razzleberry-aphid sauce.

  Just as I was mopping up my tray with a slice of mealworm bread, Natalie strolled by.

  "Where you been?" I asked.

  "I loaned my lunch money to someone"—I coughed and looked away—"so I had to go dig up some worms."

  Worms. Yuck. I could never be a bird.

  Natalie grinned. "Ready to get down to business, Mr. PI?"

  "Ready as a rocket. Let's breeze."

  We found Maureen DeBree roaming the playground armed with a light trash bag and a heavy frown. Emerson Hicky's head janitor, she was a lean mongoose with a serious thing for cleanliness. (Some said she had a serious thing for Mr. Clean, too, but that's another story.)

  "Well, well, if it ain't the snoopers," said Ms. DeBree. "Hot on the entrail of some bad guy, eh?"

  "Um, something like that," I said. "Ms. DeBree, we need your help."

  "You and every playground in this school," she rasped. The janitor snagged a soda can and flipped it into the bag tied to her tail.

  "We need to sort through the mess from Mr. Ratnose's room," said Natalie. "We're looking for clues."

  "Oh, you wanna talk trash," she said. "Right this way."

  As we walked, I prayed that she hadn't already emptied her bin into the smelly Dumpster. My hopes were punctured like a new balloon at a kindergartner's birthday bash.

  "Dig in," said Maureen DeBree, pointing a fuzzy finger at the steaming heap. "Try that corner. It's fresher."

  I held my nose. "Tell me, did you notice anything unusual when you cleaned the classroom?"

  Maureen DeBree pulled a Q-tips swab from her utility belt and idly cleaned a furry ear. "Hmm," she said, "not so's I can dismember." She flicked the waxy swab into her trash bag.

  "Oh, one thing," she said. "Whoever done it musta been hungry."

  "Why's that?" I said.

  "They munched a buncha sunflower seeds and left the shells behind. Slobs."

  Natalie looked dreamy. I guess she thought seeds were even yummier than worms. But if you ask me, neither one is in the same league as chewy cockroach-nugget ice cream.

  We thanked Ms. DeBree. She stalked off in search of evil litter, leaving Natalie and me to our Dumpster diving.

  Ten minutes later, we were much stinkier, but still as clueless as when we'd started. We spotted my classroom's rubbish, all right. But it would've taken Sherlock Holmes to find a clue in it.

  Still, no reason the time had to be a total waste. I gobbled up a couple of flies circling the bin.

  Natalie pointed at some trash and said, "What's that?"

  I looked. "Moldy lasagna?" I asked.

  "No, underneath—it's part of a sticker."

  "Hmm, looks familiar." I leaned closer. The blue design reminded me of something ... but what? The thought escaped me.

  "Probably nothing," I said.

  We kept digging halfheartedly. By then, the stink of moldy hot dogs and sour milk was strong enough to build a house on. I was ready to call it quits.

  But then I saw a piece of paper with a mysterious message.

  "Hello, what's this?" I muttered. I passed it to Natalie. "Here's a puzzle for you."

  She read the lines neatly printed on the page:

  "Behold the tweety bird, so tweety

  She flaps her wings so fleety fleety

  And when she's walking down the stair

  She shakes her Londonderry air."

  "Some kind of secret code?" I said.

  Natalie cocked her head. "Bad poetry. Whoever wrote this is flunking English."

  My shoulders slumped. "Really?"

  "Yes, really," said Natalie. "Now let's get out of this trash heap and into a good book. I need to study up for next period's quiz."

  And so we quit the Dumpster patrol. But we took with us more than the gentle aromas of yesterday's rotting lunch. We wore the stink of frustration.

  So far, this case had produced more dead ends than the film club's Gangster Movie Marathon. If I didn't dig up some suspects pronto, I could kiss those doughnuts good-bye.

  5. Ferret Faucet

  There ought to be a law against Science Fair. To me, it's a bigger waste of time than teaching a pig to yodel. Unfortunately, Mr. Ratnose didn't see it that way.

  So there I sat working on a Science Fair project. I had wanted to build something useful, like a working model of a volcano or a deranged robot shark.

  But did my teammates agree? Not those nimrods.

  Instead, our project was a nerd's delight: "Nature's Little Batteries"—trying to make electricity from potatoes and other vegetables.

  Personally, I thought the potatoes might have more juice than my teammates, if you know what I mean.

  Igor Beaver bent to hitch some wires to a head of broccoli. He beamed at the rest of us. "We'll be the hit of the Science Fair. Hee hee!"

  Hee hee, indeed. Guess who'd had the bright idea for "Nature's Little Batteries" in the first place?

  My other teammates—Shirley Chameleon, Rynne Tintin, and a toad named Tiffany—gathered to check the connections. I pushed back my hat and sighed.

  Then I figured, as long as we were there, I might as well do something helpful—like work on my case.

  "Hey, how about that mess this morning?" I said casually. "Who do you think could've do
ne something like that?"

  Shirley cast me a sideways look. "Search me," she said with a flirty smile. She raised her arms for a pat-down.

  "I'd rather not."

  Rynne, a glum dormouse with Coke-bottle glasses, gave a snort. "It's so easy to guess," she said. "Check out whoever's had the most detentions from Mr. Ratnose."

  I scratched my chin. "Hmm... and that would be...?"

  "You!" said Rynne and Shirley together. They giggled.

  "Cut the comedy," I said. "I'm on a serious case here. Who's got a grudge against the teacher?"

  "What about Bosco?" said a small voice. It was Tiffany, so quiet I'd almost forgotten she was there. "Bosco is trouble."

  She was right—how could I have missed it? Bosco Rebbizi was a surly ferret with a chip on his shoulder the size of a redwood tree. He'd started more fights than the bell at the boxing arena.

  I tilted back in my chair and stretched, sneakily searching for that no-goodnik. There, two groups down. While the rest of his team prepped their "Magic of Velcro" demonstration of sticking power, Bosco was using Velcro to attach a KICK ME sign to a robin's back.

  I'll say one thing: He didn't let schoolwork cramp his style.

  Bosco was worth checking out. I decided to do just that at recess. Then a voice disturbed my thoughts.

  "Uh, Chet," said Igor. "Your turn." He held out a mass of wires and a cucumber.

  "Don't get cuke with me," I said.

  I took the vegetable in hand. I couldn't wait till Science Fair was over.

  When recess came, I shadowed Bosco out the door. He swaggered down the hall, bumping a classmate here, tripping a third grader there, lifting lunch money, and shredding shrubbery.

  He reached the basketball courts without doing anything unusual. I leaned against a pole and watched the ferret swipe a basketball from a slow turtle. He stiff-armed her and began shooting, missing some easy hook shots that my blind grandmother could've hit in a force-five hurricane.

  "Umm," said the turtle.

  "Shaddap," said Bosco.

  I sized up the situation. A private eye's first step in interviewing a suspect is gaining his confidence.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Drop dead," he replied.

  So much for gaining the confidence, now for the advanced stuff.

  "How about that stinker Ratnose? Can you believe how he's making us work for this lame Science Fair?"

  "Beat it," said young Bosco. I could tell I was practically his best buddy now.

  "Boy, I wish I could think of some way to pay him back. Like that trashed classroom—genius!"

  I watched Bosco closely, but his ferret face revealed only bad temper and suspicion. His usual expression. He elbowed the turtle aside and dribbled closer.

  "Thought you were working for Ratnose," said Bosco, "trying to catch the crook."

  I shook my head. "Nah," I lied, "I'm stringing him on. I only wish I'd come up with that stunt."

  Bosco's eyes narrowed into two black slits. "Why you telling me?"

  "No reason. Just killing time."

  "Yeah? Go kill it somewheres else."

  He drilled the ball into my gut. It put a dent in my lunch, but I didn't flinch. Real private eyes don't.

  "Catch you later," I wheezed.

  Bosco gave me a thoughtful look. It didn't seem like he'd had much practice.

  Then he spun and shoved the turtle. Bosco snickered when she tumbled onto her back and couldn't right herself. As the ferret brushed past me, his sour chuckles trailed him like stink from a smokestack.

  I watched him go, then dropped the ball. My detective instincts told me Bosco was up to his furry ears in something. It smelled like trouble was brewing.

  And there's nothing I like better than a fresh-brewed cup of trouble.

  Still, when I turned to go back to class I couldn't shake the nagging feeling I'd missed some small detail, forgotten something.

  "Hey," said the overturned turtle. "A little help?"

  Oh yeah.

  6. Hairy Plotter

  Back in class, the heat was wilting students like a blast of buzzard's breath. I pasted a bland expression onto my face and let Mr. Ratnose's words roll off me like pill bugs off a pile of pasta.

  Behind my eyes, that bowl of oatmeal I call my brain was busy trying to connect Bosco Rebbizi and the crime.

  He had a motive. Anybody with as many detentions as me—we were neck and neck—had a bone to pick with Mr. Ratnose. But was that enough? And was Bosco strong enough to have torn open the door and done all that damage?

  Hmm. As I pondered, I glanced over and caught Bosco watching me. His suspicions were up. But if I could just get closer to him, maybe he'd let something slip (something other than a strong right hook, I mean).

  The bell rang. Anyone who doesn't believe in life after death should've seen that room full of corpses spring to life. My classmates stampeded for the door.

  Bosco Rebbizi picked up his notebook and sauntered after them.

  I waited a couple of beats, rose to follow, and nearly bumped into Mr. Ratnose.

  "Well?" he said. "Have you caught that vandal?"

  "Uh, not yet. But we've got several promising leads."

  (That's detective speak for "not a clue.")

  Mr. Ratnose bared his long front teeth and slammed a fist into his open paw. "I expect results, Mr. Gecko. And I expect them PDQ!"

  "Hmm." I raised an eyebrow. "Pudgy, dumb, and queasy?"

  "Pretty ... darned ... quick," snarled Mr. Ratnose.

  I hopped like a quick bunny out the door. The corridor was ferret-free. Bosco had skedaddled. As I scanned the crowd, my partner sashayed down the hall in a gaggle of girls, cheerleaders to either side. Frenchy LaTrine, a sassy mouse, leaned past Natalie.

  "Hiii, Chet!" said Frenchy with a giggle. "Need a study partner?"

  "Put a pom-pom in it, Frenchy," I said. It never pays to let a dame get the upper hand.

  I snagged Natalie and steered her aside. "Got time for a tail job?" I asked.

  She looked behind her. "Am I missing some feathers?"

  "Not that kind of tail job, birdbrain—following Bosco Rebbizi. I've got a hunch he's wrapped up in this caper somehow."

  "Count me in."

  "You fly the friendly skies; I'll beat the bushes."

  "Who'll bop the re-bop?" she cackled.

  I gave her my deadpan stare. "Just try to find him."

  Natalie flapped out across the grass until she was airborne. Then she glided in ever-widening circles, trying to spot the ferret in the rabble of homeward-bound kids.

  A spring breeze tickled my nose. Ah, spring, the season of Kleenex. I trotted across campus scanning the crowds. No Bosco.

  Near the sixth-grade classrooms, I turned a corner and bonked into a teacher. "Oof!"

  A box of plastic beakers and science supplies went tumbling. I skated over them as gracefully as a hippo in a tutu—swaying right, left, right—then tumbling onto my tail.

  A fuzzy black foreclaw reached down. It was connected to a stubby arm, and that led up to a face with thick glasses and a nose like an exploding muffin. It was Ms. Burrower, a sixth-grade teacher. She was a mole.

  "Are you hurt, laddie?" she said.

  I shook my head cautiously. Nothing rattled that hadn't rattled before.

  "All right, then. Up you go." Ms. Burrower pulled me to my feet.

  Keeping an eye peeled for Bosco, I quickly helped her gather the supplies. "Working on a cure for boredom?" I said.

  "Nah, just a wee experiment for the fair." Ms. Burrower was the mastermind behind the school's Science Fair—in fact, she was supposed to win some Top Teacher award for it. Consequently, Ms. Burrower wasn't at the top of my best buddies list.

  As I dropped the last beakers into her box, the big mole squinted down at me. "And how is your science project going?"

  I looked away. "Gee, is that my mom calling? Gotta go!" I split without a backward glance.

  Across the playground, Natalie wa
s gliding over the portable buildings. I headed over. She met me halfway.

  "Any luck?" I called.

  "Jackpot!" she said, circling above me. "It's a regular punk-a-palooza behind the portables. Meet you up top!"

  One of the benefits of being a lizard detective is superior wall-crawling ability. In two shakes and a slither, I was crouching atop one of the portables with Natalie.

  We crawled silently and peeked over the far edge.

  Below us lurked enough roughnecks to cast a road show of "Oliver Twisted." Besides Ol' Ferret Face, Bosco Rebbizi, a dirty dozen members of the detention hall of fame lounged in the shade. They were doing regular tough-guy things: carving their initials in the wall, polishing their brass knuckles, sharpening their teeth, and playing the odd game of bridge.

  "What fresh foolishness is this?" I muttered.

  "I love it when you get literary on me," whispered Natalie.

  As we watched, Erik Nidd rumbled around the corner and joined the group like a sultan greeting his subjects. After the usual boot licking (claw licking?), they formed a chattering circle. Erik cleared his throat.

  "Pipe down, ya mugs," he said. They piped. "Today we welcome a new member, and I gotta say I'm proud of him."

  At this, Bosco sauntered up to Erik. The giant tarantula pumped the ferret's hand, pounded him on the shoulder, and dug something out of a nearby backpack—and he didn't use even half of his arms.

  "Bosco Rebbizi is a punk's punk," said Erik.

  The motley crew responded with cheers and hoots. Erik continued.

  "He aced his test—ya shoulda seen the stunt he pulled! Anyhow, Bosco is now a what-ya-call, full-fridged member of the Dirty Rotten Stinkers." Erik produced a stick-on tattoo and slammed it onto Bosco's shoulder with more force than absolutely necessary.

  Bosco staggered but didn't flinch. It wouldn't have been the punkish thing to do. The surly ferret flexed and showed off his tattoo while the gang applauded.

  I didn't notice much of a muscle. But I did notice the tattoo.

  So did Natalie. "That's the same one Erik was wearing," she muttered.

  "And the same one we found mangled in the trash bin," I whispered.