The Hamster of the Baskervilles (3 page)

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.

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 done 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.

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 was 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.