Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 2 The Neighborhood Stink (2 page)

Mrs. Fefferland Explains

Mrs. Fefferland wheezes like a bath toy when she breathes and makes loud clacking noises with her teeth. Maybe after I solve her poop mystery, she’ll let me figure out what’s making all that racket in her mouth.

But for the moment, I concentrate on the interview.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fefferland. What seems to be the trouble?” I ask, trying my best to sound like Sherlock Holmes.

“I’ve got a mystery pooper, and I want the culprit caught!” she wheezes and clacks.

“Interesting,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. I wait for her to add something else, but she only fills the awkward silence with a steady, gurgling wheeze.

“Maybe it’s your own dog, Mrs. Fefferland,” I say with a shrug. “Could Tinker be the one pooping in your yard?”

The moment I say this, I know it’s a mistake.

Mrs. Fefferland looks at me like I just reached down her throat and pulled out a rubber duck.

“Of c-course n-not,” she stammers. “Tinker. . . Tinker is never allowed in my front yard.

Only the backyard. I’m the only one who is allowed in that yard!”

“Okay,” I croak. “I’d like to get to the bottom of this mystery for you. My fee is ten dollars a day . . . plus expenses.”

“Very well. I’d like you to get started right away,” she says, standing up. “I’d like this unpleasant situation resolved by this evening.”

“Certainly,” I say, although I’m really thinking that I can’t believe she said yes to ten bucks. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Mrs. Fefferland clacks. I close the door as she rumbles down the porch steps like a runaway piano.

“The game is afoot,” I whisper—although I have no idea what that means; it was something Mr. Sherlock Holmes always said when he got a new case.

‧ Chapter Four ‧

Collecting Evidence

“This looks like a poop farm,” exclaims my little sister.

“Thanks for that keen observation, Hailey,” I murmur. Mrs. Fefferland has just waddled into her house, wringing her hands and clacking away about catching the bandit that’s pol-luting her lawn. And I must admit, if you could see beyond the dog poops, her lawn was an amazing accomplishment—like a smooth, green carpet.

“I need to make a map of the evidence field,” I say, pulling out my sketch pad.

“Oh, like a treasure map for flies?” my sister giggles.

If you haven’t already noticed, my little sister, Hailey, has an amazing talent for driving me insane.

“Well, like it or not, Hailey, this is evidence,” I explain. “The orderly collection of evidence is a key skill of the successful detective.”

“It looks like you’ve already collected some evidence on the bottom of your shoe,” she says, and begins laughing as loud as an opera singer.

“Oh, that’s a fresh one!” I gag, trying my best not to hurl on Mrs. Fefferland’s beautiful lawn.

“Oh my gosh . . . that is so gross!” Hailey manages to squeeze in between giggles and snorts, fully enjoying the first misstep of my investigation.

“Hailey, just go home and get me another pair of shoes,” I growl between clenched teeth.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Great Detective!” she says while saluting. Then she runs back across the street and into our house shouting, “Poop alert! Poop alert!”

That’s when I make my first discovery in the case: All the evidence looks like it came from a small dog, but the fence around this yard is almost three feet high and would be difficult for a small dog to jump over. “The game is certainly afoot,” I whisper as I scrape the bottom of my shoe on the curb.

“How about these, Sherlock?” Hailey screams from our front door. She flings her old pair of lavender ballet slippers onto our front steps. She squeals in delight and slams the door with a bang so loud that my teeth loosen.

“That’s some assistant,” I say, shaking my head.

Help Around the House

“What do you know about dog poop?” I ask my older sister, Jessie, as she scribbles away at her homework.

I should mention here that not every decision a young detective makes is the right one. One decision I should have skipped was seeking help from friends and family.

“Wha’?” Jessie huffs. She looks at me with her mouth open and her eyes partially rolled back in her head. I’m never sure what this look means, especially since she makes this face no matter what’s happening around her.

“Oh, it’s the turd nerd,” she finally moans.

“Mom told me all about your big case, and if you tell anyone at school, I’ll kill you. Now get out, Inspector Dork.”

“Thanks for all your love and support,” I say as I shut her door. Saying something nice when you really mean something nasty is called sarcasm. My best friend, Lance Peeker, taught me this trick, and it drives Jessie crazy.

My next mistake is asking my mom for help. My mom baby-sits houseplants for people.

She operates her business out of our living room, which is always filled with strange plants from around the neighborhood. She talks to these plants, which really spooks Lance whenever he comes over.

“Mom, have you seen any strange dogs lately?” I ask. She’s on the phone with a nervous owner of a sickly orchid. As she talks, she starts spraying my hair with her mister bottle and using her fingers to comb my hair into my dad’s goofy hairstyle. Now I look more like a nervous elf than a private detective. I exit quickly.

I find my dad catching up on his paperwork at the kitchen table. He’s a quality assurance engineer, which is a fancy way of saying he shuffles papers around his desk all day.

Sometimes these papers even shuffle all the way onto our kitchen table.

“Dad, what’s your experience with dog poop?” I ask in an official voice.

After staring at me for a long time, he says, “Sherlock, have you given any thought to joining a sports team? Fresh air and exercise might be good for you.”

“Oh, just forget it,” I mumble.

When my mom hangs up the phone, I call Lance to see if he can come over and help with the case.

“No, thanks,” says Lance.

“I have to watch TV.”

“You don’t have to watch TV, Lance,” I say. “You can come over now and watch TV later, after we solve the case.”

“Well, I have to watch this educational show about flying squirrels with my grandma before I can play a video game,” Lance says 18

very slowly, because he’s watching the flying squirrel show while we’re talking.

“Thanks for helping me out, friend,” I say.

“Hey, you’re getting good at that sarcasm stuff,” he says. “Grandma, did you see that crazy squirrel miss the tree? Uh . . . see ya, Sherlock.”

“Bye,” I say, hanging up the phone. Lance is my best friend, but he is extremely lazy for someone his age.

When I notice Hailey watching the same show about soaring tree squirrels, I sigh like a train that’s come to a complete stop and squirts out steam. “This is something I must do alone,” I say to no one in particular. Before I head out the front door, I do the single most important thing a detective must do to solve a crime. . . .