Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 2 The Neighborhood Stink (3 page)

The Unusual Suspects

In detective movies, the main guy always writes up a list of people he suspects could have done the crime. Then he keeps scratching names off the list one by one. This is a good idea because it helps everybody watching the movie to start guessing who did it.

I create my first list of suspects by simply making a list of the neighborhood dogs.

I look over my list until I’m satisfied that these are all the suspects. I’m feeling better already, but time is slipping away.

If I can nab the mystery doo-doo dog before dinner, I’ll be ten bucks richer by bedtime.

Suspect Numero Uno

“Take a good look at this,” I say, handing Mr. Castro an instant photo of a fresh pile of evidence. “Take your time,” I say, watching his face carefully for any signs of guilt. He stands in his doorway with a weird look on his face.

I borrowed (without asking, of course) Hailey’s Girl Chat Sleepover instant camera and snapped a few good pictures of the evidence.

Her camera is pink and covered with flower stickers, but it sure spit out some good photographs. (I figured photos would work better than trying to scoop poop into a plastic bag.) A good detective must always preserve the evidence— and if he can avoid throwing up in the process, all the better.

“It looks like dog poop,” Mr. Castro states simply, looking back into the living room with the same funny look on his face. Meanwhile, his mountain-size dog is barking behind the fence like a crazy seal at feeding time.

“Aren’t you the Sherlock boy?” he asks while squinting his eyes. “Uh, I don’t get the joke, but we’re watching a real good show about flying squirrels right now. Are you selling these photos to raise money or something?”

“Someone’s dog left that on Mrs. Fefferland’s lawn,” I inform him, thinking about how fan- tastic that flying squirrel show must be since half the world seems to be watching it. I get to the point quickly.

“Could that be Ranger’s poop, Mr. Castro?”

“Kid, Ranger sneezes things bigger than this,” he laughs, handing back the photo.

“Ranger weighs over two hundred and thirty pounds. Try looking for a beaver or a pigeon,” he says, and closes the door with a loud thump.

“A beaver?” I say to nobody. “We don’t have beavers around here. And a pigeon dropping poops this size would have to be as big as a microwave oven.”

My second official case is certainly off to a slow start.

I sit on the curb and pull out my list of suspects. I’ve got way too many suspects if I plan to solve this mystery by dinner. I take out a pink Girl Chat Sleepover marker (which I also borrowed without asking) and cross out Ranger, Cujo (too big), and the ancient Vader (too old). “That leaves just four suspects,” I say—just as someone crashes a speeding truck through the Castros’ fence.

Running on Empty

I jump to my feet and look over my shoulder.

With a combination of relief and utter panic, I realize that there’s no truck crashing through the fence behind me. It’s Ranger!

His beach-ball–size head and his ham-sandwich–size paws are hanging over the fence . . . and the rest of him is working like mad to get over that fence, too!

I never find out if he makes it, because I’m four houses away before I even start screaming.

This may not be the bravest way for a detective to act, but when you’re about to become a moist and meaty doggie treat, there are few options. For a moment, I imagine all that would be left of me: my right shoe, my list of suspects, and a suspicious-looking pink Girl Chat Sleepover pen.

As I huff and puff along, I think for a moment that I might be a better sprinter than detective . . . but then I calculate that this unusual burst of speed is eighty-seven percent pure fear, twelve percent hunger for a solution to this mystery, and five percent desire to eat several helpings of my mom’s spaghetti for dinner.

I finally run out of gas on the front lawn of the Moriartys’ house. This is no accident.

If I go any farther, I will surely start barfing up the seven frozen waffles I ate for breakfast.

Also, Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty just happen to be the owners of Peekaboo, one of the remaining suspects on my list.

After what seems like fifty-three minutes, my breathing returns to normal, and I wobble up the steps to the Moriartys’ front door.

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty are a strange couple—they’re friendly, neat, and always very polite. They’re also often gone for weeks at a time. This gives the neighborhood gossips plenty to whisper and tsk-tsk about.

Lance has a theory that the Moriartys are aliens from the planet Uranus who visit Earth every few weeks to check out what’s on TV.

My theory, on the other hand, is that Lance just loves saying Uranus, and he’ll say it any chance he gets.

Everybody in our class at school thinks Lance is the funniest thing since sliced bread. His best jokes include saying Uranus all the time, making loud fart noises when it’s real quiet, and playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” with his armpit. And when he’s really on a roll, he can burp the alpha-bet all the way to the letter R. Ha, ha, ha. I can be pretty funny, too, but my best jokes usually aren’t heard because of all the armpit racket.

Anyway, before I reach the door, Peekaboo starts barking like some pocket-size killer. I stand there shaking my head. This dog must be kidding! It’s no bigger than a forty-two–ounce can of soup and looks like it will fall apart if you look at it funny. Match Peekaboo up against a salamander, and I’d bet on the lizard.

“Quiet, Peekaboo!

Relax, boy, or your eyes are gonna bounce across that floor like marbles!” I scream through the door.

Maybe I shouldn’t have used his name, because this seems to make Peekaboo go even more wild. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty left town weeks ago without leaving any food for their soup-size pet. Maybe the dog’s eyes have already popped out, and that’s causing the barkathon. Maybe Peekaboo is being attacked by a mouse that’s bigger than he is.

Whatever the reason, two things are clear: The Moriartys are not at home, and their home security system is dangerously close to losing its eyesight.

“Sorry, Peekaboo,” I shout through the door. “I’ll be going now.” As I back away from the door and marvel at the thunderous yelp-ing,

I wonder if a boy my age might go to jail for blinding a neighbor’s pet.

But my worries of a long prison sentence are interrupted by a deep voice coming from behind me—

“Don’t move a muscle, Sherlock, or this dog will attack for sure.”