Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 2 The Neighborhood Stink (4 page)

A Man’s Best Friend?

Preparing for the worst, my butt tenses up so much that I’m sure it would crack a walnut.

If there’s anything more terrifying in the world than waiting for a dog to bite you in the behind, I don’t know what it is. I’ve heard that when you get really terrified, your blood turns ice-cold, but I don’t feel that way. I feel more like my brain has slipped down into my body and gotten stuck somewhere between my lungs and my bladder.

I can’t think. I can’t run. And, I’m sorry to say, I even let out a little squeak of fear.

Then I hear an odd snorting sound. When I whip my head around, ready to meet Ranger’s fangs up close and personal, I find myself facing . . . Lance! Just Lance, standing there and laughing in a fake, deep voice.

“Where’s the dog?” I squeak again, looking around wildly.

“I was just kidding,” Lance says, shaking his head.

“Don’t ever do that again!” I snap.

“Okay! Okay! Don’t be so sensitive, Shirley,” he snorts.

“My second case has gone from bad to badder!” I shout. “And now it’s gone from worse to worser!”

“Hey, Sherlock, forget your dumb case. Let’s go play some games at your house,” he says.

“I thought you were going to play Vengeance in Venice! at your house after your grandma finished watching her super squirrels,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

“Well, that was the plan,” he mumbles.

“But the next show was about three-legged bullfrogs, and my grandma got all interested.

So here I am with my best game and nowhere to play it.” He pulls the game out of his backpack to prove his point.

If you haven’t already guessed, the only thing Lance likes to do more than watch TV is to play his Vengeance in Venice! Video game.

In the game, you basically run around in this flooded cityand hop from canoe to canoe trying to catch an evil frog and save the city from drowning. No matter how hard I try, I always fall into the putrid water and get eaten alive by a giant shellfish named Bernie.

Lance loves Vengeance in Venice! because nobody can beat him, but I think all that game playing is making him “a bit daffy.”

“Forget that game and come help me with my case,” I plead. “I get ten bucks for solving it, and I’ll give you half.”

“That’s sounds like a lot of knocking on doors, jumping fences, and snooping around for clues, so I don’t think so,” he says, putting on his backpack. “Sounds sort of boring.”

“What? C’mon, Lance, I could use some help,” I beg.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to his house.

“Hurry, or you’ll miss the show about the North American yellow-bellied spineless chicken!” I call after him, but I don’t think he hears me.

One thing is for sure. Detective work can give you a headache. And it was about to get a whole lot more painful.

The Pooper Strikes Again

“Sherlock, Mrs. Fefferland is on the phone,”

my mom informs me as I open the front door.

“Hello, Mrs. Fefferland,” I say, taking the phone from my mom.

“Sorry to wake you from your nap, Mr. Rip Van Winkle!” she wheezes and clacks on the other end of the line.

“Nap?” I say. “What nap?”

“While you’ve been snoring in your cozy 39

bed, another steaming pile of dog evidence has been planted on my lovely lawn,” she huffs.

“I-I wasn’t sleeping,” I sputter as I pull out my list of suspects. “I’ve been eliminating suspects.”

“While you’ve been eliminating suspects, the real culprit has been eliminating on my lawn,” she grumbles. “I’m not very satisfied with the results so far.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Fefferland,” I say. “I’ll catch this mutt before my mom serves dinner. Next I plan to—”

“Now that’s more like it, Sherlock,” she says, and hangs up on me.

“Uh . . . thank you, Mrs. Fefferland,” I say into the dead phone, so my mom doesn’t know Mrs. Fefferland hung up on me. “I’ll see you later. Bye.”

I don’t remember anyone ever hanging up on Sherlock Holmes in any of his movies.

But I guess they didn’t have phones back then. His old maid was always bringing him little notes on a silver tray. Maybe I need a maid.

Already I’ve stepped in fresh dog poop, been ignored by my family, and almost been eaten by a three-hundred–pound dog—and I may have blinded a pocket-size pooch. Oh, and I’ve been scared out of my brain by my best friend.

Sherlock Holmes would have run home crying by now. But not me. I’m as stubborn as a zebra. And I still need to earn my stripes as a detective— especially if I ever want to get myself a maid with a silver tray.

“I’m ready, boss,” my little sister says, suddenly entering the room. She’s wearing safety goggles, a swimming cap, a raincoat, rubber boots, and yellow dishwashing gloves. “If we find any more poopy evidence, I’ll collect the samples. You just watch my back.

Now let’s hit the streets!”

“You watch too much TV,” I sigh. This case is turning into a stinker.

What’s at Stakeout?

In just about every detective movie ever made, there’s always a stakeout scene. Here’s what happens on a stakeout: Two guys sit for hours in a car, drinking coffee and scarfing down tons of raspberry donuts. They usually just sit there getting to know each other better. They keep scarfing donuts until they’re ready to barf their guts out. Then they suddenly sit up, spill their coffee all over the place, and follow a suspicious-looking guy who has just emerged from hiding in a suspicious-looking apartment.

I have a few problems with the basic stakeout concept. One: I don’t drink coffee (it smells like burning hair). Two: I don’t have any money to buy donuts. Three: I don’t have a car to sit in while I stuff my face with gross coffee and expensive jelly-filled donuts.

So, with no money, no car, and no donuts, I’m forced to do the best I can as a detective on his second official case. . . . I slowly starve behind Mrs. Fefferland’s neatly trimmed hedges. Even worse, the only person I have to talk to is my little sister.

“This is more boring than Grandma’s house,”

Hailey groans.

Ever notice how often detectives in movies bring a little sister along during a stakeout?

The answer is NEVER! Now I know why.

“Did you ever notice that your nostrils are too big for your face?” she asks. I just ignore her.

“I can wiggle my ears!” she says.

“Sherlock, look at my ears. Seriously.”

“Would you be quiet?” I plead.

Hailey squirms and fidgets and sighs loudly several times. “Okay,” she whispers, “I’m thinking of a number somewhere between zero and infinity. . . . Guess what it is.”

I hold my head in my hands and moan.

“You’ll never guess anyway,” she says.

“The number is three hundred twelve. Math has never been your best subject.”

“I can count one pain in the neck,” I murmur. A few moments pass in magnificent silence. We both stare out at the lawn.

“Can you make bubbles with your spit?” she asks.

That’s one thing about the great Sherlock Holmes: He never had to bring his irritating little sister along. I think that’s why he solved so many dang cases—nobody was mess-ing with his razor-sharp concentration skills.

“My leg is asleep,” she whines. “And I think my left butt is, too!”

“Hailey, you’re driving me bonkers!” I explode. “Just go home and get us something 46

to eat! I’m so hungry, I can’t rub two thoughts together.”

“You might have to carry me,” she gasps as she struggles to her feet. After tottering around in circles a few times on her sleeping leg and left butt, she limps off, shouting,

“Good luck on the secret stakeout, Sherlock!”

Now that everybody in the country knows where I’m hiding for my stakeout, I decide to move. Sadly, the stakeout spot I choose next is the worst decision I’ve made in my nine and a half years of life on this earth.