Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 2 The Neighborhood Stink (6 page)

The Human Cork

My grandmother once told me that my most distinguishing feature is my fat head. My uncle Mycroft likes to say that in an emergency my head could be used as a flotation device. Even Miss Piffle complains that I have an abnormally thick skull.

I, on the other hand, have always thought my uncanny ability to solve mysteries was the result of a freakishly large brain.

Either way, my super-size noggin weighs heavily on my mind as I run up to Elvis’s old doggie door.

We once had a family dog named Elvis.

Don’t ask why he was named Elvis—it wasn’t my idea.

I still remember that every single time Elvis went out his doggie door, my dad would call out to nobody, “Elvis has left the building!” Elvis eventually ran away a few months ago and left our building for good—probably because all the “talking to plants” business started to give him the creeps, too.

I enter Elvis’s door feetfirst instead of headfirst. I figure that by the time I have to squeeze my head through, I’ll have momentum on my side and the rest of my body will somehow pull my head through.

I am terribly wrong.

I become stuck just as my armpits squeeze through the tiny door.

When I give up trying to squeeze in, I try to go back out. I squirm.

I buck. I thrash. Still, I’m jammed into Elvis’s doggie door like a hearing aid in an old guy’s ear.

Then—in total desperation—I try panic. But even kicking and flopping around like a fish on the carpet doesn’t do the trick. I’m stuck good, and my armpits hurt like crazy.

I try to calm down and imagine what the great Sherlock Holmes would do if he were in this situation. But I quickly realize that he wasn’t stupid enough to get himself trapped in a swinging doggie door without his pants on.

“Hey, Sherlock, I talked to Coach Lowney today,” I hear my dad announce from inside the house.

“Uh . . . great,” I wheeze.

“He says he saw you running down the street today like your life depended on it,” he says from his side of the door.

“He’s right about that,” I gasp, wriggling like a dying worm on a hook.

“He thinks you’ve got the kind of natural speed you can’t teach,” he says.

“Certain death is a great motivator,” I say.

“That’s not Inspector Wink-Wink underwear, is it?” he asks.

“Dad! Hello! News flash! I’m stuck in a door here!” I shout.

“So I signed you up for Coach Lowney’s track and field team,” he says casually, ignor-ing my cries for help.

“Dad, all I’m running right now is late,” I simmer. “And this door is sure to slow me down at my first track meet, so could you please get me out of here?”

“Oh, no, you’re becoming unhinged,” he laughs. “Get it?”

“Nothing is funny when you’re being eaten by a door,” I rasp.

Twenty minutes and half a bottle of olive oil later, I slip out of Elvis’s door and onto our back patio like some kind of greasy new-born pony.

“Sherlock has left the building!” I hear my dad holler from inside.

My sister Hailey has used up all her film recording my rescue on her Girl Chat Sleepover instant camera. “Where’s the family photo album?” she shouts to my mom, who’s busy on the phone with a frantic fern owner.

Hailey gives me a fake smile as she holds up her camera. “Sherlock, did you know borrowing without asking is also known as stealing?”

“Maybe we can find Sharon Sheldon’s address in the phone book and send her one of these cute candid shots,” Jessie says with a cackle as I stagger past her.

I give Jessie and Hailey my double-dare, gamma-ray, stink-eye glare.

“Thanks, Dad,” I grumble, rubbing the olive oil into my red armpits while still glaring at my sisters like some kind of crazy wild boar.

“Now I’ve got a mystery to solve and only an hour until dinner,” I say, marching past my mother in my underwear and greasy skin.

‧Chapter Sixteen ‧

Stand Back, I’m Going to Blow!

If I don’t get cracking on this case, I’ll be a grandfather by the time I actually get around to solving it.

I sit on my bed and quickly write out a new list of suspects. I cross out all the names of suspects I’ve ruled out, keeping only those I still have to investigate. Fred, Smokey, and Ted still remain as possible poopers. I cross off Peekaboo because he’s busy barking his eyes out in maximum security while the Moriartys are out of town—or off the planet.

Smokey is the best suspect to start with.

He gets out several times a week and is often seen roaming the neighborhood to the beat of his own drummer. There’s just one problem: Smokey belongs to Sharon Sheldon’s family.

The thought of knocking on Sharon Sheldon’s door so soon after she’s seen me in my Inspector Wink-Wink underwear makes me feel real barfy.

But like any good detective, I decide I must do what’s best to keep my investigation moving forward. I ask my mom to call Sharon’s mom.

“Forget it,” my mom says. “That woman is still upset about your volcano stunt.”

This opens up a whole other can of worms, so I’ll just give you the short end of the stick. . . .

I was assigned one of those creepy group science projects a few months ago, with Lance and Sharon Sheldon on my project team. We decided to do a report about volcanoes. I was in charge of building a model volcano, Sharon Sheldon was to explain what happens during an eruption, and Lance was going to make loud volcano noises and stuff when I turned on the volcano.

Sadly, I did not know that our dog, Elvis, had chewed on some of the electrical wires the night before our presentation. So just as Sharon Sheldon was starting to give her introduction and Lance started to make low, rumbling noises with his armpit, my volcano’s battery somehow melted, burst into flames, and burned a big, black, stinky hole straight through Miss Piffle’s desk.

I didn’t think it was such a big deal, but some of the firefighters said a few sparks had burned some holes in Sharon’s shoes.

Mrs. Sheldon was still ticked off at me and my family for putting Sharon in danger, even though it was basically the wire-chewing Elvis who had almost burned the school to the ground, not me.

Just the idea of calling the Sheldon house makes me feel like I have hot molten lava swishing around in my stomach, all ready to come roaring out of my mouth just as I say hello. But as some famous guy once said, you gotta do what you gotta do. So I take a deep breath and dial.

The Sherman Tank

Hiding behind a wilting ficus tree in our living room, I listen to the phone ring once, then twice. Just as I become certain that right after the third ring I’m going to qualify for the Heaving Hall of Fame, the phone is suddenly answered.

“Hello?” blurts out Sherman Sheldon, Sharon’s bulky older brother and the meanest sixth grader ever to walk the halls of Baskerville Elementary.

“Is Sharon home?” I ask in a cleverly disguised voice.

“Great balls of fire!” Sherman Sheldon barks. “It’s Sherlock, the human flamethrower!

You want to burn our house down now, you little freak?”

“No, I just want to talk to Sharon real quick,” I say, dropping the cleverly disguised voice.

“She’s busy watching some disgusting show about frogs with extra legs,” he says with a loud sniff.

“It’s just a quick question about some poop I’m looking into,”

I reply.

“You’re looking into poop? You really are a twisted little freak!” he shouts.

He drops the phone with a loud bang, and I can hear him walking down the hall- way calling, “It’s Volcano Boy for Sharon!”

“What does he want?” I hear Mrs. Sheldon hiss. I decide right then and there that ten bucks is not worth all this.

“Hi, Sherlock,” Sharon says after finally picking up the phone.

“Sorry to bother you during your three-legged frog show,” I mumble.

“Whatever,” she says.

Although she’s the smartest kid in our class, Sharon Sheldon says “whatever” all the time.

It’s her favorite thing to say. I’m never sure whether it means “I don’t have time to get into it with a creep like you” or “No big deal, so don’t worry about it.” Either way, I decide to get this over with before Mrs. Sheldon calls the fire marshal or I become a vomiting volcano.

“Sharon, Mrs. Fefferland asked me to find out whose dog has been pooping in her yard,” I say quickly. “Do you think it could have been your dog?”

“Smokey?” she asks. “Well, my dad took Smokey with him a few days ago on a hunting trip.”

“Oh,” I say like a real genius. “Oh,” I say again, just to sound extra brilliant. “That means that it couldn’t have been Smokey. He’s in the clear.” I draw a line through Smokey’s name on my list of suspects—I’m actually getting somewhere!

“Whatever,” she says.

“Um, sorry about today,” I say, staring up at the ceiling.

“Whatever,” she says.

Whew! At least she’s not making a big deal out of the underwear thing.

“I hope you find your pooper,” she says.

“That’s sick!” her brother screams in the background.

“Well, now my suspects have been nar-rowed down to just Ted and Fred.”

“It’s not Ted,” she laughs. “The Martin family moved away last month.”

“Really?” I say. “Nobody told me! That means it can only be—”

“And Fred just had puppies two days ago.”

“WHAT?” I squeak like I’m choking to death on a harmonica. I gape in horror at my list of suspects. “How can a dog named Fred have puppies?”

“Fred is short for Frederica,” she replies.

“Oh,” I say quietly. “This is terrible . . .

horrible . . . shocking news.”

“Whatever,” Sharon says. “Well, anyway, Sherlock, don’t feel so bad. . . . I used to watch Inspector Wink-Wink, too.”

“Whatever,” I sigh, and gently hang up the phone.

I stare at the phone for what feels like 112 years.

I’m back where I started. I’m sunk. Sunk in deep doo-doo.

Worst of all, I’m all out of suspects, and we eat dinner in twenty minutes.