Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 2 The Neighborhood Stink (7 page)

When the Going Gets Tough, Consider Quitting

After all I have been through, I have to admit I still have no idea who is pooping on Mrs. Fefferland’s lovely, carpetlike lawn. I need a break in the case, and I need it fast.

I walk down the hall to my room like a zombie. The smell of olive oil floats up off my ribs and armpits and reminds me just how hungry I am. I plop down at my desk and write out everything I’ve discovered so far.

This does not take very long. In fact, it barely takes eight seconds.

In every detective movie, the main guy always goes back over the evidence he’s collected and looks for something he’s missed. A little scrap of overlooked evidence. A small fact that doesn’t add up. A clue that gets filed in the wrong drawer. Usually by the time he starts drooling and looking like a werewolf because he hasn’t shaved in seven and a half days, he stumbles across the miss-ing clue, sits up straight, and shouts, “How could I have been so stupid?”

Me, on the other hand? I just sit at my desk and mutter, “How could I have been stupid enough to take this dumb case?”

I review my three instant photos of mystery dog poop, my poop map, and my list of suspect poopers. I have to face facts: I’m pooped out.

“I heard Mrs. Fefferland hung up on you.”

It’s Hailey. She’s poking her head into my room. Like most little sisters, Hailey can always sense when I want to be alone, and within seconds she moves just close enough to become the fly in my mental ointment. “Who told you that?” I ask without looking at her.

“Mom told me,” she says, moving casually over to my desk. “She’s says you tried to trick her and kept talking on the phone, but it didn’t work.”

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying my best to roll my eyes like Jessie.

“I also heard Mrs. Sheldon thinks you tried to blow up her daughter,” she says, picking up my Inspector

Wink-Wink pencil sharpener and turning it over in her hands.

“Hey, that’s a rare collector’s item,” I say, plucking the pencil sharpener from her hands.

“Touchy!” she says as if she’s totally unaware that she’s making me crazy. “Dad says he signed you up for Coach Lowney’s track and field team because he’s afraid you’re becoming weird.”

“No!” I snap. “It was Coach Lowney’s idea.

He thinks I have the kind of natural speed you can’t teach.”

“Apparently you’re a lot better at running than solving

mysteries,” she says, studying my face through one of my magnifying glasses.

“You might want to get those nostrils looked at by a doctor.”

I grab the magnifying glass out of her hand.

“Hailey, I finally got my second official case as a detective, and it’s not going so splendid!

So if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

She’s silent as she thinks about this for a moment. “Sorry about that peanut-butter sandwich thing. And for telling Sharon Sheldon that you love her. And for taking your picture while you were stuck in the door in your underpants.”

“You’ve been a great help,” I say, rubbing my forehead in my palms as I review all the mistakes I’ve made today.

I consider knocking on Mrs. Fefferland’s door and calling the whole thing off. I consider heading over to Lance’s house for a quick game of Vengeance in Venice! I even consider hanging up my magnifying glass for good.

“Remember who taught you your times tables?” Hailey asks, picking up my poop map.

“You did,” I moan, certain that this line of 80 questioning will have no point other than to make me irritated and miserable.

“And who taught you the names of all the planets?” she asks.

“You did,” I sigh.

“And who taught you the names of all the state capitals?” she asks.

“You did,” I reply, “but I’ve forgotten most of those.”

“That’s exactly my point,” she says.

I slump in my chair. “You mean this little pep talk of yours actually has a point?”

“Look, Sherlock, I’m good at some things and you’re good at other things,” she says, pointing at me with my poop map. “I’m good at things that require complicated brain func-tions, like math and spelling and memorizing things and acting normal. You’re good at creative problem solving and using your imagina-tion to try out crazy theories in your head.

You also have a rare talent for getting your-self stuck in doors and other goofy situations that I would never even think of.”

“You just had to add that last part, didn’t you?” I say, shaking my head.

“Just don’t get all crabby and frustrated,”

she says, walking toward the door. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“I’m watching this show about frogs with too many legs and I just came in here to entertain myself during a commercial,” she says, closing my door slowly. “And Mom wanted me to tell you that we’re eating dinner in fifteen minutes.”

“Some assistant you are,” I grumble.

“Hey, if you end up a complete failure as a detective, you can always use all that natural speed as a pizza delivery boy,” she giggles, slamming the door before I can say anything else.

I wonder if everyone’s little sister has to get the last word in. But she’s right. I always seem to manage to solve things one way or another. I’ll get to the bottom of Mrs.

Fefferland’s poop. I just need a little luck.

Then I get the lucky break I’ve been waiting for all day.

The Tip of the Iceberg?

In detective shows on TV, the main guy sometimes has to admit that he is powerless to solve his case. And just as he plucks his worn-out jacket off the back of the chair to head home for a long weekend of stewing in his own horribleness, he gets a phone call that cracks the case open like a stubborn jaw-breaker.

At first, the caller on the phone sounds like just another wack job, some crazy nut trying to drive the detective bonkers. But then, with his eyes bulging out of his head like big, hard-boiled eggs, the detective realizes that this is the tip he’s been waiting for. The music gets really loud at this point and the detective explodes out the door to solve the case.

My hot tip—like all traditional hot tips you see on TV—comes from the last person on Earth you’d expect to call you with a hot tip.

“Hello,” I say, taking the phone from my mom as I enter the kitchen.

The smell of bubbling spaghetti sauce is now so powerful that my knees almost buckle.

Since I’m so hungry and could easily faint and split my head open on a chair or something, I stumble into the jungle that was once our living room.

“Sherlock, it’s me, Lance!” my best friend’s voice booms from the phone.

“I can’t play video games right now,”

I say.

“Sherlock, I’ve got your mystery solved!” he announces.

“What are you talking about?” I yelp.

“I just saw a dog running loose in the neighborhood,” he says, “and it looks like a pooping machine.”

“How does a dog look like a pooping machine?” I shout.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “But it looked like it was up to no good. Something about the tail looked extra creepy.”

“Whose dog is it? Where is it now?” I roar into the phone, forgetting my rumbling stomach for a moment.

“I’m not sure whose dog it is, but it’s heading your way!” he says.

“Go out and catch it for me and I’ll be there in thirty seconds!” I say.

“That’s impossible,” he says. “I’ve got to watch this show with my grandma about these frogs with three legs—”

I hang up, grunt in frustration, and race out the door at a full sprint. Finally it’s time to meet my mystery pooper face-to-face.

“We’re eating dinner in ten minutes!” my mom calls after me just before the screen door bangs shut.

My stomach growls back like a confused gorilla in a cardboard box.

Run, Joe, Run!

Lance lives down the street and around the corner from me. My fastest-ever time to his house was thirty-seven seconds, but today I feel like I could make it in thirty seconds flat.

My teacher, Miss Piffle, once told us about some ancient Roman hero guy named Mercury who was as fast as anything. Of course, all the Roman people went all nuts over him ’cause he was so speedy and terrific. Well, in our work-book there’s a picture of this Mercury guy, and he’s got little wings growing out of his head and his ankles! Who couldn’t be fast if they had a couple of extra wings, right? That’s practically cheating. That’s like bragging about how much pizza you can eat when your mouth just happens to be as big as a sofa.

Anyway, today I think I could even take that Mercury guy in a race, even with buffalo wings on his temples and smelly feet.

As I’m daydreaming about beating the pants off this Mercury guy, Coach Lowney drives past.

“Keep it up, Sherlock!” he howls, leaning out of his car window. “You look like the next state champion!”

State champion? Now, I like the sound of that. Running on the track team sure sounds a lot more glamorous than solving poopy little mysteries.

As I zoom down the street, I start thinking of nicknames I might try for my career as a track star: The Speed Freak.

Hot Socks. Thunder Pants. Maybe, I think for a brief moment, the Boy With Some Serious Gas.

Sure, these names will need some fine-tuning, but I’m on to something. I decide right then and there that when it comes to running on Coach Lowney’s track team, I’ll let my legs do the talking. And they are about to start screaming. . . .

Because coming at me in full attack mode from the other direction is not a dog that looks like a pooping machine, but Cujo, the Ashers’ new dog, and he looks a lot more like a kid-eating machine!

As I turn and run for my life, I make a quick mental note to strangle my best friend, Lance.