The Chameleon Wore Chartreuse (2 page)

Using my incredible powers of detection, I discovered Billy's desk. It was the one with the nametag that read BILLY.

I slid into the seat and checked again to make sure I was alone. I had only a few minutes to search before Old Toady returned.

So far, so good. I opened the desk.
Creeeaak!
I held my breath. Had someone heard? I glanced at the windows, but I was alone. I looked into the desk.

Yuck! Sitting on a stack of papers was a sandwich so old even the cafeteria wouldn't serve it. It looked like a science project on The Wonders of Mold.

I pushed it aside with a pencil. Underneath was a crayon drawing of mutant people.

Or maybe they were broccoli. Whatever Billy was up to, it sure wasn't art lessons.

I dug deeper into the mess. A rubber-band gun ... a box of nails ... a hangman's noose ... a photo of the Loch Ness monster ... Nothing suspicious here.

Wait a minute! I turned back to the drawing.

It showed a small creature with a tail, beating up a big creature. A girlish blob in the back was saying, "my hiro!" in a word balloon. The big creature was labeled "hurmn," the blob was called "Shrlee," and the small creature's name was "me."

Hmmm.
Maybe Billy was planning to rumble with Herman. But why would he try to beat up that big lug? Picking a fight with a Gila monster was about as smart as playing hopscotch on the freeway.

And Herman was no ordinary Gila monster. After all, he'd been booted off the football team for biting a referee's ear and throwing him into the bleachers. How many sixth graders could say that?

I stuck my nose back into Billy's desk. I had to find out more. Shirley had a stinkbug pie with my name on it, if only I could crack this case.

I dug deeper. I had just spotted something that looked like a map when a familiar sound sent chills down to my tail.

"Chester? Chester Gecko!"

I hate when teachers use my full name.

"Old To—uh, I mean, Mrs. Toaden," I said. "What a pleasure."

Mrs. Toaden waddled through the door and over to her desk. She sneered at me.

"Returning to the scene of the crime, eh?"

I perked up. "What crime?"

"Your grades in my class, mister. You were the worst student I've ever had, and I've had quite a few."

"Flattery won't work with me," I said. "It's been tried."

Mrs. Toaden picked up the heavy ruler from her desk and stroked it. My knuckles got nervous, remembering old times.

"So what are you doing back here?" she asked. "Taking William's place? Or do you want to make up some of that homework you never finished?"

"Uh, I'm on a case." Under cover of the desktop, I slipped the map into my pocket. "Maybe you can help me."

"Why should I?" Mrs. Toaden gave me her deadeyed stare, the one that makes first graders faint. But not me. I was a big, tough, fourth-grade private eye.

"Why should you? Because," I said, "I could tell somebody about a certain teacher's relationship with a certain cool green dessert." I stood up beside the desk.

Old Toady blinked. Her long tongue sneaked out of the corner of her mouth and tidied up some green blobs on her upper lip. If they weren't Jell-O, I didn't want to know what they were.

"Okay, suppose I do want to help you," she said. "What do you want to know?"

"When was the last time you saw Billy?"

"Yesterday, right after school."

"And what was he doing?"

Mrs. Toaden used the ruler to scratch one of her many warts. Her bug eyes wandered.

She has a face that only a mother could love. And horny toads' mothers abandon them at birth.

"William was talking with that boy Herman and one of the other football players."

"Which one?"

"All those hedgehogs look alike to me." She croaked loudly. "I think maybe it was Brick."

"Did you hear what they were saying?"

Mrs. Toaden slapped her ruler down on the desk.

"What am I, a tape recorder? Enough questions! You're the hotshot detective; you find out."

I smiled sweetly and edged toward the door. "j-E-L-L-0," I sang.

She blinked again. Blackmail is a many-splendored thing.

"One last question," I said. "Did you get an excuse from Billy's mom today?"

Old Toady snatched a piece of paper off her desk and crumpled it in her scaly fist.

"Yes, a little rat brought it. And you can take comfort in this, Chester: William's mom spells almost as badly as you do!"

She tossed the paper at my face. Purely on reflex, I caught the wad with my tongue. Yuck—perfumed paper.

Curious first graders peeked through the doorway.

"Have a nice day, Chester." Mrs. Toaden growled. "Class dismissed."

I strolled out the door. The first graders melted away.

"Not you, you little rodents!" Old Toady roared. She raised her ruler like a sword. "Get your tails in here!"

Ah, school days, dear old golden rule days. I missed first grade.

Like a case of the mumps.

On the way back to my own classroom, I unfolded the note Mrs. Toaden had thrown at me. It read:

Pis xcuze Bllyfrm skool today. He iz sikk.

Hmmm.
Billy's mom had the same spelling problems that Billy did. In fact, her handwriting was pretty close to the writing I'd seen on Billy's drawings.

Could Billy have faked his own excuse note? Duh. Of course he had. But why?

And who had brought the note? Was it one of the Rat Sisters?

I pulled the map out of my pocket and unfolded it. Maybe I'd find a clue to where Billy had gone.

But it wasn't a map at all. It looked like a crazy spider had crawled into an inkwell and danced the Funky Chicken across the paper. The sheet was covered with Xs and Os, and arrows and squiggles—almost like a football play.

Maybe it had nothing to do with the case. But it was the only clue I had. I needed to talk with a football player named Brick, and I thought I knew where to find him.

I walked into my own classroom and sat down. Mr. Ratnose started to tell us all about the history of Mesopotamia, or the messes of Hippopotamia—I forget which. I raised my hand.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Mr. Ratnose, can I go to the principal's office?"

He frowned at me.

"No, you may not. Now, please don't interrupt."

Mr. Ratnose kept rattling on about ancient ruins. I gave him thirty seconds, then raised my hand again.

"What is it, Chester?"

"Can I please go to the principal's office?"

"No!" he said. His eyes narrowed. "Now, for the last time, stop interrupting me."

I gave him ten seconds this time. My hand shot up.

His whiskers twitched. "What ... is ... it ... Chester?"

"Can I please—"

"
Absolutely not!
You've interrupted me for the last time!"

Mr. Ratnose scribbled a quick note. He shoved it into my hand.

"Take this note and go straight to the principal's office. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Ratnose." I walked to the door and turned around. "Oh, Mr. Ratnose? Thanks."

I didn't know for sure that Brick would be in Principal Zero's office, but most of the football team spent half their days there. It was like a game with them. Whoever bugged his teacher the most won an all-expenses-paid trip to the principal's office.

If I'd had a choice, I would have stayed as far away as possible from the three-time winner of the Meanest Principal in the Universe award. But duty called.

And the twisted trail of my case led right to the door of that fat cat, Principal Zero.

I entered the administration building. It was a light day. Only a dozen kids sat in the hard chairs outside the principal's office.

And his spanking machine wasn't even turned on.

The secretary didn't look up as I gave her my note. "Take a number, take a seat." She sighed.

I ripped number 187 from the ticket roll and sat down. I sized up my fellow troublemakers. They were carving their names on the chairs, flicking spitballs at each other, and playing punching games.

Pretty quiet for a Friday.

Half of the kids looked like football-team material—wide as refrigerators, but without the little lights inside. I leaned toward one of them.

"Brick?" I said.

"Say what?"

"I'm looking for Brick."

"Ask a building." He laughed, showing teeth as yellow as candy corn.

"He's a football player," I said. "You know, football?"

The light went on behind his eyes.

"Yeah, football good," he said. "Brick over there."

The goon pointed toward the corner with a hand the size of a dinner plate.
Mmm, dinner.
That reminded me: It was almost time for lunch.

I took an empty chair beside a big redheaded hedgehog.

"You're Brick," I said.

"Yeah, so?"

"Chet Gecko, private eye. I want to ask you a few questions."

"What is this, a pop quiz?" he said.

I thought I'd be tricky and try the old switcheroo.

"You might say that. First question: What is the square root of 369?"

"Uh...," he said.

"Next, what is the capital of Mesopotamia?"

"Hmm," he said.

"And third, when did you last see Billy Chameleon?"

"Billy? Me and Herman was talking with him after school yesterday."

The old switcheroo. It worked every time.

"What were you talking about?" I asked.

"Herman made a joke about some cheerleader. I don't think Billy liked it."

"Why not?" I said.

"I think she was his sister."

Shirley, a cheerleader? That dame was as full of surprises as a toad is full of flies. I wondered what else she hadn't told me.

"Do you remember anything more?"

"That's about it," said Brick. He scratched his neck bristles. "I went to football practice after that."

Football. I remembered the strange drawing in my pocket. I fished it out and showed it to him.

"This mean anything to you?" I said. "Is it a football play?"

He squinted at the paper and turned it around in his hands.

"Number 184!" said the secretary.

"That's me," he said. "Gotta go."

"Wait. What about that drawing?"

"Hah! Whoever drew this was some lame football player."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"It looks like the crowd is playing and the football teams ain't."

He wadded up the paper and tossed it at me.

What did I look like, a trash can? I was going to have to start dressing better.