The Big Nap

HARCOURT, INC.
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Copyright © 2001 by Bruce Hale

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hale, Bruce.
The big nap: from the tattered casebook of
Chet Gecko, private eye/by Bruce Hale.
p. cm.
"A Chet Gecko Mystery."
Summary: Someone is turning the students at Emerson
Hicky Elementary into zombies, and it's up to fourth-
grade private eye Chet Gecko to find out who.
[1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction.
3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories.]
I. Title.
PZ7.H1295Bi 2001
[Fic]—dc21 2001000844
ISBN 0-15-202521-9

Text set in Bembo
Display type set in Elroy
Designed by Ivan Holmes

First edition
A C E G H F D B

Printed in the United States of America

To my sisters, with much aloha

Next to catching crooks, one of my favorite pastimes is catching z's. Have you ever noticed how the whole world looks rosier after a nap?

(That is, unless you wake up with graham crackers mushed into your face.)

The only thing I like better than a good snooze is a good meal. And the only thing I like better than a good meal is ... a nice, juicy mystery.

I love a mystery. Who am I? Chet Gecko, Private Eye—the best lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary. It's not just my opinion.... Ask anybody.

My curiosity has gotten me into spots tighter than a hippo's tutu. No big deal; I'm still here. But one time, I cut things a little too close for comfort, and I almost found myself sleeping The Big Nap.

(That's the one where you never wake up for milk and cookies.)

My classmates were being hypnotized by some evil power (no, not math class—another evil power). And much as I might have wanted to hit the snooze button and let sleeping dogs lie, I couldn't afford forty winks.

The clock was ticking. If the sinister sandman caught up with me, it'd be sweet dreams for this private eye.

And that kind of beauty rest I don't need.

It was dumb of me, I know.

When you're a fourth grader, you don't take a shortcut across the sixth graders' playground. Not when they're playing on it.

It's safer to wear red undies and dance the hootchy-koo in front of a raging bull, or to dip a toe in a piranha's swimming pool.

But private eyes live dangerously. Besides, I was late for lunch.

Green and grumpy and ready to eat, I slipped along a line of krangleberry trees. Then I heard it.

Crink-crank-cronk!

Heavy footfalls crunched behind the next tree. Something hefty—a T-rex, a grizzly, maybe Bigfoot?—was stalking me. I stopped short, and out popped Herman the Gila Monster.

I'd rather have met Bigfoot.

He leaned down into my face. "Hey, Gecko!" Herman's breath almost melted my hat. The guy never heard of mouthwash?

"What's up, Herman?" I said.

He stared at me with an expression that was about as cute as a bowlful of baby rattlesnakes. "This not fourth graders' playground. Beat it, Gecko—before I beat you."

"Still sore about those two months of detention?" I asked. "You should have thought of that before you tried to swipe the school mascot."

Herman wanted to make a snappy comeback. I could tell, because his forehead wrinkled with the effort and his jaw dropped open.

The silence stretched like your grandpa's oldest T-shirt.

"Don't strain yourself," I said, taking a moment to straighten my hat. A private eye stays cool under pressure. "Stick to one-syllable words."

The Gila monster pointed a shotgun-sized finger across the playground. "Go!" he growled.

"That'll do nicely." A private eye also knows when to split.

I turned, only to find the path blocked by a double scoop of ugly—Rocky Rhode and Erik Nidd, standing side by side.

Uh-oh.

I was doomed.

But that had never stopped me from wisecracking before.

"Sorry, ladies," I said. "I'm all full up on Girl Sprout cookies. Go peddle your wares somewheres else."

No response. Not even a "get lost" snarl. Only a quiet
beep-bop boop.
I looked closer.

Both the horned toad and her tarantula pal had their eyes glued to handheld video games. And with a spider, that's a lot of eyes to glue.

I cleared my throat.

"Beat it," said Erik.

"We got better things to do than smush geckos," added Rocky.

Better things to do than beat me up? How rude. But then, how lucky.

Herman looked like he'd just been told the Wicked Witch of the West was actually an Avon lady. "Hey, you guyyys," he whined. "Get Gecko!"

I decided not to wait around until the big lug figured out he could mop the floor with me all by
himself. "It's so hard to say good-bye," I said. "So let's just say
hasta la pasta.
"

I slipped between Rocky and Erik, and hotfooted it for the cafeteria. They say discretion is the better part of valor; it's also better than a trip to the nurse's office.

After a while, I slowed to a brisk walk. Too much exercise can scramble the brains. And the only thing I like scrambled is my Eggs 'n' Termites à la Chet.

At the lunch counter, Mrs. Bagoong heaped my tray with scorpion stir-fry and lice foo yung. Wednesday is Asian-food day at Emerson Hicky cafeteria.

I scoped out the scene. Boring with a capital B. But I knew someone who might have a new mystery to crack.

Like at most lunchtimes, I parked my carcass beside my fine feathered partner, Natalie Attired. She was a whiz with puzzles and clues. Around school, her smart mouth had earned her a reputation as a black belt in tongue fu.

Just the kind of dame you want working your side of the street. We share a passion for mysteries, but I don't share her passion for worms.

Natalie's pretty sharp for a mockingbird—heck, pretty sharp for any kind of critter.

"Hey, Chet," she said, "what's an Eskimo's favorite food?" She looked at me wide-eyed. "Iceberg-ers! Get it?"

Well, maybe not
that
sharp.

I sighed.

She cackled and pecked at her stir-fry. "So what's the tale, nightingale? Any fresh mysteries to solve?"

I sighed again. "I was about to ask you. The mysteries in this school are about as fresh as Herman's armpits."

"That bad?" asked Natalie.

"Well, maybe not as stinky," I said.

We munched in silence for a while. If the detective biz got any slower, I'd have to mow lawns for candy money. And Chet Gecko is no lawn mower.

"Hey," said Natalie. "I know: That kid Popper is missing from school—maybe she's been kidnapped!"

I picked a scorpion stinger out of my stir-fry. "Nope. Home with the chicken pox. I checked."

"Hmmm..." Natalie pointed toward the lunch counter, where a huge possum in sunglasses was loading up his tray. "What about him? That guy looks mighty suspicious."

I glanced over. "I think he's the new librarian. Stop trying to cheer me up."

Natalie shrugged. "Suit yourself, señor."

I scanned the lunchroom. Nothing but food and foolishness. Bo Newt was giving an atomic wedgie to some kid in the corner. Another classmate, Waldo the furball, was stupefying three second graders with his magic tricks.

I looked the other way. Two mice practiced their karate moves on a tabletop. No mysteries there.

In fact, nothing shaking but the Jell-O on the trays.

"I just wish something would happen," I said. "Anything. I'm so bored, I'm baiting sixth graders for fun."

I didn't know it, but before another day passed, I'd have to eat my words. And they wouldn't be as tasty as the doodlebug pudding.

But then, not much is.

After lunch, I dragged my tail out onto the playground. Natalie followed. A pack of rats played King of the Hill on a jungle gym. One of them shoved his last rival aside and stood alone on the top.

"Rat king—now there's a great job," I said. "Looks like it's livelier than detective work."

Natalie practiced ignoring me.

A knot of kids had gathered near a broad oak tree. We walked closer. Over a ring of shoulders, I glimpsed their entertainment: A bully circling his prey.

No mystery there, either. Just the everyday law of the playground jungle.

From what I could see, the bully was a beefy muskrat named Fred-o. This fifth-grade Attila the
Hun could squeeze lunch money from a victim quicker than foul wind from a hop-toad's heinie. I figured his victim was a goner.

But by the time we arrived, the group was breaking up. Fred-o grinned at his prey, a skinny stoat (or weasel—I can't tell them apart).

"Gee, thanks," said Fred-o. He patted the little guy's shoulder and trundled off.

The weasel (or stoat) smoothed his whiskers and strolled the opposite way.

He looked familiar.

"Isn't that the new kid in your class?" Natalie asked. "Sammy something?"

"Oh yeah, that's him."

It made sense. New kids were usually bully bait. But this one seemed to have something on the ball.

He eased across the grass like syrup on a pancake, with a cut in his strut and a glide in his stride. I wished I felt half as chipper.

Natalie and I flopped down under the scrofulous tree, my favorite thinking spot. She cleaned her feathers while I thought long thoughts—mostly about how to buy my afternoon snack. My wallet was as empty as a newborn kitten's threat.

My eyes hadn't been closed for more than three seconds when I heard a small sound like a seasick gopher.

Heh-hyewm.

Eyes shut, I said, "I didn't know mockingbirds got hair balls."

The sound repeated itself.
Heh-hyewm.

I looked up.

There she stood, a thick slab of nothing special: A plump guinea pig in a pearly pink sweater. Her eyes glistened like big brown pools of chocolate sauce. She twisted the strap on her book bag.

"If you're gonna ralph, sister," I said, "use the bushes."

The guinea pig's lips clamped down until her mouth was as tight as the PTA's purse. "I was clearing my throat," she said primly. She plucked an invisible speck of lint from her sleeve. "I'm looking for a gecko named Chet."

I told her that I was a gecko named Chet. And that my partner was a mockingbird named Natalie. But for the right money, we'd be a Ukrainian bug-juggling act named Sturm and Drang.

The guinea pig nodded her head slightly. "You may call me Meena Moe."