The Big Nap (6 page)

Hmm.
Where had this treasure come from? I reached for it.

Fwump!
A furry paw shot out, pinning my hand to the desk.

"Well, hidey-ho," said Cool Beans.

Yikes!
My tail almost fell off in surprise. I should've known. He'd been playing possum.

I struggled but had about as much effect as an inchworm arm wrestling a two-ton gorilla.

"Let ... me ... go!" I cried.

One fuzzy finger found its way to his lips. "
Shh,
" said Cool Beans. "It's a library, daddy-o."

I stopped fighting.

"That's better." He squinted at me. "Now, lemme guess. You're trackin' down a zombie master, and you think I'm it."

I nodded.

"Man, are you playin' on the wrong set of bongos," he said.

"Oh, yeah? Then how come you know so much about zombies and the undead?"

Cool Beans grinned a syrup-slow grin. "My roots, man. Down South, where I come from, the bayou's lousy with zombies, werewolves, encyclopedia salesmen, and other freaks of nature."

I frowned. "And what about your so-called book club? Half the students were zombies."

"Yeah, I dug that action," he said, "and I wondered,
Hey, what gives?
" Cool Beans shook his head. "Tell you somethin' else: I never had such a good turnout before, either. Crazy, man."

He gave me a level look, then released my hand. I nodded thanks.

"Cool your heels, comrade, and check this out,"
said the big possum. He snagged a chair with his tail and slid it toward me.

I cooled my heels.

Cool Beans opened the book. "You were lookin' to find out what, exactly?"

"How do you unmake a zombie?" I said.

He flipped through the book. "Well, as I recall, to
make
a zombie, you hafta either hypnotize 'em or steal their soul," he said. "So to
un
make 'em ... aha!"

Cool Beans stabbed a thick finger onto the page.

"What?" I asked.

He pinched his fingers together. "A flea. Man, I hate those buggers." Cool Beans brought the flea to his mouth and turned it into a quick snack. "Now, where was I?"

I prompted him. "A zombie cure?"

The librarian turned some more pages. "Alrighty-ro," he said. "Here we go. To unmake zombies who've been raised from the dead, you gotta ace their master."

"Ace him?" I asked.

Cool Beans drew a finger across his throat in the traditional croak-'em gesture.

"Oh," I said. "Um, what about a zombie who until recently was a living, breathing third grader?"

He turned the page. "Let's see ... to cure a live one, you gotta either make a counterhypnosis spell or break the talisman."

"Talisman? What's that, a Lithuanian breakfast bar?"

"Naw, you know," said Cool Beans, "a charm, a juju, an amulet. Some powerful thing that holds the magic. When you break it, the zombie goes back to normal."

"Riiight," I said. Somehow, I could believe in zombies, but when you start talking magical doodads, I get skeptical. Go figure.

I stood up. "Listen, it's been a slice of heaven, but I gotta go find a zombie master. Thanks for the low-down. And, uh, sorry about the skylight."

The librarian grinned. "It's four bars past cool,
kemosabe.
Catch you on the flip side, man."

I pushed open the library door and blinked at the sunshine. As my eyes adjusted, I scouted the scene. Things were worse than I'd thought.

Most students motored along like goody-goodies on wheels. One carried a teacher's books. Another helped a janitor paint over graffiti. A bunch of them sat in a circle, studying together.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Where were the hair-pullings, the dirt-clod fights, the breathless chases of dear old Emerson Hicky?

What the heck was happening to my school?

"What's happenin', Chet?" It was Sammy the weasel, standing in the shade with a shorter, prettier weasel. She looked enough like him to be his little sister.

"Meet my little sister, Sandy," said Sammy.

Those detective instincts—uncanny, yes?

I joined them. It seemed that little third grader Sandy was having a birthday party that afternoon. So
that's
why Sammy was trying to get me to his house.

With my usual grace, I tried to slip out of it.

"Look, I know I said I'd come over, but the case I'm on is pretty tough. It's taking longer than I thought."

Sammy frowned. Sandy pulled a long face and said, "But we're having ice cream and caaake..."

Cake?
"What kind?"

"Jamocha almond earwig with strawberry frosting," said Sammy, twirling his tail idly. "Too bad you'll miss it."

I rubbed my stomach. It growled pitifully. "Well, maybe I can drop by for just a little bite—er, bit," I said.

Sandy clapped her hands and beamed. Her brother said, "That's cooler than Eskimo eyebrows."

"Yeah, whatever." His metaphors were starting to bug me.

On a scrap of paper, Sammy sketched a quick map to his house. "Right after school," he said. "Don't forget."

My stomach grumbled again. I wouldn't forget.

As I strolled off pondering the case, the bell rang. Time to face my last classes of the day. But whatever they held, it couldn't be tougher than the mystery I was gnawing on.

As I half listened to Mr. Ratnose's blather, I turned over the facts in my mind.

Fact: The zombie population was booming. Fact: If the zombie master wasn't using hypnosis, then he or she had some magic gizmo that could steal souls.

Fact: If I didn't manage to do at least some of my
homework, I might have to spend another year in fourth grade with Mr. Ratnose.

I started paying attention.

At long last, the final bell rang. The game was afoot!

Unfortunately, the zombie master knew all the rules; I barely knew which game we were playing. Following the flow of my classmates, I left my seat and scuffed out the door.

Someone tugged at my sleeve.

"Ur, Chet?" said Waldo the furball. "Can we talk?"

"Okay, but make it snappy," I said. "I'm a busy gecko."

We braved the tide of homeward-bound students and stepped out onto the grass. Waldo glanced quickly from side to side. He probably wanted to invite me to his next magic show.

"Chet, remember how you told me to watch for anything shady?" he muttered, barely moving his lips.

Oh great, a furball detective.

"Yeah," I said. "So?"

Waldo grabbed my arm. "I saw something. It was Fred-o the muskrat. He's been lurking around a lot lately."

I chuckled. "Probably just wants your lunch money."

"No, I'm serious," he said. Waldo frowned. "I watch Fred-o going around with this bag, see? I can't tell whether he's taking something or giving it. But he's seen lots of students today."

I paused. Maybe it was nothing. But maybe Fred-o was wrapped up in this zombie thing somehow.

"Thanks," I said. "You're a good furball, Waldo."

He beamed. I started off.

"Hey, Chet," he said. "Where ya headed? Tracking down clues?"

"Naw, just some shindig at Sammy's house. Then, it's back to work."

Waldo gave me the big eyes. "Can I come along?" he asked. "I could entertain with my magic act. Or I could pick up clues at Sammy's."

I hid a smile with my hand. "Sorry, kiddo. The only clues you'd find would be cake crumbs on my coat."

Waldo's face fell. I clapped his shoulder. "Just keep your eyes peeled, and I'll see you around."

I headed for the bushes at the edge of campus where I always stash my skateboard. As I bent to retrieve it, a voice growled behind me.

"Gecko, get your tail in my office," it said.

Principal Zero!

I whirled to find Natalie grinning at me.

"Very funny," I said. "That mockingbird trick is gonna get you in deep dingleberries someday."

She shrugged and groomed a wing feather. "Anything for a giggle."

I frowned. "I guess so. Did you have a good laugh when I landed in hot water at the library?"

"Actually, you landed on your—"

My glare silenced her.

Natalie shifted from foot to foot. She didn't meet my eye. "Uh, sorry about that, Chet," she said at last. "I figured it wouldn't help any if both of us were busted by the principal."

"You did, huh?"

"Look, let's forget about it," she said. "Come on, time to hunt up that zombie master."

I sniffed. "Can't right now. I'm busy." I set the skateboard down. "Maybe later."

"What?" Natalie cocked her head. "Too busy to investigate? That's not like you. What's going on?"

I hopped on my board and pushed off down the sidewalk. "Can't talk; gotta go," I said.

Before turning the corner I glanced back. Natalie was still standing there, wearing a puzzled look. Waldo was hustling up to her.

Fine. They could have each other—I didn't need any fair-weather assistant detectives.

I knew what I needed, so I hustled off to Sammy's house. As the saying goes, a friend with cake is a good friend to make.

Or something like that.

After ten minutes of zigging and zagging through streets packed with carpooling kids and frazzled parents, I ended up in Sammy's neighborhood. The street boasted huge mansions squeezed in beside each other like a bakery case full of double-decker angel food cakes.

This was Sammy's block?

I checked the address again: 1923 Hifalutin Lane. It was the kind of neighborhood that put the
hoity
in
hoity-toity.

My skateboard carried me up to the wrought-iron gates. They were open, so I parked my chariot under a nearby hedge and strolled up the driveway.

The front yard was okay, if you like an immaculate lawn the size of two football fields. And the house was all right, too. It wasn't quite as big as the Taj Mahal, and it didn't have as many windows as the Empire State Building, but a modest family could live there in a pinch.

Long-stemmed flowers the color of Easter candy lined the walkway like Broadway chorus girls about to burst into a verse of "Oh! Susanna." I reached for the doorbell.

But before I could ring, the door eased open to reveal Sammy.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, yourself," I replied. This gecko is always fast with a comeback.

"Glad you made it. Come on in."

I stepped into an entry hall large enough to hold a couple of good-sized blimps with room left over for the
Queen Mary.

"You sure this place is big enough?" I asked. "What if the Mongrel Horde shows up for dinner?"

Sammy chuckled. "Yeah, it's a bit much. But we're a big family."

He led me across acres of plush carpet. It was deep enough to swallow a small herd of elephants. We passed rooms where I glimpsed marble statues of old Greek guys, pretty paintings by dead French guys, and enough fancy knickknacks to choke a medium-sized horse.

"If I get lost," I said, "should I fire off a flare or wait for the search party?"

Sammy tossed a smile over his shoulder. "Almost there," he warbled.

Finally, we approached a room that rang with the happy babble of kids partying.

"She'll love that you showed up," said Sammy. "My sister's got a big crush on you."

I wrinkled my nose. "
Eeew.
Now you tell me. Cake-and-cooties is a dish I can do without."

"Relax, willya?"

I eyeballed the room. Just slightly bigger than your average airplane hangar, it held scads of fancy furniture and sculpture, and a fireplace big enough to roast a hockey team or two. A cuckoo clock on the mantelpiece featured a monkey and a weasel chasing each other around a track.

A classy touch,
I thought.

About thirty kids, from kindergartners through sixth graders, laughed and frolicked throughout the room, playing birthday-type games.

In the thick of the crowd, I spotted Meena Moe, my guinea pig client. She wore a frown that said,
Why are you here partying when you should be figuring out how to dezombify my sister?

I offered a guilty smile and wondered the same thing myself. Then the party scene reclaimed my attention.

Things were heating up as the sugary treats took effect. Nine or ten weasels wove in and out of the action, carrying cups of punch, passing out candy, and generally playing host. Sammy's family, I guessed.

"Oh, hiii, Chet!" said Sandy, the birthday girl. She gave a little finger wave and blew me a kiss.

I ducked.

"You just missed our pin-the-tail-on-the-cat game," said Sammy.

On one ice-blue wall, I saw a drawing of Principal Zero's broad behind, with a crooked tail pinned to one side. Pinholes pockmarked that ample derriere.

You had to admire their sense of humor.

"Look, it's Rita," said Sammy. "Cake time!"

A tall weasel in a maid's apron burst through another door, wheeling a tray that wobbled under a truly mammoth earwig cake dripping with frosting.

Yum.
Was this the cake that launched a thousand lips? Mine started twitching. I couldn't wait to wrap my mouth around a piece (or four).

We circled Sandy and sang "Happy Birthday." To my untrained ear, we sounded just like the Vienna Boys Choir being fed into a sausage machine.

As the birthday weasel blew out the candles, I happened to glance across the circle. What I saw punctured my enthusiasm like a pin in a whoopee cushion.

There, at the back of the pack, lurked Fred-o the
muskrat, a sneaky snaggletoothed smile on his ugly mug.