Tru and Nelle Page 6

  “Go see if she’ll talk to you, Big Boy,” said Nelle.

  Big Boy was not about to do that. Callie scared him.

  Nelle crossed her arms. “I don’t think she knows anything anyways. Maybe I will do a little detecting on my own.”

  At lunch, Nelle bypassed the teachers and went straight back to Hudson, the janitor. She had a hunch he knew more than he was letting on; he was often the first one in and the last one out at night. He must have seen something.

  “Excuse me, Hudson. How are you on this fine day?” Nelle said, all smiles.

  Hudson viewed her suspiciously, puzzled that two children would greet him in one day when most tended to ignore him.

  She smiled at him with her big hazel eyes. “I was wondering . . . if you had an opinion on who mighta done this horrid thing to our school.”

  Hudson looked at her uneasily. He wanted to avoid trouble. “Well, Miss Nelle, I don’t rightly know. From the way them kids is talkin’, they think it’s the boogeyman that done it. Nothin’ stolen, just a mess of pecan shells all over Principal York’s office. Plus”—he glanced around to see if anyone was listening—“someone drew a giant snake on the chalkboard.”

  “Another snake!” said Nelle.

  Hudson nodded. “Strange goings-on, if you ask me.”

  Nelle’s eyes went wide with excitement. “What’d it look like?”

  Hudson shrugged. “It were too simple a pitcher to tell what kinda snake. It just looked like a giant S. With pink eyes.”

  “Pink eyes?” she asked.

  He dug around in his pocket and produced a piece of pink chalk. “Closest thing to red, I suppose.”

  Nelle was excited to report her findings to the others. As soon as school was over, she, Truman, and Big Boy met up by the swing set to discuss the case.

  Truman grew excited as Nelle told him about the pecans and especially the snake drawing. “Those are two very important clues, Watson. It means that (a) the suspect has access to a pecan tree, since there aren’t any here, and (2) he or they have something against the principal, and (c) . . . he must like snakes. Maybe they belong to some kind of secret snake society”—he snapped his fingers—“the Red-Eyed Snake Gang!”

  “You mean pinkeye,” said Big Boy, chuckling to himself. “My baby sister gave me pinkeye once.”

  “Maybe it was some farmer’s kid?” said Nelle, unsure.

  “What farmer’s kid is going to break into a school and leave pecans behind? And why would he want a cameo brooch?” Truman paced back and forth. “And what does the snake mean anyways? Is it a warning of some kind?”

  “Heck, everyone likes pecans. Maybe the brooch was a gift for his mom?” said Big Boy.

  Truman ignored him. “We need to interview Principal York and find out who his enemies are.”

  “I don’t think anyone likes the principal,” Nelle said. “But who would play a joke on him?”

  “Somebody who’s either above the law or just playing a prank. In any case, we must interview the principal and narrow down the suspects,” said Truman.

  “And how we gonna do that? We cain’t just waltz in there and start asking questions,” said Nelle.

  Truman took out his notepad. “We can if we pose as reporters.”

  16

  The Usual Suspects

  “Reporters?” said Principal York, sounding skeptical. “I don’t have time for this nonsense, children. Aren’t your parents expecting you home?” The principal was a man in a hurry, eating a banana-and-mayo sandwich and, for some reason, trying on costume jackets.

  “No, sir. We usually don’t show up till supper’s served,” said Nelle. “What are the costumes for?”

  “If you must know, I am playing King Lear in this year’s agricultural festival. And I’m late for rehearsal.”

  Truman saw the office had been cleared of evidence, so he plopped himself down on the big chair in front of the principal’s desk and dangled his feet. “Perhaps you’ll have some time for the Monroe Journal.” He poised his pencil over his notebook just like a real journalist.

  The principal eyed Nelle, whose father was, in fact, the editor of the paper. “It’s true,” said Nelle. “Truman won a big contest last year for a story he wrote. We’re doing a report on the burglaries. We’re junior . . . detectives.”

  “Detective-journalists,” corrected Truman.

  “We already know about the pecans and the snake, sir,” added Big Boy.

  The principal looked flustered. He knew Truman was persistent, and that arguing often took more time than playing along. “What . . . do you children want to know?” He smiled through gritted teeth.

  “Weeeell . . .” Truman said in a long-drawn-out way that he hoped suggested he knew more than he actually did. “It’s obviously an inside job. A student, I suspect . . . do you have a fear of snakes?” He watched the principal closely, looking for a reaction. Clearly the principal did not care for Truman’s eccentric ways.

  “Or of pecans?” added Big Boy. “Or of—”

  “Sir,” interrupted Nelle. Even though she had a reputation as a bully on the playground, she could be soft and kind when she needed to. “We’re just trying to get at the truth. Do the students have anything to fear? I worry for their safety.”

  The principal sat back in his chair. “No, we believe it was just a childish prank. And no, I am not afraid of snakes or pecans. As for who played the prank, the students in question no longer attend this school, and that is all I can say on the matter.”

  Truman leaned in. “Then you do know who did it? Have any arrests been made?”

  The principal waved him off. “No arrests have been made, there’s no story here, and it’s against policy to release any names to the . . . press. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am expected down at the community theater for rehearsals!”

  Truman, Nelle, and Big Boy walked quietly through town, weaving between the old oak trees that grew down the middle of Alabama Avenue. Clouds of dust kicked up by horse-drawn wagons gave a dingy look to everything, coating store windows and wooden porches in red powder.

  “Well, that got us nowhere,” said Big Boy glumly.

  Truman would have none of it. “Inspector, to solve the case, you have to read between the lines. He seemed like he was avoiding the truth. Former students? Troublemakers looking to even the score, is more like it. I think Mr. York was hiding something.”

  He stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, his thoughts racing.

  “What is it, Tru—Mr. Holmes?” asked Big Boy.

  Tru turned to a dust-covered store window and wrote the word suspects on the glass. “We need a list of suspects. Who around here is always getting in trouble?”

  Nelle didn’t have to think long. “The boys over at Hatter’s Mill, for one. Billy Eugene and all them . . . Hutch, Doofie, and that awful Twiggs Butts.”

  “What about Wash Jones? He’s always acting suspicious,” said Big Boy.

  “Blind Captain Wash Jones?” said Nelle. “He’s old. I don’t think he ever went to that school. Oh, and he’s blind, dummy!”

  “It was just an idea,” said Big Boy.

  “What about . . . bullies?” Truman said.

  Big Boy and Nelle looked at each other.

  “What?” asked Truman.

  “Well, there’s um . . . Boss,” said Big Boy.

  “Why don’t I know about this brute?” asked Truman.

  “’Cause he mostly hangs out over in Mudtown. You don’t wanna go messin’ with Boss,” said Big Boy.

  “It’s not worth it,” added Nelle.

  Truman’s interest was piqued. “Why, what’s he like?”

  “He’s the meanest kid in all of Monroe County,” said Nelle. “He’s only twelve, but I know grownups who are scared of him.”

  “Why, I bet he could eat three kids the size of Truman and still be hungry,” said Big Boy.

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Truman. “One thing I learned on the river is that if you don’t act scared,
you can actually talk to anyone. I’ve seen all types of dangerous folks on that steamboat. Some of them turned out to be downright friendly.”

  “Truman, do you even know how to fight?” asked Nelle.

  Truman took out his deerstalker cap and put it on. “One doesn’t have to fight when one uses one’s brains. I have an idea. Why don’t you two go talk to Billy Eugene and his pals and leave this Boss to me.”

  “You’re crazy, Truman,” said Nelle.

  “That’s why I’m the brains and you’re the brawn,” he said.

  “That don’t make a lick of sense,” said Nelle. “But if you wanna get the snot kicked outta you, be my guest.”

  17

  Bad Day in Mudtown

  Truman wasn’t stupid; he took Queenie with him. The dog had not yet proved his worth when it came to being a guard dog but he was better than nothing. Besides, Big Boy had told Tru that Boss smelled like a sweaty beast; maybe Queenie could sniff him out.

  Mudtown was only ten blocks away from Truman’s house but it might as well have been on a different planet. It was the poor section of Monroeville, where the black servants and out-of-luck white folks lived. Since the blight of the Great Depression hit, jobs had been disappearing left and right all over Monroe County. Even Callie feared for hers. Mudtown wasn’t just a place on the map anymore—it was a feeling of despair and hopelessness that had been slowly spreading into town like a virus. Every day Jenny complained that more and more people had less and less to spend in her store. She worried that when people went hungry, they did desperate things.

  Truman didn’t care about any of that now. Wearing his little white suit and deerstalker cap and walking his precious little Queenie, Truman would have stood out in any part of town. In Mudtown, everyone he passed stopped to stare at him. But Truman wasn’t scared. He’d seen all types on the riverboats: gamblers, smugglers, whiskey runners, cowboys. This neighborhood, however, wasn’t anything like that.

  The houses were made of used wood planks held together by ropes and torn tarpaulins. People were cooking squirrels in pots on open fires in front of the houses. Their eyes looked deep and sallow; hunger lingered at every corner.

  It was called Mudtown because when it rained, the streets turned into rivers of mud. Keeping his white shoes clean was proving to be a challenge, especially since Queenie liked to roll in the muck. But Truman was determined. Danger never stopped Sherlock, and it would not stop Truman.

  Queenie froze in his tracks and began sniffing. The dog took off suddenly, dragging Truman along. “Do you smell him, Queenie? Do ya?” he said excitedly.

  They rounded the corner, where Queenie froze and started to growl. Truman knew he’d found his man when he spotted an enormous scruffy boy three times his size holding another grubby boy by the neck. His meaty fist was raised like he was about to do some damage. Truman pondered his options and decided that being direct was the best of them.

  “Mr. Boss, I presume?”

  Boss’s gigantic head slowly turned toward him. The first things Truman noted about this monster of a kid was the mass of knotted black hair on his head, the snarl of his crooked teeth, and his beady green eyes, which were glaring directly at him.

  Truman was at a loss for words. “Um . . . I’m investigating a crime and, um, narrowing down the list of . . .” Truman lost his train of thought, but unfortunately for him, he’d distracted Boss long enough for his victim to squirm free and vanish around the corner.

  When Boss noticed his prey was gone, he clenched his jaw as if someone had stolen his favorite toy. “You shouldn’ta done that,” he grunted.

  Truman took a step back. “Oh, I probably caught you at a bad time. Sook always says never interrupt a man while he’s eating—”

  “Now I’m gonna have to straighten you out real good.” He pounded his fists together to make the point.

  Truman hated to fight. He also hated running away, because that’s what bullies expected sissies to do. Instead of running, Truman decided to outwit the brute. He calmly adjusted his little suit jacket and said, “I can see by your stare that you wish to cause me harm. But I am here to clear your name, not ruin it. As Mr. A. C. Lee always says, ‘Every man is innocent until proven guilty.’”

  Boss took a step toward Truman, Truman backed up into Queenie, who cowered behind him. So much for an attack dog. Truman tried to remain calm; he reached into his pocket and produced some nuts. “Pecan?” he squeaked.

  Boss gave him a confused look.

  “No? How about snakes? You like snakes?”

  Boss glared and pointed his big finger in Truman’s face. “What do you know about snakes?” he growled.

  “Nothing, just wondering,” said Truman, trying to nudge Queenie in front of him. Queenie was having none of it and scampered off.

  Truman kept backing up. “Does your mother like jewelry? Maybe with snakes on it?”

  “You ask too many questions,” Boss grumbled, backing Truman up against a shack, where he almost fell through some loose planks.

  Truman tried not to panic—instead, he stood as tall as he could and declared, “All right, you . . . you! Should you choose to fight, I must warn you”—he raised his tiny fists into a boxer’s pose—“that Jack Dempsey . . . himself . . . gave me boxing lessons!”

  When that got no reaction, he added, “He’s the world champ, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know. I just don’t care,” Boss growled.

  Truman took a step sideways. “Oh.”

  Boss grinned and held up his fists like he was ready to have a go. Truman swallowed his pride, and then some. “Maybe we could just shake on it and move on to other things?”

  “I don’t think so, shrimp,” snarled Boss.

  “Hmm . . .” Truman said, slowly lowering his fists and racking his brain for a better idea. Looking into Boss’s beady eyes reminded him of the encounters he’d had with water moccasin snakes back when he worked on the river. He knew that if you couldn’t scare them off, you could dazzle them into submission.

  “Let me show you a trick!” he said suddenly. Truman spotted a part of the road that wasn’t muddy, cleared his throat, and spread out his arms like a circus performer. Despite his delicate nature, he had the body of an acrobat with strong and sturdy legs.

  Boss waited for him to run, but instead, Truman executed ten perfect cartwheels right down the road until he was a good block away from Boss. He might have been a shrimp, but he’d also been the best gymnast at his former school.

  18

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Truman wiped the dirt off his hands, surprised that his white suit had remained relatively clean of mud. Queenie was sitting there in the road waiting for him.

  “Some attack dog you are,” he said. He waved to Boss and took off running toward his neighborhood, pleased with his escape. Queenie followed on his heels.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d accomplished, but he recognized that Boss didn’t seem like the type to steal jewelry. And come to think of it, Truman was pretty sure Boss had never gone to his school—he would have heard of such a brute. What had he been thinking?

  Unfortunately, Truman chose a shortcut that took him through an abandoned lot, where, because he was so lost in thought, he ran right smack into Billy Eugene and his pals playing football.

  Nelle and Big Boy were nowhere to be seen. Truman made a mental note to talk to them about following through on their investigations.

  The boys stopped playing as soon as they spotted Truman in his fancy white outfit. “Looks like this here mama’s boy needs to get dirty,” said Billy.

  Queenie took off running again.

  Truman threw up his hands. He would have to do everything himself. He’d handled these boys at the swimming hole, so now shouldn’t be any different.

  “Hello, guys. I’m conducting an investigation—”

  The guys were not interested in Truman’s investigation. As they tackled him into the dirt, he thought of something his daddy alway
s said: “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.” He usually said it because he was always getting himself into an unlikely jam—much like Truman was doing now.

  The boys knocked the steam out of little Truman; he tried head-butting them in the stomach, billy goat–style, but to no avail. His last resort, as they pushed his face into the dirt, was to spout off with as big a voice as he could: “I’m as tall as a shotgun and just as noisy!”

  Suddenly, the boys scattered. Truman sat up. He couldn’t believe it; it had worked!

  Then he felt a giant hand on his head and gazed up to see Boss towering over him. “Oh” was all Truman uttered before his punishment came.

  “Hiya, sissy. Remember me?” Boss growled.

  Truman knew his best option was to roll up into a ball and play dead like a possum. Hopefully, this bear of a boy would lose interest and move on.

  Instead, Boss treated him like a rubber tire, kicking him and rolling him around in the dirt. Truman let the pain drift away and thought of better things: That one Christmas he’d had with his mother and father where they didn’t argue. He remembered a giant turkey and Christmas presents and his father talking about a new scheme that was sure to make them a lot of money.

  Truman started to drift off when another voice interrupted the kicks. “Get offa him!” someone shouted, pulling Boss off Truman. “I said, get off!”

  Truman wiped the dirt from his eyes. It was Nelle. She had wrapped her arms around Boss’s neck from behind and was whacking him on the head and kicking him in the stomach with her heels. Queenie was running circles around them, barking up a storm.

  Boss tossed her like he was wiping snow off his shoulder. She went flying, landed hard, and then bounced back up, dusting herself off and preparing to fight.

  Boss couldn’t believe it. “You’re a girl!” he yelled.

  “Maybe I am, but I ain’t scared of you, Boss Henderson. I beat up plenty of boys at school and I can beat up you.” She spat into her palms and took her fighting stance.