Hiss Me Deadly: A Chet Gecko Mystery: Chet Gecko, cartea 13
Autor Bruce Haleen Limba Engleză Paperback – 31 dec 2008 – vârsta de la 7 până la 10 ani
A
crime
has
been
committed
that
strikes
at
the
heart
of
Chet's
very
own
family.
Some
slippery
sneak
has
stolen
his
mother's
beloved
pearls,
leaving
Chet
angrier
than
a
nest
of
hornets
on
eviction
day. When
additional
items
go
missing,
Principal
Zero
turns
up
the
heat
by
hiring
Chet
to
flush
out
the
thief.
Will
our
gecko
hero
deliver
the
goods
before
it's
too
late?
He'd
better.
Because
this
time,it's
personal.
This thirteenth entry in Chet and Natalie's tattered casebook is chock-full of the hilarious characters, wacky one-liners, and fast-paced mystery that have made this series a favorite among middle grade readers.
This thirteenth entry in Chet and Natalie's tattered casebook is chock-full of the hilarious characters, wacky one-liners, and fast-paced mystery that have made this series a favorite among middle grade readers.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780152064242
ISBN-10: 0152064249
Pagini: 128
Ilustrații: Cover illustration by Brad Weinman
Dimensiuni: 127 x 191 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.11 kg
Ediția:First Edition
Editura: HMH Books
Colecția Hmh Books for Young Readers
Seria Chet Gecko
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 0152064249
Pagini: 128
Ilustrații: Cover illustration by Brad Weinman
Dimensiuni: 127 x 191 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.11 kg
Ediția:First Edition
Editura: HMH Books
Colecția Hmh Books for Young Readers
Seria Chet Gecko
Locul publicării:United States
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Notă biografică
BRUCE
HALEis
the
author
of
five
picture
books
as
well
as
the Chet
Gecko
mysteries.
A
popular
speaker,
teacher,
and
storyteller
for
children
and
adults,
he
lives
in
Santa
Barbara,
California.
Extras
1
Sub Sandwich
You could attend Emerson Hicky Elementary for a long time without knowing its substitute teachers. And you could know its subs for a long time without meeting Barbara Dwyer.
And that would be just swell.
Barb Dwyer was a sourpuss porcupine with a face like a bucket of mud. From the tips of her many quills to the shapeless hat on her head, she was a surly sub, and she didn’t care who knew it.
I could have gone my whole life without meeting her. But because Mr. Ratnose called in sick one gray Wednesday, we were stuck with the dame.
Through math and English classes she had ridden us hard, like a rhino going piggyback on a house cat. We were taking a breather, doing some silent reading. Most of the kids favoredWinnie the Poobah,our assignment.
I had slipped the latestAmazing Mantis-Mancomic book inside oldWinnie.
Private eyes like to live dangerously.
A gentle whisper broke my concentration.
“Chet?” It was Shirley Chameleon, leaning across the aisle.
I gave her a look. She was worth looking at. Shirley had big green peepers, a curly tail, and a laugh like the pitter-pat of raindrops on daisies.
Not that I cared about any of that. She was also a major cootie factory.
“Mm?” I said, glancing back at my comic book.
“Do you, um . . . are you going to the fair on Friday?” Shirley toyed with her scarf, one eye on me, one eye on the substitute teacher. (Literally. Chameleons have some gross habits.)
I leaned over. “Depends. Will they have clowns?”
“Why?” she said.
“Because Ihateclowns.”
“Who’s whispering?” a voice snapped. Ms. Dwyer scanned the room.
We clammed up. A minute later, Shirley bent back across the aisle.
She batted her eyelashes. “I don’t know about clowns,” she whispered, “but I do know that they’re having adance.”
I knew it, too—the Hen’s Choice Hoedown, where girls ask boys.
“I was trying to forget about that,” I said.
Ms. Dwyer thundered, “No more whispering. Eyes on your books!”
Shirley gave it a rest for another minute. Then she murmured, “If you’re, um, going to the fair, maybe you’d come to the dance with me? As my date?”
“Yourdate?!” I spluttered, shattering the quiet.
“That’s it!” cried Ms. Dwyer. She waddled up the aisle toward me, quills bristling. “You! What’s your name?”
Although I wanted to saySeymour Butts,I stuck with the truth. “Chet Gecko.”
“You’ve disrupted my class enough for one morning.”
I let my book drop. “Butshe—”
Ms. Dwyer noticed myAmazing Mantis-Man.“And you’re reading this . . . this trash? Acomic book?”
“It’s research,” I said. “For my science report.”
“I don’t care if it’sWar andfrikketyPeace,” she growled. The porcupine held her hand out for the comic. I gave it to her. “You, mister, will sit outside until you learn some manners.”
Bo Newt chuckled. “Guess I’ll see ya next year, Chet.”
The substitute wheeled on my friend. “Would you like to join him?”
“Uh, no sir,” said Bo.
“Ma’am!”
“No sir, ma’am,” said the newt.
Ms. Dwyer gritted her teeth, then glared at me. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go and reflect on your bad behavior.”
It’s no use arguing with a walking pincushion. Followed by Shirley’s mournful gaze, I rose and ambled out the door.
Five minutes of sitting on the hard cement was enough reflection for any gecko. My tuckus was going to sleep. But the sub let me stew.
On the far-off playground, little kids squealed with joy and freedom.
I sighed. Idly, I twirled the tip of my tail. No case to solve, no comic to read. It would be a long, boring timeout.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Footsteps slapped down the hall. “Chet! Chet!”
The last thing I expected was my little sister. And yet, there she stood, big as life—Pinky Gecko, first grader and first-rate pain in the tushie.
“Little blister,” I said. “What brings you here?”
She frowned. “My feet. But, but . . . how come you’re sitting in the hall?”
“I’m on guard duty—watching out for cockapoos.”
“Cocka-whose?” she said.
“Never mind.”
Pinky turned her woeful eyes on me. “Help me, big brother.”
I pointed. “Okay, the loony bin isthatway.”
“Not funny,” she said, pouting. “Mom’s pearls, they’re missing!”
I scratched my head. “Run that by me again?”
“The pearls.” Pinky shuffled her feet. “I, um, borrowed ’em for show-and-tell.”
“Smooth move, moth-brain,” I said. “And what, you accidentally flushed them down the john?”
“I’mnota moth-brain,” she said. “I showed ’em before recess. An’, an’ when I came back from recess, they . . . disdappeared from my desk!”
I stood. “Have you told your teacher, Miss uh . . .”
“Miss Flemm? I can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Pinky’s lip quivered. “She’ll tell Mom.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Mom doesn’t know I borrowed ’em.”
My eyebrows rose. “Ah.”
“An’, an’, an’ . . .” Her eyes misted up like dawn over Mosquito Lake.
Before the waterworks began, I gently placed my hands on her shoulders.
“And you want me to find the pearls, is that it?”
She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
I chewed my lip. We’d had plenty of crime at Emerson Hicky Elementary—cheating, blackmail, vandalism, kids trying to take over the world. But no crook had made it this personal. No crook hadeverpicked on my family before.
My fists clenched. This punk was going down hard, like a skydiving brontosaurus. Why, I’d even tackle the case for free.
But I’d never let Pinky know that.
“You realize if I do this, you’re gonna owe me big-time?” I said. “We’re talking breakfast in bed, sharing desserts, no hassling me for two—no,threeweeks . . .”
“A-anything you say.” Pinky sniffed. “Just find the pearls.”
I hate to see a reptile cry—even if she’s my own flesh and blood.
“Stop your sobbing, sister,” I said. “I’m on the case.”
Sub Sandwich
You could attend Emerson Hicky Elementary for a long time without knowing its substitute teachers. And you could know its subs for a long time without meeting Barbara Dwyer.
And that would be just swell.
Barb Dwyer was a sourpuss porcupine with a face like a bucket of mud. From the tips of her many quills to the shapeless hat on her head, she was a surly sub, and she didn’t care who knew it.
I could have gone my whole life without meeting her. But because Mr. Ratnose called in sick one gray Wednesday, we were stuck with the dame.
Through math and English classes she had ridden us hard, like a rhino going piggyback on a house cat. We were taking a breather, doing some silent reading. Most of the kids favoredWinnie the Poobah,our assignment.
I had slipped the latestAmazing Mantis-Mancomic book inside oldWinnie.
Private eyes like to live dangerously.
A gentle whisper broke my concentration.
“Chet?” It was Shirley Chameleon, leaning across the aisle.
I gave her a look. She was worth looking at. Shirley had big green peepers, a curly tail, and a laugh like the pitter-pat of raindrops on daisies.
Not that I cared about any of that. She was also a major cootie factory.
“Mm?” I said, glancing back at my comic book.
“Do you, um . . . are you going to the fair on Friday?” Shirley toyed with her scarf, one eye on me, one eye on the substitute teacher. (Literally. Chameleons have some gross habits.)
I leaned over. “Depends. Will they have clowns?”
“Why?” she said.
“Because Ihateclowns.”
“Who’s whispering?” a voice snapped. Ms. Dwyer scanned the room.
We clammed up. A minute later, Shirley bent back across the aisle.
She batted her eyelashes. “I don’t know about clowns,” she whispered, “but I do know that they’re having adance.”
I knew it, too—the Hen’s Choice Hoedown, where girls ask boys.
“I was trying to forget about that,” I said.
Ms. Dwyer thundered, “No more whispering. Eyes on your books!”
Shirley gave it a rest for another minute. Then she murmured, “If you’re, um, going to the fair, maybe you’d come to the dance with me? As my date?”
“Yourdate?!” I spluttered, shattering the quiet.
“That’s it!” cried Ms. Dwyer. She waddled up the aisle toward me, quills bristling. “You! What’s your name?”
Although I wanted to saySeymour Butts,I stuck with the truth. “Chet Gecko.”
“You’ve disrupted my class enough for one morning.”
I let my book drop. “Butshe—”
Ms. Dwyer noticed myAmazing Mantis-Man.“And you’re reading this . . . this trash? Acomic book?”
“It’s research,” I said. “For my science report.”
“I don’t care if it’sWar andfrikketyPeace,” she growled. The porcupine held her hand out for the comic. I gave it to her. “You, mister, will sit outside until you learn some manners.”
Bo Newt chuckled. “Guess I’ll see ya next year, Chet.”
The substitute wheeled on my friend. “Would you like to join him?”
“Uh, no sir,” said Bo.
“Ma’am!”
“No sir, ma’am,” said the newt.
Ms. Dwyer gritted her teeth, then glared at me. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go and reflect on your bad behavior.”
It’s no use arguing with a walking pincushion. Followed by Shirley’s mournful gaze, I rose and ambled out the door.
Five minutes of sitting on the hard cement was enough reflection for any gecko. My tuckus was going to sleep. But the sub let me stew.
On the far-off playground, little kids squealed with joy and freedom.
I sighed. Idly, I twirled the tip of my tail. No case to solve, no comic to read. It would be a long, boring timeout.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Footsteps slapped down the hall. “Chet! Chet!”
The last thing I expected was my little sister. And yet, there she stood, big as life—Pinky Gecko, first grader and first-rate pain in the tushie.
“Little blister,” I said. “What brings you here?”
She frowned. “My feet. But, but . . . how come you’re sitting in the hall?”
“I’m on guard duty—watching out for cockapoos.”
“Cocka-whose?” she said.
“Never mind.”
Pinky turned her woeful eyes on me. “Help me, big brother.”
I pointed. “Okay, the loony bin isthatway.”
“Not funny,” she said, pouting. “Mom’s pearls, they’re missing!”
I scratched my head. “Run that by me again?”
“The pearls.” Pinky shuffled her feet. “I, um, borrowed ’em for show-and-tell.”
“Smooth move, moth-brain,” I said. “And what, you accidentally flushed them down the john?”
“I’mnota moth-brain,” she said. “I showed ’em before recess. An’, an’ when I came back from recess, they . . . disdappeared from my desk!”
I stood. “Have you told your teacher, Miss uh . . .”
“Miss Flemm? I can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Pinky’s lip quivered. “She’ll tell Mom.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Mom doesn’t know I borrowed ’em.”
My eyebrows rose. “Ah.”
“An’, an’, an’ . . .” Her eyes misted up like dawn over Mosquito Lake.
Before the waterworks began, I gently placed my hands on her shoulders.
“And you want me to find the pearls, is that it?”
She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
I chewed my lip. We’d had plenty of crime at Emerson Hicky Elementary—cheating, blackmail, vandalism, kids trying to take over the world. But no crook had made it this personal. No crook hadeverpicked on my family before.
My fists clenched. This punk was going down hard, like a skydiving brontosaurus. Why, I’d even tackle the case for free.
But I’d never let Pinky know that.
“You realize if I do this, you’re gonna owe me big-time?” I said. “We’re talking breakfast in bed, sharing desserts, no hassling me for two—no,threeweeks . . .”
“A-anything you say.” Pinky sniffed. “Just find the pearls.”
I hate to see a reptile cry—even if she’s my own flesh and blood.
“Stop your sobbing, sister,” I said. “I’m on the case.”
Copyright
©
2007
by
Bruce
Hale
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
Descriere
Emerson
Hicky
is
thick
with
thieves.