Case of the Terrible T. Rex Page 2

  “And the tent floating off?” asked Wiley.

  “Again,” said Nell, “steam. When you tangled with the thorn bush, you accidentally tore a hole in the floor of the tent, allowing steam to enter. As we know, steam is very hot, and hot air rises.”

  Drake drew a quick diagram on the chalkboard. “Basically, your tent became a hot air balloon. We escaped just in the nick of time.”

  “So I pitched my tent on a fumerole?”

  “Correct,” said Drake. “No more camping on Waxberry Hill. We’ll send a full report to your father.”

  Wiley shook their hands. “Amazing work. How can I thank you enough?”

  “Our pleasure,” said Drake and Nell.

  Later, Drake wrote in his lab notebook:

  Wiley one happy customer. park service notified about fumaroles. Received "Warriors Versus Werewolves" video game.

  Must return in one week.

  Paid in full.

  It was a perfect morning in Mossy Lake for observing mama birds and their hatchlings. In fact, perched on a ladder in her backyard, Nell Fossey was doing just that. She peered between the tree branches. She adjusted her binoculars. She sketched a bird in her notebook.

  And just as she was about to sigh happily, her cell phone rang.

  “Doyle and Fossey,” she answered.

  “Thank goodness you’re home,” said the caller.

  Nell recognized the voice. It was Mary Elizabeth Pendleton. Not only was Mary a repeat customer, but she was a proper young lady. Born with a teacup in one hand and a lace hankie in the other, she had read all the works of Shakespeare and could recite lovely sonnets. Her tea parties were simply not to be missed.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Pendleton?”

  “Today I’m having my delightful picnic on the banks of Plum River.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten. Two o’clock, was it?”

  “That’s what I like about you, Nell. Ever so punctual. However—” Mary paused. “I’ve only just arrived and—well, there’s a slight situation.”

  “Situation?”

  “I’m afraid my picnic is in peril. It—it would be ever so helpful if you and Detective Doyle could pop over for a moment. You simply must see this for yourselves.”

  “Check. Fifteen minutes and counting.”

  “Splendid. Cheerio.”

  Click.

  Nell phoned Drake. “Mary Elizabeth Pendleton’s picnic’s in peril. Plum River. ASAP.”

  “Check.”

  Click.

  Plum River was, well, a plum of a river. Sparkling water gurgled. Trees, shrubs, and grassy hills lined the banks, while birds flitted to and fro.

  Nell and Drake arrived at the same time. (Not only that, but they arrived on time as well, as should all top-notch science detectives.) They hurried over to where Mary sat under a tree as she arranged a bouquet of flowers just so.

  “Doyle and Fossey, at your service,” said Nell.

  “Good day, Ms. Pendleton,” said Drake, shaking Mary’s hand.

  “So good of you to come,” Mary replied.

  Nell whipped out her notebook and pencil. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?”

  “As I always say, a picture’s worth a thousand words.” Mary led the way across the grass, down a little embankment, and to the river.

  When Drake and Nell saw the river, they gasped in horror.

  “Egads!” cried Drake.

  “Oh, no!” cried Nell.

  Mary shook her head sadly. “Quite tragic.”

  Yes, quite tragic indeed. For washed up on the banks of the river lay dozens, maybe hundreds, of fish—all dead.

  “This is an ecological catastrophe,” said Nell, feeling a bit weak in the knees, as if she’d just lost dozens of her best friends, which, scientifically speaking, she had.

  “But—but—” Drake scratched his head, puzzled. “How—why?”

  “I have no idea. That’s why I’ve hired the two of you,” said Mary. “A picnic is no picnic with such tragedy in the air. Perhaps there’s something you can do to help. I’d hate to reschedule.”

  “You can count on us,” said Drake.

  Mary checked her watch. “Only three hours until everyone arrives for the picnic.”

  “We’ll get to work immediately,” said Nell.

  So, while Mary went back to her flower arranging, Drake and Nell whipped out their waterproof periscopes and their specimen jars. They pulled on their surgical gloves. Snap!

  First they took samples of the water. Then they put some dead fish in sturdy plastic bags for analysis. Then they hiked upriver, searching for more clues.

  Soon they came to Badger Creek, which emptied into Plum River. Drake took another water sample, dating and labeling the specimen jar BADGER CREEK. He peered at the sample. “Looks normal,” he observed.

  At that moment, a breeze blew, and on the breeze was a nasty smell.

  “Do you smell that?” asked Nell.

  “It appears to be coming from somewhere over there.” Drake pointed up Badger Creek to a chain-link fence. A sign said: PRIVATE PROPERTY: KEEP OUT! The creek meandered under the fence and disappeared into the woods beyond. “Hmm,” said Drake. “Wonder what’s back there.” They walked to the fence and peered through their binoculars into the woods.

  “Don’t know,” said Nell. “Whatever it is, it sure is stinky. Well, Detective Doyle, stinky or not, we must hike up Plum River and continue our investigation. Shall we?”

  So they jumped from rock to rock across Badger Creek and continued to hike up Plum River. They hadn’t gone very far when Nell saw something amazing. Something remarkable. Something so unexpected, she stopped in her tracks.

  “What is it?” asked Drake, bumping into her back and hurting his nose with an oof! and an ow! “More dead fish?”

  Nell stuck her periscope underwater and peered through it. “Quite the opposite, Detective Doyle. See for yourself.”

  Drake peered through the periscope. “Great Scott, Naturalist Nell! The fish are swimming along, happy as can be! And I can’t see any dead fish! This is amazing. This is remarkable. This is so unexpected. What do you think it means?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions.”

  “Likewise,” said Drake.

  Nell took another water sample, dating and labeling it PLUM RIVER, UPRIVER FROM BADGER CREEK. FISH ALIVE. “If our suspicions are correct, we’ve no time to lose. Hundreds, if not thousands, of lives are at stake.” She removed her gloves with a snap!

  “Right as rain, Naturalist Nell. To Nature Headquarters we go! Doyle and Fossey to the rescue!”

  Nature Headquarters was the code name for Nell’s bedroom. Truth be told, it looked more like a jungle than a bedroom. Papier-mâché trees soared, covered with sparkly leaves and vines. Everywhere there were terrariums, aquariums, and cages filled with snakes, turtles, mice, ants, and, oh, too many other creatures for the average person to name and count (although Nell knew and loved them all).

  Drake and Nell hurried into Nature Headquarters. Drake’s glasses steamed in the moist air. For a second he was a bit blinded. “Yoo-hoo, Naturalist Nell,” he cried, relieved when he felt a hand on his arm steering him to the chair at the desk. Then, like all top-notch scientific teams who have a job to do, Drake and Nell got to work. First they discussed their observations. Then they formed a hypothesis. Nell said, “I believe what’s happening to the fish at Plum River is …”

  Drake listened, then nodded. “Agreed. Let’s get busy, shall we?”

  So they did.

  Nell pulled on her surgical gloves. Snap! She poured. She measured. She analyzed. She said, “Hmm” and “Aha!” And if that weren’t enough, she also drew graphs and charts.

  Meanwhile, Drake browsed the Internet. He read newspaper articles. He zoomed in on satellite images. He said, “Hmm” and “I wonder …” and “Gadzooks!”

  At 12:31, they ate lunch. (Once they explained that they were under a deadline and that hundreds, if not thousands, of f
ish lives were at stake, Professor Fossey was kind enough to fix PB&Js, with sliced peaches for dessert.)

  Finally, after they’d finished testing and zooming and eating, Drake and Nell had their answer. A terrible answer, but an answer nonetheless.

  Nell called Mary. “Ms. Pendleton? We’ll be there in fifteen minutes to explain everything. Meanwhile, pack up your picnic.”

  Mary gasped. “Pack up my … oh dear, I must say, I was afraid it would come to this. Dead fish are just so … so improper. But, whatever you say, Nell. You’re the professional. Cheerio.”

  Fourteen minutes and one second later, Drake and Nell were once again at Plum River. Mary sat on her blanket, her picnic baskets all neatly packed. She dabbed her eyes with a hankie. “I suppose I’ll need to call everyone to cancel the picnic.”

  Drake checked his watch. “That would be most premature, Ms. Pendleton.”

  Mary looked confused. “But—but—you told me to pack …”

  “Indeed we did,” said Drake. “Naturalist Nell?”

  “Thank you, Detective Doyle.” Nell looked quite serious, as top-notch scientists often do. She began to pace. “You see, Ms. Pendleton, it was clear that something in Plum River was killing the fish—but what? And where was it coming from? Badger Creek gave us our first clue.”

  “But what on earth does Badger Creek have to do with Plum River?” asked Mary.

  “Everything, as it turns out,” replied Nell. “You see, Badger Creek empties into Plum River.”

  “Of course,” said Mary. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Downriver from Badger Creek,” continued Nell, “the fish were all dead, as you well know. But upriver from the creek, the fish were all alive, meaning that whatever was killing the fish was coming from Badger Creek.”

  “So when we returned to Nature Headquarters,” Drake said, “Naturalist Nell tested the pH in the water samples we had collected.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Mary asked. “What is pH?”

  “Ah, so glad you asked,” said Drake, pushing up his glasses with his finger. “Very simply, pH is a scale that tells you whether something is an acid, a base, or neutral. Tell me, Ms. Pendleton, have you ever taken a spoonful of vinegar?”

  Mary shuddered. “Oh my, yes.”

  “Vinegar is a type of acid,” said Drake. “So is lemon juice. Quite puckery. Now, tell me, have you ever nibbled on a piece of chalk? Not that I recommend it, mind you.”

  “Oh my, no,” said Mary. “How uncivilized.”

  “Chalk is a type of base, as is soap,” Drake explained. “Acids and bases are opposites.”

  “Finally,” added Nell, “there are neutrals. Pure water is neutral, meaning it is neither an acid nor a base, but is in between. Most rivers that fish inhabit are neutral. Knowing this, I tested the pH levels in our three water samples—”

  “While I,” said Drake, “using the latest in satellite technology, explored Badger Creek on the Internet. What we discovered was quite disturbing.”

  “Disturbing?” asked Mary.

  “About one mile up Badger Creek,” explained Drake, “is an industrial plant. I zoomed in on it with a satellite and observed that one of their tanks was leaking. Very simply, the runoff was emptying into Badger Creek and polluting the water.”

  “I confirmed this with my pH tests,” said Nell. “Although the Badger Creek water looked quite normal, it was acidic. This acidic pollution poured out of Badger Creek into Plum River, killing all the fish downstream. Indeed, the water downstream tested acidic, while the water upstream from Badger Creek was neutral, as it should be.” Mary sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her hankie. “So tragic. I don’t suppose a picnic matters much when so many fish have perished.”

  Drake patted her shoulder. “Cheer up, Ms. Pendleton. All is not lost.”

  “Detective Doyle is right,” said Nell. “We’ll help you move your picnic upriver to where the fish are still quite happy.”

  “You—you will?” asked Mary.

  “And,” added Drake, “we’ll post signs directing everyone to your new location.”

  Mary brightened. “Oh, you are ever so splendid! But—but—there is one thing that still troubles me. What about all the fish upriver, who are, even now, swimming to their deaths?”

  “Ah,” said Nell. “We’ve already alerted the authorities. They’ll investigate immediately. No doubt, the factory will have to clean up its act and pay a huge fine, as it should.”

  Mary gave them each a hug. “Job well done! Jolly good!”

  “Our pleasure,” said Nell, handing her a business card.

  That evening, Nell e-mailed Drake:

  Pollution no picnic.

  Authorities say cleaning the river

  is their number one priority.

  Received two tickets to the Mossy

  Lake Aquarium.

  Professor Fossey says “Bravo!”

  —Naturalist Nell

  Drake put on his headset.

  He flipped the switch … beep.

  He pressed the button … boop.

  He whirled this knob … bing … and dialed that knob … boing.

  “Earth to outer space,” Drake said into the microphone. “Earth to outer space. Anyone read me? Hello, Martians?” Beep. Beep. “Plutonians?” Boop. Boop. “Proxima Centaurians?” Bing. Bing. Boing. Boing. “Drake Doyle here … come in, come in.”

  Suddenly Drake heard a scratch. Then a muffled woof.

  “Great Scott! I hear you, I hear you! Can you bark a little louder?”

  WOOF!

  “Louder, please!”

  WOOF! WOOF!

  “Goodness!” cried Drake, quite excited. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sitting right next to me!”

  Just then he felt a bit of slobber slide across his knee. He gave a little shriek (a most unscientific shriek) before realizing his error. “Oh, it’s you. Hello, Dr. Livingston.”

  After patting Dr. Livingston’s head and telling him he was a good boy, Drake turned his radio off. (Communicating with space aliens would have to wait for another day. Nell sent Dr. Livingston only when there was an important matter at hand.)

  “What do you have for me today?” Drake reached into the dog’s pouch and pulled out a piece of paper that began:

  Now, to the untrained eye, it might look like a chicken had tripped across the paper. But Drake knew better. He put his superior decoding skills to work. Finally the note looked less like chicken scratch and more like a secret message. It read:

  Did you forget? Contest today for best fossil. Papper Stonewright the sure winner. Meet me at Paleo Pals Club ASAP.

  —Scientist Nell

  “Egads! How could I have forgotten? Nell’s covering the contest for our weekly newsletter, Amazing Science for Geniuses and the Merely Curious. Come, Dr. Livingston!” Drake fetched his detective kit and hurried down the attic stairs. “To the Paleo Pals Club we go!”

  Woof! Woof!

  The Paleo Pals Club was the perfect sort of club if you loved fossils or simply liked to dig in the dirt. Every year, the Paleo Pals Club held a contest, offering a prize for the best fossil. What was the prize? An all-expenses-paid trip to the Buzzard Badlands, where folks have been known to trip over fossilized dinosaur bones. Plus a feature article in Junior Paleo Pals Geographic. All very exciting, really.

  Drake parked his bike and hurried inside with Dr. Livingston. (Normally, Drake wouldn’t dare take Dr. Livingston anywhere near a pile of bones, but in this case the bones were hard as rocks and not very tasty.)

  “Ah, there you are.” Nell had a camera around her neck and a pencil behind her ear. She looked quite reporter-like. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “My apologies, Scientist Nell. Communications with Martians, you know.”

  “Understood. Let me show you around.”

  Nell took Drake on a little tour. There were posters and colorful streamers and plenty of punch and cookies for everyone. Of course, there were all kinds of fossil
s, too—teeth, turtles, trilobites, and the like. A judge moved among the display tables as he scribbled on his clipboard.

  Pepper Stonewright, the president of the Paleo Pals Club, waved them over to her table. “It’s a trilobite,” she explained, as Drake examined her fossil with his magnifying glass. “Trilobites were sea creatures that lived 250 to 520 million years ago.”

  “Lovely,” he said. “Rather looks like a giant bug.”

  Woof! said Dr. Livingston, giving the trilobite a sniff.

  Pepper sighed happily. “It’s the largest, most complete fossil I’ve ever found. As you probably know, we’re required to have found the fossil ourselves. Not only that, but we must disclose the location of our dig. You know—tell everyone where we found it.”

  “Fascinating,” said Nell.

  “Plus we have to make a site map.”

  “Let me guess,” said Drake. “A site map details where every fossil was found.”

  “Right,” said Pepper. “It’s pretty easy if it’s a trilobite. Not so easy if, let’s say, it’s a dinosaur with lots of bones scattered about.”

  Nell jotted in her notebook. “You sound quite experienced, Ms. Stonewright. Tell me, how long have you been fossil hunting?”

  “Ever since I could crawl. I’m going to be a paleontologist when I grow up.”

  “A worthy career,” said Drake.

  “Winning this prize would mean the world to me. I’ve dreamed of going to the Buzzard Badlands for as long as I can remember. And—” Pepper lowered her voice to a whisper. “Judging by the other fossils, I think I’ll snag that prize.”

  “Anything you’d like our readers to know?” Nell said, scribbling in her notebook.

  “Fossils rock!” said Pepper. Then she smiled and posed for the camera. Flash!

  “Good luck, Ms. Stonewright,” said Nell, shaking her hand. “And thank you for the excellent information. Our readers will be delighted.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Just then, there was a commotion over in the corner. A crowd had gathered.

  “What’s going on over there?” Drake asked.

  “Don’t know,” said Pepper. “That’s James Frisco’s table. He’s late again—”