Case of the Gasping Garbage Page 2

  “Affirmative,” said Mrs. Doyle. “Be back by suppertime.”

  Drake closed the door behind him and pushed up his glasses with his finger. He whipped open his umbrella and said, “Follow me” to Dr. Livingston. Drake stepped off the porch into the rain, promptly slipped, and fell with a splat.

  Dr. Livingston licked Drake’s face.

  Drake struggled to his feet, and off they went. Over hill and over dale. Finally they reached Frog Hollow. And there was Nell in her yellow raincoat and naturalist cap. She was examining something with her magnifying glass.

  “What is it, Naturalist Nell?” Drake asked, bending down beside her.

  Besides being a superb scientist, Nell was also a naturalist. If it crawled, Nell took notes. If it hopped, Nell followed. If it grew, Nell drew graphs. Nell loved nature. Nature was her specialty.

  But today Nell was troubled. Something was wrong—very wrong. “Look here,” she said. “This is a leopard frog. In fact, this whole meadow is full of them. But you already knew that.”

  “Correct,” agreed Drake. “That’s why it’s called Frog Hollow.”

  “Every spring,” Nell continued, “female leopard frogs must find a pond in which to lay their eggs.”

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Drake.

  “Follow this frog, and you’ll find your answer,” replied Nell.

  The frog began to hop. Nell and Drake followed, with Dr. Livingston close behind. The frog hopped over a log. It hopped around a rock. It hopped through the tall grass. It hopped and hopped and hopped.

  And then something terrible happened.

  The frog hopped onto a road, and … ZOOM! … squish!

  “Eeww,” said Drake.

  “Ugly,” said Nell.

  “Woof,” said Dr. Livingston.

  “Now what do we do?” asked Drake.

  “Follow me,” said Nell. After looking in both directions, Nell led the way across the road and down the other side. And there, sitting all alone with not a frog in sight, was a pond.

  “I think I see the problem,” said Drake.

  “Indeed,” answered Nell. “This road was built just a few months ago. In order for the female frogs to lay their eggs—”

  “—they have to cross the road,” finished Drake.

  “Exactly. And you can see the results for yourself.” Nell sighed. “The whole leopard frog population is in danger. If they can’t get to the pond, there won’t be any new frogs.”

  “So what can we do?” asked Drake.

  Nell set her mouth in a firm line. Drake could tell she was serious. Dead serious. “Come to my house,” she said. “My mom’s still at work, but I’m sure she won’t mind if we make some road signs. We must save the frogs.”

  “Check,” said Drake.

  Nell’s bedroom was like a jungle. Nature Headquarters, they called it. Terrariums, aquariums, fly traps, and ant farms lined the walls. Paper vines hung from huge papier-mâché trees. A moist, hamster-ish smell of sawdust, fish food, and breath clung to the air. It was even a little steamy. Drake’s glasses fogged.

  All afternoon they worked. They outlined and colored and glittered and painted. They glued and stapled and taped and hammered. Finally, they were finished.

  SLOW DOWN! the signs said. FROG CROSSING! NATURE IN PROGRESS!

  “There.” Nell nodded with satisfaction. “That should do it.”

  But it didn’t.

  The next day, just as Drake was swirling a solution in a flask, the phone rang.

  “Doyle and Fossey,” Drake answered.

  “It’s just terrible,” said Nell.

  “What is?”

  “It’s just awful.”

  “Calm down, Naturalist Nell, and tell me what the problem is.”

  “It’s the road signs. The wind blew them down. And they got all wet. And then the cars ran over them. And no one slowed down. And dozens of frogs have died horrible deaths.”

  Drake frowned. Once again, Nell was right. This was awful. Just awful. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

  “Call all our friends,” replied Nell. “Tell them to tune their radios to 98.4 FM at ten A.M. ”

  “Check.”

  Click.

  Drake made dozens of phone calls. After all, they had lots of friends.

  “Tune your radio to 98.4 FM. Ten A.M. Sharp.”

  “Check,” they answered.

  Click.

  Finally, at ten o’clock, Drake turned on the radio.

  The announcer was saying, “… and our guest today is Ms. Nell Fossey, Nature’s Naturalist. Now tell us, Ms. Fossey, what brings you here today?”

  “Frogs.”

  “What about frogs?”

  “Allow me to explain,” said Nell. And so she did. She explained about frogs. She explained her observations. She explained about the pond, the road, the signs, and, of course, the horrible, horrible deaths. “And finally, if we want to save our frog population, we must build a culvert.”

  “A culvert?” the announcer asked.

  “That’s right, a culvert. Dig a tunnel under the road and right out the other side. That way, the frogs can hop through the culvert and they won’t have to cross the road.”

  “Hmm …” said the announcer. “That sounds expensive. Who’s going to pay for this?”

  “That’s why I’m on the air. Listen up, Mossy Lake. Meet me at the town square at twelve noon tomorrow. We’ll rally with signs and take donations. Together we can make a difference.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Fossey, for this most delightful interview.”

  “My pleasure,” she replied.

  “This broadcast brought to you by Mac’s Diner. In a hurry? Zip on over to Mac’s Diner, the place to squat and gobble. Where the service is speedy and the slop ain’t bad—”

  Drake flicked off the radio. Great Scott! A culvert! It just might work! Nell was brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

  At twelve o’clock sharp, Drake met Nell in the town square. Unlike the day before, it was a bright, beautiful day with cotton-ball clouds and plenty of sunshine. Already dozens of kids were there with their parents.

  SAVE THE FROGS! the signs said. SAVE THE TADPOLES! SAY YES TO THE ENVIRONMENT!

  Nell put out a jar for money.

  The day wore on. Nell gave speeches. She showed charts and graphs. She pointed with her wooden pointer. More and more people gathered. More and more money filled the jar. And then the television news crews came. And the mayor.

  The mayor gave a speech in front of the cameras. Nell stood beside him. “Just this morning, our little town of Mossy Lake was unaware of the problem faced by the leopard frog. Now, thanks to Ms. Nell Foosey …”

  Nell spoke into the microphone. “Fossey, not Foosey.”

  “… we can do something about it,” the mayor declared.

  “That’s right,” said Nell. “Remember, together we can make a difference.”

  One of the parents stepped forward. “I’ll help! I’m in the construction business. I’ll donate my time for free.”

  “And I have a backhoe,” someone else offered. “It will do the job in a jiffy.”

  “And I’ll bring plenty of sandwiches for everyone!” Mrs. Doyle volunteered.

  Nell spoke into the microphone again. “Don’t forget the coffee. Decaf. Black.”

  The townspeople burst into cheers. The mayor shook Nell’s hand. Cameras flashed. Nell was on the evening news and on the front page of the morning paper, where the headline read, NATURE’S NATURALIST RALLIES TOWN! FROGS EVERYWHERE CROAKING WITH RELIEF!!

  Nell was a hero.

  A few days later, Drake, Nell, and Dr. Livingston were back at Frog Hollow. Again, Nell had her magnifying glass. “Hmm …” she said. A frog hopped by. “Follow that frog.”

  Together Drake and Nell followed the frog, with Dr. Livingston close behind. The frog hopped over a log. It hopped around a rock. It hopped through the tall grass. It hopped and hopped and hopped. And then something wonderful happened.
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  The frog hopped through the culvert and … out the other side.

  “Oooh,” whispered Drake.

  “Beautiful,” said Nell.

  “Woof,” said Dr. Livingston.

  That evening, Drake wrote in his lab notebook:

  Nell BRILLIANT.

  Culvert a success.

  Leopard frogs and future

  generations saved.

  Payment zero.

  PAID IN FULL.

  It was a fine day for measuring tadpoles. In fact, that’s exactly what Nell Fossey was doing at her desk when the phone rang. She set aside the chart she was plotting and told her tadpoles to take a break.

  “Doyle and Fossey,” she answered.

  It was Drake. “Nell, breaking news. Turn your TV to Channel Five.”

  “Check.”

  She clicked on the TV. A local news reporter was talking. “We’ve got a situation here. A real situation. A desperate situation. As you can see behind me, a truck is wedged under the bridge. Plainly, it was just too tall. And now it’s stuck. No traffic can get through. And, if that isn’t bad enough, it’s rush hour. Drivers are getting cranky. As you can hear, horns are honking. And it’s miles and miles to go around. Like I said, it’s a desperate situation for the town of Mossy Lake.”

  Nell turned the TV off. “What do you suggest?”

  “This is a chance for Doyle and Fossey. With our superior mental powers, we should have that truck out in a flash. Meet me at the bridge.”

  “Check.”

  Click.

  Twenty minutes later, surrounded by the sound of honking horns and the shouts of angry drivers, Nell and Drake pushed through the crowd that surrounded the truck.

  “Stand back, kids,” said a police officer. “Let the professionals do their jobs.”

  Nell handed the officer their business card. “Doyle and Fossey,” she said. “At your service.”

  “Oh, of course, Ms. Fossey. Didn’t recognize you at first. My apologies.” The officer lifted the yellow tape barrier, and Nell and Drake entered the scene.

  There were firefighters, engineers, and news crews. There were politicians, truck drivers, and the mayor. They stood on the bridge. They climbed on ladders. They peered under the truck with flashlights. They held meetings. All in all, everyone seemed quite puzzled indeed.

  Nell set to work immediately. She observed. She measured. She calculated. She charted. She scratched her head.

  Meanwhile Drake was calculating the height of the truck and scribbling in his lab notebook.

  Finally, Drake and Nell held a small meeting of their own.

  “What do you think?” Nell asked.

  Drake shook his head and pushed up his glasses. “It’s jammed in tight. They’ve already tried to drive it out, but it just wedges in farther.”

  Nell nodded. “Plus, they’ve tried pulling it with a tow truck from the other side.”

  “They’ve even tried greasing it,” Drake continued, “but no go. To be perfectly honest, Scientist Nell, I’m stumped. Simply stumped.”

  “Me, too.”

  “This is a dark day for Doyle and Fossey.”

  “A dark day indeed,” Nell agreed.

  Just then, as if being stumped weren’t bad enough, they spied James Frisco. The bad mad scientist. Their archrival.

  “Egads!” cried Drake, nearly dropping his notebook. “It’s Frisco!”

  They watched in horror as Frisco climbed all over the truck. (Unfortunately for Doyle and Fossey, Frisco was allowed to go anywhere he liked and climb over anything he wished, because he was the police commissioner’s son, mad scientist or not. Sometimes life was perfectly unfair.)

  Frisco peered under the hood. He checked the brakes. He squinted through the windshield. He recorded the mileage. He scribbled in his lab notebook.

  And then he dashed away.

  “Great Scott!” exclaimed Drake. “He’s gone back to his lab for final analysis.” Drake turned to Nell. “We must solve the problem before Frisco does. Our reputation is at stake.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I have an idea that just might work,” said Drake.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to raise the bridge using hot-air balloons.”

  Nell was quiet—real quiet. There was something not quite right here. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was that sixth scientific sense that all good scientists have.

  “We must return to the lab,” Drake was saying, “for final analysis. Then we’ll present our findings to the mayor and oversee the extraction operation. Assuming there are no complications, we’ll be home by supper.”

  “You go,” Nell finally said. “I’m going to stay here. Just in case.”

  Drake thought for a moment. “Good idea. I’ll watch the TV, and if anything happens, I’ll hurry right back.”

  “Check.”

  “Later.”

  Mossy Lake University was not too far away. In fact, it was right next door.

  Nell left the scene and hurried on campus to her mother’s laboratory. She often went there when she had a problem. And this was definitely a problem. Fortunately, her mother was in.

  Professor Ann Fossey was sitting at her desk grading papers when Nell walked in.

  “Mom?”

  “Goodness gracious sakes alive, if it isn’t Naturalist Nell. How are you?” And Professor Fossey hugged Nell in a most unprofessional manner. (But Nell didn’t mind. Ever since her father and mother had divorced two years ago, Nell figured she needed more hugs than her normal quota. Twelve per day, to be precise.)

  “What brings you here?” asked Professor Fossey.

  “I have a problem. Or rather, the town has a problem.”

  “Really? Please explain.”

  And so Nell did. She explained and explained. And when she was done, she said, “So that’s it. We’re stumped. Simply stumped. And now Detective Drake is going to try to raise the bridge with hot-air balloons before Frisco saves the day. I just don’t know. Something’s not right.”

  For a while neither of them spoke. Nell knew her mother was thinking hard. Her mother was always quiet when she was thinking hard. And during all this hard thinking, a clock ticked, a snake slithered, and a gerbil fell asleep.

  Finally, Professor Fossey spoke. “I had a similar situation once.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was deep in the Amazon, floating down the river. Suddenly, our canoe sprang a leak. Surrounded by crocodiles, we started sinking. It was desperate, simply desperate. It was sink or swim.”

  “So what did you do?” asked Nell.

  “Our lead scientist suggested we quickly make friends with the monkeys. Then the monkeys would swoop down from the trees and grab us just in the nick of time. But then someone else suggested that instead we hypnotize the crocodiles, using the latest techniques in animal magnetism.”

  “And?”

  “Obviously,” said Professor Fossey, “we were wasting precious time. So I simply plugged the hole with bubble gum.”

  “Bubble gum?” asked Nell.

  “Not exactly cutting-edge science, but it worked.”

  “Wow,” whispered Nell. But then she frowned. She didn’t see the connection. “But what does this have to do with a truck stuck under a bridge?”

  “Ah. Like a true scientist, you’ve come to the heart of the matter. You see, Nell, sometimes the best answer is the simplest answer. Now, I want you to return to the truck and think simple thoughts. No balloons, no grease, no peering under the hood. Here’s my cell phone. If you’re still stumped, give me a call here at the lab and I’ll talk you through it. I know you can do it, dear.” And with that, she gave Nell a quick peck on the cheek and went back to grading papers.

  All the way back to the bridge, Nell puzzled over what her mother had said. Sometimes the best answer is the simplest answer. Crossing under the yellow tape, she surveyed the scene once again. Nothing had changed. There were still firefighters, police officers, e
ngineers, truckers, politicians, and reporters. They still measured and jotted and held quick conferences.

  Nell walked around the truck.

  She scratched her head. She got real quiet. She thought real hard.

  … the simplest answer …

  And then she thought some more. It was beginning to hurt, all this thinking.

  She fingered the cell phone in her jacket pocket and wondered if she should call Professor Fossey. She knew her mom would give her the answer if she asked. But no. Nell wanted to solve it herself. The answer was simple. It was right in front of her face. All she had to do was think.

  And so she did. She thought simple thoughts. She thought and thought.

  … the simplest answer …

  She stared at the truck.

  … the truck is too tall …

  She stared at the tires.

  And then she knew. It was simple—so simple that she was amazed no one had thought of it yet.

  The answer was, of course, air pressure. The air pressure in the truck’s tires supported the weight of the truck. Once that air pressure was gone, the tires would deflate, and the truck would sink.

  Knowing this, Nell picked up a strong twig and calmly poked it into the valve of tire number one. (She’d seen this once on TV.)

  PSSSSSTTTTTT!!!!!

  And while no one paid her the slightest attention, she poked the twig into the valve of tire number two.

  PSSSSSTTTTTT!!!!!

  And tire number three.

  PSSSSSTTTTTT!!!!!

  By the time she had let the air out of all the tires, the entire town was watching. If they weren’t there in person, they watched it on TV. Everyone gasped with amazement. It was quite impressive, really. Slowly, very slowly, the truck sank lower and lower—until, finally, it was a few inches shorter than the bridge.

  “Gentleman,” said Nell to the trucker, “start your engine. And next time, read the height sign.”

  It made for a long day. All the interviews. All the handshaking with the mayor. All the explaining about air pressure. By the time Nell returned home, her tadpoles had been waiting a very long time. They were glad to see her.