The Case of the Mossy Lake Monster (3 page)

“Woof,” Dr. Livingston replied.

The next day after school, Drake hurried to Nell’s house. She didn’t live far—just over the hill and past the park.

As Drake entered Nell’s room, his glasses fogged. They always fogged because it was a little steamy. Rather like a jungle, really. It was known as Nature Headquarters. Papier-mâché trees soared to the ceiling. Vines dangled and giant leaves sparkled. Cages, aquariums, and terrariums were everywhere. There were chirps and cheeps and squeals and squeaks. It smelled like a mossy bog, topped off with turtle burps and guinea-pig poo. (If you haven’t figured it out by now, Nell was, quite naturally, a naturalist. Nature was her specialty. Beetles, bats, baboons, bears, belugas—she loved them all.)

Just as Drake was tossing some salad to the gerbils, he heard Nell’s voice. “
Pssst!
Calling Drake Doyle! Pssst! Are you there? Do you read me?”

Drake was so startled, he tossed a bit more salad than he’d planned. Lettuce, carrots, and cucumbers flew everywhere. Nell’s voice was coming from the computer on her desk. Drake pushed aside a few leaves and ferns and turned on the monitor. There was Nell. On the screen. Large as life. “Reading you loud and clear, Naturalist Nell. How—”

“Oh, thank goodness you’re there!” she cried. “I left on my Internet view camera and microphone just in case.”

“Smart thinking,” Drake replied in his most professional voice. He removed a piece of lettuce from the top of his head. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s just terrible! It’s just horrible! It’s just—”

“Take it from the top, Naturalist Nell, and speak slowly.”

Nell wiped her face, leaving a dark, dirty smudge. Her naturalist cap was crooked, and her hair was a mess. Her raincoat and boots were covered with brownish-black goo. She stood on a beach while a helicopter whizzed overhead. “As you know, I’m here on Penguin Island with Professor Fossey.”

“Check.”

“Just as we began to study the little penguins, an oil tanker ran aground, and now there’s an oil spill.”

“Great Scott!” cried Drake, aghast. “You’re right! This is terrible! This is horrible! This is a major disaster!”

And it was. A disaster. A terrible, horrible, major disaster.

“The penguins need our help,” said Nell. “Observe.”

The camera panned away from Nell. Beside her, using tables and plastic tubs, dozens of people were bathing oily penguins. Drake saw Professor Fossey, up to her elbows in sudsy water. She smiled and waved, flinging a few bubbles here and there. “Detective Doyle. How nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Drake replied.

“As I was saying,” continued Nell, “the penguins need our help. When crude oil spills into the ocean, it weighs down the penguins’ feathers. Many of them drown.”

“So very sad,” said Professor Fossey, scrubbing a struggling penguin.

“If they can make it to shore, we wash them,” said Nell.

“But,” said Professor Fossey, “no matter how much we bathe them, some of the crude oil is left behind.”

“Correct.” Nell nodded. “Then, when the penguins preen their feathers, they accidentally swallow the oil. Many of the penguins you see here will die from oil poisoning.”

The camera focused on Nell. She looked quite serious. “But that’s not all. The crude oil and the washing have destroyed the penguins’ natural oils, which help keep them warm and waterproof in cold water. You see, the terrible fact is, even if they don’t die from swallowing the oil, they’ll freeze in these waters.”

Drake slumped into a chair, unable to stand a moment longer. This was, simply put, just horrible. The penguins of Penguin Island were not only being poisoned, they were freezing, too! “What can we do?” he asked.

Nell thumped her fist for emphasis. “That’s why I’m contacting you. We simply must find a solution. Doyle and Fossey to the rescue!”

D
rake ran all the way home, tripping only twice.

He flew through the back door and up two flights of stairs.

“Be careful!” hollered Mrs. Doyle.

“Don’t blow up the lab!” hollered Mr. Doyle.

“I will! I won’t!” hollered Drake.

In the attic lab, Drake searched for his most useful scientific book. It wasn’t on the shelf where he normally kept it. Then he heard a
grr!
and a
rip!
Following the sound, Drake discovered something terrible. Something horrible … another major disaster, you might say. For tucked away beneath Drake’s desk lay Dr. Livingston, chewing on the book. “Egads!” cried Drake, snatching the book away.

Frantically, Drake thumbed to the right page. It said: “Penguin Rescue: What to Do When There’s an Oil Spill and the Poor Little Penguins Are Freezing to Death.” Then Drake gasped. The rest of the page was missing! “Dr. Livingston!”he said in his sternest scientific voice. “What have you to say for yourself!?”

Buuurrrp!

Drake paced the floor. “This is terrible.” (
Turn.
) “Nell is counting on me.” (
Turn.
) “Penguin Island is counting on me.” (
Turn.
) “The penguins are counting on me.” (
Turn.
) “I simply must find a solution.” (
Turn.
) “Oh, this is dreadful.” (
Turn.
) “What a calamity.” (
Turn.)

Drake searched the Internet. Drake asked his parents. Drake bicycled to the library and talked with the librarian. Drake phoned the environmental agencies. But no matter whom he asked, the answer was always the same: “Give the penguins a bath,” they all said. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

After school the next day, worried as ever, Drake hurried back to Nature Headquarters. “Calling Naturalist Nell, calling Naturalist Nell. Do you read me?”

Suddenly, on the monitor, there was Nell. Holding a shivering penguin. “Anything?” she asked.

“Negative.”

Nell sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. Ditto here. The situation is getting more and more desperate. Thousands more penguins are straggling in. And now the weather’s turned for the worse.” Suddenly, the wind gusted, and Nell wrapped the shivering penguin in her sweater. “I just wish I could wrap each of them in a sweater. Poor little things.”

Drake blinked. “What did you say?”

“I said I just wish I could wrap each of them in a—” Nell’s eyes widened. “Why, Detective Doyle, that’s it! That’s it! Penguin sweaters!”

“Great Scott! It’s brilliant! Simply brilliant!” Suddenly, all around Drake, the crickets began to chirp. The frogs began to croak. The mice began to squeak. Indeed, everyone thought it was a brilliant idea.

“We’ll have to act fast,” Nell was saying. “Professor Fossey can make a sweater pattern—”

“And I’ll post the pattern on the Internet—” Drake said.

“We’ll need lots of help.”

“And lots of yarn …”

After they made their plans, Drake went into action. There wasn’t a moment to lose. That very afternoon he called all his friends and organized the Mossy Lake Emergency Penguin Committee. He gave them assignments and a pep talk. “The penguins are counting on us. Are we going to let them down?”

“No.”

“I said, ‘Are we going to let them down?’”

“No!”

“I didn’t hear you! I said, ‘ARE WE GOING TO LET THEM DOWN?’”

“NO!”

Woof!

The next day, an urgent plea was announced over the school intercom. It was broadcast over the radio. It was printed in the newspapers. It was posted on the Internet. “Calling all knitters! Calling all knitters! Penguin emergency!”

There was a contest at school for the classroom that brought in the most sweaters. There was an all night knit-a-thon at the Mossy Lake Senior Center. (Coffee and muffins compliments of Mrs. Doyle.) There was a televised knitting race to see who was the fastest knitter. Knitting needles were selling like buttered hotcakes. Yarn stores were open twenty-four hours a day. The Mossy Lake Moose Club volunteered to box and ship the sweaters. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Overnight express.

Hour by hour, day by day.

Two days … three days … four days … five days…

And then, the moment of truth.

The people of Mossy Lake stood in the town square. Breathless. Waiting. Staring at the big screen mounted on the back of a truck. Then there she was.

Nell Fossey, Nature’s Naturalist.

Live from Penguin Island.

“Observe!” cried Nell. And the camera panned out. Dozens of little penguins swam in saltwater pools while wearing little sweaters. The sweaters were rather fashionable. Reds, greens, oranges, yellows, blues, and quite a few hot-pink ones. Stripes and solids. Woolly turtlenecks. Bows and ribbons.

“Awwww!” cooed the people of Mossy Lake.

“The wool sweaters keep the penguins quite warm,” said Nell. “Not only that, but they can’t preen their feathers and swallow the oil. And by the time the saltwater dissolves the sweaters, the little penguins will have replenished their natural oils and will be ready to return to sea.”

The people of Mossy Lake clapped and cheered.

The people of Penguin Island clapped and cheered.

The penguins waddled and dived and swam.

It was quite a happy moment, really.

Later after dinner, Drake wrote in his lab notebook.

Oil and penguins do not MIX.
Sweaters fashionable.
Penguins warm and cozy.
Payment zero.
      
Paid in full
.

I
t was a wonderfully lazy Friday afternoon. Nell Fossey lay in her hammock in the backyard and slowly sipped her lemonade. The cordless phone rang. “Doyle and Fossey,” she answered.

“Ms. Fossey? Over.”

“Yes?”

“Max Brewster here. Over.”

“Oh. Hi, Max.” Max was in Nell’s class at school. While Nell tended to save wildlife, Max tended to, well, hunt and eat wildlife. On weekends Max wore camouflage. He painted his face green and brown and wore a bush on his head. But even though Max and Nell didn’t always see eye to eye, Nell couldn’t let that get in the way of business. She was a professional. “What can I do for you?”

“Code 47. Over.”

“Code 47, you say?” Nell asked.

“Copy that. Over.”

Nell sighed. “I hate to ask you this, Max, but what exactly
is
Code 47?”

“It’s—it’s—” And then the voice at the other end seemed at a loss for words.