12
Nelle loved having Queenie around. No detective agency was complete without a bloodhound of its own. Now if only they had a case to solve.
One day, Truman and Nelle took Queenie for a walk. They were minding their own business, bored as usual, when they spotted Ed the egg man peering in through Mrs. Ida Skutt’s window.
“Now, what do you suppose he’s doing? Is he a peeping Tom?” asked Truman.
Nelle was not one to beat around the bush. “Heya, Ed! Whaddya know?” she said.
Ed looked over at them, concerned. Queenie suddenly started sniffing up a storm, pulling them up onto the porch. “Queenie, stop it!” Truman said.
Ed took off his white cap and scratched his head. “Well, yesterday I delivered eggs to Mrs. Skutt, and I smelled something downright awful. And now I come back and her eggs are still sitting there unopened, and the stench—”
That’s when it hit them: the smell. “Golly, what is that stink?” said Nelle. “I think I’m gonna lose my breakfast—”
Queenie tore the leash out of Truman’s hand and sniffed his way around the side porch. “Queenie, come back here.”
Truman followed the dog and the smell kept getting stronger and stronger. Queenie rounded the corner to the back and became hysterical, yapping and jumping around like his feet were on fire.
Nelle tried to stop Truman. “Don’t—”
“Could be the big break we’ve been waiting for!” he said. Nelle hung back but Truman continued around the corner with thoughts of murder and mayhem dancing in his head.
When he saw where the smell was coming from, he froze in his tracks.
Nelle was afraid to look. “What is it, Tru?”
“I think I found where the stink is coming from . . .” he said, gaping.
“Mrs. Skutt?” she asked.
Truman nodded.
“Is she . . . ?”
“Dead,” he said.
Nelle wanted to run but found herself moving toward him.
“There’s something else . . .” he said.
“What?” she asked. “Should I look?”
“No!” He held up his hand. “I think she’s been dead awhile.”
“How can you tell?” She could feel her breakfast rising in her throat.
“Um . . . cockroaches.”
Nelle tried to shake the image from her head. “What?”
“Cockroaches. Hundreds of them. Crawling up and down her legs . . . and arms . . . and in her . . . mouth—”
Right then, Ed the egg man came up from behind Nelle. “What in tarnation is that smell?” He turned the corner and came to a stop too. Then he busted out laughing.
“Great balls of fire!” yelled the egg man. “This is better than when Twit Tutweiler was struck by lightning!”
Nelle couldn’t stand it anymore. She poked her head around the corner and saw what they were gaping at: not dead Mrs. Ida Skutt, but a pile of rotting, festering garbage topped with weeks of putrid eggs and coated with maggots!
The egg man couldn’t stop laughing. “Well, she complained about the eggs going up a penny, and she vowed revenge. Said she would make a special delivery at our farm, and now I see why she was taking her time. Good and ripe. Oh Lordy. My boss is gonna love this one!”
Nelle wanted to take a swing at Truman for playing her, but she couldn’t help but laugh.
“I had you going, didn’t I?” said Truman. “You shoulda seen your face, Nelle Harper!”
She blushed. Queenie went over and licked her bare foot. “Well, if you’re so smart, then where is she? Maybe she is dead, for all you know, trapped inside, rotting away, but no one can smell her ’cause of all this!”
Truman shrugged. “Good point. In that case, we’d have a new mystery, wouldn’t we, Watson?”
They would have to wait for another opportunity. Still, Truman saw Queenie was a good addition to the team.