The Case of the Terrible T. Rex by Michele Torrey Page A

dad pulled up in front of Nell’s house, Nell hopped into the backseat. She was the best partner a science detective could have. (Not to mention being Drake’s best friend.) She wore a backpack that Drake knew was filled with handy gadgets. Her coffee-colored hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Drake knew she meant business. Scientific business of the no-nonsense sort. “Waxberry Hill, Mr. Doyle,” Nell said. “Double time!”
    “Check,” said Mr. Doyle.
    Drake and Nell hung on as tires squealed.
    Through town, over Plum River, through Fernfiddle Forest … it was a long way to Waxberry Hill.
    Lucky for them, Mr. Sam Doyle was at the wheel. You see, Mr. Doyle was a scientist himself. He owned his own science equipment and supply company. He made certain that Drake and Nell never ran out of test tubes, sharpened pencils, or lab coats with their names on them. And if business called them out late at night? When the moon was full, and the clock had already struck midnight? When a werewolf was on the prowl? No question. Mr. Doyle was their man.
    The clock in the town’s square had barely struck one o’clock by the time Mr. Doyle parked next to the Millards’ truck near Waxberry Hill. The three of them jumped out of the car and hurried up the trail to the campsite.

T he moon hovered over Wiley’s tent. A steamy mist swirled between rocks and thorny brambles. Eyes gleamed from the bushes.
    “Creepy,” whispered Nell.
    “Spooky,” Drake replied.
    Mr. Doyle sat on a log and unfolded a newspaper. His headlamp illuminated the pages. “Scream if you need me,” he said, stifling a yawn.
    Drake scanned the area with his Detect-O-Werewolf Gizmo Gadget. “All systems clear,” he said to Nell. “Lucky for us, the werewolf must be taking a break. Tired of howling, perhaps.”
    “Hmm.” Nell sniffed the air. “Peculiar odor. Like eggs, only stinkier.”
    “Hmm … right as usual, Scientist Nell. Stinky eggs. Odd. Very odd. Perhaps the werewolf is having an after-midnight snack.”
    Drake and Nell approached Wiley’s tent.
    “Knock, knock,” said Drake.
    “Who’s there?” Wiley opened the flap.
    “Doyle and Fossey at your service.” Nell handed Wiley their business card.
    “Mind if we take a look inside?” asked Drake.
    Wiley frowned. “But what about the werewolf? Aren’t you going to capture him? If I were at home, I would have blasted him to smithereens by now. He wouldn’t stand a chance.”
    “First things first,” said Nell. “All good scientists must make observations before they can draw conclusions.”
    And so the science detectives got to work. They whipped out their lab notebooks and their pencils. They shone their headlamps around.
    “Wiley’s dad, Mr. Millard, is in his sleeping bag,” observed Nell. “He appears to be a very sound sleeper.” As if to prove Nell’s point, Mr. Millard rolled over and gave a little snort, followed by a snuffle and a snore.
    Drake pushed up his glasses. “I couldn’t help observing that the tent is rather lopsided and not staked down very well.”
    “My dad made me pitch the tent myself. I got tangled in a thorn bush but finally did it.” Wiley frowned. “I hate tents. I hate camping. This is stupid, and we’re all going to turn into werewolves if you guys don’t put it into hyperspeed.”
    “Mm-hmm, yes, yes, I see.” Drake scribbled a note to himself: Wiley’s dad out like a light, tent lopsided, Wiley tangled in thorn bush, nature appreciation lesson a failure.
    “The smell of stinky eggs is especially strong in here,” said Nell.
    Wiley’s eyes widened. “It’s the stench of the werewolf.”
    Nell fanned her face with her lab notebook. “Not only is it stinkier in here, but have you noticed it’s getting steamy and hot?”
    “Excellent observation, Scientist Nell.” Drake wrote: Tent stinky, and getting steamier and hotter by the second. “Now, tell me, Mr. Millard,” said Drake, dabbing his forehead with a hankie.