Spy Penguins Series, Book 1 Read online

  “Huh?” Quigley looked confused.

  “It’s a FISH-grabber claw!” Jackson said. “The drawings are here! That’s what he was talking about on the phone to his restaurant customer.” Jackson swallowed a few times and ran his flipper through what was left of his crest. “But why would a restaurant want a fish-grabber claw?” A sharp stab of excitement made him gasp. Could this have something to do with the missing fish? “We’ve GOT to go check this restaurant out.” He peered at the scribbled writing in the top left-hand corner of the drawings. Sunny’s flipper-writing was almost as bad as Quigley’s. “The Shark’s Pit Restaurant,” he read, “sixteen Shiver Street. Hey, isn’t that the same street the City Aquarium is on?”

  Lights, alarms, bells, whistles, and a whole giant-size brass beak band were playing in Jackson’s head now. NO WAY could this be a coincidence. Jackson’s adventure detector was sounding so loud there was a danger his mom might hear it on the other side of town. Jackson narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air. This whole thing smelled bad—worse than one of Hoff Rockface’s stinky lunch burps. “We have to get over there NOW,” he said.

  “Um—okay.” Quigley shook his head to dislodge the giant swarm of frost wasps that had settled there. “But do you think you could find that central power-down switch first? I’m kind of getting feather frosted to death over here.”

  6

  “Wish we’d gotten the sled working again,” Quigley grumbled as they turned the corner onto Shiver Street.

  “Yeah, but think how awesome it’ll be once Sunny gets his flippers on it.” Jackson shivered. Yeah, awesomely scary! He ran his flipper through his crest, then remembered half of it was missing. “Mom is going to go Hammerhead when she sees this.”

  “Nah,” Quigley said. “She won’t notice. Moms never notice stuff like that. Remember that wall-climbing poo-glue I invented? It was so super-sticky I climbed up your bedroom wall and dangled from your ceiling for sixty-four minutes and thirteen seconds.”

  Jackson grimaced. He remembered, all right. In the end he’d had to fetch his mom’s ladder and his dad’s sewing scissors to cut Quigley free, leaving most of his friend’s tail feathers stuck to the ceiling.

  “When I got home, my mom never noticed a thing.” Quigley beamed.

  But Jackson’s mom had noticed. She’d grounded Jackson for a month, made him help repaint his bedroom ceiling, AND put him on egg-sitting duty for a week. Jackson’s mom noticed EVERYTHING. She was a detective at Waddles’ Department Store. She had security camera–style eyes. And a beak that could sniff out a secret from ten blocks away. She would spot Jackson’s new “look” the second she saw him. Probably before.

  “Hey, I know how to get your crest to grow back,” Quigley said. “I’ve been working on this awesome veggie-accelerator powder for my dad’s iceberg lettuces. You just spray it on and PUFF!” He made a giant shape in the air with his flippers. “Maybe we could try it on your crest?”

  Jackson gulped. He did not want to look like a giant lettuce! “Look,” he said, changing the subject. “I think this is it.”

  They’d stopped outside a grim-looking, windowless building. The huge revolving door was chained shut, and there was no sign saying it was the Shark’s Pit Restaurant apart from the—

  “SHARK!” Jackson shouted, pointing to the roof of the building.

  Quigley stepped back into the road to get a better view. His eyes bulged. His beak hung open. “Awesome,” he breathed.

  The life-size great white revolved along the edge of the building, its vast toothy jaws opening and closing menacingly.

  “State of the art shark-a-tronics,” Quigley said. “It must be frost powered. I don’t see any cables.”

  “Watch it!” Jackson pulled Quigley back onto the sidewalk as a shiny black snowmobile skidded past, blasting them with snow and grit. It screeched into the parking lot next to the restaurant, honking its horn at a truck sled blocking its path. Jackson craned his neck to get a better look. “Expensive vehicle,” he muttered. “Must be a VIP.”

  Quigley stared at him blankly.

  “You know, a VIP—a Very Important Penguin.” Jackson hopped toward the snowmobile. “Finola gets this magazine called Fabulous Feathers! It’s full of pictures of VIPs: rich and famous celebrity penguins, all shiny beaks and expensive crest-cuts. VIPs always drive flashy snowmobiles like that. Let’s go see who it is.”

  As they drew closer, the driver’s door burst open and a short, stocky penguin dripping gold jewelry jumped out. A cloud of stinky perfume wafted from her feathers and drifted toward Jackson and Quigley.

  “GET THIS THING OUT OF MY WAY!” the blingy penguin shouted. She banged on the back of the truck. “MOVE IT!”

  Jackson and Quigley shrank back. This VIP was more like a VAP—a Very Angry Penguin.

  “Who is it?” Quigley whispered.

  “That’s Chilla Belle,” said a weary-sounding voice behind them. They turned to see an older penguin in overalls carrying a cuddly dolphin toy. “She owns this restaurant,” he added, “as well as three fish-stick factories, a dozen snack shacks, and most of Rookeryville.” He sighed. “She’s known as Coldfinger behind her back because she’s so mean. Whatever you do, don’t get in her way, or you’ll be taking a long walk off a very short pier.” He shuffled past them. “Sorry, Ms. Belle,” he called. “It’s my truck that’s blocking your way. I was just across the road at the toy store. It’s my daughter’s birthday and I wanted to get her a—”

  “Zip it, barf-beak!” Coldfinger snapped. “Just get your truck moved NOW.” She snatched the cuddly dolphin out of the driver’s arms and tossed it into the snow. “NOW, I said! Move it!”

  “Hey.” Jackson picked up the dolphin. “That’s not fair.”

  Coldfinger spun around and glared at Jackson, her eyes two burning-hot rocks of fury. But before she could say anything, a flappy sort of penguin with two giant clipboards and a whole string of pens around her neck came rushing out the back door of the restaurant. “Ms. Belle! Ms. Belle!” the flappy penguin called. “I’m so glad you’re here. I have some great news. The fish-grabber claw is working again.”

  Coldfinger glared at Jackson, then flounced off, her gold jewelry jangling as she moved.

  “Phew,” Quigley breathed. “I thought she was about to blast you with her laser eyes.”

  “We’ve got to go after her,” Jackson said. “You heard what she said: ‘The fish-grabber claw is working again!’ And look over there—that’s the City Aquarium, right? Next door to Coldfinger’s restaurant. That cannot be a coincidence. Maybe Coldfinger is stealing the fish!”

  Quigley frowned. “But wouldn’t the aquarium’s security cameras see her? And I’ve been thinking; the fish-grabber claw could just be a kitchen utensil, like the ones I’ve made. Remember the chocolate pancake flipper?”

  “That melted as you cooked?”

  Quigley nodded. “Genius, right? And then there was that spoon drone I built. You controlled it from your armchair so you never needed to get out of your seat to sugar your salt tea ever again.”

  “Shame it didn’t deliver the tea, too.” Jackson smiled.

  “And remember my expanding, twelve-foot-long stir-fry wok poke?” Quigley said. “You never had to get splattered by hot oil again. You just pulled it out and cooked your whole dinner from the other room. That’s probably what the fish-grabber thingy is. Maybe Coldfinger’s chef is scared of hot fat from her frying pans.”

  Jackson frowned. “Maybe, but—” He sighed. But what? He had no evidence that Coldfinger was involved in the fish disappearances. And even if she was, why would she want them? She didn’t look like the type of penguin who would be interested in collecting rare fish. He couldn’t picture her poring over books about them, or trading rare-fish cards with her buddies. But his gut instinct said she had something to do with it. And Uncle Bryn said secret agents always trusted their guts (except when they’d just eaten six bowls of extra-hot sea-cabbage curry; then guts weren’t so reliable).
If only we could get inside the restaurant and take a look, Jackson thought, staring longingly at the back doors. “Come on,” he said, hopping toward the truck sled that had reversed and pulled up close to the restaurant now. “Let’s give the driver back his dolphin.”

  They found him at the back of his truck, opening the rear doors. Huge clouds of icy mist were billowing out.

  “Hi. I think this is yours.” Jackson handed him the dolphin.

  “Oh, thanks.” The driver smiled. “I guess you saw what I meant about Coldfinger. She is one nasty penguin.” He flapped away a cloud of icy mist. “Sorry about the fog. I’ve got to keep my load at sub-zero until it’s time for Coldfinger’s special dinner tonight.”

  “What’s in there?” Jackson asked, trying to see over the driver’s head.

  “It’s top secret.” The driver quickly closed the doors. “It’s a special surprise Coldfinger has cooked up for her guests tonight.”

  Jackson’s eyes widened. A surprise she’s COOKED up for her guests? He glanced at Quigley, but his friend was peering at a small sign on the back of the truck and didn’t notice.

  The driver picked up a clipboard and a pencil. “I’ve got to go sort out the paperwork now,” he said. “Thanks again.” And he shuffled off into the restaurant.

  “Did you hear that?” Jackson said when he’d gone. “Coldfinger isn’t collecting the fish. She’s planning to COOK them.” He pointed his flipper at the truck. “And she’s storing them in there!”

  Quigley frowned. “Well, if she is, I think we may be too late to save them.” He pointed to the sign he’d been examining.

  “What? No!” Jackson groaned. “Well, I guess we’d better take a look.”

  As he opened the doors, a wall of freezing ice air blasted their faces. Jackson blinked the frost out of his eyes and clambered inside. “Think my lungs just froze. Can you see anything?”

  “Nothing,” Quigley said, peering into the gloom. He rummaged in his backpack. “But this might help—”

  Jackson heard a click, then light filled the space.

  “What the—” he gasped. His eyes boggled. His beak went dry. And his heart went into super-fast spin-dryer mode. “Flying tail feathers! IT’S FROZEN PENGUINS!”

  7

  Quigley shone his beam across the dozens of penguins stuffed inside the truck. “Um—00Zero, I think they’re made of ice.”

  “What?” Jackson looked more closely at the glistening penguins. “Oh, yeah, right,” he mumbled, his heart rate slowing to steady bongo-drum mode again. “Of course, I knew that.” He cleared his throat. “So they’re ice sculptures, right?”

  “Yeah, for decoration,” Quigley said. “Neat, huh?”

  Jackson shuddered. Freaky, he thought. They look so real. The statues were carved in lots of different poses, like dancers, musicians, even an artist penguin with a palette and a brush. Another one was sculpted into a flipper ball–playing penguin. There was a golfer. A warrior. And even one dressed like an ancient Greek philosopher.

  “Oh, wow,” Quigley said. “Pythago-penguin. So cool.”

  “Yeah, ICE cool.” Jackson smiled. “For a second I thought we’d stumbled on the place where Coldfinger puts her enemies. Hey, look—this one is the spitting image of Hoff Rockface; it’s got the same grumpy beak and flat feet.” Jackson patted the sculpture on its head. Instantly, his flipper stuck to it. “What? No! Come on.” He tried to pull it off, but it wouldn’t budge. A chilly wave of panic swept through his icy feathers. What if he was stuck here forever? Or at least until the driver came back? He definitely didn’t want to get him in trouble with Coldfinger again. Plus Jackson would miss dinner. And that meant his mom would discover he’d been off adventuring. She’d go Great White and beyond! “S-s-save yourself,” Jackson muttered to Quigley, his cold beak starting to chatter like a hungry herring gull. “Get out of here before we both freeze to death.”

  “Nah,” Quigley said, rummaging in his backpack. “I can fix you. I just need to find … Yep, here it is. Ta-da!”

  Jackson’s heart sank as Quigley wafted a shiny silver pen through the air. That won’t help! Jackson tried to shout, but the freezing cold was spreading from the statue through Jackson’s body. His beak was already icing up, so the words came out as “MMMAT MOANT MELP!”

  “Oh, it’s okay, you don’t need to thank me.” Quigley beamed, taking a miniature bow. Then he flicked a switch on the side of the pen, igniting a flame at one end. And before Jackson could say OMG, you’ll set me on fire! (which probably would have sounded something like MO-MEM-GEE! MULE MET ME MON MIRE!), Quigley lunged toward him. There was a sudden flash of light. A slight smell of burning feathers and—

  “Mime meee!” Jackson mumbled. (Trans-lation: “I’m free!”)

  “Oops,” Quigley said, peering at the statue. “I think I’ve melted Hoff Rockface’s head—hey!”

  Jackson grabbed Quigley’s flipper and tugged him toward the door of the refrigerated truck. “MIMJA MOLE!” Jackson shouted, which luckily Quigley knew meant ninja roll, and they both dived out of the truck, tucking themselves into tiny flying penguin balls before landing together on the ground.

  “Brrr!” Quigley shuddered, fluffing up his feathers. “Now I know how a Popsicle feels.”

  Jackson tapped his beak with his good flipper to crack the ice that had formed on it. Then he waggled his frosted flipper in the air as the numbness began to subside. “Thanks, Agent Q,” he said. “A few more seconds and I’d have been another decoration for Coldfinger’s dinner party.”

  Jackson shuffled toward the restaurant door and peered inside. He could see staff in white aprons milling around in the kitchen, moving carts of vegetables and unloading crates of fruit. “If Coldfinger has stolen the fish and she doesn’t have them stashed in the deep-freeze truck, then where are they? Shall we sneak in and take a look?”

  Quigley pointed to a camera above the back door.

  Jackson grimaced. Coldfinger probably had cameras all over the building. He glanced across the parking lot at the aquarium. “Maybe we should go back and check out the fish tanks again. If Coldfinger tries to take any more fish, we’ll be waiting for her.”

  “A stakeout? Great plan, 00Zero,” Quigley said. “Wait ’til you see the cool new camera I’ve built. It’s my latest and greatest invention!”

  “Okay, but we’ll need to get a flipper on,” Jackson said, glancing at his ice watch. “It’s nearly four o’clock. If I’m not home before Mom and she finds out I’ve been sticking my beak into FBI business, Coldfinger will be the least of my worries.”

  8

  With only an hour to go before closing time, the aquarium was quiet. The front desk was empty and only a few visitors were ambling through the exhibits.

  “Look, there’s Lily,” Jackson said.

  She was heading down a corridor bearing a sign that read RARE CRUSTACEANS. She turned and waved when she heard them calling her name. They could see that Lily’s eyes were red.

  “Um—are you okay?” Jackson asked as they caught up with her.

  “Not really. Dad’s been called in to see his boss again. More rare fish have gone missing. Six Jupiter jellyfish, two sapphire seahorses, and one of the keyhole crabs. I’m going to count the lobsters to make sure none of them are gone, too.”

  “Can we help?” Jackson asked.

  Lily shrugged. “Sure.”

  Quigley’s eyes lit up. “I can use my flicker-clicker counter.” He swung his backpack off his flipper and began rummaging through the contents.

  “Thanks,” Lily said, leading the way down the corridor. “Jackson, have you done something different to your crest?”

  Jackson blushed. Secret agents weren’t allowed to discuss what happened on their spy missions. “I’m just trying out a new style.”

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “Interesting.”

  “So what does your dad think about the missing fish?” Jackson asked, changing the subject.

  “He’s devastated,” Lily said
. “And he thinks he’s about to lose his job.”

  “But why?” Jackson asked.

  “Because Dad’s always here,” Lily explained. “Even after hours. He can’t bear to be away from his fish. But his boss doesn’t understand. She thinks Dad’s been helping the thieves.” The corridor veered off to the left and then—

  “Wow!” Jackson breathed, stopping and staring at the giant tanks surrounding them.

  Lily smiled. “The viewing tunnel is awesome, isn’t it? Feels like you’re underwater.”

  “Giant stingray!” Quigley cried, as a dark shadow glided above their heads. “That’s got to be six feet wide.”

  “At least she’s still here,” Lily said. “Hey, did you know that stingrays don’t use their eyes to locate their food? They have sensors that can detect their prey’s electric field. Cool, right?”

  “Super-cool,” Quigley breathed.

  Lily moved across the tunnel to where she could see a rocky area in the tank. “This is where the jade-claw lobsters usually hang out. They’re my favorites; they’re so old and wise. You know, they can live to be a hundred. Look, there’s one, and another…” She peered through the glass. “Three, four—we should have nine of them.”

  “There’s one!” Jackson pointed to a glowing green claw poking out from behind a rock. “And another.”

  “I see one!” Quigley clicked his clicker counter again. “I make that seven.”

  Lily pressed her small face against the glass. “Please let the other two be here. There’s a tiny knobby one. And a really sweet ancient one that’s missing a claw. It’s actually regrowing its claw—did you know they could do that?”

  Jackson and Quigley shook their heads.

  “It’s got really boggley eyes,” Lily said. “It’s got to be here.”