Who Let the Frogs Out? Read online

  “That looks like a multi-room sound system!” Frank said, walking over to it. “We saw one in Gadgets Galore when dad was shopping for a car vac, remember?”

  “I guess it means Mr. Frederick doesn’t use real frogs,” Joe said. “Unless he recorded real frogs to get their croaks.”

  He looked around the room and continued. “Which means there could still be frogs in the house!”

  Suddenly—

  “Woof!” Stan barked.

  Before Frank could grab the dog’s leash, he jumped up and put his paws on the table. They landed on the sound system, flipping the switch from softly croaking frogs to loudly meowing cats!

  “Turn it back, Joe!” cried Frank, tugging Stan away from the table. “Turn the sound back to frogs!”

  Joe flipped the switch, only to get the sound of stampeding elephants!

  “Oh nooooo!” he groaned.

  “Joe, look!” Frank called.

  Joe raced to his brother back at the window. He looked down to see dogs jumping out of the mud bath. The bathing bowwows were going wild to the sound of elephants, shaking mud off their fur and all over Mr. Frederick!

  “All we wanted to do was find frogs!” Frank groaned.

  “Yeah,” Joe sighed. “Instead we found trouble!”

  TANKS FOR THE CLUE

  Joe looked for any way to turn off the sound but had no luck. “I can’t find the off switch!” he cried. “Where’s the off switch on this thing?”

  Frank was still watching the mud-bath commotion from the window. Sophie had run into the mud-bath room to help calm the dogs. She shrieked as her white pantsuit became a muddy mess!

  “I don’t see Mr. Frederick down there,” Frank reported. “Where do you think he went?”

  BOOM! Both brothers jumped as the door slammed open. They turned to see a mud-splattered Mr. Frederick. Stan growled softly as the dog spa owner stood fuming in the doorway.

  “Uh . . . hi,” Frank said, forcing a smile.

  “I was just . . . looking for the off switch,” said Joe.

  Leaving the door open, Mr. Fredrick stomped over to the sound system. He lifted a rubber flap on the side to reveal more buttons. With the tap of a red button, the elephant sounds stopped.

  “So that’s where it was!” Joe said, smiling. “Did you get that at Gadgets Galore?”

  Mr. Frederick didn’t answer Joe’s question. Instead he asked his own: “Did you boys just switch croaking frogs to howling cats? And then elephants?”

  “Yes,” Frank admitted, “but we were—”

  “You know what happens when dogs hear cats?” Mr. Frederick cut in with wide eyes.

  “The fur flies?” Joe joked.

  Mr. Frederick wasn’t laughing. “It’s going to take hours to calm those dogs down,” he complained. “They’ll never be ready for Dalmatian Lavation!”

  “Dalmatian . . . Lavation?” Frank repeated.

  “The next bath to wash the mud off,” Mr. Frederick explained. He looked down at his muddy clothes and muttered, “I suppose I should be joining them.”

  “Sorry we ruined your class, Mr. Frederick,” Frank said. “We were looking to see where the croaks came from.”

  “We thought there were real frogs in this room,” Joe explained. “Frogs were found at the Mud Bud Run this morning, and we were wondering if maybe they came from here.”

  “I heard about those frogs,” Mr. Frederick said. “But why are you trying to find out where they came from?”

  “We’re detectives,” explained Frank. “We think someone put the frogs in the mud pit.”

  “And we’re trying to find out who!” Joe added.

  “So you thought that ‘who’ . . . was me?” Mr. Frederick asked.

  When the brothers didn’t answer, Mr. Frederick pointed to the sound system. “As you see, I do not use real frogs,” he said. “Just canned croaks all the way.”

  “We know that now,” Frank said, “but you were pretty mad about the mud run yesterday in the park.”

  “Coach Lambert said you couldn’t have the Doggy Dash until the mud run was over,” Joe added. “That would have been your why for dumping the frogs in the mud.”

  Mr. Frederick took a deep breath, then said, “I was mad about the mud run, yes. But now I’m very grateful for it.”

  “Grateful?” Frank and Joe asked together.

  “The Mud Bud Run gave me the most fabulous idea last night,” Mr. Frederick said. He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a big sheet of paper, and held it up for the boys to see.

  Frank and Joe looked at Mr. Frederick’s sketch. It was a picture of a park with trees and a little bench. But the interesting stuff was in the center. There was a giant sneaker, a bone, and a tennis ball. Dogs of different sizes were running between them.

  “Is that a mud run for dogs?” Joe guessed.

  “Correct, young man!” Mr. Frederick declared. “Introducing the Golden Bone’s own Muckety-Mutt Meander!”

  “Awesome,” Frank said.

  “Where are you going to build it?” asked Joe.

  “Hopefully we can buy the empty lot down the street,” Mr. Frederick said.

  “It’s a great idea,” Joe said. “Instead of a Doggy Dash, you can have a Doggy Splash!”

  “Speaking of dogs,” Frank asked as he looked around the room, “where’s Stan?”

  Joe’s stomach did a triple flip when he saw no Stan and the door open. “Omigosh!” he gasped. “Stan escaped!”

  “Is that him?” Mr. Frederick asked, pointing out the window. “The terrier rolling in the mud puddle?”

  “Mud puddle?” Frank cried as he and Joe raced to the window. They glanced down and groaned. Stan had joined the mob of muddy mutts!

  “Great,” Frank muttered. “What are we going to tell Aunt Trudy?”

  • • •

  “Who knew washing a dog would be so much work?” Frank said later that day. He and Joe had just spent an hour hosing down Stan in the yard, then drying him with a blow-dryer.

  “Yeah,” Joe said with a frown. “Too bad we had to take Stan home before Dalmatian Lavation!”

  Stan was now safe in Aunt Trudy’s apartment, eating a hearty bowl of dog food. The boys were in the kitchen, getting plates and silverware to set the table for dinner.

  Mr. Hardy was placing a pan of macaroni and cheese into the oven. Mrs. Hardy stood at the counter making a salad. They both knew what had happened at the Mud Bud Run and all about the brothers’ new case.

  “At least you guys got to rule out another suspect,” Mr. Hardy said as he closed the oven door. “Any left?”

  “Oliver Splathall,” Joe said firmly. “He’s got to be guilty.”

  “Because of his muddy boots?” Frank scoffed.

  “Not just the boots, Frank,” Joe said. “Oliver wanted to use the mud pit for his sculptures. When he couldn’t, he said something about another plan!”

  “But where would Oliver get all those frogs?” Frank asked.

  “Fenton, didn’t we meet the Splathalls on Parent-Teacher Night?” Mrs. Hardy asked as she tore lettuce. “They were sharing a website they built to show their son’s sculptures.”

  “I remember the site was called Sculptures by Oliver,” Mr. Hardy said. “That boy may have muddy boots, but he also has talent.”

  Joe stopped carrying dishes to the dining room when he heard about the website. “Hey, Frank,” he said. “Maybe that website has more than Oliver’s sculptures. Maybe it has clues.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Frank agreed. He turned to their parents and said, “Could we be excused for a few minutes to use the computer?”

  “We’ll set the table superfast after we get back,” Joe promised. “Without breaking any plates.”

  “Okay, but no more than fifteen minutes,” Mrs. Hardy said. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  The brothers left the kitchen for the computer in the den. Joe searched for Sculptures by Oliver and the website appeared.

  “Check it out,” he said.


  The home page showed a picture of Oliver in a room, sculpting a skyscraper from hundreds of Popsicle sticks. There were other sculptures in the room made from recycled plastic bottles, paper clips—even egg cartons!

  “It looks like Oliver’s got a studio just for sculpting,” said Joe.

  Frank leaned forward in his chair to get a closer look. “It’s not just for sculpting,” he said. “Oliver uses it as a playroom, too.”

  Frank pointed to games and books in the picture, stacked on shelves and on the floor. But there was something next to the shelves that caught Joe’s eye.

  “What’s that thing on the table?” he asked. “It looks like some kind of giant fish tank.”

  Frank enlarged the image until the tank was full screen. Instead of fish, the tank was filled with tiny swimming creatures with long tails.

  “Those look like tadpoles,” Frank said.

  Tadpoles?

  Joe stared at his brother. “I learned about tadpoles in school,” he said excitedly. “Do you know what they grow up to be? Well, do you?”

  Frank’s eyes widened as he remembered what he knew about tadpoles too.

  “I sure do,” he said slowly. “They grow up to be—frogs!”

  GROWING TADPOLES

  “Do you think Oliver grew his own frogs?” Joe asked. “Then dumped them in the mud pit?”

  “The tadpoles in that picture are nowhere near frogs yet,” Frank pointed out. “How would Oliver have fully grown frogs to throw in the mud pit?”

  “Unless the picture was taken while they were still tadpoles,” Joe guessed. “Those taddies could have grown into froggies by now.”

  “True,” Frank agreed.

  “And who knows?” Joe went on. “Oliver could have saved some frogs as pets.”

  “Pet frogs?” exclaimed Frank.

  “Kids have pet rats, iguanas, even pigs,” Joe explained. “If we find frogs in Oliver’s studio, we’ll know he could have done it.”

  “I heard some tanks can hold up to twenty tadpoles,” Frank said. “And twenty tadpoles become twenty frogs.”

  “More than that,” said Joe, nodding at the screen. “Look at the size of Oliver’s tank—it’s huge!”

  After Frank reduced the picture, they noticed something else. In the corner of the page was a schedule for Oliver’s sculpture shows.

  “Oliver is unveiling his new ‘mud-sterpiece’ tomorrow at noon,” Frank noted. “Right in his backyard.”

  “I’ll bet the mud he used was from the park,” said Joe. “He could have dumped the frogs, then taken some mud, too.”

  “Oliver did say he liked the lumpy mud in the park,” Frank remembered.

  “And his boots were muddy!” Joe added. “I guess this means we’re going to a mud sculpture show tomorrow.”

  “For sure,” Frank said. “But while everyone else looks at Oliver’s latest mud-sterpiece—we’re going to look for frogs!”

  • • •

  “Whoa,” Joe exclaimed. “Look at the turnout!”

  It was the next day, and Frank and Joe were in the Splathalls’ backyard for Oliver’s sculpture show. It was still spring break, so most of the guests were kids.

  In the middle of the yard was Oliver’s mud-sterpiece, covered with a long white sheet until the big reveal later.

  “So we’ve made it to Oliver’s show,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Now how do we get into his studio?”

  “Let’s ask Oliver or his parents,” Frank said. “They don’t have to know we’ll be looking for clues.”

  The brothers looked around the yard. Oliver was busily talking to Dusty De Sancho, the ten-year-old reporter of the Bayport Elementary School News. Mrs. Splathall was snapping pictures of the event with a professional camera. Mr. Splathall was in the yard too, carrying a tray of cookies among the guests.

  The warm spring day felt more like summer, with dark rain clouds in the sky. But the chance of rain did not stop Oliver’s fans from showing up for his mud-sterpiece.

  “I can’t wait to see Oliver’s work,” a girl was saying. “I’m sure it will be fabulous as always.”

  “My favorite was Oliver’s snow sculpture of his foot,” a boy declared. “The juxtaposition of the toes was no less than brilliant!”

  The brothers walked around Oliver’s sculpture. But while Joe was trying to guess what was underneath the sheet, Frank was busy noticing something else. . . .

  “Look,” he said, pointing out three holes in the ground. “It looks like a three-legged camera stand was right here by the sculpture.”

  “Mrs. Splathall probably took pictures of Oliver’s sculpture,” Joe decided, “so she can post it on his website after the big reveal.”

  “Hey, Frank, Joe!” a familiar voice called.

  The brothers turned and were surprised to see Chet walking over.

  “What are you doing here, Chet?” asked Joe.

  “I didn’t know you were an art fan,” Frank said.

  “I’m not really,” Chet said. “But I am a fan of cookies and fruit punch.”

  He pointed to a punch bowl on a nearby table. There, filling a paper cup, was a man wearing overalls and a big smile. The brothers recognized him at once.

  “Frank, isn’t that guy Blurpy Bob?” Joe asked, “From the frog farm?”

  “Yeah, but what’s he doing here?” Frank wondered.

  Using his free hand, Blurpy Bob grabbed a cookie from Mr. Splathall’s tray. Mr. Splathall turned away from Bob, then headed toward Frank, Joe, and Chet.

  “How about a snack, guys?” Mr. Splathall asked. “I hope you like mud cookies!”

  “Thanks!” Chet said, taking one.

  Frank and Joe stared at the tray.

  “Did you say . . . mud cookies, Mr. Splathall?” Joe asked.

  “Um . . . are they made of mud?” Frank added.

  “Just chocolate and marshmallows, guys,” Mr. Splathall chuckled. “So dig in!”

  “Actually,” Frank blurted, “we’d rather see Oliver’s studio before the big reveal.”

  “If Oliver is busy, we can look around ourselves,” added Joe.

  “That’s a good idea,” Mr. Splathall said. He pointed at the side of the house. “Go through the green door and down the stairs to the basement. That’s where Oliver’s studio is.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Splathall!” said Frank.

  As Oliver’s father carried his tray to another group of kids, Chet said, “What was that all about?”

  “We’re looking for frogs,” Joe said. “Want to help?”

  Chet stared at Joe. “Frogs?”

  “A ton of frogs were found in the mud run yesterday,” Joe said. “So we’re checking out Oliver Splathall’s tadpole tank.”

  “I’ll pass,” Chet decided. “I’d rather check out the brownies next to the punch!”

  Frank and Joe wasted no time finding Oliver’s studio. The room looked just like it did on the website, except for one thing: the Popsicle-stick sculpture had been replaced by a huge globby pink one!

  “Whoa, Frank,” Joe said, studying the sculpture. “It looks like a pink gnome with huge, flat feet!”

  “It smells familiar too,” said Frank, taking a whiff. “Like bubblegum.”

  “Awesome!” Joe exclaimed. “Oliver made a whole sculpture from chewed-up bubblegum wads!”

  Joe reached out to touch it, but Frank grabbed his arm. “Bubblegum is sticky!” he said. “Let’s check out the tadpole tank.”

  The big tadpole tank was still on the same table. When the boys peered through the glass, they saw a slew of tiny frogs swimming in the water.

  “The tadpoles did grow into frogs,” Joe pointed out.

  “Not totally yet,” said Frank. “They’re way smaller than the ones in the mud pit.”

  He noticed a tablet on the table. Paused on the screen was a video of Oliver sculpting in his backyard.

  “That’s probably what the three-legged camera stand was for,” Frank said. “Check it out, Joe . . . Joe?”
>
  “Um . . . over here,” Joe’s voice quavered.

  Frank turned and gasped. Joe was standing on the foot of the bubblegum gnome. His own foot had sunk all the way down into the gum!

  “Joe, will you get off?” Frank said. “I told you not to touch it.”

  “I didn’t touch it, I stepped in it,” Joe groaned. “And now I’m stuck. . . . Help!”

  SCULPTURE STANDOFF

  Frank raced across the room to the bubblegum sculpture. He tried to yank Joe’s foot out of the gum, but it was jammed in too tight!

  “I don’t want to be stuck here forever!” Joe wailed. “Step on it, Frank!”

  “You’re the one who stepped on it,” Frank muttered. He leaned in for a better grip—only to get his hair stuck on the gnome’s bubblegum arm!

  “What’s happened, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “Now I’m stuck!” Frank exclaimed. “Why can’t Oliver just chew gum like the rest of us?”

  “Because I’m an artist, that’s why,” a voice replied.

  Frank and Joe turned the best they could to see Oliver.

  “My dad told me you were down here,” Oliver said. “How come?”

  Joe thought fast. “Because we’re really attached to your work?” he blurted.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Oliver said with a frown. “Luckily, I’ve got a spray to get you guys unstuck.”

  He grabbed a can of Good-bye Goo from a shelf and sprayed the gnome’s foot and arm. After a few seconds, Frank and Joe were free.

  “Thanks, Oliver,” Frank said.

  “No problem,” Oliver said, placing the can back on the shelf. “Bubblegum can be a tad sticky.”

  “Tad?” Joe declared. He swung around to point to the tank. “As in . . . tadpoles?”

  Oliver raised an eyebrow and asked, “What about them?”

  “Tons of frogs were found in the park mud pit yesterday,” Frank explained. “We wanted to find out if they were yours.”

  “I heard about the frogs at the mud run,” Oliver said, nodding. “But they weren’t mine.”

  He nodded toward the tank. “As you can see,” he said, “my frogs are still froglets—small frogs, not fully grown.”