The Case of the Diamond Dog Collar (4 page)

It's a minor mystery.

That day it was Tessa's turn, and she tried “Sunny.”

“Because he's yellow,” she explained.

“
Boring
.” I said.

“I have to agree,” Granny said. “Nate's turn tomorrow—if he gets up in time.”

So far, my cousin still hadn't come down from his bedroom on the third floor. No surprise. He may
know everything, but he's so lazy he's always missing breakfast.

Tessa and I sat down at the table. I barely had my napkin in my lap when she crossed her arms over her chest. “We already found something illogical,” she said. “So next we interview witnesses.”

I shook my head. “Huh?”

Tessa pointed at the pink baseball cap on her head. “
Duh
, Cammie!”

It took a second, but then I got it. The pink cap is what she wears for detecting.

“You mean two missing diamonds at the same time is illogical,” I said. “But we don't know for sure that Hooligan's was even stolen. So what if first we look around and see if we can find it?”

This was the most obvious idea ever, but Tessa nodded like I had said something smart. “That could work. But where do we look?”

“Good morning!” Ms. Kootoor was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Here—let me take those.” She took bowls of cereal from Granny and brought them to us at the table. “Did I hear you girls say you're looking for something?”

“The diamond!” Tessa said.

“Ah.” Ms. Kootoor nodded. “And where do you think it might be?”

I explained about the bent and broken prongs. “We think it came off yesterday when Hooligan was being chased.”

“So here's the plan,” said Tessa. “We'll start looking in the shrubs and trees on the South Lawn—right after Canine Class.”

A few minutes later, we ran into Mr. Mormora and Aunt Jen's secretary, Mrs. Crowe, in the Dip Room.

“Oh my goodness!” said Mr. Mormora when we stepped out under the awning. “The backyard is enormous!”

Mrs. Crowe laughed. “You haven't been out to the South Lawn yet?”

He shook his head. “I have not had the chance. I believe everything has been made ready for us, though?”

“Follow me,” said Mrs. Crowe.

The class was going to be held on the grass in the middle of the driveway—the same place the helicopters land.

To my surprise, Nate was already there waiting.

And guess who else?

Puppies!

Big ones, small ones, all different breeds plus mutts—but here's the thing: They were all around six months old . . . and Hooligan is two
years
old! When Mr. Ng brought him out a few minutes later, Hooligan looked big and goofy—like a fifth grader repeating kindergarten.

Hooligan wasn't embarrassed, though. Dragging Mr. Ng by the leash, he charged right in, bumping the
little guys with his nose and rolling them over to get a good sniff. Soon there was a spiderweb of leashes, and Mr. Ng and the rest of the humans were going over and under to sort things out.

It took a while, but eventually Hooligan's leash was attached only to Hooligan. That's when Mr. Ng came over and handed it to me. “Good luck, Cameron,” he said.

Mr. Ng is tall and skinny and kind of serious. Mr. Bryant says he's shy, but he makes me a little nervous.

Now—and it wasn't his fault—he made me a lot nervous. “What?!” I said.

Mr. Ng shrugged. “Somebody's got to be the Canine Buddy. Your dad talked to me about it, and . . .”

I took the leash but immediately held it out to Tessa. “Don't you wanna—?”

Tessa put her hands behind her back. “No, no, no, Cammie! You're the responsible older sister.”

“Nate?” I tried. But that was hopeless. He's into piano, not pets.

Mr. Mormora was calling the class to order when the last puppy pupil arrived, a black puffball mutt, along with his owner, Mr. Bryant. Of course, Hooligan was thrilled to see Mr. Bryant! He lunged and would've pulled me over, but I leaned back with every ounce I own. “
Hooligan! Stay!
”

Too bad he actually did, which I never expected. Unbalanced, I sat down on a cockapoo. The cockapoo wasn't hurt, but he snapped at me, which made
the owner squeal and Hooligan growl. This got the rest of the dogs excited, and we were on the verge of total puppy upset when Mr. Mormora dropped to dog's-eye level and spoke: “
Amigos, perros
, dogs of my heart . . .”

And like magic, every pup was quiet.

In Canine Class, the people are known as Canine Buddies, CBs for short, and the dogs are Canines in Training, or CITs. To start with, we all went around in a circle and introduced ourselves.

Hooligan and I were first, and then the woman next to me with the cockapoo. “I'm Ann Major. I'm an assistant press secretary to President Parks. And this is my dog, Pickles.”

After that, nine more Canine Buddies introduced themselves and their CITs. There was a poodle, four golden retrievers, a labradoodle, a Chihuahua and two I'm-not-sure-whats. Last was Mr. Bryant. He is always very dignified.

“I am Mr. Willis Bryant,” he said, “and this is my canine, Cottonball.”

In case you have never seen Canine Class on TV, this is how it goes: Mr. Mormora takes one of the CITs as an example and gives him a command—like “sit.”

The dog sits. This could be a mean dog or a dumb dog or a dog that speaks Chinese, it doesn't matter. The dog sits. No one knows how Mr. Mormora does this, but he does.

That day, all the other dogs and their trainers watched Mr. Mormora convince a CIT golden retriever to sit several different times from several different angles. Then he turned toward the rest of us. “All right, Canine Buddies, it is now your turn. Please, command your CITs to sit.”

Instead of watching the golden retriever, Hooligan had been making friends with a Chihuahua. I did not have a good feeling. But I stood up straight like Mr. Mormora did, and I tried to copy the way he talks: “Hooligan—sit.”

Hooligan didn't move. Pickles scratched herself, and the I'm-not-sure-what on our left tried to dig a hole. Only a poodle and Mr. Bryant's dog, Cottonball, actually sat.

Then . . . so did Hooligan.

It was a miracle! From where the spectators were standing, I heard Tessa squeal. When I looked over, I noticed a whole bunch of cameras were aimed at Hooligan. The press loves him almost as much as they love Ms. Kootoor.

After that, all the CITs tried sitting again. And again. And Hooligan sat every time! Later, when we tried “stay,” he did that every time, too.

Canine Class only lasts forty-five minutes because, as Mr. Mormora explained it, “canine concentration is not powerful.” Even so, there's some waiting around, so I asked Ms. Major about being an assistant press secretary. She told me she used to be a TV reporter, but then
she went to work for my mom's campaign. Now her job is mostly keeping track of what's written and broadcast about our family, and Hooligan, too.

The end of Canine Class is always the same. Mr. Mormora thanks everyone for participating and gives out Canine Cookies. They are the shape of ordinary dog biscuits, but they have red and yellow stripes.

“You see how it is that Hooligan is a star pupil?” said Mr. Mormora. “It is the positive peer pressure. With the younger dogs, he wants to be a leader.”

I hadn't noticed Ms. Kootoor with the other spectators, but now she was walking toward us with Dad and Tessa. “Great job, puppy!” she said, and scratched him behind the ears. He nosed her hand and whined.

Then Mr. Bryant came up, pulled along by Cottonball.

“Sit!” said Mr. Bryant. Cottonball looked at him, trying to remember what that word meant.

Tessa said, “Like this,” and sat down on the grass. Cottonball didn't copy her, he tackled her! Then Hooligan piled on.

Mr. Bryant and I were trying to pull them off when Mr. Mormora spoke: “Gentlemen?”

Right away the dogs backed off and sat down.

Tessa wasn't hurt—unless dog slobber hurts. She wiped her face and asked Mr. Mormora, “How do you
do
that?”

He smiled. “It is just having the confidence. Dogs respect confidence. By the time we hold graduation on Wednesday, each of these dogs will be a fine example
of Canine Class, and one will be Top Dog—the number one student. That dog will receive a blue ribbon, and its picture will appear on boxes of Canine Cookies. Hooligan, what do you think? Have you the makings of the Top Dog?”

WHEN Tessa was four, she got a pink Barbie watch for her birthday. She still wears it, even though I tell her she's too old. Now, according to Barbie, it was nine thirty—still early for a Saturday morning. But already Canine Class was over, the puppies were gone, and Tessa, Hooligan and I were riding a mini-tractor past the tennis court on the South Lawn. Behind us on the tractor was a load of very smelly compost.

It was Mr. Golly, one of the groundskeepers, who was giving us a ride. Tessa was next to him in front, and I was on the little bench seat in the back, holding tight to Hooligan. We had been trying to follow his trail from Thursday on foot, and Mr. Golly had picked us up like hitchhikers.

“Your parents won't mind, will they?” he called as the tractor bump-bumped along.

Tessa and I chorused: “No!” because—both of us were thinking—
we will never tell them
.

And if we were lucky, nobody else would tell either.
The thing is, wherever Tessa and I go, we're being watched by the Secret Service. Like right then, I could see two agents: Malik was standing by the fountain in the middle of the lawn, and Jeremy was over to our right on the basketball court. It was the weekend, and they were assigned to the White House residence, so they didn't have to wear suits. Instead they had on khakis and polo shirts, but with their straight posture, short hair and shiny shoes, they still looked like Secret Service.

Mr. Golly's compost was bound for the new kitchen garden near the far fence. The ride down there gave Tessa an excellent opportunity to do some detecting.

“Mr. Golly,” she asked, “have you or any of the other groundskeepers seen a big, fat, fake diamond lying around the South Lawn since Wednesday afternoon? Or possibly a big, fat, not-fake diamond?”

Mr. Golly adjusted the brim on his hat. “Hector found an orange flip-flop last week. And we're always finding Frisbees and footballs and kites. I don't remember diamonds, though—fake or not fake. Why are you asking?”

Tessa and I took turns explaining how one was missing.

“If you're looking for clues,” said Mr. Golly, “there are plenty of dried footprints in the flowerbeds.”

“I don't think footprints will work,” I said. “We already know a zillion people were down here—chasing Hooligan and flattening flowers.”

Mr. Golly agreed it was a mess. “But a crew and I raked up the dead stuff yesterday.”

Tessa and I looked at each other. Had the diamond been raked up, too?

“What happens to the dead stuff?” I asked.

“We grind it for compost,” Mr. Golly explained.

“And did you do that already?” Tessa asked.

“Yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Golly said.

Sometimes my sister and I don't have to say anything. We just understand: If Hooligan had dropped the diamond in a flowerbed, by now it was diamond dust.

Mr. Golly pulled the tractor up next to the kitchen garden, which was only a big, bare patch of dirt. Later in the spring, vegetables would be planted. Aunt Jen had told Tessa and me we could help.

“Does your dog have any bloodhound in him?” Mr. Golly asked.

“According to Dad, he's got everything,” said Tessa.

“So maybe you can get him to track down that diamond,” said Mr. Golly.

This seemed worth a try, so, while Mr. Golly scooped compost with a pitchfork, Tessa took Hooligan's leash off and explained the idea to him. Meanwhile, I looked around. The South Lawn is more like a big park than a backyard. Assuming the diamond still existed, how were we ever going to find it?

Tessa stood up. “Okay, he gets it,” she said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Totally,” said Tessa. “Ready, Hooligan?
Go
!”

Hooligan lunged, thumped, sprang, spun—and then he was off, with Tessa and me sprinting to keep up.

Soon we were in the trees, and sure enough,
Hooligan had his nose to the ground like a vacuum cleaner. I was just thinking this plan could actually work when he stopped dead in his tracks and Tessa, ahead of me, almost tumbled over him.

“Cammie, look!” she said. “He found it!”