The Case of the Diamond Dog Collar (6 page)

Okay, so gotta go do the show. After LA, we go to San Fransisco and then Orgon
.

See you later. I hope?

Best—Paul Song

PS—If I just wrote “Paul,” would you know it was me, or do you know lots of people named Paul?

“It's not a very interesting letter,” said Tessa.

“
Hey!
” I flipped it over and elbowed her. “It's personal!”

“Like a cartoon dog is
so
personal,” said Tessa. “He didn't sign it ‘love.' And he can't even spell your name.”

“You're just jealous,” I said.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Girls?” It was Granny. She had gone to shower and change her clothes. Now she was back. “We need to eat early if we're going to get to the museum on time. Go get yourselves cleaned up, and I believe Aunt Jen has put clothes out.”

Pretty much any time we go anywhere, the news guys are there with their cameras. That's why Aunt Jen picks our clothes. If she didn't, I would wear gym shorts, and Tessa would wear pink party dresses.

Usually I don't mind changing, but now I was grumpy after arguing with Tessa. “I look fine already!” I insisted.

Tessa looked me up and down. “You'd at least better fix your hair, Cammie. What if icky old
Paul Song
sees you on TV?”

THE Smithsonian Museum of Natural History is located on the National Mall, less than a mile from our house. So you'd think we could have walked there, right?

Wrong.

To keep us safe, we had to be driven. Tessa, Nate and I went in a van with Charlotte. Granny, Dad and Ms. Kootoor followed in another van.

You're probably thinking:
Lucky-y-y! She gets to have a driver to take her places!

But sometimes I feel more like I'm trapped. I mean, it would have been nice to walk to the museum with nobody knowing or caring who I was—to be like I used to be, a normal kid.

Of course, back then, I didn't appreciate how normal was nice.

The museum building sits at the top of some big wide steps, and it's full of cool stuff like dinosaur bones, crazy-looking bugs, pretty rocks and stuffed wild animals. Usually, it is also full of people. But when we
walked through the big heavy doors, there were only a couple of guards and a man in a suit and tie. That was Mr. Rubio, the assistant curator. With so few people, the museum was kind of spooky and quiet. I felt like I was in church.

Tessa didn't. She tore through the doors, past the stuffed elephant in the lobby and around Mr. Rubio—“Hi, nice to meet you!” Charlotte ran after her, trying to keep up.

The Hope Diamond has its own room on the second floor. Over the doorway is a helpful sign that reads,
THE HOPE DIAMOND
. It sits on a white velvet pedestal in a glass and metal case. It's more than an inch long, which is big for a diamond, and it's gray-blue, which is the main reason it's special.

Mr. Rubio and the six of us clustered around the case. I got out my notebook, ready to write. Tessa was wearing her pink detecting hat.

“Over the centuries the Hope Diamond has been owned by millionaires, lords, ladies and kings,” Mr. Rubio explained.

Nate, who knows everything, said he heard there was a curse.

Mr. Rubio nodded. “The story goes that the diamond was stolen from the eye of a statue of a goddess, and the goddess cursed all future owners.”

Uh oh. Were the museum walls going to crumble?

“But there's no evidence for the story at all,” Mr. Rubio continued. “What is true is that a lot of people who owned this diamond were unlucky and died broke.”

“Well, that's crazy,” Tessa said. “If you had this big diamond, you could sell it and not be broke anymore!”

“Sell something so
beautiful?!
” Ms. Kootoor was horrified.

“If the diamond's unlucky,” Granny said, “why is it called ‘Hope'?”

Mr. Rubio said it was owned by the Hope family in the 1800s, and that was the name that stuck. “The diamond was actually mined in India in the 1600s, then sold to the king of France,” he said. “At that time, it was known as the French Blue. Later it disappeared and turned up in London, but by then it was smaller. It had been cut and reshaped.”

“I didn't know diamonds were cut more than once,” said Granny.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Rubio said. “Sometimes they're recut to eliminate a flaw. Sometimes a particular shape goes out of fashion. Other times, a diamond will be divided into smaller stones.”

Dad asked, “What is it that makes a diamond special in the first place?”

“Diamonds are rare,” said Mr. Rubio. “It takes billions of years for one to form deep under the surface of the earth. And the pressure makes a diamond one of the hardest materials known.”

“But can't they be manufactured?” Dad asked.

“Yes, but the process is as expensive as finding one in nature,” said Mr. Rubio. “Of course, there are also diamond facsimiles. They can be made out of all sorts of minerals, or even plastic.”

“So how does one tell the difference between real and fake?” Granny asked.

“It's not always easy,” Mr. Rubio said. “But I can demonstrate one test. Is anyone wearing a diamond?”

Granny took off her engagement ring and held it out. Mr. Rubio took it, and raised it to his mouth. “
Ewwww!
” said Tessa. “You're not gonna lick it, are you?”

Mr. Rubio opened his mouth like he just might . . . but he was kidding. Instead, he made his mouth into an O and blew a sharp little puff.

“See that?” he asked us.

“The diamond didn't fog up,” Granny said.

Mr. Rubio nodded. “That's because it's real.”

“Well, I hope so,” said Granny.

“A real diamond has special physical properties that keep it slightly cool at all times,” Mr. Rubio said. “That's why an old-fashioned nickname for diamonds is ‘ice.' Those same properties mean that a diamond clears condensation almost instantly. A fake typically requires several seconds, or else has to be wiped clean.”

Tessa crossed her arms over her chest the way she does when she's interviewing a witness. “Mr. Rubio,” she said, “what would happen if a diamond got stuck in a compost grinder?”

Mr. Rubio raised his eyebrows. I don't think anyone had ever asked him that before. “Uh . . . how big a diamond?” he asked.

Tessa showed him with her fingers.

“I should think a diamond that big would break the
mechanism . . . and probably make a horrible noise, too,” he said.

“Write that down, Cammie,” Tessa said.

“But the diamond we're looking for is fake,” I said.

Tessa sighed and recrossed her arms. “Mr. Rubio,” she said, “what would happen if a
fake
diamond got caught in a compost grinder?”

“I'm no expert on fake diamonds,” he said. “But I should think it would grind up just fine.”

A diamond, even a famous blue one, is only interesting for so long. We looked around at the other things in the room—a meteorite, a crystal and a huge sheet of copper—then at some fancy jewelry in the room next door. It was almost time to go when Nate asked Mr. Rubio, “So how much money is the Hope Diamond worth?”

“
Nate!
” Tessa delivered her best Aunt Jen look. “Money's rude!”

But Mr. Rubio said he didn't mind answering. “You see, the Hope Diamond is worth two things at once: everything and nothing.”

“Huh?” said Tessa.

Mr. Rubio explained. “Looked at one way, the Hope Diamond is worth so much money it can't even be calculated. There is not another like it in the universe! But looked at another, it's worth nothing. That's because it's so famous, it couldn't possibly be sold. Any buyer would recognize it and know it had been stolen.”

I thought of something. “Is El Brillante the same amount famous?”

“The diamond that disappeared in a certain nearby nation?” said Mr. Rubio. “I would say so, yes.”

“So same thing,” I said. “No one could sell it. And if that's true—why would anybody steal it?”

Mr. Rubio shrugged and shook his head. “That's one question I can't answer.”

THAT night it was Dad who came in to give us our kisses.

“Where's Mom?” Tessa asked.

“She's sorry, girls,” Dad said. “Something came up.”

“Something more important than us?” Tessa said.

“Nothing's more important than you,” Dad said. “But some things are more urgent.”

“Hmmph,” said Tessa. “Hey—did you hear Cammie got a
letter
? From Paul
So-o-o-ong
.”

“Aren't there any secrets in this house?” I said.

Dad smiled. “What did the letter say? Or don't you want to tell?”

“I'll tell!” Tessa said. “He can't even spell, and besides that—”

Dad held up his hand. “All right, Tessa. Cammie's entitled to some privacy. But, uh, sweetie . . . do you think you'll write him back?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But not right away. Tessa and I have a mystery to solve.”

Tessa woke me before I knew I was asleep.

She was bouncing on my bed. “
Cammie!
”

“Go away.”

“No,
seriously!
I thought of something! We have to do some detecting!”

I didn't want to, but I opened my eyes. It was still dark. “What time is it?”

Tessa didn't answer, just pulled me out of bed. A weird dream had woken her. In it, Hooligan's diamond collar was on display in the Hope Diamond's case. Mr. Rubio was there, and he wrote on the foggy glass with his finger: “Are they real?”

“Do you get it, Cammie?” Tessa asked.

I shook my head to clear the sleep out. Then . . . “Oh—you mean the breath test? You want to do it on Hooligan's collar!”

I had to give Tessa credit. Why hadn't I thought of that?

Without another word, we tiptoed out of our room and down the hall. Hooligan's own bedroom is next to the elevator. It's a room some first ladies have used for doing hair and makeup, but a long time ago a president's dog named Millie had her puppies here. Now it's where Hooligan goes to bed in his crate.

Tessa whispered, “You block him in, and I'll get the collar.”

Hooligan's crate has a black wire gate at the front. I crouched down, unlatched it and pulled it partway open. Tessa slid her hand in to unbuckle the collar. All the time my heart was pounding.

“Got it!” Tessa whispered.

Hooligan snuffled and shifted, and I thought my heart would stop. We weren't doing anything wrong, but if he woke up, he'd wake the whole house.

Back in our room, I breathed again. Then I turned on the lamp. In the light, the collar seemed extra sparkly, and I couldn't help wondering how much it would be worth if the diamonds were real. Was I holding millions of dollars?

“Your breath or mine?” Tessa asked.