The Case of the Piggy Bank Thief (9 page)

I said, “You guys have to get down from there!”

And Tessa said, “He's gonna rip my best pink leotard, Cammie!”

And Hooligan said,
“Awh-roohr!”
, which meant he was having such a good time he hoped we could play this game every day after lunch.

I didn't know what to do. Usually, I would tackle Hooligan—but on the bed he was too high up for that. Desperate, I signaled Tessa to throw me the leotard, which she did, only I missed the catch and it landed on
my head and fell down over my face so the whole world turned pink and I couldn't breathe without getting a big whiff of Tessa's two-day-old ballet sweat.

I don't know exactly what happened next because, like I said, all I could see was pinkness, but it wasn't long till the bouncing noises stopped, and then—
thump-thump
—Hooligan must've jumped off the bed, followed by—
thump
—my little sister, and while I was trying to backpedal to get out of their way, I was also untangling the leotard from my ears, and just as I finally freed myself, I tripped over the wastebasket and fell flat on my back.

Ooof
.

Soon Tessa's worried face appeared above me. “Are you okay, Cammie?”

After that, it took a few minutes, but things finally settled down. And this time when Tessa held out the leotard for Hooligan to sniff, he actually did sniff.

“Gooooood puppy!” Tessa said. “Okay, Cammie. Now what?”

What I thought was:
I have no clue
.

What I said was: “Hooligan—go find!”

GRANNY uses this phrase I like, “rising to the occasion.” What it means is doing something unexpectedly good exactly at the time it needs to be done. Why I'm bringing it up is, that's what Hooligan did next: He rose to the occasion.

I mean, you would've thought our dog had been tracking piggy banks since puppyhood, because right away he got to his feet, trotted to our bedroom door and said a polite little
“Woof,”
so we'd open it and let him out.

The White House is quieter on Sunday than most other days of the week, and there was no one in the Center Hall. Hooligan dropped his nose to the rug, looked back to make sure we were behind him, then turned right and trotted toward the West Sitting Hall, every once in a while sniffing either the air or the floor.

“From now on,” Tessa said, “Hooligan can do all our finding for us!”

Or maybe not.

Because all of a sudden he made a hard right into the Dining Room, again dropped his nose to the rug, lunged between the chairs and under the table and came up chewing—with a gooey green spot on his muzzle.

Oh, swell. Instead of the piggy bank, he'd been tracking a lonely leftover jelly bean.

“That's no help!” I told him, and held out the leotard for him to sniff again.
“Go find!”

For a minute, Hooligan didn't go anywhere. Instead, he sat back on his haunches and scratched his ear. I was about ready to give up on my plan altogether when he stood, shook himself all over, sniffed the air again and headed through the Family Kitchen to one of our favorite shortcuts—the narrow, twisty back staircase to the main White House kitchen on the ground floor.

Behind us I could hear Humdinger in his cage singing,
“Twee-twee-twee!”

The stairs clanged and clattered as we ran down. Twice, Hooligan stopped and dropped his head and I almost rear-ended him. What was up with that? Had he found treats?

But there was no time to think about it. When we emerged into the kitchen, it was hot and busy with cooks making snacks for the ceremony later.

Running through—“Hello!” “Hi!” “Hello!”
“Sorry!”
—we dodged and weaved, hoping not to cause any
collisions. Exiting, I heard
rattle-rattle-bang
and then a terrible crash.

Oops.

From there we went left, then right through the Dip Room, where Jeremy opened the door for us—“Thanks!”—and then we were outside. In the cooler air, Hooligan's energy came back full force, and as hard as Tessa and I ran, we couldn't keep up.

Where was he going, anyway? Was he really tracking the piggy bank, or was he on some personal mission of his own?

Whatever it was, he had a destination in mind, and when he reached it, he screeched to a halt, circled twice, sat down and howled,
“Awh-roohr!”
like he wanted us to hurry up.

Tessa got there first and grabbed Hooligan and gave him a hug—
“Good puppy!”
—which was smart, because by then he was sniffing the ground with a little too much enthusiasm. Uh-oh. If he dug another hole, Mr. Golley would never forgive him—or us.

Now I ran up, breathless. “I don't know if he's being good,” I said. “It might be he's just chasing moles again.” Because where we were was the same place we'd been that morning—the Mole City part of the dig site. In fact, Hooligan was sniffing around the northwest corner where Tessa had found the gold Friday. Only there wasn't any hole anymore.

Had Mr. Golley's crew filled it in?

Tessa looked at me. “Wait—are you saying my sweat smells like some kind of rodent?”

And I said, “I don't think a mole is technically a rodent. Not to mention, I don't know how one smells. What I'm really saying is, where's the piggy bank?”

Tessa pointed at the ground with her toe. “Down there. Buried. Anyway, that's what Hooligan thinks.”

MR. Golley wouldn't like it if we let Hooligan dig another hole. But maybe—if we asked first—it would be okay for Tessa and me to dig one. So the two of us and Hooligan went over to the office under the canopy. Professor Mudd was there, writing notes on the computer. His eyebrows rose and fell as we explained how Hooligan had tracked Tessa's missing piggy bank. Of course, we didn't mention the gold.

I guess our story must've sounded pretty crazy, because I had to tell it twice. Tessa didn't say a word. Finally Professor Mudd said, “So you're telling me the hole has been filled in?” When I nodded, he threw up his hands. “You may as well grab a trowel from the tool cupboard,” he told me, “and together we will get to the bottom of this.”

By this time, the dirt had been disturbed so much that digging was easy. I knelt and cut one scoop, then another, then another, and . . . oh my gosh!

I saw something pink!

One more scoop, and I saw faded, flaking painted roses.

But if you're thinking,
Woot! Mystery solved!
—well, think again. Because Tessa's piggy bank had been smashed into about a hundred sharp and tiny pieces, and soon we had the whole thing—stubby snout to twisty tail.

As for the gold coin?

There was no sign of it.

And no sign of the two dollars and twelve cents, either.

Professor Mudd shook his head. “In my entire career, I've never seen pink potsherds.”

“Potsherds” is pronounced “pot-shards,” and Tessa wanted to know what they were. Professor Mudd explained that the word means pieces of old pottery—among the most common finds in archeology.

“Only, these potsherds don't date from long ago,” I said. “They date from more like ten o'clock this morning! I mean, this spot was just a hole in the dirt when we were out here before church.”

Tessa had been totally quiet, but now her detecting instincts kicked in. “Have you seen anyone suspicious out here today, Professor Mudd?” she wanted to know.

“Suspicious?” he repeated. “No. Your friends Dalton and Zach came out to work this morning while you and your cousin were at church. And Mr. Golley brought a crew by to deal with the mole damage. But I must admit, I don't understand what's going on here. Why would anyone want to bury a smashed piggy bank?”

I had to be careful answering. I was still trying to protect my sister, after all. “I guess whoever took it in the first place was hiding the evidence,” I said, “only he or she didn't count on Hooligan's superior tracking skills.”

Hooligan always knows when he's being praised. Now he woofed and raised his head so we could admire his profile. He would have looked pretty handsome except for the jelly bean stains on his muzzle. Where had those come from?

Meanwhile, Tessa was asking what we were supposed to do next.

“Thank Professor Mudd and return the trowel,” I said. “But after that, I have no idea. I am totally confused.”

“You're welcome,” Professor Mudd said as we headed back toward the canopy. “And as for what you need to do next, how about talking to Stephanie? I believe she has something to give you.”

We put the trowel away in the tool cupboard and found Stephanie working in one of the trenches on the far side of the canopy. She waved—“There you are!”—and pulled a tiny box from her pocket. “This is your find from the dig yesterday, Cameron.”

I felt a spark of excitement. Maybe it was gold, too?

Carefully, I removed the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of cotton, was a cup-shaped, rocklike something about two inches long and an inch wide. The caked-on dirt was gone, but it was still gray and grotty-looking.

I tried not to look disappointed. After all, Stephanie had gone to a lot of trouble to clean whatever it was
and put it in the box. “Great!” I smiled and nodded. “Seriously.”

Stephanie giggled. “You don't even know what it is.”

“Oh . . . well, no, I don't. But it's still great. Do
you
know what it is?”

Stephanie nodded. “I do. It's an oyster shell.”

Tessa shook her head. “Can't be. We're not at the beach.”

“It didn't come from the beach, at least not directly,” Stephanie said. “It came from the kitchen. Oysters were a common food in the early nineteenth century, much cheaper, compared to other things, than now. Who knows? Maybe this oyster was part of a dinner Dolley Madison served at the White House.”

“Cool,” I said, and this time I meant it. Dolley Madison was the First Lady when the White House burned down. She's famous for a lot of things, like helping save the famous painting of George Washington from the flames, having a pet parrot and being good at giving parties.

“What happens to the oyster shell now?” I asked.

“Significant relics are kept by the university for future study,” Stephanie said. “But oyster shells are pretty common in digs in this region. If you want to keep this one as a souvenir, Cameron, it's all yours.”

YOU might not think so, but a girl can work up a big appetite tracking a piggy bank. So our next stop was the second-floor kitchen for a snack. On the way, we ran into Mr. Ng and handed Hooligan over.

“Good to see you, buddy,” said Mr. Ng. “You know, you've got a playdate at four.”

“With who?” Tessa asked.

“Pickles, Ms. Major's beagle,” Mr. Ng said. “She lives over in Woodbury, and there's that dog park nearby.”

Hooligan wagged his tail. He likes Pickles.

When we got to the kitchen, Nate was already there, eating a bowl of granola while Humdinger serenaded him:
“Twee-twee-twee!”