The Case of the Missing Dinosaur Egg (6 page)

“I guess he's right,” I said. “Let's look up when the Unenlagia dinosaur lived.”

Evgenia went back to the Smithsonian website and found the answer. Then she added:

• Unenlagia lived in the Mesozoic period, about 90 million years ago.

I couldn't wait to tell Nate and Tessa what I had learned, so of course the rest of the school day passed extra slowly. Finally, at 3:15, I was set free. Jeremy was driving the van that met us out front. Granny was in back.

I started explaining about the library before I was even buckled in. When I was finished, Nate said, “Good job, Cameron! Now we know why Professor Bohn stole the egg. He wanted to keep it away from Professor Rexington.”

Uh-oh. I never thought of that! I started to argue, but Granny interrupted with news of her own.

“Since you children were busy in school, I did a little
detecting myself.” Granny knows all about detecting. She used to be a police officer. “That newspaper in Professor Rexington's wastebasket? It was the
Washington Post
. So it seems whoever sent the ostrich egg must have packed it up right here in town.”

Tessa grinned. “Good job, Granny! Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb will be super proud. They've only been gone since yesterday, and already we've gathered two pieces of evidence to help prove it was Professor Bohn who stole the dinosaur egg.”

What was I doing wrong?

Solving the case was supposed to prove Professor Bohn was innocent. But so far it seemed more like the opposite.

I needed to think. So after Tessa, Nate and I had eaten our snack, I asked Granny if she thought Mr. Bryant would let me take Hooligan for a walk around the South Lawn.

Mr. Bryant used to operate the Presidential Elevator, but now he works for our family, taking care of Hooligan on weekdays.

“I'm sure Mr. Bryant will be happy for the coffee break,” Granny said. “But Charlotte will have to go with you.”

“I know,” I said.

“And we'll have to alert the other officers outside.”

“I know.”

“And mind the public, Cameron. Don't talk to anybody—and
remember, they're all voters or potential voters.”

When Granny said “the public,” she meant the people outside the White House fence looking in. I'm not supposed to actually talk to these people, because I might say something dumb by mistake that would get on the news and be embarrassing. On the other hand, I should always smile and be polite, because if I don't, people might not vote for Mom.

“I know, Granny. I am a representative of the family.”

Granny smiled, then reached over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Living in the White House is a bother sometimes, Cameron. But there are a lot of privileges, too. You're looking forward to the Easter egg roll, aren't you?”

An Easter egg roll is a race where you push a hard-boiled egg with a spoon. The tradition started at the White House way back in the 1800s, and now thousands of people come to the South Lawn the day after Easter to celebrate. There are games and music and food—kind of like a church picnic, only bigger.

I nodded. “I'm looking forward to the fried rice, too,” I said, which made Granny laugh. The first time Tessa ever heard of an Easter egg roll, she thought it was Chinese food.

While Granny got hold of Charlotte and Mr. Bryant, I went to Tessa's and my bedroom to put on jeans and sneakers. Then I read over my notes for the case so they'd be fresh in my mind.

On my way downstairs, I stopped by Hooligan's room. Tessa was there, sitting on the floor by the kittens—two orange, one black, and three gray tabbies—a squirming mass of fur and cuteness. I reached in and tickled the mama, who flicked her tail but didn't bother to wake up.

“The kitten book says they'll be more fun next week when they can see and hear,” Tessa said. “But they'll be messier, too. Right now the mama cleans up most of the disgusting parts.”

I said, “No wonder she's tired.” Then I told Tessa I was going out to walk Hooligan and think.

“About the case?” she asked.

I nodded.

“You don't think Professor Bohn stole the egg, do you?”

“It's obvious, huh?”

“
Hello-o-o?
I'm your
sister
! But we don't get to pick who did it, Cammie. Like Granny says, we have to be fair and look at the evidence.”

“I'm trying,” I said. “But the truth is, I'd rather it was somebody else—like Professor Rexington. She's not nearly as nice. And she has a motive, too, right? She wants the egg as much as Professor Bohn does. She wants to prove she's the one who's right about birds and dinosaurs.”

Tessa said, “I wasn't going to tell you this, but I thought of something else. Why did Professor Rexington recycle the crate so fast?”

I shrugged. “Because she's super well organized? You saw how tidy her office was.”

“Maybe,” said Tessa, “or maybe because the crate had a return address or some other clue. Maybe there was something she didn't want us to see.”

I stared at my sister. “I should've thought of that!”

Tessa said, “Why? Because you're older?”

“No, because I'm smarter—
duh
.” And then I had to move fast because Tessa was scrambling to her feet, ready to pound me.

I got away from my sister okay.

All I had to do was call over my shoulder, “I take it back! You're smart, too!” then run down two flights of stairs and cross into the Diplomatic Reception Room, which is how you get to the South Lawn.

Mr. Bryant and Charlotte met me under the awning outside, and Mr. Bryant handed me Hooligan's leash.

“I appreciate your taking over for a few minutes, Cameron. Your grandmother is putting on a pot of coffee.” Then he gave Hooligan a pat on the head. “You behave yourself. Understand?”

Hooligan answered by sitting politely and displaying his most noble profile.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I think this dog should travel with his personal photographer.”

“Yeah,” I said, “he has a lot in common with my sister that way.”

“Where shall we walk?” Charlotte asked after Mr. Bryant left to go meet Granny.

I said, “Children's Garden,” which is a part of the South Lawn that has a path and a pond and a climbing tree. A First Lady a long time ago had it built for when her grandchildren came to visit.

Charlotte and I turned right toward the West Wing, where my mom's office is. Nearing it, I saw her and a cluster of other people walking in the Rose Garden. Right away, I noticed one of the men because he wasn't wearing a suit like everybody else. Instead, he had on an untucked, short-sleeve white shirt and black pants. . . .

Wait a sec. Hadn't there been a guy at Professor Bohn's museum talk in a shirt like that?

I pointed him out to Charlotte, who told me that kind of shirt is called a guayabera—pronounced “gwyuh-bear-uh”—and they're popular in countries where it's hot.

“Who are those guys, anyway?” I asked her.

Charlotte squinted at them. “I'm not sure. Foreign dignitaries, I guess.”

A foreign dignitary is somebody important who comes from another country. Before I could ask where these ones were from, I got distracted by Hooligan, who had stopped to sniff the air.

Uh-oh.

This could be trouble.

I got a good grip on his leash . . . but not good enough, because half a second later he bolted for the Rose Garden, tugging me off-balance and yanking the leash out of my hand.

“Hooligan!”
I tried to call, but only the first syllable
came out. The second two were muted by the combination of grass and earth my face encountered on the ground—
owieee!

“Cammie, are you okay?” Charlotte reached down to help me. I wiped the dirt out of my eyes and saw Hooligan was on a collision course with Mom and the foreign dignitaries.

Charlotte cringed. “I hope they're from a friendly country.”

Me, too, because by now, Hooligan had zeroed in on his intended target—none other than the man in the guayabera shirt—and was gathering himself to make a leap.

The man must not have been expecting a big, furry, flying impact, because—
pow!—
when Hooligan connected—
ouch!—
he toppled over backward.

“Oh, dear,” I said, “I hope that guy likes dogs.”

The guy did not like dogs.

Especially big dogs that jump on you, knock you over and slobber on your face.

But it's not like he had to go to the hospital or anything.

And Mom said the White House laundry might be able to wash the paw prints out if he didn't mind handing over his shirt.

There are always newspeople at the White House, and now—as the guy was helped to his feet—their cameras whirred and clicked.

Meanwhile, my mom introduced us. “This is my daughter Cameron, Mr. Valenteen. And she is about to apologize for our dog's terrible behavior.”

“I'm really sorry,” I said. “I don't know why Hooligan did that. Usually he only attacks squirrels and pigeons.”

“I am not a squirrel or a pigeon,” Mr. Valenteen said.

“I can see that,” I said.

“Good. Then we're all in agreement,” said Mom.
“Cameron, I'll see you at dinner. Gentlemen? Shall we continue our discussions inside?”

Mom, Mr. Valenteen and the guys in suits turned and headed for my mom's office. Meanwhile, Hooligan sat himself down in good-dog fashion and looked up at me expectantly.

“What's with you, anyway?” I asked him. “You don't get a doggy treat for jumping on some poor, random guy. You know that, right?”

But apparently he didn't know that, because he cocked his head and woofed a sad and disappointed little
woof
.

“Was he the same man from the museum?” Charlotte asked me. “Or just wearing the same kind of shirt?”

“Same man,” I said. “Weird, huh? I guess he must be interested in dinosaurs.”

We turned toward the Children's Garden, and I asked Charlotte if she'd mind helping me go over the evidence.

“Happy to,” she said. “After all, I am a law enforcement professional. What do you know so far?”

Since I had just reviewed my notes, it was easy to tell her the important parts:

• Jan and Larry said the dinosaur egg might be missing because of politics in a certain nearby nation.

• Professor Bohn was the “unnamed source” who told them that.

• The crate had been scanned in at Dulles airport on Thursday.

• The packing newspaper was the
Washington Post
, dated last Thursday.

• The delivery company, Red Heart, didn't exist.

• Professor Rexington and Professor Bohn were in a feud about the family history of dinosaurs and birds.

By this time we had passed the tennis courts and gone under the trellis into the garden, which is surrounded by trees and bushes. A path leads to the goldfish pond, and children and grandchildren of past presidents have left their handprints in the concrete paving stones. I hopscotched over the names “Jenna Bush” and “Barbara Bush,” then sat down in one of the white metal chairs by the pond.