The Case of the Bug on the Run (2 page)

A chain reaction!

And it would've gone all around the table . . .

. . . except that Granny stuck out her foot and pushed everybody back upright again.

Have I mentioned that Granny works out?

Anyway, all that happened in the single solitary second before Mr. Bryant rushed through the doorway. “Hooligan, there you are! Come back this instant!”

The superstorm was not really a tornado. It was really our big furry mutt, Hooligan. The scary snake was really his leash.

Hooligan suspected he'd done something bad and
hid under the table till Tessa crawled down, hugged him and promised he wasn't in trouble.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bryant apologized. He's our family's friend and also in charge of Hooligan on weekdays. “I turned away to sip my coffee,” Mr. Bryant explained, “and off he went. You know he hates to miss a chance for a treat from the table.”

By now, our dog was sitting at Mr. Bryant's side and displaying his most noble profile.

Aunt Jen said, “I'm certain no one here would feed the dog from the table”—which must mean she hadn't noticed the mayonnaise on Hooligan's nose.

Mr. Bryant led Hooligan away. Then Granny made sure no one was hurt and Aunt Jen made sure no china was broken. After that, lunch was over.

Tessa and I had just shoved back our chairs when Mr. Schott turned to us. “Would you girls—
ahem
—mind showing me your new pet this afternoon?”

“Cool idea!” said Mr. Verity. “Can we come, too?”

“Give us a couple of minutes,” I said, “and we'll bring him out to the Center Hall.”

Back in our bedroom, the kittens were still in place, with their tails still swishing. But when Tessa and I looked in the cockroach's tank, we found we had a slight problem.

Our new pet had disappeared.

Tessa squealed and waved her arms the way she does. “Mr. Ross was wrong! The cockroach has escaped!”

I sighed. In my family, it's not the boy who cried wolf. It's the little sister.

“I think he's only hiding, Tessa,” I said. “Look at the Ks. If the star had left the show, would the audience still be watching?”

We call the kittens the Ks because Granny won't let us give them names. She says their real owners will do that, just as soon as we give them all away. Since they don't have names, we use letters and numbers—OK for Orange Kitten, BK for Black Kitten, and TK 1, 2, 3 and 4 for Tabby Kittens.

By now, Courtney had jumped up on my bed. “If that cockroach so much as touches my toes,” she squealed, “I'll have a heart attack, and you can't stop me!”

Tessa and I, meanwhile, knelt by the tank and waited. After a few seconds, some leaves quivered; then two curious antennae and a black helmet surfaced.

The Ks were excited. They meowed and batted the glass. BK even tried to climb inside.

“The rock star has returned!” said Tessa.

“And the fans go wild,” I said. “Now, before he decides to hide again, let's take this show on the road.”

The Center Hall is like a big room—with white carpeting, a piano and bookcases—that runs the length of the White House's second floor. To get there from our bedroom, you walk out the door, turn left and take five steps.

Tessa carried one end of the tank, and I carried the other. Courtney followed. We set the tank on a table. The Ks paraded in behind us, then resumed their front-row seats.

“Too much!” said Mr. Verity when he came in with Lily. “And those cats—they're like a focus group! Give 'em credit cards, and next thing you're selling catnip and litter boxes! Isn't that right, Max?”

“Absolutely, boss.” The phone was now clipped to Mr. Verity's belt.

Meanwhile, Mr. Schott had come in, followed by Charlotte, my favorite Secret Service agent, and then Courtney's dad, Alan Lozana.

“Sorry to intrude,” said Mr. Lozana, “but I've come to pick up my daughter for her riding lesson.”

I introduced Mr. Verity and Mr. Lozana. “You're a Washington blogger, hunh?” Mr. Verity said. “Max, make a note for a new show,
Washington Blogger
. Tell me, Mr. Lozana. Is your life full of passion, action and humiliation? Viewers love humiliation.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Lozana. “In fact, if you want to send a camera crew to my home . . .”

Courtney chimed in. “Oh, yes, please! And would you also send a wardrobe consultant? My parents are totally embarrassing.”

Mr. Verity smiled. “We don't mind dressing our stars up a little, but behavior must be completely natural. It's when people forget about the hidden camera that great television happens.”

By now I had figured out a little secret. Mr. Verity proposes a new show to everyone he meets. Most of the time, there's no new show, but Courtney and her dad didn't know that. And right away, the three of them started making plans.

Meanwhile, Mr. Schott had pulled out his phone to take a picture.

Charlotte was posted in the Center Hall that afternoon. “Uh, Mr. Schott?” she said. “I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that inside the White House.”

Mr. Schott said, “It's only the insect I'm interested in.”

Charlotte shook her head.

Mr. Schott said, “National security. I understand,” and put his phone away.

Lily tugged my arm. “Whatsa big bug's name?”

Tessa and I looked at each other. We'd been so busy, we hadn't even given him one! “Do you have a suggestion?” Tessa asked.

Lily thought so hard her face scrunched up. Finally, she said, “Fluffy.”

Oh, dear. Fluffy is not a very good name for a
cockroach. But we didn't want to say so and hurt Lily's feelings.

Luckily, Mrs. Hedges, the grumpiest maid in the White House, came out of the Treaty Room at that moment. She was carrying a feather duster.

“Hey, Mrs. Hedges—come and look!” Tessa called. “And don't worry. The zookeeper said cockroaches are pretty clean, I mean for cockroaches.”

I had a bright idea. “Lily, would you mind if we gave somebody else a chance to name the cockroach?”

Lily's lip quivered like she might cry. Tessa said quickly, “We could name one of the kittens Fluffy.”

This cheered Lily right up. “The black one! She's my fa-vo-wit.”

“Okay,” I said, “and Mrs. Hedges, would you like to name the cockroach?”

My idea had been that you can't hate something if you name it. And I was right! Mrs. Hedges peered into the tank. “What kind of cockroach did you say he is, again?”

“Madagascan,” I said.

“Then what about Madison?” said Mrs. Hedges.

“Madison like James Madison!” said Tessa. “He was the fourth president of the United States and lived in the White House two hundred years ago.”

Mrs. Hedges smiled. “James Madison is a fine name.”

My family believes children need outdoor recreation no matter how hot and humid Julys are in Washington,
DC. That's why Tessa and I had a full afternoon—tennis lessons, throwing the Frisbee for Hooligan and swimming lessons.

One good thing about our house: we did all those things without ever leaving our big backyard, which is also known as the White House South Lawn.

It was nearly five o'clock when we came in to clean up and get dressed for Mr. Amaro's dinner thing. We knew when we opened our bedroom door we'd find dresses already laid out for us to wear. Anytime we go to an event where we might be photographed, Aunt Jen chooses our clothes. If you think that means she doesn't trust us to pick out our own clothes . . .  you got that right.

Anyway, what we didn't know was what else we'd find in our room: a great big mess!

Our new pet's tank was lying on its side on the floor with the lid wide open. Leaves and dirt were strewn all over the carpet. As for our big orange-striped cockroach—there was no sign of him at all.

“Cammie, what happened?” said Tessa.

“I don't know, but we'd better clean it up and find James Madison fast,” I said. “Otherwise, Granny is going to kill us.”

The two of us cleaned and searched at the same time. We looked under the tank, then put it back on the table. We swept up the dirt and looked under every twig and leaf. We looked under the lid, then set it back on the tank and hooked it closed.

“It must be the Ks that knocked it over,” said Tessa, “and then James Madison got out and ran away.”

“I don't think the Ks are heavy enough,” I said. “And wait a sec—where
are
the Ks?” I scanned our bedroom without seeing a single one. “Oh, great. I wonder if they left at the same time the bug did. Maybe someone let them out.”

Tessa smiled. “Know what, Cammie? This seems to me like the start of a mystery.”

Since we moved into the White House in January,
Tessa, Nate and I have helped solve five mysteries. We've even been on TV! Granny's the one who taught us about detecting. Before she was a judge, she was a police officer.

“I don't think so, Tessa,” I said. “I mean, where's the bad guy? No one would steal a cockroach. Come on—James Madison's got to be around here somewhere. Let's keep looking.”

I peered under my bed, then Tessa's. I looked under our dressers, then under each of the chairs. I looked in the closet and even in my shoes.

Tessa didn't look anywhere. She just stared at the tank.

“Some help you are,” I said.

“I'm thinking!” said Tessa. “If the Ks didn't knock it over, who did?”

I shrugged. “Hooligan, I guess.”

“Oka-a-ay,” said Tessa. “So say I'm Hooligan.” She put her hands up like doggy paws and let her tongue loll out of her mouth. For a blond seven-year-old girl, she looked surprisingly like our big, furry, too-energetic dog.

Then she shoved the tank, and it tipped over. Only it didn't fall onto the floor. It stayed on the table. And the lid didn't come off, either.

Now I was interested. “Okay, so that's not what happened. How about if Hooligan banged into the table and made the whole thing tilt?”

Tessa made her Hooligan face again, dropped down on all fours and—
bam!
—bumped her rear end into the
table with too much energy. Sure enough, the table tipped and the tank slid to the rug. Then it rolled once and came to rest upside down.

“Hunh,” I said after a second. “If it happened that way, James Madison couldn't have escaped. He wouldn't have had a way out.”

“And the dirt didn't spill, either,” Tessa said.

“Maybe it wasn't an accident,” I said.

“Maybe not.” Tessa was excited. “Maybe somebody just wanted it to look like one. And that would be a mystery! You know what I think? The First Kids are back in business!”

“Not right this minute they're not.” Charlotte had come in the door behind us. “Because the First Kids are supposed to meet Ms. Major in the State Dining Room for photos.” Charlotte spotted the tank on the floor. “What happened?”

“James Madison is gone,” I said.

Charlotte frowned. “What about Thomas Jefferson and George Washington? Are they still around?”

“Not President James Madison!” Tessa waved her arms. “The bug James Madison!”

Charlotte pressed a button on her radio. “Hang on while I tell Mr. Ross.”

“No-o-o!”
Tessa whined. “Mr. Ross will get out the bug spray for sure!”

Charlotte muted the radio. “Girls, be real. The White House can't host a formal dinner when there's a foreign cockroach on the loose.”

Tessa glared at me. “Cammie, you never should
have told Charlotte! In the end, she's just a grown-up, and she's on the grown-up side.”

Charlotte protested. “Hey, no fair. I used to be a kid! I even had a pet iguana that one time ran away and scared the neighbors' dogs.”

“Did you get it back?” I asked.

“Yeah, but then Mom sent it to live in a swamp in the country. At least”—Charlotte looked thoughtful—“that's where she told me it went. All right. I won't tell Mr. Ross . . .  yet.”

I said, “Thank you,” and Tessa gave Charlotte a great big hug.

“But hurry and get dressed now!” Charlotte said. “You can look for your pet later. I just hope he doesn't turn up in a salad.”

My sister used to be the kind of girl who took forever to fix herself up for a party. Now that we've gotten so busy solving mysteries, though, she's changed. When necessary, she can get ready as fast as me—which means basically in no time at all.

Don't tell, but that night we didn't even take showers.

Instead, we splashed our faces, pulled on our dresses, foofed our hair and ran down the Grand Staircase to the Entrance Hall. There a hundred lunch ladies and a few lunch gentlemen were eating appetizers and listening to a member of the United States Marine Band play the piano. Mom, wearing a dark blue dress, was in the Cross Hall, shaking hands with party guests. We hadn't seen her all day, and when she saw us, she winked.

The State Dining Room has white walls, gold light fixtures and pink-and-white carpeting. Over the fireplace is a painting of President Lincoln. He isn't
wearing his hat, and he's thinking hard about something. The round tables were set for guests, with arrangements of sunflowers in the middle. There was a long table for Mr. Amaro, my mom, Aunt Jen and a few other important people at the front of the room.

We found Ms. Major in a corner with one of the White House photographers.

“I thought we'd have to send out a search party,” Ms. Major said when we walked in.

Tessa looked at me. “That's what we need, Cammie—a search party!”

“What is it you're searching for?” Ms. Major asked.

“Nothing!” we both said—even though I was at that moment scanning the rug for any skittering thing that was fat, orange and black. Then Mr. Patel, the cutest White House butler, stuck a tray in front of my face . . . and everything on it was fat, orange and black!