The Case of the Stinky Socks (7 page)

Nothing at all.

Milo and Jazz sat glumly in the stands. The cheerleaders were clapping and yelling as Wildcat Willie did cartwheels on the field. At least Willie was happy. The way the game was going, he didn't have to worry about having to attend state finals.

The substitute pitcher, Tim, was not doing too well. By the bottom of the fifth, the score was Eagles 7, Wildcats 2.

An ambulance was parked at the far end of the field. “What's that for?” Milo asked. “In case the Eagles die laughing at Dylan's sub?”

Jazz didn't even smile at his joke. “Oh, they have an ambulance at all the games, just in case.” She stared at the bench. “Poor Dylan.”

 

Milo didn't want to think about Dylan or the socks. His very first case, and he had failed.

His gaze wandered to the ambulance again.
, it said in big letters across the hood. Mirror writing. Just like when he had tried to read the cover of the magazine on Jazz's porch. Only this time, it was the other way around. The letters were painted backward so that drivers looking in their rear-view mirrors would see it the right way: AMBULANCE.

Suddenly a thought hit Milo like a baseball to the head. Looking in mirrors. That was it!

 

“Jazz,” he said, “what does Chip love to do?”

“Play tennis?”

“Besides that.”

She shrugged. “I don't know, what?”

“Chip loves to look at himself,” Milo said. “Whenever there's a mirror nearby, he looks in it.”

“So?”

“So, there's a big mirror in the boys' locker room. What if he was looking in it when he saw the thief?”

Seeing Jazz's puzzled look, he pulled his notebook out. Borrowing her purple glitter pen, he wrote the substitute pitcher's name in big block letters:

 

“What does that spell?” he asked her.

“Tim,
of course. What is this, kindergarten?”

Milo wrote:

 

“How about that?” he asked.

She frowned. “It doesn't spell anything.”

“Yes it does. It spells
mitt.”

“Mitt
has two
t
's.”

“I know that,” he said. “And you know that. But does Chip the Champ know that?”

Jazz stared at him. But then she shook her head. “Nobody could make a mistake like that.”

Milo thought about Chip glopping M-O-U-S-E into his hair, and grinned.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Somebody could.”

Together they ran down to the dugout, where the coach was talking to the players.

“Maybe you should put Dylan in,” P.J. was saying.

Tim looked angry. “You can't take me out, Coach! This is my chance to pitch. I won it fair and square.”

“No, you didn't!” Milo said.

Everybody turned to look at him.

 

“You stole Dylan's lucky socks,” he accused Tim. “You wanted to mess up his pitching so the coach would put you in his place.”

Tim scowled. “That's stupid.”

“Not as stupid as a thief wearing a jacket with his name across the back,” Jazz said. She smiled. “We have an eyewitness. Chip saw you take the socks.”

All the players stared at Tim.

Tim stared at Milo. His hands balled into fists.

Milo took a step back.

Then Tim's shoulders slumped. He kicked at the dirt on the dugout floor. “I was going to give them back after the game.”

Now everyone looked at Dylan.

Dylan was quiet for a moment. Then, after a glance at P.J., he laughed.

“They're all yours, Tim,” he said. “What do I need with a pair of stinky old socks? Coach, put me in!”