The Case of the Missing Dinosaur Egg (4 page)

“So that's where you come in,” Nate said.

Mr. Morgan nodded. “We tried to trace the real dinosaur egg's route to the United States. Apparently, it was shipped from the airport in the capital of a certain nearby nation. The shipping records show the crate was scanned into the system when it arrived at Dulles
airport here in the United States. After that, the crate seems to have disappeared. We think the thief must have picked it up from the airport here, but we can't find any record of that.”

For a moment the room was quiet except for the sound of me writing. When I had caught up with my notes, I realized something: “This is all pretty mysterious, but none of it says Professor Bohn is the thief.”

Mr. Webb said, “On the contrary,” and I almost dropped my pen because that was five whole syllables, and Mr. Webb never says anything!

Mr. Morgan nodded. “We were suspicious. Why did Professor Bohn insist the ostrich egg was only a harmless prank?”

“Uh . . .,” I said, “because that's what he really thought?”

“Or,” said Mr. Morgan, “because he wanted to delay a full investigation as long as possible. And there is something else. Late last night we made a call to Washington's top ten p.m. news team: Jan and Larry.”

“Hey, wow—what a coincidence,” said Tessa. “We watch Jan and Larry, too!”

Mr. Morgan nodded. “Everybody does. And when Mr. Webb and I heard the broadcast last night, we zeroed in on one thing: the identity of the ‘unnamed sources' who told them about the egg's link to politics in a certain nearby nation.”

“Jan and Larry don't have to name their sources,” Nate said. “Freedom of the press is protected by the First Amendment to the Constitution.”

“True,” said Mr. Morgan. “But when national security is involved, the news media is often willing to cooperate. Also, I went to high school with Jan.”

“So who told them?” Tessa asked.

Mr. Morgan raised his eyebrows: “Professor Cordell Bohn.”

Tessa shook her head. “Uh-oh, Cammie. This is not looking good.”

Meanwhile, Granny said, “Let me see if I've got this straight. You think Professor Bohn called Jan and Larry to suggest that the theft was connected to politics. You think he was trying to shift attention away from the truth—that he's the thief.”

Mr. Morgan nodded. “Exactly right.”

I had more questions, but Charlotte looked at her watch. “Ahem? It is getting a bit late if the children are going to get to church.”

Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb stood up to leave. “We have a plane to catch.” They were on their way to Pittsburgh, Professor Bohn's hometown, to continue their investigation.

“What do you want us to do?” Tessa asked.

“While we're confident we have identified the thief,” said Mr. Morgan, “we lack the proof we need. What we're hoping you can do is help us get that proof.”

After fast good-byes, Granny hustled us into the Family Kitchen, which is also on the White House second floor. There, Tessa, Nate and I poured our coffee down the sink and grabbed bagels with peanut butter to eat on the way.

Downstairs, three cars were waiting for us. Granny goes to one church, Aunt Jen and Nate go to another—and my family goes to the Methodist one by Dupont Circle. It's the same one we started going to eight years ago when my mom got elected senator and we moved to Washington from California.

I like going to church. Mom, Dad, Tessa and I get to be together. We sing. The light coming through the stained-glass windows makes pretty patterns on the floor.

Because it was Palm Sunday, the service began with the choir coming in waving palm branches and calling, “Hosanna!” After that, we sang a hymn; then a lady
read Bible verses about how Jesus was the prophet of Nazareth.

Finally, the pastor stood up to speak. I tried to pay attention, but I had so much to think about! Solving a new mystery and finding an ancient dinosaur egg sounded fun. Gathering evidence to prove a nice man was a thief? Not so fun. But maybe Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb were wrong. Maybe the evidence would show that somebody else stole the dinosaur egg.

I remembered what Mr. Morgan had said about the case and realized right away there was something that didn't make sense, something that might be a clue: the wooden crate with the ostrich egg that showed up on Professor Rexington's desk.

How did it get there, anyway?

I pictured a crate floating through the entrance of the museum and pushing buttons on the elevator . . . and I cracked myself up, which made Mom, Dad and Tessa all look over at me.

Oops.

Sorry
, I mouthed.

Now the minister was talking about Jesus riding on a donkey, which made me picture a crate on the back of a donkey . . . and soon I was thinking about the case again.

By the time the minister said he would see us all next week to celebrate Easter Sunday, I had thought up the first step of a plan to solve the mystery, find the dinosaur egg and—by the way—prove to Mr. Morgan
and Mr. Webb that even if Professor Bohn liked to joke around, he wasn't actually a bad guy.

All I needed was a single, solitary secret weapon—which luckily was not a problem. Right now, the one I had in mind was probably having a late-morning snooze.

It didn't take much convincing to get Nate and Tessa to go along with my plan; neither of them had a better idea. So that same afternoon, the three of us—along with Malik, one of the Secret Service agents, and our secret weapon—were in a White House van on our way back to the National Museum of Natural History. It closes at five on Sunday, so by five-thirty it was pretty empty.

The secret weapon was on a leash, because otherwise I was pretty positive he'd chew up some ancient, priceless bone or spider or piece of an asteroid.

Like you've probably figured out, the weapon I'm talking about is Hooligan, our big furry mutt. Hooligan looks like a cross between an Afghan hound and a Dr. Seuss character, which my dad says is because he's a mad mix-up of just about every kind of dog ever. Last time we went detecting, we found out Hooligan's nose must've come from a bloodhound, because he sure can track a scent.

But was last time just beginner's luck?

We were about to find out.

Professor Rexington met us inside the museum and led us through back hallways to a staff elevator that went up to the top floor, where her office is. Unlike Professor Bohn, Professor Rexington is not the most cheerful person ever. She hardly smiled when she said hello. But maybe she was just tired? There were circles under her eyes, same as my mom gets when she's stressed out.

Finally, we arrived at her office. The door was open, and we went in.

“You wanted to see the desk where the crate arrived, right? Well, this is it.” Professor Rexington nodded at a big wooden desk with a neat stack of papers on top.

Meanwhile, our secret weapon wagged his tail and started sniffing inside a metal wastebasket beside the desk. It was full of crumpled newspaper and brown straw stuff.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “is that the packing material that was around the ostrich egg?”

Professor Rexington nodded. “Yes. I remember
thinking the straw looked like nesting material—appropriate for an egg.”

“Can we see the crate, too?” Tessa asked.

Professor Rexington frowned. “I'm afraid I might've recycled it already–let me check.”

She went through a door to another room and rustled around. While we waited, Hooligan continued to sniff.

“Good puppy! Smart puppy!” Tessa threw her arms around him. “You already know what you're supposed to do!”

My idea was for Hooligan to get the scent of the crate, then follow it backward from the desk. There are a ton of entrances to the museum. Knowing which one the crate came through might help us figure out how it got to the museum and who sent it.

Hooligan waited patiently for Tessa to be done hugging him; then he got back to work. At the same time, I knelt and looked at the date on the newspapers—Thursday, April 6, last Thursday. I pointed this out to Nate. He nodded and said since the crate arrived at the museum on Friday, it must have been packed and sent right away.

Meanwhile, Professor Rexington came back in with a slat of splintered wood and said, “Bad news. This is all that's left.”

I examined the piece of wood, but there were no markings on it. Then I gave it to Hooligan to sniff. Did it smell like anything to him? Or were the different
smells in the wastebasket confusing? For all I knew, somebody's lunch leftovers were in there.

My great idea didn't seem so great anymore. But it was too late to worry about that now. I would just have to trust our dog.

“Ready?” I said.

Malik, Tessa and Nate nodded.

“Okay.” I took the leash and stood up. “Hooligan—go find!”

Note to self: next time you track anything with Hooligan, let Malik hold the leash.

Hooligan was so excited and took off so fast he nearly separated my arm from my shoulder, not to mention that no one could keep up with us.

“Hoo-Hoo-Hooligan! Slow down!” Tessa whined, but our dog didn't listen. Instead, nose held high, he galloped one way then the other down the corridors.

Was he really tracking a scent?

Or did he think we were playing tag?

Whatever it was, he was having a great time, and only skidded to a stop when he reached an impenetrable barrier—closed elevator doors.

This was a different elevator from the one we came up in. Nate, Tessa, Malik and Professor Rexington were way behind us by now, and before they could come near, Hooligan did one of the amazing tricks he's learned since coming to live in the White House: he
jumped up and pushed the elevator call button with his paw.

The elevator car must've been waiting, because the doors opened instantly, and Hooligan looked around like,
We don't have to wait for those slowpokes, do we, Cammie?

Well, of course we had to wait for them! I am not allowed to go anywhere without the Secret Service, in this case Malik—and he was bringing up the rear so he could keep Tessa and Nate in sight.

Thinking,
No problem, I know how to hold an elevator
, I let Hooligan tug me inside, but then, before I could stop him, he did it again—jumped up and pushed a button on the panel.

“Oh, no you don't!” I started looking frantically for the button that opens the doors, but there were a lot of floors in the building and a lot of buttons, too! By the time I finally found the right one, the doors were shut and the elevator had creaked into gear.

“Hooligan!”
I said.
“Bad dog!”

He didn't pay any attention, just sniffed the air, the walls and the corners. He was tracking something, but was it an ancient dinosaur egg? Or a stale turkey sandwich?

Down, down and down the elevator dropped into the museum's unknown depths. On the way, I had plenty of time to think . . . and to worry. When finally we came to rest, we were someplace called Level D.