After that, nine more Canine Buddies introduced themselves and their CITs. There was a poodle, four golden retrievers, a labradoodle, a Chihuahua and two I’m-not-sure-whats. Last was Mr. Bryant. He is always very dignified.
“I am Mr. Willis Bryant,” he said, “and this is my canine, Cottonball.”
In case you have never seen Canine Class on TV, this is how it goes: Mr. Mormora takes one of the CITs as an example and gives him a command—like “sit.”
The dog sits. This could be a mean dog or a dumb dog or a dog that speaks Chinese, it doesn’t matter. The dog sits. No one knows how Mr. Mormora does this, but he does.
That day, all the other dogs and their trainers watched Mr. Mormora convince a CIT golden retriever to sit several different times from several different angles. Then he turned toward the rest of us. “All right, Canine Buddies, it is now your turn. Please, command your CITs to sit.”
Instead of watching the golden retriever, Hooligan had been making friends with a Chihuahua. I did not have a good feeling. But I stood up straight like Mr. Mormora did, and I tried to copy the way he talks: “Hooligan—sit.”
Hooligan didn’t move. Pickles scratched herself, and the I’m-not-sure-what on our left tried to dig a hole. Only a poodle and Mr. Bryant’s dog, Cottonball, actually sat.
Then . . . so did Hooligan.
It was a miracle! From where the spectators were standing, I heard Tessa squeal. When I looked over, I noticed a whole bunch of cameras were aimed at Hooligan. The press loves him almost as much as they love Ms. Kootoor.
After that, all the CITs tried sitting again. And again. And Hooligan sat every time! Later, when we tried “stay,” he did that every time, too.
Canine Class only lasts forty-five minutes because, as Mr. Mormora explained it, “canine concentration is not powerful.” Even so, there’s some waiting around, so I asked Ms. Major about being an assistant press secretary. She told me she used to be a TV reporter, but then she went to work for my mom’s campaign. Now her job is mostly keeping track of what’s written and broadcast about our family, and Hooligan, too.
The end of Canine Class is always the same. Mr. Mormora thanks everyone for participating and gives out Canine Cookies. They are the shape of ordinary dog biscuits, but they have red and yellow stripes.
“You see how it is that Hooligan is a star pupil?” said Mr. Mormora. “It is the positive peer pressure. With the younger dogs, he wants to be a leader.”
I hadn’t noticed Ms. Kootoor with the other spectators, but now she was walking toward us with Dad and Tessa. “Great job, puppy!” she said, and scratched him behind the ears. He nosed her hand and whined.
Then Mr. Bryant came up, pulled along by Cottonball.
“Sit!” said Mr. Bryant. Cottonball looked at him, trying to remember what that word meant.
Tessa said, “Like this,” and sat down on the grass. Cottonball didn’t copy her, he tackled her! Then Hooligan piled on.
Mr. Bryant and I were trying to pull them off when Mr. Mormora spoke: “Gentlemen?”
Right away the dogs backed off and sat down.
Tessa wasn’t hurt—unless dog slobber hurts. She wiped her face and asked Mr. Mormora, “How do you do that?”
He smiled. “It is just having the confidence. Dogs respect confidence. By the time we hold graduation on Wednesday, each of these dogs will be a fine example of Canine Class, and one will be Top Dog—the number one student. That dog will receive a blue ribbon, and its picture will appear on boxes of Canine Cookies. Hooligan, what do you think? Have you the makings of the Top Dog?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN Tessa was four, she got a pink Barbie watch for her birthday. She still wears it, even though I tell her she’s too old. Now, according to Barbie, it was nine thirty—still early for a Saturday morning. But already Canine Class was over, the puppies were gone, and Tessa, Hooligan and I were riding a mini-tractor past the tennis court on the South Lawn. Behind us on the tractor was a load of very smelly compost.
It was Mr. Golly, one of the groundskeepers, who was giving us a ride. Tessa was next to him in front, and I was on the little bench seat in the back, holding tight to Hooligan. We had been trying to follow his trail from Thursday on foot, and Mr. Golly had picked us up like hitchhikers.
“Your parents won’t mind, will they?” he called as the tractor bump-bumped along.
Tessa and I chorused: “No!” because—both of us were thinking—we will never tell them.
And if we were lucky, nobody else would tell either. The thing is, wherever Tessa and I go, we’re being watched by the Secret Service. Like right then, I could see two agents: Malik was standing by the fountain in the middle of the lawn, and Jeremy was over to our right on the basketball court. It was the weekend, and they were assigned to the White House residence, so they didn’t have to wear suits. Instead they had on khakis and polo shirts, but with their straight posture, short hair and shiny shoes, they still looked like Secret Service.
Mr. Golly’s compost was bound for the new kitchen garden near the far fence. The ride down there gave Tessa an excellent opportunity to do some detecting.
“Mr. Golly,” she asked, “have you or any of the other groundskeepers seen a big, fat, fake diamond lying around the South Lawn since Wednesday afternoon? Or possibly a big, fat, not-fake diamond?”
Mr. Golly adjusted the brim on his hat. “Hector found an orange flip-flop last week. And we’re always finding Frisbees and footballs and kites. I don’t remember diamonds, though—fake or not fake. Why are you asking?”
Tessa and I took turns explaining how one was missing.
“If you’re looking for clues,” said Mr. Golly, “there are plenty of dried footprints in the flowerbeds.”
“I don’t think footprints will work,” I said. “We already know a zillion people were down here—chasing Hooligan and flattening flowers.”
Mr. Golly agreed it was a mess. “But a crew and I raked up the dead stuff yesterday.”
Tessa and I looked at each other. Had the diamond been raked up, too?
“What happens to the dead stuff?” I asked.
“We grind it for compost,” Mr. Golly explained.
“And did you do that already?” Tessa asked.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Golly said.
Sometimes my sister and I don’t have to say anything. We just understand: If Hooligan had dropped the diamond in a flowerbed, by now it was diamond dust.
Mr. Golly pulled the tractor up next to the kitchen garden, which was only a big, bare patch of dirt. Later in the spring, vegetables would be planted. Aunt Jen had told Tessa and me we could help.
“Does your dog have any bloodhound in him?” Mr. Golly asked.
“According to Dad, he’s got everything,” said Tessa.
“So maybe you can get him to track down that diamond,” said Mr. Golly.
This seemed worth a try, so, while Mr. Golly scooped compost with a pitchfork, Tessa took Hooligan’s leash off and explained the idea to him. Meanwhile, I looked around. The South Lawn is more like a big park than a backyard. Assuming the diamond still existed, how were we ever going to find it?
Tessa stood up. “Okay, he gets it,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Totally,” said Tessa. “Ready, Hooligan? Go!”
Hooligan lunged, thumped, sprang, spun—and then he was off, with Tessa and me sprinting to keep up.
Soon we were in the trees, and sure enough, Hooligan had his nose to the ground like a vacuum cleaner. I was just thinking this plan could actually work when he stopped dead in his tracks and Tessa, ahead of me, almost tumbled over him.
“Cammie, look!” she said. “He found it!”
CHAPTER NINE
SOMETHING told me that was just too easy.
And something turned out to be right.
I didn’t know what it was Hooligan had found in the trees, but it wasn’t a diamond.
Dogs don’t eat diamon
ds.
“Bad dog!” I scolded him.
But my sister scratched his ears. “Don’t listen, puppy. She doesn’t mean it.”
“I do, too!” I said.
“Maybe I didn’t explain it to him right.” Tessa unbuckled his collar and held it up so he could see the space where the diamond used to be. “That’s what you’re looking for, puppy,” she said. “Okay?” She buckled the collar back on. “Ready, set—find that diamond!”
Have I mentioned Hooligan has too much energy?
First he led us over by the west fence, then we ran up past the pool, across the driveway and around the putting green twice before we cut south again. I play midfield on the D.C. Destoyers soccer team, but even so I was out of breath. The only reason I kept up at all was that he kept pausing and gobbling junk—probably crucial pieces of evidence.
It was a warm day for March, and I was getting sweaty when Hooligan solved that problem—he ran through the fountain, so of course Tessa and I did, too. If we weren’t already in trouble for riding the tractor with Mr. Golly, we for sure were in trouble now, but there was no time to worry about that. Hooligan was bee-lining for the kitchen garden—right back where we started.
“Watch out!” I yelled to Mr. Golly. He was forking up the last smelly scoop and didn’t see Hooligan, who sideswiped him—ka-bam!
“Are you all right?” I asked when we got to him.
“Are you mad?” Tessa asked.
Before Mr. Golly could answer, Jeremy and Malik appeared. Jeremy is a really big guy with a deep voice. Malik is my second-favorite Secret Service agent after Charlotte. They had seen the whole thing.
Now Malik reached out a hand to help Mr. Golly, and Jeremy asked, “You okay there?”
Mr. Golly was wiping compost from his eyes. He said, “Reckon I’ll live,” and shook his head. Black bits flew out of his hair.
“I think we should escort you girls back to the house,” Malik said. “You’re going to want to get out of your wet shoes and socks.”
“Mr. Ng will be here for Hooligan shortly,” said Jeremy.
Tessa had grabbed Hooligan’s leash and run over to where he lay in the shade. Now she called me over, too. “Look,” she said and pointed at the fur around his snout. There was plenty of plain brown dirt. But there was something else besides—a whole lot of crumbs, bright red and bright yellow.
Only one thing leaves red and yellow crumbs.
“Canine Cookies!” I said.
“That must be what he kept stopping to eat,” Tessa said. “But who dropped them?”
“Mr. Mormora most likely,” I said. “But didn’t he tell Mrs. Crowe he’d never been out here? There’s no reason he’d lie about that . . . is there?”
CHAPTER TEN
ALL the Secret Service agents wear radio headsets so they can keep in touch. That’s why, when we got to the Dip Room door, Granny was waiting with our slippers and frowning.
“Sorry, Granny,” Tessa and I chorused.
“Hmmph,” said Granny, then she held out our slippers. “Change out of your wet shoes and socks so you don’t make a mess or catch pneumonia. After lunch, you’ll each write an apology to Mr. Golly.”
Oh well. It could’ve been worse.
On weekends, we eat lunch in the family kitchen. Usually, either Granny or Dad makes it. Granny is better because she takes special orders. Like my sandwich doesn’t get mustard, Tessa’s doesn’t get mayonnaise and Nate doesn’t eat anything green, like lettuce.
Dad makes all our sandwiches the same, and if we complain, he says, “How would you like to make my lunch for a change?”
Today Granny put plates down for Nate, Tessa and me, then made a surprise announcement: “We’re going to go see the Hope Diamond tonight!”
It turned out Mrs. Crowe had phoned the Museum of Natural History, and Saturday at seven p.m. was the best time for our visit. The museum would be closed, so keeping us safe would be easy. Plus we wouldn’t be bugging the regular visitors with all the hoo-ha that happens when we go someplace.
“One of the assistant curators, a Mr. Rubio, has agreed to meet us and talk about the diamond,” Granny said. “And Ms. Kootoor is coming, too. She’s always been fond of diamonds.”
“That’s for sure,” Tessa said. “She’s got loads of diamond jewelry, and even a diamond whistle!”
Granny raised her eyebrows. “Why on earth—?”
“Her dad gave it to her,” Tessa explained, “when she moved to New York City to get famous. If she’s ever in danger, she’s supposed to blow the whistle.”
“Has she ever used it?” I asked.
Tessa shook her head. “Nope. But she keeps it with her just in case.”
Granny nodded. “You know? A safety whistle might be a good idea. But I don’t see the point of the diamonds.”
Tessa’s mouth opened. Luckily, it was empty. “How can you say that, Granny? The diamonds are for style!”
When we had finished our sandwiches, Granny looked at her watch and pushed back her chair. “With this warm weather, I’ve made a tennis date—the first of the year. Can you entertain yourselves?”
Nate said a friend of his was coming over. They were going to shoot hoops.
Lucky, I thought. All my friends were out of town for March break.
But Tessa said we’d have no problem keeping busy.
“We won’t?” I said.
“Hello-o-o?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve got a mystery to solve? Remember?”
After lunch, we sat down at our desks to write to Mr. Golly. Along with our beds and posters, the desks came with us from our old house. But the rest of the furniture in our room belongs to the White House collection. Aunt Jen helped Tessa and me pick what we wanted. When we leave someday, it will go back in storage—or maybe the new president will have kids that pick the same stuff.
I spent a long time writing. I really did feel bad that Hooligan had knocked Mr. Golly into the compost. It was going to take a lot of shampoo to get the smell out of his hair.
Tessa drew a picture of a man lying down and a brown dog with a frowny face. Over the dog it said: “Sorry!”
When we were done, we folded our notes and put them in envelopes for Granny to address.
Then it was time for detecting.
In the West Sitting Hall, where Hooligan’s old wicker dog bed is, there’s a comfortable stripe-y sofa that’s good for thinking. By now, Mr. Ng had brought Hooligan back inside. After his busy morning, Hooligan was napping. Tessa and I sat down on the sofa, and I wrote down everything we knew about the case so far:
• Hooligan’s diamond probably disappeared Thursday during helicopter incident.
• Prongs on collar broken or bent back.
• Acc. to Jan/Larry: El Brillante was missing Friday morning from museum.
• But could have been missing a month.
• Connection between El Brillante and Hooligan’s missing diamond?
• Gardeners found flip-flop last week but no diamond this week.
• But did they by mistake grind up diamond?
• Or is it on South Lawn somewhere?
• Canine Cookie crumbs on Hooligan’s nose.
• Used to be Canine Cookies all over South Lawn.
• Not anymore.
• Did Mr. Mormora drop them?
• But Mr. Mormora said he hadn’t been on South Lawn.
By then, my hand was tired so I shook it out. Tessa had been reading over my shoulder and making suggestions.
“I don’t like it if Mr. Mormora lied to us,” she said.
“He’s nice though,” I said. “I like the way he talks to dogs.”
“You should write down what he said at dinner, too,” Tessa said. Then she dictated:
• Mr. Mormora has family in nearby nation.
• Mr. Mormora doesn’t like Empress Pu-Chi.
• Mr. Mormora asked Mom about President Manfred Alfredo-Chin.
“I don’t think Mr. Mormora lik
es President Alfredo-Chin either,” she said.
“So what?” I said.
Tessa waved her arms dramatically the way she does. “So I don’t know what! But isn’t it suspicious?”
“Isn’t what suspicious?” Granny had come in from tennis. She was pink and a little sweaty. Hooligan looked up when he heard her voice.
“Do you want to help us do detecting?” Tessa asked.
Granny said sure, and together we read through the notes. We had to explain about the cookies and the diamond maybe being ground up.
“If I were the detective,” Granny said thoughtfully, “I’d say the next move was obvious. It’s time to interview Mr. Mormora.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MR. MORMORA was staying in a guest room on the third floor, down the hall from Aunt Jen and Nate. We were going up there when Charlotte came into the West Sitting Hall. Charlotte is my favorite Secret Service agent.
“Mr. Mormora?” Charlotte said when we told her what we were doing. “He’s out sightseeing—one of those bus tours.”
Tessa dropped back down on the sofa. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
Charlotte said, “Sorry,” then she held an envelope out to me. “For you, Cammie.”
Tessa and I get letters all the time—not as many as my mom or Hooligan, but too many for us to sort ourselves. First they go to the office that handles White House mail, and most get answered by volunteers. When there’s a special letter, we see it after it’s checked out by the Secret Service.
“Is it a good one?” I asked.
“You’re going to like it,” she said and winked.
“What the . . .?” But then I looked at the address, and instantly forgot about Mr. Mormora, missing diamonds, and even Hooligan. This is what it said:
Camron Parks
The White House
1600 Pensylvania Ave.
Washingtun, DC 20500
Tessa read over my shoulder. “Hey—somebody’s as bad a speller as you! So that must mean it’s from—”
The Case of the Diamond Dog Collar Page 3