The Case of the Bug on the Run

by Martha Freeman

  “I am, Tessa!”

  Mr. Bryant took a sip of coffee, set his mug on the table and touched his napkin to his lips. “Perhaps this seems obvious,” he said. “However, I am struck by the fact that our culprit had access to the White House second floor. As you well know, the building is secure. Only select staff, family and guests are allowed upstairs.”

  Ick! It was creepy to think a spy had been in our room! And even more creepy to think the spy might be someone we knew.

  “What are the times again, Cammie?” Tessa wanted to know.

  I turned back a couple of pages. “Whoever borrowed James Madison had to have done it while we were outside. So that means between about two o’clock and four-forty-five yesterday.”

  Tessa nodded. “Then the person was in our room again at eight-oh-seven, because that’s when the government device first detected the signal coming from there.”

  Granny said, “Mr. Amaro’s dinner was still in progress at that time. So everyone at the dinner has an alibi.”

  “That makes me think of something,” said Nate. “Mr. Amaro left the dinner early. Remember? The lunch ladies from Pennsylvania were awfully disappointed when he didn’t take questions.”

  “It could be that someone else left the dinner early as well,” said Mr. Bryant. “But not everyone has access to the second floor, as Mr. Amaro does.”

  Tessa said, “Plus, he likes bugs. Woo-hoo! A for-real suspect! I think we’re going to have to ask that gentleman just a few simple questions.”

  In case you can’t tell, my sister’s favorite part of detecting is asking suspects questions.

  “But why would a chef want to spy on the White House?” I asked. “Mr. Amaro doesn’t have a motive.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for a motive,” Tessa said, “I know who has one: Mr. Lozana! His blog would be a lot more interesting if he had a secret spy in the White House.”

  “It’s true that Mr. Lozana knew about the cockroach. He was also upstairs yesterday afternoon,” Granny said.

  “But Courtney has been my best friend forever!” I said. “And Mr. Lozana wasn’t ever in the White House last night.”

  “Not as far as we know,” said Nate.

  Tessa shrugged. “Write down Mr. Lozana as a maybe suspect, Cammie. It can’t hurt to ask Courtney some questions, right?”

  Reluctantly, I wrote Mr. Lozana’s name.

  Meanwhile, our plates began to rattle. Hooligan, awake and scrabbling to his feet, had caused a table quake! It took a few seconds for him to sort out his paws and tail; then he seated himself by my chair and looked up with heartbreak in his eyes. He had just realized the banana pancakes were gone.

  “Come on, old man.” Mr. Bryant scratched behind Hooligan’s ears. “Let’s the two of us go for a little walk. Would anyone like to join us?”

  Nate said, “I have to practice piano.”

  My cousin is some kind of piano genius, so—except when he’s studying a kind of arithmetic I can’t even pronounce—he usually has to practice piano.

  “Why don’t you girls go put on your sneakers and head out, too?” Granny said. “I understand Mr. Amaro is supposed to be in the Kitchen Garden this morning. Something about tomatoes. If you want to ask him some questions, you can probably catch up with him there.”

  Tessa and I got up to go. Then I remembered something. “Granny—James Madison needs breakfast, too. Have you got anything he might like?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Back in our room, Mrs. Hedges was changing the sheets on our beds.

  “More laundry. More work for me. And all those houseguests, too,” she muttered.

  Tessa and I read each other’s thoughts. James Madison’s microphone was hearing Mrs. Hedges’s complaints. What if the spy who was watching Bug TV told the world our family was mean to people who work in the White House? This could make our mom look bad!

  Tessa said, “Mrs. Hedges, are you working too hard?”

  Mrs. Hedges hadn’t heard us come in. Now she jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

  I said, “Maybe you’d like to sit down and take a break.”

  “I could get you a cup of tea,” Tessa said. “Or how about lemonade?”

  Mrs. Hedges frowned. “Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?”

  “We’re always nice!” I said.

  Mrs. Hedges put her hands over her ears. “Well, you don’t need to shout about it.” Then she softened up. “I said good morning to James Madison when I came in. I’m not sure, but I think he waved an antenna back.”

  “Would you like to feed him?” I held up the breakfast Granny had given me.

  “He likes banana peels?” Mrs. Hedges said.

  “Cockroaches have many fine qualities,” I said. “And one is that they’re not picky eaters.”

  Mrs. Hedges opened the lid of James Madison’s tank and laid the peel on the dirt. Then we put the lid back on and hooked it closed. Soon James Madison ambled over and stood on top of his breakfast.

  “I think he’s interested,” Tessa said.

  “But not enthusiastic,” said Mrs. Hedges.

  “Maybe we should try stale taco chips,” I said. “The zookeeper called them a cockroach favorite.”

  “Only not the spicy ones,” Tessa reminded me. “Those give him a tummyache.”

  We watched James Madison consider his breakfast for a few moments more. Then Tessa and I put on our sneakers and Mrs. Hedges finished with the sheets.

  “Feeding the cockroach was probably the highlight of my day,” she said, picking up the laundry basket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an endless number of beds to change.”

  As soon as she was gone, Tessa turned to me. “Got your notebook, Cammie?”

  “Uh, not yet,” I said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Oka-a-ay . . . ,” said Tessa. “What?”

  Now what? The something was something I couldn’t say in front of James Madison, but Tessa didn’t know that. She frowned, tapped her foot and checked her Barbie watch.

  Then I had an idea. “Tessa, remember how the zookeeper told us that in Madagascar cockroaches always live near waterfalls?”

  “Nope,” Tessa said unhelpfully.

  “Well, dear sister, that is exactly what the zookeeper told us. So now, how about if we put James Madison’s tank in the bathroom where he can listen to the sound of running water and feel at home?”

  I could see from Tessa’s face that she wanted to say I was crazy, but then, all of a sudden, she caught on. “Oh! Why, Cameron,” she said in her most normal possible voice, “what an excellent idea!”

  Together, we picked up the tank, carried it to the bathroom, turned the water on, walked out and closed the door.

  “That was good thinking,” Tessa said. “Only we can’t do it for very long, because it wastes water.”

  “I know, but this is an emergency. From now on, we need to keep James Madison with us all the time.”

  Tessa made a face. “All the time?”

  “Look what just happened with Mrs. Hedges,” I said. “She talks to herself when she’s cleaning. What if she gives away a secret and endangers the United States of America? Or what about this? The spy could sneak in again and let James Madison loose to snoop other places—like in one of Mom’s meetings.”

  Tessa looked alarmed. “Uh-oh. But how do we carry him with us?”

  “In that little plastic box the zoo gave us, remember? It’s in my desk drawer.”

  The clear plastic box was a disk about half an inch high and three inches in diameter. After we returned James Madison’s tank to its table, Tessa took him out and packed him inside with a leaf and a strip of banana peel. It was a tight squeeze, but the keeper had said cockroaches in the wild live mostly in holes, so to a cockroach, squished just feels cozy.

  Tessa snapped the box shut and said, “There you are, James Madison. Your own personal mobile home.”

  “And now we’re going on a field trip,” I said. “You�
�re really going to like the weather outside. It’s hot, just like your native Madagascar.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I changed into cargo shorts so I’d have a pocket for James Madison’s mobile home, then—along with Tessa—went downstairs to meet Mr. Bryant and Hooligan under the awning outside the Diplomatic Reception Room. It’s on the ground floor and our most usual way in and out of the White House.

  “What’s Mr. Amaro doing out here again?” Tessa asked Mr. Bryant as we walked.

  “Picking tomatoes,” Mr. Bryant said. “The idea is to encourage people to grow vegetables as well as eat them. The ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate are going to snap some pictures of him and his harvest.”

  “Fourth Estate means news guys,” I explained before Tessa could ask.

  “The news guys are gonna be there?” said Tessa. “That gives me an idea.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, Cammie,” my sister said. “We could hardly be in any more trouble, right?”

  The South Lawn is as big as fourteen football fields, and the Kitchen Garden is at the far end. It was a long walk in air that felt like chicken soup. I was sweaty by the time we saw the garden and the news guys clustered around it. Soon after that, we saw something else—Bug Liberation Front protesters outside the fence on Executive Drive.

  So that was where the rest of them had gone!

  “Hey, Fireball and Fussbudget—yo!” Charlotte caught up to us. “What happened to Fingers?”

  Everyone in our family has a Secret Service code name. Fireball is Tessa, and Fussbudget’s me. Nate is Fingers because, like I said—piano genius.

  “Practicing piano,” said Tessa.

  “Of course he is,” said Charlotte.

  Tessa, Nate and I are not allowed to be outside without Secret Service protection, and there are always agents posted on the lawn. Some of them wear suits, but some of them wear casual clothes so you’d think they’re just regular people hanging out.

  As we approached the garden, Mr. Bryant made a hard left to avoid the news guys. The White House pets did not need more publicity. We could meet up later. The Kitchen Garden is about the same size as a big bedroom, and its pattern of rows and squares reminds me of a quilt. Besides tomatoes, there are kale, peas, corn, eggplants, okra, Brussels sprouts and herbs. There are raspberry bushes, too, and off to the side, a couple of beehives.

  Ms. Major was waiting for us, along with a White House photographer and the White House head gardener.

  “What are the Bug Liberation Front protesters doing down here?” I asked Ms. Major.

  “They must’ve got wind of Chef Amaro’s plan for a photo op, and now they’re hoping the press will pay attention to them, too,” Ms. Major said.

  “Look, here he comes!” Tessa pointed at an orange mini-tractor speeding toward us with Mr. Amaro driving. His sequined turquoise bandanna and wraparound glasses made him easy to recognize. Some of the protesters recognized him, too. One of them had a guitar and strummed it, waving and hooting at the same time.

  Mr. Amaro waved and hooted back.

  Then the protesters started another chant:

  “Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly,

  Bugs gotta roam or else they die.”

  Instead of watching where he was going, Mr. Amaro was reading the signs—and soon the tractor was heading straight for us!

  Everybody ran for their lives.

  “Look out!” Charlotte yelled.

  Mr. Amaro turned his head, saw the crash-about-to-happen and yanked the wheel just in time. The tractor jerked to a halt at the very edge of the garden, its tires spinning up a messy spray of grass and dirt.

  Phew! My heart was pounding. But Mr. Amaro didn’t seem to notice he’d almost taken out half a dozen news guys and a row of arugula. He just hopped off the tractor and grinned his famous grin. “Hey, everybody. Awesome to be here!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As you’d expect from a pro-vegetable TV star, Mr. Amaro had no trouble being photographed and picking tomatoes at the same time. He even showed Tessa and me how. What you do is kneel in the dirt, hunt until you find a red one, grab gently and twist hard till it separates from the stem. Tomato stems, in case you don’t know, are smelly and covered with sticky, silvery hairs.

  Anyway, after that, if the tomato is round enough and pretty enough, you hold it beside your smiling face, look up at the photographer and try not to blink while the sweat drips in your eyes.

  “Lovely, Tessa!” said the photographer. “Uh, Cameron? Wipe the dirt smudge off your nose and we’ll try it again.”

  After the photos were done, I reached for the notebook in my pocket and touched something round and smooth—James Madison’s mobile home.

  That’s when—duh—I realized something you probably figured out a mile ago.

  Tessa and I had a big problem!

  How were we supposed to interview a suspect about a bugged bug when the bugged bug could hear every one of our questions?

  “Tessa, wait!” I pulled James Madison out of my pocket and showed her.

  “Uh-oh,” said Tessa.

  Meanwhile, Ms. Major, the photographer and the news guys also caught sight of James Madison, and there was a general chorus of “Ewwwww!”

  The protesters must’ve known “Ewwwww” referred to the cockroach because they started chanting again:

  “Two, four, six, eight,

  Who ya gonna liberate?

  Cockroach! Cockroach! Yeah!”

  The slogan gave me an idea. “James Madison,” I said, “how would you like to romp in the dirt and sunshine for a few minutes? And meanwhile maybe Charlotte could bug-sit?”

  Charlotte blinked. “I’m pretty sure bug-sitting is not part of my job description.”

  Tessa flashed one of her world-famous smiles. “Pretty please?”

  Charlotte sniffed. “Oh, all right. As long as I don’t have to touch him.”

  I twisted the lid off James Madison’s box and dumped him—gently—out. Preceded by his curious antennae, he ambled off toward the basil, zucchini and bush beans.

  “Now, Mr. Amaro,” said Tessa. “If you’ll step this way? I have just a few questions.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. Amaro, Tessa and I walked to the other side of the Kitchen Garden, where James Madison couldn’t hear us. Tessa crossed her arms over her chest, getting ready to ask questions. But before she did, I wanted to say something: “We’re really sorry about our pets last night at the dinner, Mr. Amaro. They don’t mean to be bad. They just have too much energy.”

  Mr. Amaro laughed. “Are you kidding? They were awesome! I never got so much publicity for a gig in all my years as a celebrity chef.”

  “So you’re not mad?” Tessa said.

  “Not me, chickadee,” said Mr. Amaro.

  “In that case,” said Tessa, “where did you go last night when you had to leave the dinner early? Were you upstairs in our room putting James Madison back in his tank?”

  My sister does not fool around when she interviews a suspect.

  Mr. Amaro looked puzzled. “Say what?”

  I tried to help him out. “You can skip the second part if you want.”

  “Awesome,” said Mr. Amaro. “As for where I went when I left the dinner—that was to the restroom. It was, uh . . . kind of an emergency.”

  “Which restroom?” Tessa asked.

  Mr. Amaro raised his eyebrows. “You sure you want the details?”

  My little sister doesn’t like to talk about burps, let alone restrooms. She shook her head. “That’s okay. Forget I asked. And I guess you don’t have proof?”

  “Ick!” said Mr. Amaro.

  “How about a new line of questioning?” I suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Tessa. “Mr. Amaro, where were you yesterday after lunch?”

  “Why, I was in and out of the kitchen all afternoon, helping to make dinner. There’s a pile o’ witnesses if you need ’em. But what’s the deal, h
uh? Are the famous White House sleuths investigating a case? Hey”—he grinned—“and am I a suspect? How cool is that? Who is it you think I murdered?”

  “We mostly investigate stolen things,” I said.

  “And I only have one more question,” Tessa said. “What do you know about teeny tiny transmitters?”

  Mr. Amaro shrugged. “Not much anymore. I was a radio guy in the army, but that was a long time ago, and the technology has changed.” He pulled out his phone to check the time. “Will that do ya? I’ve got a meeting with the ambassador from a certain nearby nation.”

  “No kidding?” said Tessa. “His niece is our friend, Toni. We gave them their dog!”

  “Awesome!” said Mr. Amaro. “The deal is their president wants a personal chef. Could be a good gig.” He shrugged. “I like to travel.”

  Walking back around the Kitchen Garden, I was thinking Mr. Amaro was still a suspect. He hadn’t been in the kitchen every minute of the afternoon. He could’ve been lying about the restroom. And maybe he knew more about radios than he would admit.

  As for his motive, could it be something to do with a certain nearby nation? There had been political trouble there lately. And Mr. Morgan had said whoever bugged the bug might be from a foreign power.

  Mr. Amaro was about to hop up on the mini-tractor when all of a sudden he shrieked and staggered back.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  Breathing fast, Mr. Amaro pointed at the tractor seat: “Sp-sp-sp-spider!”

  Tessa said, “No lie?” and leaned in to get a better look. “Hey, guy!” she said, then scooped the tiny spider up in her palm. “Awww, he’s just little. Look.”

  Mr. Amaro shuddered and waved her away. “I can’t stand creepy crawlies.”

  “Wait a sec,” I said. “Didn’t you say eating bugs is a good idea?”

  “Only dead bugs,” he clarified. “And I know I’m a wimp, but I had a bad experience with a beetle in pre-school. Did you, uh . . . take care of that spider, Tessa?”

  Tessa held up her empty hands. “I put him in the parsley.”

  Mr. Amaro breathed a sigh of relief and climbed aboard the tractor. “Awesome. Good luck finding your thief, ladies!”