Tessa would’ve said, “What’s RF technology?” but I didn’t want to sound dumb.
Luckily, Mr. Morgan explained. “RF stands for radio frequency. In this case, it means putting a tiny, chip-sized transmitter into an object so it can be followed by the positioning systems on satellites.”
Dr. Zapato went on, “Taking care not to detract from its historic value, we have ‘chipped’ each slipper. As a result, when they left the museum on Thursday with the imposter—the man now in police custody—we were able to monitor their progress on handheld receiving devices.”
Mr. Webb held up a gadget slightly bigger than a cell phone. It was silver with a green and black screen that showed a grid pattern.
“When the slippers are transmitting,” Dr. Zapato continued, “their location shows up as red flashing dots. We were able to track the slippers to the White House and eventually to Mrs. Silver’s safe. But then, at one twenty-two Friday morning, the flashing dots disappeared. Apparently, something went wrong with the transmitters.”
“Do you think that’s when the slippers were stolen from the safe?” Charlotte asked.
“Very possibly,” said Dr. Zapato, “but there’s no way to know for sure.”
“Could whoever have stolen them remove the chips from the slippers?” I asked.
Dr. Zapato shook his head. “First of all, the existence of the chips was a closely guarded secret. Secondly, they’re implanted in the leather and cannot be removed without causing severe damage.”
I stopped writing and shook out my hand. Something was bugging me. Last night Mom had asked Mr. Will if it was okay to tell Tessa and me about the man in the black suit being an imposter. So that meant my mom must’ve known all about how Mr. Will was working for the museum, right?
“Dr. Zapato,” I said, “what does my mom have to do with all this anyway?”
“I was getting to that,” Dr. Zapato said. “It seems thieves typically find objects in transit easier to steal, so Mr. Will suggested we flush out the would-be thief by lending the slippers to the White House for a party. Your parents, Cammie, graciously agreed to help. We then leaked the information to the media, hoping that the thief would see an opportunity.”
Well, that was a relief. No matter what Mr. Lozana said, my mom didn’t think she was a queen.
“And the plan worked,” Charlotte said. “The man in the black suit tried to steal the slippers.”
“Did the thief—the man in the black suit—confess to the police?” I asked.
“No,” said Dr. Zapato. “He claims it’s all a misunderstanding, and because there’s no evidence he actually stole anything, the police may have to let him go. There is, however, one ray of hope. As long as the chip’s battery remains charged, our tech people may be able to use remote telemetry to amplify the signals to a level at which it can be sensed by a receiver in close proximity.”
Since Nate wasn’t there, I had to translate the grownup talk myself. “So,” I said slowly, “you’re saying that if the slippers are still in the White House, and if the tech guys can strengthen the signals, then a receiver in the White House might be able to read the signals and find the slippers?”
“I see you deserve your reputation as a detective, young lady,” said Dr. Zapato. “You’ve caught on quickly.”
“But how long does the battery charge last?” Charlotte asked.
“Between thirty-six and forty hours,” said Dr. Zapato.
I looked at the clock on the wall. “If the signal faded around one yesterday morning, then it’s been like thirty-four hours already,” I said. “There isn’t much time.”
“No, there’s not,” said Dr. Zapato. “Will you help us?”
Duh didn’t seem like a polite answer. So I said yes instead. “But what exactly is it you want my sister and me to do?”
Mr. Webb handed me the silver receiver gadget. “Find the slippers,” said Dr. Zapato, “before the chips’ charges die.”
On our way back through the corridors of the museum, I gave the receiver to Charlotte. It would attract attention if I was carrying it, but Charlotte already had a bunch of stuff clipped to her belt.
“If our techie guys get it to work, it will buzz,” Mr. Morgan explained. “Then take a look, and you should see the flashing red lights that represent the ruby slippers.”
“Does it have a zoom or something?” Charlotte asked.
“If you turn the dial,” said Mr. Morgan, “you’ll see it’s capable of locating the chips within a few feet.”
When we climbed back into the van, Malik asked, “What took you so long?”
“Oh, you know how guys are.” Charlotte winked at me. “Yak-yak-yak. I think Cammie filled up about half her notebook. And now she’s gonna be late for her date, too.”
Date?
Oh my gosh!
I totally forgot!
The dashboard clock said 10:59, and Paul Song was supposed to be in the White House East Room at eleven.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Back home, I took the stairs two at a time to my bedroom, then, my heart pounding, I stopped to look in the mirror at my plain old self. Put on a hairclip maybe? Or my favorite T-shirt with the stripes?
But I could already hear the Marine Band rehearsing. “Get real, Cammie,” I said to my reflection. Then I smeared on lip gloss and headed down the grand staircase to the East Room.
At the bottom of the stairs I ran into my new best friend, Mrs. Hedges.
I mean, I really ran into her.
She had been mopping the pink-and-white marble. I smiled and started to say hello, but in my hurry I stumbled over ankle-high, fast-moving Ozzabelle, who must have escaped from Mr. Will’s room again.
I tried to break my fall by putting out my arm and grabbing the nearest thing, but the nearest thing was Mrs. Hedges’s water pail, a poor choice because I fell flat anyway, knocking over Mrs. Hedges and the pail and splashing a fountain’s worth of dirty water on both of us as well as Ozzabelle, who thought a dirty-water shower was a wonderful game and proceeded to spin and shake in soggy doggy circles while also wagging her tail.
“Ouch,” I said to the floor, and Mrs. Hedges said something I’d rather not repeat. Then another voice, a really, really sweet voice, said, “Are you guys all right? Let me help you.”
I answered without moving. “Hi, Paul. Thanks. But if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna stay here.” I mean, I was not only covered in dirty water, I could also feel my lip beginning to swell. No way was I letting Paul Song get a good look at me like this.
“Yeah? Well, that’s weird, Cammie,” he said. “I mean, it can’t be very comfortable down there.”
“I’d be happy for some help, young man,” said Mrs. Hedges, who was on the floor beside me.
Paul extended his hand, but Mrs. Hedges is not what you’d call dainty, and Paul is not what you’d call huge. Trying to support her, he slipped on the wet floor, and—ow!—sat down hard beside us.
Oh, my gosh! Had America’s best boy singer just cracked his tail bone? And was it my fault?
I scrambled to my knees. “Are you okay?”
In person, Paul Song looks just as good as he does in pictures and on video, with big brown eyes, floppy hair, and a supercute face. Right now there were tears on that supercute face, and he couldn’t speak.
He was too busy laughing.
“Uh . . . , hi, excuse me? Cammie, what are you doing down there?” said a familiar voice.
“Courtney?” I looked around.
“Yeah, uh . . . hi. I’m here early. Oh!” She saw my face. “Ick, Cammie! What did you do to your lip? And—gross—you’re all dirty!”
Courtney, of course, looked perfectly put together. Her lip gloss even matched her hair ribbon.
What I wanted to say was, “Remind me again why you’re my best friend?” but what I actually said was, “I’m fine.” Then, “Paul, you remember Courtney? You signed an autograph for her last time you were here?”
“Sure. Nice to see you.�
� He was still getting over his laughing fit.
“Uh, Miss Parks? Mr. Song? If anybody cares, I’m still down here on the floor, and I’m pretty sure some of my bones are sprained,” said Mrs. Hedges.
By now everyone, meaning Paul Song, had seen how cute I look with a fat lip, so, carefully, I stood and helped Mrs. Hedges to her feet. Then Mr. Ross came out of his office and took charge. Soon Mrs. Hedges had gone to the staff room to recover, and a couple of other housekeepers were finishing the floor.
“Now, where did that little dog get to?” Mr. Ross asked. We looked around and saw Ozzabelle worn out and collapsed under a chair. By her head was something blue that looked like a rag. Had she brought me another present? I walked over, and she snatched it like she wanted to play.
“Hold still, puppy.” I scooped her up and took the blue thing. What I’d thought was a rag turned out to be one of those rubber gloves like dentists wear. I had seen one of those recently—but where was it again? And where did Ozzabelle find this one?
“Lunch is ready.” Granny must have come from the presidential elevator, which opens into a space behind a door in the cross hall.
Without thinking, I shoved the glove in my pants pocket.
“Courtney, we’ve set a place for you,” Granny went on. “And Paul, we’d be delighted if you could take a break from your rehearsing. I’m afraid it’s nothing special. We’ll be eating upstairs. Here, Cammie.” She traded me Ozzabelle for an ice pack. “For your lip. And perhaps you’d better change your clothes?”
If you’re wondering why Granny was ready with an ice pack for my lip, it’s because word travels fast in the White House—especially when it comes to me, Tessa and Nate. There are Secret Service agents and officers everywhere, and they all have radios.
Going upstairs, Courtney explained that she was here early because her dad had asked her to do an errand for him. When she called to ask, she talked to Granny, and Granny invited her to lunch.
“What errand for your dad?” I asked.
“He wants me to pick up a package for him from some friend who just got a job in the West Wing. Like I think she’s a photographer maybe? I’m supposed to pick it up after lunch. I’ve got her number in my phone.”
Naturally, Courtney has a phone. So does Paul Song, I happen to know. Pretty much, as far as I can tell, Nate and I are the only kids in America who don’t.
While everyone else went in to eat, I went to wash my face and hands and change clothes. I decided my capri pants weren’t that dirty, so I just put on a new T-shirt. Fixing my hair in the mirror, I saw that my now frozen lower lip had turned a lovely shade of purple.
Lunch was shrimp salad. And by the time I walked in, everyone else had started eating.
“That was fast,” Courtney said. She was sitting in my place, which just happened to be next to Paul Song. Since Tessa was on his other side, I went over and sat by Mr. Will.
“How did your meeting go this morning?” he asked quietly.
“I learned a lot,” I said.
He bumped his glasses up on his nose. “I’m sorry I couldn’t explain earlier. But it was agreed the plan required confidentiality.”
From across the table, my sister spoke up. “What are you guys whispering about? What happened at the museum, Cammie? Have you solved the case without me? Ewww—and Cammie, no offense, but that lavender lip gloss is not working for you.”
Courtney giggled, and I frowned. Paul Song said, “Are you solving another case?”
One thing I’ve learned about detecting, you don’t want to blab the details everywhere. If you do, you might tell somebody who tells somebody who tells the bad guy.
Tessa knows this, too, but when she gets dramatic she forgets. Now she gave a long explanation with a lot of arm waving. When she got to the part about how the ruby slippers were still missing, Paul Song gasped. “Do you have any idea what they’re worth? I have a bowtie worn by a Munchkin, and even that’s worth a lot!”
Nate looked at Paul Song. “You collect stuff from old movies?”
“Only from The Wizard of Oz,” Paul said. “That’s one reason why when Mr. Will invited me I said I’d absolutely be here. It’s my favorite movie, and I really wanted to see the ruby slippers close up.”
“It’s my favorite movie, too,” said Courtney. “I guess we have a lot in common.”
Meanwhile, Nate was looking at me. “He collects stuff from movies.”
“I get it, Nate,” I said.
Tessa’s mouth dropped open. “Wait, you guys. You mean—”
“Tessa!” Nate and I said at the same time.
Meanwhile, Paul Song looked confused, and things might have gotten even more awkward except my mom chose that moment to make a special guest appearance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Now, no one get up,” Mom said, but Mr. Will and Paul Song were already on their feet. “I’ve only got a minute. The ambassador from a certain nearby nation is waiting, but I did want to say hello to Paul. We’re so glad you can join us today. Oh—and Courtney, how nice. Please do give my best to your family.”
“Hi, Mama,” said Tessa. “Wanna hear about ballet? Miss Caroline said I wasn’t such a klutz this week, and—”
Mom leaned down and gave Tessa a kiss and a snuggle, which muffled her monologue long enough for Granny to say, “Take a break and have some lunch, Marilee. You have to eat.”
“I’ll just grab a couple of carrot sticks,” she said. “And see you all at the party!”
All this time, my brain had been buzzing. Paul Song got upset when he heard the ruby slippers were missing. Could that be because he was planning to buy them from the thief? But Paul Song is my friend. . . .
And anyway, it’s more likely he’s just a plain old Wizard of Oz fan, not a crazy person who wants the most famous pair of shoes in the world for himself.
Right?
On the other hand, Paul Song is one of not-that-many people who are rich enough to buy the ruby slippers. I mean, rock stars make a lot of money.
Also, he was one of Mr. Will’s last-minute additions to the guest list.
But wait—the guest list thing didn’t matter anymore, did it? Because now I knew Mr. Will wasn’t the thief. He was working for the museum.
I squinched my eyes shut and shook my head. My poor brain was aching! Maybe food would help. Mixed with enough mayonnaise, shrimp is okay. I took a big bite for strength but had barely swallowed when a noise in the hall made Granny arch her eyebrows.
“Uh-oh,” Tessa said.
Sure enough, it was the unmistakable sound of galloping doggy toenails, and a second later, Ozzabelle whooshed into the room and skittered under the table then—bing! bing! bing!—ricocheted among our feet. Something was in her mouth, as usual. This something was white and purple, but that’s all I saw because right behind Ozzabelle came Hooligan, and right behind Hooligan came Mr. Ng, who is in charge of Hooligan on weekends.
“Hooligan! Bad dog!” cried Mr. Ng, which is not true at all. Hooligan just has too much energy and sometimes he gets mixed up. Like now he wasn’t understanding that he’s a size XXL while Ozzy’s more of a size small-petite. I mean all Hooligan wanted was to romp under the table with his friend. Is that so bad?
But—crash!—he slammed into the table edge, and—crash!—Mr. Ng slammed into him, and—crash! splash!—a plate of shrimp salad and a pitcher of milk dropped to the floor.
Naturally, it was my shrimp salad.
By now everybody except Granny was on their feet trying to avoid spillage and breakage. Ozzabelle, meanwhile, had squirted out and escaped through the doorway to the kitchen. Without breaking stride, Hooligan snarfed up the salad then followed her, with Mr. Ng right behind.
So seconds after it started, the excitement was over, and the room was silent, and—except for flipped-over chairs and scattered food and my lunch being gone—you’d never have known anything bad happened.
Like I said, word travels fast in the White House, so right away a housekeeper
appeared to tidy up the mess. Meanwhile, we all bent down to pick up our napkins.
Only what I picked up wasn’t a napkin. At first I didn’t know what it was, and I held it up to see, and. . .
. . . oh my gosh. . .
It was a pair of boxer shorts!
White boxer shorts with purple palm trees.
Icky-y-y!
I balled them up and tossed them, hoping no one else had seen, but good luck with that, Cammie. Everyone had totally seen! And of course they were busting up laughing, even Granny.
The ball o’ boxers dropped into the lap of Mr. Will, who looked as surprised and horrified as me. “I don’t want ’em!” he cried, and lobbed them back.
“But they’re yours!” I threw them again—a little harder this time—but Mr. Will blocked my shot, and the balled-up boxers caromed onto Courtney’s plate.
“Ewww!” She tried to shoot them back to our side of the table, but her aim was bad, and Nate ended up with them, then Tessa, then Paul Song, and pretty soon we were playing hot potato at the lunch table with a pair of Hawaiian-print boxer shorts.
I only hoped they were clean.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Granny at last and, in one graceful motion, she plucked them out of the air and handed them off to a housekeeper—who, holding them at arm’s length, took them away.
Mr. Will sniffed. “I never saw that underwear in my life.”
I started to argue: “But when Mrs. Hedges and I were in your room—” Then Granny gave me one of her looks, and I stopped.
Paul Song was grinning. “Wow—is lunch in the White House always this much fun? I was afraid I’d have to be polite and talk about current events.”
Courtney, suddenly the expert on lunch at the White House, turned to answer him. I think she might even have batted her eyelashes. Meanwhile, Nate said, “Tessa? There’s something we need to discuss. Come on.”
Tessa didn’t move. “Huh?”
Oh yeah! Before everything got hectic, Tessa had been about to tell Paul Song we thought he was the one planning to buy a pair of stolen ruby slippers.
The Case of the Ruby Slippers Page 6
