The Case of the Bug on the Run

The First Kids Mysteries

The Case of the Rock 'n' Roll Dog
The Case of the Diamond Dog Collar
The Case of the Ruby Slippers
The Case of the Piggy Bank Thief
The Case of the Missing Dinosaur Egg

MARTHA FREEMAN

Holiday House / New York

Text copyright © 2013 by Martha Freeman
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com

ISBN 978-0-8234-2996-7 (ebook)w
ISBN 978-0-8234-2997-4 (ebook)r

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-PublicationData

Freeman, Martha, 1956–
The case of the bug on the run / by Martha Freeman. — First edition.
pages cm — (First kids mystery ; #6)
Summary: When their pet cockroach disappears and then reappears wearing a tiny transmitter, seven-year-old Tessa and ten-year-old Cammie, daughters of the first female president, search for spies in the White House.
ISBN 978-0-8234-2872-4 (hardcover)
1. White House (Washington, D.C.)—Juvenile fiction.
[1. White House (Washington, D.C.)—Fiction.  2. Presidents—Family—Fiction.  3. Sisters—Fiction.  4. Cockroaches—Fiction.  5. Pets—Fiction.  6. Spies—Fiction.  7. Washington (D.C.)—Fiction.  8. Mystery and detective stories.]  I. Title.
PZ7.F87496Cak 2013

[Fic]—dc23
2013009191

For the real Mr. Dustin Brackbill, librarian at Mt. Nittany Elementary School
.

And with thanks to Linda Margusity, Kimber Hershberger and their third graders, for lending expertise and bugs
.

Cockroaches have lived on Earth for 350 million years. They survived the asteroid crash that killed the dinosaurs. They survived the freezing-cold Ice Ages. Every day, they survive about a zillion cans of bug spray.

Cockroaches are tough.

But that does not make them popular.

Listen to this:
“Ewwwww!”

That's most people's opinion about our new pet, which happens to be a giant Madagascar hissing cockroach. My sister, Tessa, and I brought him home from the National Zoo in a disk-shaped plastic box.

Not just anyone can adopt a pet from the National Zoo. Tessa and I are lucky. We are plain, ordinary American kids, but our mom is president of the United States. This gives us some unusual privileges. Besides adopting cockroaches, we get to fly on a special air force jet when we go on vacation. And we get to live in a big house with elevators and its own movie theater—the White House.

It was a Tuesday in July, one of the only weeks of the whole summer when we didn't have camp or away-from-home vacation. We were in our bedroom, which is on the second floor over the North Portico, also known as the front door. We had let our pet cockroach out of the plastic box and Tessa was holding him. Mr. Ross, who's in charge of the White House staff, was showing us and our grandmother the tank where the cockroach would live. It used to be a fish tank. One of the White House carpenters had made a lid for the top.

Granny said, “Tell me again, girls. Why is it you wanted a cockroach?”

I said, “It was Tessa's idea.”

Tessa said, “The zoo had an extra. I thought maybe they would send him to live on a farm in the country. But then the keeper said not exactly, and I got a bad, bad feeling. So what could I do?” She waved her arms the way she does. “Someone had to save him!”

My little sister is a drama queen. She is also famous for liking things no one else likes. Compared to some of her favorites—like sea slugs, naked mole rats and squids—this cockroach wasn't bad. Picture an orange-striped wide-body beetle with a black helmet, spiky black legs and two delicate, curious antennae.

Smiling, Tessa held the cockroach out to Granny and Mr. Ross. “You can hold him if you want.”

The cockroach hissed.

Tessa grinned like a proud parent. “Isn't that amazing? They're the only insect that can do that! But maybe I better put him back. You can have a turn next time.”

There was a layer of dirt, twigs and leaves at the bottom of the tank. Gently, Tessa set the bug down and replaced the lid. The bug went exploring.

At the same time, all six Ks strolled over to take a look.

The Ks are the stray kittens we found under a bush last spring. Tessa and I were supposed to give them away to good homes, but now we're hoping maybe Granny will forget.

The cockroach's tank was on the low table by the little sofa. One by one, all six kittens jumped up on the table, sat down and stared at our new pet through the glass. Their tails were swishing.

“To a critter of the feline persuasion,” said Mr. Ross, “that cockroach must look like a chewier, crunchier rodent.”

Tessa looked horrified. “They can't get in, can they?”

Mr. Ross shook his head. “No way, no how. And your bug can't get out, either. With these hooks on the lid, this tank is guaranteed escape-proof.”

Granny crossed her arms over her chest. “It better be.”

We had spent most of the morning at the zoo. Now it was time for lunch. We would be eating in the third-nicest dining room in the White House, the one on the second floor, which is where we mostly live. In the second-floor dining room, we would sit at a table for twelve set with a white cloth. The food would come from the White House kitchen downstairs. It would be served on china plates by a butler.

Don't think we always eat this way.

A lot of the time, if it's just our family, we sit at the table in our own kitchen and serve ourselves. Sometimes Granny even cooks. But that week we had a lot of houseguests:

First, there were the Veritys, who live in Beverly Hills, California—mom Kendall, dad Ruben, and daughter Lily. Lily just turned four. She looks a little like my sister—blond and cute. She thinks seven-year-old Tessa is like a goddess or something.

Besides the Verity family, there was Kirk Schott, who is an engineer and used to be in the air force with my dad. He lives in California, too.

The next guest, you've probably seen on TV: Amaro Amaro, the chef. He had just arrived that morning. In case you don't know, he's the one who's famous for making vegetables taste yummy and for wearing wraparound glasses and spangled bandannas.

The Veritys, Mr. Schott and Mr. Amaro were staying with us for a few days. The White House has 132 rooms, so there's plenty of space for sleepover guests. The last guest who joined us for lunch that day wasn't staying with us, though. She lives in Washington and goes to my school. Her name is Courtney Lozana, and she's my best friend. She likes to eat with us, especially when celebrities are visiting.

Everyone else at lunch was family: Tessa and Granny, and my aunt Jen and her son, Nate, who is ten and knows everything. Finally, there's me! I'm Cameron Parks, Cammie for short. I am ten years old like Nate, but I don't know everything.

“Totally awesome to be here!” Mr. Amaro looked around at the crystal chandelier, the oil paintings, and the flower arrangements on the table and sideboard. He had just arrived at the White House that morning. “What's for chow?”

“Chicken salad, I believe,” said Aunt Jen. “And it's awesome to meet you as well.”

After introductions, we all sat down. “Mr. Amaro is
speaking tonight at a dinner for school nutritionists,” Aunt Jen explained. “The idea is to encourage healthy eating.”

Mr. Amaro slapped his knee. “School nutritionists, my foot—they're lunch ladies, is what they are!”

All of us kids giggled.

Aunt Jen smiled politely, then turned to Mr. Schott. “And how are your meetings going, Kirk?”

“Very well, thank you for asking,” said Mr. Schott. My parents say Mr. Schott is nice, but to me he always seems serious and a little stuck-up. Today he was wearing a suit, while everyone else had on casual summer clothes.

“Now, say again, Kirk, what it is you're doing. I can't quite get my brain around it,” said Mr. Verity.

“I'm afraid the details are—
ahem
—top secret,” said Mr. Schott, “but it has to do with miniaturized drone technology. I am something of an authority.”

Nate said, “A drone is a little airplane that flies without a pilot—in case anybody was wondering.”

“Why do airplanes want to do that?” Tessa asked.

Mr. Schott explained, “Well, for example, search-and-rescue teams can send them flying—
ahem
—over cliffs and boulders to find lost persons.”

“Also, drones can spy on the enemy!” said Nate.

Mr. Schott frowned.

Courtney looked up. “Seriously? My dad might be interested in that.”

Courtney's dad is Alan Lozana. He used to be a TV reporter, and now he has a blog about politics.

“Drones—
ahem
—are not really news, if I may say so,” Mr. Schott told Courtney. “They have been operational for many years now.”

Courtney said, “Then never mind,” and went back to pushing lettuce leaves around her plate.

Granny turned to Mr. Verity. “And what about you, Ruben? Are you having your accustomed business success?”

Mr. Verity flashed his very white teeth. “I'm afraid that's TBD—to be determined. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know, and neither was
Playground Smackdown
.”

Mr. Verity is a reality-TV show producer.
Playground Smackdown
is one of his big hits. He knows my mom because a long time ago, he helped her with TV stuff on one of her political campaigns.

“I think there's kind of a TV show going on in Tessa's and my room,” I said. Then I explained how the kittens were fascinated by our new pet.

Courtney stopped eating. “Your new pet's a bug? That's disgusting!”

Tessa scowled. “Well, maybe my bug thinks
we're
disgusting. Did you ever think of that?”

Lily echoed, “Skusting!”

Granny raised her eyebrows. “Tessa?”

Tessa shrugged. “Just sayin'.”

Mr. Verity shook his head. “You people are too
much! But seriously.” He tapped his jaw with his finger. “I'm loving this idea of reality TV for pets. So very LB—low-budget! Plus we've got ready-made theme music—
‘La Cucaracha.'
That means ‘cockroach,' doesn't it? Hey, Max? Look that up, will you?”

Mr. Verity's phone was next to his plate on the table. Now it blinked, and the face of Max, Mr. Verity's assistant in California, appeared on the screen. “Sure thing, boss.”

My grandmother turned to Mr. Schott. “I seem to remember you do research on bugs as well.”

Mr. Schott nodded. “Indeed. We study their brains, eyes, ears and skeletons to use as models for robotic structures. I'm—
ahem
—something of an authority on that, too.”

Mr. Amaro chimed in. “I have an interest in bugs myself. Did you know people around the world eat grubs, mealworms and crickets?”

Everyone stopped chewing for a moment. I swallowed hard. Then, from Mr. Verity's phone, Max spoke up: “Ick.”

Mr. Amaro grinned. “Bugs are cheap and full of protein. Besides which, raising them is easier on the planet than raising chickens and cows. Say you grind up bugs and add them to school lunches—zowie! The nutrition value skyrockets! I have mentioned my idea to President Parks.”

Courtney looked up from her lettuce leaves. “Wait—what? You mean President Parks wants American schoolchildren to eat ground-up bugs?”

Uh-oh. Sometimes it's a problem when Courtney tells
her dad stuff and he puts it in his blog. Now Granny and Aunt Jen both started to explain that my mom for sure does not want American schoolchildren eating bugs.

But they never had the chance.

Because all of a sudden, a superstorm blew in.

It was a fur tornado that came out of nowhere, and it was followed by a fast-slithering snake that shot across the rug, under the table and around the legs of Courtney's chair, where it tangled and caught and yanked and then—before you could say “barbecued cricket”—Courtney tipped over onto Cousin Nate, who tipped over onto Mrs. Verity, who tipped over onto Granny . . .