The Case of the Rock 'n' Roll Dog (12 page)

“Good dog, clever dog,” I cooed.

“We'll give you all the biscuits in the box,” Tessa murmured.

I was one creep away when suddenly Hooligan thumped his paws and sprang like a jack-in-the-box onto the big four-poster bed. From there it was an easy bedspring bounce right out the door.

Tessa scrambled up and used the bed as a lookout. “Cammie—he's heading downstairs!”

Oh, no.

Downstairs were party guests, the Secret Service, Marine Band musicians, photographers and—worst of all—Aunt Jen!

We had to stop him!

We couldn't stop him.

Soon, we heard the shrieks, thumps and “
Bad dog!
” cries that told us we were too late.

Tessa and I took the stairs two at a time, but when we got to the entrance hall, Hooligan was gone and the scene was like earthquake aftermath. You gotta hand it to Hooligan. He really knows how to make an impact!

Aunt Jen did not look happy.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

She pointed toward the East Room at the exact moment Hooligan ricocheted out—with all my classmates and the Marine Band in pursuit.

It looked like a high-speed parade.

I don't know why Tessa thought of it then—or why we didn't think of it before. But just as Hooligan made a U-turn at the far end of the cross hall, she yodeled: “Hoo-hoo-hooligan—
fetch!
” which caused Hooligan to stop dead in his tracks and drop what he was carrying . . . right in front of Colonel Michaels.

Then he sat back on his haunches, thumped his tail and smiled a big doggie smile, confident he was about to be given the dog yummy he deserved.

Hooligan, I mean. Not Colonel Michaels.

I was out of breath from all that running, but managed to gasp, “Colonel Michaels, look—we got it!”

Colonel Michaels knelt to pick up the object at his feet. But it wasn't his baton at all, it was . . .

. . . Hip-Hop Barbie?

Colonel Michaels stood up again. He was wearing his dress black uniform with gold buttons, gold braid and gold medals everywhere. He was holding Hip-Hop Barbie at arm's length by the hair. I don't think he'd ever held a Barbie before. He looked confused.

Nate ran up. “Actually, I think you wanted this.” He handed Colonel Michaels his baton.

Oh, swell. In the end, would Nate the thief take credit?

No.

“All I did was pick it up, sir,” he told Colonel Michaels. “Hooligan must've had a spare Barbie down here someplace. When he grabbed her, he dropped the baton. It's Cammie and Tessa who found it. They're the ones you should thank.”

Colonel Michaels handed Tessa her Barbie and said thank you. At least, I think it was thank you. I couldn't be sure. His words were nearly drowned out by the sirens.

Oh no
—the international incident!

I grabbed the red phone from my pocket, looked around and found Granny. “Here it is!” I yelled.

Granny made a mitt of her hands, and I tossed it. Then she moved faster than I would have thought possible—handoff to Charlotte, to Malik, to Randy—who sprinted through the door.

After a few moments passed, the sirens' wail became a sigh. Seconds later, they were silent.

Coincidence?

I don't think so.

TESSA and I wanted to brag to everybody: We had solved a mystery! Stopped an international incident! Saved The Song Boys!

We found Dad. He was holding Hooligan by the collar. Hooligan's head was drooping. It takes a while, but eventually he figures out when he's in trouble.

“Guess what—” Tessa started to tell Dad, but Dad wasn't paying attention.

“I want you girls to find a safe place to corral your dog,” Dad said. “Safe and escape-proof, I mean.”

I took Hooligan's collar. “Okay,” I said, “but Dad, Tessa and I—”

“
Now,”
Dad said.

Oh,
fine
.

We took Hooligan to the only person we knew who still liked him—Mr. Bryant.

And after that, things happened fast.

First, Aunt Jen made an announcement. “Due to
changed circumstances, The Song Boys will be performing as planned.”

Then somebody—Mr. Brackbill?—shouted, “What about the refreshments?”

“After the performance,” said Aunt Jen.

Soon we were shooed into the East Room to take our seats. The Marine Band was already in place—looking snappy in their red and blue dress uniforms.

I sat down and that's when—
finally
—I started to get excited: I was going to see a concert by my favorite band in my very own house!

Jacob Song came out first—he's the oldest—and after that it was pandemonium, everybody screaming . . . then Paul Song appeared, and I screamed loudest of all.

When Matthew came on, he shouted,
“Hello-o-o-o, D.C.!”

And the audience replied, “
Hello-o-o-o, Song Boys!”

Then Jacob took the mic. “It's very exciting for three boys from a small town to play the White House—especially backed by the great musicians in the President's Own Marine Band!”

More screaming.

“And we understand that today Colonel Michaels will be keeping the beat because two young detectives found his missing baton! People, give it up for the first kids—Cameron and Tessa Parks!”

Colonel Michaels raised his baton.

More screaming.

But this time it was for Tessa and me!

I felt proud.

And a little embarrassed.

“Now when you people go on home tonight,” Jacob Song went on, “I want you all to. . . .” He paused dramatically. Paul played a chord on his guitar. Colonel Michaels brought down the baton, and The Song Boys played a song written just for the occasion: “Read a Book.”

In person, The Song Boys were as wonderful as they are in videos.

Only Matt was shorter than I thought.

And Paul had a pimple on his chin.

Besides the music, there was lots of stomping, clapping and screaming. Nate and Aunt Jen danced together. Then Granny and Mr. Brackbill. I started singing along, and Tessa said, “
Shhhhh!”
but I ignored her. Near the end, when The Song Boys played “Shake it Up!” the whole audience sang the chorus:

“When life's changin', rearrangin'

“Not to worry—shake it up!”

Finally, with the concert almost over, Colonel Michaels turned toward the audience. Mom had just sneaked in and sat down. I thought he was going to welcome the president of the United States.

That's what usually happens.

But instead, he totally shocked me.

“Madam President, Mr. Parks, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “The Song Boys have asked me to introduce a special guest. Sitting in on piano for our
last number . . . the
one
, the
only
, the
first
nephew:
Nathan Leone!”

Tessa and I looked at each other. So that's why Nate had been practicing so much! Not to mention why he'd been looking for the baton on Thursday!

Our cousin walked up to the stage, nodded to the audience, then took his seat at the piano—all without cracking a smile.

Everybody cheered—even Tessa and me.

Then Colonel Michaels raised the baton, and: “A-one, anna-two, anna one-two-three-
four. . . .”

The song was Hooligan's favorite, “Rock'n'Roll Dog.” From his time-out in the elevator, I could hear him howling along.

Poor Mr. Bryant. Like the music wasn't loud enough.

WHEN the concert was over, everybody (like my mother!!!) made a big fuss over Nate.

“What are they going to say when they find out he stole the baton?” I asked Tessa.

“Yeah,” she said. “But maybe let's not tell 'em yet—not when people are so happy.”

Even I had to admit Nate had played great. Plus once he got started, there was a big smile on his face. Not like our
so superior
cousin at all.

The Song Boys and their dad stayed for the reception. But the Marine Band packed up to go. Before he left, Colonel Michaels called me, Tessa and Nate over.

“Nice job on the piano, young man,” he told Nate. “The Marine Band always needs talent. When you're old enough, please give me a call.”

“I will, sir,” Nate said.

“And as for you, young ladies, I can't thank you
enough. This old baton is important to me, even if it isn't historic.”

Nate looked up. “It isn't?”

“Ah, that's right,” Colonel Michaels said. “The girls mentioned there was some confusion about this baton and John Philip Sousa's.” He told Nate what he'd already told us—how the real Sousa baton is kept locked up.

Nate looked horrified. “Then I made a mistake in my report! Excuse me—I've got to find Ms. Nicols. I sure hope it doesn't affect my grade.”

The reception was in the State Dining Room. There were three kinds of punch—red, sparkling and blue—and tiny sandwiches on silver trays. No pizza.

Of course my friends were all crowding around The Song Boys. I didn't want to act pushy. I stood by myself and ate a sandwich.

Finally, I saw Nate waving. “Cammie! I'd like you to meet a close personal friend of mine.”

Then Nate stepped aside, and there was Paul Song.

Even with a pimple, he was beautiful. He said hi, and I said hi, and he said what a great piano player Nate is, and I said yeah, he really is . . . and then I looked in his eyes and my knees got weak. . . .

So I looked away.

“Oh, no. Not you, too,” Paul Song said.

“Not me, too, who?” I said.

“Not you, too, all impressed because I'm Paul some-kinda-big-deal Song,” he said. “I figured since you're the president's kid, you'd understand how I'm just normal, too.”

“It's not the same thing,” I said. “You're super talented. With me, it's just who my mom is.”

Paul Song shook his head. “There's loads of people with talent, Cammie. My brothers and I got lucky. And besides, there are times when I do kind of wish I could have my real life back.”

Wait—did Paul Song really say that? Sometimes he wants his real life back, too?

“Um . . . sorry to interrupt.” Courtney appeared beside us, holding out her program. “Could you maybe sign this?”

Paul took the program. “Who should I make it out to?”

“Um . . . could you just write, ‘To my best most gorgeous friend, Courtney Lozana, all my love forever, Paul Song'?” she asked.

“That's kind of a lot,” he said, and what he actually wrote was, “To Cortney, Best—Paul Song.”

Maybe it was mean, but when I saw he misspelled
C-o-u-r-t-n-e-y
, I grinned. Wanting real life back isn't all Paul Song and I have in common. We're both bad spellers, too.