The Case of the Stinky Socks (6 page)

“What was he wearing?” Jazz asked.

Chip frowned. “A baseball cap, I think.”

“What color?”

“Blue and gold, of course. Wildcat colors.”

Milo caught his breath. Maybe the thief really wasn't an Eggleston Eagle!

“Could it have been Wildcat Willie?” Milo asked.

Chip said, “I think I know the difference between a baseball cap and a gigantic furry head.”

The girl snickered.

Milo said, “I didn't mean—”

“Oh, I remember one more thing,” Chip interrupted. “He was wearing a jacket with writing on the back.”

Now they were getting somewhere!

“What did it say?” Milo asked.

Chip shrugged. “I forget.” Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he checked himself out in the mirrored wall.

Milo sighed. If Chip would only stop admiring himself long enough to tell them what they needed to know!

 

“Think,” Jazz said. “Please.”

Chip thought. “Something about baseball, maybe? Something like . . .
bat.
Or
base.
No, wait, I know—it was
mitt!”

Milo and Jazz looked at each other.
Mitt?

“Are you sure?”

Chip nodded. “I remember now.
Mitt.
Like a baseball mitt.”

“That seems like a strange thing to put on a jacket,” Jazz said.

“Yeah, well, baseball players aren't exactly famous for their fashion sense.” Chip eyed his reflection again. “Now, a tennis star, on the other hand . . .”

Milo and Jazz made their escape, scooping up Ethan on their way out. He had pistachio ice cream smeared all over his face. And his T-shirt. And his hair. At least now he was sort of the color of a dinosaur.

“Mitt,” Jazz said as they left. “Why Mitt?”

“Maybe it's short for something,” Milo suggested. “Is there anybody on the team named Mitchell? Or Mitt-something else?”

“I'll ask Dylan.” She pulled a notebook out of her pocket. It was purple with gold stars.

“What is
that?”
Milo said.

 

“My detective notebook, of course.”

“Real detectives do not write in purple notebooks, Jazz.”

“Oh, yeah?” She pointed to a sticky pink spot on his shirt. “Do real detectives wear strawberry jam?”

While he scrubbed at the spot with spit, Jazz wrote in her notebook.

She tapped her pen against her teeth. “It could also be a nickname that has nothing to do with his name. Maybe it means that he wears a baseball mitt.”

“Don't all the players wear a mitt?” Milo asked.

Jazz shook her head. “Most of them wear a
glove.
Only the catcher and first baseman wear a
mitt.”

“So, the thief has to be one of those two players!”

“Or somebody nicknamed Mitt,” she reminded him.

Milo felt excitement bubble up inside him like one of Beulah's root beer floats. He was so close. Soon he'd be writing to Dash Marlowe to reveal how he'd solved his first case!

As soon as Milo's mom got home from work, he and Jazz dropped off Ethan, got their bikes, and headed over to the baseball field. Practice had just ended, and most of the team was packing up.

They found Dylan slouched on the bench. Another boy stood on the pitcher's mound, hurling fastballs to the catcher.

“You don't look too happy,” Milo said.

 

Dylan looked up. “My pitching was so bad today, Coach said he's putting in a substitute. I don't get to throw against the Eagles in tomorrow's game.”

“That's terrible!” Jazz said.

“It's all because I lost my—” Dylan sniffed the air. “My socks! You found them!”

“No,” she explained, “Milo jumped in a Dumpster. But we might have a clue about who stole your socks.”

Milo asked, “Is there someone on the team named Mitt? Or anything that starts with Mitt?”

“Mitt?” Dylan shook his head.

“Can you tell us the names of the first baseman and the catcher?” Jazz asked.

“Oscar Molina and P.J. Boyle,” he said. “Why?”

“We think one of them took your socks.”

Dylan stared at his sister. “They wouldn't do that. We're on the same team.”

“Are you sure you didn't do something to make them mad?” asked Milo.

 

“Oscar is one of my best friends,” Dylan said. “Besides, he wasn't even here yesterday. He had to go to the dentist.”

That left only one possible suspect!

Triumphantly Milo announced, “Then P.J. Boyle must have been the one who stole your socks from the boys' locker room.”

Dylan said, “But P.J. never even goes in there.”

“Why not?” Jazz asked.

Dylan called, “Hey, P.J.! Come here for a minute?”

The catcher stood up.

Jogging toward them, P.J. pulled off the heavy catcher's mask and plastic helmet, and shook out a long ponytail.

P.J. was a girl.

“Yeah?” P.J. said.

Dylan looked at Milo and Jazz. They didn't say anything. He turned to P.J. “Tell Tim he's leaning back a little too far on the windup.”

“Okay.” She started to walk away, then turned back. “I wish Coach hadn't pulled you off tomorrow's game. You're the best pitcher in the league.”

Dylan sighed. “Not without my lucky socks.”

P.J. shook her head. “You and those socks. Dylan, you don't need luck. You just need to get your head back in the game.”

Dylan didn't answer. He just sat there scuffing a cleat in the dirt.

 

Milo felt awful. He had been so sure they were about to nab the thief! If the Wildcats lost to the Eagles tomorrow, it would be all his fault.

“Maybe it was Wildcat Willie after all,” Jazz said as they left the field. “Or maybe it really was an Eagle.”

“But Chip said the thief was wearing a Wildcats baseball cap,” Milo said.

“Just because he said it doesn't mean it's true.”

“You mean Chip was lying?”

Hmm, Milo thought. Could Chip be the thief? Maybe he was jealous of Thrillin' Dylan!

Jazz shook her head. “I mean, maybe Chip just didn't see exactly what he thought he saw.”

Jazz might be right. But if they couldn't trust what Chip told them about the thief, what did they have?