Free The Case of the Piggy Bank Thief by Martha Freeman

career, I’ve never seen pink potsherds.”
    â€œPotsherds” is pronounced “pot-shards,” and Tessa wanted to know what they were. Professor Mudd explained that the word means pieces of old pottery—among the most common finds in archeology.
    â€œOnly, these potsherds don’t date from long ago,” I said. “They date from more like ten o’clock this morning! I mean, this spot was just a hole in the dirt when we were out here before church.”
    Tessa had been totally quiet, but now her detecting instincts kicked in. “Have you seen anyone suspicious out here today, Professor Mudd?” she wanted to know.
    â€œSuspicious?” he repeated. “No. Your friends Dalton and Zach came out to work this morning while you and your cousin were at church. And Mr. Golley brought a crew by to deal with the mole damage. But I must admit, I don’t understand what’s going on here. Why would anyone want to bury a smashed piggy bank?”
    I had to be careful answering. I was still trying to protect my sister, after all. “I guess whoever took it in the first place was hiding the evidence,” I said, “only he or she didn’t count on Hooligan’s superior tracking skills.”
    Hooligan always knows when he’s being praised. Now he woofed and raised his head so we could admire his profile. He would have looked pretty handsome except for the jelly bean stains on his muzzle. Where had those come from?
    Meanwhile, Tessa was asking what we were supposed to do next.
    â€œThank Professor Mudd and return the trowel,” I said. “But after that, I have no idea. I am totally confused.”
    â€œYou’re welcome,” Professor Mudd said as we headed back toward the canopy. “And as for what you need to do next, how about talking to Stephanie? I believe she has something to give you.”
    We put the trowel away in the tool cupboard and found Stephanie working in one of the trenches on the far side of the canopy. She waved—“There you are!”—and pulled a tiny box from her pocket. “This is your find from the dig yesterday, Cameron.”
    I felt a spark of excitement. Maybe it was gold, too?
    Carefully, I removed the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of cotton, was a cup-shaped, rocklike something about two inches long and an inch wide. The caked-on dirt was gone, but it was still gray and grotty-looking.
    I tried not to look disappointed. After all, Stephanie had gone to a lot of trouble to clean whatever it wasand put it in the box. “Great!” I smiled and nodded. “Seriously.”
    Stephanie giggled. “You don’t even know what it is.”
    â€œOh . . . well, no, I don’t. But it’s still great. Do
you
know what it is?”
    Stephanie nodded. “I do. It’s an oyster shell.”
    Tessa shook her head. “Can’t be. We’re not at the beach.”
    â€œIt didn’t come from the beach, at least not directly,” Stephanie said. “It came from the kitchen. Oysters were a common food in the early nineteenth century, much cheaper, compared to other things, than now. Who knows? Maybe this oyster was part of a dinner Dolley Madison served at the White House.”
    â€œCool,” I said, and this time I meant it. Dolley Madison was the First Lady when the White House burned down. She’s famous for a lot of things, like helping save the famous painting of George Washington from the flames, having a pet parrot and being good at giving parties.
    â€œWhat happens to the oyster shell now?” I asked.
    â€œSignificant relics are kept by the university for future study,” Stephanie said. “But oyster shells are pretty common in digs in this region. If you want to keep this one as a souvenir, Cameron, it’s all yours.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

    YOU might not think so, but a girl can work up a big appetite tracking a piggy bank. So our