Free The Case of the Ruby Slippers by Martha Freeman Page B

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.
    â€œUh-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.
    â€œHooligan! 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 understandingthat 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.
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œ
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.
    â€œOh, 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