The Case of the Stinky Socks Read Free

like ski lodges and beach clubs. Not in Dumpsters.
    If Wildcat Willie didn’t flatten Ethan, Milo might do it himself.
    Then he heard a new voice say, “Dude, what’s the deal?”
    â€œI can’t take this anymore!” Wildcat Willie howled. “It’s bad enough having to wear this stupid costume without getting chomped on by some crazy little kid.”
    â€œBummer,” said the other boy.
    Wildcat Willie grumbled, “Being mascot sounded like a great way to meet cheerleaders, but all they do is pet my fur and say ‘Nice kitty.’ Then they go bouncing off to Beulah’s with some jock like Chip the Chimp or Thrillin’ Dylan.”
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    Thrillin’ Dylan!
Milo thought. He must mean Jazz’s brother.
    â€œI can’t wait for baseball season to be over. I just hope the team doesn’t make it to state finals. No way am I getting on a bus and . . .” Wildcat Willie’s voice faded as the two boys walked off.
    Hmm. Maybe the thief wasn’t an Eagle after all. Wildcat Willie didn’t sound too friendly toward Dylan—and he wanted the team to lose!
    Could he have stolen the lucky socks?
    Once he was sure the boys were gone, Milo tried to pull himself out of the Dumpster. But even on tiptoes, he couldn’t reach the top.
    Bending his knees, Milo sprang—and missed.
    He lay on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Then he heard footsteps again. Oh, no. Had Willie come back?
    A face appeared over the edge. It stared at him.
    â€œWhat are you doing in there?”
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    Milo sat up, trying to look a bit more dignified. “What are
you
doing here?”
    â€œLooking for the socks, of course.” Jazz pointed. “You have old spaghetti on your head.”
    So much for dignity. He brushed it off.
    Jazz went on, “I figured, who would want to hold on to a pair of stinky socks? Whoever took them probably tossed them into the nearest trash can.” She grinned. “But you got here first. You’re smarter than I thought!”
    Milo couldn’t think of anything to say.
    â€œSo, are they in there?” Jazz asked.
    He glanced around. “Uh, no.” Not on top, at least. And as far as he was concerned, if the socks were deep down in the garbage, they could stay there forever. Even an ace detective had to have limits.
    â€œOh, well. We’ll just have to try something else.” Jazz reached out to him. “Need a hand?”
    Somehow this didn’t seem like the best time to argue about who was working on the case. Besides, he had to admit, searching in the trash was not a bad idea. Maybe she had more ideas. Maybe some that weren’t so gross.
    Once Milo had climbed down from the Dumpster, he told Jazz what he had heard Wildcat Willie say.
    She made a face. “Something’s fishy.”

    â€œSo you suspect him, too?”
    â€œNo, I mean something
smells
fishy—like old tuna. Maybe you shouldn’t roll around in garbage anymore.” She added, “But it’s great that we have a suspect. Now, if only we could find a witness. . . .”
    Milo perked up. He’d forgotten about Chip the Champ!
    Quickly he filled Jazz in on what Chip had told him in the locker room. Her eyes widened. “We’d better go find him right away!”
    As they turned to go, a small voice piped up from beneath the Dumpster.
    â€œMilo? Can I please come out?”
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Chip wasn’t in the locker room. He wasn’t on the tennis court, either.
    Milo thought. “Wildcat Willie said something about Chip going to Beulah’s with the cheerleaders. Maybe he’s there.”
    â€œGreat!” Jazz said. “Let’s go.”
    All the teenagers hung out at Beulah’s Burger Barn. Everything about Beulah was big—her booming voice, her sky-high hair, her belly-busting chocolate shakes.
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    Milo spotted Chip sharing a booth with a redheaded girl in a tennis outfit. Leaving