The Case of the Stinky Socks Read Free Page A

Ethan at the counter with money for an ice cream, they squeezed through the crowd.
    â€œBut enough about me,” Chip was saying to the girl. “What do
you
think of my tennis serve?”
    Milo broke in. “Sorry to bother you, but—”
    Turning to him, Chip wrinkled his nose. “Whoa! And you complain about my mousse? No offense, kid, but whatever you’ve got on, it smells like garbage.”
    Milo sighed. “I wanted to ask about those socks.”
    â€œThey smelled like garbage, too.”

    â€œThe boy you saw taking them—who was he?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Chip said. “I only saw him from the back.”
    â€œWhat was he wearing?” Jazz asked.
    Chip frowned. “A baseball cap, I think.”
    â€œWhat color?”
    â€œBlue and gold, of course. Wildcat colors.”
    Milo caught his breath. Maybe the thief really wasn’t an Eggleston Eagle!
    â€œCould 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—”
    â€œOh, I remember one more thing,” Chip interrupted. “He was wearing a jacket with writing on the back.”
    Now they were getting somewhere!
    â€œWhat 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!
    Â 

    â€œThink,” 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?
    â€œAre you sure?”
    Chip nodded. “I remember now.
Mitt.
Like a baseball mitt.”
    â€œThat seems like a strange thing to put on a jacket,” Jazz said.
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œMitt,” Jazz said as they left. “Why Mitt?”
    â€œMaybe it’s short for something,” Milo suggested. “Is there anybody on the team named Mitchell? Or Mitt-something else?”
    â€œI’ll ask Dylan.” She pulled a notebook out of her pocket. It was purple with gold stars.
    â€œWhat is
that?”
Milo said.
    Â 

    â€œMy detective notebook, of course.”
    â€œReal detectives do not write in purple notebooks, Jazz.”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œSo, the thief has to be one of those two players!”
    â€œOr 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