Nanny X Returns by Madelyn Rosenberg Page A

nanny, and we will figure things out together.”
    I didn’t want to figure things out together. I wanted to figure things out
first
. The last case had been ours until Jake got caught and Nanny X had to give herself up to save him. Then Boris had to come and help. NAP knew all about that. Maybe that was why they gave this case to Boris and Stinky first. Maybe that was why they waited so long to call us in, leaving me to focus on math instead of stopping The Angler from slicing the thumb off of
The Great Warrior of Montauban
.
    I put my hands in my pockets to keep from biting the nails off of my own thumbs. That’s when we saw a van on Constitution Avenue with its blinkers on.
    â€œLooks like we had excellent timing,” said Boris.
    The van’s back doors were open. The driver was in front, examining a flat tire.
    â€œI can fix that,” Boris said.
    â€œWho are you? Triple A?”
    Boris reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a pen.
    Stinky, who is always willing to help people, grabbed it from him and stuck it in the tire, pressing on the cap with his thumb.
Click. Click
. It sounded sort of like our squirrel. Slowly the tire began to fill with air.
    While Stinky was working on the tire, a man from the museum came out with a pile of paperwork and two assistants.
    â€œQuite a welcoming committee,” said the driver.
    â€œFor a work by Paul Revere?” said the museum man. “It’s art and history combined. We should have fireworks.” He followed the driver to the back of the van. I followed them, too. Inside was a giant crate, which was filled with bubble wrap and packing peanuts. The crate was open, and the packing peanuts spilled across the floor of the van like snow. Inside was what I guess was a pitcher, except that the top part was chewed up, as if it had been through the garbage disposal.
    â€œHow can you pour it without a handle?” I asked. But when I looked closer, I could see where the handle
used
to be. It was missing, like the Warrior of Montauban’s thumb.
    The museum man and his assistants went pale. So did the driver.
    â€œ
Security!
” they yelled.
    â€œTwice in one day,” moaned the museum man. “I’m not going to have a job tomorrow. I’m not.”
    A security guard reached us just as Nanny X showed up with my sister and brother and Howard. I may have mentioned that my brother loves initials. So does Nanny X. The security guard used so many, it was like he was speaking another language.
    â€œI’m the ASO,” he said. He didn’t seem upset like everyone else. He seemed kind of happy. “Looks like we have a CODA. We’ll need to put out an APB for whoever damaged our AOI.” He looked at his watch. “ETA 1400. AAR, I’m calling in the FBI. It’s been one HOAD.”
    Jake translated ASO, which stood for assistant security officer, and APB, which meant all-points bulletin. The security officer told us CODA stood for Case of Damaged Art, and AOI stood for Artwork of Interest. If you ask me, he made both of those up. HOAD, apparently, stood for Heck of a Day.
    â€œAlphabet soup,” Stinky said, shaking his head. The only acronym he knew was EPA, for Environmental Protection Agency. And NAP, of course. He smiled, a slow, real smile. I wanted to smile back, but instead I got down to business.
    â€œHow can you put out an APB on a person when you don’t know what he or she looks like?” I said. The only thing Mr. Huffleberger told us about Ursula, who was our main suspect, was that she had brown hair. Do you know how many people in Washington, D.C., have brown hair?
    â€œEeeee, eeee,” said Howard, who had brown hair. So did Boris and Stinky.
    â€œI suppose we should check for prints,” the officer said. “But I’m betting we won’t find any.”
    I noticed what looked like silver sawdust on the floor of the van near the crate. I decided to keep that