Nanny X Returns by Madelyn Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

through the door at us. “Who did you say you were?”
    â€œInvestigators,” said Boris.
    â€œThen investigate!”
    I tied Yeti’s leash around the lamppost and Stinky and I followed Boris into Mr. Huffleberger’s office. Aside from the desk, everything was in its place. There was a lamp with a green shade and a coatrack with no coats. On the wall there was only one painting, and it wasn’t by Picasso. The picture was of a moose. In the corner it said “Huffleberger.”
    â€œYou paint?” Boris asked, as Mr. Huffleberger inspected the cat to make sure he hadn’t been injured.
    Mr. Huffleberger smiled a thin-lipped smile. “I used to,” he said. “But I learned that my true calling is words.”
    I wondered what my true calling was. I didn’t think it was math, even if I did get problem No. 7 right. Art was still a possibility. And special-agent work, as long as we didn’t mess up this case.
    Boris pulled up an antenna on the side of his iPod and used it to measure the bites on Mr. Huffleberger’s papers. He was about to measure the bite of Mr. Huffleberger’s cat, too, but Picasso let out a vampire hiss.
    â€œI’ll estimate,” Boris said.
    Mr. Huffleberger put his fingers on his neck, as if he was checking his pulse. “Who would do this to me?” he said. Something told me that a lot of people wanted to harm Mr. Huffleberger, including Ursula.
    â€œAbout those photos . . .” I said, getting back to the original subject. A good special agent has to stay on task.
    â€œIf we must,” he said. He put down the cat and opened the desk drawer to reveal a bunch of yellow folders. But under U, the only files he had were for “Umbrellas,” “University” and “Untitled.” The file for the artist named Ursula was missing.

12. Jake
Nanny X Reads Some Poetry

    Nanny X changed from her bunny slippers to her regular shoes before we went into the White House. Then she led us past the people who were waiting in line for the one o’clock tour.
    â€œMay I help you?” asked the guard.
    â€œNanny X,” said Nanny X. “We’re with NAP.” She waved her hands around to show that “we” meant me, too.
    I expected the man to send us back to the end of the line. I expected him to say “Come back later.” Instead he said, “We’ve been expecting you.” He spoke into his walkie-talkie: “It’s NAP.”
    â€œI’ll be right out,” a voice crackled back. A few minutes later someone came to meet us. She was not the president. She had short hair and wore a green dress and she walked almost as fast as Nanny X. She shined a blue light on Nanny X’s badge. Then Nanny X pulled out IDs for me and Eliza and Howard. The woman looked at Howard’s ID and thenlifted back his bonnet so she could make sure his face matched his picture.
    â€œLast week we had a visit from a sloth,” said the woman, whose name tag said Camila Lopez. “This way.” She led us away from the tourists to a private metal detector and sent us through, one by one.
Beeeeeeeeep
. The fishhooks on Nanny X’s hat set off the metal detector. Ms. Lopez put the hat on a conveyor belt with Eliza’s stroller and the diaper bag.
    â€œNAP agent or not,” she said, lifting the diaper bag and the stroller off the belt again, “these things stay here.” Nanny X got to keep her hat, though.
    Ms. Lopez opened a heavy wooden door, and we followed her into the main building. “Welcome to the White House,” she said. “The president receives an abundance of mail, all of which is sorted off-site. The letter from The Angler is still there for further inspection. But they released the statue and delivered it here this morning.”
    We walked down a long corridor, past a bunch of fancy rooms that were named after colors and dead presidents. Then Ms. Lopez