The Case of the Bug on the Run by Martha Freeman

knew I might be wrong, and I didn’t want to disappoint her again.
    I didn’t say anything to Nate, either. With him, if you’re wrong, you will hear about it for the rest of your life.
    So many people were going on our field trip that we had to take two vans on the mile-and-a-half drive. The Secret Service says it’s a lot easier to keep us safe onthe road than on the sidewalk, not to mention that we attract less attention.
    Likewise, it’s easier to keep us safe if we go places before they get crowded. That’s why our vans pulled up to the bus zone behind the Lincoln Memorial at eight o’clock—a time in summer when sensible kids are still in bed.
    Have you ever noticed that some ideas won’t let you sleep? My idea about the identity of the spy was one of those. That’s why I was yawning. And that’s why—when I saw what I saw out the window—my first thought was that I had to be dreaming.
    Then Tessa saw it, too. “What are they doing here, Cammie?”
    It was the BLF! There were about a dozen people carrying signs, banging tambourines and chanting:
    â€œI-N-S! E-C-T!
    Every insect should be free!”
    For a few minutes, we waited in the van on the street behind the memorial while Secret Service agents checked to make sure the area was safe. Then our driver got the all-clear, stepped out, came around and opened the door. One by one, we piled out of the air-conditioning and into the warm, sticky sunshine.
    â€œI wonder how the BLF even knew we’d be here today,” Nate said.
    Tessa smacked her forehead. “I’ve got it! They’rethe ones that have been listening to us! It’s the Bug Liberation Front that bugged James Madison!”
    Mr. Verity was standing beside us, adjusting the strap on his fanny pack. “Hey—Lily said something about a spy yesterday, right? So is that what she was talking about?”
    I didn’t know what to say, but Tessa never has that problem. “The First Kids have been investigating another mystery, Mr. Verity,” she explained. “Someone was spying on us. Yesterday we ran out of suspects, but over there are twelve perfectly good new ones. Now that our brains are rested, we should interview them, Cammie.”
    â€œUh . . . possibly, dear sister,” I said, trying to sound as normal as possible. “But not till after our tour of the Lincoln Memorial.”
    â€œI think,” said Granny, “that the BLF is here because the press is here. They have an amazing instinct for publicity.”
    Hooligan had been in his carrier in the back. Being a dog, he wouldn’t be allowed on the tour. Instead, he was going for a walk with Mr. Bryant. We all hoped he would behave himself and no one would recognize him as anything more than a slightly funny-looking, too-energetic mutt.
    â€œYou know,” Nate pointed out, “technically James Madison isn’t a person, either. So he shouldn’t be allowed on the tour.”
    â€œWait—you’ve got the bug with you?” Mr. Verity asked.
    â€œHe’s in his mobile home in the zipper pouch of my Barbie backpack,” said Tessa.
    â€œI don’t think the Park Service will mind,” Granny said, “provided he stays where he is.”
    Mr. Verity tapped his jaw with his finger. “You people,” he said, “are too much!”
    â€œToo much!” said Lily.
    â€œExcuse me? Good morning!” A Park Service ranger waved to get our attention. “If you’re all here, I’d like to get started.”
    The Lincoln Memorial is a big, old-fashioned temple made in a shape the Greeks used long ago, with plenty of white marble pillars around the outside. In the middle is a twenty-foot-tall statue of President Abraham Lincoln sitting on a chair that’s more like a throne, if you ask me. On the walls are carved the words of two famous speeches he made. One of them is the Gettysburg