“That’s because you move them right before they get here!” Cell Phone rubs his forehead and says, “Look. Please. I’m trying to sell this house, and it just won’t move with your cars parked out front.”
Oil Man sneers and says, “Sorry, buddy. That’s your problem, not mine,” then walks away.
You can tell from the way Cell Phone’s hands are turning into fists that he’d like to make it his problem, but he just marches back up to his own house and slams the door.
I start walking again, and I’m about a block from the police station when something starts rattling around in my brain. At first it’s kind of quiet—just a little rumble. But before you know it, it’s like a gorilla up there, shaking a cage. And when the cage busts open, I quit walking to the police station and cut over to the mall to find a phone booth.
I flip through the realty section of the yellow pages, trying to remember the name on the sign. I know it’s Sunrise or Sunshine … Sun-something, so I keep on looking until I find it: Sunset Realty.
When a woman answers the phone, I pinch my nose and say, “There’s a house on Orange Street? Six twenty-nine East Orange? Can you tell me a little about it?”
I listen to her it’s-a-darling-three-bedroom-starter-home-with-the-feel-of-real-country-living spiel, and when she comes up for air I ask, “Has it been on the market long?”
What does she say? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I slap the phone and say, “Hello? Are you still there?”
“Um, yes. I’m sorry. What was that?”
“Has it been on the market long?”
“A little while, yes, but the price I quoted you is ten thousand under the fair market price. The seller is definitely motivated. Would you like to arrange a walkthrough?”
The last thing I want is a tour of Mr. Chainsaw’s house, so I pinch my nose again and say, “Let me discuss this with my husband first.” Then while she’s trying to get my name and number I say, “Would you mind telling me something about the neighbor first?”
“The neighbor?”
“You know—the one with the bushes?”
She just sighs. “I don’t know what the situation is over there. Look. It’s a darling house. I’m sure you’d fall in love with it if you’d just take a walk-through. I could meet you over there in half an hour if you’d like …”
I tell her I’ll have to get back to her, and hang up the phone. Then I head back across the street to the police station. And as I’m crossing over the police station driveway, a squad car comes bouncing up and practically runs me down.
I’m about to say, “Hey! Watch it!” when I realize that it’s Officer Borsch behind the wheel—acting like he doesn’t see me.
I wave my arm back and forth, but he’s still looking right through me. Finally he starts to maneuver the car around me, but I move over a few steps and block his way again.
Muscles is sitting next to him, and he motions me to move aside. I hold up the paper sack and call, “I’ve got something to show you!”
Officer Borsch whips off his sunglasses, throws them on the dash, and hollers, “I told you to stay out of it!” because he knows I’m not there to show him my groceries.
“But I’ve got some evidence!”
Officer Borsch tries to rub away a headache while Muscles squeezes himself out of the passenger seat and says, “Let’s talk inside the station.”
Muscles escorts me in, and when Officer Borsch joins us a minute later, he takes me straight down the hall and practically throws me into an interrogation room. And while he’s hiking up his pants and straightening out his gun belt he says, “Sit down,” like he’s spitting tobacco.
I sit all right, but I roll my eyes at Muscles and whisper, “That breath needs Lysol.”
Muscles tries to keep a straight face, but you can tell—he’s thought the same thing himself. More than once. And in the split second he gives me a smile, Officer Borsch is all over him. “What was that?”
Muscles says, “Nothing, sir. She just … she just …” and you can tell from the way his jaw muscles are popping around that he’s about to shoot himself in the foot.
I jump in. “Look, I walked here from clear across town. All I want’s a drink of water. What’s the big deal?”
Officer Borsch stares at his partner with those squinty little eyes of his. Then he throws his head a fraction of an inch to one side and Muscles runs off to get me some water.
At first Officer Borsch walks back and forth like a caged lion. Then he leans against the table on his fingertips and says, “Do you know what I’ve been through because of you? Do you have any idea?”
I look down, because the last time I got tangled up in one of Officer Borsch’s cases, he got into some pretty serious trouble. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’ve been on the force twenty-six years. Twenty-six years! And after that business over at the Heavenly Hotel, Jacobson tried to force me into an early retirement. When I refused, he stuck me in this lousy rotation with that … that …,” and he’s dying to say moron, but he just can’t do it. If there’s one person Officer Borsch hates more than his new partner, it’s me.
I was starting to get a little nervous. Being in a room with Officer Borsch sizzling and spraying at you is like being in a microwave with a sausage—it’s just a matter of time before things get real messy. So I was relieved when Muscles came back carrying cups of water. He had three of them: one in each hand and one in his mouth. He hands one to Officer Borsch and says, “So, where are we?”
Officer Borsch looks up at this fluorescent light that’s flickering away, takes a deep breath, and says, “What evidence do you have for us?”
So I take the toaster out of the sack and put it on the table. And the minute I did, I knew I should’ve told him the whole story first and then brought out the toaster, because right away Officer Borsch wags his head and says, “Well, looky here. She’s found us the smokin’ toaster!”
Now I felt like packing up my appliance and going home, but I didn’t. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “If you’d please just listen …”
Muscles says, “Go on, Sammy. Tell us your story.”
So I told them about going to the Thrift Store and how I’d noticed the candlesticks and found out from CeCe that they’d been left with the toaster in the donation box.
Muscles is looking pretty interested, but all Officer Borsch says is, “So where are the candlesticks?”
I told him about going over to Chauncy’s and how he was so happy to get them back.
“And the toaster?”
“It’s not his.”
Officer Borsch says, “So his wallet’s been recovered, and he’s got his candlesticks back. I guess all his property has been recovered”—like, Okay, case closed.
I say kind of quietly, “This toaster is connected somehow to the Skeleton Man. I don’t know how, but since this is starting to look like more than just a robbery, somebody should look into it.”
Muscles says, “What do you mean, more than a robbery?”
“I think that maybe the Skeleton Man was trying to kill Chauncy.”
Officer Borsch rolls his eyes, throws his hands up in the air, and mutters, “Why me?”
I almost left. But Muscles put a hand up and said, “It’s been a long day, Sammy. Tell us why you think this, but try to stick to the point, okay?”
So I tell them about my suffocation theory and about Chauncy’s brother and the inheritance and how Douglas didn’t know his brother had had a tracheotomy. And the whole time I’m talking I’m thinking that when Chauncy finds out what I’ve done, he’s going to want to kill me.
When I’m finished, I look over at Muscles and he’s busy pushing back his cuticles, nodding away like Wow, this is making a lot of sense.
So I say, “There’s someone else you might want to investigate.”
Muscles says, “And who is that?”
“Chauncy’s neighbor. Did you know he has his house up for sale?”
/> Officer Borsch snickers, “Can’t blame him for that. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
So I tell them about Mr. Chainsaw and how Chauncy had said he wasn’t too fond of his “sanctuary.” Then I tell them about my call to Sunset Realty and how I was sure that the house had been for sale for a long, long time.
They both just stand there for a minute, then Muscles says, “Does his neighbor know about the operation?”
“I don’t know.”
Officer Borsch says, “So we’ve got a brother stiffed out of an inheritance and a neighbor who can’t sell a house. Is that it?”
I shrug. “It’s a place to start.”
He shifts around a bit and says, “We’ll look into it.”
Right.
But there’s not much else I can do. So I hand the toaster to Muscles and whisper, “Don’t let him throw it away.”
When I got back to the Senior Highrise, I went up the back way, as usual, and I peeked down the hall for Mrs. Graybill, as usual. But for once her apartment door was closed.
So I hurried down the hall, and I would’ve just popped right into Grams’ apartment, only as I’m putting the key in the lock I hear something I can’t believe. I tiptoe over to Mrs. Graybill’s door and put my ear against it. And there it is: music.
I stand there listening to the sound of violins and cellos floating out of Mrs. Graybill’s apartment and I wonder, What is going on? I mean, hearing music through Daisy Graybill’s door is like watching your cat eat broccoli—it’s just not something you expect to happen.
I wanted to knock on the door, just to see if it was really Mrs. Graybill inside, but instead I turned around and went into my own apartment. I closed the door tight and called, “Grams! I’m home!”
Grams calls back from the kitchen, “In here!” and when I round the corner she holds up a finger and says into the phone, “Okay, then. I’ll see you tonight. Bye-bye.”
When she hangs up I say, “Wow, Grams, got a hot date?”
That makes her blush. “Watch your tongue, young lady.” She adjusts her glasses and looks at me like she’s checking the ingredients of a box of cereal. “Mr. Graham has invited us both over for dinner, so don’t you get any strange ideas.”
Well it did seem a little strange to me, but to tell you the truth I didn’t spend much time thinking about it. I had other things on my mind. Like the Borsch-man and the Bush Man.
And exactly what I should stuff into my backpack, so that after dinner I could get to work nailing Heather Acosta with her own lie.
TWELVE
You’d think that with the monitor under her bed and all, it would have been easy to catch Heather in the Lie, but it wasn’t. First of all I had to get a tape recorder. Grams didn’t have one, and I didn’t really want to borrow Marissa’s. It’s about the size of an ice chest and has detachable speakers—not exactly made for covert operations.
Besides, Marissa couldn’t even go. Her mom was making her and Mikey go out to the Landmark for dinner so she could show off to some new clients how her kids knew which one of the fourteen forks to use when. I can see taking Marissa, but Mikey? He’ll be shooting peas across the room and tripping the guy with the dessert tray before anyone’s salted their filet mignon.
Dot couldn’t go, either, so I didn’t even bother to ask her about a tape recorder. I asked Hudson.
The trouble with asking Hudson was that I had to do it in front of Grams. And even though she understood about Heather, I really didn’t think Grams would let me do what I was planning to do.
Sure enough, she asked, “What do you need with a tape recorder?”
I kind of smiled at her and said, “It’s for a research project, Grams.” It sounded good to me.
She didn’t buy it. “Research? For what?”
“For school, Grams. I need it for school.”
I could tell the next question was going to be, For what class? but Hudson came to my rescue. “You bet I have one. What kind do you need?”
“It doesn’t really matter. Anything that works.”
He takes me into his study and starts pulling recorders out of a drawer. “I’ve got micro, standard, reel-to-reel …”—and before you know it, his desk is covered with tape recorders and cords and little microphones. He stops and looks at me. “You, ah, probably don’t want to be encumbered by a power cord, am I right?”
My mouth gives me away with a little smile.
“Perhaps size is an issue?”
“It can’t be too big.”
He nods like he knows exactly what I’m going to be doing with his tape recorder, and as I watch him I get the feeling that Hudson has all these recording devices not so he can listen to music or seminars, but because he’s spent a lot of time spying on people.
And I’m about to ask him if that is why he has so many recorders, but a little corner of my brain is telling me that if I ask him, he’ll turn right around and ask me. So, when he hands me a tape recorder that’s not much bigger than a bar of soap and says, “This one should do the trick,” I take it and say, “It’s perfect!”
He digs through another drawer until he finds a tape, then says, “You’ll be needing some fresh batteries, too. Let me see what I’ve got.” He disappears and comes back a minute later with two AA cells and then assembles the recorder for me. He hands it over with a twinkle in his eye. “The perfect research implement. And now, how about a piece of pecan pie?”
I ate my pie in two seconds flat. And while Grams and Hudson are chatting and nibbling on theirs, I’m playing with the recorder, getting used to pushing the right buttons without looking. The last thing I want is to be in the dark pushing the wrong buttons when Heather’s in the middle of pretending to be me.
After dessert Hudson says, “You know, it’s a beautiful night out. Why don’t we all go for a walk?”
I say, “I can’t. I’ve got to get going on my research, but you go ahead.”
Grams gives me a worried look. “But—”
I say, “Don’t worry, Grams. I’ll be fine. I’ll just see you back at home later, okay?”
“You still haven’t told me what this research is for, Samantha.”
“For school, Grams!”
Hudson interrupts Grams before her next question even starts. “Sammy seems like a very responsible young lady to me. I think we should let her do her research, and I think you should join me in an evening constitutional. It always does me good, and I’d sure enjoy the company.”
Grams studies us for a second, then nods and says, “Well, at least you’re doing homework. I was beginning to wonder if they weren’t assigning any, or if you just weren’t doing it.”
It was true. I hadn’t spent any time doing homework in days. But I couldn’t exactly go home and crack the books now. I had real work to do! So I just said, “See you soon,” gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and hurried out the door.
It was a nice night out. It was clear, and the moon was like a little white saucer up there, trying to scoop up stars. I kept looking up at it as I walked, and it almost felt like I had company on my way to Heather’s house.
The minute I got to the row of oleander bushes by Heather’s fence, I took a quick look around, then dived right in.
If Grams had seen me do this, she would’ve had a fit. Not just because I was hiding in someone else’s bushes, but because the bushes I was hiding in were poisonous. Not poisonous like poison oak or something; poisonous like wild mushrooms, where if you eat them, you’ll be more than sorry.
I wasn’t planning to snack on oleander, though, so it didn’t bother me a bit. I just looked around for signs of anyone else nearby, and when I was sure I was alone, I scooted along the fence until I was behind a bush near Heather’s window.
I pulled the monitor out of the backpack and turned it on. I played with the volume a bit, then took out the tape recorder and tested it a couple of times just to make sure it was working right. Then I huddled up and waited.
And waited
and waited and waited. And let me tell you, in no time I’m cold. And after about an hour I’m shivering, my teeth are chattering, and inside my green shoes my toes are turning blue. And I’m starting to think that maybe the monitor isn’t working right or that maybe I’m out of range, because all I can hear is some soft static.
Then the phone rings. And I mean rings. I jump and bang my head on a branch, and as fast as I can I turn the monitor way down. After about the seventh ring, the light comes on in Heather’s room and I hear her say, “Hello? … Hello?” but I guess whoever called got tired of waiting because Heather slams down the phone, and then her room goes dark again.
I should’ve gone home right then, but I didn’t. I sat there, getting colder and colder until I couldn’t stand it anymore. When I finally decided to give up, I strapped on my backpack and started running. I ran all the way home, and by the time I was letting myself into the apartment, I was almost warm.
I was expecting to get scolded for being late, but when I checked Grams’ room she wasn’t even home yet. I brushed my teeth and shook the leaves out of my hair, and just as I was snuggling up on the couch, Grams comes in the door.
I mumble “hi” like I’ve been asleep for hours.
She whispers, “Go back to sleep, dear. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” Then she disappears into her room.
The next day, all I could think about was stupid Heather Acosta and how if I didn’t catch her making a phone call I’d be the poor-little-girl-with-the-crush-on-Jared-Salcido until I died. And I guess I wasn’t looking too happy, because around lunchtime Grams says, “You look bored to tears, Samantha. Don’t you have a paper to write for school or something?”
“A paper?”
“You said you were doing research …?”
“Oh, that. Yeah. Um, it’s kind of a big project. I’m going to try to get together with Marissa and Dot tonight to finish it up.”
I could tell Grams was going to ask me some more questions about my research paper, so I jumped up and said, “Hey, I told Mr. Bell that I’d check back about your book. I think I’ll go see if it’s in.”