I So Don't Do Mysteries Page 11

  I can always spot a budding romance. Just a little talent I have. With the incredible height difference, they make a sweet, odd couple. He says something about “two-step.” How cute. They’re planning a country-western dancing date. So much more appropriate than rhino ogling.

  With gnarled, swollen fingers, he reaches into his pants pocket and slowly draws out a rolled-up Ziploc bag. He holds it in the palm of his hand while Tall Lavender Lady unrolls it.

  “So, this is Keflit,” she says. “Arthur, it’s beautiful.”

  Keflit? Never heard of it. I inch up to them.

  Yowser. Turquoise + sea green crystals. The exact same shade as my bedroom walls. Keflit would be perfect in my aquarium. And Tall Lavender Lady is right: Keflit is beautiful. Like royal jewels, the crystals glitter and gleam and dance in the sunlight.

  “Love that Keflit,” I say, joining them. “I have to have some for my aquarium.” I reach out to touch the plastic bag. “Where’d you get it?”

  Their jaws hit the ground.

  Obviously they aren’t used to Arizona friendliness.

  “Junie,” I call, “come see this. It’s too cool.”

  “Vera, Vera.” With shaking hands, Arthur shoves the bag toward her.

  She slots it into the outside pocket of her purse. “It’s not for an aquarium.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I decorate with a lot of stuff that isn’t specifically for aquariums. I’m very creative.”

  “It’s for planting,” Arthur says.

  Gary and Junie arrive.

  “Junie, you’ve got to see these crystals. Finally, something for my aquarium that totally matches my walls.”

  Tall Lavender Lady doesn’t pull the Keflit out for Junie to see.

  “So, you’re into fish?” Gary takes my elbow. “I used to be too.” With his other hand, he takes Junie’s elbow and leads us away. We pass Kendra, at the fence trying to schmooze with the old people. A lost cause, if you ask me. We pass Grandpa too. Asleep in a tree, his head tucked under a tattered wing, he’s got a little snore going.

  “What fish do you have?” Gary asks, all attentive.

  “Tell him about Cindy and Prince,” Junie says. By association with me, she’s an aquarium aficionada too.

  I’m diving into the habits of my bala sharks when Gary’s cell chirps.

  “I must get this.” He takes a few steps before flipping open his phone. He probably wants some privacy, but I’m so tuned in to his yummy accent and his soothing voice that I can’t turn off my listening. Plus, I’m worried it might be Sue saying she’s on her way, because then I’ll have to scurry out of here on my one functioning foot.

  “I’m not available to talk at the moment.” Gary rubs his forehead.

  There’s a pause, then he says, irritated, “No, I speak English.” He disconnects.

  Walking toward us, he’s still frowning from his phone conversation. Then, like he’s going on stage, Gary turns on a perfect smile. That never reaches his eyes.

  The ride back is all about Amber.

  Despite the fact that I’m grimy, exhausted and coffee stained, she convinces me to go to the Hotel Del’s outdoor pool with her. Why? To watch her try on the new outfits she just bought. Why? She wants to make sure she doesn’t clash with the pool area. Why? She’s an extra in a scene that’s getting shot there.

  Yes, it’s ridiculous. All I can say is, Amber’s very persuasive. Junie got sucked in too.

  When we get to the Del, Amber skips up the carpeted stairs to the rooms, right past the REGISTERED GUESTS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT sign. She’s borrowing a pool key from a guy she met on the set.

  Junie and me slump in chairs in the lobby. Amber’s many bags slump beside us. The hugest chandelier in history glitters above, showering us with glints of silver light.

  “Got any games on your phone?” Junie asks.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “My phone’s broken.”

  “It’s probably out of charge.”

  “No, it fell.” Really far.

  “Try popping out the battery,” Junie says, “then putting it back in.”

  Okay. That just sounds lame. But I’m desperate.

  It works! When I snap the battery back in and push On, the screen lights up. I’ve got power. I’ve got messages. I’ve got phone.

  “Junie, you’re amazing.”

  She smiles.

  The first message is from my great-aunt Margaret. “Sherry, just checking on you. I want to treat you and your friends to a pizza picnic on the beach Friday. Call me.”

  The next message is from my dad. He’s checking on me too. He already talked to Sam, who’s doing fine at Grandma Baldwin’s house. Oh yeah, and The Ruler bought a few Hawaiian shirts for me and Sam. Probably with hideous, scary flowers that scream fashion disaster. Next she’ll be buying matching muumuus for me and her. Help.

  The last message is from Josh. My heart hammers like one of the Park’s exotic birds I saw beak-attacking a tree trunk.

  “Hey, Sherry. I guess we got cut off. Anyway, I’m coming out Tuesday, as in tomorrow. Not Thursday. Can’t wait to see you.”

  I sigh with happiness.

  “What is it?” Junie asks.

  “Josh’s coming to San Diego early. Tomorrow instead of Thursday.”

  Her mouth is round like a Cheerio. No words come out.

  It’s like I’m a Lava lamp and those colored blobs that float all over are blobs of love bumping around inside me, lighting me up.

  I could happily stay in my Lava-lamp world till Josh arrives, replaying his message, zoning out over his freckles and deep blue eyes and sagging jeans.

  But Amber skips back down the stairs. With the pool key.

  She skips through the lobby and outside. Junie and me tramp behind her, carrying her bags. Actually, Junie tramps. Despite my blisters, there’s a bouncy spring to my step because I have Josh on the brain.

  While Amber’s off changing in the poolside cabana, Junie and me get comfortable on the chaise longues. It’s both cool and weird to be lying by a pool with palm trees from the beach waving in the ocean breeze and the sound of the ocean crashing in the background. It’s like being in two places at the same time. Very exotic.

  A couple of girls are tanning a few chairs away, flopped onto their stomachs and baking.

  A family with a baby digs in a diaper bag for a special swim diaper and waterproof sunscreen. They seem pretty unaware of our existence.

  “Isn’t this hot, girls?” Amber prances back and forth in front of us wearing a thin pink T-shirt and ultrashort, low-rise pink shorts. She’s accessorized with pink sandals, huge pink hoop earrings and enough pink bracelets to cover her arm from her wrist to her elbow.

  “So, what do ya think?” Amber asks.

  Junie shrugs.

  “Looks, uh, pink,” I say.

  “Duh.” Amber clinks the bracelets. “It’s for the party I’m throwing at your aunt’s.”

  “What?” I shriek. “No way you’re having a party! No way, José! You can just lose that ridiculous idea!”

  The tanning girls and the family tune in to us.

  “Too late.” Amber curls her thumbs through the shorts belt loops and juts out her chest. “I already told everybody it’s on Friday.”

  “What?” I shriek again.

  “You’re going to a beach party on Friday,” Junie says calmly.

  “I am?” Amber’s eyes sparkle. “I love double-party days.”

  “You should move your party to the beach,” Junie says.

  “Great idea,” Amber says. “I love big parties.”

  I hope my aunt does too.

  The tanning girls and the family go back to ignoring us.

  “Wait’ll you see what’s next.” Amber bounces off and returns in a camouflage bikini.

  A bikini that doesn’t camouflage much of anything, if you get my drift. Still, she does look good. And she definitely knows how to swing her hips.

  “So, what do ya think?” Amber
asks.

  Junie shrugs.

  “Looks fine,” I say. Anything not involving a party at my aunt’s condo looks fine to me.

  Next, Amber models a short black-and-gray-striped jersey dress with spaghetti straps. Then comes a baby-doll shirt with tight plaid capris. Then a halter dress with lace and large sunflowers.

  By the fifth ensemble, Junie falls asleep. I’m kinda nodding off myself.

  Amber shakes Junie’s shoulders. Violently. “Give me feedback! Like, ‘This outfit looks better worn by the towel rack instead of by the shallow end.’ Or ‘Those colors clash with your skin.’ Or ‘You need a spray-on tan.’ ” She glares at us. “This is my career. My future.”

  “Amber, you’re from Arizona,” Junie says. “Remember? The Grand Canyon State?”

  “Yeah,” I chime in, “since when did you go all Southern Cal with Hollywood fever?”

  And then the strangest thing happens. Amber leans in close. So close I can see every perfect pore on her perfect face. On minty breath, she whispers, “I have insider info. About the movie.”

  Shaking my head, I drag my blistered feet up the steps to the Whaley House.

  Who knew Amber would willingly give me a ride? Who knew Armber would ever give me mystery information? I’m still in shock. Sure, it was by accident. She doesn’t know I’m investigating Damon. But still. What irony. And . . . who knew I’d ever use a term from English class in real life?

  Anyway, according to a stagehand guy Amber met, Damon’s expecting a bunch of money to come through soon for his movie. When that happens, it’ll be the green light for him to hire more people. And some of them will actually get to say a line. Amber’s hoping to be upgraded from an extra to an extra with a speaking part.

  Will Damon’s funding arrive in the form of a rhino horn?

  At the door, a man in a top hat and an old-fashioned suit interrupts my thoughts. He says, all low and spooky, “Welcome to the Whaley House, the most haunted house in the United States, according to the Travel Channel.”

  I don’t need this atmosphere stuff. My stomach is already fluttering like I’m carbonated. I am so not comfortable entering a haunted zone. I am so not comfortable facing a heart-to-heart with my mom.

  The man holds out a white-gloved hand. “Ticket, please.”

  Ticket? “Uh, I’m just meeting my, uh, mom.”

  “There are currently no human visitors in the house.”

  “Oh, uh, I guess I got here early,” I say.

  He points at the small building next door. “Tickets are available at the museum.”

  I limp over, take care of business, then limp back.

  The instant he’s got my ticket, the docent starts feeding me facts about the olden days, all in the same creepy voice as before. “This brick house was constructed in 1856 by Thomas Whaley, who originally came to California for the gold rush.” He brushes imaginary flecks off his lapel.

  I take advantage of the break in his monologue. “I really just want to go in and look around.”

  He pushes round gold-rimmed glasses, probably fake, up his nose. “My talk is part of the tour. I’m sure you want to hear about our ghostly residents.”

  Why do I have to get the enthusiastic docent?

  “There’s Yankee Jim Robinson, one of the men who was hanged on the exact spot where the house is,” he says. “Thomas Whaley himself, dressed in a frock coat like the one I’m wearing. Then there’s . . .”

  I hum under my breath, just loud enough to tune out all the scary spirit babble.

  “And you never know, young lady, who you’ll meet today.” The docent opens his eyes wide so that the whites are huge and freaky.

  Ack. He’s jinxing me.

  He tips his hat. “Take your time. I’m going to run across the street for a bite, but I’ll be available for questions when you’re done.”

  I turn to watch as he heads down the steps, then waits at the curb for a break in traffic. I take a long last look at the sights and sounds of normal civilization. People are strolling along the narrow sidewalk, passing displays of postcards and Mexican blankets. An employee sweeps dirt off the stoop in front of an Indian jewelry store. The door to a soap store swings open, and a girl exits, chewing on a churro.

  I take a deep breath and a small step. I cross the threshold.

  It’s completely quiet, the air heavy and still. Then the smell of coffee swirls around my head.

  “Mom?”

  “This is a nice surprise,” Mom says.

  “Yeah, well, I figured we should talk.”

  “Let’s go upstairs where it’s more private,” she says. “It won’t be long before the next batch of tourists arrive.”

  I follow the scent of coffee past the parlor, with its small chairs and organ, to narrow stairs with a smooth, polished banister.

  At the top, there’s a tiny theater. About forty wooden chairs face the stage and a painted backdrop of a lake and some grass. A black-and-white poster advertises a play about Yankee Jim Robinson.

  A door with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign creaks open, and I’m blown inside.

  In the semidarkness, I bump against a small table and a dresser. I find a rocking chair and flop into it. Now the coffee mingles with a musty, closed-up smell. Squinting, I see I’m in a teeny room that I’m guessing was the prop room.

  Mom’s voice comes from above the dresser. “Do you know where your grandfather is?”

  “I left him napping at the Wild Animal Park.” I squirm around, trying to get comfortable in the hard chair.

  “It was a long trip for him.” She pauses. “Look, about your phone—”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt. “Not even broken.”

  “Sherry, we need to work as a team.”

  “I know, Mom. I know.”

  There’s a short, awkward silence, then it’s gone, like we both shrugged it off and moved on. ’Cause we love each other. ’Cause we’re in this together. ’Cause we can’t afford to be mad at each other. But it still kinda bugs me that we didn’t really talk about it.

  “So,” Mom says, “what did you discover at the Park?”

  Trying not to leave out any details, I fill her in on Thomas and Damon and everything I’ve been up to since morphing into a Fearless Rhino Warrior. I feel like I’m in a squad room or something. Like a real professional going over clues with a colleague.

  “Sooo . . . ,” Mom says slowly.

  And I can just imagine her twirling her hair around her index finger.

  “I understand Damon needs money,” she says, “but there are much simpler ways than selling rhino horns on the black market.”

  “That’s true for your average dude. But because of Kendra, Damon knows tons about rhinos.”

  “And depending on what Rob is willing to do, he may end up with a story and jail time.” She pauses. “I wonder if he’s like us. He knows something’s going down with the rhinos, and he’s following the leads in the hopes of scoring a scoop.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” I rub the back of my knee.

  “Then again, the perp could be someone completely different, someone we don’t know about.”

  “True.” I scratch my thighs.

  “That chair is made of real horsehair,” Mom says. “Maybe you’re allergic.”

  I hop up. The last thing I need is another rash.

  “Let’s keep an eye on them both. I agree with you about Thomas being an animal lover, not a potential rhino killer.” Then Mom asks, “What about the old people? They sound odd.”

  “They’re past odd.” And I tell her about them hooking up on the Internet and all having arthritis. “They hang out at the Park, drooling over the rhinos. And they’re a really tight group. Like, reminding each other when to take medicine.”

  “So you think they’re odd but harmless?”

  “Exactly. Plus, they’re rude.” I put my hands on my hips. “And unfriendly.”

  I’m about to tell her about the Keflit and the new color on my bedroom walls, when I give mys
elf a mental slap. I will not babble. I will stay focused and on task. Like a real, professional detective.

  Mom says, “Sherry, now let me tell you what I’ve found out.”

  When my mom says she’s been investigating too, I can totally tell by her voice she’s already deep into Intense Mode.

  My heart sinks. I absolutely hate it when she’s in Intense Mode. We’ve been having such a nice, getting-along, figuring-things-out-together detective conversation. But now she’ll go all-out crazy intense. And the more intense she goes, the more nonintense I go. After years of practice, it’s cemented into our relationship. Once, in third grade, to counteract my mom’s intenseness over multiplication facts, I completely shut down and got zeros on my timed tests for weeks.

  Anyway, I bet she’s sitting across from me, leaning forward with her elbows jammed into her thighs and her chin cupped by her palms. Her eyes are probably narrow like a lizard’s and fanatically focused on me.

  “I interviewed all the ghosts at the Whaley House.” Her vowels are shortened and snapped off, like she can’t spit them out fast enough.

  “Interviewed”? More like “interrogated.” “And?”

  “Several talked about a famous French chef. He’s living, not a ghost. Chef L’Oeuf. Prepares an annual dinner. Very top secret. Very exotic. New location every year. Last March was lion in London. Leaked to the press after the fact. By someone’s nanny.” Mom’s sentences are short and reportlike. “Chef L’Oeuf has a dedicated following. Eccentric rich people. From all over the globe.”

  “So?”

  “The chef’s current location? San Diego. More precisely—Coronado Island.”

  “So?”

  “Rhino meat. Is it on this year’s menu?”

  My Fearless Rhino Warrior instincts kick in. “That’s illegal!”

  “Correct. But immaterial to the chef. He believes his hush-hush meal operation is above the law. It always has been. His guest list includes some high-ranking officials. Like royalty and presidents of countries.”

  I shake my head to out the image of one of my rhino buddies shish kebabbed between a mushroom and a pineapple. No, no, no. That can’t happen. “What do we do?”