I So Don't Do Famous Read online

  Cackle. Cackle.

  David’s voice blasts over the walkie-talkie. “What happened to this painting?”

  “Sherry,” Stef responds.

  “Sherry!” David yells through the walkie-talkie. “Where’s Sherry? Get me Sherry! I’m coming in!”

  “He’s coming in?” Lorraine grabs Stef’s hand. They back away from the door.

  “He never risks coming in a house,” Stef says. “Too serious for him if he gets caught. He’s an adult.”

  “I told you he’d go ballistic,” Lorraine says, swallowing.

  They keep backing up. All the way to the top of the stairs, where they sit. “You’re on your own for this one, Sherry,” Stef says.

  The walkie-talkie cackling is loud now, just on the other side of the door.

  I’m shaking like I’ve got a huge fever.

  The doorknob turns.

  The door cracks open.

  chapter

  thirty-five

  Suddenly, a strong smell of coffee, burnt sugar and root beer storms by me. Mom! Mrs. Howard! Leah!

  The door slams shut.

  “Sherry!” David rattles the doorknob. “Open up!”

  “He’ll never get past us,” Mom says.

  Lorraine gasps. “It’s almost like a force field won’t let him in.”

  “You watch too much TV,” Stef says. “We probably locked it by mistake.”

  I smile to myself. It’s a force field of three ghosts.

  A siren wails. Louder and louder. Then stops.

  Outside the door, I hear Detective Garcia. She reads David his rights. “Cuff him and take him to the car, Detective Bowen,” she says.

  Detective Garcia steps into the house. Her hair is pulled tightly back in a ponytail. No wispy, flyaway hairs today. With steely eyes, she stares at each of us.

  “The detective’s treating you like one of the gang to protect you,” Mom says. “She doesn’t want the others to know you’re the mole.”

  “Just play along, Sherry,” Mrs. Howard says.

  Officer Mullins enters. Not even the slightest recognition crosses his face when he glances at me. Everyone in L.A.’s an actor.

  Detective Garcia unlocks handcuffs from her belt. “How old are you girls?”

  “Just fifteen.” Lorraine’s eyes are on the cuffs, and her lower lip quivers.

  The detective glares at Stef.

  “I’m fifteen too,” she says in a small voice. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  The detective ignores her and snaps cuffs on Lorraine. Officer Mullins cuffs Stef.

  “Because they’re minors, we have to transport them back to the station in a separate vehicle from the male suspect, right?” Officer Mullins says.

  “Correct,” Detective Garcia says.

  Tears spill from Lorraine’s and Stef’s eyes. “My dad’s going to kill me,” Lorraine says in a strangled voice.

  Detective Garcia turns to me. “You look familiar. Have I apprehended you before?”

  “Uh, no.” I gulp.

  “Good job staying in character,” Leah says.

  “What’s your name?” she barks.

  “Sherry Baldwin.” I stare at the floor.

  “As in ‘Sherlock Baldwin’?” The detective steps toward me. “Aka Sticky Fingers Baldwin, Arizona’s infamous tween thief?”

  I nod, weakly.

  “Sherry, you are so a natural actress,” Leah says.

  “She is good,” Mom says proudly.

  “This better get the proper spin on the World Wide Web for the Dead,” Mrs. Howard says.

  Mullins wrenches my arms behind my back and cuffs me.

  Detective Garcia pulls her cell off her thick black belt. “I’m telling Bowen to take the male suspect to the station. He can use one of the squad cars we brought here, get the paperwork done, then transport the suspect to jail.” She starts punching numbers into her phone. “You take Sticky Fingers to the station in the remaining squad car. Run her through the computer and find out what she’s wanted for in Arizona.” The detective stops stabbing the number pad. “And, Mullins, Sticky Fingers may look young and naive, but she’s dirty. She’s really bad news.”

  “What’re you gonna do, Detective?” Officer Mullins asks.

  “I’ll call for another unit. Then I’ll transport these two”—the detective jerks her head at Stef and Lorraine—“to the station, write up my report and escort them over to juvenile hall.”

  Lorraine and Stef start crying.

  “Plus, I want the van impounded.” Garcia ignores the girls and presses the cell to her ear, waiting for Bowen to pick up.

  “Come with me,” Mullins says roughly, yanking my arm. He leads me to a police car parked out of view. I can smell the ghosts trailing along with us.

  “I’m so proud of you, Sherry,” Mom says. “Although we need to talk about the danger you put yourself in.”

  “Meeting poolside back at the hotel,” Mrs. Howard says.

  “Including me?” Leah asks.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Howard answers. “Sherry, we’ll see you at the hotel.” The aromas of coffee, cinnamon buns and root beer gloss waft away.

  Officer Mullins and I reach the car. Dad’s sitting in the front. Junie’s in the back. The officer unlocks my cuffs and hands me my cell phone. He shakes my hand. “Great job, Sherry. It’s an honor working with you. Detective Garcia wanted to pass along that you have a bright future in law enforcement ahead of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, Sherry,” he adds, “we’ve already been in touch with Sarah Sutherland. The paintings were heavily insured.”

  “Yay!” I say.

  My dad steps out of the car and sweeps me up in a tight hug. “Sherry, I’m relieved you’re okay. But you took an incredible risk getting involved in all this. I can’t believe you got in that van.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He releases me, and I slide in next to Junie. We high-five.

  While we’re riding back to the hotel, I get some of the gaps filled in.

  “Okay,” I say. “I have a million questions. For starters, how’d you figure out where the heist was?”

  “Well, when you never called or showed at Kira Cornish’s, Detective Garcia knew something was wrong,” Junie says. “She contacted me, but I couldn’t tell her anything because I hadn’t heard from you.”

  “David took my cell,” I say.

  “Sam phoned me after talking to you,” Dad says. “He was worried because you were so callous about your fish. At first, I thought maybe it was all tied in with your day of depression, but then Junie spilled the beans about the investigation.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I figured you wouldn’t let me go undercover.”

  He nods, but I can tell he’s still not thrilled about that part.

  “Detective Garcia wanted to let you in on the sting, but I wouldn’t let her,” I say.

  “We’ll talk about this later.” Dad’s expression is solemn.

  “How did Detective Garcia figure out we were robbing Sarah Sutherland’s?” I ask.

  “After your last visit to her office, the detective compiled a list of all the Raccoonites, with a subset of those who are Hollywood success stories,” Junie explains. “Then it was a question of checking out the few on her list who hadn’t been burglarized yet.”

  “Smart,” I say.

  Back at the hotel, Officer Mullins pumps my hand again.

  “I think room service is in order,” Dad says. “After a day like today.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll meet you guys upstairs. I need a little time to myself,” I say. “I have a meeting by the pool with Mrs. Howard, Mom and Leah,” I whisper to Junie.

  The lobby is already filling with people for tonight’s Marilyn Monroe look-alike contest. Many are in costume. I pick my way through the people, then take the outside walkway to the pool area. A nervous feeling gnaws at my stomach. It comes from crossing Mrs. Howard.

  From the smell of it, the three ghosts are
already at a back corner table when I arrive. Mrs. Howard is a big blurry ball by the open umbrella. I pull out a chair.

  “Way to save the day,” Mom whispers in my ear.

  I nod.

  The pool area isn’t crowded, but it isn’t empty either. I hold my cell to my ear, pretending I’m engaged in conversation with a live person.

  “Sherry, you’ve done it again,” Mrs. Howard says.

  I nod, not exactly sure if this is good or bad.

  “You’re already making headlines on the World Wide Web for the Dead,” she says.

  “Oh yeah,” I say, still noncommittal. Is she mad? Proud? She’s the moodiest, most impossible-to-read ghost around.

  “Leah’s mentioned too,” Mrs. Howard says.

  “Really? I am?” Leah squeals. “Does it say anything about how great a help I was on the case? Does it talk about the movie I was in before I died? Am I getting famous?”

  “There’s nothing but good about you, Leah.” Mrs. Howard oozes cinnamon and sugar.

  “How did you know I was at Sarah Sutherland’s?” I ask. “And that I needed help?”

  “That would be me.” No doubt Leah is raising a hand. The scent of root beer strengthens as she settles near me. “When I saw Junie all alone in the lobby, I guessed something was wrong.”

  “So you hung around Junie and eavesdropped on her phone calls with Detective Garcia?” I say.

  “Basically,” Leah says. “Like a stakeout in the lobby.”

  “Good thinking, Leah,” I say.

  “Leah hunted me down when she realized you were in trouble,” Mom says.

  “Sherry, honey,” Mrs. Howard drawls, “everyone at the Academy is very proud of you.”

  Phew.

  “Can I tell her, Mrs. Howard? Can I tell her?” I bet Leah’s bouncing up and down like a kid at a birthday party.

  “Certainly, dear,” Mrs. Howard says.

  “I applied for a position with the Academy of Spirits,” Leah says proudly. “As your partner.”

  “Very cool,” I say. And I mean it.

  “Leah’s coming back to Phoenix with us,” Mrs. Howard says. “But I’m taking her over to see her family first.”

  “Could I have a word with you, Mrs. Howard?” I ask.

  chapter

  thirty-six

  It’s nine o’clock and time for the Marilyn Monroe look-alike contest.

  Dad, Junie and I head downstairs. Junie and I are wearing Marilyn Monroe T-shirts that we bought across the street at a souvenir store.

  The elevator doors open to the sound of Marilyn Monroe belting out “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” The Blossom Ballroom is filled with Marilyn look-alikes. There’s a sea of blond wigs. The most popular outfits copy the short white halter dress from The Seven Year Itch movie and the long rhinestone-covered evening gown Marilyn wore when she sang “Happy Birthday” to President Kennedy.

  Dad wanders around the periphery of the room, texting photos back to The Ruler.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Mom swoops in beside me.

  “Totally,” I say. “Where are Mrs. Howard and Leah?”

  “Somewhere around here, working on crossing thresholds,” Mom says.

  “What’s the deal with them?” I ask. “Why is Mrs. Howard so crazy about her?”

  “I’m not sure, but Mrs. Howard has a very long and complicated past,” Mom says. “I think Leah reminds her a little of herself at a certain age.”

  “Well, while I think Leah will be fun to work with, you’ll always be my first choice.”

  “Sherry, you are so sweet.” She touches my cheek. “It’ll all pan out. And, at this point, I’m still on loan to the foreign Academy.”

  “Sherry!” Dad’s waving his phone at me. “Phone call!” He starts wending his way through a pack of Marilyn Monroes.

  “And thank you for setting up Real Time through Mrs. Howard for your father and me,” Mom says.

  “When are you going to do it?” I ask, all excited.

  “Now,” Mom says.

  “Really?” I suck in a breath.

  Dad presses his phone into my palm. “Paula has amazing news.”

  “Hello, Paula,” I say.

  “Here’s Sam,” she says. “He wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  I follow my dad, who goes into 25 Degrees and sits in a booth, his face to me. I stand at the door, watching.

  “Sherry?” Sam says.

  “Just a sec, Sam,” I say.

  The waiter brings Dad water. He points to something on the menu, and the waiter leaves. Dad raises the glass to his lips, then sets it down, smiling across the table, like he sees someone there. His clasped hands, relaxed shoulders and lips turned up in a content grin all tell me Real Time has begun. Dad won’t remember it, but he’ll carry the good feelings from it forever.

  I turn away. It’s private. “What’s going on, Sam?”

  “I didn’t hurt your fish. I didn’t do anything to your fish.” His voice squeaks with excitement. “No one did.”

  “Are they acting normal today?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Sam says. “Not at all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Cindy laid eggs!” Sam shouts. “All over the bottom of the aquarium.”

  A proud parental feeling flows through me. Cindy laid eggs. We have a fry. Bala sharks almost never, ever lay eggs in captivity. But my fish are so happy and healthy and in love. They just couldn’t help themselves. It all goes back to my essay. When you’re in love, everything in your life falls into line. Pimples clear up. Math homework makes sense. Your room stays clean.

  Junie and I mill around. At ten o’clock, the hotel staff wheel a dolly into the middle of the Blossom Ballroom. On the dolly sits a squat mirror, the kind you find on a bathroom counter. The mirror is framed by ornate silver curlicues.

  The smell of coffee breezes around me. “Sherry,” my mother says, “Mrs. Howard left an artichoke under the table with the guest book. I don’t want to carry it because it’ll look like it’s floating through the air.”

  I tell Junie, and we skip over to get it.

  We crowd around the mirror, along with many Marilyn Monroes and my dad. I balance the artichoke so that it’s leaning on the frame.

  I sniff. “No Mrs. Howard or Leah.”

  “I don’t know where they are,” my mother says. “I’m worried they’ll miss Marilyn’s appearance.”

  “Hi, Sherry,” says a voice at my shoulder. “I thought I might find you here.”

  “Hi, Mark!”

  “Any sign of her yet?” he asks.

  I shake my head, staring intently at the mirror, willing Marilyn’s ghost to appear.

  “Want to hang out tomorrow?” he asks. “It’s my last day.”

  “Definitely. I just have to check with my dad.”

  “And your mother,” my mom says in my ear.

  “Sure thing,” I say under my breath.

  “Hi, Mark,” Junie says.

  The hotel dims the lights until the entire focus of the room is on the little mirror. All goes silent.

  The smell of cinnamon rolls hovers above me. Mrs. Howard has arrived.

  I sniff. The room is filled with a lot of different smells. French fries, lavender, flowers. A host of ghosts have arrived to greet Marilyn.

  The scent of root beer rolls in next to me. “That’s not the mirror I saw her in,” Leah says. “The right one must still be in the basement.”

  “Downstairs, ghosts,” Mrs. Howard commands.

  “Did you hear that, Sherry?” my mom whispers.

  “Got it,” I say quickly. I scoop up the artichoke.

  “Junie”—I tug on her elbow—“can I talk with you?”

  She nods.

  “Later, gator,” I say to Mark.

  He smiles.

  When we reach the outskirts of the crowd, I say, “Junie, they brought up the wrong mirror. The right one’s still in the basement.”

  We barrel down. A dust
y cloth is lifted from a plain full-length mirror. I place the artichoke next to it.

  The mirror goes dark and cloudy, like a storm is brewing in it. Suddenly, it clears. Marilyn gazes out, her eyes large. “Hello, everyone.” Her voice is high and breathy. “I thought there’d be more fans here, on the anniversary of my death.”

  “There are loads more in the Blossom Ballroom, a bunch of them dressed like you,” I say. “Would you like us to carry you upstairs?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Thank you.”

  “But first could you talk with my mother?” I ask.

  The scent of coffee is strong by the mirror as my mother moves in close. She and Marilyn talk in such low tones that I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  Other ghosts clamor for a turn at the mirror. After about ten minutes, Marilyn says to Junie and me, “Girls, it’s time to meet my fans.”

  Junie carries one end of the mirror, while I grab hold of the other. We set it down in the ballroom, and the mirror is immediately swarmed by fans. Ms. Monroe smiles her big famous smile, her eyelids at half-mast.

  chapter

  thirty-seven

  It’s lunch, and our first meal back at home in Phoenix.

  The Ruler cooked my favorite dish and invited Grandma over to celebrate our return and my Hollywood Girl award and how I broke up the Beverly Hills Bandits. Grandma’s finally getting out and about a little since her hip surgery. She’s moving slowly with a walker.

  Sam pulls out her chair, and Grandma plunks down.

  The Ruler sets a steaming glass pan on a hot pad in the middle of the table. I close my eyes and inhale. Überdelicious. Melted cheese with spinachy stuff, organic brown rice, and some unidentified junk thrown in there too. Cheesy chard.

  I count silently in my mind, waiting for my dad to bust out his same lame-o pun. One, two—

  “Cheesy chard, Paula?” Dad sticks his nose close to the casserole, like he’s inspecting it. “I hope it’s not overcooked. Or we’ll have to rename it charred chard.” He cracks up.

  Sam cracks up too.

  And even though The Ruler’s heard this excuse-for-a-joke several times, her cheeks pink up and she smiles. She flits around the table, checking our water glasses and offering us bread. When she nears my dad, she clasps his shoulder. Like she can’t quite believe he’s home for real.