I So Don't Do Famous Read online

  “Aw, thanks.” I squint. “So, at the side of these shots, you caught Dear Elle pulling the purse off the hook and opening it. Then you missed part of the sequence.”

  “Sorry. I was trying to find a different place to kneel, I think,” Junie says. “My focus was on you, not on Dear Elle redoing her makeup.”

  “In this picture”—I tap Dear Elle’s mouth—“her lips are all red. So she’s finished with her lipstick.”

  About ten more shots in, a photo shows the handle of the purse hanging from the hook.

  Then there are several shots of me pushing back my chair, walking to the podium, talking. A few good ones, a lot that need to be trashed forever. I point out one particularly ugly picture where I’m leaning toward the crowd, distorted beyond belief, with a nose longer than Pinocchio’s. “Can we delete this now?”

  Junie sighs. “We’ll go through them later.” She scrolls some more. Then there’s a ton of photos of the signing.

  “So, you took these from off to the side of Dear Elle?”

  “Yeah, I was trying to get different perspectives.”

  “There’s Lorraine and Stef in the line. I didn’t realize they ended up so far behind us.”

  Junie pushes her glasses up her nose. “Here’s Dear Elle signing and looking up at a girl. Actually, that’s a pretty good profile of both of them.” Junie pats her own shoulder. “Now there’s a gap because I changed location.”

  Sure enough, the next batch of photos are taken from behind the signing table. The purse is in the corner of the picture, hanging lopsidedly over the back of Dear Elle’s chair.

  “She must’ve left the hook at the table where we ate,” I say.

  Next come several blurry shots of the line. Maybe from people jostling Junie.

  Then Lorraine’s at the front of the line. She’s smiling and chatting with Dear Elle. That girl is so friendly.

  A girl about the width of a spaghetti noodle is on Lorraine’s heels. “What happened to Stef?” I ask.

  “No idea,” Junie says. “It’s weird behind the lens. I’m in my own little world. I get pictures and don’t have a clue about all the details until later. I never noticed Stef was missing.”

  The next shot is of Lorraine crouching low to the table and leaning in close to Dear Elle. Lorraine’s finger is on a sentence in the middle of the book. The book is at an angle, so that the print isn’t upside down for either of them. Dear Elle’s head is cocked, and she’s squinting at the print. Her mouth is half open as she explains something. Not an attractive look.

  “Wow. Lorraine said she didn’t read,” I say, “but here she’s asking a question about something way far into the book.”

  Weirdly, Lorraine is not looking at the page, but past Dear Elle. It’s a nice close-up shot of an author and a fan, except that the fan doesn’t seem to be tuned in.

  Four panoramic views show people around the room and in the line. Still no Stef.

  Next, the skinny spaghetti girl steps toward the table, shoulder blades jutting out from a low-cut black dress.

  And then I see it—or actually, I don’t see it!

  I think I’ve figured out the sequence of events for how the purse got stolen. The bottom of my stomach drops out.

  “Junie, pull up the photo of Lorraine and Stef in line together. Next to it, drag in the photo of just Lorraine at the front of the line. Third, put the photo where Lorraine shows Dear Elle the sentence or whatever in the book. Fourth is the spaghetti girl walking away.”

  “I’ll play it as a slide show,” Junie says.

  “Keep an eye on the lower corner,” I say.

  The loop plays over and over. Dear Elle’s purse dangles over the back of her chair while both Lorraine and Stef are in line. It’s still dangling when Lorraine is waiting her turn. Lorraine and Dear Elle bending over the book fill the photo, so there’s no way to tell what’s going on with the purse. But by the time the skinny girl’s approaching Dear Elle, Stef and the purse have disappeared.

  Lorraine and Stef stole the purse.

  And I helped them.

  chapter

  eleven

  The next morning, Junie bounds out of bed and throws open the curtains. The sun is shining bright and cheerful.

  This is the opposite of my dark and gloomy mood. I tossed and turned all night. In the harsh bathroom light, I look like a football player, with unattractive black lines underscoring my eyes. And I have the beginnings of a headache.

  While smearing on triple layers of Naked Makeup’s Cover-Up Supreme, I mull over recent events in my life. Like scratching at a scab. I practically handed Dear Elle’s purse to Lorraine and Stef. They read my essay and the details of the awards dinner on the Hollywood Girl website, guessed I’d be at the Roosevelt Hotel, flattered me and tricked me into getting them into the dinner. Where they nabbed the purse. Pretty embarrassing.

  There’s a knock at our door. “Good morning, girls,” Dad booms. “Rise and shine.” He knocks again. “I’ve already been out to pick up hot chocolate and doughnuts.”

  Hot chocolate and doughnuts? He’s really living life on the edge.

  The second she’s settled in the living room with a cardboard cup of hot chocolate + whipped cream + shaved chocolate and a doughnut with strawberry icing + sprinkles, Junie switches on her computer.

  “Did you catch any of the news last night, Dad?” I ask.

  “Just the sports.” He pats his stomach and picks up a shiny cruller. “I think I have a little corner reserved for this guy.”

  Junie slurps, then starts click-clacking away on her keyboard.

  “Dad, remember Dear Elle’s designer purse with the diamond clasp?” I say. “Someone stole it from the awards dinner. The story was on the news.”

  “Was anything else stolen?” He sets the box of doughnuts on the coffee table. “Any other purses? Wallets?”

  “I don’t think so.” I flip open the box and pick out a chocolate doughnut.

  “Whoa.” Junie looks up from her screen. “There’ve been lots of home burglaries in Beverly Hills lately, and some people think the theft of Dear Elle’s purse is related.”

  She sets her computer next to the doughnut box, and we all crowd around.

  Did the Beverly Hills Bandits Strike Last Night?

  Detective Tatiana Garcia, Beverly Hills Police Department, has been working overtime, trying to crack the case of the Beverly Hills Bandits, a person or group of persons responsible for breaking into celebrities’ homes and stealing millions of dollars in big-ticket items, as well as trinkets and clothing.

  Detective Garcia insists the department is close to making an arrest. Beverly Hills celebrities aren’t buying it. Recent victims Melanie Grace and Owen Gordon admitted to late-night talk-show host Jay Leonard that they and their famous friends feel targeted and want police to be more aggressive in shutting down the Bandits.

  A few weeks ago, an attempt to rob Dear Elle’s Beverly Hills home was abandoned when neighbor and good friend Hannah Smyth, of Dancing with the Stars fame, noticed an unfamiliar van in Dear Elle’s driveway and notified police. Officers arrived on the scene minutes after the van left. When questioned, Ms. Smyth stated, “That van was totally the wrong color for our street. I knew something wasn’t right.”

  Then, last night, during Hollywood Girl magazine’s gala event at the Roosevelt Hotel, Dear Elle’s designer purse with a diamond clasp was stolen.

  Detective Garcia is collaborating with the detective at the Los Angeles Police Department who’s handling the purse theft. The fear? That the Beverly Hills Bandits are evolving into the Bandits Without Borders.

  “So, Lorraine and Stef are involved in burglarizing stars’ homes?” Junie chooses a jelly-filled doughnut.

  I rub my temples, which now pound rhythmically, like a metronome. “Yikes. They are some kind of bad.”

  “Who are these girls?” my dad asks.

  “You might have seen me talking to them last night? They were dressed almost identically in
black capris and black vests—”

  My dad cuts me off with a shake of his head. “Sherry, I didn’t notice what anyone was wearing. Well, except you two, who were the belles of the ball.”

  Junie and I roll our eyes.

  “I have incriminating photos of those girls on my camera,” Junie says.

  “More like circumstantial evidence.” I explain to my dad about the sequence of the photos.

  He bites into his cruller and chews thoughtfully. After swallowing, he says, “I want to take care of the rental car this morning. So why don’t I go do that right now while you two get ready for the day? Then we’ll drive over to the police station with Junie’s pictures.”

  “I call first shower.” Junie is already logging off.

  “Does anyone have Tylenol?” I ask.

  Junie and my dad shake their heads.

  “Give me a sec to throw on my shorts, Dad,” I say, “and I’ll go down to the lobby with you. I bet they have Tylenol in the gift shop.”

  Minutes later, when I’m a couple of footsteps into the elevator, I smell coffee.

  The door glides closed on me and my dad. “Meeting by the pool,” my mom says in my ear. “To discuss last night’s theft.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “Mrs. Howard is here,” she continues. “Don’t worry. She just wants to touch base.”

  Mrs. Howard, my mother’s guidance counselor at the Academy of Spirits? She has a Southern accent, can be as mean as a pack of eighth-grade girls, smells like cinnamon rolls when pleased and like burnt sugar when annoyed. My heart sinks faster than the descending elevator.

  The elevator doors open and I shuffle toward the gift shop. When she knows the whole scoop, Mrs. Howard is going to eat me alive.

  “Sherry! Sherry!” my mom says.

  I tune in. “Huh?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” my dad says.

  “The pool’s not that way,” my mom says.

  I press my palm against my forehead.

  “You’ll feel better after you buy that Tylenol,” Dad says.

  “Oh, you have a headache.” Mom gently lifts my hair. “I’ll let Mrs. Howard know you’ll be a few minutes late.” The smell of coffee disappears.

  Before we part ways, Dad says, “We’ll hunt down Detective Garcia as soon as I get back with a car.”

  “Sure. Sure thing.” I plod down the hall and into the hotel gift shop. I can’t believe I just rode in an elevator with my dad and my ghost mom. And didn’t think about how bizarre it was, especially given that my dad is totally oblivious to my mom’s presence. And how awkward is it for my mom that my dad is remarried? Plus, I forgot to tell my dad to rent a cool car. I am definitely überworried.

  I’m staring at the shelf, trying to find Tylenol, when I feel eyes on me. A cute guy about my age with straight dark hair, dark eyes and a SOCCER ROCKS! T-shirt nods in my direction. My pulse quickens, which I do not understand because I am so not over Josh.

  I pay for a bottle of water and the Tylenol. As I’m leaving the store, I can’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder to see if the guy’s watching me. He is.

  Then it’s down the hall, through a door leading to the back of the hotel property, past a tiled fountain, and onto a walkway to the pool area, where my mother’s waiting for me.

  “How bad’s your head?” my mom asks.

  “I’ll be okay.” With my finger, I push a couple of Tylenol to the back of my tongue, then wash them down with a swig of water.

  The pool sparkles in the morning sun. Tall palm trees reach for fluffy cotton clouds. I wend my way past chaise longues.

  “She’s over in the corner at the back. At the table between the palm and the fire pit,” my mother says. “Sherry, don’t be nervous. Everything’s fine.”

  Easy for her to say. She doesn’t know about my connection to Lorraine and Stef.

  The closer we get to Mrs. Howard’s table, the stronger the smell of cinnamon buns gets, until it’s cloying and overly sweet. I’m barely seated in a white plastic lawn chair, when a round fuzzy shape hovers above me, fluttering the table umbrella. “Hiya, Sherry. Are you aware of what’s being said about you?”

  Mrs. Howard rarely wastes much time on chitchat. I stay silent. She asked what’s called a rhetorical question, meaning if you try to answer it, you’ll just make things worse.

  “I am sorry to report that the World Wide Web for the Dead is filled with the news that you were present during a robbery. Let me share some of the headlines: ‘Is it a coincidence that the mother-daughter duo were at the Hollywood Girl reception last night?’ ‘Were they supposed to prevent the heist?’ ‘Are they losing their touch?’ ”

  The fuzzy round ball that is Mrs. Howard expands and grows darker. I can make out a furrowed brow and a dark slash of eyebrow. “Remember, Sherry, when I talked to you about the responsibility of being associated with this here Academy? I emphasized how our enemies would be constantly on the lookout for y’all to fail.”

  “Yes,” I squeak.

  “Well, I am just appalled and dismayed at how these ghosts are chasing after you, trying to tarnish your good reputation. They are like hound dogs on a false trail,” she says. “Of course you had nothing to do with last night’s robbery. You’re honest and quick-thinking. An asset to our Academy.”

  “Oh,” I say. Guilt is like a noose around my neck.

  “I represent the entire Academy,” Mrs. Howard drawls, “when I apologize for the behavior of these sensationalist-seeking ghosts.”

  The noose of guilt tightens.

  “I have issued a statement claiming you are not even acquainted with the two thieving teens.” Mrs. Howard places a blurry hand on her blurry heart. “I want you to comprehend how much I believe in you.”

  I’m choking.

  “And this extends to you, too, Christine,” Mrs. Howard says.

  “Actually,” I say, “Mom was barely at the event, just long enough to be a good mother and see me get the award. She definitely wasn’t around when the robbery happened.”

  “You know when it happened?” Mom and Mrs. Howard say together. And I’m sure their ghost jaws drop.

  I tell them about Junie’s photos.

  “You might know when it happened,” Mrs. Howard drawls. “Those photos don’t sound overly conclusive. But I agree with your decision to take all this to the police.”

  “On the news, they said they were close to wrapping up a mystery dealing with celebrity break-ins,” I say. “The detective made it sound like Dear Elle’s purse was part of that case.”

  “Glad to hear they’re on the brink of solving it,” Mrs. Howard says, “because the Academy of Spirits will be taking a hands-off stance with all of this.” She sinks her large blurry self into the chair across from me.

  “Our online experts advise us to ignore the Internet hubbub and let it die a natural death,” Mrs. Howard continues. “Reminds me of duck hunting. The dogs flush out a flock, and there’s a flurry of quacking and flapping and shooting. Followed by silence.”

  “How did the girls gain admittance to the dinner? Wasn’t it by invitation only?” my mom asks, morphed into detective mode.

  I swallow. “Well, actually”—I draw the word out as long as I can—“I got them in.”

  I confess all the sordid details.

  Mrs. Howard bloats up like a poisonous puffer fish, ready to pop and spew all over the place.

  chapter

  twelve

  My father does not return with a dorky rental car. Au contraire, he returns with a very cool convertible! It’s silver with black pinstripes and a black top, which will always be down if I have any say. This is the best thing that’s happened to me today.

  As we’re tooling out of the hotel parking lot, my dad floors it. This is the second best thing that’s happened today.

  Junie cinches her seat belt.

  “Wow, Dad,” I say, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “You should’ve seen m
e back in the day. I was the man with my souped-up cars.” He squeals into a tight right turn onto Sunset Boulevard.

  So different from The Ruler and her tentative-grandma driving style, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. I smile. I’m loving our father-daughter bonding!

  We zoom down Santa Monica Boulevard, a warm California breeze and exhaust from other cars blasting across our faces. If Junie tightens her seat belt another notch, it’ll slice her in half.

  My dad looks over at me and winks. “This is the life.” He grinds into the next gear. “Wind in your hair. Doughnuts in your gut. And a car that hugs the road.”

  I should be following my dad’s lead—letting loose and living it up in Southern California.

  But the ugly poolside scene earlier shook me to the core. Mrs. Howard was furious. The most furious she’s ever been. She wants to kick me out of the Academy.

  Even though she’s angry with me too, my mother talked and pleaded and argued with Mrs. Howard. Bottom line: I’m on probation. My orders are to hand over the photos from the Hollywood Girl event to Detective Garcia. To lie low and not call attention to myself while the detective cracks the case. To make sure my behavior doesn’t land me on the World Wide Web for the Dead.

  My eyes fill up. I can’t be fired. I love working with my mom. I love solving mysteries for the Academy.

  His grin as wide as the road, Dad is zipping in and out of traffic. He pops in a Céline Dion CD. He’s so happy and carefree. Like a real person, not just a father.

  A siren wails.

  Lights flash behind us.

  It’s a police car!

  My dad pulls over to the curb, kills the engine and rolls down his window.

  “Sir, do you realize how fast you were going?” says the police officer, his double chin bobbing.

  “Not exactly,” my dad says.