I So Don't Do Mysteries Read online

  Flash.

  Junie pushes her glasses higher up on her nose and squints into the darkness. “Binoculars.”

  “Probably a bird-watcher.” Rob’s knuckles are white.

  Amber gets up and leans into Rob, her hip against his. She fluffs her hair. “Boring.”

  Birds? No way. It’s either us or those people. “I’m going down to check it out,” I say.

  Junie shakes her head. She totally thinks I’ve lost it.

  “I’ll go,” Rob says.

  Amber loops her arm through his. “No, you won’t.”

  Before he answers, I take off, zigzagging around the tables until I reach the exit. Then I crouch and creep down the steps. When I get to the bottom, I sit, leaning into the fence and the thick honeysuckle growing up it. What a sickly-sweet smell.

  Through a gap in the green leaves and yellow flowers, I focus on a figure kneeling in the shadow of the tennis net. He’s short, with messy orange hair and freakishly long arms. All rigid, he’s holding binoculars up to his eyes. The binoculars are trained on the group on the beach.

  I turn my attention to the people standing and chatting on the sand just beyond the cement walkway. Damon Walker’s there!

  What are they saying? Crawling next to the fence, I’m shaky and wobbly. Like the first time you roll out of bed after the flu. This PI lifestyle is stressful.

  A swift peek back at the courts tells me Monkey Man’s still glued to his binoculars.

  Damon barks out, “Where’s Kendra? Why isn’t she chilling with the rest of us?”

  Silence. Everyone examines their feet.

  It’s at this very intense moment that my cell phone chooses to ring.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  All eyes in the group shift to me.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.

  How long before my voice mail picks up? What did The Ruler set it at? July?

  I jerk my mini-backpack off and try to unzip it to get to the phone. The zipper is stuck. I yank and pull on it. Nada.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Then I try feeling for the phone through the canvas material so I can push the disconnect button. My backpack is full of nothing but phonelike lumps. I jab, jab, jab on everything.

  Finally, the ringing stops.

  All eyes are still staring at me. Time feels stretched out like a rubber band.

  On the tennis courts, Monkey Man lowers his binoculars and focuses on me like he’s memorizing my face. Then, with his apelike arms, he shoves open the gate to the courts and bolts off down the beach, clouds of sand kicking up behind him.

  Damon watches, frowning and stroking his chin. If this were a comic book, Damon would have a question-mark bubble above his head. It looks like a thousand thoughts are fighting for space in his brain. And I don’t mean nice, pleasant thoughts.

  Damon turns and aims his famous pistachio green eyes at me, probably trying to figure out where I fit into the mysterious-guy-with-binoculars puzzle. And I know in my churning gut that I don’t want Damon to associate me with Monkey Man.

  I twirl a bunch of hair around my finger. Then suddenly—and who knows where the brilliant idea pops in from—I say, “Can I have your autograph?”

  There’s more silence, like he needs time to switch gears. Then, smiling with perfect, pearly teeth, he stretches out a hand. “Sure.”

  Huh? Oh, I get it. I dig in the outside pocket of my backpack and come up with a pen and my boarding pass. I hand them over.

  Damon leans against his thigh to write. He doesn’t even ask my name. And in the middle of scrawling “Walker,” he glances back at his friends. “Come on, guys. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  After they’re gone, I unhook the latch on the gate to the courts. Maybe Monkey Man left behind a clue. I shuffle over to where he was kneeling. What am I stepping on? I bend down and grab up . . . I don’t know what, exactly. Some weird mixture of seeds and pellets. There’s a small pile and then a thin trail leading to the gate. Looks like Monkey Man has a hole in his pocket.

  Is he carrying around a healthy California snack? I sniff. I cough. Yuckerama. It stinks like cat food. No way I’m tasting that. Then a bizarre, way-out-there thought hits me. Could this strange, smelly stuff possibly be poison? Rhino poison? I push a handful of it down into my pocket. I’ll show it to my mother. If she shows up.

  I jog back up the steps. All this physical exercise must be toning me for the beach. As I thread through the restaurant, I can see Amber and Junie wolfing down nachos.

  Rob’s sitting still, his eyes on me, his fingers drumming the table.

  Junie asks, all critical, “What were you doing on the tennis courts?”

  Rob stops drumming.

  “Just looking,” I answer slowly. I don’t trust Rob. He totally lied about going to the Wild Animal Park. I have no idea why, but he did. Which makes him a liar with a wide forehead and too much hair gel.

  “What was on the ground?” Rob asks.

  I shrug. “Nothing, really. Sand. Dirt. The usual.”

  Amber stops inhaling food. “Did Damon Walker actually talk to you? The Damon Walker?”

  I nod. “Here.” I slide the boarding pass across the table. Bribery for her chauffeuring skills. “You can have his autograph.”

  “Wow.” With the pad of her index finger, she traces over Damon’s signature. “Thanks, Sherry. You know, you’re pretty cool, considering you’re delusional.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Delusional” is so not an Amber word. “Delusional” is a Junie word. What exactly did Junie blab to Amber about me?

  Junie concentrates on her napkin, twisting it tighter and tighter. Her gazillion freckles pop out all 3-D.

  Elbows on the table, and chin propped on the bridge formed by his hands, Rob watches me. His eyes flick to Junie, then to Amber, then to me again.

  Amber flips her hair back. “Like, about the rhinos.”

  Help. I know I should do something, react somehow. Instead I totally freeze.

  “Amber.” Junie glares.

  “What? Like it’s not whacked to be all worried someone’s trying to kill the rhinos at the Wild Animal Park?” Then, exaggerating every sound like I’m suddenly from Russia or somewhere, Amber says, “You need help. Rob says there’s medication for people like you.”

  Rob says? Double help. Amber blabbed to Rob.

  “Ouch.” Amber frowns at Junie. “That was my shin. And you know I bruise easy.” She swings a leg out from under the table and begins rubbing it. “Sherry, I just wanna say it’s pretty scary how fast you’ve gone downhill.”

  I’m breathing through my nostrils because I can’t even get my mouth open. Forget about telling her to shut up.

  Statue still, Rob’s taking in the whole scene.

  Amber straightens her too-tight T-shirt. “Do yourself a favor and lose the ‘I gotta help my mom, the ghost in trouble’ act. You’re the one who needs help, and soon.”

  “Amber, shut up,” Junie says.

  Somehow Amber pairing “lose” with “my mom” is what finally spurs me to action. I spring to my feet and race like I’m running for my life across the restaurant, down the steps and onto the beach.

  Bent in half like a pretzel and hands clamped on my knees, I suck in raggedy breaths of salty night air.

  After a while, I see Junie powering toward me.

  “Sherry!” She waves her arms above her head. “Sherry!” She huffs and puffs.

  I straighten. Here it comes: the Big Apology.

  “Look.” Junie toes the sand. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  No duh. Usually when you blab a friend’s important and sensitive secrets, you don’t mean for her to find out.

  “But we’re, uh, all here together for a week. And we’ll have more fun if we, uh, get along.” With the back of her hand, Junie wipes sweat off her blotchy forehead. “I think it’ll work if we just don’t mention the rhinos or, uh, other stuff.” She pauses. “Okay?”


  My face must show how pathetic I think she sounds, because she rushes into, “Rob can get us on the movie set tomorrow morning as extras. We’ll get to see Damon Walker doing his own water-skiing stunt.”

  Tomorrow morning? No. No. No. That’s when the rhino ceremony is, at the Park. I have to be there. And Amber has to drive me. Solving this mystery is turning into a humongous headache.

  I’m so caught up in stress and worry, I don’t really hear Junie until she taps my shoulder.

  “Sherry, on the beach, why were they all staring at you?”

  “My phone rang.” My phone rang. I can’t believe I forgot. I plop down on the walkway, yank off my backpack. This time the zipper whips open like it’s been greased. Whatever.

  I click on Calls Missed. “Josh Morton” pops up on the screen.

  Josh Morton called me!

  My hand slaps over my chest to prevent my thumping heart from leaping out onto the sand.

  A quick click on the flashing envelope and I’m listening to his message. “I got your number from Kristin. I have some news I think you’ll like. At least, I hope so. Call me.”

  “Josh wants me to call him.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder. “Catch you later.” I stand and walk away from Junie and her round-like-Frisbees eyes.

  It’s dark now, with dim lights from the condo casting long shadows out to sea. Crashing waves beat up the shore.

  I find a patch of dry ground not too close to stinky seaweed and sit. Inhaling a bunch of salty air, I flip open my phone and dial Josh.

  I put the phone to my ear. With the first ring, my stomach flip-flops. With the second ring, it flop-flips. With the third, fourth and fifth rings, it’s all over the place, doing its gymnastic thing.

  Josh’s voice mail picks up. My stomach stops mid flip. Voice mail? Wah.

  I listen to his message, storing it in my memory right next to his phone number: “This is Josh. Leave a message. Later, dude.”

  “Hi, uh, Josh. Sorry I didn’t answer. I was, uh, at the beach. By the Hotel Del. Call me.” I snap the phone shut and put it away. Okay. I just sounded dumb.

  I’m so into worrying about my lame message, then wondering what Josh’s news is, that it takes me a minute to realize a fatty cactus wren has landed on my shoulder. He curls his feet into my sweater.

  “Grandpa!” My spirits soar at the sight of him. “Where’s Mom?”

  He looks down the beach, lifts one foot and holds it above his eyes.

  I squint into the darkness. “Was she far behind you? Is she on her way?”

  He bobs his head.

  I feel in my backpack for the package of sunflower seeds I bought at the airport. Once my palm is full, I stick out my arm. Grandpa hops down the length of it and onto my outstretched finger.

  Peck. Peck. Peck. He is seriously munching down.

  I watch the beach for any sign of movement, sniffing for coffee. Suddenly I see a colossal cloud of sand swirling near the waves. Swirling fast. Swirling wild. And swirling right for me.

  “Grandpa,” I yell, “tell Mom to slow down!”

  Peck. Peck. Peck. He’s going jackhammer speed on the seeds. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t look up, just tightens his grip on my finger. Ouch.

  The cloud’s barreling closer and closer, churning out sand from the sides.

  “Slow down!” I scream.

  Mom’s still racing. And now I can hear her too, like wind whooshing through a tunnel.

  I jump up, hold Grandpa in safe to my chest and start dancing from side to side, trying to dodge her. But she’s not traveling in a straight line. She’s, like, Queen Zigzag of the Sand Cyclones.

  I stop dancing. This is totally useless. I can’t outmaneuver her.

  Legs apart, I turn my back, dig my toes into the sand and squeeze my eyes shut. “Hang on for your life, Grandpa.”

  I’m standing tough, knees bent and shoulders hunched. My hair and clothes blow crazy on one side, like I’m next to the summer fan display at Home Depot.

  Then all goes quiet. All goes still.

  I open my eyes. A few grains of sand are popping around next to my feet. There’s a coffee smell in the air.

  “Whew,” Mom says. “Sand is a tough traveling medium.”

  “You almost killed us.” I unfold my arms. “Grandpa, are you okay?”

  Balanced on my wrist, he pecks at my empty palm.

  I pull the sunflower-seed package out of my backpack and dump the rest in my hand.

  He goes back to munching and crunching.

  “How thoughtful of you, Sherry,” Mom says.

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, I thought the seeds would help Grandpa find me. Turns out he didn’t need them; he flew to me all on his own.”

  “Your grandfather’s an excellent navigator. Thanks to him, we’re here and off to a successful start. What have you been up to?”

  Grandpa swallows the last seed and scratches my wrist.

  I reach into my backpack and glide the crystal out. “Grandma gave me this.”

  Grandpa rubs his head on it, cooing. Very cute and romantic.

  Then I fill them in on Monkey Man and his weird seedy-pellety stuff; and Rob the Reporter, who really doesn’t want us to visit the Wild Animal Park; and Kendra, official rhino spokesperson, and her beach argument with Damon.

  “Good work, Sherry,” Mom says. “Let’s see the seed mixture from the tennis courts.”

  With my free hand, I pull some out of my pocket.

  Quicker than you can say “Don’t eat the evidence,” Grandpa leaps over to my palm and starts noshing.

  “Grandpa, stop.” I close my hand. “It might be poison.”

  He shakes his head and beak-pokes my fist.

  “She’s got a point, Wilhelm,” Mom says. “Sherry, let me see it.”

  I open my palm flat. A warm, gentle breeze whispers over it, gently blowing the seeds and pellets around. My throat lumps up. My mom is touching me.

  The breeze stops, and my hand goes all chilly. “I’m not sure what it is,” Mom says. “Put it in a Ziploc bag at the condo. And make sure you wash your hands.”

  Grandpa fluffs up his scraggly feathers and squawks, “Bye.”

  At least, I think it was “bye.” Coulda been “pie.” Maybe “spy.” Or “my.”

  Then he spreads his wings and takes off into the night, turning into a tiny irregularly shaped dot lit up by the condo lights.

  I say, “That was abrupt.” I push the seedy-pellety stuff back into my pocket and put the crystal away.

  “Grandpa’s not really himself right now,” Mom says. “The trip tired him out. Plus, he’s upset about Grandma. He didn’t want to leave her, and he’s worried that’s she’s worried because he’s suddenly not showing up at her feeder.”

  “Why didn’t he tell her where he was going?”

  She coughs. “Grandma’s not as open to us as she’d like to think.”

  My jaw drops. “No way. I can tap into the spirit world, and Grandma can’t?” I’ve got a special spiritual talent that my Birkenstock-wearing, incense-burning, crystal-dangling grandmother doesn’t. I puff out my chest.

  “Where’d Grandpa go?”

  “He’s staying at a hostel for spirit animals.”

  “How about you?”

  “The Whaley House, in Old Town. It’s very popular with ghosts.”

  Probably the haunted house Josh mentioned. “Do you really need to stay anywhere? I mean, you’re a ghost.”

  “I like the camaraderie. And for me, it’s safer because I can’t just float off.”

  The extreme weirdness in my life continues. “How are you gonna get there?”

  “The same way I got out here. Your grandfather”—she pauses—“ ‘maps’ the way.”

  It takes me a sec to get what Mom’s saying. “Ew. Ew. Ew.” I stick out my tongue in true grossed-out-edness. “He makes you a trail of bird poop?”

  “It works.” She clears her throat, a let’s-get-down-to-business sound. “Sherry, we need to get to the
Wild Animal Park ASAP. As in tomorrow.”

  “It’s a problem.” A chilly night wind blasts down the beach. I button my sweater. I tell her about Junie blabbing to Amber, how they’re going to a movie shoot tomorrow and how Great-aunt Margaret can’t drive me because of her sick friend.

  “There must be something. . . .”

  I bet she’s twirling her hair around a finger, thinking away.

  My phone rings. I slide it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. Josh. And even though I’ve been waiting for this call since September, I slide the phone, unanswered, back in my pocket.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “You don’t want to get that?” Mom asks.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “I’ll call back later.” Sometimes the boy has to wait. Like when you’re working on a mystery. Like when your mother’s right there, so you wouldn’t have any privacy. “About getting to the Park—maybe there’s a bus? Or a shuttle from the hotel?”

  “And try Amber again,” Mom says. “Then coffee-call me tomorrow.”

  And, poof, she’s gone. No more smell of coffee. No more sand activity.

  No more making the boy wait.

  Surf pounding on the beach, pulse pounding in my ears, I call Josh.

  “Guess what?” he says. “I’m flying to San Diego on Thursday. It’s a surprise reward for doing so good on my report card.”

  I squeal. Literally. Very uncool.

  “I’ll be staying at my cousins’, but we can definitely hook up.”

  Hook up? My stomach switches places with my liver. “Sick.”

  We disconnect, and I slowly return my cell to my mini-backpack. Josh is coming to San Diego and wants to spend time with me. Awesome. But how will I juggle him and the mystery?

  A full moon has risen, a sugar cookie in the night sky. I stare at the round, glowing ball and think. Basically, there’s only one solution.

  I have to wrap up the mystery really, really fast.

  Dark clouds pass in front of the moon. One looks like a Popsicle. Brrrr. One looks like a, well, a shapeless cloud. And one looks like a rhino.

  I snap my fingers. I just might know how to get to the Park tomorrow.

  It’s around eight o’clock at night, and I’m standing in front of the reservations desk at the Hotel Del. I clear my throat.