I So Don't Do Famous Read online

  “Actually, Dad, I’d like to head back to the hotel room. Maybe take a nap.” Maybe scroll through Junie’s two-hundred-plus photos looking for Detective Garcia’s two suspects. Maybe examine the pages from the file that Junie took pictures of.

  He punches me lightly on the arm. “Not happening, pumpkin. When is the next time you, Junie and I will be in Los Angeles? Maybe never.”

  “Unfortunately, I think I’m suffering from jet lag.” I fake yawn.

  Dad bursts into laughter. “Good one, Sherry. ’Cause everyone gets jet lag from the ninety-minute flight between Phoenix and L.A.” He laughs again. “If nothing else, our family has a great sense of humor.” He struts off down the walkway to the parking lot, gesturing for us to follow. “Come on, girls.”

  Unblinking, Junie stares at me and says evenly, “You. Owe. Me.”

  I grab her hand. “Let’s go play tourist!” For five minutes.

  Over his shoulder, my dad’s outlining our schedule. He ends with a pat to his jeans pocket. “I have the discount tickets Paula found online for Madame Tussauds wax museum.”

  We pile into our rental and cruise cautiously back to the Roosevelt, where we ditch the car and amble out to Hollywood Boulevard.

  To be accurate, Dad and Junie amble. I’m more like sprinting, practically galloping. The sooner I get to Madame Tussauds, the sooner I’m out of Madame Tussauds and on the case.

  “Sherry!” Junie calls. “Come back!”

  My dad whistles.

  I pull a U-turn and retrace my steps, huffing and puffing.

  In Star Wars heaven, Junie’s posing between two street performers in costume: Darth Vadar and Chewbacca.

  “Stand beside me.” Junie’s voice is high and excited, like a little kid’s on Christmas morning.

  I squeeze between her and Darth Vadar.

  “Smile,” Darth Vader commands in a scary, deep voice.

  I give a quick grimace.

  “Uh, Mr. Baldwin, you’re holding my camera upside down,” Junie says.

  She’s letting my dad touch her camera? Star Wars has fried my best friend’s brain.

  “I know. I know. Just tricking you.” Dad turns the camera right-side up and shouts from behind the viewfinder, “Okay, girls, say ‘Céline Dion.’ ”

  “Smile,” Darth Vader commands again.

  Chewbacca grunts and drapes a hairy arm over my shoulders.

  At that very second, standing in the bright sun on a California sidewalk with my best friend and a couple of nutzoids in Star Wars costumes, I make a decision. I’m going with the flow and enjoying the afternoon with my dad and Junie. It’s like the Lazy River at the water park, where it makes way more sense to float around and hang with your girlfriends than to swim against everyone and wind up kicked and dunked and yelled at. The mystery can wait a couple of hours.

  Dad tips the street performers. We continue on our merry way, hamming it up with various characters like Batman and Mickey Mouse. Junie snaps several shots of my dad play-swordfighting with a pirate.

  She also takes about a million photos of the sidewalk. Because we’re on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and strolling right on top of big five-pointed brass stars that are embedded directly in the cement. There are five categories of stars: television, motion pictures, live theater, recording and radio. The celebrities’ names are in the center of the stars. We pass a star covered in wreaths and flowers because the actor recently died.

  Madame Tussauds is a total blast. The wax figures are so lifelike, it’s as if you’re really hanging with these famous people. Except, of course, they don’t talk or change expressions, and they feel gross. Anyway, we’re surrounded by movie stars, Hollywood icons, even sports stars, which really thrills my dad. Junie’s camera continues to get a major workout.

  “Gotta go, buddy.” Dad pats Lance Armstrong on the shoulder. “I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” Junie says. “But I’m definitely coming here again to do the behind-the-scenes stuff. Like making a cast of my hand and learning more about Madame Tussaud’s life and how she sculpted for the French king Louis XVI. What great newspaper articles those’ll be.” She’s so excited, her freckles stick out all 3-D.

  Back on Hollywood Boulevard, we stop at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant next to a tattoo parlor. The chips are warm and salty; the fish tacos are delish, with the perfect amount of cabbage; and the churros are sweet and cinnamony.

  “Hey, Dad, why don’t you run next door and get a tattoo for dessert?” I giggle. “You know, surprise Paula.”

  “Very funny,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his ringing cell. “Hello.” He listens. “Really? No kidding?” His eyes are bright. “Let me check with the girls, and I’ll call you right back.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “That was the client I’m meeting with tomorrow morning. He wants to take me to the Comedy Store this evening. I’d have to leave you girls at the hotel, but you could order room service and rent a movie.”

  “Go for it, Mr. Baldwin.” Junie unrolls her taco and spoons salsa into the middle of it. “Sherry and I can entertain ourselves.”

  “Maybe you can pick up some new jokes while you’re there,” I say. My dad is the king of groaners.

  The three of us meander over to the Roosevelt. Dad’s jabbering a mile a minute, trotting out sad knock-knock joke after sad knock-knock joke. Junie’s polite chuckle is wearing pretty thin by the time we hop over Eddie Murphy’s star and into the hotel. I’ve rolled my eyes so many times, my headache’s coming back.

  The afternoon was fun. Buckets of fun.

  But it’s time to buckle down and get to work on the case of the Beverly Hills Bandits.

  Time to examine those illegal photographs of Detective Garcia’s file.

  chapter

  fifteen

  Seated at the desk and sharing a wide square chair, Junie and I stare at her computer. She uploaded all the photos from her camera of the papers from Detective Garcia’s file.

  “This is a list of the burglaries with names, addresses, dates and times.” I’m running my finger down the screen. “Melanie Grace, Jocelyn Dixon, Hannah Smyth, Owen Gordon. Wow. It’s like a mini tour of hot young Hollywood stars.” I look at the dates. “That’s a lot of burglary for a little under half a year.”

  Junie clicks to the next photo. “Notes on a suspect named Cameron Williams.”

  I read.

  Suspect: Cameron Williams

  Address: 863 Mollison Ave. Apt. G, L.A. Crime: burglarized 3 homes in Beverly Hills for electronics.

  Prior convictions for vehicle theft and petty theft.

  Chino State Prison: served 3½ years of 5-year sentence, released early 6 months ago for good behavior.

  Current Status: on probation.

  Employment: 5 months at Taco Magnifico, 799 Upchurch St., L.A., 24-hour restaurant, works night shift. Manager reports suspect takes home his free tacos, naps during lunch, keeps to self, always on time.

  Notes: 2 Beverly Hills residents said suspect looked familiar and thought they had seen him in the area within the last 6 months.

  On the hotel notepad, I jot down the addresses of Williams’s home and Taco Magnifico.

  Junie pulls up the photo of the next page from the detective’s folder.

  It’s general notes about the case.

  Beverly Hills Bandits

  1. Victims all in their early twenties, more female than male victims.

  2. Either no or very simple security at the residences.

  3. Most break-ins at night.

  4. Some victims have pets. The dogs are small, with a few that fit in a purse.

  5. A variety of high-end merchandise was stolen (electronics, jewelry, watches, designer purses, artwork) as well as personal items of little worth. The personal items have not shown up on eBay or at local pawnshops.

  6. All the victims use the same pool company: Sparkling Pool Service & Repair, 227 N. Fairfax Ave., L.A. Owner: Derek Rizzo.


  I add the contact information about the pool company to my notes.

  “In that online article, Detective Garcia said the police were close to making an arrest.” Junie messes with her screen so that it’s brighter. “Do you think it’s true?”

  “No way,” I say. “Cameron Williams looks suspicious because he committed a similar crime in the same area and has maybe been spotted there since getting out of prison.” I squeeze out of the chair and grab our bag of snacks. “And the break-ins started around the same time he got out. But that doesn’t mean he’s definitely one of the Beverly Hills Bandits.”

  “Thanks.” Junie opens a roll of Life Savers and pops a red one in her mouth. “And just because all the victims have their pools cleaned by Sparkling Pool doesn’t necessarily implicate the manager or other employees.”

  “There’s lots of detecting still to do on this case.” I pick through the candies until I find a green one.

  Next, Junie pulls up the list of items stolen.

  There are two lists: a long column of high-ticket stuff and a shorter column of personal items. Items with the words “sentimental value” beside them rather than a dollar amount. Like a locket with a baby picture, a dog dish handmade by the owner, a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt.

  “Junie, you won’t believe this!” I point to the screen.

  Under “personal items” is “a silver bracelet with a dog charm.”

  Junie’s shaking her head. “Lorraine and Stef are definitely involved.”

  Next, we pull up the head shots and names of Detective Garcia’s suspects. The thin-faced guy with glasses is Cameron Williams. The guy with flared nostrils and big ears is Derek Rizzo, manager of Sparkling Pool. We painstakingly compare the suspects’ head shots with each and every photo Junie took at the awards dinner. By picture #253, it feels like we went to the beach, scooped up fistfuls of sand and rubbed it in our eyes.

  And the detective’s suspects are not in any of Junie’s photos. Which doesn’t prove they weren’t there. It only proves they were never in front of Junie’s lens. It certainly doesn’t prove they weren’t involved. Maybe Lorraine and Stef were paid to lift the purse.

  “Detecting makes me thirsty.” Junie flips open the room-service menu and scans it. “Let’s get smoothies.”

  Smoothies remind me of Jazzed-Up Juice. And Jazzed-Up Juice reminds me of Josh. And Josh reminds me of heartache. I’m not healed enough to order a smoothie. Probably I’ll have gray hair before I drink my next smoothie.

  After one look at my face, Junie changes her order. “I’m more in the mood for nachos and soda.”

  This is why you never let a best friend go. They’re totally on your wavelength.

  While waiting for our food to arrive, we talk over tomorrow.

  And how we’re tracking down an ex-con.

  chapter

  sixteen

  An ex-con.

  I’ve never met one. I’ve never questioned one. I’ve never searched for one.

  But tomorrow I’m doing all three.

  Who can sleep with that on their mind? Not me. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’ve probably gotten one whole second of shut-eye.

  Junie is übercranky if she doesn’t get her required ten hours. No way I can face an übercranky Junie and an ex-con. So I quietly push back the covers, throw on some clothes and grab a room key and my purse.

  I tiptoe into the dim hall, past the photos of movie stars lining the walls, and ride the escalator down to the lobby level. The hotel café, 25 Degrees, is open all night. The name stands for the number of degrees difference between cooking a medium-rare versus a well-done hamburger. This is the kind of trivia you pick up when you hang around Junie.

  Entering the restaurant, I blink in the fluorescent overhead lights. The room is long and narrow, with tables and chairs along one side and a counter with stools along the other. The wall behind the counter is a wild silver and black diamond pattern. The tables all have a view of Hollywood Boulevard through a wide rectangular window. The place is empty.

  “Grab whatever table you can find open,” the only waiter says. “Or you can sit at the counter.”

  Oh great. It’s two o’clock in the morning and I have to stumble across a waiter with the same sense of humor as my dad.

  I slide along a red leather bench and pick up the plastic menu. “I’ll take a turkey burger, fries and a soda.” A turkey burger is a sign of The Ruler’s influence.

  Then, basically, I just sit there alone in the bright, quiet restaurant and fret. About how I’ve disappointed Mom and Mrs. Howard. About how I have to solve this mystery to get off probation. About how the case is like a big jigsaw puzzle when you first open the box and dump out the pieces on the table. I’m still at the stage of turning the pieces picture-side up. I haven’t even connected the corner pieces yet.

  After delivering my meal, the waiter disappears into the back of the restaurant.

  I chomp down on my burger and chew. Whatever degrees they cooked it at, it’s good.

  I’m chewing away, then sipping on my soda, fading in and out of my thoughts, just letting the mystery rattle around in my brain, hoping pieces will hook together.

  Suddenly, I hear crying. I glance around. The restaurant is dead. No other customers. No waiter in sight. “Hello?”

  The crying gets louder.

  I scoot out from my bench seat, then peek under the table next to me. Nada. More crying. “Hello?”

  And then I smell it—Lippy’s Root Beer Gloss. The scent’s coming from two booths away.

  I’ve found another ghost!

  I check to make sure the waiter’s still in the back, then whisper in the direction of the root-beer-gloss scent. “Who are you and what’s the matter?”

  The ghost hiccups. “You can see me?”

  “Uh, no,” I say. “But I can hear you, and I can smell your lip gloss. I used to be totally in love with that brand.”

  “This is the first time in a whole year”—her voice catches—“that anyone has noticed me.”

  My heart clenches for her. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Leah Jones. I’m thirteen years old. I died in a horseback-riding accident.”

  “Thirteen? I’m thirteen too! You died at thirteen? That’s horrible!” I can’t even imagine dying at my age. It seems so unfair. Poor Leah. “When did you die?”

  “A little over a year ago.”

  “I’m really sorry.” I move back to my own table, and the scent of Lippy’s Root Beer Gloss follows me.

  “Did you ever see the movie I was in? It’s called A Horse Named Charley.” Leah’s voice comes from across the table.

  I shake my head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I was the neighbor. Not the largest part, but a stepping-stone.”

  The door behind the counter opens. The waiter peeks out, playing cards in his hand. He looks over at me. “I thought I heard talking. Maybe another customer?”

  “Just my phone.” I hold it up as proof. “I’ll let you know if you get any new customers.”

  “Thanks.” He waves his cards in the air. “For once, I’m up on the chef at Texas Hold’em.”

  I wait till the door closes. “I’m Sherry Baldwin.” I squirt ketchup over the fries. “So, why were you crying?”

  “I cry every day. I’m lonely and sad. I don’t know how to get out of the hotel, and I’ve been stuck here ever since my death.”

  “I think learning to cross thresholds is a typical problem.”

  “How do you know?”

  I tell Leah about my mom and how she had a tough time with thresholds.

  “I miss my family and my dog. And I had the worst last day,” Leah says with a sob, “because my boyfriend broke up with me. Right where you’re sitting.”

  I shift a couple of inches. No need to encourage more bad karma in my life. “And that’s why you’re still at the Roosevelt?”

  “I guess.” And I’m sure she’s shrugging. “You’ve probably heard of him.
Michael Throck.”

  I choose a fry and nibble. Michael Throck! Yuck. That actor is constantly in the entertainment news. His nickname is Sox Throck because he changes girlfriends as often as he changes his socks. “You’ve been crying over him for a whole year?”

  “One year, three months and twenty-seven days. To be exact.”

  Ack. Eek. Ike. I so do not want to feel sorrowful and grief-stricken over Josh by this time next year. “I Googled for ghosts at the Roosevelt. And your name didn’t pop up. I wonder why.” I take a bite of my burger.

  “I didn’t show up in a Google search?” Leah wails. “I’m never going to be famous.”

  “What other ghosts live here?” I ask. “Maybe Google is totally inaccurate for the spirit world.”

  “There’s an old guy on the ninth floor, Montgomery Clift, who plays the bugle sometimes,” Leah says. “And occasionally I hear Marilyn Monroe’s voice coming from the mirror she haunts.”

  “My mom will be ecstatic to hear about Marilyn Monroe,” I say. “She’s determined to get to the bottom of her death.”

  Leah sniffs. “Have you ever been dumped?”

  Suddenly, there’s a lump in my throat. I nod.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  And, surprisingly, I do. Maybe because it’s late and I’m tired and stressed. Maybe because Leah is a stranger and it’s a brand-new story for her. Maybe because I miss Josh and I just want to talk about him. When I’m finished spilling my gloomy guts, I wipe my nose with a napkin.

  “We have a lot in common,” Leah says. “You should get insomnia every night, come down here and we’ll cry our eyes out about our broken hearts.”

  I sit up straight. “No, no, no. I do not want to do this every night. I don’t want to be sad and depressed. I want to get back to being my normal self.” I think briefly about how much my mother has accomplished in her year and a half of death. “Leah, you’ve wasted enough time moping over Michael. You need a hobby or something. Seriously. It’s time to move on.”