Deadly Cool (10 page)

“Sure,” Caitlyn said, loudly enough for Mrs. Perry to hear. “Happy to help you catch up.”

She shot me a sugar-coated smile.

I matched it calorie for calorie.

“So,” I said, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbing a test tube of bluish stuff. (Okay, I hadn’t really been paying attention when Mrs. Perry explained what it was. I’d been too busy rehearsing how I’d casually bring up the subject of Courtney being threatened by Andi. A rehearsal I carefully put into practice . . .)

“I noticed a lot of people wearing those armbands,” I said, pointing to the sparkly black accessory they each sported around their upper arms.

“Courtney was very popular,” Caitlyn informed me.

Kaylee nodded solemnly. “Very.”

“She had a lot of friends?”

Again, two blond heads bobbed in agreement. “Yes, tons,” Kaylee said. “Though we were her
best
friends.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “What about Andi Brackenridge? Was she a friend?”

Caitlyn scrunched up her nose like she’d smelled something foul. “Andi? God, what a loser. Andi was
definitely
not a friend of Courtney’s,” she told me, taking the bluish stuff from me and setting it ever so carefully in a wire holder.

“Huh. Well, that’s odd.”

“What?” Caitlyn asked. “What’s odd?”

“That they weren’t friends. Because Andi texted Courtney right before she died,” I said, carefully watching their reactions.

But all I got was the I-just-smelled-rotten-meat nose scrunch.

“Who told you that?” Caitlyn demanded.

Excellent question.

“Uh . . . a friend. I’d tell you, but I can’t divulge my sources.” Nice. That sounded official.

“Well, they must be mistaken. No way would Courtney have anything to do with that skank,” Caitlyn said definitively. Then she dropped a couple of white tablets into our blue mixture. It began bubbling. In spite of my preoccupation, I couldn’t help noticing how cool it looked.

“Actually,” I told her as I watched bubbles rise to the top of our test tube, “I saw the text message. It’s no mistake.”

“What kind of message?” Kaylee asked, biting her lip.

“A threat.”

Kaylee’s eyes went big and round. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I said. “Andi said she saw Courtney and wanted her to pay up.”

“Saw her doing what?” Kaylee asked. She shot a quick look at Caitlyn, but Thing One was carefully avoiding eye contact, instead focusing all her attention on sticking a straw into our bubbling brew and stirring.

“I was hoping maybe you knew.”

Caitlyn shook her head, shampoo-commercial-shiny locks swishing against her shoulders. “Puh-lease. Andi is a complete lowlife. She’s probably just making it up. You know she got pregnant when she was just
fifteen
,” she said, emphasizing the word.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It shows her total lack of moral character.”

I rolled my eyes. “Teenagers have sex, Caitlyn. Get over it.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” Caitlyn countered. “It’s wrong. They should be saving themselves. Our bodies are our temples. They should have a little more respect for themselves than that.”

“You know, I could have sworn I saw you shoveling Cheetos into your temple last week.”

“Oh, but I’m pretty sure those were nonfat,” Kaylee piped up.

Oh brother.

“Let’s get back to Courtney,” I said, steering the conversation before it disintegrated any further. (Which, by the way, is what was happening to our straw, the bubbling liquid eating away the plastic. What on earth was that blue stuff?) “Had Courtney mentioned being contacted by Andi lately?”

Caitlyn shook her head. “No. And Courtney told us everything. We were her best friends. Right, Kaylee?”

Kaylee looked down at the floor, nodded, and said in a voice that seemed for the first time to hold genuine sadness, “Yes, we were.”

“Whatever Andi
thinks
she saw,” Caitlyn continued, “she’s clearly delusional. And there’s no way Courtney would take a threat from her seriously anyway. I mean, Andi is a total loser. What could she possibly do to hurt Courtney?”

Beside strangle her with a pair of iPod earbuds? I wasn’t sure.

But I was going to find out.

As soon as the final bell rang I headed for Sam’s locker to tell her about my conversation with the Color Guard girls. Just my luck, Kyle had beaten me there and had Sam in a total lip-lock up against the lockers.

I cleared my throat, then looked away, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach that my own lips were now boyfriend free.

Sam looked up, extracted herself from Kyle, and blushed. “Hey, Hartley,” she said.

Kyle turned around. “’Sup.”

I waved, still feeling a little awkward as Kyle’s hand rested on Sam’s hip.

“So, I talked to Courtney’s minions,” I told Sam and relayed the conversation I’d had as the three of us walked through the halls.

“Do you believe them?” Sam asked, as we pushed through the doors and made our way down the front steps.

I shrugged. “They seemed genuinely surprised that Courtney would have anything to do with Andi.”

“Dude, I remember Andi,” Kyle cut in. “She was hot.”

Sam punched him in the arm.

“Not as hot as you,” he amended, rubbing at his bicep. “She’s, like, a campfire, and you’re totally a five alarm, babe.”

Sam grinned. “Nice save.”

Kyle leaned in and whispered something into Sam’s ear. She giggled. I looked away, trying to ignore that hollow feeling again.

“There she is!” I heard someone call from across the front lawn.

I looked up to find Jessica Hanson pointing toward me. She was directing a vaguely familiar–looking woman dressed in a sharp gray suit, three layers of makeup, and spiky black heels that had her shifting from foot to foot to keep from sinking into the damp grass. Behind her stood a guy with a huge camera strapped to his waist and a pimply guy with a clipboard and the word
intern
fairly stamped on his forehead. And behind them, parked at the curb in front of the school, was a white KTVU News van with a satellite attached to the roof.

Oh boy.

“Hartley!” the woman called, charging forward with a black microphone in one hand.

I bit my lip and briefly contemplated escape, but it was a short-lived thought as the woman closed in, her entourage a step behind.

“Hartley Featherstone?” she asked. “Hi, I’m Diane Dancy from the KTVU Channel Two news. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions?”

“Umm . . . okay. I guess,” I said, suddenly very conscious of the fact I hadn’t looked in a mirror since fourth period. On instinct I raised a hand to my head, smoothing my hair down.

“Great,” Diane said, gesturing to the camera guy.

He hoisted the camera up onto his shoulder and said, “In five, four, three . . .”

“Wait, you mean right now?” I asked, tucking more hair behind my ear, wishing she’d at least given me a chance to put on some lip gloss.

She ignored me, instead turning to the camera and whipping out the biggest smile I’d ever seen. “I’m Diane Dancy at Herbert Hoover High School where students are reacting to the gruesome murder of one of their own. I’m here with Hartley Featherstone, the student who found Courtney Cline’s body. Hartley,” she said, turning to me, “can you tell me how it felt to find your good friend murdered?”

“Uh . . . well,
good
is a strong word. . . .” I paused, looking from the microphone to the reporter to the little red light on the camera indicating that I was being broadcast to every home in the Bay Area.

“How did it feel when you realized she’d been murdered?” Diane pressed.

“It sucked?” I said. Only it came out more as a question.

“I’m sure it must have been incredibly traumatic for you.”

Honestly? It kind of was. Despite the fact that Courtney was not what I’d call a “good” friend, no one deserved to die like that. “It was,” I answered, “but I’m sure it was much more traumatic for her.”

“And you found her in your boyfriend’s bedroom?”

“
Ex
-boyfriend,” I clarified.

“Were you scared?”

“A little.”

“Appalled?”

“Sorta.”

“Fearful for your own life?”

“Um, well, not really—”

“Afraid that it could have been you?”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean, it could have been me?”

“Do you believe it was luck that Josh snapped when he was with Courtney and not with you?”

“Wait—Josh did not snap.”

“You mean you saw signs of his homicidal tendencies while you were dating?”

“No!” I held up my hand, shaking my head. “You have this all wrong. Josh is not a killer.”

Diane gave me a skeptical look. “My sources within the law enforcement community have verified that he is a suspect.”

“The police are wrong,” I protested. “And—and we’re going to prove it!”

She raised one artfully sculpted eyebrow. “We?”

“I’m working with the school’s online paper, the
Herbert Hoover High Homepage,
to conduct an investigation.”

I could see interest lighting behind Diane’s eyes as she gestured to the camera guy to zoom in. “Tell me more about this investigation. What are you doing exactly?”

“Oh. Well . . .” I faltered, feeling the intensity of the camera on me. “We’re, uh, looking at her classmates, friends, enemies—anyone who knew Courtney well. We’ve interviewed several people about her movements the day she was killed,” I continued, gaining steam. “In fact, if anyone has information relating to Courtney’s death, I urge them to contact me through the
Homepage
’s website.”

“Has your investigation turned up anything interesting so far?” Diane asked.

I nodded. “Yes, it has, Diane. We have evidence that suggests someone other than Josh might have had a viable motive for killing Courtney.”

“And what might that evidence be?” Diane pressed.

“Text messages.”

“Where did you get these text messages?”

“Uh . . .” I figured it probably wouldn’t be a great idea to admit to computer hacking on television. I glanced at Sam for help. She shrugged. “I’d rather not reveal my sources at this time.”

Which sounded pretty weak even as I said it, but apparently it was enough to convince Diane to drop it.

“Well, there you have it,” she said, turning back to the camera. “Killer beware, because Herbert Hoover High has its very own Nancy Drew on the case.”

Great. Just what I wanted to be known as.

As soon as the camera turned off, I grabbed Sam by the arm and hightailed it off campus before anyone else caught wind of the Nancy Drew comment. We speed walked the three blocks to her place where, ten minutes later, we were pleading our case to her brother to let us borrow the clean, green machine to track down Andi Brackenridge.

“Dude, again?” he asked from his position on the sofa. In front of him Animal Planet played on mute, and the coffee table at his side was littered with the remnants of both breakfast and lunch if the mix of cereal bowls, dried milk spills, and empty Chef Boyardee cans were any indication.

“Please, Kev?” Sam asked. “We’re desperate.”

“Can’t you, like, take the bus? I’m low on fuel.”

“We’ll help you fill it up later,” Sam said.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay, I guess so,” he finally said. “But bring me back a taco or something, ’kay? I’m starving.”

We barely had time to nod before grabbing the keys and rushing out the door.

Ten minutes later we were driving the “Live Green!” advertisement down Union Avenue where, according to last year’s school directory, Andi Brackenridge lived. We pulled up in front of a large, ranch-style place with a big square addition over the garage painted a shade of yellow just the slightest bit lighter than the rest of the house.

Sam shut the car off with a cough of French fry– scented smoke, and I followed her up the stone pathway to a white wooden front door. A welcome mat sat outside, and two potted begonias flanked the entryway. Sam knocked once, and two beats later we were greeted by a woman with long hair worn loose around her shoulders and streaked with highlights. She was dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, flip-flops with sparkles on the straps, and an Ed Hardy T-shirt. While she looked way too young to be a grandma, I recognized her from sixth grade Girl Scouts as Andi’s mom.

“Mrs. Brackenridge?” I asked.

She nodded. “Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Andi. Is she in?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, she’s working. Are you friends of hers?” she asked.

“We went to school with her,” I said. Which was the truth, even if we hadn’t spoken since middle school.

“Where does she work?” Sam asked.

“She sells Mary May cosmetics,” Mrs. Brackenridge responded. “You know, door-to-door.”

That figured. The Andi I remembered from last year had been a virtual makeup addict—one more thing I guess Color Guard girls and cheerleaders had in common. Her signature color had been a combo of three different Bare Escentuals lipsticks with a glaze of Burt’s Bees lip gloss over the top. I was pretty sure she took her makeup off each night with a chisel.

“Any idea where we can find her?” Sam pressed.

“She said she’s working the Blossom Grove neighborhood today. Maybe you can catch her.”

Blossom Grove was a planned community of single-family homes near the freeway. Big houses, small lots, spindly little trees tied to stakes amid square patches of lawn just big enough for a golden retriever to do his business.

We thanked Mrs. Brackenridge and climbed back into the Volvo, crossing our fingers that we had enough grease to make it.

After navigating through Orange Blossom Drive, toward Citrus Blossom Court, and down Blossom Breeze Avenue (Gee, think maybe someone had a thing for agriculture?), we finally spotted Andi in front of a large, two-story beige stucco house. While her hips were a little more generous than I remembered, there was no mistaking her dyed red hair and triple layer lips. She was wheeling a small, pink suitcase behind her and had a small, pink baby strapped to her chest in a snuggly carrier. Chubby little arms and legs were sticking out from her front like a starfish.