I So Don't Do Mysteries (14 page)

“Love that Keflit,” I say, joining them. “I have to have some for
my aquarium.” I reach out to touch the plastic bag. “Where'd you get
it?”

Their jaws hit the ground.

Obviously they aren't used to Arizona friendliness.

“Junie,” I call, “come see this. It's too
cool.”

“Vera, Vera.” With shaking hands, Arthur shoves the bag toward
her.

She slots it into the outside pocket of her purse. “It's not for an
aquarium.”

“That's okay,” I say. “I decorate with a lot of stuff that
isn't specifically for aquariums. I'm very creative.”

“It's for planting,” Arthur says.

Gary and Junie arrive.

“Junie, you've got to see these crystals. Finally, something for my
aquarium that totally matches my walls.”

Tall Lavender Lady doesn't pull the Keflit out for Junie to see.

“So, you're into fish?” Gary takes my elbow. “I used to
be too.” With his other hand, he takes Junie's elbow and leads us away. We pass
Kendra, at the fence trying to schmooze with the old people. A lost cause, if you ask me. We pass
Grandpa too. Asleep in a tree, his head tucked under a tattered wing, he's got a little snore
going.

“What fish do you have?” Gary asks, all attentive.

“Tell him about Cindy and Prince,” Junie says. By association with me,
she's an aquarium aficionada too.

I'm diving into the habits of my bala sharks when Gary's cell
chirps.

“I must get this.” He takes a few steps before flipping open his phone.
He probably wants some privacy, but I'm so tuned in to his yummy accent and his soothing
voice that I can't turn off my listening. Plus, I'm worried it might be Sue saying
she's on her way, because then I'll have to scurry out of here on my one functioning
foot.

“I'm not available to talk at the moment.” Gary rubs his
forehead.

There's a pause, then he says, irritated, “No, I speak English.”
He disconnects.

Walking toward us, he's still frowning from his phone conversation. Then, like
he's going on stage, Gary turns on a perfect smile. That never reaches his eyes.

The ride back
is all about Amber.

Despite the fact that I'm grimy, exhausted and coffee stained, she convinces me
to go to the Hotel Del's outdoor pool with her. Why? To watch her try on the new outfits she
just bought. Why? She wants to make sure she doesn't clash with the pool area. Why?
She's an extra in a scene that's getting shot there.

Yes, it's ridiculous. All I can say is, Amber's very persuasive. Junie got
sucked in too.

When we get to the Del, Amber skips up the carpeted stairs to the rooms, right past the
REGISTERED GUESTS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT
sign. She's
borrowing a pool key from a guy she met on the set.

Junie and me slump in chairs in the lobby. Amber's many bags slump beside
us. The hugest chandelier in history glitters above, showering us with glints of silver light.

“Got any games on your phone?” Junie asks.

“Doesn't matter,” I say. “My phone's
broken.”

“It's probably out of charge.”

“No, it fell.” Really far.

“Try popping out the battery,” Junie says, “then putting it back
in.”

Okay. That just sounds lame. But I'm desperate.

It works! When I snap the battery back in and push On, the screen lights up.
I've got power. I've got messages. I've got phone.

“Junie, you're amazing.”

She smiles.

The first message is from my great-aunt Margaret. “Sherry, just checking on
you. I want to treat you and your friends to a pizza picnic on the beach Friday. Call me.”

The next message is from my dad. He's checking on me too. He already talked
to Sam, who's doing fine at Grandma Baldwin's house. Oh yeah, and The Ruler
bought a few Hawaiian shirts for me and Sam. Probably with hideous, scary flowers that scream
fashion disaster. Next she'll be buying matching muumuus for me and her. Help.

The last message is from Josh. My heart hammers like one of the Park's exotic
birds I saw beak-attacking a tree trunk.

“Hey, Sherry. I guess we got cut off. Anyway, I'm coming out
Tuesday, as in tomorrow. Not Thursday. Can't wait to see you.”

I sigh with happiness.

“What is it?” Junie asks.

“Josh's coming to San Diego early. Tomorrow instead of
Thursday.”

Her mouth is round like a Cheerio. No words come out.

It's like I'm a Lava lamp and those colored blobs that float all over are
blobs of love bumping around inside me, lighting me up.

I could happily stay in my Lava-lamp world till Josh arrives, replaying his message,
zoning out over his freckles and deep blue eyes and sagging jeans.

But Amber skips back down the stairs. With the pool key.

She skips through the lobby and outside. Junie and me tramp behind her, carrying her
bags. Actually, Junie tramps. Despite my blisters, there's a bouncy spring to my step because I
have Josh on the brain.

While Amber's off changing in the poolside cabana, Junie and me get
comfortable on the chaise longues. It's both cool and weird to be lying by a pool with palm
trees from the beach waving in the ocean breeze and the sound of the ocean crashing in the
background. It's like being in two places at the same time. Very exotic.

A couple of girls are tanning a few chairs away, flopped onto their stomachs and
baking.

A family with a baby digs in a diaper bag for a special swim diaper and waterproof
sunscreen. They seem pretty unaware of our existence.

“Isn't this hot, girls?” Amber prances back and forth in front of
us wearing a thin pink T-shirt and ultrashort, low-rise pink shorts. She's accessorized with pink
sandals, huge pink hoop earrings and enough pink bracelets to cover her arm from her wrist to her
elbow.

“So, what do ya think?” Amber asks.

Junie shrugs.

“Looks, uh, pink,” I say.

“Duh.” Amber clinks the bracelets. “It's for the party
I'm throwing at your aunt's.”

“What?” I shriek. “No way you're having a party! No
way, José! You can just lose that ridiculous idea!”

The tanning girls and the family tune in to us.

“Too late.” Amber curls her thumbs through the shorts belt loops and
juts out her chest. “I already told everybody it's on Friday.”

“What?” I shriek again.

“You're going to a beach party on Friday,” Junie says
calmly.

“I am?” Amber's eyes sparkle. “I love double-party
days.”

“You should move your party to the beach,” Junie says.

“Great idea,” Amber says. “I love big parties.”

I hope my aunt does too.

The tanning girls and the family go back to ignoring us.

“Wait'll you see what's next.” Amber bounces off and
returns in a camouflage bikini.

A bikini that doesn't camouflage much of anything, if you get my drift. Still, she
does look good. And she definitely knows how to swing her hips.

“So, what do ya think?” Amber asks.

Junie shrugs.

“Looks fine,” I say. Anything not involving a party at my aunt's
condo looks fine to me.

Next, Amber models a short black-and-gray-striped jersey dress with spaghetti straps.
Then comes a baby-doll shirt with tight plaid capris. Then a halter dress with lace and large
sunflowers.

By the fifth ensemble, Junie falls asleep. I'm kinda nodding off myself.

Amber shakes Junie's shoulders. Violently. “Give me feedback! Like,
‘This outfit looks better worn by the towel rack instead of by the shallow end.' Or
‘Those colors clash with your skin.' Or ‘You need a spray-on tan.'
” She glares at us. “This is my career. My future.”

“Amber, you're from Arizona,” Junie says.
“Remember? The Grand Canyon State?”

“Yeah,” I chime in, “since when did you go all Southern Cal
with Hollywood fever?”

And then the strangest thing happens. Amber leans in close. So close I can see every
perfect pore on her perfect face. On minty breath, she whispers, “I have insider info. About the
movie.”

Shaking my head,
I drag my blistered feet up the steps to
the Whaley House.

Who knew Amber would willingly give me a ride? Who knew Armber would ever give
me mystery information? I'm still in shock. Sure, it was by accident. She doesn't know
I'm investigating Damon. But still. What irony. And . . . who knew I'd ever use a term
from English class in real life?

Anyway, according to a stagehand guy Amber met, Damon's expecting a
bunch of money to come through soon for his movie. When that happens, it'll be the green
light for him to hire more people. And some of them will actually get to say a line. Amber's
hoping to be upgraded from an extra to an extra with a speaking part.

Will Damon's funding arrive in the form of a rhino horn?

At the door, a man in a top hat and an old-fashioned suit interrupts my thoughts. He
says, all low and spooky, “Welcome to the Whaley House, the most haunted house in the
United States, according to the Travel Channel.”

I don't need this atmosphere stuff. My stomach is already fluttering like
I'm carbonated. I am so not comfortable entering a haunted zone. I am so not comfortable
facing a heart-to-heart with my mom.

The man holds out a white-gloved hand. “Ticket, please.”

Ticket? “Uh, I'm just meeting my, uh, mom.”

“There are currently no human visitors in the house.”

“Oh, uh, I guess I got here early,” I say.

He points at the small building next door. “Tickets are available at the
museum.”

I limp over, take care of business, then limp back.

The instant he's got my ticket, the docent starts feeding me facts about the
olden days, all in the same creepy voice as before. “This brick house was constructed in 1856
by Thomas Whaley, who originally came to California for the gold rush.” He brushes imaginary
flecks off his lapel.

I take advantage of the break in his monologue. “I really just want to go in and
look around.”

He pushes round gold-rimmed glasses, probably fake, up his nose. “My talk is
part of the tour. I'm sure you want to hear about our ghostly residents.”

Why do I have to get the enthusiastic docent?

“There's Yankee Jim Robinson, one of the men who was hanged on the
exact spot where the house is,” he says. “Thomas Whaley himself, dressed in a frock
coat like the one I'm wearing. Then there's . . .”

I hum under my breath, just loud enough to tune out all the scary spirit babble.

“And you never know, young lady, who you'll meet today.”
The docent opens his eyes wide so that the whites are huge and freaky.

Ack. He's jinxing me.

He tips his hat. “Take your time. I'm going to run across the street for a
bite, but I'll be available for questions when you're done.”

I turn to watch as he heads down the steps, then waits at the curb for a break in traffic.
I take a long last look at the sights and sounds of normal civilization. People are strolling along the
narrow sidewalk, passing displays of postcards and Mexican blankets. An employee sweeps dirt off
the stoop in front of an Indian jewelry store. The door to a soap store swings open, and a girl exits,
chewing on a churro.

I take a deep breath and a small step. I cross the threshold.

It's completely quiet, the air heavy and still. Then the smell of coffee swirls
around my head.

“Mom?”

“This is a nice surprise,” Mom says.

“Yeah, well, I figured we should talk.”

“Let's go upstairs where it's more private,” she says.
“It won't be long before the next batch of tourists arrive.”

I follow the scent of coffee past the parlor, with its small chairs and organ, to narrow
stairs with a smooth, polished banister.

At the top, there's a tiny theater. About forty wooden chairs face the stage and
a painted backdrop of a lake and some grass. A black-and-white poster advertises a play about Yankee
Jim Robinson.

A door with an
EMPLOYEES ONLY
sign creaks open, and
I'm blown inside.

In the semidarkness, I bump against a small table and a dresser. I find a rocking chair
and flop into it. Now the coffee mingles with a musty, closed-up smell. Squinting, I see I'm in a
teeny room that I'm guessing was the prop room.

Mom's voice comes from above the dresser. “Do you know where
your grandfather is?”

“I left him napping at the Wild Animal Park.” I squirm around, trying to
get comfortable in the hard chair.

“It was a long trip for him.” She pauses. “Look, about your
phone—”

“It's fine,” I interrupt. “Not even broken.”

“Sherry, we need to work as a team.”

“I know, Mom. I know.”

There's a short, awkward silence, then it's gone, like we both shrugged
it off and moved on. 'Cause we love each other. 'Cause we're in this together.
'Cause we can't afford to be mad at each other. But it still kinda bugs me that we
didn't really talk about it.

“So,” Mom says, “what did you discover at the
Park?”

Trying not to leave out any details, I fill her in on Thomas and Damon and everything
I've been up to since morphing into a Fearless Rhino Warrior. I feel like I'm in a squad
room or something. Like a real professional going over clues with a colleague.

“Sooo . . . ,” Mom says slowly.

And I can just imagine her twirling her hair around her index finger.

“I understand Damon needs money,” she says, “but there are
much simpler ways than selling rhino horns on the black market.”

“That's true for your average dude. But because of Kendra, Damon
knows tons about rhinos.”

“And depending on what Rob is willing to do, he may end up with a story
and
jail time.” She pauses. “I wonder if he's like us. He knows
something's going down with the rhinos, and he's following the leads in the hopes of
scoring a scoop.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I rub the back of my knee.

“Then again, the perp could be someone completely different, someone we
don't know about.”

“True.” I scratch my thighs.

“That chair is made of real horsehair,” Mom says. “Maybe
you're allergic.”

I hop up. The last thing I need is another rash.

“Let's keep an eye on them both. I agree with you about Thomas being
an animal lover, not a potential rhino killer.” Then Mom asks, “What about the old
people? They sound odd.”

“They're past odd.” And I tell her about them hooking up on
the Internet and all having arthritis. “They hang out at the Park, drooling over the rhinos. And
they're a really tight group. Like, reminding each other when to take medicine.”

“So you think they're odd but harmless?”

“Exactly. Plus, they're rude.” I put my hands on my hips.
“And unfriendly.”

I'm about to tell her about the Keflit and the new color on my bedroom walls,
when I give myself a mental slap. I will not babble. I will stay focused and on task. Like a real,
professional detective.

Mom says, “Sherry, now let me tell you what I've found
out.”

When my mom says she's been investigating too, I can totally tell by her voice
she's already deep into Intense Mode.

My heart sinks. I absolutely hate it when she's in Intense Mode. We've
been having such a nice, getting-along, figuring-things-out-together detective conversation. But now
she'll go all-out crazy intense. And the more intense she goes, the more nonintense I go. After
years of practice, it's cemented into our relationship. Once, in third grade, to counteract my
mom's intenseness over multiplication facts, I completely shut down and got zeros on my
timed tests for weeks.

Anyway, I bet she's sitting across from me, leaning forward with her elbows
jammed into her thighs and her chin cupped by her palms. Her eyes are probably narrow like a
lizard's and fanatically focused on me.

“I interviewed all the ghosts at the Whaley House.” Her vowels are
shortened and snapped off, like she can't spit them out fast enough.

“Interviewed”? More like “interrogated.”
“And?”

“Several talked about a famous French chef. He's living, not a ghost.
Chef L'Oeuf. Prepares an annual dinner. Very top secret. Very exotic. New location every
year. Last March was lion in London. Leaked to the press after the fact. By someone's
nanny.” Mom's sentences are short and reportlike. “Chef L'Oeuf has a
dedicated following. Eccentric rich people. From all over the globe.”

“So?”

“The chef's current location? San Diego. More
precisely—Coronado Island.”

“So?”

“Rhino meat. Is it on this year's menu?”

My Fearless Rhino Warrior instincts kick in. “That's
illegal!”

“Correct. But immaterial to the chef. He believes his hush-hush meal operation
is above the law. It always has been. His guest list includes some high-ranking officials. Like royalty
and presidents of countries.”

I shake my head to out the image of one of my rhino buddies shish kebabbed between a
mushroom and a pineapple. No, no, no. That can't happen. “What do we
do?”

“Tomorrow. Tuesday. Three p.m. sharp. On the Bay restaurant. Chef
L'Oeuf will unlock the doors. You. Undercover. Enter the restaurant with the other
workers.”

“What?” She's lost it. My mother has totally lost it.
“Hello.” I wave my hand to break her insane military trance. “Ya don't
think someone'll notice I don't actually work there? That I'm only
thirteen?”

“Chef L'Oeuf trains a few students each spring,” she replies.
“Use ‘career unit at school' to explain your presence.”

“Got any ideas on how I should fake the cooking part?” I say with
sarcasm. “I mean, Chef L'Oeuf
might
ask me to do something trickier than
nuke a Hot Pocket, Mom.”

She sighs. “Sherry, I doubt he'll assign you anything complicated. The
dinner is planned for Friday. Tomorrow is a practice run for sauces, salad dressings and
desserts.” Then, because I'm not the only sarcastic one in the family, she adds,
“Surely you can handle stirring with a wooden spoon.”

I roll my eyes.

She sighs again. “You're all we've got. I can't cross the
threshold to the restaurant. We can't send your grandfather in. Will we wait outside the
restaurant, be available for backup or ideas if you need us? Absolutely.”

“Fine.” I huff. “What am I looking for? Exactly?”

“Exactly? I don't know. Chat with the workers. Keep your ears open.
Look around. Are there any papers, recipe books? See if you can find out if he plans to serve rhino
meat.”

Sounds like mission impossible.

“And talk to him in French,” Mom adds. “Apparently, it fatigues
him to speak English and he's always looking for a little French conversation.”

“Excusez-moi,”
I screech. “I don't speak
French.”

“It's one of your classes.”

“I have a C minus in French. Translation: I. Don't. Speak.
French.”

Mom tsks. “Sherry, you always underestimate yourself.”

I hate it when she makes statements like that. Especially when she might be right.
“That's so not true,” I yell at the air above the dresser. “I just happen to
be realistic about my limits. Not like some people I know. Some people think they can handle anything.
Some people go to drug busts when they're sick. And end up getting killed.” The more
I say, the more I can't stop myself. All this anger that I didn't even realize I had is
rushing out of my mouth like water over the Hoover Dam. “You never really knew me. Not
really. You knew your partner a gazillion times better than me. You knew Nero
Whatever-His-Last-Name, your dog partner, a gazillion times better than me. And now? Now you
don't know me at all. Not at all.” For emphasis, I hold up my thumb and index finger
squeezed together. “So don't tell me I'm underestimating myself. I
don't speak French. End of story.” I pound the wall next to me.

Silence. Punctuated by gulps. Gulps on both our parts.

I'm not sure about my mother, but I feel sick. With the back of my hand, I wipe
tears off my cheeks.

Mom sniffs. “Sherry—”

Knock, knock.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“What's going on in there? This area isn't open to the
public.” The door swings open.

It's the docent. “You're not allowed in here.” He peers
at me over his fake-o glasses. “Are you okay? You look like you've seen a
ghost.” He claps. “You have. You have seen a ghost. Was it Yankee Jim Robinson or
Mr. Whaley?”

“Neither.” And, staring at the dresser, I say, “It was an
extremely mean and bossy ghost. With dumb ideas.”