Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack (21 page)

I headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, and while I was in there, I could hear the Wedge thumping around next door. Please, I say in my head. Please don’t fall off the toilet tonight, because I’m so tired that even the
thought
of having to hoist her up is about killing me. The whole time I’m in there brushing my teeth and washing my face and taking care of business, I’m sort of holding my breath waiting for the earth to quake, or for her fist to pound on the wall for help.

But when I’m done, what I hear instead is a little
tap-tap … tap
on the Wedgie Woman’s wall.

Now, you have to understand, the Wedge
tapping
is like an elephant mewing—it’s not something you ever in a million years expect.

So, yeah, I was caught off guard.

I mean, what did she want?

What did tapping
mean
?

Then there it is again,
tap-tap … tap
, and this time there’s also her voice coming through the wall. “Good night!”

Good night?

I just stand there for a minute, blinking at the wall.

Her voice sounded nice, too.

Almost playful.

Like we were friends whispering at camp.

So finally I reached out and went
tap-tap … tap
back.

I didn’t
say
anything.

I just tapped.

Then I went to bed feeling safer than I had since the day I’d moved in.

I don’t think Dorito slept on my head, because I had no dreams about suffocating. Actually, I had no dreams at all. I was conked out, dead-to-the-world asleep.

Grams, on the other hand, looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole.

Or tossed down the trash chute.

Or left to tumble in a clothes dryer.

“Are you okay?” I asked when she staggered out of the bathroom the next morning.

“I had the worst night,” she groaned, and instead of coming into the kitchen to make breakfast like she usually does, she slouched into a chair at the kitchen table. “All I could think about was Rose. She’s got a vindictive streak, Samantha. And if she turns me in, what will we do?” She held her head between her hands. “Your mother’s back to scrabbling for work, and she confessed last week that she hasn’t saved a thing! Can you imagine? It’s all gone to living the Hollywood lifestyle.”

I was in the middle of putting together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, and I stopped smearing jam. “Is that what she said?”

“Oh, she didn’t call it the Hollywood lifestyle—she claimed it was an investment in her career. But it’s just keeping up with the divas! She needs her beauty treatments and her name-brand clothes, and she insists she has to be seen dining at the right places to ‘build an aura of success.’ ”

I shake my head. “Meanwhile, I live illegally with you in a government building and pack peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.”

“Exactly! And what happens if Rose decides to become spiteful?”

I get back to making my lunch. “She won’t, Grams. Everything’s okay.”

“How can you
say
that?”

“She tapped good-night through the wall last night.”

Her eyes practically bug through her glasses. “She tapped good-night?”

“Uh-huh. It was … nice.”

“And that’s your
guarantee
?”

“There are no guarantees, Grams, but I have a good feeling about it.”

“About Rose,” she says, like I’m the most naive person on the planet.

“Yes. And—”

Just then the phone rings. It’s so early that it has to be Holly or Casey or Marissa, but since the Senior Highrise is actually a multistory dinosaur cave and has no caller ID, just to be safe, I use a warbly old-lady voice when I snatch up the phone. “Hello, dearie?”

But it’s not Holly or Casey or Marissa.

It’s heavy breathing.

Heavy,
gurgly
breathing.

“Hello?” I say again, only this time I forget to use the old-lady voice.

“Sah—” the voice gasps. “Sah—”

And then there’s an enormous crashing
thump
.

One we can feel ripple through the floor.

“Oh no,” Grams moans. “She’s down again.”

I hang up quick. “Where’s the key?”

She pulls it out of her pocket. “Here, but why are you so—”

I grab her by the hand and pull her along, dreading what we’ll find next door.

I’d like to be able to say that I have no experience with dead bodies, but unfortunately that’s not the case.

I’ve seen six whole ones and a partial, and they weren’t all in coffins, believe me.

Oh.

And then there were the skulls.

And the giant refrigerator full of body bags.

But never mind about all that. The
point
is, I would have been happy to go my whole life without seeing another corpse or body bag or skull, but the minute we found Mrs. Wedgewood on the kitchen floor, I knew she was dead.

I also knew she had not gotten around to taking a shower.

“Oh my,” Grams says, keeping her distance. “Is she … gone?”

I get down on my knees and shake her. “Mrs. Wedgewood!”

Nothing.

I turn to Grams. “You call 9-1-1. I’ll check for a pulse.”

So while Grams gets on the phone and reports what’s happened, I put two fingers against Mrs. Wedgewood’s throat. And while I’m holding my breath, waiting for any sign of a beating heart, I can’t help but look at her face. And it jolts me to realize that with the way she’s lying and her peaceful expression, she looks like an angel.

Not one of those beautiful ladies with wings.

One of those fat little baby angels.

You know—a cherub?

Okay, so she’s an ultra-mega-mondo-supersized version of that, but still.

“Anything?” Grams whispers over the phone.

I shake my head and switch to Mrs. Wedgewood’s wrist. But the truth is, I can’t be sure if I’m not finding a pulse because of everything it has to beat through to make it to the surface, or if there just isn’t one.

Finally I put my ear up to her chest, and when I don’t hear anything, I turn to Grams and shake my head again.

“There doesn’t appear to be a pulse,” Grams says into the phone, “but she’s a very large woman, so we can’t be sure.”

I wave at her frantically and mouth, “No we.”

“What?” she says, covering the mouthpiece.

“No
we
,” I whisper. “They record everything!”

Her eyes get all buggy as she tunes back into what the dispatcher is saying. And after a minute she says, “Shouldn’t I try to give her CPR before they get here? … No, I’m not, but maybe you can instruct me over the phone? … 
Really? Already?” She starts waving frantically at me and mouths, “They’re HERE.”

So I get up and head for the front door, but when I peek out, there’s Bun-Top stalking up the hallway.

I close the door quick. “I’m stuck!” I whisper to Grams, and like a trained rat, I dart for the bedroom closet.

Now, Grams’ closet is stuffed with clothes, and the floor is covered with shoes and random junk. It’s where I first unearthed the Awesome Dome of Dryness, and it’s also where I unearthed the only connection I have to my dad—his catcher’s mitt.

I used to carry the mitt around with me everywhere—usually crammed in my backpack—but since I’m not playing softball this year, I wound up putting it back where I found it. Maybe if I ever meet him, I’ll dig it out so we can toss the ball around some.

Then again, maybe he’s dead.

And who knows when I’ll find out? According to my jobless, penniless, spa-pampered mother, I’m not mature enough to know who he is or where he is or even
what
he is.

Also according to my jobless, penniless, spa-pampered mother, it’s just fine to dump me at Grams’ and run off with my boyfriend’s father.

But
anyway
, compared to Grams’ closet, Mrs. Wedgewood’s is practically empty. There are muumuus hanging from the bar, but there’s actually space between them, and instead of stuff galore on the floor, there are only two pairs of shoes and one medium-sized cardboard box. It does
smell
a little, but other than that it’s still a whole lot
more comfortable than being crammed into Grams’ closet.

I’d left Mrs. Wedgewood’s bedroom door open, and I’ve got the closet door cracked so I’ll be able to hear what’s going on when the paramedics arrive, but then someone—probably Grams—closes the bedroom door.

Maybe because Bun-Top’s barged into the apartment?

Whatever the reason, I’m stuck sitting there among the muumuus with nothing to hear and nothing to do. And after what feels like
forever
, I move the box so I can stretch out a little more. And after another forever, I try to use the box as a headrest and wonder what would happen if Bun-Top
is
in the apartment and she starts snooping around for things to steal and finds
me
.

And after
another
forever, I’m just bored out of my mind and
really
tempted to take a peek through the bedroom door, but I know that’s a very bad idea. Especially since Mr. Garnucci almost has to be there.

So instead I open the box.

And what I see inside would have been a double dose of extra-boring since it’s basically just files and papers, only at the very top of the papers is a box of chocolates.

And rubber-banded to the box of chocolates is an envelope.

And on the envelope, in big, flowery letters, is a name.

My
name.

At first I just stare at it feeling really, really strange. I mean, the morning had started out pretty much like any
other morning, but one thing had led to another and now here I was, hiding in Mrs. Wedgewood’s closet, staring at an envelope addressed to me.

It was kind of cosmic.

And, really, I didn’t want to think about that too much.

Besides, what if this envelope and box of chocolates were for another Samantha? What if it was all just a big coincidence?

There was only one way to find out.

I opened the letter!

And right away I knew—it was for me.

I was too overwhelmed by what she’d said to care about how much she’d left. My hands were shaking and my eyes were running, and inside I was a huge muddle of regret.

I’d called her the Wedge. The Wedginator! Wedgie Woman! The Whale! The Walrus! The Whopper! But under all those layers of lard was a woman who’d given more thought to my future than my own beautiful, nearly fat-free mother.

I finally slipped the letter back inside the envelope, wiped my eyes, and opened the box. And there, staring up at me, were four stacks of cash.

All Benjamins.

And even though there were no chocolates left in the
box, I could smell that there had been. And it flashed through my mind how strange it was that chocolates that weren’t even there could change a stinky closet into one that smelled so sweet.

How even after something’s gone, it can still almost magically change things.

I sat there for the longest time thinking about that, and finally I took a deep, choppy breath and started counting.

One thousand … two thousand … three thousand … 
four
.

Five thousand … six thousand …

And I’m just getting up to seven thousand when the door flies open. I totally spaz and jump and bump, but it’s only Grams. “Oh!” she gasps. “You found it!” And for a minute I think she’s been in on the Wedgewood College Fund. But then she says, “Quick! They’re all after it!”

“What?”

“Just come!”

So I gather my box and the letter and scramble out of the closet to the front door. And after Grams has checked the hallway, she shoos me down to our apartment while she locks up Mrs. Wedgewood’s.

“My lord!” she gasps when she’s safely home. And she’s so shaky that she can’t even seem to make it to a chair somewhere. She just braces herself with her back against the door and her hands spread wide. “That was insanity! As if dealing with the paramedics and the police and seeing Rose taken away wasn’t bad enough, everyone’s attacking me because they think I have a key and will go back in
there and find her money!” Her eyes get huge. “Do you hear that?” she whispers.

Well, since I’m actually
in
the apartment, not up against the door, I can’t hear what’s going on in the hallway, but apparently she can.

“They’re back!” she whispers. “It’s a miracle I got you out of there!” She motions for me to hide, then opens the front door and says, “Oh, good heavens!”

I recognize Bun-Top’s voice as she calls back, “Good heavens all you want, Rita! If Vinnie’s not posting a guard, we will!”

“So you’re going to sit there all day, Cynthia? Because you think I’m a criminal with a key?”

“That’s exactly why!”

“Well, I never!”