Don't You Trust Me? (14 page)

I might not be any Michelangelo, but I felt certain that, with a little practice, I could learn to fake documents.

The day before the event I had a big crew swarming over Hidden Hollow Ranch. There was less to do at Pegasus Stables because Bounce's sister was handling that. Some stuff had to wait until the next morning, but we were organizing so that we had as little as possible to do at the last minute.

One member of the crew of volunteers was the stupid cold girl who kept getting caught stealing at the mall. She was trailing around the stables, not doing much work and projecting a general aura of deceit and untrustworthiness. She ran her greedy little fingers over everything—pitchforks,
dung shovels, bags of bran, saddles, and tack, assessing possible salability and cash potential.

“Watch out for old light-fingered Francea over there,” I said to Brooke and Emma in a low tone. “I'm not sure what she thinks she's going to steal from a stable, but I'm sure she'll find something.”

“What do you mean? Why would she steal something?” asked Emma, as Brooke stared at me, openmouthed.

Evidently Francea had come to the same conclusion about there not being much worthwhile to steal in a barn, because she began drifting away, toward the parked cars. She started walking oh-so-casually up and down the rows of vehicles, casting glances in through the windows, looking for any unprotected valuables that might be ripe for the picking.

“Because,” I said, checking off the latest task on my list, “it is her nature to steal, that's why. She eats, she sleeps, she steals. Francea the Felon. Didn't you know? She's been barred from every shopping mall in a thirty-mile radius. One more conviction, and it's off to reform school.”

They both turned to look at Francea, disbelieving. I could not imagine how they did not know this. She might as well have been wearing a T-shirt labeled,
I AM A THIEF.

“Stop staring, and we'll catch her in the act. Even Francea isn't
stupid enough to take something while you're looking right at her.”

They stopped, but only so that they could begin arguing in loud whispers.

“If that's true, I don't
want
to catch her in the act. The poor girl!” cried Brooke.

“I don't know,” said Emma. “It might be better if she does get caught. Then she could get some counseling. Wow, she must have some real trauma in her background to act like that.”

I stopped running my eyes down the list of chores and looked at them.

“Why do you think that, Emma?” I asked. “And why do you feel sorry for her, Brooke?” Honestly, I was curious. Why would they react like that? “Your cars are both parked out there. Did you leave anything in them you'd regret losing? Doesn't it make you mad to think of her taking your stuff?”

They both turned to see how close Francea was to their cars. Not too close, evidently, because they turned back again.

“Everybody knows that people steal compulsively like that because they're compensating for some deep-seated loss in their life,” Emma said. “It's hardly even her fault. She should be stopped because it isn't fair to the rest of us, but she needs counseling so she can make her peace with whatever bad experiences are making her do this.”

“Oh, I suppose you're right,” Brooke said. “I just hate
to see people cornered and caught. It's like watching one of those nature shows where the predator is stalking its prey. I can't look; I can't even stand thinking about it.” She shuddered.

Huh. I kind of like those shows.

“What if she steals because she enjoys stealing?” I asked. “What if she's had a perfectly normal childhood but happens to think it's more fun to take things than it is to save up money to buy them?”

Emma shook her head pityingly. “You are taking a very old-fashioned view of crime. Nobody is born evil. Nobody is born a thief. People don't do terrible things without reason. Nope, she's compensating for something.”

“And you say she's been caught before,” said Brooke. “Now that she knows the consequences, why would she keep doing it if she weren't driven to it?”

Consulting my own personal experience, I offered some suggestions: “Poor impulse control? Thrill seeking? A taste for the finer things in life coupled with a disinclination to pay for them?”

They both smiled at me and shook their heads.

Okay, if you say so.
Far be it from
me
to disillusion you.

“Say, isn't that your mother's Subaru, Emma?” I inquired. “You know, the one whose glove box Francea has her hand in right now?”

Emma snapped to attention.
“What?”

“That looks like a fine set of binoculars she's secreting in that big handbag of hers,” I added.

She gasped. “Those are my dad's Vortex Razor! He'll kill me if those get stolen. He always tells me to lock the car, but I forgot they were in there.”

“What do we do?” whispered Brooke.

“We get them back!” said Emma. She set her jaw and looked like she was about to march over to Francea and shake them out of her.

“But how? Won't she deny it if we ask her?” Brooke restrained Emma by clutching her arm. “Oh, Morgan, what should we do?”

“I'll get them,” I said. “But if I do, you both owe me. Stay here and don't move.”

Not pausing to see if they agreed with this proposition, I began walking fast in Francea's direction. Alarmed, she veered away from the Subaru and moved several cars away. Once she was screened by a big van, she faked a sudden need to retie her shoe and bent over.

While it was true that I could not see her, it was also true that she could not see me. I walked softly around the back of the van and up behind her. I grabbed the big handbag.

“Eeek!” Francea whirled around. “What . . . what are you doing?”

I turned and checked to make sure we were out of the
line of sight of Emma and Brooke. We were. I rummaged through the bag and found the binoculars. I slipped the strap around my neck and kept rummaging. Four cell phones, a tablet computer, a wad of cash, several credit cards with a variety of different people's names, and a bottle of vodka. Oh, and a tiny little handgun.

“That's mine!” Francea cried as I brandished the last item.

“Oh? I thought it might belong to your kid brother. It looks like a toy.”

Her eyes shifted frantically back and forth, considering this opening. She was too young to have a license for it, and we both knew it.

“It . . . yes, it is a toy. It's my brother's, like you said. Can I have it back?”

“It sure is realistic,” I said, tilting it to admire the light gleaming off the barrel. “Looks like it could do some damage, small as it is.” I'd never handled a gun before, but I suspected that the little catch thing was the safety. I fiddled with it.

“No, it's just a—”

Bam!
The bullet hit the ground by her right foot, and she leaped into the air like a prima ballerina. Yes, that was the safety, for sure.

“My goodness, how alarming. I thought you said this was your brother's toy.” I aimed the little gun squarely at Francea.

“Keep it! Keep everything!” she gabbled. “Please don't shoot me.”

“Really, Francea, you are an embarrassment to our tribe.” I smiled and shook my head at her in pained disappointment.

“To our what?” She peered at me, trying to read my expression. “I'm sorry! I'll go straight. Honest. I'll never steal again.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“Don't you believe me?” To my mingled admiration and hilarity, two big tears streaked down her cheeks. This idiot actually thought that
I
would pity her “distress.”

“No, I don't believe you, but I
am
impressed. Neat trick, those tears!”

“Yeah, well, um. So . . . can I go?”

“Sure. No, wait.” She wavered, considering flight, but then thought better of it. The gun was still aimed at her. I found her wallet, examined the library card to ensure the wallet was hers, stripped it of cash (a tidy sum, by the way), and threw it to her. She caught it and stared at me, openmouthed.

“You're a
thief 
!” she said in tones of righteous indignation. “You—you
stole
my money! You knew it was mine and you
took
it.”

“Did you think you were the first person to come up with the idea? You don't have a patent on larceny. Now beat it,” I growled. As she hurried off through the maze
of cars and I stuffed the goodies back into the handbag, I smiled reminiscently. I remembered the carnie guy telling
me
to beat it all those years ago. Somehow I doubted that Francea would learn as much from this encounter as I had from him.

I stepped out from behind the van and found Brooke and Emma dodging around the cars, bent low but approaching cautiously. Lucky I hadn't delayed any longer, or they might have been in a position to overhear our final remarks.

“We called 911! Are you okay? Was that a gunshot?”

I showed them the little gun. Brooke gasped and threw her arms up in front of her face, like that would protect her from stray bullets.

“Oh, honestly, Brooke! I'm not going to shoot you. It went off accidentally. Look, I'm putting the safety on.” I pointed the gun down at the ground and twiddled with the catch. With any luck it had been rendered harmless.

I told them the story of my ambushing Francea as she'd hid behind the van.

“I snuck up behind her and grabbed her purse,” I said truthfully. Less truthfully, I continued, “And when I did, everything fell out. The gun went off—I guess when it hit the ground, or maybe I hit it with my hand. She tried to pick stuff up, but all she got was her wallet before she took off.

“Okay, look,” I said, eying them sternly. “You called 911?”

They nodded. I could hear sirens coming nearer, now I thought of it.

“We are not going to tell them whose purse this is.”

They both burst into confused, argumentative speech. I waited patiently for a break in the yammering.

“Tomorrow is After the Race Is Run, remember?”

They nodded. The sirens were entering the grounds of the ranch.

“Do you really think that they will let us go on with the program if they find out about Francea?” Actually, they probably would have. Why not? I just didn't want people possibly staying home because they'd read about Francea's arrest in connection with the festival and had gotten nervous. I continued to fix them both with an unrelenting stare.

“Maybe not,” said Emma.

“Do you want all of our work to be ruined because of Francea? How about you, Brooke? You're the one who can't bear the idea of running to ground a fugitive from justice. Does either of you even know her last name or where she lives? I sure don't,” I lied.

“I think it was fate that made her take her own wallet instead of any of the things she'd stolen,” I continued, on a lofty note. “Well, that or maybe self-preservation, so the theft couldn't be linked to her. In any case, the cops won't
know who she is if we don't tell them. Personally, I think that if we turn these things over to the police, we'll be doing the right thing.” Naturally, I had already transferred the cash to my own pockets. “How about it? Here they come.”

“But the gun!” Brooke protested.

“Oh, it's not hers! She found that, and figured she could sell it,” I said.

Brooke and Emma looked at each other.

“I guess,” said Brooke. “If you're okay with it, Emma.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

The cops questioned me closely, which wasn't surprising, given the gun. I described Francea vaguely enough that she could be any of a dozen girls, but accurately enough that, if they figured out which one she was, it wouldn't sound like I had been trying to mislead them. I said that I couldn't be sure if she went to our school—considering as how I was new there this year.

They had to go through the whole crowd of people working there that day, getting names and trying to match the stolen items to the owners. I heard later that nobody claimed the gun, which appeared to be unlicensed. Somebody in this public-spirited crowd was being naughty.

The one thing that everybody—cops, volunteers, and stable staff—agreed
upon was that I was a truly remarkable young woman.

“So brave, so strong,” said my cousin Brooke. “Really,” she said, when her parents and grandmother showed up to escort us home, “I've never met anyone like her in my life.”

EVERYONE IN THE HOUSEHOLD WAS
involved in After the Race Is Run, even Mrs. Barnes, the housekeeper, who was one of the breakfast cooks. We were therefore up at dawn on the day of the benefit, and over at the stables setting up by seven. At ten thirty, when the event was already in full swing and crowds of people were wandering around, I realized that I had left some of the paperwork I needed back at the house, so Emma offered to run me back to pick it up.