Don't You Trust Me? (21 page)

I reared back as though I'd discovered a rattlesnake on the doormat.

Worse than a rattlesnake, it was Brooke.

After a
lo-o-ng
millisecond, during which my brain processed this information, I said, “Oh, Brooke, good! I'm so glad you're here!”

Lying comes as naturally to me as breathing. When I'm stumped for what to say, I automatically blurt out the exact reverse of what I actually feel. I pulled her inside, taking care to flip the lock on the door as I closed it. I had no idea what I was going to do next, but it only made sense to hinder her if she got any ideas about making a sudden exit, screaming.

“Morgan, what's going on? Hey!” Her eyes narrowed
and her voice deepened with suspicion. “Isn't that my mom's Hermès scarf you're wearing?”

I ignored the last question, while filing the information away in my mind. (Hermès, eh? Might be worth some bucks.) I made my eyes go big and wide. I shushed her, my finger at my lips.

“There's something in the basement,” I whispered.

“What?” she whispered back.

At that moment Janelle, bless her little heart, chose to let out an infuriated scream and hammer on the basement door. It was several rooms away from the front hall, where Brooke and I stood, but clearly audible.

Brooke jumped and brought one hand to her mouth.

“Who is it?” she breathed.

“I don't know. I came over here to water the plants and . . . and . . .” My brain scrabbled frantically for some reason why I would come over here when I was supposedly down sick with a vicious cold. “And feed the cat,” I concluded triumphantly.

“What cat?” Brooke was looking skeptical. She crossed her arms across her chest. What was wrong with the girl? Whatever had happened to sweet, trusting Brooke? She continued, “The Luttrells don't have a cat. Mrs. Luttrell says dogs and cats just—you know, pee all over everything. She's really house-proud, and I've heard her say she couldn't understand why anybody would keep an animal in their home.”

“It's not theirs,”
I explained, still in an urgent murmur. “That's why she forgot it was there when they left in such a hurry. It's their niece's. She begged them to take care of it while she was in the hospital for an operation. Like you said, Mrs. L hates cats 'cause they pee all over everything, so she said she'd only keep it in the basement. Then she heard about her sister dying—not the niece's mother, a different one—and she rushed off without remembering about the cat in the basement. So she called your mother to ask her to take care of the cat, but nobody was home except for me. I came over here, even though I'm sick”—I coughed illustratively—“to feed the poor kitty, and I heard somebody screaming and swearing and kind of
growling
in the cellar. It was
awful
!”

Brooke opened her mouth to question me further—perhaps to inquire why I found it necessary to drive the five hundred feet between the two houses in her father's red Corvette—but apparently I had raised my voice on the last few words of my explanation, and that'd attracted the attention of the beast in the basement. Janelle was using something or other to bang on the underside of the floor where we stood. Maybe a broom handle?

“I can hear you whispering up there, you horrible person! Is that you, Brooke Styles?” Janelle said, in a menacing voice that penetrated the floorboards. “ 'Cause if it is, I'm going to
kill
you!”

Brooke's
mouth dropped open. She turned to stare at me, wide-eyed.

“We'd better call the police,” she said, so faintly that I had to strain to hear her.

I couldn't have her doing
that
. I looked around and saw a pad of paper and pencil on a table near the door. I darted over to it and wrote:
Wait. Really, really worried about poor cat.
I underlined the last “really” and held the note out to her.

She nodded slowly as she read. She took the pad from me and wrote:
Yes, but police will find it.

Let me try something,
I wrote back.
Stay here & tap foot
. I demonstrated by tapping my foot—two short, sharp taps.

“What are you doing?” snarled Janelle from below. “I can hear you, you know.”

Brooke looked at me questioningly. I wrote:
She's underneath us, away frm bsmnt dr. I'll sneak over.
I pointed toward the kitchen.
& U keep her here. I'll open door & call cat.
Then
call cops. Please? Don't want cat 2 get shot.

Brooke looked horrified at the idea of the innocent kitty—already abandoned and starving—winding up as collateral damage in a SWAT team intervention. She hesitated, torn between a natural desire to get out of the house and the possibility of rescuing an animal in need, and then nodded. She gave two more taps with her
heel on the floor. I flashed a thumbs-up sign and started toward the kitchen.

She and I were in each other's line of sight all the way until I entered the kitchen. The cellar door was around the corner. I looked back at her and nodded again before disappearing into the far room. By way of variety, Brooke rapped repeatedly on the wall this time.

“Stop that!” snapped Janelle. “You're driving me crazy.” To my relief, her voice sounded small and far away from me—coming from below Brooke, in fact.

I opened the basement door without making a sound, but did not trouble myself with calling a nonexistent cat. I waited for one long beat and then stepped back into the dining room, staring at Brooke, my face slack with horror. I said nothing but pointed helplessly back into the kitchen.

After pausing only to give a few more distracting thumps on the wall, Brooke approached on tiptoe, her face one big question mark.

What?
she mouthed at me.

Just trust me,
I mouthed back.
Go look.
I pointed down the stairs. She crept closer to the basement door, as though to the edge of a flaming abyss.

She peered into the gloom, and then looked back at me.
“What?”
she whispered.

I gestured for her to step forward, one tiny little step down.
Come on, Brooke, don't you trust me?

She made a face, reluctant to place herself in greater proximity to the terror below but unable to overcome her better instincts about the welfare of the cat.

She stepped forward onto the first step.

This time I didn't have the luxury of letting her go all the way down the stairs under her own steam. I gave her a good push. Unbalanced, she fell, grabbing at the railing as she slid down the steps. I slammed the door on her and turned the lock.

A few loud bumps, a shriek of terror, and then a groan relieved any apprehensions I might have felt about my former cousin. A thud followed by silence would have been far more ominous. Obviously she had slowed her fall by clutching the handrail. I'd guess that she would have nothing more to show for being pushed down a flight of stairs than a bruise or two.

Hardly any need to get the cops involved at all,
I
would think.

I could hear Janelle galumphing through the basement, ready to repel this intruder. “What are you doing? What happened?” she shouted. Then, after a moment observing the new resident of the cellar, “Who are
you
?”

“Don't hit me!” Brooke shouted.

“Well, I will if you don't tell me who you are!” Evidently Janelle was still brandishing the broomstick or whatever.

“I'm—I'm—”
Just in time Brooke remembered the threat to kill her issued through the floorboards. Even then she couldn't bring herself to lie outright. “I'm a neighbor. What have you done to the cat?”

“What cat?”

I decided to interrupt.

“Girls, it is time for me to leave you,” I said in a loud voice. “I am sorry to go away and desert you in such an uncomfortable situation, but I am afraid you have left me no choice. I mean, honestly,” I added, unable to resist expressing my sense of grievance, “this is all on you, not me. In the future try to keep your noses out of other people's business, will you? It's
your
best interests I'm thinking of here.”

There was a silence below; perhaps they were mulling over my advice.

“Who
is
that?” demanded Janelle. “Do you know her? Is that really Brooke Styles, my cousin?”

“Brooke? No! I'm—that is to say—”

“Well, pardon me for interrupting,” I said, feeling a bit put out that they were chatting with each other instead of attending to me at this, my moment of triumph, “but I wanted to reassure you that I will make sure somebody comes to get you out tomorrow morning, so there is no reason to panic. Share that ginger ale”—in my mind the ginger ale had expanded to a case of sodas and several twelve-slice pizza pies—“so you don't
become dehydrated, and you will be fine. Brooke, I must thank you and your family for your hospitality. I would have to say that it has been”—I found myself waxing positively sentimental here—“the best few months of my life so far, living with you.”

Silence. Then: “So . . . she's
not
Brooke? You mean,
you're
Brooke Styles?” I heard Janelle ask.

“Well . . . are you by any chance Janelle?” Brooke said.

“Of course I am.”

“Then in that case, yeah, I am Brooke Styles,” Brooke admitted.

“Then—who is
she
?”

“I have
no
freaking idea,” said Brooke.

My high opinion of Brooke was beginning to take some hits. All that shiny innocence seemed like it was wearing off. I mean, “freaking” sounded awfully close to swearing to me. However, that was none of my concern, and I supposed I should have expected her to be a bit taken aback by this turn of events. The main point was that I was making a serious effort to behave in a gracious and courteous manner toward this representative of my host family here in Albany, and she was paying no attention to me whatsoever.

“Well, I'm sorry to interrupt your conference,” I said, “but I did want to say good-bye, and thank you for your kindness. Oh,” I added, “and especially, please tell Mrs. Barnes thank you. She was wonderful.”

“Who is Mrs. Barnes?”
asked Janelle, sounding bewildered.

“Our housekeeper,” explained Brooke.

“Fine. I don't get it, but come on,” said Janelle, and I heard noises indicating that they were climbing up the stairs. Evidently the two of them had decided that they were on the same team, and were coming to plead with me. I took a moment to polish the doorknob and woodwork. A sudden assault, as if from all four of their fists, made the door tremble under my hand. I treated this commotion with the scorn it deserved. Not
exactly
the sort of behavior that would induce me to let them out.

“Hey, you! Whoever—
whatever
you are out there—I suppose you
are
that girl I met at the LA airport? That's you, isn't it?”

I could see no reason to deny it. The self-involved little twerp had never asked for my name.

“Yes, that's me,” I agreed. “Once I got here and looked around, I realized I'd have to be crazy to leave. You girls have no idea how good you've got it. Most people would be happy to saw off their right arm if it meant they could trade their lives for yours.”

She ignored my last remark. “So you're going to go off and leave us here?”

“That's right,” I said. I studied my surroundings with an analytical eye. The whole episode with Brooke hadn't lasted long enough for me to have left many
new fingerprints. Oh! There was Brooke's purse, sitting on the dining room table. Using the dust cloth to shield my fingertips, I picked it up, carried it back to the kitchen, and pawed through it.

Phew! There was her cell phone. It hadn't even occurred to me that she might have had it in the pocket of her jeans. Nice phone, but it was sure to have a tracking device in it, so I had to leave it. I pocketed the twenty dollars and change that was in the wallet.

What else? Maybe I should do something about the pad of paper.

“Don't you think that's kind of harsh?” demanded Janelle's muffled voice.

“Mm-hmm,” I agreed. I tore off the sheet of paper we'd used, crumpled it up, and shoved it into my pocket.

Her control broke as she heard me walking away toward the front hall.

“
Yes!
Yes it
is
harsh! It is really, really cold. You are a very
cold
person.”

I halted in my tracks. I laughed aloud, delighted.

“You're right,” I said. “You got it—that's what I am, very
cold
. Well, ta-ta, ladies. It's been nice knowing you both.”

THE CORVETTE AWAITED ME IN
the driveway, glowing like a big candy apple in the autumn sunshine. I paused for a few seconds with my hand on the hood and breathed in, enjoying the moment. I was leaving Albany much richer than when I had arrived, and with a number of new skills.