Don't You Trust Me? (22 page)

It was strange. . . . Coming from cosmopolitan LA to backwater Albany, you'd have expected I'd find fewer opportunities and smaller horizons, but actually it was just the reverse. There were too many people clawing at too few resources in LA, I decided. From now on it would be second-tier cities for me—those that were big enough to contain real wealth but small enough that many of the inhabitants suffered from a
vague, nagging sense of inferiority.
Those
were the sort of communities that were ripe for my particular set of talents.

And one could keep a horse for a less than exorbitant sum on the outskirts of a smaller city too, and perhaps jump in competitions, or hunt foxes—or coyotes, if no foxes were available. I smiled, contemplating my future as a sort of goddess of the hunt.

I climbed into the car and started the engine, and, waving a jaunty farewell to the neighborhood that had witnessed my greatest successes, I took my departure.

As I was turning onto the main road, Mrs. Barnes's blue VW Beetle, laden with the raw ingredients for another series of her memorable meals, chugged past. Talk about perfect timing! She'd be wondering soon what had happened to me, assuming she looked in on me after putting the groceries away. I felt so good that I was tempted to toot my horn in salute as I sailed by her, but refrained.

I was exhibiting definite signs of maturity.

It was only a twenty-minute trip to the airport—far too short to appreciate driving that lovely car for the last time—and when I had parked the beautiful creature in the short-term lot and extricated myself from the low-slung seat, I heaved a great sigh of regret. Someday I would own a car like that myself. I popped open the trunk and—

Stared aghast into emptiness. There was nothing there, not one diamond ring, not one Chanel jacket or so much as a heap of small change. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Everything I had worked so hard for was gone.

I stood stone-still, staring at the nothingness in the trunk of the Corvette.

Brooke. That was the only possible answer. She had seen Daddy's car parked in the neighbors' driveway. Investigating, she'd verified, maybe by looking in the glove compartment, that it in fact was her father's car. Then she had looked in the trunk and seen my—that is, Janelle's—suitcase. Maybe the nosey thing had had the nerve to
open
the suitcase, and had seen . . . what? Mommy's Prada handbag? The contents of Mommy's jewelry box? No doubt. She had sure picked up fast on the fact that I was wearing her mother's scarf.

I growled, low in my throat. That suspicious little beast.
What had she done with my suitcase?

Had she stashed it behind a bush and then immediately raced to the door in order to confront me as I tried to make my exit? Or had she taken the time to carry it back home? Did I dare to go back to try to retrieve it?

I closed my eyes, trying to see again the scene outside the Luttrells' house. I frowned. What was wrong with this picture?

Where was Brooke's Miata? It wasn't at the Luttrells', and I hadn't seen it in the driveway at the Styleses' place.
Presumably she had spotted the Corvette at the Luttrells' as she'd driven past, so would she have gone to the trouble of putting the Miata away in the garage before chasing me down?

What was Brooke up to, anyway? She had come back early, earlier than her parents. My assumption that she had driven her car so she could go to meet the boyfriend had been proved wrong. So why had she? So she could come back home alone first? Why?

A nasty suspicion tugged at the edges of my mind. Considering her recent behavior, I wondered if it was possible that she had returned early because she wanted to see what I would do when the family members were gone. What if she had parked the Miata a block away and walked back, sneaking around, looking in through the windows and hoping to catch me doing something naughty?

The little snoop. How dare she?

However, I reflected with some satisfaction, she would have plenty of time to meditate on her foolish behavior, trapped in the basement with that nitwit Janelle for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn't be in such a hurry to call and have somebody release them, come to think of it.

If only I knew what she'd done with that suitcase! I ran my tongue over dry lips, calculating.

There
were
some low bushes near the driveway, I
remembered. But were they tall enough to conceal a good-size suitcase?

It wasn't like I had already purchased a ticket and needed to be on time to make the flight. I got back into the car and pulled out of the parking space. Luckily, I hadn't been here long enough to incur the two-dollar fee. In my present mood I'd have rammed the barrier rather than fork over the money, and that would not have been wise.

With my face set in an unaccustomed scowl, I turned the Corvette's nose toward the Styleses' house and romped down on the accelerator.

No suitcase lurked under the juniper bushes next to the driveway. I aimed a vicious kick at one of them and got a long, painful scratch on my ankle for my trouble. I was about to prowl around the rest of the house, poking into every shrub, when I stopped to prod at an uncomfortable and unsightly bulge that had shifted to one side of my waist. I resettled the money belt on my stomach and then—

The money belt. Can you believe I'd forgotten all about it?

The bulge was so fat because the belt was stuffed full with a hundred hundreds. There was ten thousand dollars of poker money in that belt. Okay, it didn't compare with the riches in the suitcase, but it wasn't nothing,
either. It would get me far away from here, and I'd have some cash to spend while I was figuring out my next move. I had a few hundred dollars in my wallet, too. I was hardly destitute.

I hesitated, irresolute. I felt suddenly uneasy, remembering how noticeable that Corvette was. I'd heard some background noise when I'd driven up, but had been so focused on finding the suitcase that I hadn't paid any attention, figuring it was neighborhood kids, or maybe Janelle and Brooke banging around in the basement.

I should go,
I decided. I took one last look around, scanning for a flash of pink suitcase protruding from the landscape somewhere.

“Hey! Is that you, Morgan Johanssen? Wait a sec, I want to talk to you!”

Now what? A guy on a mountain bike was coming at me, his legs pumping furiously and his face red with fury and exertion. I knew him—it was what's-his-name, a student from SUNY Albany. What was
his
problem? I struggled to recall the details of our little arrangement and failed. Oh, who cared?

“I want my money back!”

“Get in line, Einstein,” I said. Hey, that rhymed! I ran to the car and vaulted inside without bothering to open the door. It was clearly time to get out of here. The key was already in the ignition; the Corvette and I roared away, leaving him in the dust.

Oh, right. I guess I forgot to tell you about that whole thing with the frat guys at SUNY Albany. Never mind. It really wasn't important.

Once out on Central Avenue, I drove at the legal speed limit, merging with care and stopping at traffic lights. When a little blue car several vehicles behind me ran a red light, causing oncoming cars to screech to a halt and honk their horns in outrage, I lifted a critical eyebrow.

Some people just shouldn't be allowed to have a driver's license.

I studied the departure boards for a few minutes, trying to decide my destination. I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself than I already would, traveling without a prior reservation and without luggage.

Although the weather was warm for late October in upstate New York, I had been driving around in a convertible with the top down. I shivered a little and began thinking about cities in sunnier climes. Miami? No, too big. I wanted something more provincial. Maybe Richmond, Virginia? That flight was leaving in an hour. And didn't they go fox hunting a lot in Virginia? Sounded okay to me. I moved over to the ticket counter.

“No luggage?” the ticket agent demanded in disapproving tones.

I gave a bored and bratty sigh. “Of course I haven't got any
luggage
,”
I said, acting like that was the stupidest question I'd ever heard. “Haven't you ever seen a child of divorce before? I'm like a Ping-Pong ball. I spend a few weeks at
Mom's
, then a few weeks at
Dad's
. I've got a complete wardrobe on both ends.
Duh
.”

“No need to be rude,” said the agent, staring down her long nose at me. “Your flight departs from gate twelve C. Next?”

This time I didn't fool around. I went and got in line to go through security, submitting to the multiple indignities demanded by airplane travel. This included removing my money belt in
full
view of everyone, thank you
very
much, TSA. I had to run the belt through the X-ray along with my shoes and jacket, and then slip it back under my shirt with twenty pairs of eyes on me the whole while. Finally I moved toward the gate. Lacking a phone with which to occupy myself, like a normal person, I stopped at a newsstand and bought a magazine.

I found a seat in the waiting area around the gate. This wasn't as crowded as it had been in LA, but most of the seats were taken. Almost as soon as I settled down, a small child in a long poufy pink gown with a tiara on her head drifted over and stood staring at me. I ignored her and concentrated on my magazine. It turned out to be about celebrities, something that interested me not at all. Brad and Angelina had adopted another baby, the magazine
reported breathlessly. Who were Brad and Angelina?

“What's your name?” the child demanded at last. If this Brad and Angelina couple was so crazy about adopting kids, why couldn't they have adopted this one?

“Cruella De Vil,” I said, harking back to a movie I'd seen as a kid. She was this lady who liked to kill and skin black-and-white spotted puppy dogs, so she could make coats out of them. A woman after my own heart.

The evil infant thought about this. “No it's not,” she said.

I looked around for the person who was supposed to be in charge of the child. There was a harried-looking woman three seats away, simultaneously feeding a bottle to a baby, rocking it, and hanging on to a barely ambulatory little boy who was struggling to break free from his mother's grasp. She paid no attention to either the little girl or to my annoyed stare. The baby suddenly relinquished its death-hold on the nipple of the bottle and shrieked, like an enraged teakettle. I winced.

“What's with the ball gown and the tiara?” I asked, for want of anything else to say.

“It's Hallo
ween
,” she said. “I'm a
fairy
.” She produced a magic wand and jabbed it at my face.

Hah! Not a chance—
she
was never one of the fay.

“Halloween isn't until tomorrow,” I said, and went back to my magazine.

Unable to dispute the date, she was silent for a moment. “I can read,”
she said at last, apparently in a mistaken attempt to impress me.