I Spy Dead People (17 page)

"She was either stealing my things, making up lies about me, or posting private pictures of me on the internet. She. Was. Mean."

Linzy's right. Shayla has a motive for murder. I consider taking out my phone and taping this to show Linzy later, but Dad would kill me.

Shayla looks to her parents. "And so spoiled. She got whatever she wanted because she was a star." She does air quotes with one hand.

There's no mistaking the venom in her voice. People begin to shift uncomfortably and whisper among themselves. The priest looks to the crowd and back to Shayla. He touches his collar, as if he wishes he could loosen it.

Troy leans into me. "I can't believe she's saying this. Good for her."

I watch him watch her. Does he still have feelings for her? Has this stirred things back up?

Shayla takes a deep breath. "Despite all of it, I loved her. Mostly because it was expected of me, but I will miss her. Rest in peace, Linz."

She hands the mike to the very relieved looking priest and heads back to her seat. Just before sitting, she catches my eye and does a double take. I can't read her expression before she sits, but I'm pretty sure she's disgusted by seeing me next to Troy.

The service continues then several men step forward to carry the coffin outside.

As people follow out, Troy says, "See you at the cemetery?"

I nod, slightly confused by it all. This is my first funeral. I expected singing and going up to the coffin to pay our respects. I say this to Dad in the car.

"Some families don't like having an open casket. Some have wakes, which are a couple of days before the actual burial. It varies."

I stare out my window. We're directly behind the chief's car.

"Did you want to say good-bye to her?" Dad asks.

I think of the girl in the river, the ghost on my bed, and the body in the coffin. "No. Just wondering."

At the burial site, I stand between Dad and Troy and stare at the giant hole in the ground. The coffin is held up by a crane over it. My stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel a bit dizzy. The sun's tucked away behind clouds, but it's still Hades hot. I look up and see Kinley and her folks across from us. I smile. Maybe they didn't go to the service.

Kinley smiles back, but it looks fake and forced. Definitely not the expression one friend gives another.

I push our dying friendship aside though. I can't think about that now.

Before long, people step forward and toss roses onto the casket, then back away to allow others room. I pass. The idea of teetering over that hole is not appealing, and soon Dad ushers me away.

I strain a peek, wanting to see them lower her into the ground, but we're at his car before anything happens.

The chief asks, "You'll be at the Quinn's?"

Dad looks uneasy.

I say, "Yes, we'll be there," and suffer Dad's glare.

I can't not show up. This is where I'll be able to mingle, overhear snippets of conversation, maybe figure out a motive or two, and most importantly, sneak into Linzy's room.

 

* * *

 

The Quinn house is stuffed with people. Everyone from the church must be here. Dad keeps muttering something about sardines. It smells like stinky cheese and stinkier perfume. But at least they have glorious central air. I scarf down a plate of mini meatballs, mini quiche, and stuffed mushrooms before shaking free of Dad so I can ease in and out of conversations.

While he thinks I'm looking for a bathroom, I spot April across the living room. She's standing and talking to the man she sat beside at the church—probably her dad. Will she be more or less likely to talk to me here? She won't be able to cause a scene. I hope.

I circle around Mr. and Mrs. Friedman arguing about money.

"You take great care of the garden. We can fire Dinesh. You don't need him to prune your bush…"

I step away before he finishes his sentence.

I'm about ten feet from April when I spot the chair beside her begin to shake. It looks like an earthquake is happening only in that spot of the house. No one around seems to notice. It jerks to the side, almost knocking into the back of April's knees. Then it jerks back.

I know Linzy is next to it, making it move, but she's not showing herself. I mean, it has to be Linzy. Who else is invisible, can move a chair, and hates April?

The chair lifts a couple of inches off the ground, and I can't help but grin. Linzy would be great at a séance. Too bad I didn't have any friends to freak out.

The chair wobbles. Linzy is trying to hit her with it. For some reason, Linzy isn't as strong or determined today as she was with Eli. That doesn't mean she can't hurt April though.

As the chair swings at April, I race forward.

 

I knock into a woman's elbow, splashing clear liquid onto her dress. Gosh, I hope that's water. She mutters something like "damn kids," but I don't stick around long enough to hear it or apologize. I fling myself onto the chair. It hits the floor with a slight crash, and I pray I didn't just splinter the thing into bits.

April jumps and turns around.

I chuckle. "Sorry. My feet are killing me."

"Traitor," Linzy shouts in my ear then appears.

I flinch.

April frowns and walks off.

Linzy stomps. "I almost had her."

Several adults stare at me oddly. I get up and go into the hall. Trying to look nonchalant, I climb the stairs, smiling at the strangers I pass. On the second floor, all of the doors are shut, including the bathroom. If anyone comes up before I sneak into Linzy's room, I'll just pretend I'm waiting to use the toilet.

Even though our houses are laid out exactly the same, and assuming the parents have the master bedroom, I don't know if Linzy has the front one like me or the back. The front one is bigger, so I take a guess and step to it.

Everything is white and lavender. I spot ballet slippers hanging on the wall. Wrong room. It's Shayla's. I shut the door and hurry across the hall. The toilet flushes and the water goes on. I open Linzy's door, push through, and am shutting it as Dad emerges from the bathroom. Crap.

My heart races and sweat lines the back of my neck. When his head is no longer in sight on the stairs, I click the door, lean against it, and take a deep, long breath.

Linzy appears before my face. "What are you up to?"

I yelp and want to smack her for scaring me. "You hang in my room, so I can hang in yours."

She rolls her eyes and throws herself onto her four-poster bed. The room isn't big enough for the monstrosity, but she's managed to fit it, a couple of night stands, a vanity with stool, a dresser, and two full-length mirrors (across from one another so she can see both sides of herself at once) in the space.

Her walls are covered in collages. The huge one above her bed holds pictures of old-time actresses—Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, and others I don't recognize. The collage on her closet is of her with cast members, and all the others are photos from magazines. Above each set there's a strip of paper like a heading. One says: future house with pics straight from
Architectural Digest
. Another is all about fashion, with the cutest pink bag. It has a crystal…

Anyway, I don't know how she gets any sleep in here. It's so congested and chaotic that it would give me nightmares.

"So what are you looking for?" she asks, arms folded behind her head.

"Not sure." I visually inspect every surface and then the walls again.

"Has Sherlock spotted something amiss?" she asks with a gravelly whisper.

"You don't have any pictures of your family. And no friends. Not one. Why?"

She makes a sound in the back of her throat. "Why should I?"

Well that's kinda a duh question. "Because they're family."

She yawns, although I'm pretty sure ghosts don't have any bodily functions, which means she's mocking my answer. "So. It's just a label. What have they done for me?"

Is she serious? "Um, how about feed you, buy you clothes, put a roof over your head?"

"First off, I clothe myself. And my money helps to feed and house me. Next?"

Why is she so selfish? "Okay, but they allowed you to have a career. Whether they did it for the money or the fame, none of that matters, because in the beginning they didn't know how far this would go. You wanted to act, and they let you. They didn't have to disrupt their lives with trips to wherever…"

"New York." Her tone is gentle.

"I get that things changed, and you see your mom, your manager, as greedy, but if they didn't love you, not the money, but
you
, they wouldn't be downstairs crying right now."

She doesn't respond, just stares at the ceiling.

I take the silence as a cue to start digging. I head to her nightstands and rummage through the drawers. Unfortunately, she doesn't believe in paper unless it's the glossy kind from a magazine. There are no notes to herself, no hate lists, no… Then it hits me. Linzy's the kind of girl who uses social media for communication. Why didn't I think of this before?

Her laptop is sitting on her dresser. I grab it and sit beside her on the bed. I flip open the top and press the power button.

"What do you think you'll find in there?"

"Something explaining why you think April, Eli, and Margo want you dead. Who is Margo, by the way?"

"My co-star. Felicity."

The one who thinks Zach is a better baby Daddy. Or was that Kinley? I'm getting confused. I open Linzy's browser and find her email. "What's the password?"

She leans forward, as if to type it in herself, and her fingers go through the keyboard.

I raise a brow. "Yeah, you're gonna have to tell me."

She crosses her arms across her chest and sulks. "It's not important."

"Of course it is. Don't you want to know who killed you? Wait scratch that. You do know. So don't you want me to know who killed you?"

Suddenly the door swings open, and Shayla stands there. Her eyes widen then narrow, and she looks more pissed than that day at the river.

Oh crap.

"First of all, who are you talking to?"

I giggle. "Myself?"

She steps forward, snatches the computer from my lap and glances at the screen. "And second, who the hell do you think you are sneaking into my dead sister's room and going through her things?"

That one I have no answer for.

Linzy chuckles. "She is pissed. You better watch out. Making Shayla an enemy means you're doomed."

Great. Exactly what I need.

Shayla closes the laptop, returns it to the dresser, then stomps back to the bed.

I am so stunned that I'm caught that I'm still lounging on the bed like it's my own. As she makes her way back, I jump up.

She grabs my upper arm and pulls me from the room, neglecting to shut the door. As we trip down the stairs, I curse myself. I should've listened more closely for footsteps in the hall. I should've not argued with Linzy so loud. I should've minded my own business that first night and not followed her. Maybe that's why she's haunting me now.

Shayla pulls me through the living room and into the kitchen. Everyone becomes a blur of concerned and confused faces. Then I stop moving, and I'm in front of Dad and Chief Williams.

I swallow hard.

Dad frowns. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes. I found her in my sister's bedroom, rifling through her things."

Someone behind us gasps. The chief lifts an eyebrow. Dad's complexion turns the color of an apple. Red Delicious or Fuji, not Granny Smith.

I bow my head and mutter, "Sorry."

Dad looks over my shoulder and says, "I'm terribly sorry for my daughter's actions. It won't happen again." To the chief, he says, "Excuse us."

Then he presses a hand to my back and guides me out of the kitchen, out the front door, and across the street.

I know I just stepped in a giant pile of crap, but I'm more upset that I didn't find out anything new. Some detective I am.

Once we're behind closed doors, Dad turns, opens his mouth, and then shuts it. He runs a hand through his hair and turns away. He steps into his office, his sanctuary, and when I follow (because I know there's no sense in running upstairs and hiding), he faces me and lets it blow.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Obviously not that I'd get caught.

"Well?"

Here's the thing: Dad isn't really a yeller. Once in a while he'll raise his voice, but he's usually just stern when he feels like it and leaves the dramatic scream-fests to other families. So the fact that he's still the color of my favorite red hoodie upstairs, and his tone has reached an octave I didn't know he was capable of, makes me twitch and want to hide.

"Piper, I'm speaking to you, and when…"

"I wanted to find out who she was and what she was up to," I blurt out.

He clamps his lips shut and remains silent for half a minute. "You wanted to find clues as to why she died."

Dang, he's good. Or am I just predictable? I nod.

"That's dangerous. You can't do this. You're too young to investigate a murder."

Adrenaline pumps throughout my body until my hands curl into fists, and I'm practically bouncing on the balls of my feet. "Why? It's not like I was nosing around in a seedy, high-crime neighborhood. I wasn't tailing the cops and sneaking onto a crime scene. And I wasn't undercover, posing as a junkie."

He shakes his head. "Where do you come up with these scenarios?"

"TV. Where else?"

He holds out his hand. "Then it will be no television with no computer for a week. Hand over your phone."

Ohmigod, no way. "You're grounding me for trying to help?" Okay, so it's a flimsy argument, but he can't have my phone. It's my lifeline. Even if my life hasn't been very lively lately.

"That wasn't helping. That was prying. Those poor people are grieving because their daughter died and had to endure a total stranger snooping through her things. How do you think you made them feel?"

"Bad. Yes, I feel like crap, but it was for a really good reason. Knowing their daughter's killer was captured would be a relief."