I Spy Dead People (2 page)

I stare at her, trying to figure out if I should tell her the whole truth or the condensed version. Some people don't really want to know what Dad does. They can't stomach the grisliness. And then there's the cops. A lot of times Dad ends up disproving the police's theory and figuring out the true culprit. Those towns aren't fun to live in. Word gets around, and before you know it, the cute, new girl in school with the witty repartee and decent fashion sense becomes the devil's spawn. It's not pretty.

"Because of his job." I start there. If she wants to know more, she'll ask.

She turns on the TV and flips the channel until she lands on TruTV—a documentary where the police discuss and reenact a real crime. This episode is about the death of a former model-turned-housewife. It's a rerun, and I've watched it a good four times.

"I love these kinds of shows, but you probably prefer MTV or something else. I can change it…"

"No. MTV doesn't even play music anymore. I love this channel."

"Oh yeah?"

"Actually, this is what my dad does." Okay, so sometimes I bring it up on my own when I think it will be well received. I pop the lid on my can and slurp a mouthful. The bubbles tickle my throat.

"He works for cable television?"

"No, he writes books on true crimes."

She freezes. I mean, a mid chew and holding her arm in the air while reaching for her drink kinda freeze. Then she jumps up, knocking the bag of chips onto the floor, and hurries to the bookcase in the corner of the room.

I pick up the bag and stuff three more chips into my mouth, like a squirrel storing nuts. I'm not normally such an aggressive eater, but Dad gets so caught up in his books in the beginning that he sometimes forgets to go food shopping for a while. My last meal was a gross meatball sub from a truck stop along I91.

Kinley grabs a book and faces me, holding it behind her back. "You said your last name is Grimaldi?"

"Yep." I lick the speckled flavoring off a chip.

"As in Vincent Grimaldi?" She shows me a copy of
Illegal Strangulation
.

"That's him, but his friends and family call him Vinnie. And that book is old. His latest should be out next year. It's the best so far." From what I can tell. He hasn't let me read it yet. Well, he never
lets
me. It's more like I'll sneak one of his copies into bed after I should be asleep.

She squeals and twirls, then heads toward the couch. I hold down the chips as she lands with a whoosh on the cushion. "I've read most of his books. I'm a huge fan. Do you think he'll autograph one for me?"

I roll my eyes. "Oh yeah. He's a complete ham when it comes to his books. I'll ask him later."

The telephone rings upstairs. Her mom's footsteps sound overhead, and I hear a distant "Hello?"

Kinley squeals again. "You are the best neighbor ever. So what's he working on now?" She covers her mouth with her hand.

"What?"

"Is it the McDougal case?"

Cameron McDougal, a photographer, was killed and found in his home a year ago. It was in all the papers and splashed across every television set. Dad's been super tight-lipped about this one. Not that he's usually talkative about his work, but this one feels different.

"Yep, that's it."

"Kinley, your father's on the phone. His car won't start, so we need to pick him up," her mom calls down.

Kinley's shoulders slump. "His car never starts."

"Okay, Mom. I'm coming." She switches off the TV and gathers the snacks. "Can we chat later?"

"Of course, but how come you have to go too? How old are you?"

She looks to her feet. Her hair falls forward shielding her profile like a veil. "Fifteen, but I always need to be supervised so I don't die."

 

 

I sit at the kitchen table and pick at the rest of my chicken and broccoli. Dad totally screwed up my order. Since I get something different every time we get Chinese, I only blame him a little for not paying attention. Next time I'll write it on a sticky note and tape it to the back of his hand.

Dad eyes my plate while he shovels the rest of his pork fried rice into his mouth. "Not hungry?"

I'm not sure how to answer. Honestly, I'm still thinking about my new neighbor. As Kinley walked me out, she told me she has diabetes type 1, which is like really serious. She was born with it, and if she goes into a diabetic coma, she can die, so she can never be unsupervised. She also said her parents are overprotective, but it sounds serious.

"Dad, do you know anyone with diabetes 1?"

He sips his water and looks off, probably flipping through the immediate family, distant cousins, and all the other hundreds of people he's met in his lifetime. He doesn't exactly have a photographic memory, but it is impeccable. "I don't believe so. Why?"

"The girl next door has it. It sounds kinda scary. She was eating all this crap too, like chips and soda, and her mom didn't say a word. Although it was diet soda, so there's no sugar. Well, no real sugar anyway. And her mom did say to only have a few chips. So maybe it's okay."

Dad grins. "You met a friend already?"

I double-punch my chest with a fist. "You know us Grimaldis. We're charmers."

He chuckles. "I'm glad you'll have someone close by."

In other words, he's happy I won't be in his hair, and he won't have to worry about me falling into a ditch or being picked up by a crazed motorist planning on torturing me for fun or abducting me for human trafficking. I know his way of thinking. And I read a lot.

"And did you know there's a real actress living across the street?"

He nods. "Cindy or Missy Quinn. The realtor mentioned it. I guess she thought it was a selling point."

I roll my eyes. Unless it relates to a dead body, he doesn't pay attention to details. "It totally is. It's Linzy Quinn, and she's only fourteen. Isn't that cool?"

"No. I think kids should stay kids as long as possible. The world is hard enough for adults."

I slump into my seat. He just doesn't get it. Some kids are interested in more than shopping at the mall or becoming homecoming queen, which is super lame.

"I plan to run into town and pick up groceries, check out the lay of the land after dinner. Want to come?"

Since when does he not get straight to work?

"Do cats like milk? Wait. Scratch that. Aunt Frannie's brown cat hated milk, but the gray one loved it and would get diarrhea."

Dad sighs. "I just love our dinner conversations."

I flash him my ever annoying braces and take our plates to the sink.

"I'll get my keys and wallet, and we can leave." He rises and heads toward the front of the house.

While I scrape off the food remains then rinse the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher, I imagine our kitchen with hanging chili peppers and colors so bright Dad would never enter the room again. Okay, so that's not our style but maybe pastels. Something to entice him to stay longer than a year.

In middle school, long after Mom ran off, I promised to get good grades, to eat my veggies, or at least the ones covered in cheese, and to brush my teeth every night. The last due to my questionable hygiene at age ten. And for this I made him promise to stay in one town long enough for me to finish that grade. Being the new kid sucks, but being the new kid in the middle of the year sucks
hard.
So he agreed. But it's not enough anymore.

I wouldn't mind if we laid down roots, spread our branches, dropped our leaves…okay, so I can't think of any more appropriate metaphors. I'd just like to finish high school in one school, go to the next grade knowing my classmates from the year before. Is that too much to ask? I don't want to sound ungrateful. Dad's raised me alone, and I know it's hard for him. I'm not a stoner or partier, nor do I stay out past curfew or flunk my classes, but he's had to endure cramp complaints, helping me pick out my first bra, and having the luxury of buying me pads and tampons every month. He should win a father-of-the-century award.

I run into the hall and up the stairs, calling out, "I gotta pee. Be right back."

After doing my business and washing my hands, I run into my badly-in-need-of-decorating bedroom to get my roller blades and knee pads. Dad hates when I wear them to the store, all because I crashed into a display of canned corn last year at a Piggly Wiggly, but I was learning then. Now I'm nearly an expert and am certain I won't have any embarrassing moments.

As I'm about to turn, I catch a flash of pink outside my window.

Fascinated with the idea of a fourteen-year-old actress across the street, I peer out. I mean, what if she knows Shia LaBeouf or Taylor Lautner? Meeting either of them would be the pinnacle of my fifteen years and totally worth moving again.

But the pink isn't on the petite brunette from earlier. Instead it's a pink leotard on a willowy girl with blonde, waist-length hair. She twirls along the driveway, arms raised above her head, like the ballerina inside a jewelry box—perfect and poised.

The front door opens, and Linzy steps out with an older woman, probably her mom. She says something to the blonde, who drops her arms and sulks. Darn, I wish I was closer to overhear.

Linzy laughs and climbs into the back seat of a black, four-door car, parked along the curb.

"Piper, let's go," Dad shouts.

"Coming."

Linzy and I could become friends. We're practically the same age, and we're bound to have something in common. I love pretty clothes, and she clearly has some. That's a start. Kinley must know her, so I'll ask for an invite later.

Score two for Hollow Ridge.

 

*  *  *

 

The lay of the land, as Dad put it, looks like every other suburban land we've encountered in the last eight years. We've been moving around since I was four, when Dad decided it would be easier to research his books up close and personal rather than cross-country via Internet and phone calls. I often wonder if part of the reason was because my older brother, Vincent Jr., had died, and Dad just wanted out of our house and hometown. At first Dad went after murders from anywhere, but he didn't like city life, and the country was too quiet, so he devoted his last eight books to the 'burbs. Just as well, too. Those became bestsellers.

"Which was the hardest case you solved?" I ask Dad, as he steps and I roll out of Big Y to his car. Who names a grocery store Big Y? Then again, what's up with Piggly Wiggly?

"I'm not a detective. I don't solve cases. I just research and write about them."

But I notice the twinkle in his eye when he says "solve."

"Come on, Dad. If you hadn't worked those clues in Georgia, the husband would've totally gotten away with her murder."

Dad made the police look like Deputy Dewey, and my life suddenly became
Scream 5.
Okay, maybe not exactly. It's not like I had a crazy boyfriend with mommy issues slicing and dicing my friends, thank goodness. But the end of the school year was something we both anticipated, and we didn't wait until August, like usual, to move.

"So which was the hardest?"

Dad opens the hatch of his Subaru Forrester. "Georgia."

I knew it. I hand him the bag of eggs and bread. "What about the craziest?"

"Is this a new game?"

"Yes. There's only so many times you can say, 'I spy with my little eye…?'"

He chuckles and pushes the bag of cereal, chips, and frozen waffles beside the eggs. "The weirdest…"

"Not weird. Crazy, as in evil or sadistic."

He gives me a long stare. He hates when I talk about the crazies. Like if I mention it enough I'll become one. I just can't help it. The criminal mind fascinates me, and just because I'm not a legal adult doesn't mean I can't handle it. Nothing scares me. Not the dark, or spiders, or even clowns. Well, maybe knife wielding maniacs in hockey masks, but since I've only met one, and it was on my TV screen, I don't count it as a true fear.

"Only one percent of murders are committed by serial killers. It's rare."

On second thought, it is a bit scary how well Dad knows me.

"It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again." I use my special Buffalo Bill voice.

An older woman passes us and visibly scowls at me. At least she knows her films.

Dad shakes his head. "What have I told you about reciting horror movies in public?"

I lift the last bag out of the cart and push it into the back of the car. "Not to do it?"

He shuts the hatch. "Well, it's nice to know you're at least listening. Do you know where this goes?"

I grab the cart and direct it toward the place where carts gather, beneath the sign that states: Return Carts Here. It's not rocket science, Dad.

Deciding this is an awesome spot for a gold medal spin, I lean on my back wheels and take off. Feet in and out, around and around until the store and parking lot are a blur. I want to shout out, "wee," but that would alert Dad to my less than stellar public display, and I'd have to stop. So I stuff my "This Little Piggy" finale down and concentrate on controlling the spin.

Something dark approaches, something in the form of someone. Darn, it's probably an old lady in need of a cart, and I'm blocking them all.

"Sorry, one sec," I shout.

But as I attempt to slow down, and attempt means to do it very slow so I don't wipeout and land on my face, I realize it isn't an old person with the patience of…well, an old person. It looks like a young guy.

"Take your time." And his voice sounds cute.

Surprised and totally mortified that I look like a dweeb, I stop too abruptly and end up jerking forward. I reach my hands out to prevent permanent damage to my face and go down on my knee pads, right at his feet.

I look up and hope something witty will surface from my brain so I can kinda redeem myself.

He's totally my age, maybe a bit older, sportin' a wild afro that looks super soft, and a single dimple in his left cheek, beside a shy smile. Dark brown eyes to go with dark brown skin, and I'm suddenly counting down the days until I'm sixteen and I can date.

And that's when I realize my hands have landed, not on the ground, but on him.