I Spy Dead People (27 page)

"Tell me about it," I say with a mouthful.

We spend the next hour laughing at the ridiculous court cases on Judge Nora and the who's-my-baby-daddy stories on talk shows. Right before
One Day at a Time
begins, Eli says he has lawns to mow.

"Thanks for the food."

He smiles. "See ya around?"

"Yeah."

He stops and turns. "You know, I wish I'd never pushed Linzy. She didn't deserve it. It was just a reaction to her being in my face. I'd never actually hit or hurt a girl."

I smile at the endearing look on his face. "I know." And I do.

After he steps out I realize that I won't mind seeing him and his Fedora. He's not a bad guy. And maybe
Aubela
can teach me how to make Puerto Rican food.

When the show comes on, I put up the volume and watch the once-alive Linzy walk across the set. If I didn't know they taped these episodes three months in advance, I'd be shocked. Will the show recast her character? They can't kill off someone who's already dead, right? That would be unbecoming.

She spends the hour talking to Felicity and ruminating about who her baby's father is. Maybe she should go on one of those talk shows. At the end, the last scene is hers.

The camera zooms in on Devon.

She dials someone, but we don't know who, and she presses her cell to her ear, "I'll be right there. I…um, I need to tell you something."

The credits roll.

That's it? Even as a character she's annoyingly stingy with the truth.

 

When I get home that afternoon, there's an array of plates lined up on the counter and in the fridge. Dad says the neighbors saw him pull up after I kicked him out of my hospital room, and he'd just poured the coffee grinds into the maker when the doorbell rang. It was Gabi and Jazzy with a plate of multi-colored macaroons. Then the Quinns came over with a tuna noodle casserole; Bridget brought a plate of cold cuts, potato salad, and rolls; Mrs. Friedman created a beautiful arrangement of flowers from her garden, and the Abbotts gave a huge fruit tray. And finally, Mrs. Jackson waddled over, with her cane and Cujo on a leash. She handed Dad a hot, fresh-from-the-oven apple pie. Gosh, it smells like heaven.

I grab a handful of strawberries and lean on the counter. "The Quinns? Seriously? I thought they hated me." I'm also surprised Mrs. Jackson contributed. She doesn't seem to be a part of the neighborhood loop.

Dad nods while folding several slices of ham and roast beef into a Kaiser roll. "They were upset, but hate is a strong word."

Not when it comes to that family.

I grab a roll and the turkey.

Dad takes a bite of his sandwich then asks, "How are you feeling?" I can barely make out his words, but I get the gist.

"Fine. Good as new." I grin, probably sporting strawberry pieces stuck in my braces.

The truth is I feel like dog food. Raw, sore, and in need of twenty hours of sleep in my own bed. But I don't want Dad to worry more, so I keep quiet.

"I need to run out tonight. Do you think you'll be okay alone? I can stay."

I raise a brow. "Chief Williams?"

He smirks. "No. That reporter I mentioned forgot to send out his research material on the interviews with Cameron. We're supposed to meet for coffee. I can postpone it and…"

I shake my head, but it feels like my brain is hitting the sides of my skull, so I stop mid-shake. "No, go. I'll be fine. After I stuff my face, I'm going to take a shower and fall asleep on the couch while watching TV. I won't see you until tomorrow morning anyway."

"I'll move the television into your room. But only until you're better."

"Seriously?" Dad has a thing about TVs in bedrooms. He believes it interferes with sleep and growth. I don't get it.

"But you have to promise to stay out of danger."

He didn't ask me to stop investigating. That's a huge plus. And he knows I couldn't have prevented last night. I'd no idea someone would mow me down. So I can't make that promise.

I stack my plate with potato salad and a big slice of pie. But I can show him I'll try. "I'll do everything within my power to not get hurt." Or dead.

 

*  *  *

 

I stir awake and open my eyes. My room is dark except for the flickering TV. I've must've fallen asleep with it on. Rain pounds on my air conditioner and the roof. It's heavy, fast, and furious. The perfect weather for hot cocoa and a book.

I sit up and put on my glasses. My clock says it's nine-oh-two. I switch on my lamp. Beside it is my empty plate and glass. All that food and milk, and I seriously need to pee.

I get up, stagger for a second, then use the bathroom. My head is heavy, like I've been asleep for too long, but I only laid down five hours ago, so maybe I'm under-tired. Is that even a word?

When I get back to my room, I stare at my plate and decide I must try those cookies. Jazzy would be hurt if I didn't. Yeah, that's my excuse. I grab my dishes and go down.

Dad's office door is slightly ajar. His desk lamp is on, but he's not there. He must be with the reporter.

I head into the kitchen and put my dishes into the dishwasher.

Something scrapes across the back door.

I jump and twirl around. It's too dark outside to see anyone. But that doesn't mean someone isn't standing there staring at me.

A chill starts at the base of my neck and spreads out along my shoulders and back.

I yank open the utensil drawer. The two steak knives we own aren't in there, so I grab a butter knife. In terms of weapons, this one is up there with a spork, but we don't cook so those huge knives you see in movies don't exist in our home. Other than a wooden spoon and metal spatula, this is as good as it gets.

I flip off the overhead light and tip-toe to the door. Crossing the room in darkness is spooky, but the idea of someone watching me is spookier. Each step feels like a week-long punishment. Each breath is shallow and gift-wrapped in fear with a tidy, little bow. It was probably just a squirrel, but after being a life-size hood ornament, I'm not taking any chances.

When I make it to the door, I double check the locks and fasten the safety chain. I press my face to a pane of glass and reach for the switch to the outside light. When I turn it on, if someone's face is pressed against mine, I'm going to die. Of course I think of this now and not before I leaned on the door.

I hold my breath and flip the switch. I flinch at my reflection then giggle when all I see is the rain beating against the table and chairs.

See, Piper, there's no boogeyman out there.

I turn off the light and go back to the counter. I carefully unwrap the cookie plate, not wanting to tear the pretty, pink cellophane.

"These cookies look delicious, Linzy. You should see them." Maybe not the most tempting way to get her to show up, but I'm desperate. I haven't seen her in a while. I hope she's okay. I hope the people in her life are okay.

I grab purple, green, and blue cookies, turn off the light, and head back upstairs.

When I'm on the top step, I hear the front door slowly open. The sound of rain gets louder. The heady scent of humidity creeps up the stairs. That's weird. Why isn't Dad coming in through the garage? And why didn't I hear the mechanical noise of the garage door or his car? The storm isn't that loud.

"Dad?" I call out, wishing I hadn't put down the butter knife.

He doesn't respond. My gut tells me he isn't home. This means, either the storm opened the door, or someone else just entered my house.

"Who's there?" I scream and inch back down, my back against the wall.

I peer over the railing but don't see anyone. When I'm all the way down, I look out. No one is there. It must've been the wind or rain. Maybe Dad left through this door and didn't shut it all the way.

And he says
I
need to be careful. Just wait until he gets home. I'm going to have fun teasing him.

The rain splatters across my face and T-shirt. I push the door shut, making sure it clicks all the way. I turn to go to my room and notice water on the hardwood floor. How did the rain make little puddles inside? There are several, and they go all the way back to the kitchen.

I bend at the waist for a better look. They look like…footprints?

I bolt up and back into the door, clanking against it. I turn to whip it open, to run out, and a voice says, "Piper."

My heart feels like it's beating in my throat. I know that voice.

Shayla stands in the kitchen doorway. Her hair hangs past her shoulders, drenched and dripping. She has on a white tee with a ruffle hem that's plastered to her. How long was she out in the rain? The shirt is so long, it almost hides the denim shorts beneath. She stares at me from beneath her lashes, like she's getting ready to bow. With her head at that angle, she reminds me of the girl from
The Ring
.

Super creepy. But this is Shayla. She may dislike me, but she's not a deranged spirit living inside a well.

I take a deep breath. "You scared me. What are you doing here?"

When she doesn't say anything, I remember how odd she acted yesterday. That's what I forgot. I start to take a step forward, but something holds me back. Not literally, like an invisible force, but my guts sending up warning flares in bulk.

"Why did you stop by yesterday? Is something wrong?"

She was standing in the doorway when I left my message for Dad. She had to overhear that I found the charm. And then I was run over. The night I spied on Linzy, the car looked black. Her parents' car is black. She obviously hated her sister, at least at times. Is it possible?

Did Shayla kill Linzy?

Paranoid and wishing to make it to my Sweet Sixteen next spring overwhelm me, and I fling open the door and hurry out onto the porch. I face Shayla and hold out my arms. The rain pellets my back.

"You need to start talking, or I'm calling the cops," I shout and pat my thigh, pretending I have my phone in my pocket, or that my shorts even have pockets. Of course my cell is upstairs on my nightstand. I need to make an emergency kit, like a fanny pack but much more stylish, to put my phone and various weapons inside. Then I'll keep it on me at all times.

Shayla walks forward and stops in my doorway. Another step without an explanation, and I'm running over to Gabi's. She's probably home and awake, unlike the Abbotts.

"I-I don't…" And she speaks. But it makes no sense.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but you're creeping me out. Did you kill your sister? Is this a confession?" It isn't until after I ask that I realize a) killers don't admit their crimes until they're ready to kill you, and b) it's stupid to let a murderer know you suspect them.

"Of course not," she yells. She scrunches up her face and looks disgusted. Finally animation. I was beginning to think this was robot-Shayla.

"Then what's going on? You're acting weird."

She scoffs. "No, that's your shtick."

Well at least she's predictable, but who says shtick?

"So?" I wiggle, trying to dislodge my cold, wet shirt from my back.

A streak of lightning flashes through the sky, illuminating Shayla and my porch as if it was daytime. I clench my teeth and wait for the thunder that's sure to…

It roars through the night, causing me to flinch.

Shayla shakes her head. Her hair flaps and water hits me in the face. "Never mind. I can't do this."

She jumps down my steps and races to her house.

Oh, I don't think so.

I chase after her. She's not going to scare the crap out of me and then chicken out. I told her my secret. Now it's her turn.

As soon as I hit the street, I'm drenched and can't see where I'm going. "Shayla," I scream, but it does no good. I swallow and cough up rain. She can't hear me over another sky-ripping combo of lightning and thunder. I'm absolutely crazy to run around in this.

I see the thin strip of grass too late. My foot hits the curb and I fall to my knees.

Shoot.

My glasses fall down my nose. I push them back up and stand. I'm probably bleeding, but there's little I can do here. I push my hair back and cup my eyes, trying to spot Shayla. I don't. I need to just go home. This can wait until tomorrow or when the monsoon lets up.

But as I'm about to turn, I notice movement. Someone's in the Volkswagen in her driveway.

I run over, sidestepping the stupid pink flamingo right before I crush it to death. I reach the passenger door and jerk the handle. It opens. Yes! I slide, quite literally considering how wet I am, into the seat and shut the door.

Thankfully it's Shayla in the driver's seat and not a stranger. That would be embarrassing.

"What are you doing?" she asks with her typical amount of rudeness.

"Staying dry." Suddenly I'm freezing and wrap my arms around me.

"You're getting my car wet."

I chuckle. "So are you. Wait. Your car? Since when?"

"Yesterday," she whispers.

"That's great. It's super cute."

I'd like to believe she cranks the engine and blasts the heat because she sees me trembling, but she's probably cold too.

"Is this what you wanted to tell me?"

She shrugs. "Sorta."

Something isn't right. She never acts coy around me. And she certainly doesn't want to share happy news, so what gives?

"What's the big deal?" I ask.

She glances at me from the corner of her eye. "Did you tell anyone about finding the money in Linzy's closet?"

"Just my dad. Why?"

She spins toward me. Sloshing sounds beneath her. "You did? How could you?"

Why is she yelling at me? "I had to. We shared notes and we think, well I think, her death and Ca…"

I'm about to confide in someone I just suspected of murder. Not cool. "It doesn't matter what I think. Yeah, I told him. What's the big deal?"

She bangs the steering wheel with her hands. "What if he says something to my parents or Chief Williams?"

That's a guarantee, but I don't say this. I don't want to get yelled at again.

"Why do you want to keep it a secret?"