I Spy Dead People (29 page)

Linzy shrugs. "I guess I can't hang out here forever. I'll eventually get bored. Besides, your room totally lacks in interior design. Plus, no parties, a dad who's home all the time, and nerdy friends? That's not my life."

"No, your life was glamorous and exciting."

She bows her head and smirks. "Yes, but you're luckier."

Seriously? I shrug. A habit I hope to break soon.

Several car doors slam consecutively outside. I get up and go to the window. Mr. Friedman and Miguel pull out of their driveways at the same time, both going to work. I look down the street to Bridget's house. Where does your stuff go when you're imprisoned? All those beautiful clothes. I should inherit them considering she tried to kill me, but I guess I wouldn't want them. Too much bad juju. Who will take over the houses she rents?

The Abbotts' driveway is empty too. They left thirty minutes ago for camp. I watched them pack their trunk with Kinley's bags. I didn't rush down to say good-bye. We did that in the hospital. I'll see her next month, and I'm confident we'll have a load of fun this school year.

"I guess this is it."

I turn to see Linzy standing by my door. Her eyes are bright and she's even smiling. She's ready. I'm not.

Two departures in one day. I don't think I can deal.

She steps over the threshold then stops and looks back. "You can have my Hello Kitty tote bag. Just let Shayla know."

My chest tightens. I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. "I don't think she'll believe me."

Linzy nods. "She will now."

I run after her, not wanting to leave her side until I absolutely have to. Whoa, that's different. It dawns on me, and I feel completely blind.

Linzy's been the best friend I've ever had.

We head downstairs and out the front door. Dad's office is taped off with yellow, crime scene tape. The police don't want us in the house at all, but Dad convinced them, a.k.a. his possible-slash-probable new girlfriend, to let us stay. She agreed as long as we didn't step foot in the room.

I have absolutely no problem with that.

Linzy steps off the porch and lifts her face to the sun. Can she feel it? Probably not, but this is the last time she'll see it. How depressing.

"Hey," I call out, not caring if anyone hears me talking to the air. "Whose baby is Devon carrying, Zach's or Ethan's?"

Linzy looks back. Everything about her expression and demeanor is serene. It's the happiest I've ever seen her. Without an answer, she smiles and steps to the curb.

Dude, not cool.

I follow her to the sidewalk and watch her.

She walks into the middle of the street.

Just then Gabi comes out and goes to her mailbox. She cocks her head and smiles. "How are you?" she asks me.

"I'm good."

She just stands there and stares at me with that goofy grin on her face for a moment. Hopefully she realizes I'm still capable of babysitting, and I didn't attract the crazy in my life. Okay, so maybe I did, but it's over now.

She heads inside as the Friedman gardener pulls onto the street. He rides right through Linzy and pulls into the Friedman driveway. When he steps from his truck, he shakes, like he has a chill and heads to their backyard.

Did he feel Linzy too?

I stare down the street, hoping to see whatever Linzy's fixated on, but all I can make out are houses and trees.

She continues her journey, stopping for a moment in front of her house.

Shayla steps outside and picks up the newspaper carelessly thrown onto their lawn. She spots me and gives a half nod before going back in.

I have no idea where we stand. We'll figure it out. Or not. I'm not sure how I feel about her knowing my secret. And for once, I don't need to know.

Linzy moves forward.

Mrs. Jackson's door opens, and Cujo runs out to the edge of their curb. He barks three times at Linzy but then trots over to where our yards meet. He sits and watches me, doesn't bark or act excited like usual. It's as if he senses my sadness and wants me to know he's there.

I chuckle. He's kinda cute when not yappy.

Mrs. Jackson waves.

I wave back.

Linzy gets to the corner, and I hold my breath waiting to see if she'll be thrown back.

She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles. Then she steps past that imaginary line and fades away.

I sigh deeply and blink away my tears.

"What are you staring at?"

I flinch and turn. Troy and Chief Williams are standing beside me. Her car is parked in our driveway. I hadn't even heard them pull up.

I shrug. "Um, nothing. Just, uh…enjoying the weather."

The chief grips my shoulders and pulls me in for a hug. "I'm so glad you're alright."

I rest my cheek against her shoulder and breathe in the scent of baby powder. I'm not sure how I feel about Dad dating the chief, but she's definitely on my side. That I'm sure of. Last night, she was the first one to arrive at the house, and when she saw me, she cried.

When I pull back, I can't help but feel a bit awkward, so I say, "Dad has coffee brewing."

"Just what I need." She pats Troy's arm then goes inside.

Troy and I walk to my porch and sit on the steps. I'm not ready to go inside yet.

"Tell me how in two weeks you managed to catch a killer and solve two murders?" Troy asks.

I chuckle. "I'm lucky?"

"More like determined and a bit stubborn."

Very true. But it doesn't feel like I solved this crime, more like I fell down and it toppled over me, unfolding as it landed. Either way, I'm glad it's over, even if it means losing Linzy.

"How's your dad dealing?" Troy asks.

I laugh. "He's a nervous wreck. I almost died twice. He's muttering about buying me a protective bubble."

"I understand. On the way over, Mom kept glancing over at me, as if I was going to vanish."

"Parents are weird."

But they can be cool, too.

Gabi and Jazzy walk outside with a blanket, tea set, and the giant bear.

"When the police are done with the crime scene, Dad's moving his office into the basement, so the living room will actually be a place to watch TV. And I'll be able to hang with my friends," I say.

"Great. I have a huge movie collection."

I lean back and frown. "Why don't I know this? What's your favorite genre?"

"Horror."

"Of course," we say in unison.

I laugh. Another reason to like him. We still haven't discussed us and our folks. There hasn't been time. But I'm not as worried as I was. I have a feeling they won't stand in our way—whatever 'our way' becomes.

The door opens, and Dad sticks his head out. "You two hungry? I'm making pancakes."

I widen my eyes. "But it's only been six months."

He points his spatula at me. "Haha, you're funny. You should go to college to be a comedian."

I roll my eyes and laugh. Troy and I rise.

Dad steps back and opens the door wider. "What kind do you prefer, Troy? Plain or chocolate chip?"

I'm surprised there are options, since all we have are leftovers. At least one of the choices isn't tuna noodle casserole pancake.

"Chocolate chip," Troy says and walks inside.

Dad winks at me then follows our guest to the kitchen. He now has one souped-up book to write, but he promised this morning that no matter when he completes it, we're staying for the school year. I still have time to work on him, get him to change his mind to stay longer. He probably won't, but I can try.

And in the meantime…

I glance back at our street.

Disturbia isn't so disturbing anymore.

 

 

*  *  *

 

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About the Author

 

Jennifer Fischetto is the
 
National Bestselling Author
of the Jamie Bond Mysteries.
 
Unbreakable Bond
, her adult debut novel, has received a National Reader's Choice award nomination. She writes dead bodies for ages 13 to six-feet-under. When not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, singing (off-key), and watching an obscene amount of TV. She also adores trees, thunderstorms, and horror movies—the scarier the better. She lives in Western Mass with her family and is currently working on her next project.

 

 

To learn more about Jennifer, visit her online at

http://jenniferfischetto.com/

or on Facebook at

https://www.facebook.com/jennfischetto

or on Twitter at

https://twitter.com/JennFischetto

 

 

BOOKS BY JENNIFER FISCHETTO

 

Jamie Bond Mysteries:

 

Unbreakable Bond

Secret Bond

 

Disturbia Diaries Mysteries:

 

I Spy Dead People

 

 

 

If you enjoyed
I Spy Dead People,
check out this sneak peek of another young adult mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

 

 

SNEAK PEEK

of the first

Rules of the Scam Mystery

by Aimee Gilchrist:

 

 

THE TELL-TALE CON

 

* * * * *

 

 

Rules of the Scam #26

The con is in the details…

 

A stupid, desperate chick and her money are soon parted.  At least, that's what my mom always says.  Which might sound like a concerned mother, except she follows that with “so know how to make people feel desperate.”  She says if people are dumb enough to pay for a fortune teller located above a Mr. Wong's Suds and Folds, then they deserve what they get.  Of course, she also says if my dad was better at what he did he wouldn't be doing time.  What he should have done was spent more time brushing up on his grifting skills and less time drinking. 

So maybe Mom isn't the best source of morality lessons.

One of the stupid chicks Mom loved to prey on pushed past me and out of the reading room, clutching her D&G purse to her chest and crying huge mascara-y tears. 
That
was weird.  Mom always told the clients either exactly what they wanted to hear or something so vague that it could have meant anything.  Tears were uncommon. 

“Everything okay in there?” I called.

For a long moment there was no answer, and I considered going back there, though I hated ‘the work room' in all its theatrical glory.  But finally her voice carried out.  “Do I have a six o'clock?”

I was Mom's secretary, or as close as she had to one, but I didn't have to look at the books.  I have a terrific memory for numbers.  Instead, I wandered to the window and watched the heavy traffic below.  “Nope.” 

I decided not to bother inquiring about sobbing Dolce girl.  Maybe she'd stubbed a French manicured toe.  It used to be that the street Mr. Wong's was on saw three kinds of people: prostitutes, people trying to pick up and/or bust prostitutes, and prostitutes who wanted to do their laundry. 

But this entire area of downtown Albuquerque, New Mexico was undergoing something called ‘urban regentrification'.  I didn't know what that actually meant, but ever since we'd lived here this neighborhood had been bipolar.  Million dollar lofts built inside old factories rose up next to squat, cracked stucco houses with bars on the windows.  Trendy new bars full of douches shared space with places like Mr. Wong's.    

Now that the higher brow set had moved in we had a whole new clientele of desperate losers.  We took in enough that we could have moved somewhere marginally nicer.  But Mom was sure this was the perfect location.  Plus she said Mr. Wong's added to the ambiance, because apparently nothing says ‘mystical' like the scent of dryer sheets wafting in the air. 

I watched a man exit the doors of the converted library lofts across the street and jet out into traffic.  He narrowly avoided being hit by a truck with ‘fish' painted on the side.  No one wants to go like that. 

He bounded up onto our side of the sidewalk, and I expected him to go into the Indian food grocery next door since rich people seem to love that store.  Instead, he darted into Mr. Wong's.  Which was unexpected as, judging from his clothes, he didn't seem to be the Mr. Wong's type. 

But I was shocked to hear the bang of heavy footsteps on the narrow wood staircase that led up to Mystic Madam Megdala's.  He
definitely
wasn't the Mystic Meg type.  I didn't need to see him fully to know that.  Men almost never came into the store.

“I thought you said we didn't have a six?”

The stairs were always so loud that even Mom could hear the steps. 

“We don't,” I called back.  “I don't know who this is.”

But when the door swung open, that turned out to be a lie.  I did know who this was.  I just had absolutely no idea why he was here. 

We stared at each other for a suspended moment where I tried to figure out why he was at Mystic Meg's, and he probably tried to get over the horror of unexpectedly seeing his honors biology lab partner in the lobby of a psychic's. 

“Harrison?”

As a general rule, I'm an excellent judge of people.  It was an occupational must in my parents' line of work.  But I couldn't figure out Harrison Poe at all.  He'd been my lab partner for the last three months, and he was still as big a mystery as he'd been the first day.  His thick-framed black glasses and tight, screen-printed t-shirts of eighties movies suggested he was a hipster, but without all the ironic self-loathing.