Kitty Kitty (15 page)

On the walk home the Evil Henches were very quiet, Polly was ebullient, Tom was listening, Roxy pretended to be
a Smurfotaur, and I was plunged in Deep Thought. Because Lucien Wilder was lying. He knew the name Carlotta Longhi. And if the digits suddenly crawling up my spine were anything to go by, he didn’t like that I did, too.
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I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help wondering if the shiny object that hit me over the head could have been a gold naked lady with sapphire eyes.

The very best way in the world to be roused from a dream about you and your boyfriend is Not to Be. The second-best way is by a phone call from him, especially if you’ve been dying for one. So when the hotel phone jolted me out of a particularly excellent part of my dream, which for some reason involved Jack serenading me with “M-I-C, C you real soon, K-E-Y, Y, because we like you!” and I opened one eye and saw it was seven A.M. which meant ten P.M. in Los Angeles, le perfecto hour for calling, I held no malice. In fact, I smiled at it.

“I like you too,” I answered, still half asleep.

“Jasmine, is that you? I’ve told you to identify yourself and the phone exchange when you answer the phone.”

The trazillion-gillionth best way to be woken from a dream about your boyfriend serenading you in a gondola is by a call from your father.

“Yes, Dad, you have told me that, and in a spirit of sharing I’ve told you that since we no longer live in 1954, no one answers the phone that way, and also they’re not called exchanges, they are called phone numbers. You’ll enjoy being more up-to-date in your lingo. You’ll find people stare at you less.”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

I don’t know why I bother. I put on my best operator voice to say, “Hello, this is Jasmine Callihan at room 549. Hold the wire please,” and dragged the phone into the bathroom so I wouldn’t bother Polly, where she was not-snoring in the bed next to mine, with my witty banter.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this early-morning wake-up call?” I asked.

“I wanted to remind you that you have Italian class this morning. Just because your friends are here doesn’t mean you should neglect your education.”

Perish le thoughto! “You know, Dad, I’m really not feeling that great and I was—”

“If you’re too tired from staying up last night, that’s your fault. You should know better.”

“It wasn’t last night,” the monkeys said. “It was the night before that, which I partially spent arrested for murder, and then the fact that I got knocked out twice yesterday.”

THANK YOU MONKEYS FOR RUINING MY LIFE.

There was a long, LONG pause after that. And then my father (pick one) :

• a) roared in fury.
  
• b) roared in disappointment.
  
• c) roared with an unnamed BodingNoGoodForJas™ passion.
  
• d) started to laugh the way he only does while watching Donald Duck cartoons, which, according to him, are brilliant high art.
  

D! The correct answer is D! And not only did he give himself a laugh-cramp, he said, “I think I’m beginning to understand your sense of humor, Jasmine. Arrested for murder. Ha ha.”

There was another pause, no doubt while he was drying his eyes, and when he started talking again his tone was kind of confidential. “Incidentally, don’t let your cousin Alyson near any machines.”

I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “Machines? What kind of machines? Like gumball machines?”

“This is not a joking matter,” he said, and hung up.

Of course. “I was arrested and knocked out twice” gets a sidesplitting HA HA HA. But a simple request for information elicits a stern THAT IS NOT A JOKING MATTER. The fact that I’m not in an asylum is truly remarkable.

But there was no time to pride myself on my sanity, or wonder at these machines he so cavalierly spoke of. I carefully dressed in a Polly-approved outfit, made sure that Polly’s phone had not been abducted by aliens in the night and that the battery was charged and it was in a safe dry place and in no danger of falling or being crushed by meteors and that there were no missed calls, and with the Mickey Mouse Club theme song still playing in my head, flitted out the door, pausing just to grab the list of things the police had found on Arabella’s body. I hadn’t had time to look it over the night before due to Polly going on and on about the importance of tailoring, and my head going on and on about the importance of sleeping, and I figured Italian class was as good a place as any to study it.

Being there was sadder than I’d thought it would be. Although technically I’d spent the past thirty-six hours thinking about nothing but Arabella, her death—the fact that she was gone forever—somehow hadn’t sunk in. But looking at the empty chair next to me and having no one with whom to comment on the state of Professore Rossi’s (perplexing) hairo brought it home. I’d really liked her. And now I’d never see her again.

As Professore Rossi assigned parts for our daily dose of
diversità è ricchezza
in dialogue form—

—I opened up the list Beatrice had given me. Not only had she Xeroxed the official police report, she’d written up a translation of it for me so I didn’t have to bother Professore Rossi with questions like what does
“mutadine”
mean and have him tell me “underwear.” I could see why she’d been such an important part of the family.

Arabella had been found in black pants, a black sweater, black socks, black boots, black underwear. I guess Arabella was the match-your-undies-to-your-outfit type too. In her pocket was a wallet with her photo ID and seven euros.

And that was it.

But that couldn’t be it. Something was missing.

Little Life Lesson 39: It’s a lot easier to notice Something that is there but shouldn’t be than Something that isn’t there but should be.
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I closed my eyes and tried to picture Arabella sitting next to me—

“Signorina Callihan? Do we interrupt your nap?”

My eyes snapped open. Her brooch. Her brooch was
missing. I distinctly remember the police saying that when she’d been seen on the bridge, one of the things people identified was the brooch. And now it was gone.

It could have fallen off in the water, but I doubted it. The currents weren’t that strong. Which meant that someone had taken it off of her. The killer. As a memento.

I was so excited that I stood up without realizing it.

I said, “I’ve got to go. I have to do something.”

“Class is not over for another fifteen minutes yet.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sick.” I gripped my stomach for effect. “Really, I have to leave.” And I, as the Evil Henches would have said, Gulf Streamed it out of there.

I made a list of What to Do Next in my head as I walked back to the hotel. Step one was to call Beatrice and find out more about the history of the brooch, where Arabella had gotten it, and when. The fact that the killer had taken it meant it was as important to him as it was to her. So if I could figure out who the brooch meant something to, I’d know who killed Arabella.

As it turned out, I was right, but not in exactly the way I thought. At the time, though, all I knew was that the brooch was the key to unlock the mystery. I simply had to figure out what the lock was.

Little Life Lesson 40: Never use the word “simply.” The Fates don’t like it.

Of course I had no idea where to start looking. But at least

I was one step closer to getting the solution into the desired Colonel Mustard in the Library with the Candlestick form. The form that led to And They All Lived Happily Ever After (except the dead person).
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Step two was—well, I wasn’t sure what step two was. But I knew it had to do with getting back to the hotel and finding my pals ASA and also P.

I hadn’t really noticed it on my way to class, but suddenly I was aware that it was a really awesome day. Everything seemed more beautiful and crisp, and my mind was filled with self-actualization. I saw how I was being ridiculous about Jack. He was just a busy rock star. His silence didn’t mean anything. He’d said he was working on the video of the song he wrote for me. That meant he liked me—boys didn’t write songs for girls they didn’t like. (Well, except maybe those songs about how much they hated those girls and wished they had crabs. But my song wasn’t that kind of song.) How could I expect him to have time to pick up the phone even for a second or send one small email even if he always had his BlackBerry with him, so really how hard could it be? I wasn’t one of those girlfriends who needed constant attention. We were two modern individuals with
modern lives. We were wild and independent and free! And yet together!

Filled with modernity, I jetted to the Grissini Palace and waved breezily at Camilla as I went by.

“Jasmine, wait,” she called as I breezed past. “I know you are anxious to get upstairs to your big box, but someone leaves another object for you.”

I had no idea what big box she was talking about, but since Camilla was prone to these sorts of riddles I decided to let it go. I backtracked to her desk to take the large brown paper envelope she was holding out to me.

It had my name and room number written on it. “Who left this?” I asked. Because I am Always the Investigator.

“I cannot tell you. It is crazy here this morning with everyone getting ready for the ball tonight, and I am rushing around like the headless chickens, and when I come back it is sitting here. I do not even have time for my break!”

“I’msorrythenIwon’tkeepyouCyourealsoon,” I said fast before she could launch into an inescapable story, and headed for the elevator. I was so excited to see what was in the envelope—I figured it had to come from my Secret Prada Informant—that I ripped it open as I rode up and slid the object out of it.

I stared.

The doors opened on my floor.

The doors closed on my floor.

The doors opened again.

Still I didn’t get out. I couldn’t. My legs refused to move and I had to steady myself against the back wall. Because what I held in my hands stunned me.

It was a glossy gossip magazine, and the cover was half taken up with a photo. A photo of Jack.

Passionately making out with a girl who was definitely not me.

Jack
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hadn’t been kidding about having something to tell me.

I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach and run over by five ice-cream trucks at the same time. And then mauled by a bear. Who had been modified in a lab to have poisoned razor claws.

It was like all of me ached, not from the outside, but from the inside. And it would never stop.

In Times of Torment™ it is good to have a mentor, someone to look up to for guidance. So I asked myself WWMrTD and suddenly all was clear: Mr. T would shove the magazine into the bottom of his bag and, pretending nothing was wrong, go see his pals. Yes, this was UNBELIEVABLY PAINFUL AND I WANTED TO DIE but Mr. T would
want me to hold it together. And as long as no one said the word “Jack”—or “how” “are” “you” “is” “everything” “okay” “what’s” “wrong”—or, better yet, as long as no one spoke to me at all, I’d be fine.

I opened the door of my room, stepped in, stepped out to check from the number that I had the right place, then stepped back in.

It didn’t look like my room anymore. It looked like Control Central for a special ops mission to Nutsembourg. Roxy was surrounded by wires and circuit boards. Next to the window, Tom was wearing BluBlockers and soldering things with one of those handheld blowtorches people use to make crème brûlée. A guy I didn’t recognize was using an Xacto knife and glue gun on my beige cowboy boots with the nuts embroidered on them. Alyson and Veronique were huddled around my computer. And Polly was busy sewing something that looked like she’d skinned it off a retired character from the Bear Country Jamboree.

All of which led me to conclude that something was Le Up.

Mr. T is a quick study.

“What’s going on?” I asked Polly.

And she said, not answering my question, “Jack just called!”

“Oh, did he?” I said with dead lips. Yes, lips can too be dead. But I smiled when I said it.

“He said to call whenever you got in. That he had something to tell you.”

“I bet.” They were maybe even more like zombie lips. Lips that were totally unconnected to my brain.

“What was that?”

“I said, I’m beat.
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By the way, who is the man mauling my cowboy boots?”

“That’s Davos and he’s not mauling them, he’s modifying them.”

“For what?”

“Go look on the bed.”

Roxy said, “But first give me your water wings. I need to test the device.”

“What device?” I asked.

Little Life Lesson 41: You might think “I need to test the device” when coupled with “water wings” are the scariest words in the English language, but you would be wrong.

“BED!” Polly ordered.

I handed my water wings to Roxy and reported to the bed. I’d thought Polly, sensing my delicate condition, had been ordering me to rest, but when I got there I began to suspect
that was not the case. There was a huge red box sitting in the middle of my bed. It had to be two feet tall and three feet long. The top was off of it and it was billowing tissue paper everywhere. I reached inside and pulled out a white curled wig like they wore in the eighteenth century, the kind of satin mask that goes over your eyes, a small peaked hat, and then the most gorgeous dress I’d ever seen in my life. It had a dark green bodice that laced up the front, a huge dark green skirt, and a delicate petticoat embroidered with dragonflies to wear under it.

“Wow,” I said.

“Don’t look at the dress, look at the note,” Polly told me.

It was written on plain white paper folded in thirds. I opened it and read:

And there was an engraved ticket to the Save Venice Four Seasons Masquerade Ball at the Vivaldi Church that night.

I should have been excited, right? A message from an admirer? Along with a totally rad dress?

And this is how dead inside I was. All I did was say: “Hmm.”
And then, “Who opened the box?”

“I did,” Alyson said. “I thought it might be for me.”

“But the envelope has my name and room number on it,” I pointed out.

“It says Miss Callihan,” A-Hench said. “That’s my name, too. So the dress could be for me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Polly put in. “I think it’s better if you don’t wear the dress anyway, Jas. It could be from the killer. In which case it’s a T-R-A-P.”

I got more interested. “You’re right.”

Alyson stood with her hand on her hip. “I’m not a puppy.”

“I thought you weren’t dominos.”

“I mean I can spell.”

I clapped my hands together in girlish wonder. “Someone please give Alyson a smiley-face scratch-and-sniff sticker.”

“It’s Sapphyre. And I don’t think it’s a trap. Besides, who would want to kill me?”

Sadly, this was a rhetorical question.

I turned back to Polly. “Even if it’s a trap, I have to go. We’ll just have to take precautions.”

“We’ve got it all planned,” Polly said. “Roxy’s on weapons, and Sapphyre and Tiger’s *Eye are working on security.”

Little Life Lesson 42: You might think that “Sapphyre and Tiger’s*Eye are working on security” are the most frightening words in the English language, but you would also be wrong.

“What do you mean, Sapphyre and Tiger’s *Eye? And security?” That’s when I remembered my conversation with
Dadzilla that morning. I pointed at Alyson. “You’re not supposed to be near machines.”

“Who told you that?” she hissed.

“My father. Are you in trouble? What did you do?”

“It wasn’t anything bad,” Veronique assured me, “Sapphyre just hacked into—”

“Need to Know Basis, Tiger’s*Eye,” Sapphyre said, shutting her down.

“Wait, you’re a hacker?” I couldn’t believe it.

Alyson turned around from my computer. “Do you want the security cameras in the church routed to your laptop tonight or not?”

I looked at Polly. She nodded. I said, “Yes.”

“Then stop talking to me. And Polly, tell her about the agreement.”

“Sapphyre gets full custody of the contents of the box, as well as immunity from any of us ever telling anyone that she knows anything about computers, in exchange for her assistance. And you have to call her Sapphyre and not make a face when you do it.”

“Okay. But if, um, Sapphyre is wearing the dress, what am I going to wear?”

Polly’s eyes lit up. “Don’t worry, Jas, I’m working on a brilliant costume for you. You just go call Jack and leave everything to us.”

Of course, I had no intention of calling TRAITORLIPS McSNEAKYSON but her saying that reminded me that I’d
wanted to call Beatrice. I didn’t have her number, so I started looking around, and that’s when I thought of Arabella’s phone. Beatrice had called on it the morning of Arabella’s death.

Fishing it out of the pocket of the jacket I’d been wearing, I remembered the other call. The one that had come in when I was on the phone with Arabella before she died. Possibly the last person to talk to her.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I scrolled quickly through the call log, finding Beatrice’s call (three minutes five seconds), Arabella’s call to me (six minutes thirty-one seconds), and the call that had interrupted it (twenty-eight seconds). That one came from an Italian cell phone with no name attached, but if she had friends in the city, maybe they could tell me more about her. I dialed, let it ring ten times, got no answer, and hung up. Then I tried Beatrice’s number, with the same result.

Basically, I had no boyfriend, no new leads, and was about to walk into a trap set by a cunning killer. I was in grave danger of bungee-jumping headfirst into the Pit of Self-pity when something zipped by my cheek and planted itself in the wall.

“It works,” Roxy said.

“What was that?”

“My new dart gun. I made it out of the pen and some of the other stuff in Arabella’s box. It couldn’t have been used on Ned Neal because it would only work if you were up close to him, but it’ll come in handy tonight. I’ll put one in
your boot with the, um, other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Polly said, “Nothing. Now come here and try on your costume.”

“I’m not wearing that,” I said when I saw what Polly was holding. “No. And also Way.”

“It was the only thing that came in your size and was roomy enough for all the weapons systems. And the head is reinforced with your dad’s bike helmet.”

Little Life Lesson 43:
Those
are the most frightening words in the English language.

Polly went on. “What’s wrong with it? It’s completely fetching.”

“Does fetching mean moldy?”

“And it’s filled with my latest technological advances,” Roxy said.

“Mr. T wouldn’t wear this.”

“Oh, yes, he would.”

Little Life Lesson 44: Never think that just because your day started with a dialogue about laser sharks and segued into you learning your boyfriend was seeing someone else by having a photo of it flaunted in your face (and who would do that, incidentally?), it cannot get worse. It can always get worse.