Spirit Seeker (13 page)

My cheeks burned, and I could hardly look at Sara as I answered. “On Ms. Donavan’s desk was a little Lladro statue of a girl reading. Well, Mindy was playing with it. I remember so clearly. Paula told her not to. Then Mindy got mad, because she
always wanted to be boss, and tossed it to Paula. Paula missed catching it, and it broke. When Ms. Donavan saw it, she looked heartbroken. I let Paula take the blame.”

“So?”

“You don’t understand, Sara. I saw what happened and didn’t tell Ms. Donavan the truth.”

Sara stared at me for a minute, then said, “Good gosh, Holly, that was in sixth grade! And if Paula dropped it, she did break it, didn’t she?”

“Technically, but …”

“What are you telling me? That you’re on some kind of guilt trip? That you’re being so stubborn about Cody’s innocence because of something that happened way back when you were twelve?”

“Sara!” I repeated, as I felt the tears start again. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I’m trying, but I don’t.”

“Then go home! Please go home!”

Sara looked at me. I could see she was hurt, but I didn’t even walk to the door with her.

In all my life I had never felt so miserable. I wanted to call after Sara and beg her to come back. I needed a friend like Sara. I remembered when we’d started spending more and more time together. I always liked the noisy Madisons, and when my parents’ marriage started to fall apart, I’d wanted Mom to turn into warm, funny Mrs. Madison. For a long, selfish moment I wished I could run far away from Cody and his horrendous problems.

I put my hands over my face and sobbed loudly,
the way a little child would cry. What did it matter? There was no one to hear me. I was alone.

M
onday. 8:40
P.M.
By the time Mom arrived, I had pulled myself together. I greeted her by throwing my arms around her neck and hugging her tightly. “I missed you,” I told her. “I love you, Mom.”

“My goodness!” Mom answered. She hugged me back, and it felt so good I hung on for a while.

Finally, as I stepped back, Mom studied my face and quietly asked, “Want to talk about it, Holly? Can I help?”

I tried to hang on to a smile and said, “I just needed a hug. And to tell you I love you. I guess I need to hear it too.”

“Oh, sweetie, you know I love you.”

“You haven’t called me sweetie since I was a little girl.” I chuckled.

Mom laughed too. “I haven’t because you strongly insisted you were much too old to be called sweetie.”

“I know,” I said, “but this time it sounded good.” I followed Mom to her bedroom and flopped on the end of her bed while she changed clothes. “You used to call Dad sweetie too. I never heard him complain.”

As she backed out of the closet, Mom gave me a sharp look. “That’s enough about your father and me.”

I didn’t want to break the warm rapport between
us, so I quickly changed the subject. “It was awful at school today, Mom. Everybody stared at me as if I were lucky to still be alive, and some of them said things like … Well, I guess a few of them were trying to be nice, but some were just …”

I rolled onto my back. “You know those fish in the aquarium who come right up to the glass and stare at you with those goggle eyes, while their mouths are going back and forth and back and forth? Well, that’s how I felt—like I was getting stared at by hundreds of those nosy fish.”

Mom sat down beside me. As she finished buttoning the last button on her blouse, she took my hand and held it tightly. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. I relaxed. Suddenly I felt as if things would work out. I’d find the answers that would help Cody, and soon everything would be all right.

The phone rang, and I answered. Cody’s voice was low and dry. “About the funeral tomorrow …,” he began.

“I’ll be there,” I assured him.

“No,” he said. “You can’t. That is, it’s going to be a private ceremony tomorrow morning with just Uncle Frank and me there.” His voice dropped so I could hardly hear. “My parents are going to be cremated.”

“Oh,” I murmured, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Cody broke the silence. “I don’t like it either,” he said, “but Mr. Ormond—you know, my attorney—said it would be better. With any other kind
of funeral service, the place would be overrun with cameramen and reporters.”

His voice broke in a sob, and I hurried to cover for him. “I’m sorry, Cody. I can’t even begin to guess how hard this is for you.”

“It’s awful,” he said. “It tore me up to lose both of my parents, but now … well, it’s like I can’t give them the respect they deserve. I don’t think they would have wanted—I mean, I think they’d have preferred a proper burial.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Oh, Cody, I’m so very, very sorry.”

“Holly,” Cody said, and I could hear a subtle change in his voice, “you promised to help me, and I’m counting on you. Mr. Ormond was talking to your dad, and … uh … well, all I’m asking is, since you know I’m not the killer, could you … uh … put in a good word for me with him?”

My stomach clutched. Cody expected me to influence Dad? Cody didn’t know what he was asking. “It will take more than that. It will take proof,” I answered.

“Right,” Cody said, as though he hadn’t heard me or didn’t understand. He simply repeated, “Holly, I’m counting on you.”

D
ad actually got home before Mom went to bed. He sank into his favorite comfortable chair and leaned his head back against the headrest. He smothered a belch and pressed one hand against his chest. “One of these days I’m going to wind
things up early, and I’ll make it home in time to enjoy a real dinner,” he said.

Mom got a cynical look on her face. She opened her mouth to answer, then quickly shut it again. I wondered if she’d just remembered what I’d said about the days when she used to call Dad sweetie.

Looking a little surprised that there was no comeback, Dad shifted in his chair the way he was probably shifting his thinking. “That’s a nice blouse, Lynn,” he said. “Is it new?”

“Thanks,” Mom said. “I’m glad you like it.” I was proud of her for not telling him the blouse was at least two years old.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed it before. Probably he hadn’t even seen it. If Dad were home more often, like other husbands, he wouldn’t have asked such a dumb question. I ached for Mom and the feelings of resentment toward Dad for being so obsessed with his work that he neglected his family.

The three of us managed to talk for a little while about nothing much, like, “Ms. Winn—you know, she teaches kindergarten—just had her baby … a girl.”

And “How’s everything going at school, Holly?”

I’d already dumped on Mom about school, and I had something more important I wanted to bring up with Dad. Ever since my conversation with Cody, his words sat like a rock in the pit of my stomach. He was counting on me to help him. I had to come through.

About the time I was beginning to wonder if
married people could just run out of things to talk about, Mom got up, rubbed the back of her neck, and announced, “School tomorrow. I need my sleep.” She paused and added, “And so do you, Holly.”

Dad moved to get up, but I quickly said, “In a minute, Mom. I need to talk to Dad.”

“If this is about …,” Dad began, as Mom turned and walked upstairs.

“It won’t take long. I promise,” I begged. “First, I just want to know something about Cody inheriting his parents’ money.”

Dad settled back, but his tone was sharp. “Cody is too young to inherit. His attorney has petitioned the court, at Cody’s request, to appoint Cody’s uncle as his guardian.”

“Cody said that his uncle was going to sell his house for him.”

“I know nothing about that,” Dad said, making it clear that he didn’t care either. He looked at me sternly. “Your mother told me that Cody came to the house at your invitation, and she made it clear to you that my rule included
every
type of opportunity to see him. Have you broken the rule again?”

I couldn’t help snapping back. “No! I was talking to Cody on the phone. I promised you I wouldn’t go out with him, and I told Mom I wouldn’t ask him again to come to the house. Dad, you can trust me.”

“I know I can,” he said. “I was out of line in asking.” For a moment he squeezed his eyes shut and kneaded his forehead with his fingertips. When he relaxed and looked at me again, he said,
“Tell me, why are you asking about Cody’s inheritance?”

“Sara told me that since Cody inherits a lot of money, it looks bad for him, but if Cody’s too young to use the money he inherited, as you said, then getting the money can’t possibly be a motive.”

“I agree with you that getting the money wasn’t a motive.”

“You do?” I grinned. “Dad, does that mean you’re beginning to think Cody’s innocent?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dad told me, “but I don’t think he killed his parents for their money. What I see is a spoiled kid in a fit of anger. He argued with his parents, and he lost control. When we get all the facts together, it’s going to turn out to be as simple as that.”

“You’ve got your mind made up already!” My heart was pounding, and I was so frightened I felt dizzy.

“Already? Most murder cases are either solved within the first few days or not at all.” Dad hoisted himself out of his chair and stretched.

“Wait!” I cried. “I’ve got another question to ask you. Please!”

“All right. What is it?”

“Have the police checked the shops that sell doughnuts between here and the lake?”

“They’ve checked out every little food shop along the highway between Lake Conroe and Houston, and no one remembered Cody being there.”

I gulped. “That doesn’t mean anything one way or another. People forget. Maybe whoever waited on Cody was busy and just didn’t remember him.”

“Anything else?” Dad asked, and I could see exhaustion filming his eyes.

“Just one thing, and I think this is important.” From my handbag I pulled the printouts from Mr. Garnett’s computer. “Dad,” I said, “Mr. Garnett made a lot of investments, according to Cody, and both Mrs. Garnett and Cody’s uncle, Frank, objected to some of what he was doing.
Risky
and
shady
. Cody remembers them using those words. If he was involved in a shady business deal, then the people he was in partnership with, like the warehouse … I mean, if it was something illegal … well, what if one of them committed the murders and set things up so that Cody would look guilty?”

“A setup?”

“Yes!” I insisted. “If all the evidence makes Cody look guilty, only he isn’t, then why couldn’t it be a setup?”

“You’re getting melodramatic, Holly.” Dad’s eyebrows dove downward into a scowl. “What are those papers? What have you got there?”

“Some personal records from Mr. Garnett’s home computer about his business and income.”

“Where did you get them?” Dad’s voice was rising.

I tried to answer calmly. “Cody gave me permission to look through his father’s computer.”
As Dad’s face grew red, I practically shouted. “Cody wasn’t there! I went to the house with Sara!”

“You had no business in that house! And dragging your friend along is even more irresponsible, Holly.”

“I had to go there! If you look at the warehouse figures, you’ll see that they could be important! You can check them out—and the warehouse too.” I waved the papers at Dad, and he took them, but he didn’t bother to look at them.

“What did you think you were doing?”

“I was trying to find out who killed the Garnetts!” I yelled. “Which is what you should be doing! You weren’t even interested in the other people in Mr. Garnett’s life, you’re so sure the murderer has to be Cody!”

“Holly!” Dad thundered. “This has gone far enough! I don’t want to hear one more word about Cody! You’re not an investigator! You’re an emotional kid insisting on dangerously risking your life!”

“I’m not!” I shouted back. “I promised to help Cody prove that he’s innocent.”

“You’re so obsessed with the idea of his innocence, you can’t see straight.”

I was so angry I saw Dad through a wavering red haze. “Obsessed?” I yelled at him. “Me? Look who’s talking!
You’re
the one who gets so obsessed with your cases that there’s nothing else left in your life—especially Mom and me. You always put your job first! Always! Except for this time when
Cody needs you to find out who
really
killed his parents!”

Dad took a long breath, and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet I could hardly hear him. “Give it up, Holly,” he said and thumped up the stairs.

I hunched up in my chair, slowing down from a full boil to a simmer.
Give it up? No way
, I told myself. Not when I knew I was right.

T
uesday. 8:30
A.M.
School the next day was another bad dream. Sara just said, “Hi” and smiled—sort of—but she kept to herself. I shouldn’t have been so rude to her, and I wanted to apologize, but I couldn’t. She and Dad and the whole world could think Cody was guilty, but I’d promised to help him, even if it meant I had to do it all by myself.

I don’t know what went on in any of my morning classes. I couldn’t keep my mind on the subjects. Nothing made sense. All I could think about was Cody suffering through his parents’ private funeral service, without friends to be with him, and all because of Mr. Ormond’s decision. Mr. Ormond … It wasn’t until the middle of French class that I knew I needed to talk to Cody’s lawyer.

I realized that Monsieur Duprée had been calling my name when the kids sitting near me turned to stare. Somebody snickered.

“Faites attention, s’il vous plaît,”
my French teacher said.

“I don’t know the answer,” I told him.

“No answer is called for,” he said. “The lunch bell’s about to ring, and I asked you to remain a few minutes after class. I want to talk to you.”

The bell clammered so loudly I jumped. As the rest of the class shot toward the door, I walked slowly up to Monsieur Duprée’s desk.

He sat on the edge of the desk, facing me, and said, “Holly, I know that Cody is your friend, and with all the problems he’s got right now, I can certainly understand why it’s hard for you to keep your mind on your work.”