I So Don't Do Famous (18 page)

“I wouldn't be at all surprised if Marilyn Monroe hangs out here. Think of the peace and quiet,” my mom says, all perky. Obviously the harrowing, stinky, jerky ride has been no hardship for her.

The nanosecond the driver opens the side door, I bolt out, gasping for fresh air and stable ground.

Junie is close on my heels. “I'm not feeling so good either,” she moans.

“Remember, folks, you're free to take photos of the homes and the view,” the driver says. “But no playing amateur paparazzi. Absolutely no trespassing.”

“The ‘no trespassing' rule does not apply to me.” My mom giggles like she's our age again and at a slumber party. “Fingers crossed, girls, that there's a sign of Marilyn Monroe here.” The scent of coffee briefly hovers above me, then wafts away.

“No littering.” The driver continues on with his list of rules. “We don't want to lose access to this hilltop.”

“What a horrible tour.” Junie stumbles behind me. “I won't be recommending it in the school paper.”

When we get to the grass, she slumps down, sitting cross-legged, and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I feel like my brains are going to explode.”

The other passengers step around us. They're oohing and ahhing about the view. They frown at us like we're poor sports.

I take a deep breath. “Actually, Junie, now that I'm off that death trap of a minibus, I'm feeling a little better.” I stretch out my arms and legs. “Although my thighs are still tingling unpleasantly from the vibrating seats.”

“Go scout out the place. Take some photos with your phone of Kira Cornish's house.” The hair around
Junie's face is damp and wispy. “I'm not moving.” She closes her eyes. “Don't do anything dumb, Sherry.”

I don't even dignify that with a response. I'm a detective. A professional detective, except for the getting paid part. At this moment, though, I'm a detective without a real plan.

I meander over to Kira Cornish's one-story stucco house and stand at the foot of the driveway. A black wrought-iron fence surrounds the property.

I glance over my shoulder. The guide and the rest of the tour group are across the wide street at Jane Russell's house. He's yakking away, his arms gesticulating like a windmill.

I walk to the side of Kira Cornish's house. I'm standing on rubble, completely still, staring at the house, at the low hedge snaking around to the back.

A pudgy brown bunny hops past me, then stops and balances on his haunches, his nose twitching. He scampers off, disappears from my view, then seconds later is in front of me but on the other side of the fence. I follow his trail. The fence curves around the property, then suddenly ends. I could walk right into Kira Cornish's backyard.

If I were crazy enough to ignore the warnings from the concierge and the bus driver and even Junie. Which I'm not.

I take a step closer to the last post.

Nothing's moving. Not even a leaf or a blade of grass. Then the bunny bounces down an embankment in the backyard.

And out of sight.

In the distance, I can hear the tour guide's voice. “Folks, see all the agapanthus at the front of Kira Cornish's house? Those are Kira's favorite flowers. Word has it that these were transplanted from her mother's garden down in San Diego.”

From below the embankment, there's a squeal. “Stef, look, isn't that the cutest bunny in the world?”

L
orraine and Stef are out of sight, at the bottom of the embankment in Kira Cornish's backyard!

The tourists and tour guide are still at the front of the house and out of sight.

Junie is back near the bus and out of sight.

My heart is in my throat.

I make a split-second decision.

Fast as a speeding comet, I streak around the end of the fence. I leap down the embankment. Yikes. It's steeper than I expected.
Thud
. I trip. I roll.
Thud
. I come to a halt by a pair of flip-flops. Hollywood High flip-flops.

The bunny bolts.

Lying on my back, I look up and wave. “Hi, Lorraine!” I shield my eyes with my other hand. “Hi, Stef!” This situation is going to take all the pluck I can muster.

I stand slowly, checking for broken bones. Then I brush off the dirt. “Thought I'd find you two here.”

Their jaws hang open.

“How'd you find us?” Stef finally gets her mouth back in gear.

“A little clue here, a little clue there,” I answer. I smile, all friendly and best friends. I pretend like the whole use-me-for-tickets-to-pull-off-a-purse-heist thing never happened.

“I can see how you won the essay contest,” Lorraine says. “You really are smart.”

“I am,” I say. “And you know what else I am?”

“A gymnast?” Lorraine says, pointing at the hill.

Exercising great self-control, I don't roll my eyes. “No, a celebrity hound.”

There's a crunching-gravel sound from above as the tour group, minus Junie and me, tromps along the side of the house.

“Folks, here is Kira Cornish's wishing well. Any pennies you throw in, she promises to donate to an animal shelter.” He pauses. “Five more minutes of enjoying this beautiful area, then it's back on the minibus for a few more homes.” The driver's voice
comes from straight above me. “Okay, people, I'm going to insist you return to the street. We can't risk losing the privilege of bringing our tours up here.”

The tour group's voices fade.

“We can't risk losing the privilege, blah blah blah,” Lorraine mimics. “He sounds just like the last tour guide. They must memorize a script.”

“Were you on the last tour?” I ask. “Is that how you guys got here?”

“No way. Too expensive.” Lorraine's wearing about five ankle bracelets. They tinkle when she moves. “We just got the address of this house from them.”

“How'd you know Kira Cornish isn't home?”

“This guy we know said she's filming in Toronto,” Lorraine says.

“How'd you get up here?” I ask.

“Same guy.” Lorraine pulls her hair back in a ponytail, then lets it drop. “He has a driver's—”

“You were really looking for us?” Stef interrupts.

“Absolutely,” I say.

Stef crosses her arms. “Why?”

“Because of this sweet thing you have going,” I say.

Lorraine's eyes are blurry with confusion. Stef hugs her elbows tighter till the points are like white embers.

“The Beverly Hills Bandits.” I smile at each of them in turn. “It's you and you.”

Lorraine's jaw goes slack again. This is not an attractive look for her.

Stef's whole face wrinkles in a frown. Very prunelike.

And while they're still in speechless shock, I add, “Talk about a brilliant scheme. Breaking into celebrities' homes, stealing things you can sell for money and giving yourselves a chance to nab some cool personal stuff too.” I sigh. “And the way you stole Dear Elle's purse? Totally amazing.”

“Sherry's incredible,” Lorraine says to Stef. “She's probably part genius.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot.”

Stef watches me through narrowed eyes.

“We really have picked up some cool stuff, Sherry.” Lorraine pulls on the hem of her T-shirt. “This is Melanie Grace's.” She twists her wrist, which jiggles the bracelet with the dog charm. “Hannah Smyth's.”

“You know what I never figured out?” I say. “How did you guys know I had extra tickets for the
Hollywood Girl
bash?”

“We didn't,” Lorraine says. “We knew there'd be security, and we thought you'd let us walk in with you. We had no idea the security would be so crazy tight. We just got lucky that you gave us the tickets.”

“What do you want from us?” Stef says.

“I want in,” I say.

“S
eriously? You want to break into houses with us?” Lorraine says. “You ever done anything like that before?”

“No, but I gotta start somewhere,” I say. “And you guys seem like you'd be good teachers.”

Stef is looking skeptical to the max.

“I love anything and everything to do with celebrities,” I say. “I started watching the Academy Awards when I still had a pacifier in my mouth.” I place a hand over my heart. “To take home stuff owned by a star would be the best souvenir ever.”

“Let's take her to tomorrow's meeting,” Lorraine says.

“Please,” I wheedle. Tomorrow's meeting?

Stef purses her lips.

“Plus, David wants us to find a new girl for the next job,” Lorraine says.

David? I decide now is not the best time to ask questions. I remain quiet and put on my sad, cute puppy-dog look. It always works with my dad.

“When do you go back to Phoenix?” Stef asks.

“In three days,” I say, hoping this will be enough time.

Stef turns to Lorraine. “We can't just show up at the meeting with her. Not without checking with David first.”

“Stef's right,” Lorraine says to me. “David's kind of moody. You don't want to make him mad.” She shakes her head like she's clearing out a bad memory.

“I'm free tomorrow.” My voice rings with enthusiasm. “All day.”

“Sherry. Sherry.” Junie's weak voice comes from the top of the embankment. “Where are you?”

“Is that your wimpy friend?” Lorraine asks.

“Wimpy? More like brainy.” The words shoot out of my mouth quickly and reflexively. Defending Junie might not be the brightest thing I can do in terms of this case. But that's the way it is with best friends; you can't let anyone dog them.

“Sherry, everyone from the tour is looking for you,” Junie calls softly.

“Can you check with David?” I ask.

“Stef, you could call him,” Lorraine says.

Stef scowls. “Fine. What's your cell?”

I give it to her quickly and she punches the number into her phone.

“We're asking about
you
,” Lorraine says. “Not your friend. Don't even tell her what's going on.”

“Sherry Baldwin!” booms the tour guide's voice. “Report immediately to the minibus!”

Yikes!

“Get out of here!” Stef says. “Before you get us caught!”

“Sherry Baldwin! Sherry Baldwin!” calls a choir of voices.

I scramble up the hill.

Race to the end of the fence.

I almost make it undetected.

Almost.

I have one foot on Kira Cornish's property and one foot off, when the tour guide and a line of his henchmen tourists round the corner of the house.

Their eyes zero in on me.

Junie limps behind them, sunburned and a palm pressed against her forehead.

The driver points a long arm in my direction. “You. To. The. Bus. Now.”

When we reach the vehicle, he says, “Sit up front. By me.”

My mom flutters in and settles on the window side
of my seat. “Sherry, what's going on? Did you and Junie have an argument?”

I give a slight shake of my head.

The driver shoves the vehicle into gear and starts in on me. “What were you thinking? How much plainer did I need to make it? No trespassing. You and your entire family are banned forever from Starline Tours.”

As soon as my mom figures out why I'm in trouble, she starts in on me too.

For the entire ride, my left ear is bombarded by the tour guide and my right ear is bombarded by my mother. Except for Junie, all the passengers are shooting me hate stares.

Finally, we arrive at the Roosevelt. Ears burning, I escape from the bus.

Junie follows me to 25 Degrees, where we collapse in a booth and order a pitcher of soda.

“So, why'd you do it?” Junie says. “Why did you trespass?”