I So Don't Do Famous (9 page)

“So, Lorraine and Stef are involved in burglarizing stars' homes?” Junie chooses a jelly-filled doughnut.

I rub my temples, which now pound rhythmically, like a metronome. “Yikes. They are some kind of bad.”

“Who are these girls?” my dad asks.

“You might have seen me talking to them last night? They were dressed almost identically in black capris and black vests—”

My dad cuts me off with a shake of his head. “Sherry, I didn't notice what anyone was wearing. Well, except you two, who were the belles of the ball.”

Junie and I roll our eyes.

“I have incriminating photos of those girls on my camera,” Junie says.

“More like circumstantial evidence.” I explain to my dad about the sequence of the photos.

He bites into his cruller and chews thoughtfully. After swallowing, he says, “I want to take care of the rental car this morning. So why don't I go do that right now while you two get ready for the day? Then we'll drive over to the police station with Junie's pictures.”

“I call first shower.” Junie is already logging off.

“Does anyone have Tylenol?” I ask.

Junie and my dad shake their heads.

“Give me a sec to throw on my shorts, Dad,” I say, “and I'll go down to the lobby with you. I bet they have Tylenol in the gift shop.”

Minutes later, when I'm a couple of footsteps into the elevator, I smell coffee.

The door glides closed on me and my dad. “Meeting by the pool,” my mom says in my ear. “To discuss last night's theft.”

My breath catches in my throat.

“Mrs. Howard is here,” she continues. “Don't worry. She just wants to touch base.”

Mrs. Howard, my mother's guidance counselor at the Academy of Spirits? She has a Southern accent, can be as mean as a pack of eighth-grade girls, smells
like cinnamon rolls when pleased and like burnt sugar when annoyed. My heart sinks faster than the descending elevator.

The elevator doors open and I shuffle toward the gift shop. When she knows the whole scoop, Mrs. Howard is going to eat me alive.

“Sherry! Sherry!” my mom says.

I tune in. “Huh?”

“I didn't say anything,” my dad says.

“The pool's not that way,” my mom says.

I press my palm against my forehead.

“You'll feel better after you buy that Tylenol,” Dad says.

“Oh, you have a headache.” Mom gently lifts my hair. “I'll let Mrs. Howard know you'll be a few minutes late.” The smell of coffee disappears.

Before we part ways, Dad says, “We'll hunt down Detective Garcia as soon as I get back with a car.”

“Sure. Sure thing.” I plod down the hall and into the hotel gift shop. I can't believe I just rode in an elevator with my dad and my ghost mom. And didn't think about how bizarre it was, especially given that my dad is totally oblivious to my mom's presence. And how awkward is it for my mom that my dad is remarried? Plus, I forgot to tell my dad to rent a cool car. I am definitely überworried.

I'm staring at the shelf, trying to find Tylenol, when I feel eyes on me. A cute guy about my age with
straight dark hair, dark eyes and a
SOCCER ROCKS!
T-shirt nods in my direction. My pulse quickens, which I do not understand because I am so not over Josh.

I pay for a bottle of water and the Tylenol. As I'm leaving the store, I can't stop myself from glancing over my shoulder to see if the guy's watching me. He is.

Then it's down the hall, through a door leading to the back of the hotel property, past a tiled fountain, and onto a walkway to the pool area, where my mother's waiting for me.

“How bad's your head?” my mom asks.

“I'll be okay.” With my finger, I push a couple of Tylenol to the back of my tongue, then wash them down with a swig of water.

The pool sparkles in the morning sun. Tall palm trees reach for fluffy cotton clouds. I wend my way past chaise longues.

“She's over in the corner at the back. At the table between the palm and the fire pit,” my mother says. “Sherry, don't be nervous. Everything's fine.”

Easy for her to say. She doesn't know about my connection to Lorraine and Stef.

The closer we get to Mrs. Howard's table, the stronger the smell of cinnamon buns gets, until it's cloying and overly sweet. I'm barely seated in a white plastic lawn chair, when a round fuzzy shape hovers
above me, fluttering the table umbrella. “Hiya, Sherry. Are you aware of what's being said about you?”

Mrs. Howard rarely wastes much time on chitchat. I stay silent. She asked what's called a rhetorical question, meaning if you try to answer it, you'll just make things worse.

“I am sorry to report that the World Wide Web for the Dead is filled with the news that you were present during a robbery. Let me share some of the headlines: ‘Is it a coincidence that the mother-daughter duo were at the
Hollywood Girl
reception last night?' ‘Were they supposed to prevent the heist?' ‘Are they losing their touch?' ”

The fuzzy round ball that is Mrs. Howard expands and grows darker. I can make out a furrowed brow and a dark slash of eyebrow. “Remember, Sherry, when I talked to you about the responsibility of being associated with this here Academy? I emphasized how our enemies would be constantly on the lookout for y'all to fail.”

“Yes,” I squeak.

“Well, I am just appalled and dismayed at how these ghosts are chasing after you, trying to tarnish your good reputation. They are like hound dogs on a false trail,” she says. “Of course you had nothing to do with last night's robbery. You're honest and quick-thinking. An asset to our Academy.”

“Oh,” I say. Guilt is like a noose around my neck.

“I represent the entire Academy,” Mrs. Howard drawls, “when I apologize for the behavior of these sensationalist-seeking ghosts.”

The noose of guilt tightens.

“I have issued a statement claiming you are not even acquainted with the two thieving teens.” Mrs. Howard places a blurry hand on her blurry heart. “I want you to comprehend how much I believe in you.”

I'm choking.

“And this extends to you, too, Christine,” Mrs. Howard says.

“Actually,” I say, “Mom was barely at the event, just long enough to be a good mother and see me get the award. She definitely wasn't around when the robbery happened.”

“You know when it happened?” Mom and Mrs. Howard say together. And I'm sure their ghost jaws drop.

I tell them about Junie's photos.

“You
might
know when it happened,” Mrs. Howard drawls. “Those photos don't sound overly conclusive. But I agree with your decision to take all this to the police.”

“On the news, they said they were close to wrapping up a mystery dealing with celebrity break-ins,” I say. “The detective made it sound like Dear Elle's purse was part of that case.”

“Glad to hear they're on the brink of solving it,” Mrs. Howard says, “because the Academy of Spirits will be taking a hands-off stance with all of this.” She sinks her large blurry self into the chair across from me.

“Our online experts advise us to ignore the Internet hubbub and let it die a natural death,” Mrs. Howard continues. “Reminds me of duck hunting. The dogs flush out a flock, and there's a flurry of quacking and flapping and shooting. Followed by silence.”

“How did the girls gain admittance to the dinner? Wasn't it by invitation only?” my mom asks, morphed into detective mode.

I swallow. “Well, actually”—I draw the word out as long as I can—“I got them in.”

I confess all the sordid details.

Mrs. Howard bloats up like a poisonous puffer fish, ready to pop and spew all over the place.

M
y father does not return with a dorky rental car.
Au contraire
, he returns with a very cool convertible! It's silver with black pinstripes and a black top, which will always be down if I have any say. This is the best thing that's happened to me today.

As we're tooling out of the hotel parking lot, my dad floors it. This is the second best thing that's happened today.

Junie cinches her seat belt.

“Wow, Dad,” I say, “I didn't know you had it in you.”

“You should've seen me back in the day. I was the man with my souped-up cars.” He squeals into a tight right turn onto Sunset Boulevard.

So different from The Ruler and her tentative-grandma driving style, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. I smile. I'm loving our father-daughter bonding!

We zoom down Santa Monica Boulevard, a warm California breeze and exhaust from other cars blasting across our faces. If Junie tightens her seat belt another notch, it'll slice her in half.

My dad looks over at me and winks. “This is the life.” He grinds into the next gear. “Wind in your hair. Doughnuts in your gut. And a car that hugs the road.”

I should be following my dad's lead—letting loose and living it up in Southern California.

But the ugly poolside scene earlier shook me to the core. Mrs. Howard was furious. The most furious she's ever been. She wants to kick me out of the Academy.

Even though she's angry with me too, my mother talked and pleaded and argued with Mrs. Howard. Bottom line: I'm on probation. My orders are to hand over the photos from the
Hollywood Girl
event to Detective Garcia. To lie low and not call attention to myself while the detective cracks the case. To make sure my behavior doesn't land me on the World Wide Web for the Dead.

My eyes fill up. I can't be fired. I love working with my mom. I love solving mysteries for the Academy.

His grin as wide as the road, Dad is zipping in and
out of traffic. He pops in a Céline Dion CD. He's so happy and carefree. Like a real person, not just a father.

A siren wails.

Lights flash behind us.

It's a police car!

My dad pulls over to the curb, kills the engine and rolls down his window.

“Sir, do you realize how fast you were going?” says the police officer, his double chin bobbing.

“Not exactly,” my dad says.

“Sixty-five miles per hour,” Junie says.

I glare at her.

“Yep. Sixty-five is what I clocked you at. And you're in a construction zone.”

Dad groans.

The officer reaches out a beefy hand. “Driver's license.”

Dad fumbles with his wallet, trying to slide his license out from where it's stuck in a little plastic pocket. “Baked in by the sun,” he mutters. He's frowning the whole time. Sixty-five miles per hour? In a construction zone, which means an added penalty. He's an accountant and knows the value of money.

The officer eyes the license. “Arizona?”

“Yes, Officer,” Dad says. “We're here for five days. My daughter won a trip to Hollywood through—”

“I'm gonna run this.” The officer waves the license in the air and lumbers back to his car.

Dad rubs his forehead. He doesn't look so happy and carefree now.

Junie's phone beeps with a text. She reads it and a smile plays around her lips. Must be Nick. She's immediately thumbing in a response.

The officer marches back. With his teeth, he pulls the cap off a pen and balances a thick pad on one palm.

“You know, Officer,” Dad says, his voice higher than usual, “we're actually on our way over to your home away from home, the Beverly Hills PD. To fulfill our civic duty.”

The officer raises a bushy eyebrow.

“Yes, that's correct,” Dad continues. “We attended a fancy dinner last night at the Roosevelt Hotel. An evening put on by the
Hollywood Girl
people. These two”—Dad jerks a thumb at us—“figured out who stole the purse with the diamond clasp, and they have photos to show the detective in charge.”

“Is that right?” the officer says. He couldn't sound more bored without being asleep. “Half the country seems to think they can solve this case.” He scribbles out a ticket, then tears it off the pad and hands it to Dad. “Have a good day.”

Like there's a possibility of that happening.

We crawl the remaining distance to the police station. Seriously, any slower and the engine will choke and die. A deep line creases Dad's forehead. Probably he's imagining sharing the details of this escapade with The Ruler.

Junie loosens her seat belt and is a happy and relaxed passenger. She and Nick are texting up a storm. Each ping is a stab to my heart, a reminder that Josh and I will never text again. At one point, Junie even chortles. She is oblivious to my pain.

I'm about to point out that she's wasting her vacation with her nose stuck to her screen, when Junie stops grinning and texting, shoves the phone in her purse and slings her camera case over her shoulder. It's journalist time.