I Spy Dead People (6 page)

I shake my head. "Just that it looked black, and it may have had four doors."

Dad sets a mug of coffee, the sugar, and carton of half-and-half on the table.

"And have you seen her since? Besides this evening?" the chief asks.

"No. I was with Troy most of the day. I met her sister, Shayla." Hopefully the chief won't want me to repeat that conversation.

She stirs sugar into her coffee and sips it before asking, "How did she seem?"

I shrug. "Fine, I guess. I don't have anything to compare it to. She was flirting with Troy."

His mom purses her lips for a moment then brings the cup back up to them.

Okay, so I said that on purpose to gauge her reaction. I guess she doesn't care for Willowy and Blonde either.

"She was kinda snotty to me. Is that normal?" I can't stop the smirk that lifts the left side of my mouth, so I bite off a large chunk of pizza.

The chief flips her book shut. "Sounds about right."

Oblivious to our innuendo, Dad sits between us and asks, "How long has she been missing?"

The chief glances at me before answering. "Since last night."

As in, I'm the last person to see her? Well, me and the driver.

"And they've only called you now?"

"They assumed she'd be back this morning, that she was with friends."

Dad's color deepens. "At fourteen?"

The chief drinks more of her coffee, then stands. "Celebrities live different lives than us, Mr. Grimaldi. It's not my job to judge, only help."

I know Dad is thinking,
in other words, they're irresponsible parents
, but he doesn't say it. Maybe we're all thinking it.

As the chief reaches the doorframe, Dad asks, "Do you suspect foul play?"

She narrows her eyes, as if not sure how to answer.

"For my daughter. Do I need to keep her locked up?"

Her expression softens, and she gives me a small smile. "No. Hollow Ridge is a quiet, safe community. I'm sure Ms. Quinn is being dramatic, like girls her age can be, and will return soon."

I wonder if the police said the same to the parents of Buffalo Bill's victims.

 

* * *

 

Sleep is futile.

Kinley and I stayed up, on the phone, until midnight, going over every detail of the past two days. The only reason I hung up was because she dozed off twice. The first time I yelled in her ear until she woke up. The second time I gave up. I figured she'd wake in the morning with her cell stuck to her face.

I glance at my clock. It's two a.m., and I can't turn off my mind.

Where is Linzy? Is she just hiding out at a friend's, sulking, pouting, being a typical teenager? Whatever that means. Gosh, I hate when adults have to categorize every teen as moody or dramatic, like we're not individuals, unique. Should we call all of them old and fun-suckers? Well, I guess we do.

Now that Linzy's missing, Shayla won't have time to hang all over Troy.

I smack myself in the forehead. Bad thought, Piper. This isn't about you. But I can't help wonder if this will be my very own first case. No, I don't want anything to be wrong with Linzy, and it's unlikely Dad will allow me anywhere near a mystery, but I can dream, right?

My bladder is full, so I grab my glasses and get up to empty it. When I'm done, I head downstairs for something to drink, to fill it up again. The wood floor is cool against my feet. Most of our other places had wall-to-wall carpeting. I'll have to get used to wearing socks or slippers when the season changes.

Light emits from beneath Dad's office. Nothing unusual there.

The dim light above the stove is on, casting an eerie glow across the linoleum floor to the back door. The safety chain sways slightly. Dad must've just fastened it. I open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and eye the cold pizza. I take a slice, on a paper towel, and head to the front of the house. I pause by Dad's door, listening for any signs of him being awake. If he's working and I walk in, he'll be annoyed. Not like growling, evil monster annoyed, but enough to make me feel bad. But if he's asleep and I knock or wake him upon entering, then I'll feel worse. So I turn and climb the stairs.

When I reach the top, I shiver. It's suddenly chillier up here. Doesn't heat rise? This house is weird. I go into my room and push the door with my foot. It closes but doesn't click shut. I set the pizza and bottle on my nightstand and go back to fully close the door.

Loud voices sound, and I freeze, trying to figure out where they're coming from. Dad doesn't own a radio. He either prefers to write in silence or to some old CDs he owns, but I don't hear music. It's definitely talking. Are there people outside? Did Linzy come home, and are she and her mom arguing again?

I open my door and step into the hall. It sounds like the television in the spare room. I fling open the door and see a woman dancing on the beach in a white dress. The announcer is talking about how light their pads are. "You'll never know they're there."

Because every woman wants to frolic on the sand when cramping. I switch off the TV and go back to my room. Since when does Dad watch TV? The only reason he got it was because we usually go through a movie stage after he finishes a book and before we move to our next destination. Only that didn't happen this last time. We were packed and out of Georgia as soon as his editor approved the book.

The pizza no longer looks inviting. I drink some water then crawl under my sheets. After a few minutes, my body starts to feel heavy, and I close my eyes. Finally. Sleep.

In that weird place between awake and slumber my thoughts flitter to Mom. Where is she? Is she happy? Does she have another family?

As I drift off, giggles sound.

 

I get up, shower, smear cream cheese on half of an un-toasted onion bagel, then step onto the porch, all before Dad emerges from his office. I hope there's been news of Linzy. It's another bright, warm day, and everyone seems to be taking advantage of that. Except the Quinns.

Mrs. Jackson is sitting on her porch, sipping lemonade. I debate waving, since we haven't been introduced. It would be the polite thing, but I don't want her to call me over and engage in a conversation about the good ole days or whatever old people think about. Mr. Friedman hops into his sports car, while Mrs. Friedman is on her knees in front of her flower garden. I make a mental note to ask Kinley which days the gardener visits. I have to get a glimpse of him.

I don't want to approach either of these women, so when Mrs. Rodriquez steps outside with her daughter and sets up a tea party in the grass, I hurry over. When I get closer I realize Mrs. Rodriquez is sporting a small baby bump.

"Hi," I say more enthusiastic than I'm feeling. I slept solid for the last seven hours, but once again I was disturbed by dreams of being chased by Linzy and a loud car.

"Hi." Mrs. Rodriquez looks up. She wears a large straw hat which blocks the sun from her eyes.

"Hi," says the little girl. "Do you wanna play with us?"

"Um…" I look to her mom to see if it's okay.

She waves a hand at the empty part of the blanket. "Please."

"Okay." I sit and smile. "I'm Piper. We just moved in."

Mrs. Rodriquez nods. "I saw the trucks the other day. You're with your dad?"

I nod. "Yeah, we travel around all the time. He's a writer. Vincent Grimaldi."

She shakes her head. Unless you're a crime buff, you wouldn't have heard of him. "Sorry. I don't do a lot of reading."

No matter how many people tell me that, and there's been a lot, I still cringe each and every time. How can a person not read? That's like not breathing. It goes hand-in-hand.

"My husband does though. I'll have to ask him. Oh, I'm Gabriella, but call me Gabi, and this is Jasmine."

"Call me Jazzy," she says in a voice kinda deep for a little girl. It makes me giggle.

"How old are you, Jazzy?"

She holds up one hand and tries to bend her pinky down, but then her ring finger curves too. She repeats her actions to no avail, and a deep frown covers her eyes. Finally, huffing and obviously annoyed, she holds down her pinky with her other hand. All of that to show me she's four.

Gabi and I laugh.

"How old are you?" Jazzy asks.

"Fifteen."

"Wow, you're old. Are you old, Mami?"

Gabi rubs her belly and winks at me. "Very old, baby."

Jazzy pours water from a purple, plastic teapot into four plastic teacups. The fourth being for a giant, stuffed bear with a lopsided yellow bow. From the various colored stains on its fur, I'd guess he's an avid tea partier.

When I look up, Gabi's staring at me. "
Si es usted de Puerto Rico
?"

"Uh?"

She laughs deep in her chest. "I guess the answer is no then. I asked if you're Puerto Rican."

"I am. Right, Mami?" the little girls peaks up.

Gabi smooths Jazzy's dark hair with her hand.

"Oh, no," I say. "Everyone thinks that though, especially when I lived in New York. My mom is black and my dad's Italian."

Gabi nods. "Mixed babies are very beautiful."

"Am I beautiful, Mami?"

"Ah,
mi hija
, you are the most beautiful in all the land."

Jazzy giggles. "Like Snow White?"

"Exactly."

A twinge stabs me in the chest. Did Mom and I have similar chats? Were we close? Did we share tea parties with my dolls? I barely remember what she looks like, let alone what we did.

From the corner of my eye, I see Dad step outside. He looks up and down the street, then spots me and nods. A dark blue car pulls up in front of our house. A woman with long, auburn hair steps out and walks to Dad. They shake hands. Who's she? They both look over at the Quinn's.

"So, have you heard anything about Linzy?" I ask.

Gabi's eyes widen, and she nods toward Jazzy. "This one is a parrot, so be careful what you say. But no, not a word since last night. I was hoping we'd come out and hear something."

I grin. We think alike. Very cool.

"The chief acts like this is common."

Gabi waves away a fly. "Oh yes. That youngest one is always causing drama. Always arguing, pushing her limits, and the parents just argue back, never demanding respect. Now if that was me…"

She purses her lips and gives Jazzy a sideways glance. "Let me tell you, she will not even consider speaking to me that way."

I chuckle. "My dad's the same way."

She waves a finger at the air. "That's good. It's the way it should be. Too many parents want to be friends with their kids. That comes later. When they're young, parents need to be firm."

"Mami, I gotta go potty." Jazzy gets up and holds her hands over her crotch.

Gabi pushes them away and scowls. "Then go inside. You can do it by yourself."

Jazzy shakes her head. "No, I gotta go poopy." She lowers her voice, whispers the last word, then switches sides and holds her butt.

I can't help but laugh. Kinley was right; Jazzy's so cute.

Gabi pushes herself up. "Okay, go start. I'll be right there."

Jazzy runs into the house, still holding her butt.

"We may be a few minutes. I'll see you around?"

"Sure." I get up. Dad and the woman are still talking.

"Hey, do you babysit?"

Dollar signs fill my vision, and I imagine all the cute accessories I'll buy. Summer is too hot for scarves, hats, and tons of jewelry, but in fall, winter, and spring, I'm decked out. "Yeah. I even have a certificate from CPR training."

"That's fantastic. Miguel, my husband, and I want to go out salsa dancing before I can't see my feet again. Can I call you sometime?"

"Sure that'll be great."

"Good. I'll get your number later. I've asked the girl next to you…"

"Kinley?"

"Yes, but her mother said no. She may be a bit too strict." She winks and heads up her front steps.

Yes, a job! I babysat in Georgia, which is where I got the certificate, but it was sporadic. I'd love to have a regular gig, rely on steady money.

I cross the street and slow down in front of Kinley's, trying to catch a glimpse of her in her room or downstairs, but the sun's reflection makes spying impossible. When I reach my steps, Dad and the woman are laughing.

"Piper, this is Bridget Lansing. The realtor who found us this house."

We shake hands. Her grip is strong, but her hands are bony and feel fragile, like I can crush her fingers if I try. "Nice to meet you, Piper."

"You too. Have you heard anything?" I look to Dad.

"I spoke with Mrs. Quinn this morning," Bridget says, knowing exactly what I'm referring to. "Still nothing. They contacted Linzy's cast members and friends in town. No one's seen her."

Bridget looks to Dad. "It must be so hard for them. I went by earlier. Mrs. Quinn, Maureen, is beside herself."

"I can imagine." Dad shakes his head. He does that when he doesn't know how to process something.

We all watch the house for a minute, in silence, before Bridget clears her throat.

"Well, I should be going. Just wanted to stop by and make sure everything's all right. Oh, I hope you'll both be at the fireworks display tomorrow. It's always so extravagant. The town puts on a great show."

"I'm not sure. I have so much work."

She lays a red manicured hand on his arm and leans closer. "Oh, but you have to. I promise you'll have a great time."

He glances at her hand then her blouse. "I don't know."

I take a step to my left and realize Bridget has her top three buttons undone, and my father just stared at her freckled cleavage. Oh gross—the staring, not the freckles.

She bats her fake lashes and pouts her red glossy lips. Isn't she supposed to be a cougar? Then why on earth is she flirting with my geriatric father?

"I'll convince him," I say, my voice a bit more tense than intended.

"Yay." She pats the top of my head, like I'm a dog. Then she says good-bye and for Dad to call her if he needs anything. I hope I imagined the emphasis she put on "anything." She climbs into her car and pulls into her driveway, two houses down.