The Tell-Tale Con (32 page)

We start walking, and a shiny, white stretch limo passes us and stops at the white house across the street, diagonal from mine.

I expect someone old to get out, so when a teenage girl exits, I'm taken aback. "Whoa, who's that? She's our age."

"That's Linzy Quinn, and she's fourteen."

I don't get a good look, only notice her brown hair, yellow miniskirt and white top, before she enters the house, and the limo drives off.

"Is she famous?" I can't place the name, so she's obviously not too well-known. Then again, if she's starred in anything but horror or suspense, I wouldn't know.

"Are you serious? She stars in
One Day at a Time
and just won a Daytime Emmy award. Don't you watch TV?"

"Yeah, but not soaps. I'm in school."

"That's what DVRs are for, silly. Come on."

I take one more glance back then enter Kinley's house. Instantly my sticky skin becomes cool, and I can finally breathe through my nose, rather than shallow breaths through my mouth.

We walk through the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house. Our homes are set up exactly the same. Except her kitchen is macked out in Mexican decor with red, yellow, blue, green, and purple canisters and curtains. Chili peppers hang from the center of the curtain rods, and matching rugs, stool covers, and placemats make me hungry for enchiladas and chicken mole.

I was only seven when Dad wrote
Illegal Strangulation
, about an immigrant found strangled in an Arizona motel bathtub, but I recall how much I loved the chile sauce they slathered on everything in that state. I think that's where my obsession with spicy food began.

"Mom, this is Piper. She and her dad just moved in next-door."

An older woman with short, pale blonde hair is bent at the waist, putting a casserole dish into the oven. She pushes the door shut with her hip while turning to face us. She wears wire-rim glasses and a red apron around her thick waist. "Hello, nice to meet you."

"You too."

Kinley reaches into their old-fashioned fridge and pulls out a can of Diet Coke. She looks to me. "Diet or regular?"

"Regular." That diet crap has a vile aftertaste.

She reaches back in, hands me an orange soda and pulls out a bag of carrots. Seriously? When she said snacks I was thinking more along the lines of chips or Little Debbie cakes. Then she reaches into a cupboard, grabs a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and I swear I hear angels sing.

"We're going to watch TV downstairs, okay?" she says to her mom.

"Sure, but only a few of those. Dinner will be ready in an hour." Her mom smiles at me then turns to wipe down a counter.

"Come on."

Kinley leads me down to the basement, which is totally finished with wall paneling and a plush rug on the concrete floor. A huge flat screen TV takes up the right wall, and an L-shaped, dark brown, leather sectional sits across from it. Three sheer curtains cover the half-windows at the side of the house, above the sofa.

"Wow, this is great. I wish Dad would fix up our basement like this." It's exactly where we should put our living room stuff.

We plop onto the couch and tear open the bag of Doritos.

"Why don't you ask?"

I shake my head and crunch on two chips at once. "We won't be here long enough for it to be worth it. That's what he'll say."

She grabs the remote and sticks a chip and a baby carrot into her mouth at the same time. "What do you mean?"

"We never stay in any place for more than a year."

Her mouth hangs open, displaying a chunk of mashed up orange goo on her pink tongue. It's chewed up so well I can't tell the difference between chip and vegetable. Not an attractive look. "You move every year? Why?"

I stare at her, trying to figure out if I should tell her the whole truth or the condensed version. Some people don't really want to know what Dad does. They can't stomach the grisliness. And then there's the cops. A lot of times Dad ends up disproving the police's theory and figuring out the true culprit. Those towns aren't fun to live in. Word gets around, and before you know it, the cute, new girl in school with the witty repartee and decent fashion sense becomes the devil's spawn. It's not pretty.

"Because of his job." I start there. If she wants to know more, she'll ask.

She turns on the TV and flips the channel until she lands on TruTV—a documentary where the police discuss and reenact a real crime. This episode is about the death of a former model-turned-housewife. It's a rerun, and I've watched it a good four times.

"I love these kinds of shows, but you probably prefer MTV or something else. I can change it…"

"No. MTV doesn't even play music anymore. I love this channel."

"Oh yeah?"

"Actually, this is what my dad does." Okay, so sometimes I bring it up on my own when I think it will be well received. I pop the lid on my can and slurp a mouthful. The bubbles tickle my throat.

"He works for cable television?"

"No, he writes books on true crimes."

She freezes. I mean, a mid chew and holding her arm in the air while reaching for her drink kinda freeze. Then she jumps up, knocking the bag of chips onto the floor, and hurries to the bookcase in the corner of the room.

I pick up the bag and stuff three more chips into my mouth, like a squirrel storing nuts. I'm not normally such an aggressive eater, but Dad gets so caught up in his books in the beginning that he sometimes forgets to go food shopping for a while. My last meal was a gross meatball sub from a truck stop along I91.

Kinley grabs a book and faces me, holding it behind her back. "You said your last name is Grimaldi?"

"Yep." I lick the speckled flavoring off a chip.

"As in Vincent Grimaldi?" She shows me a copy of
Illegal Strangulation
.

"That's him, but his friends and family call him Vinnie. And that book is old. His latest should be out next year. It's the best so far." From what I can tell. He hasn't let me read it yet. Well, he never
lets
me. It's more like I'll sneak one of his copies into bed after I should be asleep.

She squeals and twirls, then heads toward the couch. I hold down the chips as she lands with a whoosh on the cushion. "I've read most of his books. I'm a huge fan. Do you think he'll autograph one for me?"

I roll my eyes. "Oh yeah. He's a complete ham when it comes to his books. I'll ask him later."

The telephone rings upstairs. Her mom's footsteps sound overhead, and I hear a distant "Hello?"

Kinley squeals again. "You are the best neighbor ever. So what's he working on now?" She covers her mouth with her hand.

"What?"

"Is it the McDougal case?"

Cameron McDougal, a photographer, was killed and found in his home a year ago. It was in all the papers and splashed across every television set. Dad's been super tight-lipped about this one. Not that he's usually talkative about his work, but this one feels different.

"Yep, that's it."

"Kinley, your father's on the phone. His car won't start, so we need to pick him up," her mom calls down.

Kinley's shoulders slump. "His car never starts."

"Okay, Mom. I'm coming." She switches off the TV and gathers the snacks. "Can we chat later?"

"Of course, but how come you have to go too? How old are you?"

She looks to her feet. Her hair falls forward shielding her profile like a veil. "Fifteen, but I always need to be supervised so I don't die."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sit at the kitchen table and pick at the rest of my chicken and broccoli. Dad totally screwed up my order. Since I get something different every time we get Chinese, I only blame him a little for not paying attention. Next time I'll write it on a sticky note and tape it to the back of his hand.

Dad eyes my plate while he shovels the rest of his pork fried rice into his mouth. "Not hungry?"

I'm not sure how to answer. Honestly, I'm still thinking about my new neighbor. As Kinley walked me out, she told me she has diabetes type 1, which is like really serious. She was born with it, and if she goes into a diabetic coma, she can die, so she can never be unsupervised. She also said her parents are overprotective, but it sounds serious.

"Dad, do you know anyone with diabetes 1?"

He sips his water and looks off, probably flipping through the immediate family, distant cousins, and all the other hundreds of people he's met in his lifetime. He doesn't exactly have a photographic memory, but it is impeccable. "I don't believe so. Why?"

"The girl next door has it. It sounds kinda scary. She was eating all this crap too, like chips and soda, and her mom didn't say a word. Although it was diet soda, so there's no sugar. Well, no real sugar anyway. And her mom did say to only have a few chips. So maybe it's okay."

Dad grins. "You met a friend already?"

I double-punch my chest with a fist. "You know us Grimaldis. We're charmers."

He chuckles. "I'm glad you'll have someone close by."

In other words, he's happy I won't be in his hair, and he won't have to worry about me falling into a ditch or being picked up by a crazed motorist planning on torturing me for fun or abducting me for human trafficking. I know his way of thinking. And I read a lot.

"And did you know there's a real actress living across the street?"

He nods. "Cindy or Missy Quinn. The realtor mentioned it. I guess she thought it was a selling point."

I roll my eyes. Unless it relates to a dead body, he doesn't pay attention to details. "It totally is. It's Linzy Quinn, and she's only fourteen. Isn't that cool?"

"No. I think kids should stay kids as long as possible. The world is hard enough for adults."

I slump into my seat. He just doesn't get it. Some kids are interested in more than shopping at the mall or becoming homecoming queen, which is super lame.

"I plan to run into town and pick up groceries, check out the lay of the land after dinner. Want to come?"

Since when does he not get straight to work?

"Do cats like milk? Wait. Scratch that. Aunt Frannie's brown cat hated milk, but the gray one loved it and would get diarrhea."

Dad sighs. "I just love our dinner conversations."

I flash him my ever annoying braces and take our plates to the sink.

"I'll get my keys and wallet, and we can leave." He rises and heads toward the front of the house.

While I scrape off the food remains then rinse the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher, I imagine our kitchen with hanging chili peppers and colors so bright Dad would never enter the room again. Okay, so that's not our style but maybe pastels. Something to entice him to stay longer than a year.

In middle school, long after Mom ran off, I promised to get good grades, to eat my veggies, or at least the ones covered in cheese, and to brush my teeth every night. The last due to my questionable hygiene at age ten. And for this I made him promise to stay in one town long enough for me to finish that grade. Being the new kid sucks, but being the new kid in the middle of the year sucks
hard.
So he agreed. But it's not enough anymore.

I wouldn't mind if we laid down roots, spread our branches, dropped our leaves…okay, so I can't think of any more appropriate metaphors. I'd just like to finish high school in one school, go to the next grade knowing my classmates from the year before. Is that too much to ask? I don't want to sound ungrateful. Dad's raised me alone, and I know it's hard for him. I'm not a stoner or partier, nor do I stay out past curfew or flunk my classes, but he's had to endure cramp complaints, helping me pick out my first bra, and having the luxury of buying me pads and tampons every month. He should win a father-of-the-century award.

I run into the hall and up the stairs, calling out, "I gotta pee. Be right back."

After doing my business and washing my hands, I run into my badly-in-need-of-decorating bedroom to get my roller blades and knee pads. Dad hates when I wear them to the store, all because I crashed into a display of canned corn last year at a Piggly Wiggly, but I was learning then. Now I'm nearly an expert and am certain I won't have any embarrassing moments.

As I'm about to turn, I catch a flash of pink outside my window.

Fascinated with the idea of a fourteen-year-old actress across the street, I peer out. I mean, what if she knows Shia LaBeouf or Taylor Lautner? Meeting either of them would be the pinnacle of my fifteen years and totally worth moving again.

But the pink isn't on the petite brunette from earlier. Instead it's a pink leotard on a willowy girl with blonde, waist-length hair. She twirls along the driveway, arms raised above her head, like the ballerina inside a jewelry box—perfect and poised.

The front door opens, and Linzy steps out with an older woman, probably her mom. She says something to the blonde, who drops her arms and sulks. Darn, I wish I was closer to overhear.

Linzy laughs and climbs into the back seat of a black, four-door car, parked along the curb.

"Piper, let's go," Dad shouts.

"Coming."

Linzy and I could become friends. We're practically the same age, and we're bound to have something in common. I love pretty clothes, and she clearly has some. That's a start. Kinley must know her, so I'll ask for an invite later.

Score two for Hollow Ridge.

 

*  *  *

 

The lay of the land, as Dad put it, looks like every other suburban land we've encountered in the last eight years. We've been moving around since I was four, when Dad decided it would be easier to research his books up close and personal rather than cross-country via Internet and phone calls. I often wonder if part of the reason was because my older brother, Vincent Jr., had died, and Mom and Dad just wanted out of our house and hometown. At first Dad went after murders from anywhere, but he didn't like city life, and the country was too quiet, so he devoted his last eight books to the 'burbs. Just as well, too. Those became bestsellers.