Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (18 page)

“D
olores is acting weird.”

Murdoch didn't look up from his drawing but I could see that made him smile. “What's so funny?” I said.

He looked at me now but only, apparently, to get my nose right. He erased something and said, “I don't know.

That's sort of like saying I'm tall.”

He tilted his head, held up his pencil. “Or saying you're beautiful. Weird is just kind of the way she is—part of her charm.”

The Rebel's armrest was digging into my back.

“Don't move,” he said.

“Sorry. But that's not what I meant. I mean, weird even by her standards. Want to know what she did today?”

“Only if you can tell me without moving those amazing lips.”

I was having a hard time concentrating on Dolores. “I think her feelings are hurt.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause of us. She told me she wasn't interested in you.” “Now I'm hurt.”

“In fact, she told me to go after you. She told me she liked Jack Connolly.” “Who's he?”

“Just this guy. Doesn't matter. But now she's being weird.” “How?” I shrugged. “Don't move.”

“Sorry. I don't know. I can't really put my finger on it. She got all cranky when I answered her phone today.”

“You don't think she was just trying to be funny? I mean, that's kind of her schtick.”

“Yeah. I guess. Could be. She was fine a second later. But then when we were walking over to Mrs. Burton's after that, I ran into these girls I knew. I introduced her and they were all excited and complimentary and everything because they'd seen us on TV but she just kind of shrugged them off. It was embarrassing. They asked if we wanted to go to Mexicali's tonight for tacos and she was like
no, not my style and Betsy's probably busy
, meaning, I
guess, with you. It just seemed unnecessarily rude to me.”

Murdoch put his pencil on the dashboard and blew something off the picture. “Yeah. Unnecessarily rude but not untypically Dolores. She likes making people uncomfortable. I got a question: Did these girls happen to be pretty? You know, pretty, stylish, slim—that type?”

I thought of Kuan-Yin and Deedee and Paulina. “Yeah. So what?”

“What do you think? That would bug her.”

I said, “Yeah,” but I didn't really believe it. I didn't think Dolores would care about stuff like that.

The thing with Murdoch and me, though—that was different. It's always hard when a friend gets a new boyfriend. You feel kind of awkward and deserted. I know I did when I thought the situation was reversed.

“Let's call her,” I said. “We could all go out and do something.”

“Sure,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“I don't have a cell. Can I use yours?”

“I don't know where it is. I lost it.”

“Where did you look?”

“Everywhere. Oh, hold on. I just thought of one place it might be.”

He put the drawing pad in the back seat. He leaned over me and opened the glove compartment. “Not there,” he said. His face was almost touching mine.

“I wonder if it's here.” He put his other arm around behind me and rooted through the pocket on the side of the door.

“Not there either. Do you know where it might be?” I shook my head.

“Do you still want to call Dolores?” I shook my head again. I could always talk to her tomorrow.

T
he next day, I was standing outside the house thinking about Murdoch—and the picture he'd drawn of me and the picture I'd tried to draw of him and the way he'd laughed when I told him about the dock spider idea and his corresponding threat to write a huge bestselling series of Betsy the Beastly Bed Bug books with matching pyjamas, lunch boxes, and insecticide spray—so it took me a while to realize that Dolores was late. I checked the address on the schedule. I was in the right place. I checked the new watch she'd insisted I buy last time we were in Giant Tiger. 9:48. This wasn't like Dolores.

Or at least I didn't think it was. It occured to me again that I didn't know her very well. How long ago had we met? Six weeks? Seven? Long enough to think you knew somebody but probably not long enough that they couldn't still surprise you. Especially someone like Dolores. I thought of her thing for Jack and laughed. I realized it was the one
truly personal thing she'd ever told me. Maybe that's her secret. Her shameful crush.

My legs were getting tired. I'd stayed up way too late the night before. I sat on the front steps and hoped that was just cool I felt seeping into my shorts, not wet. I checked my watch again. It was almost ten. I wished we'd tried calling Dolores again. We hadn't got to a phone until eleven-thirty and by then there was no answer. I wondered if Dolores went to bed early. She'd stayed up really late with us other nights, but maybe that wasn't like her either.

I looked at the schedule. We had three houses today and I wanted to get them done as soon as possible. Murdoch had invited me to his place to meet his mother. Like,
really
meet his mother. I needed to get home, cleaned up and back to his house by six. I couldn't wait around forever.

Why was I even waiting? I decided to get started on my own.

This was a new client. Kathryn Rockwell. Dolores hadn't written anything about where to find the key. I tried the front door and the back. Both were locked. I thought about slipping a note in the mailbox saying,
Sorry, there was a mix-up, we'll come next week
. Then I thought,
the mailbox. The mat. Or under the flowerpot
.

I found the key under the mat and didn't feel quite so annoyed at Dolores.

Mrs. Rockwell had left a long list of stuff to do, too much for one person. I had to be at Frank's by noon and I couldn't change it. Dolores had said he was “teed-off” about us messing with his schedule. (He liked to get his cribbage game in early, while he was still
“compos mentis
,” whatever that meant.)

I found a phone in the kitchen and tried to reach Dolores. It rang and rang. So much for call-answer. I slammed down the receiver and got to work.

I managed to get the kitchen, both bathrooms and a little bit of dusting done but I didn't have time for the vacuuming or windows. I took half the money and left a note explaining that my partner was off sick. I'd call back later to arrange a follow-up visit.

I was proud of myself for that last part. It's something Dolores would have thought to do. She was always talking about how important it was to keep the clients happy.

I locked the door, put the key under the mat and ran to Frank's.

I was starting to get seriously worried about Dolores. Frank wasn't very happy, either, when he found out the Leprechaun wouldn't be there that day. He couldn't care less about having a clean house. He wanted the company.

I asked if I could use his phone to call Dolores. He said yes, as long as I told her to get off her sorry rump and hustle down here.

No answer again.

I couldn't call Murdoch. He was working. I called home. Hank whined about it but eventually checked the messages for me. Deedee and Paige had both called but there was nothing from Dolores. I phoned Mom at work. She was in a meeting. I even called Dad at the hospital. He asked if I was kidding. How would he know where Dolores was?

I did my best to clean the place while keeping up a running — or rather screaming — conversation with Frank in the other room. He was driving me crazy but I tried to be nice. I remembered what it was like to be lonely.

I cleaned. I talked. But mostly I just worried. I knew there'd been something wrong with Dolores the night before. I'd only let myself believe Dolores was okay because I hadn't wanted to deal with her right then. I'd had other things on my mind.

I played one very bad, very fast game of cribbage with Frank, then said I had to go. I promised—I didn't know how we were going to squeeze this in, but I promised—that we'd come by sometime that week just to play cards. He seemed a bit happier, but his eyes were still sad. He looked like an eighty-two-year-old little boy who didn't get asked to a birthday party.

I said, “See you soon!” in my cheeriest voice and left.

I ran as fast as I could. I reek, I thought. For a few
moments, I let myself worry more about stinking up Amy's perfect house than about Dolores. I got the key from under the flowerpot, but when I tried it, the door was already open.

Amy was standing in the hall. She kind of scared me.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “Hope I'm not late. It's just me today — Dolores is sick—so I'm a bit behind.”

Amy smiled but it wasn't very convincing. “No, you're fine,” she said. “I'm just running out the door but I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to ask you a few things.” She straightened the magazines on the hall table. “This is so awkward.”

I felt my face go red from the inside out. Something was really wrong. I had no idea what it could be. Then I did.

I saw myself opening Amy's bathroom drawer, going through her makeup, finding the pills. My scalp went prickly. I had to press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to keep from gulping.

“Look, Betsy. I don't want to be accusing anybody of anything, least of all you. I saw you on TV the other day and realized your dad is Dr. Wickwire, right? He looked after my mom when she was sick. He was so kind.”

We both nodded like
yeah, he's a great guy
.

Amy turned away, took a breath, then turned back. “I'm just going to come right out and say it. You know
those earrings of mine that are missing? Anyway, when I started looking I realized other stuff was gone too. Nothing that precious, but definitely missing. I'm a pretty organized person. It's the type of thing I'd notice and, well … They disappeared after you two were here last.”

I opened my mouth to speak but what could I possibly say? My fingerprints were all over everything. It would be one thing to find them on the furniture I was supposed to polish. It was another thing to find them in the drawers I had no business rooting through. Maybe that's where she kept her earrings. Had she called the police?
Would
she call the police?

Amy held up her hands. “We had a party that night. Lots of people were here. They were all personal friends, though, so it would be odd, you know, for one of them to take …” Her voice trailed off.

We both stood there.

“Your friend,” Amy said.

I didn't know what she was talking about. My friend? What friend? All I could think of was what my parents would do if they thought I'd been stealing from someone. How horrified they'd be.

“Do you think she could have …?”

Dolores. Amy meant
Dolores
. I actually sort of reared back a little, as if she'd slapped me or something. I shook my head. “No. No. Not Dolores. She wouldn't …”

“Oh! I'm sorry.” Amy put her hand on her throat. “I really am. I'm ashamed I even asked you. I'm just, well, beside myself about these earrings. They were my mother's and she's gone now and they really mean a lot to me. Sorry,” she said again.

She reached out and touched my shoulder. “I shouldn't have said anything.” She grabbed her gym bag and started toward the door. “I hope Dolores is feeling better soon.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I know you're upset. It's terrible when …”

Amy waved at me to stop, made an attempt to smile and left.

My heart and brain were racing so fast I couldn't think. I cleaned instead.

I ran up and down the stairs. I washed, I dusted, I tidied, I scoured and then I started to sob.

I wasn't exactly sure why I was crying. Because I was tired? Because I was worried about Dolores? Because I was angry that anyone would accuse Dolores—hard-working, generous Dolores—of stealing something?

Or because I believed Dolores had done it?

I looked at the list Amy had left me.
Sorry
, I wrote.
I had to leave early to check on Dolores
.

I didn't touch the money. I found the phone book and called The Flamingo. The guy who answered had an accent. He didn't know who I meant when I asked for Murdoch.

I said, “The dishwasher? The tall guy?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man said. “He not allowed personal phone calls.”

I started to cry again and he got Murdoch for me.

“Do you know where Dolores lives?” I said. I couldn't believe it. We were friends. How could I not know where she lived?

Murdoch had dropped her off a few times but didn't know her exact address. He gave me the street name and said it was a beige house, right across from a convenience store. It had a sign out front that said The Morrises.

“Are you worried about her?” he said.

I couldn't answer.

“I wish I could help but I can't. I'm the only dishwasher on and the place is packed.” “I'm fine. I've got to go.”

I hung up and ran my finger down the list of Morrises until I found one on Edgewood. I dialed. The phone rang and rang until the message picked up.
“Hi! You've reached the home of Murray, Marleen, Meghan and Mark. You know what to do!”

I said, “Um …” and hung up. I couldn't leave a message for a Meghan. And, anyway, what would I say? I didn't want to alert her.

Those were the exact words that popped into my head.
Alert her
. I didn't like to think what I meant by that.

I locked the door, put the key back and left. When I got to Tower Road, I flagged down a cab.

I
stood outside the little beige house across from the convenience store and tried to understand. This couldn't be where Dolores was from. People with green hair and eclectic taste in movies don't live in houses like this. The sign said The Morrises.

I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. It sounded like Big Ben. When there was no answer, I rang again. I leaned over the railing and looked in the window. There was a television with a framed family portrait on top. I put my hands on either side of my face tod get a better look. I recognized the beige-haired girl as Meghan from Grade 10 drama.

I turned and looked down the street. A man walked into the store but otherwise there was no one around. I flipped back the welcome mat with my foot. Just a chalky outline of dirt. Nothing in the mailbox either. I found the key under the flowerpot on the front step. It disappointed me.

I rang the bell again just to be sure, then opened the door.

“Hello?”

I slipped off my flip-flops and took a few steps inside. I didn't know what I was doing here or what I expected to find.

The house was beige inside too and it smelled of—what? I sniffed. Clean. Mr. Clean kind of clean. Pine-scented clean. Hospital bathroom clean.

The downstairs was small. Just a living room, a beige version of Frank's kitchen, and what was obviously the parents' bedroom off to the side.

I went upstairs. The third step squeaked, just like at our house. Time froze—but nothing happened. I went up to the second floor.

The two rooms were tucked under the eaves. I pushed open the door on the left. Mark's bedroom. It had to be. I didn't know Dolores very well—that was clear to me now—but I was pretty sure she wouldn't have a Montreal Canadiens bedspread.

I opened the door on the right.

This was her room. Purple walls. Green vintage bedspread and curtains. A doorless closet squeezed full of clothes. A little white Value Village–type desk covered in neatly arranged tubes of makeup, jewellery boxes, and hair clips.

I had that shimmery feeling again, or something like it. This was a sharper version, a special effect in a scary
movie. The girl alone in the house. The sawing of violins on the soundtrack.

I walked over to the desk. There was the compact Dolores had let Sarah use. It was silver with initials engraved in the top:
NFB
. I wondered if she'd got that at Value Village too.

I pulled open the top drawer. Inside was a plastic organizer. There was a little silver bracelet in one compartment. It didn't look like something Dolores would wear. There were some forks in another compartment. A gift card for Walmart. A couple of hairbands. And a phone.

Dolores's phone was pink. This one was brown. I picked it up and turned it on.

It was Murdoch's phone.

The photo on the front was of him painting my face at the Festival.

Dolores must have taken the photo.

I flicked through the rest of the pictures. Quarry Lake. Sunnyside Mall. The Beach.

There was something not right about these photos but I didn't quite know what. I scrolled through them again. There was one of Dolores and, a little while later, another one of her by herself, but the rest …

The rest were all of me.

At first, I felt terrible—the way I'd felt when we were watching that
Live at 5
segment—but then that went away
and things started clicking into place. I remembered Dolores borrowing Murdoch's phone at the Waterfront Festival.

She must have seen all those pictures of me then.

That's why she'd said she had to go, right away, couldn't wait.

The next day at the beach, she'd told me Murdoch liked me.

I tried to think it through. It was like my brain wanted to tell me something but didn't speak the language well enough to explain. I was struggling to understand.

I opened another drawer. There was an old photograph there. I picked it up. It was a picture of Frank and Marie.

I looked at the compact again.
NFB
. Where had I seen those initials before?

Nancy Something Burton. Mrs. Burton. The Senior Women's Championship cup.

I didn't know where all the other stuff was from exactly, but suddenly I knew it was from our clients.

I knew Dolores had taken Amy's earrings. And I hated her for it.

I put my hands over my face.

My parents. This would be a nightmare for them. My grandmother. My friends. My teachers.

The girls I'd played basketball with.

The little kids I coached in soccer. Their parents. The people I used to babysit for. The people I used to work for. The people I used to work with.

Nick and Carly.

I had to find the earrings and sneak them back into Amy's house. I had to stop this before it got out of control.

I pulled open all the drawers. There were earrings, lots of earrings. My hand hovered over them as I tried to figure out which ones to take. I didn't know what Amy's earrings looked like. I couldn't just dump a pile of earrings at her house.

I had to find Dolores. Dolores would have to give me the earrings so I could return them to Amy.

Where was she? I put my fist on her vanity and steadied myself.

How was I ever going to find Dolores? I didn't know anything about her except that she couldn't swim. And that she was a thief.

I glanced around the room, not really looking for anything, just trying to figure things out. I noticed the closet. Something about it made me uneasy. I didn't know why. It was almost as if I expected to find her hiding in there.

I walked over to it and started rifling through the hangers like I'd done at Value Village.

I recognized a lot of the clothes—the square-dancing skirt she'd worn to Frank's once, the ‘80s jumpsuit with
the NFL shoulder pads—but most of it was new to me. Had she stolen this stuff too? I started really looking now, kind of studying each item, to make sure it didn't belong to someone I knew. That's probably the only reason I noticed the Ugandan Girl Guide uniform. It was just a navy blue shirt-dress with a couple of badges on it, but it stopped me.

I stared at it for a couple of seconds, then I thought,
Oh no
. I was terrified before I fully knew why.

I looked beside it, around it, behind it. What had Dolores said?
Marilyn Monroe. Something about Marilyn Monroe
.

Black with polka dots.

Purple.

No, pink polka dots.

I ripped through the closet. Nothing even close. She'd said it was right beside the Girl Guide uniform—she told us that specifically—but it wasn't there.

I ran downstairs. I ran back upstairs, grabbed Murdoch's phone, and bolted out of the house. I threw the key under the flowerpot.

How long do I have? I thought.

Please, Dolores
, I thought.
Wait
.