Deadly Cool (21 page)

I’d spent all Saturday night plagued by disturbing dreams of people chanting “liar, liar, pants on fire,” Josh’s puppy dog eyes, Chase driving at a breakneck speed away from me in his dented Camaro, and Courtney Cline’s puffy face, her tongue protruding from her mouth as she asked me why I couldn’t find her justice.

I took another sip of chamomile.

But the tea would make it all better.

I glanced again at the picture of Priscilla. Maybe I should get a cat. I could dig being a crazy cat lady. Priscilla looked nice. Nonjudgmental. Maybe Ms. Bessie was onto something here.

I looked at the picture. Sipped my chamomile. Looked at the cat on the hood of the car again. It was one of those older Beetles that you hardly ever see on the road anymore, most having broken down in surrender sometime during the seventies. But it was cute. Distinctive, kinda like Ms. Bessie.

I took another sip of tea, wondering what kind of car I might have gotten if I hadn’t been grounded until the end of time. What car would fit me? A cute Beetle? A sporty Jeep like Josh’s? A speedy little Camaro like Chase’s?

And suddenly it hit me.

Sam and I had borrowed a car to drive to Josh’s house after school. With such a short window of time, the killer must have driven to Josh’s house as well, if he’d gotten there before us. No way could he have had time to walk there from school, kill Courtney, and leave before we pulled up.

Which meant he had to have a car.

Which meant he had to have parked it somewhere on Josh’s street.

I popped up from my seat, making for the door.

“Hartley?” Ms. Bessie called. “Where are you going?” she asked, covering the phone receiver with one hand.

“I’m great. You know what, that tea totally worked.” I looked down. In my haste, I’d almost walked out with her “Feelings Are Our Friends” mug. I set it down on her desk. “Thanks. I feel ten times better. You are so good at your job,” I said, waving behind me as I backpedaled out the door.

“Oh. Well, okay . . . I guess,” she said, waving after me.

The second I was free, I dug my phone from my book bag, ignoring the bell echoing off the walls, signaling the end of first period. People rushed by me on both sides, running to their next classes as I typed in Chase’s number. I impatiently tapped my foot against the linoleum floor as it rang three times on the other end. I swear I could feel him reading the screen on his end and mentally debating whether or not he wanted to take a call from a total liar. Apparently, he went with not, as the call was tossed to his voice mail. But I was hot on an idea to bust this case wide open, and I was not going to be deterred by voice mail. I dialed again. This time he picked up on the second ring.

“What?”

I swallowed down the lump of regret and glossed over the less than friendly greeting.

“I need to see your pictures again. The ones you took the day of Courtney’s murder.”

I could feel him frowning on the other end. “Why?”

“There may be evidence in them. Where are you? Can we meet at your place?”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable having you there.”

Okay, I deserved that.

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lied, I like your
Star Wars
sheets, you’re not that bad of a driver, and I swear on my new Very Cherry lip gloss that I will never lie to you again.”

I thought I heard a muffled laugh on the other end, but when his voice came back it was as deadpan as ever. “What evidence?”

I took that as a good sign.

“The killer had to have driven to Josh’s house, which means his car must have been parked nearby while he was killing Courtney.”

“Okay . . .” he hedged.

“And, by the time Sam and I got there, he was gone.”

“Which means, his car would be, too,” Chase said. I could feel his mental gears clicking into rotation.

“Which means,” I said, “we need to look at the pictures and see which car was on the street at two thirty—”

“And gone by three fifteen!”

“Exactly!”

“I’m on it. I’ve got the pictures on my camera at home. I’ll ditch my next class and go look them up.”

“Text me as soon as you find something.”

“Done,” he said, and hung up.

Whether it was the chamomile or the good long cry or the fact that Chase was once again speaking to me, I had a little spring in my step as I walked to second period, only five minutes late. I might be a leper, but I was a leper with a clue.

TWENTY

I WAS ALMOST GLAD TO HAVE P.E. SECOND PERIOD SO
that I could burn off my excess energy. Though, I had to admit, I was totally preoccupied during volleyball with listening for my phone to ring from my bag on the bench. So preoccupied that I got hit in the head by a spike. Twice. After the second time Coach Chapin took pity on me and let me sit out.

At the end of the period, I stood beside my locker and stared at my phone for a full minute and a half, willing it to buzz to life with news from Chase. No such luck. I was still willing with all my might when a familiar voice hailed me from down the hall.

“Hartley? Hartley Grace Featherstone? Can I have a minute?”

I looked up to find Diane Dancy bearing down on me, her intern and cameraman in tow.

I did a quick look left, then right for any means of escape, but she had me cornered against banks of lockers on both sides. And before I could slip past her, the little red light on the camera was lit, the lens was pointed my way, and Diane was shooting rapid-fire questions my way.

“What was it like watching the police arrest your boyfriend for murder?” she asked, shoving a microphone in my face. “Has he contacted you? Will you be at his trial? Is he still claiming innocence?”

I blinked at her, trying to decide which question to answer first. “Um . . .”

“How does it feel to know that your boyfriend is in jail?”

“
Ex
-boyfriend” I clarified, looking past her to see a crowd of people gathering in the hall. “And he’s innocent,” I added, as much for her benefit as theirs.

“Of course he’s yet to be proven guilty in a court of law,” Diane conceded.

I shook my head. “No, I mean he really is innocent. Everything we’ve uncovered so far points to the fact that someone is framing him.”

Diane took a step forward. “So, you’re still investigating?”

I nodded. “Yes. In fact, we’re very close to finding the real killer.”

She grinned, giving me a patronizing look. “The police believe the
real
killer is already in custody.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” I said. Then added, “And I can prove it.”

“You can?”

“Well . . . I will be able to. Soon. We have a very strong lead that we’re currently pursuing.”

Diane nodded, though whether she actually believed me or not, I’d be hard-pressed to say. “Your loyalty to your boyfriend is very admirable.”

“
Ex-
boyfriend,” I said again. Though the camera had already swiveled away from me and back to Diane, who was informing the viewing public they should watch at eleven for the latest updates on “the Herbert Hoover High killer awaiting the swift hand of justice” behind bars.

Oh, brother.

I quickly slipped past her and navigated the crowd of students suddenly all texting each other about crazy Hartley’s latest Nancy Drew moment. Not that I cared. At the moment, I had a one-track mind, and it was stuck on waiting for word from Chase.

Which, by the way, did not come during third period, despite the fact that I checked my phone every five minutes. What was taking him so long? How hard was it to compare a few pictures and spot which one of these things didn’t belong? By the end of fourth, I was a wreck. I would have ditched school and driven to Chase’s house myself if I’d had a car. And wasn’t grounded for the rest of my natural life.

Finally, five minutes before lunch, my phone buzzed to life in my pocket, the jolt making me jump in my seat. Luckily, Senorita Gonzalez didn’t notice as I slipped it out of my jeans and checked the readout.

Unluckily, it was not from Chase.

A number came up, but it wasn’t one I had programmed into my contacts, so I had no idea who it was. It was local, though, which made me check the text, despite the eagle eyes of Gonzalez roving the classroom.

its andi b.

I read the first line, eliminating that mystery.

i know who killed cc.

I raised an eyebrow. I’d heard this song and dance before. Shiloh had thought she knew who the killer was, too. I was about to discount it when the phone buzzed in my hand again.

i have video. meet me at midnite. ftbal fld.

What was it with people and midnight? Part of me wanted to text back and tell her to cut the drama and just spill who did it. I mean, if Andi really had video, why didn’t she show it to me before? Why hadn’t she said anything? Was this some sort of new blackmail attempt? If she thought I was willing to pay for info about who killed Courtney, she had clearly overestimated the amount of my allowance.

On the other hand . . . on the other hand, I honestly felt
this
close to blowing this whole thing wide open. The killer couldn’t hide forever. Someone must have seen something. And if Andi had been blackmailing Courtney, maybe she was that someone. Maybe she’d caught something in her blackmail video that, like me with the cars, she hadn’t realized was relevant until now.

So, even though I was so over the whole cloak-and-dagger thing, I texted back.

i’ll b there.

By the time Sam, Kyle, and I had finished our pizza sticks and wilted Caesar salads from the cafeteria, I still hadn’t heard from Chase. I couldn’t take the silence anymore, so I shot off a text.

whats takin so long?

Almost immediately, my phone rang in response, Chase’s name lighting up the screen.

“Dude, where are you?” I asked.

“
Dude
, I’m checking the pictures.”

“For the last four hours?”

He sighed. “I had to enlarge them all to see the details. Most of the pics only have a corner of the street visible here and there anyway. And I took like a hundred of them. It’s taking some time to compare them all.”

I resisted the urge to whine like a two-year-old. “How much time?”

“God, you sound like a whiny toddler.”

Okay, I
almost
resisted.

“I’ll keep looking,” Chase assured me, “and you’ll be the first to know when I find something.”

“Fine,” I said, “but hurry!” Then I hung up.

“No killer yet?” Sam asked, making slurping sounds as she sucked up the last of her grape juice.

I shook my head. On the plus side, I had high hopes for my meeting with Andi later. One way or another, we were smoking this guy out tonight.

The second school let out, I realized that my status as the HHH leper was becoming solidified for life. Mom was sitting at the curb in her beige minivan, waiting for me. Listening to Guns N’ Roses. At top volume.

“Uh, is that your mom?” Cody Banks asked, coming up behind me.

My face turned beet red, and I’m pretty sure I shrank at least two inches. “No.”

“You sure?” he asked, grinning. “’Cause she’s waving you over.”

“Must be some sort of twitch. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

I waited until Cody left, then quickly scuttled to the van before anyone else could see me. I pulled open the passenger-side door and slid down so that only the top of my hair was visible through the window.

“Drive! Now!”

Mom shot me a look. “Nice to see you, too, Hartley.”

“Uh-huh. Nice. Totally nice. Now go!”

Luckily, she might be dense, but she did have a heart. She drove. And even turned the radio down to a normal volume.

Once we made it home (only three screeching songs later), Mom ushered me into the kitchen, where she proceeded to stir a large pot.

“Set your backpack down. Food’s almost ready.”

“I’m not hungry,” I protested, checking my cell readout for the umpteenth time. Nada.

“You need food,” Mom said. “You need to keep your strength up during this trying time.”

I rolled my eyes.

“And don’t roll your eyes,” Mom said, wagging a wooden spoon at me.

“Fine. What are you cooking?”

“Chili.”

“It smells like dog food.”

“Soy chili.”

“Swell.”

“Try it.” She shoved the spoon in my face.

Reluctantly I nibbled a bite off the end.

“It tastes like dog food.”

“Well then, eat up, Fido, ’cause that’s what we’re having.”

“Fine.” Geez, what was with the attitude? You’d think it was all my fault I was under police surveillance or something.

I choked down a bowl of chili (which, if I held my breath, was almost palatable), then begged off more “strength” food with homework. Only Mom insisted I do it in the living room, where she could keep a close eye on me.

“What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I could throw you.”

“You know, with all the Yogalates you’ve been doing, I bet you could actually throw me pretty far.”

“Nice try. Homework in the living room.”

It was almost dark before I was finally allowed to go to my room. And even then, I noticed that an alarm had been attached to my window.

I had a feeling that I might actually be under more surveillance at the moment than Josh was.

Which presented a small problem: How to get out to meet Andi?

“How am I going to get out to meet Andi?” I asked Sam half an hour later after I’d run through every possible scenario of escape. All of which ended with me getting caught.

“You’re asking
me
?” Sam laughed. “Dude, if I ever tried to sneak out, you know my dad would kill me. Then ground me. Then maybe kill me again.”

Good point. In the five years I’d known Sam, she’d never snuck out after dark. In fact, I was pretty sure she didn’t even leave the house after dark, her parents being afraid of what kind of non-Stanford-type behavior might go on among teenagers once the sun went down.