Deadly Pink (11 page)

I guess.
That was pretty vague for best friends. And hard as I thought about it, I didn't have an end for that story—happy or otherwise. It was only at this moment that I realized we hadn't seen much of Danielle over the summer. Now it was March, and I simply couldn't remember ever hearing Emily say whether Danielle had followed her advice about MCC for the fall semester or—more important—whether she'd been accepted at RIT in January.

Adam had been checking his hand-held. He nodded at Mom. “That was another of the names you gave us, but it wasn't on Emily's contact list.”

Mom repeated the name: “Danielle Gardner. Yes, if anybody will know what's going on...”

But Adam was shaking his head. “No Danielle. No Gardner.”

Mom said, “Well ... Emily wouldn't need to have the number on her list. She'd know it by heart.”

I may have mentioned Mom is not real good at technology. I told her, “It'd be on her speed dial.” A glance at Adam showed it wasn't.

Mom said, “Mrs. Gardner—Tanya—she has her own business, doing sewing alterations at home, so she should be at the house. I'll talk to her,” and she held her hand out for the phone.

One ring, two. I could tell when Danielle's mom picked up by the way my mother stood taller.

“Tanya, this is Marilyn Pizzelli, Emily's mother ... Yes, yes, it has been a while ... Well, no, actually not...” Mom made a
Come on, wrap it up
gesture with her hand, even though we were the only ones who could see it. Finally, forcefully, probably interrupting, she said, “Tanya.” She took a deep breath. “Something serious has come up with Emily, and we're hoping Danielle can help. Is she home from school yet?” Mom looked confused. “Oh,” she said, “I was under the impression she was staying at home and going to MCC ... No ... No, I didn't realize that...” She rolled her eyes. “I'm very pleased she got into Geneseo ... Yes, I know it's a good school ... Tanya, I really need to talk to Danielle—it's urgent. Could you please give me her phone number?”

Ms. Bennett was making gestures like semaphore flags with her hands. “Residence Advisor,” she mouthed.

I knew that was in case Danielle didn't pick up and needed to be tracked down on campus.

Geneseo?
I thought. What was Danielle doing going to Geneseo, instead of RIT with Emily?

Mom wrote down both phone numbers and finally managed to end the conversation with the talkative Mrs. Gardner. I could see her hand shaking.

“You did fine,” Ms. Bennett said, but she took the phone to make the call to Danielle herself.

Sure,
I thought, thinking of how she had spoken to Frank,
scare the hell out of the poor girl.

But they hadn't had Danielle's number before, as opposed to her not answering—so Ms. Bennett didn't go all legal and ballistic when Danielle answered.

She also—I could tell—didn't get anywhere with her. When she hung up, after several “If-you-think-of-anything's,” she told us, “She says she doesn't know why her number isn't on Emily's list, and suggests maybe it got erased accidentally.” She made a
How-likely-is-that?
face before continuing, “But in any case, she says they talk two or three times a week. On the other hand, she also says Emily never said anything about a fight with Frank Lupiano. She hasn't noticed any unusual behavior with Emily, has no idea what could be troubling her.”

Adam pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Sybella,” he said, “can you check Emily's phone for calls made and calls received? Look for this number...”

Ms. Bennett turned the clipboard so that he could read Danielle's phone number.

After a few moments, he said, “Did you check both voice and text? Okay. How far back does the record go? Thanks.” He snapped his phone shut and gave a triumphant grin. “No calls to or from that number,” he said. “And Emily's log goes back as far as November.”

“Did I,” Ms. Bennett asked, “or did I not make it clear to that little ... young lady ... that this was very important?” She held out her hand for Adam to return the phone.

“You made it clear,” Mom said. But she was obviously shaken that Emily's best friend was covering something. “Why would Danielle lie?” Mom asked me. Like I would have some special insight. “After all the times she ate over, and slept over, the times we brought her with us to Darien Lake and treated her like family?”

“I don't know,” I said. I might have suggested that maybe Danielle misunderstood and somehow thought she was doing Emily a favor by covering for her, but I had heard Ms. Bennett tell her, “I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but her very life is in danger.” I mean, if someone said that to me about my best friend, I would have spilled my guts.

And that didn't explain why they hadn't called each other in months.

This time, the phone rang once, then went straight to voice mail.

Next, Ms. Bennett called Danielle's dorm adviser, where she had to leave a message. I don't think I'd ever heard anyone say “important,” “urgent,” and “of gravest consequence” so often in one headache-inducing sentence.

“I'll call Tanya Gardner again,” Mom said when Ms. Bennett finally hung up, sounding angry now. “I'll tell her that her daughter is endangering—”

Ms. Bennett was shaking her head. “We've tried this on our own. I think it's time to call in the police.”

That was scary, since I could be sure Rasmussem's legal department, as embodied by Mr. Kroll, would have warned against the bad publicity of a police report.

“Campus security would be more likely than city police to be able to find her,” Adam pointed out, “knowing the layout of the college.”

“Campus cops are no more scary than mall cops,” Ms. Bennett countered. “I want someone to scare this girl to a point just short of cardiac arrest.”

“Maybe I should drive to Geneseo to try to talk to her,” Mom said. “Explain. It's only about forty-five minutes away. Surely if I just explained—”

“Send me back,” I interrupted.

That
did
quiet the room.

“There's no time for all this,” I said. “Send me back.” “Are you sure?” Ms. Bennett asked. By the readouts she and Adam had been monitoring, she had no doubt seen exactly what had happened to me—how I had left the game that last time.

“She has no friends,” I said—what I had said before, when I'd been simply repeating Emily's words. But this time, I meant:
If not me, who ?

I asked, “Is this transforming-into-a-dragon thing part of the game?”

“Dragon?” Mom asked.

“Yes,” Ms. Bennett said. “But having the ability to turn into a dragon means she's paid lots of money to the sprites.”

“Dragon?” Mom repeated.

Adam added, “She's altered the game to make getting coins a lot easier. She's going to be hard to fight, if she's in a fighting mood.”

“Yeah,” I said, “well, she's put me in a fighting mood, too. And I have a plan.”

Chapter 12

The Plan

I
ENTERED THE
Land of the Golden Butterflies right where I'd asked Ms. Bennett and Adam to set me down—in the pavilion—even though Adam had pointed out, “She's nowhere near there anymore. She's moved to a different area entirely.”

“That's fine,” I'd assured them. “I'll be able to find her.” I hadn't added out loud what I'd been thinking:
I hope.

So there I was, watching the white silk tent billow in the breeze, listening to the wind chimes, while gently rocking in a hammock that I now knew was smiling-guy-propelled. The treasure chest overflowing with the golden and sparkly goodies Emily had accumulated was still there.

One of the shimmery butterflies that were always nearby when I entered the game landed on my arm. I wouldn't need coins, not if my plan worked.

But since when could I count on my plans working? I captured the butterfly and put the resulting coin with the others in my pocket.

Then, finally, I turned my head to bring hammock-guy into view.

Yep, still there. Still handsome. Still smiling.

Okay, so he might as well be useful.

“Give me a hand up out of here?” I asked.

He did, steadying both me and the hammock.

“Thank you,” I said. “Can you pick up that treasure chest?”

He did that, too, though he grunted at its weight.

“Follow me,” I said.

The two of us walked—well, one of us walked, the other staggered under his load—down the path of crushed glittery stones that led off to the left, toward the Victorian house.

I ended up sending him ahead of me, as the chest was too full for the lid to close, and we were leaving a trail of gems, and golden plates and goblets, and strands of pearls. Sort of like Hansel and Gretel dropping bread crumbs—but in the
More Money Than Brains
edition.

By the time we got to the garden, hammock-guy was puffing and sweating. Obviously, toting a chest overflowing with Emily's accumulated riches was a lot more strenuous than what a hammock-swaying specialist guy was used to. But his aim was to please, and he pleased me as long as he was willing to haul. I did let him rest on one of the park benches for a couple of minutes, but I was antsy to get moving again. So I asked, “All right?” and he nodded. I suspected he had been programmed to happily agree to any request, even if his heart was about to burst from the physical exertion, but I didn't let that worry me.

I led him into the maze.

I probably should have asked him if he knew the shortest route to the sprite fountain, because I took us to several dead ends. But eventually, over the huffing of hammock-guy, I heard the sound of the sprites' laughter. And it only took two more dead ends before we found the clearing in the center of the maze.

There were two sprites, one sitting on the head of the water-spouting marble goldfish, one on its tail. “Greetings. Greetings,” they called to me in their sweet little deadly voices. “Wishes for coins.”

The sprites I'd encountered last time had had lime-green and raspberry-purple tresses. So the purple-haired one sitting on the goldfish's tail may or may not have been one of the two who had sent me over the cliff. But the other sprite, the one on the fish's head, had hair the pink of cotton candy, so she was definitely new.

Not that it mattered—not really. I didn't trust them in any case.

Gesturing toward the chest of treasures, I asked, “How many wishes will this get me?”

Cotton-Candy-Pink shook her head as though she were truly sorry. Yeah, right—like I believed that.

I pointed at the chest overflowing with—as they say in fairy tales—a king's ransom, though I should think that how much ransom one was willing to pay would vary from king to king.

The sprite said, “Pretty.” Then she shook her head again. “But not coins.”

Her purple friend repeated, “Wishes for
coins.”

Coins, not goods.

Oh.

So much for my plan.

I stood there looking at the sprites with their oh-so-cute little faces, and their sweet smiles and lovely iridescent wings, and I considered my options. I had to work hard to keep from asking hammock-guy to take one of the dainty little creatures in each hand and hold them underwater.

“Wishes for coins,” they reminded me with their musical giggles after a few moments, as though maybe I'd forgotten.

I knew from last time that they wouldn't volunteer any information. Maybe my plan didn't need to be scrapped entirely. Maybe we were just into Plan 1.1.

Picking up a diamond tiara, I said, “I want to sell this.”

Was that a disgruntled look that passed between the two sprites?

But all they said was “Wishes for coins.”

Wishes for coins. Wishes for coins.
Had they been programmed by Rasmussem's lawyers?

I asked, “How many coins would it cost for me to make a wish that this tiara would turn into its value-worth of coins?”

That was a definite pout on Purple's face.

Pink sounded as though she was speaking through her tiny clenched teeth. “Three coins for that wish.”

I stuck my hand in my pocket, glad I had traded a butterfly for a coin each chance I'd had. I'd spent one on the misguided wish that had sent me tumbling over that cliff, which left me with ... three coins.

Was it coincidence that the sprites asked for exactly as many as I had?

I asked, “How many coins would I get for wishing the tiara into coins?'

Purple stomped her tiny little heels into the water.

I had to ask Pink to repeat, since she grumbled her answer too softly for me to hear.

“One hundred fifty-seven,” she mumbled. If looks could kill, I was guessing she'd be asking hammock-guy to hold
my
head underwater.

If they tricked me again, I'd be totally out of coins, but it wasn't like there was much else I could do with what I had.

I took a steadying breath, then threw the three coins into the water. “I wish,” I said, being careful with my wording, because I knew they were just looking for a loophole, “for you to give me the one hundred fifty-seven gold coins that this tiara is worth.” At the last second, I hurriedly added, “Right here,” just in case they got it into their little heads to “give” me the money halfway around this mixed-up world. “Right now.”

There was a sparkle of magic dust and a noise like the high notes of a xylophone, and—I have to admit—I braced myself to explode or turn into gold or get kicked out of the program
—something
wrong that I hadn't been clever enough to anticipate.

But all that happened was that the tiara I'd placed on the edge of the fountain disappeared, and in its place was a pile—a satisfyingly big pile—of gold coins.

The sprites glowered at me. I noticed that they did not offer their usual “Wishes for coins.”

From the treasure chest, I picked up a hand-sized golden replica of the Victorian house. “How much,” I asked, seeing the sprites squirm, “for a wish to turn
this
into its full value of gold?”

And so we went: all of Emily's gems, jewelry, golden artifacts, tableware, and knickknacks. How many times had my sister come to the sprites to get all this stuff ? I wondered. And that brought up another thought: were the sprites nicer to her than they were to me? Because I knew I could never let my guard down. With each transaction, I chose my words oh-so-carefully, knowing that those treacherous little critters were looking for an opportunity to turn on me. Had they turned on Emily? Had they made her forget she had a family to go home to, regardless of how badly (I could only assume) Frank Lupiano had treated her?