Get Dirty (11 page)

The printouts of Wendy in a homemade costume, posing in character, ended her tenure as queen bee once and for all.

Kitty flashed her membership card and climbed the stairs to the cardio room. One sweep told her she was in luck: Wendy Marshall was going to town on an elliptical.

Watching the petite brunette work out like she was training for a marathon, Kitty found it difficult to believe her capable of murder, arson, or the half-dozen other crimes associated with their suspect. Then again, maybe that was the key to her success—underestimation.

Wendy eyed Kitty as she climbed into an adjacent machine, but didn’t break stride. Kitty stood there for a moment—shoes planted in the footplates, fingers gripping handles—and stared at the console. She’d never actually worked out on a cardio machine other than a treadmill, which seemed so much more straightforward than this medieval torture device. Set speed, start running. But what were all these buttons? Freestyle, CardioBurn, FatBurn.

“Push the green one,” Wendy said, panting.

“Oh.” Kitty found the green button marked “QuickStart” and the console lit up. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Okay, conversation had been broached. Now what the hell was Kitty supposed to say?

“Aren’t you Wendy Marshall?” she blurted out, as if she was a famous celebrity instead of a disgraced former mean girl.

Wendy slowed her pace. “Yeah . . . ,” she said skeptically.

“You went to Bishop DuMaine, right?”
Wow, was that the best you could come up with, Kitty?

Wendy abruptly stopped her elliptical. “I did,” she said sharply. “And before you crack a joke, yes, I still LARP with the Frontier League of Peculiar Individuals.”

“I wasn’t—”

“And I’m proud of it. In fact, I’ve been selling my Frontier League fanfic for the last year. Over one hundred thousand downloads. Do you know how much money I’ve made?”

“Um . . .”

“Ninety-nine cents each. You do the math.” Wendy whipped her towel off the console and threw it over her shoulder. “So before you and the rest of those assholes at Bishop DuMaine start tossing my name around as the butt of your jokes again, think about that and suck it.”

And without another word, Wendy flounced out of the gym.

An electronic bell sounded as soon as Olivia pushed open the door of Aquanautics, the surf and water sports store where Maxwell
and Maven Gertler had found gainful employment after their “rehabilitation.”

The shop was small, but jam-packed with merchandise. Racks of shirts, shorts, and hoodies in both men’s and women’s varieties ran down the center of the room, while a large selection of shoes were displayed on the far wall. On the opposite side of the store, wet suits in sizes from toddler to adult hung from the ceiling like meat in a freezer, and TV monitors were set up throughout, displaying surf competitions at nearby Mavericks. Above her head, every inch of ceiling space was covered with surf and body boards suspended from the rafters, and a range of kayaks was tilted against the checkout desk.

The effect was homey, the store was abnormally warm, and combined with the pungent aroma of coconut and beeswax, and the pumped-in soundtrack of ocean waves, it gave the impression that the beach was right outside the door.

Olivia eyed the cash register at the back of the store. It was empty, which made her nervous. She would have been much more comfortable if there had been other customers around. What if the Gertlers were the killers? And here she was alone and outnumbered?

Oh, hell no. Olivia had turned and was hurrying back toward the door when she heard someone’s voice nearby.

“Can I help you?”

Olivia recognized the deep, gravelly voice of one of the Gertler twins right away.

Okay, fine. She could do this. She turned to the nearest rack of Hawaiian shirts.

“I’m looking for a birthday gift for my boyfriend,” she said, making sure she had an unobstructed path to the exit, just in case. “And I’m not sure what to get him.”

Maxwell or Maven, whichever one it was, sighed as if helping a customer was the last thing he wanted to do, and ambled over. “Is he a surfer, a skater, or . . .” His voice trailed off. “Olivia?”

She spun toward him, allowing her face to reflect confusion at first, then morph into recognition and surprise. “Maxwell?”

Maxwell beamed at her. “You’re like the only one who can tell us apart.” He reached out and gave her a hug, squeezing her tightly and allowing his hands to roam up and down her back in an almost inappropriate kind of way. “It is so good to see you.”

Olivia wiggled free, straightening her dress in the process. “So how are you?”

“Good,” Maxwell said, gazing around the store. “You know. It was kinda rough after the arrest and all. But our cousin owns this place and he basically lets us run it. Pretty cool.”

“It’s awesome,” Olivia said, trying to sound suitably impressed.

“But we’re still in the game,” he said slowly, as if speaking in code.

“The game?” What was he talking about: Murder? Arson? Assault and battery?

“Yep. We’ve got our own studio now.” Maxwell stepped back and steadied his chin between his thumb and forefinger, appraising her body from head to toe. “How old are you?”

Ew? “Sixteen.”

A sly smile crept up the right side of Maxwell’s face as he
slid closer to her and dropped his voice. “Have you ever thought about modeling?”

Really? He was propositioning her? Desperate to change the subject, Olivia turned her attention back to the shirts. “I wonder if my boyfriend might like—”

Maxwell traced Olivia’s bare arm with his finger, and whispered in her ear. “You know, there’s a huge market for sexy photos of a girl like you. Europe, Asia. No one would ever know. . . .”

As much as she wanted to knee Maxwell in the crotch and make a run for it, Olivia was there for a reason. She needed to bring the conversation back to the school play.

“Funny I should run into you here,” she began, fluttering her eyelashes. “I was just talking to Amber Stevens today, and she said she thought she saw you and your brother at the opening of the school play last week.”

Maxwell snorted. “At Bishop DuMaine? I doubt it. We’re never setting foot back in that shithole.”

“Are you sure?” Olivia continued. “She seemed pretty positive that it was—”

“He said we weren’t there!”

Olivia spun around. Maven Gertler stood in the back of the store, arms folded across his chest. Where did he come from?

Involuntarily, Olivia backed toward the door. “Oh, sorry!” she said. “Amber must have been wrong.”

“She is,” Maxwell said. His congenial attitude of ten seconds ago had completely vanished. Instead his face was sharp and tense, his eyes narrowed. “We wouldn’t violate the terms of our parole by going anywhere
near
a school, would we, Mave?”

Maven shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

So they weren’t allowed near a school? Based on her experiences in the last five minutes she understood why, but that did give them somewhat of an alibi.

“And besides,” Maxwell added, “it’s kinda hard to see with all those stage lights in your face, isn’t it?”

Olivia froze. Stage lights? How did they know that Amber was
in
the play?

Suddenly, she was desperate to get out of there.

“Oh my God!” she cried, looking at her wrist that was conspicuously devoid of a watch. “Look at the time! I’m going to miss my bus.”

She was out the door and down the street as fast as her heels could carry her.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

BREE LAY ON HER SIDE. JOHN
’
S ARM WAS DRAPED AROUND
her bare stomach, pulling her tightly to him as he spooned behind her. Never in her life had she felt so protected and loved.

She sighed deeply, snuggling back into his arms.

“You okay?” he asked.

Bree laughed. “That’s like the millionth time you’ve asked me in the last hour.”

“I know, it’s just . . .” He stroked her arm with his fingertips and her skin prickled with excitement. “You’ve got a lot going on.”

Bree burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. It was the understatement of the century.

John rolled his eyes. “Why is this funny?”

“Sorry,” she said, through her heaves. “But you have to appreciate the humor.” She rolled over onto her back and counted on her fingers. “I’m under house arrest, suspected of murder, I’m in bed with my best friend, and someone might have tried to run
me off the road yesterday morning. ‘A lot going on’ is an understatement.”

John tensed. “Someone tried to run you off the road?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Bree said, instantly regretting she’d let that nugget slip. She didn’t want John any more involved than he already was.

“Don’t downplay this,” he scolded.

“Don’t downplay this,” Bree mocked. She didn’t want to think about Christopher Beeman right now.

John glared at her for a moment, then a smile spread across his face and he pounced on her, kissing her full on the mouth. They tumbled over each other across the bedsheets, Bree’s legs wrapped tightly around John’s torso. Then she flipped him over and straddled him. “I win,” she said.

John reached up and slid his hands down either side of her body. “No,” he said softly. “I win.”

She bent down to kiss him, when a cell phone dinged. “Who’s texting you?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Your other girlfriend?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” John shifted Bree off of him. “Amber Stevens has decided I’m her new conquest.”

“I’m sorry. I must have heard you wrong.” This was worse than a hundred screaming girls throwing themselves at John on stage. “Did you say Amber Stevens covets your bod?”

“It gets better,” he added, groping around on the floor for his jeans. “I’m supposed to play along.”

Now it was Bree’s turn to be serious. “Excuse me?”

“I know, I know. Olivia asked me to. Something about Amber being with Ronny the night he died.”

Bree gasped. “She told you that?” Olivia wasn’t supposed to break the code. Damn, had everyone lost their minds?

John sat straight up, jeans in hand, and thrust his free hand forward. “
I, John Baggott, do solemnly swear, no secrets—ever—shall leave this square
.”

Bree couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “They swore you in?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Well, Olivia did. Oh!” He smacked himself in the forehead with his palm. “I’m an idiot. I almost forgot. She wanted me to give you a message.”

Bree sucked in a quick breath. Finally! She’d had zero news from DGM about what was going on. Had the police followed their link and investigated Christopher? Did they have proof that he was the killer?

John pulled a folded-up piece of paper and handed it to Bree. She opened it hungrily, expecting some news of the police investigation and Christopher Beeman’s imminent arrest, but what she read on the page sucked the breath right out of her.

CB committed suicide last year. Killer burned down the warehouse. Be careful.

Bree felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. Her lungs froze up, and a flash of blackness momentarily blinded her. Christopher Beeman was dead?

The words swam on the page and Bree had to brace herself against the pillows. Everything around her faded to nothingness at the realization that her old friend had killed himself. And
somehow, she knew it was partly her fault.

The guilt was paralyzing, as were the implications for DGM. If Christopher had been dead for a year, then all this time the taunting, the threatening, the framing them for murder—it had been someone else entirely. She shook her head, trying to grasp the concept. Christopher Beeman was innocent.

“Yeah, it’s Amber,” John said, reading through his text. “She’s asking me to dinner tonight. Told her I have band practice.” He looked up at Bree, smiling sheepishly. “You know I’m not into her, right?”

“Right,” Bree forced herself to say.

“Bree, are you okay?”

Bree swallowed. “Yeah, just . . . the note from Olivia. It’s not what I was hoping to hear.”

“Oh.” He pulled his jeans on and whisked his shirt off the floor. “I think she’s expecting a response.”

A response? How about “We are so screwed!” or “What the fuck do we do now?” That was pretty much all her brain could process at the moment.

Instead, Bree crumpled up the note and tossed it into the garbage bin. “Tell her I don’t know what to do next.” It was the truth, plain and simple. “And I’m praying to God that they do.”

Kitty had been apprehensive about offering up her house for the next DGM meeting, especially after what happened at the warehouse, but she didn’t have much of a choice. They had to continue to meet, to share the information, if any, they’d managed to dig up, and to try and piece the puzzle together before
it was too late. She figured the best option would be to move all future meetings around, never hitting the same location twice so the killer wouldn’t have a chance to set a trap for them.

But the moment Kitty arrived home from the gym, she regretted her decision. Parked in front of her house was a police cruiser.

She panicked as she pulled the car into the drive. Had the police found her fingerprints in the warehouse? Had they traced the fire to her? Had they figured out her involvement with DGM? Should she throw the car in reverse and get out of there before anyone knew she’d gotten home?

In the midst of her fight-or-flight decision, the side door flew open and Sophia and Lydia tumbled out of the house.

“You’re home!” Sophia cried racing up to the car. “There’s a cop in our living room.”

“Isn’t that awesome?” Lydia said, her hands clasped together.

Kitty cut the engine. Awesome wasn’t exactly the word she would have chosen.

She opened the door and climbed out of the car, trying to act as calm and uninterested as possible. “Why are the police here?”

“The fire at Uncle Jer’s warehouse,” Lydia said. Her eyes were wide with excitement. “They’re questioning Mom about it.”