I So Don't Do Famous (12 page)

There are two lists: a long column of high-ticket stuff and a shorter column of personal items. Items with the words “sentimental value” beside them rather than a dollar amount. Like a locket with a baby picture, a dog dish handmade by the owner, a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt.

“Junie, you won't believe this!” I point to the screen.

Under “personal items” is “a silver bracelet with a dog charm.”

Junie's shaking her head. “Lorraine and Stef are definitely involved.”

Next, we pull up the head shots and names of Detective Garcia's suspects. The thin-faced guy with glasses is Cameron Williams. The guy with flared nostrils and big ears is Derek Rizzo, manager of Sparkling Pool. We painstakingly compare the suspects' head shots with each and every photo Junie took at the awards dinner. By picture #253, it feels
like we went to the beach, scooped up fistfuls of sand and rubbed it in our eyes.

And the detective's suspects are not in any of Junie's photos. Which doesn't prove they weren't there. It only proves they were never in front of Junie's lens. It certainly doesn't prove they weren't involved. Maybe Lorraine and Stef were paid to lift the purse.

“Detecting makes me thirsty.” Junie flips open the room-service menu and scans it. “Let's get smoothies.”

Smoothies remind me of Jazzed-Up Juice. And Jazzed-Up Juice reminds me of Josh. And Josh reminds me of heartache. I'm not healed enough to order a smoothie. Probably I'll have gray hair before I drink my next smoothie.

After one look at my face, Junie changes her order. “I'm more in the mood for nachos and soda.”

This is why you never let a best friend go. They're totally on your wavelength.

While waiting for our food to arrive, we talk over tomorrow.

And how we're tracking down an ex-con.

A
n ex-con.

I've never met one. I've never questioned one. I've never searched for one.

But tomorrow I'm doing all three.

Who can sleep with that on their mind? Not me. It's two o'clock in the morning, and I've probably gotten one whole second of shut-eye.

Junie is übercranky if she doesn't get her required ten hours. No way I can face an übercranky Junie
and
an ex-con. So I quietly push back the covers, throw on some clothes and grab a room key and my purse.

I tiptoe into the dim hall, past the photos of movie stars lining the walls, and ride the escalator down to
the lobby level. The hotel café, 25 Degrees, is open all night. The name stands for the number of degrees difference between cooking a medium-rare versus a well-done hamburger. This is the kind of trivia you pick up when you hang around Junie.

Entering the restaurant, I blink in the fluorescent overhead lights. The room is long and narrow, with tables and chairs along one side and a counter with stools along the other. The wall behind the counter is a wild silver and black diamond pattern. The tables all have a view of Hollywood Boulevard through a wide rectangular window. The place is empty.

“Grab whatever table you can find open,” the only waiter says. “Or you can sit at the counter.”

Oh great. It's two o'clock in the morning and I have to stumble across a waiter with the same sense of humor as my dad.

I slide along a red leather bench and pick up the plastic menu. “I'll take a turkey burger, fries and a soda.” A turkey burger is a sign of The Ruler's influence.

Then, basically, I just sit there alone in the bright, quiet restaurant and fret. About how I've disappointed Mom and Mrs. Howard. About how I have to solve this mystery to get off probation. About how the case is like a big jigsaw puzzle when you first open the box and dump out the pieces on the table. I'm still at the stage of turning the pieces
picture-side up. I haven't even connected the corner pieces yet.

After delivering my meal, the waiter disappears into the back of the restaurant.

I chomp down on my burger and chew. Whatever degrees they cooked it at, it's good.

I'm chewing away, then sipping on my soda, fading in and out of my thoughts, just letting the mystery rattle around in my brain, hoping pieces will hook together.

Suddenly, I hear crying. I glance around. The restaurant is dead. No other customers. No waiter in sight. “Hello?”

The crying gets louder.

I scoot out from my bench seat, then peek under the table next to me. Nada. More crying. “Hello?”

And then I smell it—Lippy's Root Beer Gloss. The scent's coming from two booths away.

I've found another ghost!

I check to make sure the waiter's still in the back, then whisper in the direction of the root-beer-gloss scent. “Who are you and what's the matter?”

The ghost hiccups. “You can see me?”

“Uh, no,” I say. “But I can hear you, and I can smell your lip gloss. I used to be totally in love with that brand.”

“This is the first time in a whole year”—her voice catches—“that anyone has noticed me.”

My heart clenches for her. “Who are you?”

“My name's Leah Jones. I'm thirteen years old. I died in a horseback-riding accident.”

“Thirteen? I'm thirteen too! You died at thirteen? That's horrible!” I can't even imagine dying at my age. It seems so unfair. Poor Leah. “When did you die?”

“A little over a year ago.”

“I'm really sorry.” I move back to my own table, and the scent of Lippy's Root Beer Gloss follows me.

“Did you ever see the movie I was in? It's called
A Horse Named Charley.
” Leah's voice comes from across the table.

I shake my head. “I've never heard of it.”

“I was the neighbor. Not the largest part, but a stepping-stone.”

The door behind the counter opens. The waiter peeks out, playing cards in his hand. He looks over at me. “I thought I heard talking. Maybe another customer?”

“Just my phone.” I hold it up as proof. “I'll let you know if you get any new customers.”

“Thanks.” He waves his cards in the air. “For once, I'm up on the chef at Texas Hold'em.”

I wait till the door closes. “I'm Sherry Baldwin.” I squirt ketchup over the fries. “So, why were you crying?”

“I cry every day. I'm lonely and sad. I don't know
how to get out of the hotel, and I've been stuck here ever since my death.”

“I think learning to cross thresholds is a typical problem.”

“How do you know?”

I tell Leah about my mom and how she had a tough time with thresholds.

“I miss my family and my dog. And I had the worst last day,” Leah says with a sob, “because my boyfriend broke up with me. Right where you're sitting.”

I shift a couple of inches. No need to encourage more bad karma in my life. “And that's why you're still at the Roosevelt?”

“I guess.” And I'm sure she's shrugging. “You've probably heard of him. Michael Throck.”

I choose a fry and nibble. Michael Throck! Yuck. That actor is constantly in the entertainment news. His nickname is Sox Throck because he changes girlfriends as often as he changes his socks. “You've been crying over him for a whole year?”

“One year, three months and twenty-seven days. To be exact.”

Ack. Eek. Ike. I so do not want to feel sorrowful and grief-stricken over Josh by this time next year. “I Googled for ghosts at the Roosevelt. And your name didn't pop up. I wonder why.” I take a bite of my burger.

“I didn't show up in a Google search?” Leah wails. “I'm never going to be famous.”

“What other ghosts live here?” I ask. “Maybe Google is totally inaccurate for the spirit world.”

“There's an old guy on the ninth floor, Montgomery Clift, who plays the bugle sometimes,” Leah says. “And occasionally I hear Marilyn Monroe's voice coming from the mirror she haunts.”

“My mom will be ecstatic to hear about Marilyn Monroe,” I say. “She's determined to get to the bottom of her death.”

Leah sniffs. “Have you ever been dumped?”

Suddenly, there's a lump in my throat. I nod.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

And, surprisingly, I do. Maybe because it's late and I'm tired and stressed. Maybe because Leah is a stranger and it's a brand-new story for her. Maybe because I miss Josh and I just want to talk about him. When I'm finished spilling my gloomy guts, I wipe my nose with a napkin.

“We have a lot in common,” Leah says. “You should get insomnia every night, come down here and we'll cry our eyes out about our broken hearts.”

I sit up straight. “No, no, no. I do not want to do this every night. I don't want to be sad and depressed. I want to get back to being my normal self.” I think briefly about how much my mother has accomplished in her year and a half of death. “Leah,
you've wasted enough time moping over Michael. You need a hobby or something. Seriously. It's time to move on.”

“Like you should be giving me advice?” Leah's voice drips with sarcasm. “What exactly are you doing to get over Josh?”

“I'm solving a mystery.”

There's a long and awkward silence. I know Leah's still at the table because the root beer smell is strong. I keep on eating my burger and fries. I said what I believed, and I don't have anything to add.

“Sherry,” Leah says when I'm on my last delicious bite, “thank you for being so honest.”

I slurp the last drop of my soda.

“You're absolutely right. I need to look around, get outside myself, get involved in other stuff. I need to stop dwelling on Michael.”

My mouth full, I give her a thumbs-up. I do love it when people listen to my wisdom.

“So, I'm on board. You have a crime-fighting partner. Me.”

Ack. Eek. Ike.

T
he next morning, Junie, my dad and I eat breakfast across the street. I manage to sneak out of the hotel without bumping into Leah. I'm not up for a ghost shadow.

“I'm so hungry,” my dad says, “I could murder this bowl of cornflakes. Does that make me a cereal killer?” He slaps his knee and busts up.

It's going to be a long day. I yawn.

“Sherry, come on. At least crack a smile,” my dad says. “My delivery was perfect.”

“Was the Comedy Club good?” I halfheartedly spread grape jelly on toast. I'm still pretty full from the burger and fries I chowed down only a few hours ago.

“Amazing.” Dad dumps a packet of sugar in his coffee. “I'm thinking I should try a routine at open-mic night at the Comedy Spot in Scottsdale when we get back home.”

Junie looks at me.

“Will you be using a fake name?” I take a mini bite.

He laughs. “You are a chip off the old block, Sherry. Quick with the witty comebacks.” He pours in so much half-and-half that his coffee turns a light, light tan.

After breakfast and many bad bacon-and-egg jokes, Dad heads off to his business meeting. Junie and I take a taxi to 863 Mollison Avenue, apartment G, home of Cameron Williams. Ex-con.

“You girls live here?” the taxi driver asks.

“Uh, no,” I say, handing him money. “We're, uh, visiting people.”

“This isn't a nice neighborhood.” He counts back our change.

No kidding. An ex-con lives here.

“Stay together. And walk out to the main road to find a taxi,” the driver adds.

Junie watches him drive off and gives a little shiver. “I don't have a good feeling about this.”

We start across the potholed parking lot and up the cracked walkway to the two-story apartment complex. I hop over a flower struggling to grow through
one of the cracks. Trash litters the dirt on both sides of the walkway.

A boy roughly Sam's age whizzes out from the gap between two buildings. He's going about a hundred miles per hour on a bright and shiny skateboard. The skateboard comes to a dead halt when it hits the dirt. The boy flies off and lands next to an empty In-N-Out Burger cup lying on its side.