Minerva Clark Gets a Clue (21 page)

“We meet again,” he said. This time he smiled a little, which made him look like my one uncle who's always up for a game of touch football. “Portland's a small town, and we're both on the same case.” Then he winked at me.

Tiffani was sobbing, her cheeks smeared with mascara. The door to the hallway where I lay was propped open. Sounds from the mall drifted in. Someone hollered, “Give 'em room to work!” and more people—big guys in blue uniforms with soft voices—surged into the hallway. They wore those flesh-colored latex gloves that stink and creep me out. I felt blood in my mouth. My teeth hurt. My face hurt on the left side. Someone had folded up a sweater and tucked it under my head.

I asked someone where my ferret was. A pair of hands held him out for me to see. He was fine. His long body swung out from under the pair of hands. A thought drifted through my head: Ferrets really do look like tube socks.

Detective Peech was tapping out numbers on my Emergencies Only cell phone with his enormous thumb.

“I caught her going through my purse behind the counter,” Tiffani shrieked. “It was behind the counter! She was getting away, and I told her to stop and she just kept going. I don't know why I'm in trouble. I was the one who caught the thief. She's the one who should be in trouble, not me. I work at Nordstrom!”

Tiffani blathered on while White Teeth went through her wallet.

I felt dizzy. The blood in my mouth was warm and sticky, thick as a milk shake. I closed my eyes for what seemed like a very long time, but it was only seconds.

“What are these?” White Teeth asked Tiffani.

“I'm calling a lawyer!” she shrieked. “You can't go through my purse.”

“What is it?” said Detective Peech.

“We got ourselves a couple of driver's licenses here,” said White Teeth. “One for a Tiffani Hollingsworth, which is our young lady here, and another for someone named Jordan Parrish, who, according to the picture, is also our young lady here.”

I had no clue what any of this meant.

My eyes closed and stayed that way. I was still unconscious when Mark Clark showed up, no doubt wearing his Paid Assassin Look.

I missed the last week and three days of seventh grade. The Hazelnut excused me from having to do my Boston Tea Party report. Instead I was able to write a report on how I helped break the ring of identity thieves that had been plaguing our city. “Plaguing our city” were the Hazelnut's words, not mine.

When the police interrogated Tiffani, she told them
that she, Jordan, and Dwight had worked the checking-account-number-stealing scheme for almost a year. After Jordan told her she was quitting, Tiffani began stealing information from her Nordstrom customers. Flamboyant Toc, creepy as he sometimes pretended to be, was right. It was downright nefarious (which I found out means “infamous by way of being extremely wicked”; now I just need to find out what “infamous” means).

The Poor Old Grannies who shopped at Under the Covers preferred to write checks. Dwight would copy the numbers, then pass them on to Jordan, who would pass them on to Tiffani, whose cousin, a sophomore at Portland State named Carl Hollingsworth, worked part time at a check-printing place.

Pansy had been right: This is where Jordan had gotten the money for her cool leather jacket and camera phone. According to Tiffani, Jordan also wrote checks for Cash Only whenever possible, and that's how she made the down payment on her cute red Jetta.

It was all good. She and Tiffani planned to get an apartment after graduation. They went window shopping at Pottery Barn, where they picked out the cool new furniture they planned to buy. Jordan had talked about going to college, but Tiffani didn't see any need for a college education when they were already making more money per month than most adults they knew.

Then Jordan was awarded the Hightower Scholarship and started making plans to go to Stanford. She had her picture in the paper and an article about what a fine young woman she was because only fine young women were awarded the Hightower. She wanted out of their identity theft scheme. She started talking about how it was wrong, and that really got on Tiffani's nerves.

Tiffani and Jordan argued about it for months. But Jordan liked the money. So she'd still collect the eyeglass cases from Dwight, but then she'd cry that she didn't really want to do it anymore. And on and on it went. The day I went with Jordan to Under the Covers was supposed to be Jordan's last pickup. She'd put her foot down: no more.

Tiffani had known it was coming. She was furious. She knew it the day Jordan won the Hightower and was suddenly a fine young woman instead of the daughter of a single mom with two jobs. So, for reasons she couldn't really say, Tiffani got a fake driver's license with Jordan Parrish's name and information on it. She held on to it. She didn't know what she would do with it, but one day it would come in handy. One day, Jordan would be sorry she'd ditched her best friend for some snooty school in California.

Then, on Valentine's Day, Tiffani was caught shoplifting a scarf from Saks Fifth Avenue. That very
day Jordan had yelled at her at lunch that she, Tiffani, needed to grow up and move on. It was the “moving on” part that got her. Tiffani showed the arresting officer her fake license with Jordan's name on it. It was reckless, she knew. She wasn't sure what sort of trouble this would lead to for Jordan, but she'd hoped it was something big, something that would make her feel she'd gotten her revenge. It was pure luck that the dumb police lost her mug shot.

On the afternoon Jordan was arrested, Tiffani smashed the taillight on Jordan's cute red Jetta while we were at Under the Covers, where Jordan was picking up an eyeglass case for the last time. When Jordan called Tiffani from the Portland Police Bureau with the news she'd been falsely arrested, Tiffani thought she was a pretty clever chick. According to Tiffani, in the statement she gave Detective Peech, her phone call to Emma Larson at the Hightower Scholarship office was sheer in-the-moment genius. She knew Jordan would come running back once she was stripped of the scholarship. She would have no choice.

The next morning, feeling optimistic, Tiffani dropped in at Under the Covers to see Dwight, to tell him she and Jordan would be back in business in a matter of days. She was giddy with the little trick she'd played on Jordan. She bragged about it to Dwight.

She described to Detective Peech the way Dwight had looked at her. He wore those ridiculous Harry Potter glasses, but behind them she could see the look of disgust in his eyes. He'd told her that he'd just been promoted to manager and that she and Jordan might be back in business, but he was not. It was over.

Then he said the thing that had probably cost him his life, that stealing your best friend's identity was something only a psycho would do and that if Tiffani knew what was good for her, she'd get her crazy self out of there and never come back.

It was too much. Dwight turned his head to straighten a pile of books, and when he turned back Tiffani whacked him on the side of the head with her suede platform clog, the same one she'd used to break my left cheekbone. Then she took all the money from the register, left the store, and, in another spur-of-the-moment decision, tucked the bills into the pocket of Clyde Bishop, who was sound asleep against the wall outside the store, cuddling with his three-legged dog.

I got this whole story from Mrs. Snowden, who was able to connect Tiffani's check-printing cousin Carl Hollingsworth to another, much larger gang of checking-account-number-stealing thieves.

To show her gratitude, Mrs. Snowden took Pansy and me out to lunch at a restaurant where the waiters open
the napkins for you and lay them in your lap. I ordered a sandwich called a croque monsieur, which is a fancy name for a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich.

“My question is,” said Pansy, digging into her Caesar salad, “who was on the phone the day Jordan was picked up? You know, the call you answered that got this whole thing started?”

“It was Toc, just as I'd guessed. He'd been after her to hook up with him, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. They'd had a fight,” I said. Quills had contributed that piece of the puzzle.

“But what'll happen to Jordan now?” I asked Mrs. Snowden, pulling the ham out of my croque monsieur and laying it on the side of my plate. Even though most of the swelling had gone down from my broken cheekbone, it still sometimes hurt to chew.

“They'll continue to investigate her involvement. Right now they have only Tiffani's word, which, given that she's just confessed to murder, isn't worth much.”

I tried to call Jordan a few times, but she never returned my call. Charlie said I shouldn't feel bad, that her lawyer was probably telling her not to talk to me. But I did feel bad. Jordan was my favorite cousin, my idol who floated above life, an angel with her perfect hair. Until the day I was electrocuted and was somehow rewired to look past the outside of people—especially
my own self—I thought a perfect outside meant a perfect inside. Now I'm thinking it's the other way around.

I still thought Jordan should get credit for deciding to get out of the scheme on her own, for realizing that it was wrong. Charlie thought the courts might make a deal with her in exchange for her testimony against Tiffani. But one thing was for sure: The Hightower, and her chance to go to Stanford, were gone.

“I'm doing a huge story on this whole thing for the school paper,” said Pansy. “They also want to talk to me at the
Oregonian
.” Pansy happily stuffed a huge piece of dressing-drenched lettuce into her mouth. She was the fastest eater I'd ever laid eyes on.

Kevin didn't come to the fancy restaurant lunch, but Mrs. Snowden gave me the little origami box he'd made that day at the water park. I hadn't realized it was for me.

Inside it said, “U R Cool.”

It was almost a rebus, but not quite.

My brothers and I were sitting on the Cat Pee Couch watching—what else—
The Matrix
, when my mom called and said she was coming to town for the Rose Festival and to make sure my cheek was healing up all right.

I had already been to a regular doctor and a brain doctor and a plastic surgeon and the orthodontist. I had seen Dr. Lozano, who didn't know the effect my injury
would have on the other “changes I'd sustained”—her words—from being electrocuted. I was a little worried I would go back to being the old self-conscious, self-loathing freak show freak Minerva Clark. Dr. Lozano said only time would tell.

I had been doted on by my brothers in a way that was nearly embarrassing. Dish duty had been immediately suspended. Mark Clark stayed home from work to make me every soft food you can think of: tapioca pudding and chocolate mousse, cheese souffleé and scrambled eggs. He tried out this really nasty recipe with pureed cauliflower, but he didn't make me eat it. He said it was in the interest of making sure I ate my vegetables.

Quills had gone to school every day and picked up my final homework assignments and my yearbook. He even sucked up a little to Ms. Kettle, who was on the verge of giving me a C in religion until Quills offered to give her son bass lessons.

Quills was extra embarrassingly nice since he admitted that he was the one who'd sent the death threat rebus. He didn't mean it to be a death threat, he claimed. He'd just wanted to scare me a little. Here's a big secret: Quills is the coolest brother, but he's also the biggest worry-wart. That, for a guy like Quills, is worse than coming from a family of champion square dancers.

Morgan was busy with finals, but he brought me
DVDs—even
Troy
!—and fresh ice and towels while I iced my cheek, which the doctor told me to do a few times a day. He talked to me kind of endlessly about a lot of Buddhist stuff, how virtuous deeds were a shelter, and all life was suffering, and blah blah blah. He meant well, but I couldn't keep track of most of it. The doctor had given me some fierce pain medicine that made me sleepy. Once, he told me a Buddhist joke.

Question: What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?

Answer: Make me one with everything!

I didn't get it.

Mark Clark hung up the phone and said, “Mom's bringing that guy with her, Rolando. Is he her boyfriend, or what?”

“I wish the answer was ‘or what,'” said Morgan.

“The swami?” said Quills. “Pass the Vines, would you?” We were eating Red Vines, at my request. The box had fallen between the cushions.

“I think he's a yoga instructor,” said Morgan.

“That'll go over big with Charlie,” said Quills.

“Charlie?” said Mark Clark.

“He called the other day. Said he was going to be home on the weekend, too. They both said they wanted to see Jordan waving from her throne on the parade float.”

“Do they know our perfect Jordan is on her way to the Big House?” asked Quills.

“What's the Big House?” I asked. “Our house is pretty big.”

“It means jail, dummy.” Morgan threw a licorice vine at me from the other side of the couch.

“Of course they don't know,” I snorted.

Not one brother called me on my tone.

We were at the part where Morpheus asks Neo whether he wants the red pill, which leads to the truth, or the blue pill, which allows him to remain clueless. I snuggled up next to Mark Clark's shoulder.

I took my new cell phone from my pocket. It was no longer for Emergencies Only, and it had a cool faceplate with red flames. I punched in Reggie's number. He was still mad at me, but if I'd learned anything from living with all these boys, it was this: He'd get over it.

Minerva Clark Goes to the Dogs

Karen Karbo is the author of the Minerva Clark mysteries, as well as several books for adults, including
The Stuff of Life, Motherhood Made a Man Out of Me, The Diamond Lane,
and
Trespassers Welcome Here,
all four of which were
New York Times
Notable Books. Her writing has appeared in numerous publications, including
Vogue, Esquire, Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times,
and
Redbook
. Karen lives in Portland, Oregon, with her own mysterious (and way cool) teenage daughter.