Minerva Clark Gives Up the Ghost (19 page)

After the door clicked shut behind him, Mrs. Dagnitz wrapped her skinny arms around me and sobbed into my neck. This was the cue for all the men to bolt into the dining room. I heard the sound of puzzle pieces rattling around inside a cardboard box. Weird Rolando had brought over another eight-thousand-piece puzzle. I heard Morgan say, “Whatcha got there, Rollie?”

Rollie? Is it possible we'd get all blended after all?

Mrs. Dagnitz pulled herself together and blew her
nose into a wad of tissue. “The way you handled that! I could never have done that. You have no idea. Sometimes I'm just so proud of you.”

“That is so not true,” I said. “You're just glad I wasn't hauled off to the slammer on your wedding day.” Yeah, I know, it wasn't her wedding day, and nobody but old-time gumshoes in black-and-white movies called it the slammer, but I didn't care.

“Of course I'm glad. I ordered you a special meal. If you were in prison, what would I do with it?” She smiled and gave my arm a squeeze. Here was another First Cousin of a Miracle—Mrs. Dagnitz joking around about her wedding reception being ruined.

“We never got my shoes,” I said. She was being nice, so it was my duty to try to be nice back, wasn't it?

“Well, I know. We all just got so busy. I've been swamped. And of course, you've got your own life. You think I don't know that, but I do. I appreciate that this day means a lot more to me than it does to you. So, well, here, yesterday after hot yoga I swung by Nordstrom and picked up … well, here … go put your dress on and just try these on. I'm sure the perfect pair is in here somewhere.”

She'd trotted into the entryway. Next to life-size cardboard James Bond were three large-handled bags, each one containing a stack of shoe boxes. She pulled out one stack after the next, opened the boxes, and lined up pair after pair of mostly dressy sandals, some
light brown, some dark, with heels low and heels high. There was a bronze pair with a four-inch heel, and a pair of pink slides. “I didn't think you wanted the pink, but who knows? Maybe they'll work. Anyway, we can take back the ones you don't like. That's what we love about Nordstrom!”

“Mom, you're insane,” I said.

And I wasn't lying.

For the rest of the day I did a whole lot of nothing. I tidied my room—the compromise I always make with Mark Clark when I don't want to clean it. Cleaning means dusting and vacuuming. Tidying means putting my dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and making my bed.

I should have just gone ahead and cleaned. Maybe it would have distracted me from thinking about what was going on over at Angus Paine's house. Maybe running the vacuum would have drowned out the sound of my imagined conversation between Robotective and Nat and Nat, where he told them that he now had hard evidence that their son was an arsonist. An arsonist and a murderer. I was pretty sure Angus hadn't meant to kill Grams Lucille, or anyone for that matter, and yet he had. It made what he'd done a million times worse. I remembered the wrecked look on the face of Wade Leeds, going through that green file cabinet, at all the things his mother had saved. Was he the one who'd
found her that day, melted to the chair? I squinched my eyes shut as tight as I could, as if that would prevent me from thinking about it.

I sat on the end of my bed and played with a Beanie Baby—Finn the shark. I'd found him under my bed. For a minute I wished I was still a little kid who loved Beanie Babies and dreamed of the day I would publish my rebus notebook. What do parents do when they find out their kid is a monster? Then I had a thought that made my insides feel as if they wanted to escape straight through my skin: What would Angus do to me when he discovered that I was the one who'd turned him in? The last mystery I'd solved, the one about the missing rare red diamond, had ended when the thief had walked right into our house and threatened Mark Clark, Quills, and me with a gun.

I dropped Finn on the floor and bolted downstairs. Who was home? Who could I hang out with? Casa Clark was big enough that people came and went, and unless you were paying attention you'd never know. It was late afternoon, and the back door was wide open. A bee buzzed around the kitchen. I looked through the window over the sink and saw Morgan in the backyard trying to teach Ned to catch a Frisbee. I slammed that door and locked it. Morgan would just have to knock.

Mark Clark was at his post in front of his computer (in the very room where we were attacked by the jewel thief).
I scurried in, pulled up a chair, and asked if I could watch him play. Mark Clark knew I thought watching boys play video games was the most boring activity on planet Earth, more boring than cleaning my room.

“What's up with you?” He turned and looked at me. He had a crease between his dark eyebrows.

“What do you think that Angus kid will do when he realizes it was me who ratted him out? I mean, if he started a fire and everything …”

“Don't worry about it. They'll arrest him and at the very most release him into the custody of his parents. He's not going anywhere.”

I must have looked doubtful, because he reached over and wiggled my knee. “Don't worry. It's fine. It's over.”

“Why haven't we heard anything from the detective, then?”

“He's probably loaded with paperwork, or he just hasn't gotten to it yet. He's got other cases, don't forget. And anyway …” He checked the time on his computer. “It looks like it's time we started getting ready for the reception.”

“Oh joy,” I said. But the truth is, I was excited. I was looking forward to wearing my adorable brown halter dress and ordering a 7Up with a cherry in it.

The Wedding Reception of the Century was held at a historic building in an industrial area not far from Casa
Clark. It used to be a ballroom or a movie palace or something. Portland is loaded with old-time buildings that are redone by forward-thinking architects who spend millions of dollars renovating the building to its original splendor in an environmentally responsible way. I know all this because Morgan and Rolando yakked about it on the way to the party.

Kevin and I sat in the backseat with our pinkies touching, but not holding hands. He looked hot in his coat and tie, and he said I looked hot in my halter dress and strappy high-heeled sandals. I stared out the window as we drove, trying to imagine when we would see each other all dressed up like this again. Next year at my middle school graduation? Would we even still be boyfriend and girlfriend by then? It seemed like light-years away. Not that I know exactly how long a light-year is.

I must make a full confession. I had forgotten about Kevin. After the night I tried to tell him about being assaulted with the scalding slab of vegetarian lasagna, and he was too wrapped up in World of Warcraft and MiniVanDamme, I forgot about him. Or not forgot about him, exactly—set him aside. I knew from years of watching Mark Clark obsessively play his video games that I could catch up with Kevin again in a few days and he would be right where I'd left him, the big news being that MiniVanDamme was now level forty and had earned his epic weapon.

We arrived at the historic building just as the Purpley Time was settling in. People were milling around outside, tugging at their ties and gulping their drinks. Inside, the air-conditioning was broken, a motor burned out or something.

Poor Mrs. Dagnitz. Yes, I felt bad for her. Her blond hair was stuck to her head. The bridge of her nose was shiny with perspiration. She ran around making sure no one was dying of the heat. Since most of her friends were in tip-top shape, no one looked as if they were going to have a heart attack, but no one touched any of the beautiful food my mom had spent weeks agonizing over. There was supposed to be dancing, but the band played cringe-worthy soft-rock hits to an empty dance floor while everyone gathered at the bar ordering all those hot-weather drinks that are the adult cousins of the Slurpee. Things hadn't turned out the way she'd planned, and now she was trying to make the best of it. Rolando stood near the open door holding a drink, laughing with some other men. He didn't seem to mind at all.

Morgan stood listening, looking glummer than usual. Quills sat at a nearby table with a small plate of food in front of him. He was about the only person eating anything at the whole party. I pulled up a chair.

“Want an egg roll?” he asked.

“Don't chew with your mouth full,” I said.

“Don't talk with your mouth open,” he countered. Ha ha. Another old family joke.

I chewed on some ice from my drink. “What's wrong with Morgan?” I asked.

“He's got that girlfriend—would-be girlfriend, I should say. That chick who works at Roasted on Fremont. He asked her to come tonight and she said she had something else going on.”

“Do you think she was lying?” I asked. Since knowing Angus Paine, it occurred to me that people probably lied a lot more than anyone ever imagined.

“Love is lies, baby sister.” Suddenly, Quills shoved his plate away, grabbed a cocktail napkin, and pulled a felt-tip pen from his back pocket. “That's good.
Love is lies, baby sister
.” He then started jotting down some new lyrics for his band, Humongous Bag of Cashews. Here is a secret about Quills: He writes all his lyrics on tiny napkins. He thinks that when he becomes world famous, it will sound better in
Rolling Stone
magazine if it says he dashed off his lyrics on cocktail napkins instead of on a PC.

In her hostess frenzy, Mrs. Dagnitz decided Kevin was the most handsome teenage boy there. He was practically the only teenage boy there, but I was not about to argue. When she found out Kevin was a swimmer, she dragged him around to introduce him to some of her friends who were on a ladies' swim team. I bet they didn't swim the butterfly, the most show-offy stroke there is, or maybe they did. Middle-aged moms do all kinds of things these days to embarrass their
teenage daughters, why not the butterfly? The good thing about Kevin is that he is polite. Oh, and he knows how to fold a lot of cool origami animals and boxes. And he's nice to me, except when he's playing video games. Is that good enough for a boyfriend? I don't know.

I was not about to follow them around listening to them compare times for the hundred-meter whatnot, so I took my 7Up and went outside, where it was a few degrees cooler. It was dark by now. Inside, the band was playing a song about sailing away. I sat on a low stone wall, set my drink beside me, and tied up my hair in a knot on top of my head. Much better. A trio of men talking about the best way to fertilize your lawn wandered back inside, leaving me alone.

It happened in an instant.

I heard the high buzz of a scooter, turned to look, and suddenly there was Angus Paine, leaping off his Go-Ped. It continued on, riderless, for a few yards, then crashed over. I didn't have time to say a word. He marched toward me, grabbed my arm, and hauled me backward over the wall. My glass of 7Up flew into the air, shattering when it hit the sidewalk. My hair fell out of its knot and one of my shoes came off.

Angus hauled me around the side of the building and into the bushes, where he clamped his hand around my throat.

“What in the hell was that stunt? Sending that
detective my way? You really upset my parents.” His voice was high with hysteria. Had I never noticed that he looked like a hyena with his snappy pupil-less eyes and chipped tooth?

“Let go of me,” I said. I grabbed his forearms, but couldn't pull them away from me.

“Answer my question, then I'll let you go,” he said.

“Liar,” I said. I knew this would only make it worse, but it made me mad. He just let any old thing roll out of his hyena mouth and called it the truth. I was sick of it.

“It's your own fault you're in this predicament, Minerva,” he said.

“I could say the same thing to you. Maybe if you weren't an arsonist, Robotective wouldn't have been forced to hunt you down.” I was surprised it was so easy to talk, since I was being strangled. We were between two huge bushes—the kind with small dark leaves and tiny white flowers that look like bells and bloom in the spring. He'd shoved me against the wall. I was afraid he was going to start banging my head against the stone if I didn't get out of there. But how?
Keep talking
, I thought,
keep talking. Keep him distracted.
“I'm really just curious why you did all this. Was it really just because you wanted to go to New York with Dr. Lozano?”

“I deserved to go. I'm extraordinary. Everyone says so. Even Dr. Lozano, before you started sucking up to her and took my spot.”

“I think she picked me instead of you because you're a lunatic who does stuff like this,” I said.

He tightened his grip around my throat. “Don't make it worse for yourself, Minerva. Why do chicks always do that? Make it worse for themselves.”

“So are you going to kill me? If Dr. L. didn't want to take you to New York because you were an arsonist, she surely wouldn't want to take you if you were a murderer. But, wait, you are a murderer. Grams Lucille, remember her?”

“I will give you one more chance,” he said, shaking me. “Call Huntington and confess to the Holy Family fire, and after New York I'll tell him it was me and they'll let you go.”

“I'll get right on that,” I said.

“I thought I knew you,” he said. Was he starting to cry? “I thought you were cool.”

“I am cool,” I said. So cool, in fact, that I'd figured out how to get myself out of this. In the first mystery I'd ever solved, Tiffani, my old babysitter, used her shoe as a weapon. She wore those high-heeled wooden mules. My shoes didn't have that much heft, but if I could reach down, slip off the remaining one, and smash it over Angus's head, the surprise might cause him to let me go and I could make a run for it.

“This isn't over, you know. Nat and Nat have a good lawyer. They'll get me out of this, and then when you least expect it, you might smell some smoke in your own
room, in that ugly house up there in that fancy neighborhood.”