Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash (16 page)

THIRTY

It was like somebody had dropped a live wire into the water. My head whipped back toward the body half in and half out of the pool as what I’d
really
done jolted through me.

I’d saved Heather Acosta’s life.

And for once in her life, she was not faking. She was wiped out and barely able to answer questions.

“Heather,” Brandon finally said, squatting beside her after they’d pulled her the whole way out of the pool, “do you want us to get you to the doctor?”

She shook her head.

“You’re breathing okay? Your lungs feel okay?”

She nodded.

“Did you get hit?” he asked. “What happened?”

She choked out, “I had a cramp. I couldn’t
move.
”

“Ah,” he said, like he could totally relate. “Yeah, they’re wicked.”

She propped up a little and turned to face him. “Did
you
…save me?” she asked, like she was still in a watery daze.

“No, Sammy did,” he answered, all matter-of-factly.

Heather propped up a little farther. “Wh-who?”

“Sammy.” He pointed at me. “Right next to you.”

Heather turned to face me, and when she saw it was really me, her head thumped onto her arm and she started sobbing. “No! No-oo-oo-oo-ooooo!”

Brandon looked at me like, What’s up with that? but I just gave him a shrug and climbed out of the water. All of a sudden I wanted to get away from the whole scene. I was wiped out and feeling really weird.

How many times had I wanted to kill this girl?

And here I’d gone and
saved
her?

I felt like I was in emotional warp speed. In less than a minute, I’d gone from panicking that my best friend might die to realizing that I’d saved my archenemy.

Shoot, my archenemy who’d become my best friend’s archenemy, too.

And what somehow completely exhausted me was knowing that even after everything Heather had done to me and my friends, I was glad I’d saved her.

Like I’m gonna just let her drown?

Okay, so maybe I’d have sent
Brandon
to rescue her if there’d been time, but still.

Marissa wrapped a towel around me as I staggered away from the pool. “Are
you
all right?”

I nodded, then whispered, “I thought she was you. Where
were
you?”

“In the bathroom. I came back and all of a sudden you’re popping up with Heather. She must’ve gotten in when I got out so she could make a move on Danny.” She leaned in really close. “I can’t believe you saved Heather’s life!”

Holly and Dot were there now, too. Holly whispered, “Heather is freaking out! You’ve got to look, Sammy. She is totally losing it!”

But I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to see. All I wanted was to collapse on Marissa’s lounger.

“You are
shaking,
” Dot said. “Sit down!”

I did, and a minute later Casey came hurrying over. “I called my mom. She’s on her way.”

“Is Heather all right?” I asked, and it sounded weird coming out of my mouth.

It sounded like I actually cared.

He nodded. “I’m pretty sure, yeah. We’re gonna take her to the doctor anyway, and once she recovers a little, I’m sure she’ll milk it for all it’s worth.” He sorta grinned at me. “I don’t think she’ll ever recover from you being the one who saved her, though.”

I snorted. “Oh, she’ll find a way.”

He shook his head. “Too many witnesses to rewrite history on this one.” He glanced over his shoulder, then said, “Look, I’ve got to go get her stuff and help get her to the doctor.”

I nodded.

He started walking away, but turned back. “I know she’s a monster, but thanks.”

I nodded again, and as he hurried back to his sister, I closed my eyes and took a deep, aching breath.

Why did life have to be so complicated?

With Heather gone, the party should have been a lot more fun. And for Marissa, it definitely was. She hadn’t been playing all that long, so she was full of energy, making great plays in the pool, and Danny paid a lot of attention to her.

But I was wiped out, and as I lay there on the lounger, I couldn’t help obsessing over Heather and Casey and my mother and his father and…well, the whole Acosta/Keyes mess. I mean, Casey thinks Heather’s an annoying, embarrassing, manipulative liar—I know he does—but how much he cares about her was written all over his face when he realized she’d almost drowned.

So I couldn’t help wondering…Why? Why are blood ties so strong?

And
that,
of course, made me think about my mother and her sneaky ways and how she’s so self-centered and doesn’t seem to consider how what she does totally messes with my life and how much I
say
I hate her…but if something happened to her, I’d be really, really upset.

Scratch that.

I’d be devastated.

There’s that tie to her that isn’t rational or even explainable.

It just is.

So thinking about all that brought me right back around to thinking about how messed up things were with Casey and me. My standing up to Heather is what brought us together, but it didn’t really matter that we thought the same thing about her—in some weird way, she would always have a power over him, just like my mother had over me.

And the longer I lay there stewing about the whole mess, the more one question kept popping back inside my head.

It wasn’t about whether Casey and I would ever get together.

It wasn’t about whether my mom and his dad were already together or going to
stay
together.

It was about Heather.

I couldn’t help wondering…If it had been
me
at the bottom of the pool, would Heather have saved me?

When the party was winding down, Dot called her dad and he gave us all a ride home. “It was fun,
ja
?” he asked when we piled inside the truck.

“It was the
best,
” Dot said. “Unbelievable fun.” Then she went on to tell him every little detail of
everything.
By the time he was pulling up to the Pup Parlor, he must’ve felt like he’d actually been to the party.

“Thanks for the ride,” Holly and I said, getting out together.

“
Ja,
happy to do it,” he called across Dot and Marissa.

Marissa scooted over to the window. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She’d been quiet on the ride home, and even though her hair was still wet and matted, she had the warm glow of someone who’s been basking in the rays of L-O-V-E.

I nodded, and after they drove away, Holly turned to me and said, “Thank you
so
much for making me go. That was the most fun I’ve had in my entire life.”

I gave her a tired grin. “Told ya.”

“Well, you were right!”

So I jaywalked across Broadway, dragged myself up to the apartment, and had the calmest, quietest night of my life. I gave Grams a quick overview of what had happened at the pool party, but that’s really all we talked about. She didn’t quiz me about anything, Mrs. Wedgewood didn’t fall off the toilet or make any demands, Dorito didn’t pounce on any mice, no one knocked on the door…no one even called.

It was unbelievable.

And exactly what I needed.

I should have known it was the quiet before the storm.

THIRTY-ONE

The next day started off strange. Not because of phone calls or pounding walls or neighbors causing earthquakes; no, it started out strange because I slept until eleven o’clock.

“Grams?” I said all groggy-like when I saw the clock. “Grams?”

“Right here, dear,” she said, coming out of her bedroom with a book in her hands. “My! You must’ve been exhausted.”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up. “Wow.” I looked at her. “Why didn’t you wake me up? You always wake me up….”

She stroked my hair. “I tried. Twice. You obviously needed to rest.”

I took in her soft eyes and her sweet smile and felt a surge of love for her. I may have the flakiest mother in the world, but my grandmother’s a rock. “Have you heard from Mom?” I asked.

“You mean Lady Lana?” She dropped her hand. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And she’s back in Hollywood, denies any wrong-doing, says she’s been ‘embarrassed and unfairly maligned’ by you, and expects an apology.”

“She expects an apology from
me
?”

“That’s right.”

“Did she give
you
one?”

“Of course not.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “I was happy for her success, I really was. And I had thought that it would make her easier to be around. After all, she’s living her dream—what more could she want? But instead, her success is making her look down her nose at others. The airs she puts on! What makes her think she can act like royalty?”

“She’s been like that forever, Grams.”

“Maybe a little bit, but now she’s phonier than a three-dollar bill.”

I laughed and said, “You can say that again,” because really, my mom’s always been a bit of a diva—which is why I call her Lady Lana—but hearing Grams put it that way just tickled me.

But after I got through laughing, the tickle seemed to move into my brain. It didn’t make me laugh, either. It was like a little itch on a hard-to-reach part of your back. You contort your arm like crazy trying to reach it, and you seem to scratch all around it but never quite
get
it.

All through breakfast, I tried to scratch it.

And since it was almost noon and a bowl of reheated oatmeal was just not cutting it, I made a monster sandwich for lunch. And as I sat at the kitchen table scarfing it down, thinking about the pool party and Heather and Casey and Marissa and Danny, my subconscious was back there, reaching for the itch.

And then out of the depths of Grams’ room came, “Oh my
word.
”

“What, Grams?” I called.

She came into the kitchen area with her jaw dangling. “Look what I just found in my winter coat!”

She had a fistful of crisp, clean twenty-dollar bills.

The tickle in my brain was suddenly…ticklier.

I tried to ignore it. “That’s great,” I said. “But why were you looking in your winter coat?” I chomped down on my sandwich. “It’s gotta be ninety degrees outside.”

She ignored the question. “I am so careful with money. I never put it loose in a pocket. Am I losing my mind?”

I snickered and took a gulp of milk. “If losing your mind means finding money, I hope I lose mine soon!”

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Grams murmured. “Like this isn’t real.”

And that’s when the itch turned into, like, poison oak of the brain.

I knew she wasn’t talking about the actual money—she was talking about
finding
the money.

But…not real?

I sat up a little straighter. Maybe that was why Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, had wanted me to chuck it overboard.

Maybe I’d been going around town buying cameras and art and bikinis and pretzels with money that was…fake?

I suddenly lost my appetite.

I reached out for Grams’ wad of cash and said, “Let me see.”

She handed over the money and sort of jelly-kneed into the seat across from me. “Those are brand-new bills,” she said. “Did I go to the bank? Did I…?” Her voice trailed off as I took one of the twenties and felt it between my fingers. I turned it over and over and over. I snapped it. I had no idea what I was looking for, but it sure looked real to me.

And then I remembered Grams telling me that T.J. had used a counterfeit pen on the money she’d spent at Maynard’s Market. It had passed that test just fine!

I handed it back. “Definitely not Monopoly money,” I said.

“I know it’s
real,
” Grams said. “Obviously, it’s real. How did it
get
there, that’s what I want to know.”

I shrugged. “Maybe Lady Lana left it for you.”

“Hrmph!” she said, standing up. “That would be the day!” Then she shook her head. “Maybe I should go see a doctor.”

I laughed, “Grams!”

“I’m serious.” She gave me sort of a bewildered look, then handed me a twenty. “Here. You never have any spending money.”

I put up a hand. “No, that’s okay.”

She wagged it at me. “Take it!”

So I took it.

And when she wasn’t looking, I checked it over again and again. It felt real. It looked real. It
smelled
real.

But still. I had this little seed of doubt in my mind.

Could it possibly
not
be real? Could T.J. have checked money that wasn’t the money I’d slipped her?

The more I thought about it, the more worried I got.

“Uh, Grams,” I finally said, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of the apartment. “I think I should go over to Marissa’s and see how she’s doing.”

Grams was at the sink, doing dishes. “Shouldn’t you call first? That’s a long way to go if she isn’t home.”

“Uh, yeah. I guess I will.”

So I gave the McKenzes’ house a call, thinking I’d go over after I was done doing what I was planning to do, only Grams was right—Marissa wasn’t even there.

“She went to visit Michael,” Mrs. McKenze informed me.

“At Hudson’s?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

I got off the phone feeling totally surprised by that. Only then it hit me that Mrs. McKenze probably
made
her go visit Mikey. So I said to Grams, “She’s at Hudson’s.”

“Because of Mikey?” she asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “That whole situation is so…unfortunate. I blame the money, you know that? Look at the dysfunction it’s caused that family. Glass furniture? Priceless art? What good does that do them?” She came over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It’s nothing compared to what I have.”

I felt a sudden sweep of sadness.

Of
guilt.

What she had was a lying, deceiving granddaughter. And if I’d go through all this to hold on to three thousand dollars, what would I do to hold on to three
hundred
thousand dollars?

What about three million?

And then a nauseating thought hit me—how was I any different from Lady Lana? I was sneaking around and lying…. I was actually
worse
than Lady Lana!

Grams was moving toward the bathroom, saying, “Tell that old hound dog I say hello.”

“Huh?” I said when it registered, and then my jaw kinda hit the floor. I mean, if you know Grams, you know she just doesn’t say stuff like that. She’s, like, too
proper
to say stuff like that. “You mean Hudson?”

She gave me a mischievous smile. “Of course Hudson.” Then she closed the bathroom door.

So I grabbed my skateboard, shoved the twenty bucks Grams had given me into my pocket alongside some other bills I had left over, and took off.

The first place I went was definitely not Hudson’s.

It was the Office Emporium.

I found the security products section, snagged a three-dollar counterfeit-detector pen, and got in the shortest checkout line. There was a middle-aged woman getting rung up, then a tall baldish guy in an old stretched-out T-shirt, then me.

Now, at first I was pretty busy studying the directions on the back of the package:
Identify phony bills easily with a swipe of the pen. Pen leaves a brown mark on suspect bills (light yellow on genuine bills) so you know right away when to decline payment.

But when the lady getting rung up started arguing about the price of the software she was buying, the bald guy in front of me got antsy. He shifted from side to side and sighed loudly, and just as I was thinking his head looked like a giant mottled egg poking out of a nest of gray feathers, he scratched the back of his neck.

And
that’s
when I noticed the faded tattoo peeking out of the neck hole of his T-shirt.

It was the tops of wings.

Angel wings.

My heart started thumping faster. I mean, I couldn’t see the whole tattoo, but I could see that there were letters arching over the tops of the wings.

Obviously, Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, hadn’t risen from the dead, lost fifty pounds, and grown six inches. But the tattoo sure looked like the one Grams had described.

I moved a little closer and tried to make out the letters.

TOL MERV PAR
.

Tol Merv Par? Tolm Erv Par? Maybe it was Latin or Greek…?

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the cashier was saying to the lady buying software. “Let me call the manager.”

All of a sudden Mr. Wing Tattoo’s head turns, so I jump back and act like I hadn’t been doing anything snoopy, like, say, trying to read his neck.

We’re in the farthest lane to the right, so he turns his head pretty good, looking at the other registers, then says, “Excuse me, miss,” to the cashier. “All I have is this roll of tape.” He picks up some flattened cardboard boxes he’d rested against the counter. “These are discards from your warehouse.”

“I’m sorry. This transaction is already in progress, and I can’t ring you up until it’s complete. It’ll be just a minute.”

“Can I just leave you the cash? I’m in a hurry.”

The cashier shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sir. We need to scan your item for inventory purposes.”

Now, I’m dying to ask him about his tattoo, but I’m also thinking that his voice is familiar.

Really familiar.

Then he takes the stack of flattened boxes, turns, and bumps right into me.

“I’m sorry!” he says, his neck craning clear around to face me. “I didn’t see you there!”

Now, I may have been behind him, but I wasn’t
invisible.
And in the few seconds he’s facing me, excusing himself out of the lane, I notice that there’s something odd about his eyes.

About his left eye.

And it’s not that it looks clouded or bloodshot or, you know,
blind.
It looks totally normal, except that it’s a little bigger than his right eye, but it seems kinda…paralyzed. Like it’s not moving the way his right eye is.

“Give up on this lane now,” he whispers to me. “You’ll be here all day.”

The whispers send an eerie tingle through me, and that’s when it hits me why his voice is so familiar.

It’s the voice I’d heard over Mrs. Wedgewood’s rigged phone.

Well, my heart was beating pretty fast before, but now it’s
pounding.
And I do hesitate for a second, but then I follow him to another lane, making big waving motions over by the left side of his head.

Does he turn to me and say, What are you doing flapping in my ear like a big ol’ bird?

No.

He just keeps on walking like I’m not even there.

My mind flashes back to Rex Randolf not seeing me as he stepped out of the fourth-floor elevator, and it now makes total sense.

The guy’s got a fake left eye!

And the clothes he wore to Mrs. Wedgewood’s made total sense, too.

The beret hid his bald head.

The tinted glasses hid his fake eye.

The scarf hid his angel wings tattoo.

I stared at him a minute as he put his packing tape on the checkout counter.

It had to be him!

Then I ditched it back to the first lane we’d been in.

There was no way I wanted the Jackal to notice I was buying a counterfeit pen!