Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway (6 page)

But why would you tuck your car way behind the house like that if you were just there to tell someone to start collecting packing boxes? And if she was there for legal services, why
this
lawyer? I mean, there was a whole barracks of lawyers over by the mall — why use one that had his office on land you were planning to take over?

No, something about her car being parked that way smelled sneaky.

Sneaky like stinky feet.

So I kept Captain Patch close and made my way over to the car as inconspicuously as I could. There was a blue pillbox hat decorated with red and white feathers on the seat, and next to the hat was a pair of white gloves. A pill-box hat and gloves? Good grief. But I could just picture ol' Lyonhead wearing them. The whole package said patriotic like her car said luxury.

Anyway, there wasn't much else inside— just a stack of clipboards and a map and a Diet Coke can in the cup holder. So I told Patch, “Shhh,” and led him over to a small open window at the side of the house.

Now, looking inside someone's house — or office, even—is a little more dangerous than looking inside someone's car. Even if the house is small and you can see straight through the windows like you can with a car, it's not the same as looking in a car.

Not even close.

So my heart started doing a bit of
ka-boom
ing as I peeked inside the window. And it was supposed to be like a warm-up. You know, check out the kitchen, see no one, move up to the next window, see nothing, move up to the front-room window, see
some
thing. Kinda like they warm up big bells and gongs.
First
they give a little rumble,
then
they go for the big whack—it helps prevent cracking or exploding parts.

Trouble is, looking in the small window was like going straight for the big whack. Coralee Lyon was standing
right there. I'm talking
right
there. If there hadn't been a screen in the window, I could have reached right in and pinched her patriotic butt.

I jerked back and held my breath, trying to contain my exploding heart. Then I heard the faint clink of a spoon and Coralee laughing. “Oh, Leland, you worry too much. She can't stop it. You know that!”

“But what about the Stones? I thought you said they'd jump at the chance.”

“Well, yes, they are the one surprise in all of this. But don't you see? This is good for us!”

“But if they fight too hard, aren't you worried how it'll reflect on you?”

“On me? Oh, darlin', you're not worried about me. But have faith, would you? Everything will be fine. But be more forceful. You've been much too reserved!”

What I was hearing didn't seem to make any sense at all. It seemed like the opposite of what she
should
be saying.

I inched an eye back over the windowsill. Leland Hawking was jetting around the small kitchen, moving things in and out of the refrigerator, pouring coffee, wiping up a spill…. He sure didn't
look
like a lawyer, at least none of the ones I'd seen going in and out of the courthouse. I mean, lawyers always look pressed. Like they've got some secret lawyer facility where they can go right before court to get sharp lines steamed into their slacks and shirtsleeves. This guy's clothes were rumpled. Not
quite
like he'd been sleeping in them, but close. And they were
tan
.

Real lawyers never wear tan.

Coralee checked her watch and put down her coffee cup. “I'd better go, darlin'. Lots to do before tonight.”

I hurried off the property and hid behind the vine-covered fence that divides Leland Hawking, Esquire's office from the little square stucco house next door. The vines were really dense, so I crept along between the fence and a graveyard of old washer and dryer parts that were stored alongside the stucco house's driveway. And when I finally found a place to peek through the fence, there was Coralee, sneaking out the back door.

I watched her scurry to her car and check over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. But just as she's pulling up on the door handle, Captain Patch lets out a ferocious growl, straining to my right against the leash. Coralee's head snaps toward the fence, mine snaps toward Captain Patch, and Patch is snapping at a man with biker written all over him—long scraggly hair, long scraggly beard, tattoos, and a gut the size of Milwaukee. “Hey!” he shouts at me. “Whatcha doin' back there?” But before I can come up with an answer, he says, “Oh, Patch! Hey, dude, mellow out,” and produces a dog biscuit from the pocket of his faded black sweatpants.

In an instant, Captain Patch turns from guard dog to glutton. And while he inhales the biscuit, Coralee's car zooms away and the biker dude says, “He had to take a dump, huh?” He gives me a bushy grin. “Don't sweat it. Dogs are like that. When they gotta go, they gotta go. Just kick some dirt on it, would ya?”

So I turn around and kick some dirt on a pretend doo-doo
while he gives Captain Patch another biscuit and says, “Sorry if I scared ya, boy. I thought you was some poachers messin' with my stuff.”

I almost choked out, Poachers? I mean, that'd be like calling gulls at the landfill thieves. But whatever. I just smiled at him and said, “Thanks for not being mad.”

“Like I said, don't sweat it.” Then he adds, “So, uh … you're friends with Annie, huh?”

Now, I could tell there was a reason he was asking me this and that he had more questions lining up in his head, depending on what my answer turned out to be. But before I could figure out what to say, a beer-bellied
woman
with long scraggly hair and tattoos comes out the front door, calling, “Andy? Your loser son's on the phone. You want me to tell him to go to hell?” Then she notices me and says, “Who the hell are you?”

Andy gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry 'bout that. My old lady gets kinda possessive.” Then he calls over, “She's walking Patch. He had to take a dump.”

“Ah,” she says, like, Well, okay then. “So are you hanging up on PeeWee, or am I?” she says to Andy.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “I'll do it.”

So I left Andy the Appliance Guy and his Old Lady and hurried back to Mrs. Willawago's. And after I let Captain Patch loose in the backyard, I went inside through the French door, saying, “Guess what!”

Mrs. Stone was still there, and she and Mrs. Willawago both turned to look at me but didn't say, What?

Did that stop me?

No way!

I blurted out, “That lawyer on the corner is in cahoots with Coralee Lyon!”

Mrs. Willawago blinked at me. “In cahoots? What are you talking about?”

“They had a secret meeting! I spotted Coralee's car parked behind the house, and when I peeked in the window, there they were, having a little chitchat about how nobody will be able to stop these properties from being taken over and how you guys fighting them is a good thing.”

They both squinted at me.
“What?”

“I know. It doesn't really make any sense to me, either, but for some reason Coralee wants him to be more—what did she say? Oh yeah,
forceful
. She told him to be more
forceful
tonight.” I cocked my head a little. “What's tonight, anyway? Is there a hearing or a meeting or something?”

“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Stone said. “You're talking about Leland Hawking? The lawyer on the corner?”

I nodded. “That's right.”

She looked at Mrs. Willawago. “I thought you said he was
against
the project.”

“That's what he told me!”

“When?” I asked.

“A month ago! Right before my surgery, when they sent around that appraiser! He told me not to worry— that he was a lawyer and knew just what to do.” Mrs. Willawago shook her head. “Surely you're mistaken. Surely you misunderstood.”

“I don't think so.” So I told them the whole thing, right from the personalized license plate straight through seeing Coralee sneak out the back door. And when I was
all done, Mrs. Willawago's eyes were wide, but Mrs. Stone's were hard and narrow. “You went right up and looked in the window?” she asked.

I shrugged and kind of pulled a face, and Mrs. Willawago came to my defense, saying, “She saw how upset Coralee had made me….” She turned to me and smiled. “I think it was very brave of you, and you're a saint for trying to help.” Her face sort of fluttered as she added, “But maybe the bits and pieces you overheard weren't meant to be put together the way you've put them together? Maybe Coralee was really there for the same reason she was here?”

“I know what I heard, and it wasn't bits and pieces.”

“Well, it certainly is odd …”

Now, inside I'm getting sorta steamed because I can tell she
still
doesn't believe I heard what I heard. And
why
doesn't she believe me?

Because I'm a kid.

Then all of a sudden she says, “Oh! Your grandmother called while you were walking the Captain—she wants you to go see her as soon as possible.”

Grams had called? In the three weeks I'd been walking Captain Patch, this was a first. But before I could ask, Was anything wrong? a wave of acid flooded my stomach.

Of course something was wrong!

I'd killed a bird.

Cut school.

Forged a note.

There was no doubt about it—Grams knew.

Grams and I have a deal. I don't lie to her, she trusts me. But on my way home from Mrs. Willawago's the little voice in my ear was back, telling me that this deal I had with her was just not fair.
Why should you tell her the truth about everything when she keeps secrets from you? Important secrets. Like who your dad is…

Yeah, I told myself, good point! And by the time I was sneaking up the fire escape of the Senior Highrise, I'd convinced myself to do what Grams and Mom always do—plead the Fifth. Change the subject. Fake an illness.

Lie.

Why should I tell her that I'd killed a lovebird. Hid in a closet. Ditched class. Forged her signature.

Well, she obviously already knew about the forged signature part, but the rest of it concerned her a lot less than who my father was concerned me, right?

So I braced myself as I tiptoed into the apartment. I'd find some way around the truth. I didn't exactly know
how
, I'd just have to wing it.

“Grams?” I whispered. “I'm home.”

“In here, sweetheart!” she called from her bedroom.

Sweetheart? Was this a new tactic? Or did she really not know?

I went into her bedroom and found her clipping her toenails. “Hey,” I said, trying to act casual as I sat on the edge of her bed.

“How was school?”

Hmmm. Was this a test?

I tried to analyze the tone of her voice. Seemed calm. Normal.

So I tried to sound normal, too, as I said, “Fine.”

“Nothing to report?”

Uh-oh. Was she fishing? Was this a new, sly granny strategy?

My brain scrambled around for the right response and finally settled on, “Uh, not really.”

She switched feet and started clipping the big toe of her left foot. “These get so tough when you get older,” she grumbled. “They're like toe tusks.”

I laughed. “Toe tusks?”

“That's right.” She lopped off a chunk. “Look at that. It's hideous.”

So there we were, talking about toenails. Not dead birds, not ditching class, not forging notes.

Toenails.

And I wanted to ask her, Why did you call Mrs. Willawago's? What was on your mind? Did the school call and ask you about the note I forged? Did you pretend to be Mom? But she just sat there, clipping away. And I didn't want to give myself away by asking anything, so I just sat there watching. Wondering.

Sweating.

“So,” she finally said when she was done. “Marissa called earlier. She was concerned about you.” She looked me square in the eye. “She said you weren't feeling well and that you were acting strangely.”

I looked down.

Shrugged.

Toed the carpet with my high-top.

“Are you okay?” Grams asked. “Did something happen with Casey?”

I snapped to attention. “No!”

“Heather?”

I shrugged. “Nah.”

“But Marissa said—”

“I was just kinda in a frump, okay? Do I always have to be cheerful?”

She hesitated, then tried to be nonchalant as she asked, “Maybe it's puberty?”

“Gra-ams!”

“Samantha, we all go through it.”

Well, fine. If she wanted to think I was moody and frumpy and irritable because of puberty, that beat her knowing the truth. So I shrugged and said, “Can we not talk about it?”

“Would you be more comfortable talking to your mother about it?”

I rolled my eyes.

She laughed.

“Okay then,” she said. “I'm glad that's all it is. Marissa made it sound so … well, anyway, you should give her a call, let her know you're all right.”

I told her I would, but I didn't. Instead, I just moped around. And let me tell you, there was a raging battle going on inside my head. I'd killed Mrs. Ambler's lovebird.

Scratch that—her
adored
bird.

And I'd accidentally framed my archenemy for it.

It was beautiful!

Brilliant!

Beyond any payback I could ever have plotted on my own.