The Tell-Tale Con (31 page)

Harrison and I glanced at each other for a long moment out the windows of our respective cars.  I felt oddly desolate after what we'd been through.  He smiled, a lopsided, half-hearted attempt, and waved goodbye with a very small movement of his fingers. 

 

For the rest of the week, I didn't hear from Harrison at all.  Which was fine.  Really.  Now that the thing that had brought us together at all was over, what reason did he have for coming?  Nor did I see much of Hector and Sam, only a few glances in the hall and a couple of short conversations at lunch. 

I spent the afternoons at home catching up on school work and trying to watch TV.  I went to bed early every night and slept badly.  I refused to consider that I was restless and unhappy because I wanted to see Harrison.  Or even Hector and Sam.  Or anyone at all.

On Sunday morning, Mom got up early and went to church.  It was a new thing for her.  I thought maybe her motivation was how moved she'd been by the spiritual experience of hearing that the church the cops had planned to bust got thousands of dollars in legitimate donations a month.  No doubt she had to find some way to make that work for her.

She invited me, but I declined because that was so not happening.  For a moment I considered attending to keep her out of trouble.  But I figured it would take a while to build enough of a relationship with the church leaders to get her fingers in the donation plate.  In the interim, maybe a little religion would do her good. 

She'd been gone about half an hour, when I heard pounding on the steps and Sam, Hector and, finally, Harrison, appeared at the door.  My heart leapt and, refusing to call it happiness to see them, I called it nervousness.  I had no idea how I was supposed to act around them now. 

I glanced at Harrison, almost afraid to meet his eyes.  “I'll go get the phone.”

He frowned.  “What phone?”

“Your phone.  The one you lent me.”

He still didn't look as though he understood exactly what I was talking about.  Though he seemed to be trying.  “Why would I want that back?  If you gave it to me I'd never be able to call you, unless I talked to your mom first.”

“And no one wants that,” Hector pointed out, moving to the large bank of windows so he could look down at the street.

“I thought that's why you were here.”  I felt stupid, all of a sudden, in addition to the awkward I'd already been feeling. 

Sam put down the brochure she'd been reading off the glass case, incredibly reminiscent of Harrison on the first day.  “We're here to see if you wanted to go to the movies.”

“That's okay.  You guys go ahead.” 

Sam rolled her eyes.  “Oh, please.  Like we'll go without dragging you.  You're going either way, so you might as well come without argument.”

I laughed slightly.  “You make it sound so alluring.”

I realized they weren't planning to let me walk away with a mix of profound dread and a bizarre kind of relief.  I was such a loser.  “What are we seeing?”

Hector rattled off the name of some action movie that sounded absolutely stupid.  But I would go anyway.  Sam and Hector headed off for the car while I went to get my coat, and when I returned, Harrison was still there. 

“I thought I would wait.” 

I slid on the coat, back to feeling awkward.  “Okay.”  I injected my voice with a hint of indifference, like I didn't understand his actions, but it was a free country.

“I wanted to say thank you.  For last Sunday.  I'd have come over this week but Kanako dragged me off to LA to see my dad so we could talk about my lack of focus.  Anyway, I owe you one.  Actually, I owe you several ones.  We went way over those twenty hours.”

Ugh.  The stupid money again.  “I don't even want to hear about that.  Whatever we went over, it doesn't matter.”  I wished I could give back the money he'd already given me, but I couldn't. 

“Are you sure?  If not for you I would have checked myself into some hospital the day I came in here the first time.  I was pretty sure I was completely losing it.”

“It was no big deal.”

He laughed.  “I'm not here to argue with you, Talia.  But that is the least of what you did.  I would likely be dead if not for you.  Or in prison.  Certainly I wouldn't have figured out it was Vickie Bridges on my own because it never would have occurred to me to try to investigate.”

“You're a smart guy, Harry.  You'd have figured it out eventually.”

I realized I'd used the hated nickname, but he didn't flinch like the first time.  He merely raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly.  “You're a resourceful girl, Tallulah.” 

I managed not to flinch either.  It was my fault anyway.  This time.  “Maybe.” 

“I'd say we make a good team.  If we ever need to solve another murder.”  He grinned at me. 

“If I ever encounter another murder I'm going to turn and walk away slowly and pretend like I never saw anything.  Forget about solving anything.”

We headed for the stairs.  “Oh, I don't know.  I was impressed.  I bet you'd make a pretty good cop.  I could be your partner.  I'd be the one with the mustache, of course.” 

“Never in a million years,” I said.

“Fine, you can have the mustache, but I don't think it would suit you.” 

“Shut up, Harrison.”  I moved in front of him as we walked out of the building, mostly so he couldn't see me smiling.

 

 

 

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About the Author

 

Aimee Gilchrist lives in New Mexico with her husband and three children. She writes mysteries for both teens and adults. She calls her lifetime of jumping from one job to another 'experience' for her books and not an inability to settle down. Aimee loves mysteries and a good, happy romance. She also loves to laugh. Sometimes she likes all of them together.

 

A fan of quirky movies and indie books, Aimee likes to be with her family, is socially inept, and fears strangers and small yippy dogs. She alternates between writing and being a mom and wife. She tries to do both at the same time but her kids don't appreciate being served lunch and told, "This is the hot dog of your discontent." So mostly she writes when everyone else is in bed.

 

Aimee also writes YA and Inspirational Romantic Comedies under the name Amber Gilchrist.

 

To learn more about Aimee, visit her online at

www.aimeegilchrist.com

 

 

BOOKS BY AIMEE GILCHRIST

 

Rules of the Scam Mysteries:

The Tell-Tale Con

 

Other Works:

Into Darkness Peering

 

 

If you enjoyed
The Tell-Tale Con,
check out this sneak peek of another young adult mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

 

SNEAK PEEK

of the first

Disturbia Diaries Mystery

by Jennifer Fischetto:

 

 

I SPY DEAD PEOPLE

 

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I hold the magnifying glass over the eight-by-ten glossy of the blood-splattered bedroom, searching for a clue that everyone else missed.

"Piper Monalisa Grimaldi."

I roll my eyes and lower the photo. "Dad, do you have to call me that?"

He steps forward, snatches the picture from my fingers, and swats me on the butt with it until I step away from his precious French provincial desk. Mom gave it to him for their fifth wedding anniversary. According to him, she gave him a notebook on their first, and told him to write the book he's always dreamed of. It became his debut crime novel. Her giving him paper and wood is significant because of some ancient list about anniversary gifts. The olden days were weird.

"It's your name, isn't it?" He stuffs the picture back into the manila folder, files it into the drawer, and locks it with a key.

I flop into an armchair, sling my legs over the side, and push my purple-framed glasses to the top of my nose. "I don't want people to hear it. I'm not some creepy painting with death ray eyes."

He smirks and runs a hand through his thick dark hair. "Your grandmother, my mother, is named Monalisa. It's a beautiful name."

"In the twenty-first century it's weird, and you know it."

He sits in his tall black leather chair. "Then be grateful your mother's beauty wooed me into using it as your middle name."

"Yeah, well Piper may be semi-normal, but being named after a witch from a TV show is not."

"Your mother was obsessed with
Charmed
."

I don't remember the details, just what Dad's told me. When the show was airing, I was too young to notice, and by time I got older, Mom had already skipped town.

"Now, how many times have I told you to not snoop through my office? This room is off bounds to you, young lady."

"I don't see what the big deal is. Crime scene pictures don't bother me."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "That is exactly the problem. My fifteen-year-old should not be unmoved when looking at photos of dead bodies."

"There is no body in that photo." Sometimes I'm a stickler for semantics.

He sighs. "That's not the point. I don't want you in here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do."

"But will you listen?"

"I'll try." I jump out of the chair and head to the door.

"You better. Where are you going?"

"To snoop around this town. May I do that?"

"Be home by dinner."

I turn and smile. "You mean the one you'll order in?"

"No, Miss Smarty-Pants, I'll cook."

I chuckle. Like that'll happen. The last time Dad cooked, it was pancakes on a lazy Sunday morning six months ago. That was right after he finished writing the first draft of his latest book,
Homespun Murder
. His publisher always gives him cheesy titles. Being a bestselling author, you'd think they'd let him pick his own.

"I'll have Kung Bo Chicken, extra spicy," I call out before slipping into my flip-flops and stepping onto the front stoop.

A small stack of flattened cardboard boxes lie on the porch, beneath the large front windows, the ones that look into Dad's new office. It should be the living room, but Dad needs a lot of space. The TV and couch are up in the spare bedroom, cramped and uninviting.

Seven hours since the moving van left, and I've unpacked the kitchen, bathroom, and part of my room, while Dad's handled just his office. Knowing him, he'll end up sleeping on the recliner in there more often than his bed upstairs.

I skip down the steps, stand at the end of the walkway, and stare at the houses across the street. They're all the same. White, yellow, or light blue with white trim. Small Victorians, two-story, with an attached garage and small front yards. Having lived in a different house and town each year for the last eleven, I know houses and towns. And this is suburbia with a capital S.

"Hi."

I spin to my right and see a girl my age walking up the sidewalk. She has short, straight, black hair with bangs and skin so pale she either never steps out into the sun or wears SPF 100. Since it's hot enough to melt the tar off the asphalt, it must be the latter.

"Hey," I say and meet her halfway, in the middle of my driveway. I hold out my hand, a habit I picked up from Dad. "I'm Piper Grimaldi. We just moved in."

Her skin is super soft, like she just slathered it in lotion and it hasn't dried yet, but her handshake is weak. We'll have to work on that. Dad says a firm shake, especially by a woman, shows character.

"I'm Kinley Abbott. I live there." She points to the yellow house right next door.

Nothing like meeting a potential friend the first day in a new town and have her live within shouting distance. Score one for Hollow Ridge, Massachusetts.

She sways her head left and right. "I know, I know, you're thinking, how can a Korean-American girl have a name like that?"

Actually, I wasn't thinking that.

"I'm adopted," she tells me.

"That's cool. That you weren't stuck in foster care or something." Okay that sounds lame, but I've met a lot of adoptees, so it's not a shock.

"Where are you from?" She waves her hand at her face, trying to cool off.

"Everywhere. We move around all the time, so there really isn't a hometown anymore. But Dad has family in New York."

"And your mom?"

I shrug. "She's gone. Not dead-gone but walked out on us when I was little. I guess in a way it's the same thing."

Her dark, deep-set eyes widen. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"No sweat, but speaking of which, you wanna go inside?"

She gives a grateful smile. "I hate the heat."

"I hear ya. You definitely don't want to live in Georgia or Miami. Super hot. We could go in my house, but the air conditioners aren't installed yet, and we only have water and Ritz crackers to eat." Sometimes Dad gets carsickness.

Her laugh is kinda crazy, bordering on hyena, but it's also cool because it's so weird. "Come on. We have A/C, snacks and soda."

"Ohmigod, we're gonna be best friends."

The biggest suck-fest about moving all the time is that I don't make long lasting friendships. I follow some old classmates online, but there isn't much interaction.