He chuckled and waved, and off I went, zipping down to the basement to pick up Mrs. Wedgewood’s laundry. And when I had everything crammed into the basket, I put my skateboard upside down across the top of it, anchored the whole thing with my chin, and took the elevator up to the fifth floor.
Now, Mrs. Wedgewood does not appreciate getting her laundry back in a big crumpled mess, and I don’t appreciate the way she micromanages the folding of her Dumbo-sized drawers. So I did what I always do when I’m stuck with her laundry.
I went home.
And I was actually looking forward to having a nice little folding session with Grams while I told her all about Mikey and the leash and Hudson’s Boot Camp, but the minute I walked through the door, I tripped.
I didn’t trip on anything—it was just the unexpected sight of my mother that sent my skateboard clanking and the laundry and me sprawling.
“Are you all right?” my mother gasped in her overly dramatic soap star way.
I looked around frantically, going, “Where’s Dorito?” because the last time my mother visited, she let him out and I almost lost him for good.
“He’s fine!” Grams said. Then she added, “He’s hiding in the closet.”
“Smart cat,” I grumbled, standing up.
I eyed my mother suspiciously as I put the clothes back inside the basket. “Why are you here? What happened?”
For such a good actress, she gave a really fake laugh. “Nothing happened, I just thought I’d surprise you with a visit.”
“It was a double surprise for me,” Grams laughed. “I ran into her at the grocery store!”
My face pinched. “At the grocery store?” I turned to my mother. “What were you doing at the grocery store?”
She gave me a movie star smile. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed!”
Grams laughed again. “I was doing Mrs. Wedgewood’s shopping, and there she was!” She leaned in a little, acting like she was sharing something top-secret. “Jewel has gone into a coma, so your mother has a few days off.”
Jewel is my mother’s character on The Lord of Willow Heights, and even though comas, amnesia, sudden deaths, and resurrections are nothing out of the ordinary for soaps, her being home because her character was out of commission for a few days was.
“What?” my mother said, because my face was still pinched. “Must you always be so suspicious?” She gave me a hug and then sat very daintily on the edge of the couch. “Can’t a mother come home to see her daughter once in a while?”
A year ago I would have snipped, Yeah, I’ve wondered the same thing myself hundreds of times! but now I just gathered the laundry and started folding Mrs. Wedgewood’s clothes.
The first thing I picked up was a pair of granny panties. My arms could barely stretch wide enough to hold them straight.
“What are those?” my mother gasped.
“Blackmailer briefs,” I said, folding one arm in, then the other arm over.
“What?” my mom said with a lot of dramatic wind gushing from her mouth.
Grams jumped in, saying, “They’re Rose’s underwear.”
Mom’s jaw dropped. “She must be enormous.”
“Shhhh!” Grams whispered. “She’ll hear you!”
I eyed her. “Like her being enormous is a secret or something?” But she was right—the rest of Mrs. Wedgewood might be a disaster, but her hearing is strangely bionic.
So while Grams and my mother lowered their voices and gossiped about the Wedge, I fluffed and folded and sorted and stacked. And when I was all done, I said, “I’ll be back,” and went next door to deliver the laundry.
The first thing Mrs. Wedgewood said was not Thank you so much! or Nice of you to spend your day doing my laundry, or anything you might expect someone to say after you’ve washed and dried and folded her clothes. No, she said, “Took your sweet ol’ time, didn’t you?”
“My friend had an emergency,” I said, pushing past her.
“Well, I’m sure my dress is going to need ironing now.”
And that’s when it hit me—I hadn’t folded her dress.
I hadn’t seen it since I’d moved it into the dryer.
Inside, I’m going, Oh no! But on the outside, I’m trying to stay cool. “No problem,” I tell her as I move toward her bedroom. “You want me to put these away?”
“Why, yes, sugar. That would be most appreciated.”
So I put away Mrs. Wedgewood’s clothes, and sure enough, there’s no dress. “Wow,” I tell her as I take a different muumuu out of her closet. “I’ll bet this looks great on you!”
She shakes her curly-haired head. “It washes me out. Makes me pale and sickly lookin’. That’s the problem with mail order. You just can’t tell from a catalog, and it’s too much bother to return.”
“How about this one?” I ask, taking another dress out. “Ooooh. Now this has Rex Randolf written all over it. Subtle, classy…”
“Sugar, that is ugly.”
I wanted to scream, So why’s it in your closet? but I’m busted anyway. Her eyes zoom down on me as she hobbles forward with her walker. “What happened to my dress? Did you ruin it in the wash? Did you bleach it?”
“Uh…your dress?” I say, looking around like it’s gotta be there somewhere.
“Yes,” she snaps, “my dress! What happened to it?” Then she gasps and her eyes pop wide open. “The Nightie-Napper! The Napper got it, didn’t he!” She clanks forward. “This is your fault! This is all your fault! You should never have left my things alone in that basement!”
“Look, Mrs. Wedgewood,” I say, scooting for the door. “I probably just accidentally left it in the dryer. I’ll be right back.”
But it wasn’t in the dryer. It wasn’t anywhere. And after I tried to negotiate with her about it, Mrs. Wedgewood finally dropped the sweet talk and went straight for blackmail. “Buy me a new one—or else!” She looked at her wristwatch, which was like a mini boa constrictor choking off her wrist. “Monte Carlo night starts in one hour. Go to Large and Lovely in the mall, and don’t you dare just buy me the cheapest thing you can find! Nothing in peaches or beiges…. I want something festive! Blues, greens…. The one I had was perfect! I can’t believe you let the Nightie-Napper steal it!” She clanked toward me with her walker. “What are you waitin’ for, girl? GO!”
“But I don’t have any money!” I tried, looking as pathetic as possible.
“Then find some!” she snapped, and pushed me out the door.
Now, I guess I could have asked my mother for money. But my mother would have made a horrible fuss, and knowing her, she would have found some way of ruining everything. I mean, I could just see Mrs. Wedgewood ratting on me because my mom was on her high horse. And moving to Hollywood to live with her instead of Grams was the last thing I wanted. Aside from leaving all my friends behind, I’d be living with a person who played a formerly amnesiac, currently comatose aristocrat on a gag-me soap. Not my idea of fun, especially since my mother “adopts” her character, practically living the role in real life.
And I guess I could have asked Grams, but I knew she was still worried about the hundred and twenty dollars that she’d lost somewhere in her checkbook.
And since I already had found some money, I went back to my apartment, grabbed my backpack and skateboard, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait!” my mother and Grams both cried. Then Grams said, “Dinner’s just about ready!”
Something delicious-smelling was baking in the oven, and I was starving, but I had no time. “I have to go get something for Mrs. Wedgewood. I’ll be back in less than an hour. Go ahead and eat without me!” Then I zipped out of there.
I was ticked off, all right. And I really resented spending my hard-found money on the Blackmail Whale, but I did find a “festive” muumuu in quadruple-XL on the sale rack. And then on my way out of the mall I spotted something in the art gallery window that I thought Hudson might really like. It wasn’t an Ansel Adams or a Howard
Bond or some other black-and-white photographer Hudson admires, but there was something about it that I really liked.
I was in a hurry, though, so I didn’t go in and see how much it was. I just jetted back home.
“Here,” I said, delivering the muumuu to Mrs. Wedgewood.
“Ooooh,” she said, turning on the sugar. “Why…it’s perfect!” Then she smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry for getting so testy before. It’s just that it’s been ages since I’ve been invited out, and then to have nothing to wear? You understand, right, sugar?”
I almost said, No, you blackmailing, slave-driving, ungrateful hippo! but instead, I bit my tongue and made a speedy exit.
Now, normally when I tell Grams I’ll be right back, I’m not right back. I’m sidetracked somewhere trying to get right back. And then a lot of times something else happens and I wind up getting sidetracked from my sidetrack.
I’ve been known to be really, really late.
But this time I was back way within the hour like I’d promised, only instead of getting praised for not being late, I walked in to find Grams fuming.
For once, though, it wasn’t at me.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked, looking around.
“Apparently,” Grams said, tying an apron around her waist, “our apartment is not up to Lady Lana’s standards.”
“What?”
She gave me a prim look. “Your mother saw a mouse.”
“Oh, good grief,” I said. “She freaked out?”
“The tail was still twitching in Dorito’s mouth, and there was blood.” She eyed me. “Need I say more?”
I served myself some leftover casserole. It had broccoli in it, but I didn’t even care. I was starving. “So where’d she go?”
“Back to Hollywood, for all I care.” She ran water into the sink, saying, “She appears without warning, insults me, and disappears. Why’d she even bother to come? I can do without surprises like that!”
“Wow, Grams,” I said, taking a big bite. “She doesn’t usually get to you this bad. What did she say?”
She frowned at me over her shoulder. “She called our home a flea-infested hovel.”
That was a really low blow, even for my mother, because Grams takes great pride in keeping the apartment spotless.
Now, you’d think that I’d be happy that for once someone besides me was back-combed by my mother, but I actually just felt bad for Grams. And I didn’t really know what to say, so instead of saying anything about the infamous Lady Lana, I wolfed down some more casserole, then asked, “Do you need me to get rid of the mouse?”
“I already took care of it,” she said, but her chin was quivering. And before I could say anything else, the phone rang. “That’s probably her.” She sniffed. “The ungrateful prima donna!” She snatched up the phone and in a very controlled voice said, “Hello?”
Two seconds later I could tell it was not my mother.
Judging by Grams’ deep breathing and closed eyes and counting to ten, it could only be one person.
Rose Wedgewood.
“Fine,” Grams said. “She’ll be right over.” And when she hung up the phone, she looked at me and said, “Our neighbor wants your help getting dressed for Monte Carlo night.” Her lips pressed together a moment, then she went back to the sink and snapped on yellow dish gloves. “Monte Carlo night! If that woman is mobile enough to meet a date at Monte Carlo night, she’s mobile enough to do her own laundry!”
But I was actually glad she’d called.
I was hoping it would give me the chance to figure out what Rex Randolf was really up to.
TWELVE
I really didn’t think Rex Randolf was planning to meet Mrs. Wedgewood at Monte Carlo night. If he was, why would he use a fake name?
Or if it was his real name and he didn’t live in the building, why was he acting like he did? And how would he know about Monte Carlo night?
No, I was pretty sure he wanted Mrs. Wedgewood out of her apartment so he could get into her apartment.
So he could case the joint.
I also suspected this had something to do with my hitting pay dirt. If he thought the Wedge had tried to rescue Buck, then he probably also thought she had the money.
And it was looking like he wanted it back.
But if it was his to get back, why would he go through all this Monte Carlo night stuff? I mean, if Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, had stolen the money from him, ol’ Rex would’ve come right out and said, That dirty rotten son of a gun robbed me! instead of going through this whole stupid “thank you for your valiant effort” rigmarole.
Besides, according to Hudson, no robberies or burglaries or murders had been reported.
And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed that Rex Randolf might be the “old and bereaved” guy who’d been over at the Heavenly taking stuff out of Buck’s room. The whole situation was starting to feel bigger than three thousand dollars.
It felt…sneaky.
Shady.
Almost desperate.
But…maybe I was just feeling guilty. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this and I was just jumping to wacko conclusions because I’d been spending the money of a guy I’d scared to death. Maybe Rex Randolf was just a lonely old guy trying to fill his day with a little excitement. A lot of people in the Senior Highrise drive Grams crazy because they let little problems fill their whole day. “Don’t they have anything better to do?” she grumbles.
But Rex Randolf sure looked like a guy who had a life. A beret? Tinted glasses and a silk scarf? Come on—a guy without a life would not dress like that!
And that’s when it hit me.
Maybe he didn’t dress like that normally.
Maybe it was an old-guy disguise!
The thought totally threw me. I mean, I don’t think of old guys as being sneaky, disguise-wearing con artists. I think of them as being either kind or totally ornery, because every one I know seems to be one or the other. There must be a fork in the road of life—I don’t know when it comes along or where it is, but I know it’s there. And when you get there, there’s a big ol’ arrow with CRABBY pointing one way and another big ol’ arrow with KIND pointing the other.
That’s the picture I had in my mind, anyway. At no time had I ever envisioned a third sign that said SNEAKY. But all of a sudden it was like the Cheshire cat had popped up with his crazy grin, holding a sign that said SNEAKY.
My mind started running down the possibilities of the Sneaky Path. Maybe the reason Mr. Garnucci didn’t know anybody by the name of Rex Randolf, or anybody who wore a beret, a scarf, and tinted glasses and spoke with a sophisticated accent, was because “Rex Randolf” was trying to conceal who he really was. And if this guy did live in the building and was actually planning to meet Mrs. Wedgewood at Monte Carlo night, why didn’t he give his real name?
So the Sneaky Path led me right back to the place I’d started—the only thing that made sense to me was that Rex was hoping to case the Wedge’s apartment and this was his way of getting her out of the way.
The problem was, if ol’ Rexy-boy was going to be searching Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment for Buck’s missing money, it’s not like I could spy on him. I mean, even if I could get inside her apartment, where would I hide? He’d definitely look under the bed and in the closet and under the kitchen sink—my usual dive-for-cover hiding places.
So as I was helping Mrs. Wedgewood get ready, I was racking my brain for a way I could sorta keep tabs on him—or at least know if he was in the apartment—without being caught.
And then I had a brainstorm.
Except that the brainstorm required me to get back inside the Wedge’s apartment after she was gone.
Mrs. Wedgewood was in the bathroom, all decked out in her new muumuu and plastic pearls, doing a last-minute sweat-blot. I figured it was now or never, so real quick I grabbed a napkin off the kitchen table, tore off a piece, folded it tight, and crammed it in the hole part of her fro
nt door latch.
I tested it quick, but the paper wasn’t fat enough, so I crammed in a little more.
“Sugar?”
Now it was too big. And really obvious!
I pried it out and ripped off a little of the napkin, then tried again.
Clank, clank came the walker.
“Sugar?”
I closed the door quick.
“What are you up to, sugar?”
“Just checking the hallway,” I said, but I sounded jumpy.
Guilty.
Lucky for me, I was also guilty of something else. She gave me a cagey smile. “Makin’ sure the coast is clear?”
“Uh…hey,” I said, moving toward her as I slipped the rest of the napkin in my back pocket. “Would you like me to get Grams to help you down to the rec room?”
“Why…that would be so nice!”
“Do you have everything you need?”
“My purse is on the bed, and my key is on that little hook, right there.”
So I grabbed both, and when she was through the door, I closed it behind us.
“Test it now, sugar,” she said.
So I rattled the knob while I pulled on it, showing her how locked up tight her apartment was. Then I guided her away from the door and said, “I’ll go get Grams.”
Grams had a book in her hand and was just about to sit down on the couch when I barged in. I made an exasperated face and rolled my eyes. “She wants you to walk her down to Monte Carlo night and stay with her until her date shows up.”
“This is unbelievable!” Grams fumed. But when the Wedge appeared in the open doorway, she got up and grabbed a sweater.
And since I’d never actually checked out with Mr. Garnucci, I grabbed my skateboard and said, “Well, I’d better get home! Bye!”
Mrs. Wedgewood snorted like, Oh, right, but Grams just played along. “Thanks so much for all your help today, sweetheart. I know Rose appreciates it no end!”
And since they were going to be moving at a snail’s pace and the elevator can take a while to show up, off I flew down the hall, down the regular stairs, and through the lobby, calling, “See ya later, Mr. G.!” as I breezed out the front door. And that’s when it hit me—if Rex Randolf did show at Mrs. Wedgewood’s while she was at Monte Carlo night and I could somehow get a picture of him, I could show it to André and ask him if he recognized him as the guy who’d been inside Buck’s hotel room. I could also show it to Mr. Garnucci and see if he recognized him.
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash Page 7
