The Lornea Island Detective Club

by Gregg Dunnett

  She doesn't say anything for a moment so I turn back to my homework.

  "So where's your mom now?"

  I put my pen down and sigh. I might as well tell her. Maybe then she'll go away.

  "She's in a secure medical facility. Out in Oregon."

  "Like a prison?"

  "No. It's a secure medical facility. It's more like a hospital, just she's not allowed to leave. I'm allowed to visit too, if I want to, but the judge said I don't have to."

  "And have you? Visited?"

  "No."

  "I don't blame you. Fuck her."

  I look up at Mr. Coyne, but he didn't hear. He's still nodding his head to his music.

  "I mean. I thought my Mom was bad but...."

  She rests her fingers on the desk in front of her, and taps out a little beat with her fingers.

  "So what? You just live with your dad now?"

  "I really need to do my homework actually..."

  "And your dad was accused of killing that tourist girl? What was her name?"

  "It's due in tomorrow."

  "Olivia something? Curran – Olivia Curran. But it wasn't your dad was it? It was that waitress from Silverlea. Fucking psycho waitress killed her and hid the body in some caves."

  "She wasn't exactly a psycho. It was more of an accident."

  "But she did hide the body in a cave? And then she tried to kill you in the cave too."

  "Yeah. Sort of."

  The girl laughs. But quietly.

  "My dad died," she says suddenly. And then we're both silent for quite a long time, before she speaks again.

  "I've been googling you. There's tons of stuff about Olivia Curran, but not much about you..."

  "That's because the newspapers weren't allowed to print my name. I was under thirteen at the time it happened."

  "Uh huh." She says.

  "But I knew your name."

  I look up at her. I don't understand this.

  "So I did find something interesting."

  There's something in her tone of voice that sounds like she's teasing me a bit.

  "What?"

  In response she logs onto the computer in front of her. It takes a while because the computers here are really slow. But when she finally gets online I watch as she types in the letters of a web address. And as she does so I get this horrible sinking feeling.

  Six

  The website comes up. It's dominated by a large logo. A man holding a magnifying glass. There's a headline too:

  The Lornea Island Detective Agency

  The girl scrolls down and starts reading.

  "The Lornea Island Detective Agency is the best private investigators in Lornea Island for solving your crimes and catching murderers..." She looks at me, one eyebrow raised up.

  "Specializing in cases too difficult or secret for the police," she goes on. "Whatever your mystery, we can help."

  I don't say anything.

  "Does that sound familiar Billy?"

  "No. Why would it?"

  "Oh I don't know. Catching murderers... Didn't you do that? Didn't you help to catch the psycho waitress who killed the tourist girl?"

  "She wasn’t exactly a psycho… And I didn't help catch her. I did catch her."

  "Specializing in cases too difficult for the police. You're pretty cocky aren't you? For a geek."

  "I'm not a geek. And I’ve no idea what you're talking about. This has nothing to do with me."

  "Oh really?" She scrolls down again. Right to the bottom of the site. Then she looks at me and smiles.

  "That's odd, because it's got your name on it."

  I don't have to look – I already know – but after a moment I glance at the screen, and sure enough at the bottom of the website it says this:

  Website Design by Billy Wheatley

  "That's probably why it came up when I searched for your name." The girl laughs again. "I thought that maybe you just did the website design, which is terrible by the way..."

  I look at her, surprised by this.

  "No really, it's seriously awful. My sister could do better and she's three years old."

  I feel my forehead furrowing into a frown. The girl clicks to the 'Contact Us' page.

  "But then I saw this. The email address you've left is BWhealtley1995@gmail.com. And that just has to be you."

  She looks at me, triumph on her face.

  "It is, isn't it? You're actually running a detective agency?"

  "I'm not running..." I begin, but I stop. It's hard to explain.

  "Billy Wheatley – Private Eye!"

  "I'm not actually running it... I mean I don't have any..." I try to work out what to say, it’s complicated.

  "It's just that, after everything that happened with Dad and the murders, I had this idea that maybe I could maybe help the police again. But it never happened. I didn't even get around to finishing the website...."

  She doesn't seem to be listening. She's clicked onto the 'Our Services' page, which lists surveillance, vehicle tracking, phone tapping, debugging equipment and polygraph testing.

  "So how do you do all this?"

  "What?"

  "Phone tapping. Polygraph testing."

  "Oh. I don't."

  "So why does it say..."

  "I just copied the text from a site in Los Angeles."

  "A real detective agency? You copied the text?"

  "Sort of copied it. I improved it too."

  She laughs at that.

  Suddenly she holds out her hand.

  "Amber."

  "Pardon?"

  "Amber. My name. It's Amber."

  "Oh."

  She rolls her eyes. "This is where you're supposed to say How nice to meet you Amber."

  Obviously I don't.

  "It's very nice to meet you too Billy." She picks up my hand and shakes it for me. She's got very soft hands.

  "So have you got any clients?"

  "What? No. I told you, I didn't even finish the site. I'm surprised you even found it. I should take it down, I just forgot. I just like to make websites sometimes, it's like a hobby..."

  "Or you could not."

  "What?"

  Amber looks at me. There's a strange expression on her face.

  "You could not take it down."

  I frown again, unsure what she means.

  "No, you see, I thought for a while I wanted to be a detective, in the police, but I'm too young for that, and I didn't want to wait. That's why I made the detective agency site. But then I decided I wanted to concentrate on my science work instead."

  "Science work?"

  "I'm a marine biologist. Or at least I'm going to be. So I started doing a population count of grey seals on Littlelea Point, and then I must have forgotten to take the detective agency site down."

  I stop. It's nearly true what I'm telling her. All except for one thing. The real reason I didn't take the site down was because it's one of the best I've ever made. I was rather proud of it.

  "It really does look shit." Amber says.

  "Pardon?"

  "The design. Well it isn't designed at all. It's just thrown together. You need to think about it. Make it look professional."

  It's the first time in nearly a year I've looked at the site. And now I have to admit, it's not quite as good as I remembered it.

  "I was gonna add something else to the logo." I say, "I don't know, maybe add an eye into the magnifying glass. You know, so that it looks really big, like you're looking at it through the glass."

  Right away Amber shakes her head. "No. See that's the mistake everyone makes. With designing stuff. You don't want to add things. You have to take away. You've already got way too much going on. You should strip it back. Simplify it."

  Without asking me she grabs my pen and starts drawing on the cover of my folder. I'm about to tell her to stop, but the lines she sketches out stops me.

  "Just choose one element. Like the eye. That's a good idea, but..." Her tongue pokes just a little bit out of t
he corner of her mouth as she draws. I focus on that for a moment, then look at what she’s actually drawing.

  "Mmmm. Maybe something like that could work."

  I look up at her, and I sort of realize my mouth is hanging open.

  "It's only rough. It would take a bit of time to do something decent," she says.

  "That's amazing. I've never seen anyone draw that well."

  She looks at me, with an expression I've not seen yet. I realize she's kind of embarrassed. And a bit pleased too.

  "It's kinda my thing. I like art."

  Art is my least favorite of all the subjects. I don't see the point of it.

  "I don’t see the point of art."

  She looks at me and tips her head onto one side. "Well it takes all sorts doesn't it? That's why I'm here actually," she looks around at the detention room. "Painting on the wall of the gym. Sharpe called it 'vandalism', but it's art."

  I don't answer this either. I just stare at the logo she's drawn. It really is amazingly good.

  "Can I keep that?" It is on my folder after all.

  She pushes it back in front of me. "I can do you a proper one if you like. Help you design the site right too. That way you might actually get a client."

  I'm about to explain how that would be silly, since I'm not going to be a private detective anymore, when Mr. Coyne suddenly gets up and tells us to pack up our books. Apparently the detention's over. The room fills with noise and movement as the other students get ready to leave. All except Amber and me. We don't move at all.

  "Only of course you won't. Get a client I mean. Because the only interesting thing that ever happened in Lornea Island was all that shit that happened to you. And now that's done nothing interesting is ever going to happen again." She shrugs.

  "But still. It might be fun to try."

  I think about this for a moment. Most of the other students have already filed out of the room.

  "Come on Billy," Mr. Coyne says now. "Amber. Time to go."

  "Actually the average homicide rate in the U.S. is 4.9 deaths per 100,000 head of population. And since the population of Lornea Island is 140,000, it means there's approximately six people murdered here. Every year. Statistically."

  She stops and looks at me for a long time before answering.

  "You actually know that? Off the top of your head. Without having to look it up?"

  I shrug. "I looked it up, when I made the site."

  She smiles at me. "You're fucking mental Billy Wheatley."

  "Amber Atherton! Watch that language if you don't want to be here tomorrow night too."

  She glances up and gives Mr. Coyne a sweet smile.

  "Sorry sir." Then she walks back to her original seat and starts packing up her books. I do the same.

  But as I'm leaving she comes close to me again.

  "I'll email you something cool. Maybe we actually will get a client."

  Seven

  It takes me ages to get home, since I'm too late for the school bus, and then I have to walk the last mile because the normal bus doesn't go right to our house. Then I have to feed Steven, and then cook for Dad, and all that makes me forget about Amber. But just when I'm going to bed there's an email from Amber. She's attached the logo she drew on my folder, only it's even better this time.

  So obviously I have to put it on the actual website to see how it looks. And while I'm doing that Amber starts messaging me, and we end up working together on the rest of the site. She sends through suggestions for how to make the words better, and then we find pictures of people doing detective things – like stakeouts in cars and following people – to make it look more realistic. By the time we've finished it's nearly three in the morning. But the website does look better. It almost looks like a real detective agency site.

  But then, the next evening after school, Amber starts messaging me again, with a whole new list of things she thinks I need to do to make the website better, so I do that. But then the next night she does the same again, and then the night after that as well. It’s annoying and in the end I get a bit fed up, and just send her the log-on details so she can do it herself.

  Anyway. That was all a couple of weeks ago, and it's not very important now, because something else has happened. Something really... Well, something really weird actually.

  It all started last night. I was working in the kitchen, since Steven kept climbing on the keyboard if I used my room, when there was a knock at the front door.

  I guess for some people that might be normal, but for us it's not. I don't get any visitors, because I'm not really keen on people, and if Dad sees friends they usually go out to a bar. So I shouted to Dad to come answer it, but he didn't answer. So I had to get up to answer the door myself.

  Then it was dark outside, so the man standing there was silhouetted and I had to squint to see if I knew him. But I didn't.

  "Hello?"

  The man doesn't answer, but I can see he's kinda nervous.

  "Can I help you?"

  The guy steps forward into the light. He tries to smile, but it keeps slipping from his face.

  "You don't remember me, do you?"

  I stare back for a moment and try and make sense of him. The guy's about Dad's age, with greasy yellow hair, and yellow stubble too, like he hasn't shaved in a while. I'm pretty sure I'd remember him.

  "No."

  The man tries to smile, but he still looks nervous.

  "Is your dad in?"

  "Yes."

  There's a long silence as we both stand there, waiting.

  "Well, you wanna go get him?"

  I don't answer this right away. Instead I look at him more closely. He's carrying two bags. One is a small sports holdall, the other is a plastic bag from the store in Newlea. I can see from the way they're stuck to the outside of the bag that it's got cold cans of beer in it.

  "Why?"

  At this the man gives a kind of nervous laugh, like I've made a joke. But I obviously didn’t. I’m thinking about that when I head Dad’s voice behind me.

  "Billy, get away from the door." His voice is tight, anxious. The next thing he's pulling me back from the doorway. It surprises me so much I try to push him off.

  "Billy, I said get away from the door."

  It's not that I'm scared, it's just a surprise. Then there's another silence. Then the man starts laughing, but it's not a normal laugh.

  "Jamie! Fuck me. It's really fucking you." The man drops his bags and holds out his arms, like he thinks Dad might want to hug him. But Dad doesn't move.

  I just stare at them both. Then I realize something. He just called my Dad Jamie.

  "So you gonna invite me in, or what?"

  My dad's name is Sam. Or at least. He's been called Sam almost my whole life. But he did use to be called Jamie, back before we came to live on Lornea Island. He had to change it when the police were looking for him. With the whole murder thing.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Dad's voice breaks into my thoughts. His voice is cold.

  The man at the door laughs though. Properly this time.

  "That's all you got? I ain't seen you in – what? Ten years? And that's the best you got?" He shakes his head. "Fuck Jamie..."

  "I don't use that name no more," Dad breaks in.

  The man stops, then holds up his hands. "I saw that. It's Sam now, ain't it? Sam Wheatley?"

  Dad doesn't reply. He doesn't even move.

  "Come on man. You gonna let me in or leave me on the goddamn doorstep? I come a long way..."

  I look at Dad. He's still like a statue. I can’t tell if it’s anger or fear. But then he steps aside. The man on the doorstep smiles and picks up his bags. He comes into the kitchen. He looks around.

  "So. This is where you been? All these years?" He smiles. He's got really yellow teeth. “It’s nice.” Then he sees me again.

  "So what do I call you?"

  I don't answer.

  “It used to be Ben... I remember how you were this little..."<
br />
  "It's Billy," Dad says.

  "Billy." There's a flash of teeth again, they match his stubble. And they're sharp too, like an animal's.

  "You don't remember me? Not at all?"

  I look at him again. At his greasy hair. His sharp yellow teeth. He's holding out a hand now, for me to shake, and I see it's got a tattoo on it. A snake that twists round his wrist and out of sight under his sleeve. I'd remember that if I saw it before.

  "Tucker and me were friends," Dad says suddenly. "Back in Crab Creek. Before you came along."

  I already told you, back when that girl was asking, about how I came to live here on Lornea Island because my Dad had to get away from the police back in a place called Crab Creek. They thought he'd murdered my sister, but it was actually my mom because she had something called postpartum depression. But because Mom's family were rich and Dad wasn't, they were going to blame him for everything. So he came to live here where no-one knew anything about him.

  The man – I suppose his name must be Tucker – lowers his hand. Then he laughs, a bitter laugh.

  "We were more than just friends Billy. We grew up together. Did everything together. We were like brothers."

  I look to Dad to see if this is true, but he won't meet my eye.

  "Then when it all kicked off, and your dad had to get the hell out of there, he came to me. I hid you in my truck, the both of you. We had to go cross country to avoid the roadblocks on the state line, then we just drove. Day and night. All the way across the country. That was a trip and a half, eh Jamie?"

  I look at Dad again. There's a vein sticking out on his neck that only happens when he's super stressed.

  "It's Sam." He says, quietly.

  Tucker appears to consider this for a few seconds.

  "Sure. Sam" He nods. Then he turns back to me again.

  "We had you in a cardboard box on the back seat... Took turns driving. Fed you cookies... We made it all the way to New York, then... Well..." Tucker looks at Dad, and smiles again, but a different smile this time.

  "That was the last I saw of you." He shrugs and shakes his head. "What happened, Sam? When we got to New York. Where'd ya go? What the hell happened?"

  Dad folds his arms across his chest before he answers.