Deadly Little Lessons

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Not yet. And, by the way, you sound like one of the detectives on CSI.”

  “That’s honestly one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said to me.” He rests his head against my shoulder.

  “Except I’m not exactly trying to be sweet. It’s actually pretty annoying. But I’m not going to worry about the police right now, because the truth is that I have nothing to hide.”

  “Right.” He sits up and stifles a laugh. “Because it’s perfectly normal to have a history on your personal computer that shows hours and hours of case tracking of some girl that you supposedly don’t know.”

  “I don’t know her,” I insist.

  “Yes, but the police will be looking for some sort of connection.”

  “And when they can’t find one…”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe they’ll be too distracted by the fact that you moved to the victim’s hometown and then stalked her primary residence.”

  “I came here to get away,” I remind him.

  “Right, right.” He rolls his eyes. “And I’m sure they’ll think it’s purely coincidental that the school you decided to attend is practically in the victim’s backyard. Of course, it probably doesn’t help that you’ve also been the victim of a stalker in the past, as well as the stalker of a stalker.”

  “To which you were an accomplice.”

  “Then there’s the whole psychiatric rap sheet,” he continues, ignoring me, “which includes public fits and a suicidal aunt. And don’t even get me started on the trail of injured parties you’ve left in your wake.”

  “Okay, it’s settled, you officially suck.”

  “I know,” he says, gloating over his criminal mind. “But just remember that my sucky self is here for you. And I’m willing to help every sucky step of the way.” He smiles. His whole demeanor is nauseatingly neutral.

  “I’m almost surprised you’re not calling me crazy and suggesting that we head back home.”

  “Are you kidding? Head back to Freetown, population: negative lameness? I’m trying to figure out a way that we can graduate early and move here permanently.” He nods to a row of students lounging on beach chairs, all of them wearing bathing suits and slathered in suntan oil. “If this is college, then sign me up.”

  “Hence your Zenful mood.”

  “You sound like Kimmie. She called me, by the way.”

  “Yeah, she called me, too.”

  “But you didn’t tell her about all this Sasha business, did you?” he asks.

  “It’s better this way.” I shrug. “I don’t want my drama to put a damper on her New York state of mind.”

  “Justifying reasons for keeping secrets, are we?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow at me.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, fairly certain that he’s alluding to my parents—to the fact that they had their reasons for keeping secrets, too.

  “You’re a smart girl; you can figure it out. And, in the meantime”—he drops his keys into my lap—“take my wheels whenever you like.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Why not?” he says, looking back over at the sunbathers.

  “Thanks,” I say, utterly grateful and more than a little surprised. “And speaking of wheels, after I left Mrs. Beckerman’s house, a Buick started following me.”

  “Year and make?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Male or female? License-plate number and state? Age of driver?”

  “Female. I wasn’t able to catch the plate number or state. And I’m assuming that she was young. I mean, her hair looked young.”

  “And tell me, oh, observant one, what does young hair look like?”

  “What can I say? I did my best.”

  “Yes, but when a missing girl’s life’s at stake, you have to do better than your best. It could’ve been someone casing the house, someone following you, a reporter taking photos, or even a fan of Open Cases.” He grabs his keys away from me. “Anyway, I take it back about the car. You need to go somewhere, you call me. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I say, relieved to have his help.

  BACK IN MY ROOM, I glance at my suitcase, not yet unpacked. I still have to go through my orientation paperwork. Mom’s cooler full of fruit and nut bars is sitting on my desk, unopened. It’s like I’m only half here, half into my art, mostly because I’m half afraid of sculpting something new.

  A few months back, Spencer advised me to give myself over to my sculpture, to form whatever it was my clump of clay wanted to be, and not to feel compelled to force it into any predetermined shape.

  But what if the sole purpose of my clay is to reveal a clue about somebody else’s future? What if I’m never able to sculpt normally again? Is wanting to do so selfish, especially since my premonitions have proven to be helpful?

  After several moments of brooding, I force myself to unpack my suitcase. With each item that I place into a drawer or hang in the closet, I start to feel a little less sorry for myself, a little more in control.

  That is, until I see my aunt’s journal, the last thing I take out of the suitcase. The spine is all weathered and frayed, and there are pen-mark tracks etched into the cardboard. I flip it open and run my fingers over the pages—over her years of documented misery. Having it now—holding it, reading it, and seeing the way she wrote the words—takes on a whole new meaning, because she’s no longer just my aunt, and if she’d succeeded in ending her life, I wouldn’t even be here right now.

  My cell phone rings. I get up to retrieve it from my bed, frustrated that the number is blocked. I answer it, thinking that it may be Mrs. Beckerman.

  “Is this Camelia Hammond?” a female voice asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Who’s this?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Who is this?” I repeat.

  “You need to go to the bakery at the end of Chansky Street. Look for the bright red mailbox at the side of the building. There will be something for you inside it.”

  “Wait, is this a joke?” I snap.

  “That depends. Do you think Sasha Beckerman’s life is a joke?”

  My mouth opens, but no words come out.

  “I didn’t think so,” she says, answering for me.

  “Do you know where Sasha is?”

  “Haven’t you heard? She ran away. They found a note. They even found her packed bag.”

  “Then why are you calling me?”

  She laughs. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

  “Are you the girl who was following me earlier…in the dark green Buick?”

  “Don’t listen to what the skeptics say,” she says, skirting the question. “Just because Sasha left her bag behind doesn’t mean that she didn’t run away. Could be a million reasons why she didn’t take it. Maybe wherever she was going, she knew she didn’t need those things. Maybe opportunity knocked before she could get back home to retrieve any of her belongings. Or maybe the suitcase was staged—a cry for help, only no one answered that cry, and so she ended up leaving anyway. You know what a heartless bitch Mrs. Beckerman is, don’t you? If she ever noticed that Sasha had her bag packed, I doubt she even cared. Maybe that’s why Sasha left.”

  I shake my head, thinking about how tormented Mrs. Beckerman seemed. “Did Sasha and her mother not get along?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Media reports made it clear that they’d been fighting from the moment Sasha found out the truth about her birth parents.

  “First, answer my questions,” the girl continues. “Why do you even care about Sasha? Was she a friend of yours?”

  “Was she a friend of yours? How do you know about me? And how did you get my number?”

  “Go to the bakery,” she insists.

  “Will you be there? Can’t you just tell me what you need to say over the phone?” I clutch the phone harder, as if that’ll make more sense of this conversation.

  “My advice to you, Camelia Hammond, is stay out of it. Walk away, before you get in over
your head.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  There’s silence for several seconds, and then she finally hangs up.

  AS SOON AS I CLICK THE PHONE OFF, I pocket my keys and hurry out of the room, eager to find Wes. I call his cell and he picks up right away. “Where are you?” I ask him.

  “Currently? Taking photos of some girls dressed only in feathers.”

  “How much are you paying them?”

  “Not a single cent,” he says. “This is actually for an assignment—part of an anti-animal-product clothing campaign. Seriously, I love this place.”

  “Since when did you get all PETA-fied?”

  “Since I started taking photos of girls dressed only in feathers.”

  “Okay, well, as much as I hate to interrupt you in your animal-rights obligations, I sort of need you.”

  “And so do these chicks,” he says. “Pun intended.”

  Still holding the phone up to my ear, I race through the lobby, spotting Ingrid, from the pottery studio. Sitting with a couple of friends, she stifles a laugh when she sees me.

  I ignore her and step outside.

  “Can I borrow your car, then?” I ask Wes. “Some girl just called and said she wants me to go to a bakery on Chansky Street. Apparently, she’s leaving something for me in the mailbox there.”

  “Playing CSI without me, are you? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Well, then, what would you recommend?”

  “Do you know who this girl is?” he asks. “Or how she got your number?”

  “No,” I say to both of his questions, wondering if Mrs. Beckerman has already told someone about me, or if maybe the girl got my information through one of the many online sites I visited. “Is it possible that one of the sites I was researching got hacked?”

  “That depends. Did you tell anyone on the Web site that you were interested in Sasha’s case?”

  “No, but in order to enter a couple of the sites, I had to give my e-mail address.”

  “Which has your name.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get specific about anything. I didn’t tell anyone what my plans were for this summer.”

  “It’s actually not so hard to get that info. I mean, once they have your name, age, and state, everything else is a mere Google search and/or exercise in six-degrees-of-separation away.”

  “Great.” I sigh.

  “Hey, I gotta go,” he says. “I’ve got a couple chicks clucking at me, saying their feathers are making them itchy. Give me ten minutes to finish up, and then meet me by my car.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do chickens lay eggs?”

  I hang up and make my way to the parking lot. Wes’s car is there. I take a seat on the curb and cover my ears, focusing hard on Sasha’s whimper, wishing that it would reveal a clue.

  About fifteen minutes later, I spot Wes making his way toward me. “Hey,” he says, donning a feather boa.

  “Are you sure you’re done with the assignment? Because I really don’t want to hold you down. You’re here for a reason, and accompanying me on a wild goose chase isn’t it.”

  “Don’t tempt me with more poultry products, or I may just have to peck you.”

  “You’re nutty, you know that?” I stand up and give his boa a flick.

  In the car, I fill Wes in on the details of the call.

  “So, it doesn’t sound like she was threatening you,” he says. “More like she was trying to find out what you know and why you’re getting involved.”

  “But she also made a point of mentioning the whole luggage mystery, justifying why Sasha might’ve run away, even though she left her bag behind.”

  “In other words, she wants you to believe that Sasha ran away.”

  “Or, she wants to see if I might argue with her—if I might have any theories of my own as to why the luggage was left behind.”

  “Because that is a really good question,” Wes says, tapping his chin in thought. “Why would Sasha leave her bag behind if she was truly planning to bolt?”

  “Or more importantly, why would she even pack a suitcase in the first place? Why not a backpack or a duffel bag—something easier to transport and a whole lot less obvious than an actual suitcase?”

  “Sounds like she wanted to be obvious.”

  “Like maybe packing the suitcase was a cry for help.” I nod. “Especially since what she packed was pretty bogus: a couple of old sweaters, some books, a few sweats, and a bunch of travel products you get in hotels.”

  “No essential jeans, or favorite clothes, or wads of cash for traveling,” Wes says, totally getting it.

  “Not at all,” I say. “At least, from everything I read online. I should probably ask Mrs. Beckerman about it.”

  “And while you’re at it, ask her if anyone had access to Sasha’s room—any friends or frenemies—who might’ve staged the suitcase to look like Sasha ran away.”

  “Duly noted,” I say, ever impressed by his suspicious mind.

  Wes types the address of the bakery into his GPS and begins driving in that direction. After about twenty minutes, we pull in to Chansky Street. The bakery is a tiny shack of a place overlooking the harbor.

  Wes parks a couple of stores down from it. “Puck’s?” he says, reading the sign out front. “And I’m assuming that’s the mailbox in question?” He points to a bright red mailbox at the side of the building. Its flag is pointed upward.

  “Must be,” I say, wondering if the caller might be here, too. I look around, searching the cars parked in the lot and on the street, but there’s only an older woman on her cell phone in a minivan, and a guy reading a newspaper in his pickup.

  “No dark green Buick,” Wes says, also peering around.

  “Do you think I should go inside?”

  “Not without me you won’t.” He pulls a pair of binoculars from the storage compartment in his door. “I’ll bet you my right nut that someone’s keeping a close eye on us right now.”

  “Okay, but I’m not really into nuts these days.”

  “Are you into Adam? You still haven’t given me the dish about his visit, by the way. And, for the record, I had no idea he’d drop everything and come to your rescue. I mean, I only said that you’d had a bad day.”

  “We’ll dish about it later,” I say, opening the car door.

  “Just to the mailbox,” Wes orders. “And I’ll be watching you the entire time. Here, take this.” He digs around in the glove compartment and then hands me a broken CD case with a jagged edge—as if that’s supposed to protect me.

  Still, I take it and walk to the large, rusty mailbox. I look around to see if anyone’s watching, but it appears that the coast is clear. My heart pounding, I pull the box’s lever and peek inside, spotting a large envelope.

  I pull it out and check the front, curious to see if it may simply be something for the bakery. But instead it has my name scribbled on it in ballpoint pen—and there’s a return address in the corner.

  I hurry back to Wes’s car. Without a word, I lock the doors and tear at the envelope’s flap. I tip the envelope over, dumping the contents out onto Wes’s console.

  A gold clip falls out.

  “Hold on,” Wes says, pulling a pair of latex gloves from the backseat, where he has a whole box of them. He puts them on and picks up the clip. “A money clip,” he says, holding it up in the light.

  I peek inside the envelope, searching for a note that might explain the clip. But there isn’t anything.

  “Any luck?” Wes asks.

  I shake my head. “Just the return address. It has to be another clue.”

  Wes turns the clip over in his hand, and that’s when we’re able to see it. The letter t, engraved in cursive script and similar to the t that I sculpted.

  “What do you think it stands for?” Wes asks.

  “It’s obviously someone’s initial—someone connected to Sasha, most likely. Maybe the person who has her.”

  “Assuming that someone has her at a
ll. We have no proof that she’s being kept against her will.”

  I run my fingers over the return address. “The girl who left this definitely knows something.”

  “So, then, why not come out and say it? Why leave us such cryptic and tacky clues?” Wes attaches the money clip to his finger and wiggles it in the air at me.

  “Maybe this girl’s afraid. She told me not to get involved—that I’d be getting in over my head. Maybe she’s already in way over hers.”

  “Or maybe she has something to hide.” Wes grabs both a Sharpie and a Ziploc bag from his glove compartment.

  “Do you think we should give this to the police?” I ask, noticing the scratches on the t.

  “We could,” he says. “I mean, it’s probably the right thing to do, but if we give these clues to the police, then you can bet they’ll want to know where they came from.”

  “And so I’ll just tell them.”

  “Yes, but it’s not that simple. What if they want to tap your phone, in case that girl calls you again? What if they trace all the calls that come in on your line and then listen to your conversations? They might also want to use you,” he continues. “To have you act as bait to try and lure the mystery girl. Are you prepared for that kind of involvement?”

  “Well, I already sort of am involved,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, I guess you are,” he says. “Especially once Mrs. Beckerman informs the police about you, if she hasn’t already.”

  “I should call Mrs. Beckerman,” I tell him. “I need to know if she told someone about me. That could be our answer—as to who called me, I mean.”

  “Honestly,” his face goes morgue serious, “I’d hold off from calling Beckerman, for now anyway. Because let’s say that she was the one who told that girl about you. How much can we really trust her?”

  “Maybe the girl who called me is friends with Sasha?” I say, thinking aloud. “Maybe she still keeps in touch with Sasha’s mom?”

  “Yes, but then why doesn’t she give Sasha’s mom the clue? Why give it to you—a complete stranger?”

  “Unless whoever left me these clues didn’t find out about me from Mrs. Beckerman?”