Copyright 2003 by Libby Sternberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Bancroft Press (“Books that enlighten”)
P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209
800-637-7377
410-764-1967 (fax)
www.bancroftpress.com
ISBN 1-890862-23-1 cloth
LCCN 2002109263
ISBN 1-890862-28-2 paper
LCCN 2002109266
Cover and interior design by Crescent Communications, www.tsgcrescent.com, 814.941.7447
Author photo by Beltrami Studio, Rutland, VT
To Hannah, my faithful helper, critical editor, and “favorite” daughter
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One
NOW BEFORE you rush to judgment and say I should have handled it differently, ask yourself what would you have done had you been in my shoes? I mean, here I was trying to hook up with a guy who was my major crush, staying on top of my schoolwork, being a good daughter, and having to deal with what looked to be a major, possibly life-threatening problem involving a strange new friend.
They don’t cover this stuff in the “Healthy Living” classes I snooze through. Trust me, I’ve read the syllabus.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, which is something my sophomore English teacher, Mrs. Bernardino, says is a major problem for me. She’s always circling the beginning of my reports with a fat red marker (one of these days, I’m going to buy her a slim-point gel pen in a nice muted purple), and writing things like, “Isn’t this more appropriate at the end?” or “Why are you starting here?”
So, pardon me for my impatience with beginnings. I’m still learning.
The whole mess started one Saturday morning in October.
Kerrie called me at seven that morning—yes, Saturdays have a seven in the morning, too—to tell me Doug was going to meet us at the mall. (Doesn’t every good story start with a trip to the mall?) With that news, I sat bolt upright in bed with no prompting from my annoying alarm clock. In fact, my heart started pounding out its own alarm and my palms got sweaty.
Kerrie is my best friend. She knows me, and she knows that deep down I think that Doug is my match, that we were destined to be together, that our paths must have crossed in some other lifetime, but to come out and admit all that will somehow make the whole thing burst like a fragile bubble.
So all I said to Kerrie was: “You woke me up to tell me this?”
After a little conversation in which Kerrie explained how Nicole had Instant Messaged her late last night with the Doug news, I padded downstairs, thinking of what I would wear now that my afternoon worldview had shifted. Passing our hall mirror, I caught sight of myself and nearly had to be taken back up on a stretcher. My shoulder-length brown hair was hanging in clumpy strings, and my face was as white as Elmer’s Glue, with enchanting circles under my eyes to boot, making me look ghoulish and grumpy all at once. Heck, I was grumpy.
I decided to deal with the grumpy part first, by heading to the kitchen for a bowl of Frosted Flakes.
“You should eat something healthier than that!” my sister Connie said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge as I got out the milk. “You’re fifteen, for goodness sake!” My sister is in her twenties, a slightly taller, curvier version of me, and she’s a private investigator.
“For your information, that granola you scarf down by the truckload is nothing but sugar-infused cardboard. Read the label,” I pointed out to her. But my gentle observation wasn’t what she was in the mood to hear, so she grabbed her purse and sunglasses and headed out with a shrug of her shoulders that I interpreted as “sez who?”
In the Balducci household, we often communicate through body language. It saves a lot of time.
As I looked at the picture of Tony the Tiger grinning at me from the big box and shoveled in the crunchy sweet cereal, my grumpy mood started to lift. Almost time to get a new box, I thought as I tilted this one to pour more into my bowl. After I was done, I added it to the shopping list stuck on our refrigerator door. My mom usually does the shopping on Saturday mornings, but today she was at her boss’s office downtown doing some extra work on a big case. My mom is a legal assistant in the district attorney’s office. She wishes she had gone to law school and become a lawyer herself, but she’s done okay for herself anyway.
Breakfast was over and I couldn’t put off the other problems that faced me. First, the hair. Then, what to wear.
The best hairstyle I can manage is a casual, didn’t-do-a-thing-with-it look accomplished by washing my hair before I go to bed, sleeping with the damp mess mashed into my pillow, and brushing it out in the morning so it has a sort of “wind-swept” appearance. This rarely fails me. It communicates a kind of cavalier disregard for my personal appearance while at the same time making me look like a younger version of Cindy Crawford who just hasn’t been discovered yet.
Okay, okay. Maybe not quite.
Today, I jumped in the shower and gave it the old lather-rinse-repeat. Ten minutes later, I was sitting in my bedroom with a towel around my head swami-style while I tackled my next problem— what to wear. As I worked through these challenges, I realized it was a good thing Kerrie had awakened me so early. Looking like you don’t care about how you look takes a lot of prep time.
Jeans and a t-shirt are my usual choices. But with Doug in the picture, I considered other options. It was early fall but still warm in Baltimore, so a tank top, though acceptable, was maybe too obvious. Besides, I didn’t like my tank tops.
I moved from the closet to the floor, where I started to paw through a pile of clothes. Jeans and a peasant blouse? Hmmm. . . that sounded good, especially since the blouse had a hot design on it and I had worn it only once. What was it doing in this pile anyway? I pulled it out and put it aside for further consideration.
A half hour later, I had narrowed it down to the jeans and blouse versus the black t-shirt and khaki pants, but I was leaning toward the latter because that outfit would look neat but not like I was trying too hard. Besides, the black tee would look good with my new gold stud earrings, which would get lost next to the embroidery in the peasant blouse.
These hard decisions made, I went about the business of the rest of my morning, which consisted of some cleaning chores, a few phone calls to friends, a little web surfing, and a glance at my homework assignment book just to remind myself that I was okay putting off that book report because it wasn’t due until early next month.
My mother came home around noon and called up to me to make sure I was alive. My 18-year-old brother Tony came in shortly after that from his morning shift at the Burger Boy. Before his car keys even hit the half-table by the wall in the entrance hall, I yelled
down to him.
“Don’t forget, you’re taking me and my friends to the mall today!”
I heard what sounded like a swear coming from his mouth, which was confirmed a second later when my mom barked from the kitchen, “Tony, watch that mouth!”
My poor mom has a lot of patience. She’s been alone for a lot of years—my Dad, who was a cop, died just after I was born. She’s got a lot of spunk too, which is why she moved us back to the “old country”—from a rented house in the ’burbs to an old townhouse in a section of the city where she was raised. Which is one of the reasons Tony is taking my friends and me to the mall—so I can sort of ease into the city scene. Mom told him the night before that he had chauffeur duty.
In a few minutes, I was downstairs. Running past the mirror didn’t make me panic this time. I was pretty much where I wanted to be—not too neat, not too curled, not too dressy, not too anything.
“Let’s go, Tone,” I called out to my brother. And we were on our way.
THE MALL is just north of town. It took us a good forty-five minutes to get there because first we had to pick up Kerrie in Fells Point and Nicole in Towson.
At least my family’s move hadn’t split up my friendships. We went to St. John’s, a parochial school in the city, and people came from all over the place to attend. One of the things I like about my school (and there are very few) is the fact that you make friends with someone first, and find out where they are from and what their circumstances are later. That’s because we all have to wear dorky uniforms—navy blue pants and white shirts, or a blue plaid jumper and white shirts. Wearing the same thing cuts down on a lot of clothes-envy even if it makes us feel like prison inmates most of the time.
Anyway, my friend Nicole is solid middle class. She lives in a split-level in an older neighborhood. Her father is a buyer for the county and her mother works part-time for an insurance company.
Kerrie, on the other hand, is the only child of two professionals (her father is a lawyer and her mother is a doctor) who had moved into the city as part of an urban pioneer thing. To me, her house always feels like a cross between an antiques store and a page out of an architectural magazine.
I’m not quite sure where Doug lives except I know it is somewhere north of the city. The home neighborhood of his friend Adam—who was also meeting us at the mall—is a mystery to me, too.
After Tony dropped us off with a fond “go get ’em, mall-rats,” to which I thoughtfully responded by narrowing my eyes, we headed straight for the food court. We managed to work in our quota of giggling during the escalator ride and stair climb until we reached the food mecca, so I felt reasonably safe that we wouldn’t make fools of ourselves when we came across the boys.
“Bianca!”
When I heard Doug’s voice calling mine, you could have pulled out the defibrillators right then and there. He was standing by the Boardwalk Fries looking hot in an American Eagle t-shirt, olive cargo shorts, and backwards baseball cap.
Okay, so I wished he would lose the cap, but otherwise, he looked pretty cool to me. He was six feet tall, lean and muscular, with really short blondish hair, brown eyes, and a shy smile. And, from quite a distance, he had called out my name to get our attention, my name from the three that he could have chosen.
But my high spirits came crashing down when I noticed there was someone else with him and Adam. And the someone else was a girl.
Her name was Sadie, a strange name for an equally strange person. She was skinny as a rat and usually looked like she spent too much time hanging with the wrong crowd. Seriously, I’d even checked her arms for needle marks. But they were always clean. Today she wore a red tie-dye halter top and bell-bottom jeans that looked spray painted on her thighs and rear. Her blonde-in-a-bottle hair was crushed under a blue bandana and she had a gold post in her nose and about five other earrings arranged asymmetrically in each ear. Sadie had just started attending St. John’s this year and hadn’t made many friends.
“Look who we ran into,” Adam said, smiling from ear to ear. Adam was a prankster and it was quite possible he had asked Sadie to join us just to make us all uncomfortable.
Sadie smiled a little and looked away, as if she were searching for someone. We all murmured shy hello’s and then Kerrie, the social manager of our crowd, chirped up with a “plan.” Kerrie always had plans. I think it comes from being an only child.
“Let’s check out Hot Topic first. And then the Gap and then Strawberries and then maybe we can come back and have an ice cream. . .” Kerrie said.
Doug smiled at me, and I swooned.
Well, not really. I smiled back.
“. . . you’re welcome to join us,” Kerrie was saying to Sadie.
It looked as if Sadie was about to say no when she caught sight of something, or someone, and suddenly changed attitude and answer. She shook her head vigorously and said, “Okay, let’s get going! I’m kind of in a hurry!” And then she linked her arm in Doug’s and started to speed out of the food court so fast I thought she was kidnapping him and I’d have to call the police.
This was not a good start to the afternoon.
TWO HOURS later, we all sat around a table back in the food court. I sat next to Doug, who was eating a huge hot dog from Nathan’s while I nibbled on a yogurt with granola sprinkled on top.
Eating in front of boys is tricky business. I’ve decided this is what had happened to my sister Connie. She had spent so many years pretending to like all this rabbit food stuff so that boys would think she was health-conscious and good-hearted that she had grown to like it. Heck, it could happen to me. I was open to possibilities. I took another spoonful.
Sadie sat between Kerrie and Adam, and Nicole sat on the other side of me. After our first foray into the wilds of the upper reaches of the mall, Sadie had released her grip on Doug and he had maneuvered back to walk next to me. Sadie didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her urging us to get going was about the most she said during the whole time we were together. The rest of the time, she was distracted and worried, continually scanning the stores and corridors as if she were looking for someone.
“Oh, let me see what you got!” Nicole said to Kerrie, who was flipping through the pages of a bunch of paperbacks she had bought at Barnes and Noble. Kerrie pushed them over to her. “Oooh, mysteries. I love mysteries.”
“I’ve read all of Sherlock Holmes,” Kerrie said, “and a bunch of Agathie Christie.”
“Murder on the Orient Express,” Nicole read out loud. “That’s a famous one, right?”
“Isn’t that the one where. . .” I began but Kerrie reached over Doug and clapped her hand over my mouth.
“Don’t tell me! I want to read it!” she screeched.
“Hey, Kerrie, take it easy,” Doug said, and I immediately swooned again.
Well, not really. Instead, I picked up the book and started reading the back cover blurbs.
“My sister says all these detective books are a bunch of hooey,” I said with sophistication dripping from my voice. “She says most of the time detectives just get boring stuff, like insurance fraud, or divorce cases, where they’ve got to secretly gather evidence.”
“How does she know?” Adam asked, sipping at his Jumbo Cola.
“Her sister’s a private detective,” Kerrie said. Kerrie really thought this was cool and she asked about Connie all the time. “She’s just getting started. She’s got an office and everything, right, Bianca?”
I nodded. “Yeah. She just set up. She studied criminal justice in college, and worked with the police force in Hagerstown. My mom isn’t too happy about her career choice.”
“She’s afraid she’ll get hurt,” Kerrie explained.
But that wasn’t the only reason. My mother thought Connie should have gone on to study law or something like that. But Connie was something of a maverick and really wanted to strike out on her own. She told mom that she would give the private eye stuff four years and if it didn’t work out, she’d go back and apply to l
aw school.
Tony, on the other hand, was a freshman at the University of Maryland’s Baltimore County campus, studying economics, and planning on being some big financial guru when he got out. Nothing would deter that kid from his appointed course to be a multi-millionaire before he was twenty-five. It was like he was on a mission from God. He even lived at home and commuted to college in order to save money for his eventual rich destiny.
I noticed something had changed. Sadie wasn’t looking around anymore. She was leaning into the table and paying attention. “Where’s her office?” she asked so quietly that no one noticed at first.
“Potomac Street. Balducci and Associates,” I said. “Except there aren’t really any associates.”
“Does she only handle those things you said—insurance. . .?”
“No, she’ll handle anything. Murder. Mayhem. Maltese Falcons,” I said, proud of my ability to use alliteration in a joke. I looked at Doug. He smiled. I sighed. (Really.)
Sadie’s eyes widened. “What about, uh, attempted murder?”
“You mean someone who’s charged with trying to kill someone?” I asked.
“No, um, like someone being framed for killing someone.”
“That’s really murder. Not attempted murder,” I explained, but then regretted my school-marmish tone. “But I guess, yeah, she would probably handle that. Except usually it would be a lawyer who would hire her, for the person who was being framed.” Hanging around Connie had taught me a little about the business. In fact, I wouldn’t mind following in her footsteps, so I was secretly hoping her venture would be such a huge success that I’d become the first of the “Associates” and Mom would be proud for me to work with my sister instead of insisting I go pre-law or pre-millionaire after I graduated from high school.
“Oh,” Sadie said, and sat back, looking disappointed.
“Why? Do you know someone who’s been framed?” I asked.
Sadie looked confused, then brightened. “Yes, a friend of mine. And nobody will believe her—I mean him.”
Uncovering Sadie's Secrets Page 1
