by Laney Monday
Mrs. Feldman followed my gaze. “That’s our private residence.”
“Oh! Of course. I’m sure it’s just lovely, too.”
And locked. There was very clearly a keyhole below the antique-look door handle. No-o-o.
She smiled a tight little smile. As I’d expected, there was no invitation to give me a tour of the residence.
“When I looked up the inn online, I noticed there were some rumors about hauntings here.”
“Yes, I assure you, our ghosts are perfectly harmless, though. They’re quite friendly, when they do decide to show themselves.”
“So you’ve seen them yourself?”
“Absolutely!”
“Wow … that must have been quite an experience. Has it happened many times?”
Mrs. Feldman launched into several tales of ghost sightings, one of which involved a perfect plate of cookies mysteriously appearing for her guests, just when she’d burned a batch and was feeling overwhelmed. Sounded more like those helpful little fairies—brownies, I think they call them—than ghosts to me. I wouldn’t mind being haunted by a cookie delivering ghost. I almost told Mrs. Feldman that, then realized that was too Brenna.
“How delightful!” I said instead. I fluttered my hand girlishly, for good measure.
Mrs. Feldman was clearly either deceived about these spirits, or a skillful liar, or she saw herself as an actor in the show that was Blackberry Inn. Was that it? Did she really think her guests believed her, or was it meant to be understood that it was all in good fun? Either way, if Harvey was right about the sort of guests they attracted, if they were Jacinda types, some of them must think it was real.
Thanks to my last minute reservation and, according to Mrs. Feldman, the surge in guests resulting from the recent “disturbances” at Bonney Bay’s other, more sinister haunted house, I’d gotten the oddball little room, tucked away under the eaves all by itself, just at the top of the stairs.
After Mrs. Feldman left me there with the key, I visualized the house from the outside, picturing the images I’d seen on their website as well as what I’d seen jogging around Bonney Bay. There should be more to the upstairs. There was a hallway to my right, where I could see the doors of the other guest rooms. It seemed like it should also extend to the left, rather than dead-ending. There was a door there, to the left, but I’d assumed it was a closet. Aha! I must be right next to the the second story of the Feldmans’ private rooms. That door must lead to the sealed-off part of the house. But how to get in there, especially unnoticed?
I locked the door behind me, peeled the awful torture devices masquerading as shoes off my feet, and went straight to the bathroom to scrub my face. Once I was me again, I flung myself onto the bed, closed my eyes, and tried to think. I wondered if being an over-the-top beauty queen was as exhausting as pretending to be one.
What now? I was in, and I was incognito. I’d done it. Played my part. The only problem was, I had no idea what cards to play next. So far my plan consisted of waiting until I was sure the Feldmans were asleep, then sneaking around the house, looking in all the cabinets for poison. The problem was, I was pretty sure they wouldn’t keep the murder weapon in the guest portion of the house, and their residence was locked. Of course it was locked! Why hadn’t I thought of that?
More breaking and entering was in store for me. Blythe was just going to love this. Okay, so if I managed to break in somehow and snoop around, what would I do if I got caught? I needed a backup plan. You know, because things had a teensy tinesy tendency to go horribly wrong for me. Sleepwalking! Yes. I’d be a sleepwalking beauty queen. But I’d already washed that horrible disguise off. Great. I was going to have to put it back on. Wouldn’t that be weird, though? Why would a beauty queen sleep with her makeup on? Grr. I was screwed.
Creeeaaak!
My eyes flashed open. What the heck was that? It was nothing. Just a creaky old house. Probably one of the other guests banging around. The sound came again, longer, louder. Now that was not just a creak. It was more of a groan, and it didn’t seem to be coming from the hallway. And there were no rooms on either side of mine! The sound was so close, almost as though it was … actually in my room.
Was I turning into Harvey? Imagining things?
Another creak, much more sudden and violent this time, came from right behind my bed. From the outside wall. That was no ghost and no figment of my imagination. Someone was out there, trying to get in my window.
Tap-tap.
I bolted upright. There it was again. Not loud, but a distinct, intentional knock. Someone was outside my bedroom window. I grabbed my phone, ready to dial 9-1-1. Just to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind before I called the police, I pulled the lacy curtains aside, and nearly peed my pants.
A pale face hovered in the darkness. It stared at me, wide-eyed and desperate. I flew backward at the sight. There was a disembodied head floating outside my window.
23
I was this close to screaming when I saw the pale fingers clinging to the windowsill. So, it had a body. Or at least, bony, clinging fingers. Holy moly! How was that better? The face rolled its eyes, and instantly recognition dawned on me.
“Sammi! What are you doing here?” I tossed my phone on the bed, flipped the latch, and muscled the sticky old window up. As I did so, my bladder threatened to betray me again. Wow, I really did need to pee.
Sammi clung to the window sill with trembling, white-knuckled hands. “Shh! You’ll wake the suspects,” she said as she wriggled her belly over the sill. I grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her in. She was dressed in black jeans and a dark gray hoodie, pulled tight around her white face. She wore a small, dark purple backpack, and her pink little feet were bare.
I set her on her feet and said, “There are no suspects here. What do you think you’re doing?” I left off the young lady part. I’m not that old yet.
Sammi pushed up her sleeves and rubbed her scratched-up forearms. “Ri-i-ight. That’s why you got all dolled up and checked in here under a false name.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re not the only sleuth in Bonney Bay.”
Oh. Dear. God. “Have you been watching me? Have you been following me?”
“Maybe? Sort of?”
She smiled at me. I think it was supposed to make me want to forgive her, but all it did was make me want to wipe it off her face. I’d been followed by an eleven-and-a-half-year-old and I didn’t even know it? Was I that oblivious? The real killer could probably have a field day with me. Maybe I should’ve sent Sammi into the residence during the day to look for the poison. No, that would be contributing to the delinquency of a minor! Bad Brenna. I dealt with my fury at myself the way any self-respecting adult would—I redirected it toward her.
“How dare you—” I took a deep breath and tried to channel Blythe. It was no easy task, with my adrenaline still pumping from the ghostly apparition outside my window. “Sammi, this is serious business. I can’t have you here. It could be dangerous.”
She crossed her arms and gave me a smug look. “Look, I wasn’t really spying on you. I was spying on this house. I figured the Feldman’s might know something. Then I saw you drive up. It took me a minute, but I realized it was you. But trust me,” she said cryptically, “you need me here.”
I know I should’ve just thrown her out right then and there, but something about that devious spark in her eye made me have to know. That, and Sammi was famous for her screams, which could put every horror flick female and a whole mass of banshees to shame. Tossing her out the window was highly likely to backfire.
“Why?” I asked. “Why do I need you here?”
She slid her backpack off her shoulder and pulled something out of a small side pocket. “Because I have this.”
“Is that a walkie talkie?”
“My mom got them for when we went to Disneyland. Back before I had a cell phone. Just in case we got separated.”
“Sammi, I have a cell phone. Remembe
r, you stole it a couple weeks ago.”
She rolled her eyes at me again, the cheeky little brat. Sammi waved the walkie-talkie in the air. “Guess where the other one is?”
“I don’t know, where?” I practically hissed. Did I mention I hate guessing games?
“It’s in the Feldmans’ office. With the button taped down, so we can hear every word they’re saying.”
“Wait. You planted a walkie-talkie in the Feldmans’ office?”
“Yup. While they were checking you in. Lots of people in Bonney Bay don’t lock their doors during the day, including the Feldmans.”
I snatched the little yellow and black device from her and turned the volume knob. I could hear the faint sound of a TV in the background. As I turned the device in my hand, I noticed something else. “Sammi?”
“What?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “This walkie-talkie has your mom’s name and number written on it in sharpie.”
“Yeah?”
I swear, I tried so hard not to hiss. But hissing beats screaming and shaking, right? “So does the other one have her name and number on it? The one you left in the Feldmans’ living room? The one they could find at any moment?”
“Uh … oh.”
“Right.”
“It’s no big deal. I’m going to go back in there and get it. They’ll never know.”
“When? How? What exactly is your plan for that?”
She scoffed at me! Sammi really scoffed at me!
“Well, I don’t exactly have a plan. Who plans?”
Oh, I don’t know, grown-ups, maybe? Which is why Sammi should’ve minded her own business. You know, like I did. “Real sleuths. Sleuths plan, Sammi.”
I squirmed in discomfort, and tried to turn my grimace into something menacing. But my potty dance might have ruined the effect just a tad. The giant frappuccino I’d sucked down in anticipation of a snooping all-nighter was kicking in with a vengeance.
“Stay right there!” I commanded. Then I scurried to the bathroom, walkie talkie still in hand. Hey, if the Feldmans did start talking, I certainly didn’t want to miss it.
Just as the toilet stopped flushing, I heard a creak-snap-whoosh! outside.
I flew out of the bathroom, whispering, “Sammi?”
But she was gone. The room was empty.
I peered out the open window and into the darkness, searching for her little ghost face. Nothing. I put my phone on the flashlight app and shined it into the night. Oh. Crud. The trellis was broken. I thought I saw a lump below, but there was no movement. It was hard to tell if it was just a tangle of broken vines and trellis, or if Sammi was lying there underneath it somewhere.
“Sammi?” I hissed.
No answer. I tossed my phone on the bed and grabbed the bedside lamp. I held it out, over the windowsill, trying to get a better look. Maybe if I shine it just a little farther. I pulled the lamp cord and felt it catch, then jerk. I barely caught the nightstand before it crashed onto the floor. Unfortunately, I let go of the lamp in order to catch the nightstand. It was a pretty lamp. White with a blue floral pattern. Kind of like the china my mom kept in a cabinet and only took out for special occasions. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered, sounding a lot like that china did when I dropped it one Thanksgiving.
No! No, no, no!
If the Feldmans heard that, they were going to come up here and find me looking nothing like Gabby Young and everything like Brenna Battle, the new girl in Bonney Bay, who couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble.
24
I grabbed the nightstand, picked it up, and moved it in front of the door. That wasn’t going to do it. I took the upholstered antique high-backed chair and propped it under the doorknob. After all, the Feldmans had a key to this room. Okay, so I kind of panicked. Just a little. They could be murderers, after all. I listened to the walkie talkie, but heard only static. No more TV.
I ran to the window and held my cell phone out again, whispering Sammi’s name. Again, I heard nothing—except for the sound of a door opening on the north side—the private residence side—of my room. Footsteps padded to my door and stopped. There was a gentle, tentative rap on my door.
“Miss Young?”
“Yes?”
“Is everything alright?“
“Oh, yes, fine. I just tripped, but it’s all good.” It’s all good? That hardly fit Gabby Young’s persona. Good grief.
“Did … something break?”
“Oh! Yes. I’m so sorry. I knocked over the lamp. I’ll have to replace it. But I’m fine.”
“I could come in and clean up the mess.”
“Oh, no. Already taken care of. All swept up.” I hate lying. I’m really awful at it too. Obviously.
“You found the broom in the hall closet?”
The hall closet! I was going to have to figure out which door belonged to the closet and grab a broom from there once she was gone. “No, I have one. I carry a broom. One of those little hand brooms, you know?”
Right. That’s what every beauty queen packs in her suitcase. Right along with her pumps and her tiaras and her carefully selected outfits.
“Let me come in and help you,” Mrs. Feldman said more insistently. “It’s really no trouble at all.” Which I took to mean, Let me come in and kill you before you can talk, you little snoop. Or maybe it was, Let me come in so I can find out who you really are and report you to the police. Either way, definitely more than a little trouble for me.
No more Miss Congeniality. It was time to pull out the big guns. Time for Gabby Young to assert herself in all her obnoxious queenly glory. I put on my best, snippy, snobby voice. “I’m so tired. I really must get my beauty sleep. Please. Some peace and quiet would be nice.”
I cringed. I could’ve slapped Gabby Young. You know, if she were real. If she weren’t really me.
“Okay. We’ll see you in the morning. French toast with local strawberries.”
Oh, no. I couldn’t have her wasting French toast on me. There was no way I could make it through a breakfast with the Feldmans and the other guests after this. My nerves were so frazzled, if I were a cartoon, my hair would be standing on end. I caught a look at myself in the mirror above the dresser across from the bed. Actually, I did look sort of like one of those cartoons.
“No breakfast for me, please.” Oh, it was hard to say those words. And I failed miserably at hiding my wistfulness. Wow, I’d really love some homemade french toast with strawberries—and whipped cream and—Focus, Brenna. Focus on Sammi. That little runt. She was ruining my plans, and now my breakfast, too. A breakfast that very well might be poisoned, I reminded myself.
“Well, okay, Miss Young. I’ll have some coffee out for you in case you’d like to take some along with you.”
While I talked to Mrs. Feldman, I texted Sammi, and prayed for a response. “R U OK?”
A text came in from Sammi. “Ow.”
Great. Did that mean okay, or not?
I texted back, “?”
“Thanks,” I said to Mrs. Feldman, though I probably shouldn’t be drinking her coffee either.
I waited for what seemed like forever for an answer to my “?” from Sammi. Maybe I should’ve been more specific. “R U horribly injured?” I texted.
No response. Great. There was no other option. I was going to have to go out there, looking for her. With the Feldmans now wide awake from my lamp-breaking. I had to get back into disguise, and quick. Blythe planned to video chat with me in the morning, to walk me through the makeup regime. I could text her now and get her to help me, but did I really want to explain all this to Blythe? Nope. She’d get cold feet about the whole thing. I considered asking Blythe to come look for Sammi, but again, I didn’t want her to know just how far things had gone awry. There was no way she’d let me break into the residence, either to snoop for poison, or to get Sammi’s walkie talkie. I was on my own.
Thanks to Sammi’s oversight and her mom’s labeling, I couldn’t just forget the wal
kie talkie and dismiss it as Sammi’s problem. The Feldmans would find it sooner or later—probably sooner—and contact Sammi’s mother. Chances were, if she was pressed, something about me and what I was doing at the Blackberry Inn would come out.
I unzipped the makeup bag Blythe had given me and poured its contents onto the bed. There was a light clatter, and bits of powdery color scattered across the quilt. Brilliant idea, Brenna. Just brilliant. I turned my head away from the dust cloud of powder, fighting to quiet my cough. Who knew the stuff was so fragile? Blythe was going to kill me. Makeup was expensive; I knew that much. It was one of the reasons I’d never really taken to it. That and the fact that I’d spent nearly every moment training or on the mat. And you just can’t wear makeup on the mat, especially lipstick, foundation, or anything powder or glittery. It gets everywhere. Your partner’s gi ends up looking like a Shroud of Turin-style imprint of your face. I know. It happened to me more than once when I was trying to be welcoming to a new, makeup-wearing woman who wanted to try judo.
I surveyed the mess, picking up containers in turn, trying to figure out what was what. Underneath the flesh-toned powdery coating on one jar, the word mask stuck out at me. A mask! That’s exactly what I needed. I grabbed a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom and cleaned off the jar. Instructions were printed on the side, but I didn’t need those. I just needed to cover my face. To not look like Brenna Battle. Inside the jar, I discovered an awful, green concoction. It was thick and goopy. Perfect! I could slop this stuff on my face and go sleepwalking through the residence—assuming I could find a way in.
But Sammi was still out there, somewhere, and she wasn’t responding to my texts. There was no going down the trellis. There was no more trellis, thanks to Sammi. It would be quite a leap from the window to the ground. Especially with a broken trellis at the bottom. And who knows what else, hidden in the shadows. Bricks? A decorative but deadly boulder? There was just no way to turn that landing into a good one. And what if I landed right on Sammi and caused further damage?
