by Laney Monday
It seemed I had no choice but to do some sleepwalking outside. I tied the complimentary fluffy white robe tightly around the silky pink nightie Blythe had insisted I take. Not a single stitch of my own, comfy clothes had made it into that suitcase. And believe me, I’d tried. But Blythe had not only packed it herself, she’d unzipped it in the rental car parking lot and taken out the sweats I’d snuck in. Sometimes it’s really sickening that she knows me so well. She insisted I needed to stay in character the whole time I was there. To “be in the right mindset.” Okay, so she was right. Maybe not about the mindset thing, but I was glad I had this flimsy nightie, now that I was wandering around in the middle of the night, pretending to be a sleepwalking beauty queen.
I slathered the mask on. It smelled nasty. It felt pretty nasty, too. Worse than the makeup. Kind of tingly. I’m not big on my face tingling. Especially these painful little pin-prick tingles. Wasn’t that a sign of nerve damage? I shrugged it off. I was an Olympian, for crying out loud. If frou-frou girls could handle this stuff, so could I.
I slipped out and locked my door behind me—after all, the Feldmans might actually be murderers. Not that thaey had any motive to kill me. Unless they found out I was snooping. Oh. No. Don’t go there. Anyway, the thought of them possibly entering the room I was staying in gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I tiptoed downstairs, thankful I didn’t have to get past any of the other guest rooms to do so. I moved carefully, but as swiftly as I could, running my hand down the stair railing to keep my bearings in the dark. I kept going back and forth between worrying that Sammi had slipped into unconsciousness and had been lying below my window for a dangerously long time, and thinking the kid’s phone had simply died.
The deadbolt on the front door sounded so loud in the still of the night. After I slid it open, I stood there for a moment, holding my breath and listening for signs of life from the rest of the house. When I heard nothing, I cautiously turned the antique glass knob and let myself out. The street was just as quiet as the house. All I could hear were the distant ocean sounds—the murmur of waves that tends to fade into the background and go unnoticed during the day, especially during good weather, but which never truly goes away.
I made my way to the area beneath my window. It wasn’t hard to find the right spot, even in the dark. The total destruction of the trellis was a dead giveaway. I hurried to the pile of debris and ivy.
“Sammi?” I whispered, pawing through the vines.
My phone vibrated, and I stopped. I had a text message—from Sammi. Great. I was standing out here, in the middle of the night, with stinging goop stuck to my face, frantically picking through a tangle of ivy and splintered trellis, risking total humiliation and possible arrest, and Sammi was texting me now?
“IM OK,” her text said.
“Go home, Sammi!”
“No way!”
“Going 2 kill U!”
“LOL.”
“LOL?” This was not funny! Was this today’s tween equivalent of nanny-nanny boo-boo?
“I’m in,” she texted.
“In what?”
“The house! Bathrm wndw opn. Going 2 get wkie tkie”
“No!” I texted back furiously. “Get out!”
“Going 2 C wht else can find.”
I couldn’t let Sammi get caught breaking in. Surely encouraging a kid to engage in criminal activity would be an even greater crime than breaking in myself. I slinked along the side of the house, hoping and praying all the other guests were asleep, and not, right at this moment, dialing 9-1-1 to report a prowler. Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d just think I was a ghost.
I soon spotted the tiny bathroom window, still open. The window was pretty high up, but an old wheelbarrow rested right under neath it. I shined my phone’s light on it. It was filled with potting soil and planted with purple wave petunias and pink geraniums. At least, I think they were geraniums before someone stepped on them. Not only had the flowers in the wheelbarrow been trampled, I could clearly see the wheelbarrow tracks and footprints that had taken their toll on the white impatiens that filled the flower bed against this side of the house. Sammi had dragged the wheelbarrow from its home several yards away so she could use it as a step stool. I sighed. I had no choice but to do the same.
25
I hoisted my top half through the window, then hesitated. I couldn’t exactly plunge headfirst to the bathroom floor. I reached over and down, hanging with my belly on the window sill, and grabbed the towel rack, then swung myself around and lowered my legs inside. There was a splash, and a cool, wet sensation enveloped my foot. I’d stepped right into the toilet bowl. I teetered for a moment with one foot on the toilet seat, then hopped down, holding one soaked, fuzzy-slippered foot over the open bowl.
Aargh! Now what? I hopped, grabbed the hand towel from the ring above the sink, and used it to remove the horrid slipper. I swaddled the soppy slipper in the towel and took the other one off my foot. I debated throwing them both out the window, but I was afraid something might go wrong—didn’t something always go wrong?—and I wouldn’t be able to retrieve them. Not that I cared about Blythe’s slippers that much, but I didn’t need to leave any more incriminating evidence behind.
As soon as I crept into the hall, I spotted Sammi, with her back to me, hesitating in front of a closed door, as though deciding whether or not to open it. I inched behind her, undetected, then clamped my hand over her mouth. She clawed my arm and tried to hurl me forward, over her shoulder, with a judo throw. I have to say, my heart swelled with pride even as her sharp little nails found their way under the loose sleeves of my fuzzy robe. The defensive reactions against this common judo throw were so ingrained in me, the attempt got her nowhere, but I was certain any other adult, taken by surprise, would’ve been unbalanced by it, at least for a moment.
“Sammi,” I whispered right in her ear. “It’s Brenna. Stop gouging my arm.” She let go, and I lowered my hand from her face and wiped it on my robe. It was slobbery from her attempts get her teeth in position to bite me. She was quite the self-defense multitasker.
Sammi wiped her own hand on her jeans. In her effort to fight me, she’d come in contact with the soggy, slipper-containing portion of my robe. “Ew! What the heck is in your pocket?”
“Never. Mind. Just go back out the way you came. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” While I was in here, I might as well have a look around, right?
“You don’t know where the walkie talkie is,” Sammi said.
“You’re going to tell me where it is, right now.”
Sammi smiled that smug little smile and shook her head. I clenched my teeth. Sammi had the upper hand, and she knew it. All she had to do was make a little noise, and I was done for.
“Fine,” I hissed. “Get the walkie talkie. I’ll meet you outside the bathroom window.”
There was nothing I could do to force her to leave. I’d just have to hope she’d satisfied her need for snooping and that she’d be there waiting for me when I was done.
I tiptoed up the stairs, ignoring the warning voice inside. This could be all for nothing. I had to get some bit of information out of this. I’d just see if I could confirm that the Feldmans were fast asleep. Then I could try to find their office and do some poking around. As soon as I reached the top of the stairs, I knew I was going to get no such reassurance. A dim light glowed underneath a door. That must be their bedroom. I flattened myself to the wall and slid closer, glad now, for my bare feet.
I heard hushed voices, and froze, breath held.
“I just don’t think I want Jacinda staying here anymore,” Mrs. Feldman said.
Jacinda, staying here? Why hadn’t I thought of that? It made perfect sense. There weren’t very many places to stay in Bonney Bay, after all.
“I know she’s a little weird, but—” A male voice began.
“A little weird? She’s a nut. We’ve tried to make the best of her ghost story hype, but it’s getting to be too much. I’m afraid she�
�s going to go too far and scare the guests away. Besides, I just don’t feel right about it, now that someone’s died.”
The man, no doubt the mysterious Mr. Feldman, said, “His death has nothing to do with this ghost business. They’re going to charge Harvey any day now, I hear.”
“It has to do with it when Jacinda goes online and says it does! Now we look like we’re taking advantage of a man’s death too, because we linked to her stories from our site and added all that malarkey to the inn’s history. I knew it was a bad idea. Remember when we used to only have normal guests?”
“Yeah, I remember when we used to have half as many guests! Look, it’s not our fault Derek Thompson died.”
“I just don’t want her staying here anymore. And I want that stuff off our website.”
“She’s checking out tomorrow. But how do you suggest we turn her away next time?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped Reiner House would be open for business soon, and she’d prefer staying there. But now … ”
“Don’t worry, honey. It will work out.”
I listened carefully to Mr. Feldman’s voice, trying to get a good read on him. Could he have been involved in Derek’s death without his wife’s knowledge? I wished I could stick around and find out more. Search their office, maybe. But they were wide awake, and then there was Sammi. The only way to really get her out of here and out of danger of getting both of us into a heap of trouble, was to meet her outside like I’d said I would.
And now that I knew Jacinda was here, staying at the inn, there was really no way I could stick around for breakfast, and give my creep-o-meter a chance to check Mr. Feldman out face-to-face. Someone who’d never spent time with me in person might not recognize me under all that makeup, but someone who’d talked to me at length … that was a different story. Not to mention the fact that I did not want to stick around for the discovery of the broken trellis, the tell-tale trampled flowers under the bathroom window …
If I was completely honest with myself, my gut said all of this had been one big mistake. I was looking in the wrong direction. Part of me wanted to trust my gut and cut my losses, but the other part of me screamed that this was my only lead. My only hope of uncovering the truth, of getting Harvey back home, of knowing he’d be safe there, of knowing no one else, including me, would be harmed.
I found Sammi waiting outside the window as I jumped out. She held the walkie talkie up and waved it at me. I took it from her and she scowled, but didn’t argue.
“Did you find out anything?” she asked.
“If you go home right now and go to bed, I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said.
Sammi grudgingly agreed, and I breathed a sigh of relief and sneaked back up to my room.
I contemplated just disappearing before dawn, but surely no one would miss the sound of the car starting and pulling away. The Feldmans might find that suspicious and have a look around, realize they’d had a break-in, and send the police after me. As much as I wanted to get out of there, it was better to wait until morning. I scrubbed at the quilt for a while with a wet, soapy towel, then gave up and yanked it off the bed and stuffed it into a hamper I found in the bathroom closet. Hopefully the Feldmans would just think I was being helpful, throw it into the wash, and be none the wiser when it came out nice and clean.
I set my alarm and curled up on the bed and wrapped myself in the sheet. I was exhausted, ready to give in to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
***
Early the next morning, I opened up a video chat with Blythe, and her face appeared on the screen. She squinted.
“Brenna? I can’t see you. Move the phone where I can see you.”
“You don’t need to see me. So how do I do the foundation again?”
“I need to see you putting on the foundation. It’s the foundation, you know? If you get that part wrong, it’s going to mess everything up.”
Fine. I propped the phone on top of a big scented candle on the shelf by the sink.
“Brenna!” Blythe cried in horror. “What happened to your face?”
“My face is fine,” I lied.
“It looks like it’s on fire. What did you do to it?”
It felt like it was on fire, too. And it was so early. Too early in the morning for the relating the complete disastrousness of my joint attempts at sleuthing and Beauty Queen-ing. “You know that mask you had in your makeup bag?”
Blythe gasped again. “What did you do? Leave it on all night?”
“Uhh … ”
“You did? Didn’t you read the directions?”
“Of course I didn’t read the directions!”
“Brenna, you’re not making any sense. I can’t believe you used up my mask! What were you thinking?”
She so sounded like our mother, I snapped, “Sometimes you just need a mask!”
“Oh-kay.” Blythe visibly calmed herself. “I’m sorry, Brenna. I shouldn’t have left it in the bag.”
That was code for I should’ve known you were too un-ladylike to be able to handle the Great Burning Powers of the Mighty Face Mask. Silly me, I thought you could be a Real Girl after all.
“You’re going to need to put the foundation on extra thick now,” she advised.
Blythe talked me through the makeup. I only had to start over twice, and she only paled in horror a half dozen times as I confessed the powder she wanted me to use was ground to—well, powder. And now ground into the bedroom quilt.
Somehow I managed to piece together a face worthy of Gabby Young. Then I scribbled an apology note about the lamp, left the key and what I hoped was enough money to buy another one on the nightstand, and lugged my things downstairs as quietly as possible.
From the smell of things as I hastily exited the house, Mr. and Mrs. Feldman were busy cooking up a French toast storm. My stomach groaned in protest as I slipped past the kitchen and out the door. Fortunately for me, Mrs. Feldman didn’t catch me until I’d dumped my suitcase into the trunk of the rental car.
Mrs. Feldman appeared on the front steps, apron-clad, smiling warmly, and waving. “Are you sure you don’t want breakfast?”
“Oh, no. I don’t eat breakfast. Thank you very much for your hospitality!” I flashed what I hoped was a dazzling beauty queen smile. As much as I could dazzle with my slightly un-white teeth.
Maybe I should whiten my teeth. I’d never really thought about it, but all those years of coffee and Coke guzzling were starting to show. Ugh! I was getting too much into this role. Becoming obsessed with my own appearance. Instead of my old habit of focusing on how I could smash my next opponent to the mat. That was much healthier and more enjoyable, for sure.
Mrs. Feldman jogged over to me. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a real beauty queen stay with us. I was so curious about your pageant … work … I looked you up online, but I couldn’t find anything.”
My fake, frozen smile started to melt like a popsicle in July. Blythe and I had both agreed it would be wrong to impersonate an actual beauty queen. A specific person. You know, more wrong than checking into this establishment under false pretenses, pretending not to be myself, snooping, lying … It was for a good cause, right? But then there was the issue of the Feldmans looking me up. If I’d been a pageant contestant, my name would surely show up somewhere in the results online.
“Um, I compete under a stage name. Gabby Young is just too … Gabby, you know?”
“Oh! Well, I think it’s lovely.”
“Anyway, I like to keep my stage name top secret.”
Mrs. Feldman frowned. She was probably wondering why a beauty queen would want to keep her stage name top secret. Or maybe why I hadn’t just checked in under my stage name.
“I’m so sorry. I really have to go. Thanks again for everything!” I flung myself into the driver’s seat and sped off, wondering how long it would take her to discover the aftermath of Gabby Young.
I met Blythe at the car rental place, as we’d arranged. After I’d turned in the car, I growle
d, “You drive,” and got into the passenger seat of the truck.
“Well?” Blythe said, her patience clearly wearing thin, since I’d offered her no information about my stay at Blackberry Inn. “How did it go? What happened?”
“I don’t think it was them. We’re at square one.” I relayed the conversation I’d heard, leaving Sammi, the broken trellis, the broken lamp—and of course the breaking in—out of it. “I just want to get home and take a shower.”
After my shower and the application of copious amounts of some kind of special cream Blythe gave me onto my sunburned-looking face, I found Blythe sitting on the couch, phone in hand. She looked up at me with en expression of sternness and curiosity. “There’s an interesting article that just posted on the Bonney Bay Blaster site.”
“Oh?” My stomach fluttered anxiously. The Bonney Bay Blaster was the only truly local news source. It had recently been taken over by Helen Rolf, a Bonney Bay librarian.
“Apparently the Feldmans just reported a break-in at Blackberry Inn. Helen says this story is still developing. So far, though there was some damage, the only thing missing appears to be a bathroom towel.”
I smiled sheepishly. And then I told Blythe everything.
“Maybe we should just let this go,” Blythe said. “Leave it to the police.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. But how? How could I just let it go?
26
I pulled my baseball cap down, hoping the bit of shadow it cast over my face helped to hide its redness. It was a beautiful afternoon, but I was in a melancholy mood. I’d told Blythe I needed some air, and I’d headed out in my running gear. My jog, as usual, took me to the park. My feet, seemingly with a will of their own, carried me across the lawn and to the cliff’s edge. I walked past the brambly edges, to a spot where lawn met bare rock. A spot where I could truly stand on the edge. I stood there, watching the sparkling sun bounce off the water, watching the ferry to the south, then regarding the chain of mountains jutting out in the distance, to the north. I couldn’t help it. I pictured the tragic deaths that had taken place here so long ago, the tragic way their story now had a hold on Harvey. It seemed so out of place amidst the beauty of Bonney Bay, so unreal, so—
