“You’re not being fair!” I shouted and ran into my room. Fair? Not being fair? The word brought up a hateful memory, one that still taunted me, even condemned me. The memory rushed into my mind. I remembered so clearly when I was in the sixth grade. Three of us had stayed in the classroom during recess. We’d been allowed the special privilege of coloring in the banners we were making for the school’s book fair.
One of the girls was Paula, who was so shy she spoke in gaspy whispers and turned pink every time Ms. Donavan, our teacher, called on her. The other was my best friend, Mindy. At least she said she was my best friend. She sat next to me at lunch, and walked home with me from school, and sometimes invited me to her house. It was special to be Mindy’s best friend—particularly for me, unused to the popularity that radiated in a wide swath around Mindy. Along with Mindy I was invited to everyone’s birthday party. Kids I hardly knew talked and joked with me, and a boy named Robert even asked me for a date. Mom and Dad said no, I was much too young to date, but I didn’t mind. I’d been asked, hadn’t I? It was a heady feeling, and I loved every minute of being Mindy’s best and special friend.
But on that day, the day Paula, Mindy, and I were supposed to be working on the banners, Mindy got bored and began to act silly. She started fooling around with the stuff on Ms. Donavan’s desk, saying so many funny things I couldn’t stop laughing. The more I laughed, the sillier she got.
Then Mindy picked up the ceramic statue of a little girl reading and began waving it around. Paula, always cautious, said quietly, “I don’t think you should do that. That’s expensive. That’s a Lladro.”
I heard Paula and got nervous and stopped laughing, but Mindy didn’t. Mindy giggled and stared at Paula with hostility. “What’s a Lladro?” she said. “This looks like a silly old statue to me.” She tossed it a few inches into the air and caught it.
Paula gasped. I did too.
“Mindy,” I warned, “that’s one of Ms. Donavan’s favorite things. Her mother gave it to her years ago when she became a teacher. She said so.”
“Are you taking Paula’s side, Holly? I thought we were best friends.” Mindy glared at me with a look that made me cringe. I sank back in my seat.
But Paula walked to the desk as Mindy tossed the statue and caught it again. “Don’t do that,” she ordered.
I’d never heard Mindy challenged by anyone, and I sucked in my breath.
Mindy glared at Paula. “Okay,” she said. “If you’re so crazy about this stupid statue, you take it.” She tossed the statue to Paula.
Taken by surprise, Paula fumbled for it. But her fingers barely grazed the statue, and it dropped to the floor near her feet, smashing into a dozen pieces.
Neither Paula nor I could move. We just stared, openmouthed.
The door to the classroom opened. Somehow, Mindy was in her seat as Ms. Donavan entered the room.
“Oh, Paula!” Ms. Donavan cried. “How could you?”
She bent to pick up the pieces, and as she rose, her eyes were damp.
“I’m sorry,” Paula murmured, and tears rolled down her face too. “It was an accident.”
The accident wasn’t Paula’s fault, and I knew it wasn’t fair for her to take the blame. My lips parted as I tried to get the courage to speak the truth, but Mindy slowly turned in her seat, her gaze penetrating mine. I wanted to tell what had happened. I desperately wanted to. But I realized that if I did, I’d lose Mindy as a friend, and I’d lose the other friends I’d made because of Mindy. I was scared that nobody would like me.
“What’s done is done,” Ms. Donavan said, her eyes still on the broken statue. “Run outside, girls. You’ve got about ten more minutes of recess. We’ll work on the banners later.” She stooped to pick up the pieces.
Outside in the hallway, I felt sick to my stomach. “Paula,” I managed to say, but Mindy grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the playground.
“She dropped it. You saw her,” Mindy said.
Paula looked at me, but she didn’t say a word. Neither did I, not then and not later.
A few weeks later, Paula was no longer in our school. Ms. Donavan told us that Paula’s father had been transferred to another state. She’d left Houston, but the memory of what I’d done—what I hadn’t done—stayed with me. It taunted me through Mindy’s eyes, and I no longer wanted to be her best friend. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I should have stood by the truth and stood up for Paula. I shouldn’t have allowed her to take the blame.
There was nothing I could do to make amends to Paula, and if the incident still bothered her, I’d never know. But I did know that I had another chance to do the right thing. I could stand up for Cody, if he were innocent.
But of course Cody was innocent.
I heard Dad calling for me to come back, so I hurried to their bedroom, where Dad was talking on the phone, repeating his guess to whoever was on the other end of the line.
He looked in my direction. “Holly? Holly, pay attention. Am I remembering correctly that Cody drives an old, slightly beat-up blue two-door Thunderbird? Is that description right?” Dad asked. I refused to answer him. I hated Dad’s good memory. Even when I went out on a date, he was more a detective than a father.
Dad turned his back on me, but I heard him say, “Look up the registrations under Sam and Nelda Garnett. You should be able to get the information. The cars in the garage were a Cadillac, two—maybe three years old—and a fairly new BMW.”
When Dad hung up, he turned to face me. His shoulders drooped, and his eyelids sagged at the outer corners like crooked window shades. “I’m trying to help Cody,” he told me.
“You’re not!”
“If I do my job right, I will.”
Mom put an arm around my shoulders and said, “It’s nearly four o’clock. Since it’s Saturday, we can sleep in, so let’s get back to bed. We’ll all think better when we’re rested.”
I wanted to snap at her for using her teacher voice. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of the kids in your fourth-grade class!” But my quarrel wasn’t with Mom. It was with Dad, and Mom did have a point. I needed time to think, to work out some kind of plan to help Cody. He’d need someone, and I wouldn’t let him down.
As I got to my feet, a sudden thought struck me so hard that I gasped. “Dad!” I said. “What if Cody didn’t get to the lake house because … because he was at home when his parents were murdered, and whoever did it kidnapped Cody and used his car? What if …?” I couldn’t finish.
Dad’s forehead crinkled, and I realized he’d been aware of this possibility all along. “Forget it, Holly. Don’t borrow trouble,” he mumbled. “There were no signs of a struggle.”
“But it could have happened. That’s why you ordered an all points bulletin, wasn’t it?”
“It had something to do with it.”
My throat ached as I choked out the words “I’m sorry, Dad. I got so angry … I didn’t mean the things I said.”
“No matter,” he answered and shifted uncomfortably. “We’d better do what your mother suggested, and go to bed.”
I wished he’d reach out to me, but Dad has never been the kind of person to show how he feels.
I wandered back to my room and shut the door. A snapshot of Cody was propped against the lamp next to my bed, and as I picked it up, studying it intently, I could feel his arm around my shoulders, his breath against my cheek, his lips against mine. In this photo Cody was dressed in swim trunks and a faded T-shirt and was leaning against a surfboard propped in the sand. His smile was broad, and I’m sure that a moment after the picture had been taken, he’d burst out laughing.
“Oh, Cody!” I whispered, hurting for him. I gently put the photo back in place and flopped onto my bed. I knew I’d never be able to sleep. Was Cody dead too? Or was he alive somewhere, at the mercy of the person who had murdered his parents?
I struggled to my feet and began to pace as I attempted to make sense of all I’d heard. There’d been no forced e
ntry, Dad had said. No sign of a struggle. That meant Cody couldn’t possibly have been in the house when the murders took place. Cody was tall and strong. He would have put up a fight to try to save his parents. He never would have gone peacefully with the murderers, no matter what. Cody had told me he was going to the lake house, so that’s what he did, didn’t he?
I shook myself. Of course he did. What kind of a friend was I if I allowed myself to doubt him for even a minute? Somehow, in some way I didn’t understand right now, when the police had gone to the Garnetts’ lake house, they’d missed him. Cody’d be able to tell us why. In the meantime, I’d do what Mom had said. I’d go to bed and try to sleep.
I visualized the Garnetts’ trim two-story brick house with bright borders of pink and white begonias around the front and down the walkway, the lawn a thick, smooth carpet of St. Augustine grass. “Mom’s the gardener,” Cody had told me the first time I’d seen his house.
“It’s neat,” I’d said. “It looks like a painting.”
But now there’d be yards of yellow police tape wound between the trees and over the lawn, a tangled web barring the doorway. If Cody, unaware of what had happened, were to return home, what would he think? What would he do? I couldn’t let him walk into that house alone!
I abruptly stopped my pacing and grabbed a bedpost for support. I knew what I had to do, even as a voice in my head asked, Go to Cody’s house? A murder scene? In the middle of the night? Are you crazy?
If I really believed that Cody was innocent—and I had to! I had to!—then I couldn’t let this boy I cared about take the shock alone.
I scrambled through my closet, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and brushed my tangled hair. I reached for the wide silver and amber barrette Mom had given me on my last birthday. But as I picked it up from the top of the dresser, the smooth, usually cool amber suddenly felt so warm against my palm that I jumped at the touch. It seemed to glow with a red-gold heat.
Startled, I dropped the barrette on the dresser top, where it lay under the table lamp, reflecting the light. I realized it must have picked up the heat from the lamp, so I picked it up again, pulled back my hair, and fastened the barrette in place.
As silently as possible I opened my door and crept down the stairs. In the kitchen, using only the glaring green light from the clock on the microwave, I scribbled out a note telling Mom and Dad where I’d be, before I slipped out of the house through the back door, the keys to Mom’s gray Camaro in hand. It was Saturday, so Mom wouldn’t be going to school, and she wouldn’t need her car—at least not for a few hours.
I drove almost a mile to West University, to the street on which Cody lives. I drew nearly opposite his house and parked the car, prepared to wait. Cody would be coming home—he had to be coming home—and I was going to be there for him when he arrived.
It was a hot, sticky September night, yet I was so frightened, my body was cold. I tried not to look at the house, but it loomed like a dark demon, demanding my attention. The police had left the drapes open, so the front windows gaped with blank, glassy eyes. The house was empty, yet, as I looked at it, it throbbed like a heartbeat. Strange, shivery pinpricks of light appeared, then vanished.
Is someone already inside the house? Could it be Cody? I wondered.
I had to know.
Although I realized the wish was totally unreasonable—surely Cody would have reacted to the crime tape—I slipped out of Mom’s car, quietly shut the door, and walked across the street, ducking under the crime scene tape. Close to the living room windows I could see the reason for the tiny flashes of light. The VCR on top of the television batted out a consistent 12:00, 12:00, 12:00, a mindless robot waiting for someone to arrive and reset it.
I cut across the front lawn, ducking under the tape again, and circled toward the back of the house. If the door to the unattached garage was unlocked, at least I could find out whether Cody’s car was there.
Moonlight was merely a pale shimmer, scarcely enough to light the way. But over the years I had visited Cody’s house often, and I knew I could walk down the driveway to the back of the house, where it met the high board fence that enclosed the backyard, then follow the fence to the narrow door that opened into the garage.
Once past the brick, I reached out to steady my steps. My fingers touched the rough boards and slid across to the cold metal latch. To my amazement the latch suddenly moved, and I jumped back to keep from being struck as the gate whipped open.
A dark shape stepped through the opening, and a goggle-eyed face peered into mine. “Don’t you know there was a murder here?” a voice whispered, and strong fingers gripped my shoulder.
I tried to scream, but my throat was so paralyzed with fear, all that came out was a choking gurgle.
Squinting behind thick glasses, the man leaned forward so that his nose was just inches from mine. “Are you here because of the murder?” he asked. “It’s not a safe place to be. He might come back.”
“W-Who might come back?” I stammered.
“The murderer.”
I tried to take a step backward, but the man’s grip increased. “Say, aren’t you one of Cody’s friends?” he asked, and his voice softened.
“Y-Yes,” I said.
“I thought you looked familiar. Remember me? I live next door. I’m Ronald Arlington. Close friend of the family.” Without a pause he asked, “Where’s Cody?”
I shivered, wishing I knew. “He went to their lake house,” I answered. I well remembered talk-ative Mr. Arlington. Cody and I had tried to avoid Mr. Arlington ever since the time he’d corralled us on the driveway to talk and wouldn’t stop until Cody’s mom had come outside, politely insisting that dinner was getting cold.
“Ronald is lonely,” Mrs. Garnett had explained that evening as she served the salads. “He’s retired and seems to have nothing to occupy his time. Recently his wife left him and threatened to file for divorce.”
“He has time to butt into everybody’s business,” Mr. Garnett had said.
“Now, Sam,” Mrs. Garnett had begun, but Mr. Garnett persisted.
“Yes, he does. He comes right out and asks what people paid for things—like a new sweater or a new car—and then he tells everyone. And he has to know who’s doing what and why, and he’s always got some kind of inside story about celebrities and politicians and stuff that he’s supposed to know for a fact.”
“I think he just wants a little attention,” Mrs. Garnett had said.
“Or a drink,” Mr. Garnett had said with a knowing wink.
“He’s really not such a bad old guy,” Cody had answered.
“Let’s please talk about something else,” Mrs. Garnett had begged.
I hadn’t given Mr. Arlington another thought … not until he’d popped through the gate, scaring me almost to death.
“The police came into my house and talked to me,” Mr. Arlington whispered into my face. “I told them I was the one who couldn’t stand the loud music, so I came over and looked in the window when the Garnetts didn’t answer their telephone.” Nervously he glanced around, as though he might be overheard. “I’m the one who discovered the bodies,” he said. “And I turned off the master switch to the house because the music was driving me crazy. The television people and the newspaper reporters came, but I didn’t tell them that …” He broke off, fumbling with his words as though they were loose teeth, as he added, “Well, what I did tell them will be in the morning paper and the early newscasts.”
He released my shoulder, but I didn’t attempt to leave. Obviously Mr. Arlington had information I wanted.
“What didn’t you tell them?” I asked.
He gave a quick turn to look over his shoulder. “Never mind,” he said.
“If it’s important, the police should know about it.”
His eyes became slits. “They don’t have to know everything.”
Maybe he knew something, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure how to reach him, so I said the first thing that came into
my mind. “If it’s something that will help them catch the murderer, then I know you’ll tell them. Otherwise, you’d be helping the murderer.”
“The murderer might come back,” Mr. Arlington repeated in a husky whisper. “I live alone here, and I’m not so young anymore.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I asked directly, “Did you tell the reporters that Cody wasn’t home?”
He nodded. “They asked where he was, but unfortunately, I didn’t know. I just told them what time I heard his car leave. He was driving down the driveway a little too fast, and when he does that, his car squeals, and I happened to look at the clock, and it was a good thing I did, I guess.”
I took a deep breath and asked, “What time did Cody leave?”
“Twenty-seven minutes after seven,” he said.
I had to ask. “And what time did the murders take place?”
“I asked the police that very thing, but they told me the medical examiner will determine that.”
I tried to phrase my question another way. “What time was it when you heard the loud music?”
“Somewhere between nine and nine-thirty. This time I didn’t look at the clock, so I can’t be sure.”
Joyfully I blurted out, “Then Cody couldn’t have been at home!”
“That’s what I already said.”
A car suddenly pulled onto the driveway, its headlights spotlighting us.
Mr. Arlington squinted and ducked, throwing an arm up to protect his eyes.
The car door opened and slammed, and I heard the anger in Dad’s voice as he demanded, “Holly, what do you think you’re doing here?”
Chapter Three
The sky was beginning to lighten, pearly gray streaks from the east smearing the blackness. “I had to be here,” I said. “When Cody comes home …”
“If Cody comes home …”
“When. It has to be when.” I could be as stubborn as my father. “Someone who cares about him should be here for him.”
Dad winced, and I put a hand on his arm. “As a friend,” I said. “Dad, you know Cody and I have been friends since junior high.”
Spirit Seeker Page 2
