In other words, he's happy I won't be in his hair, and he won't have to worry about me falling into a ditch or being picked up by a crazed motorist planning on torturing me for fun or abducting me for human trafficking. I know his way of thinking. And I read a lot.
"And did you know there's a real actress living across the street?"
He nods. "Cindy or Missy Quinn. The realtor mentioned it. I guess she thought it was a selling point."
I roll my eyes. Unless it relates to a dead body, he doesn't pay attention to details. "It totally is. It's Linzy Quinn, and she's only fourteen. Isn't that cool?"
"No. I think kids should stay kids as long as possible. The world is hard enough for adults."
I slump into my seat. He just doesn't get it. Some kids are interested in more than shopping at the mall or becoming homecoming queen, which is super lame.
"I plan to run into town and pick up groceries, check out the lay of the land after dinner. Want to come?"
Since when does he not get straight to work?
"Do cats like milk? Wait. Scratch that. Aunt Frannie's brown cat hated milk, but the gray one loved it and would get diarrhea."
Dad sighs. "I just love our dinner conversations."
I flash him my ever annoying braces and take our plates to the sink.
"I'll get my keys and wallet, and we can leave." He rises and heads toward the front of the house.
While I scrape off the food remains then rinse the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher, I imagine our kitchen with hanging chili peppers and colors so bright Dad would never enter the room again. Okay, so that's not our style but maybe pastels. Something to entice him to stay longer than a year.
In middle school, long after Mom ran off, I promised to get good grades, to eat my veggies, or at least the ones covered in cheese, and to brush my teeth every night. The last due to my questionable hygiene at age ten. And for this I made him promise to stay in one town long enough for me to finish that grade. Being the new kid sucks, but being the new kid in the middle of the year sucks hard. So he agreed. But it's not enough anymore.
I wouldn't mind if we laid down roots, spread our branches, dropped our leaves…okay, so I can't think of any more appropriate metaphors. I'd just like to finish high school in one school, go to the next grade knowing my classmates from the year before. Is that too much to ask? I don't want to sound ungrateful. Dad's raised me alone, and I know it's hard for him. I'm not a stoner or partier, nor do I stay out past curfew or flunk my classes, but he's had to endure cramp complaints, helping me pick out my first bra, and having the luxury of buying me pads and tampons every month. He should win a father-of-the-century award.
I run into the hall and up the stairs, calling out, "I gotta pee. Be right back."
After doing my business and washing my hands, I run into my badly-in-need-of-decorating bedroom to get my roller blades and knee pads. Dad hates when I wear them to the store, all because I crashed into a display of canned corn last year at a Piggly Wiggly, but I was learning then. Now I'm nearly an expert and am certain I won't have any embarrassing moments.
As I'm about to turn, I catch a flash of pink outside my window.
Fascinated with the idea of a fourteen-year-old actress across the street, I peer out. I mean, what if she knows Shia LaBeouf or Taylor Lautner? Meeting either of them would be the pinnacle of my fifteen years and totally worth moving again.
But the pink isn't on the petite brunette from earlier. Instead it's a pink leotard on a willowy girl with blonde, waist-length hair. She twirls along the driveway, arms raised above her head, like the ballerina inside a jewelry box—perfect and poised.
The front door opens, and Linzy steps out with an older woman, probably her mom. She says something to the blonde, who drops her arms and sulks. Darn, I wish I was closer to overhear.
Linzy laughs and climbs into the back seat of a black, four-door car, parked along the curb.
"Piper, let's go," Dad shouts.
"Coming."
Linzy and I could become friends. We're practically the same age, and we're bound to have something in common. I love pretty clothes, and she clearly has some. That's a start. Kinley must know her, so I'll ask for an invite later.
Score two for Hollow Ridge.
* * *
The lay of the land, as Dad put it, looks like every other suburban land we've encountered in the last eight years. We've been moving around since I was four, when Dad decided it would be easier to research his books up close and personal rather than cross-country via Internet and phone calls. I often wonder if part of the reason was because my older brother, Vincent Jr., had died, and Dad just wanted out of our house and hometown. At first Dad went after murders from anywhere, but he didn't like city life, and the country was too quiet, so he devoted his last eight books to the 'burbs. Just as well, too. Those became bestsellers.
"Which was the hardest case you solved?" I ask Dad, as he steps and I roll out of Big Y to his car. Who names a grocery store Big Y? Then again, what's up with Piggly Wiggly?
"I'm not a detective. I don't solve cases. I just research and write about them."
But I notice the twinkle in his eye when he says "solve."
"Come on, Dad. If you hadn't worked those clues in Georgia, the husband would've totally gotten away with her murder."
Dad made the police look like Deputy Dewey, and my life suddenly became Scream 5. Okay, maybe not exactly. It's not like I had a crazy boyfriend with mommy issues slicing and dicing my friends, thank goodness. But the end of the school year was something we both anticipated, and we didn't wait until August, like usual, to move.
"So which was the hardest?"
Dad opens the hatch of his Subaru Forrester. "Georgia."
I knew it. I hand him the bag of eggs and bread. "What about the craziest?"
"Is this a new game?"
"Yes. There's only so many times you can say, 'I spy with my little eye…?'"
He chuckles and pushes the bag of cereal, chips, and frozen waffles beside the eggs. "The weirdest…"
"Not weird. Crazy, as in evil or sadistic."
He gives me a long stare. He hates when I talk about the crazies. Like if I mention it enough I'll become one. I just can't help it. The criminal mind fascinates me, and just because I'm not a legal adult doesn't mean I can't handle it. Nothing scares me. Not the dark, or spiders, or even clowns. Well, maybe knife wielding maniacs in hockey masks, but since I've only met one, and it was on my TV screen, I don't count it as a true fear.
"Only one percent of murders are committed by serial killers. It's rare."
On second thought, it is a bit scary how well Dad knows me.
"It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again." I use my special Buffalo Bill voice.
An older woman passes us and visibly scowls at me. At least she knows her films.
Dad shakes his head. "What have I told you about reciting horror movies in public?"
I lift the last bag out of the cart and push it into the back of the car. "Not to do it?"
He shuts the hatch. "Well, it's nice to know you're at least listening. Do you know where this goes?"
I grab the cart and direct it toward the place where carts gather, beneath the sign that states: Return Carts Here. It's not rocket science, Dad.
Deciding this is an awesome spot for a gold medal spin, I lean on my back wheels and take off. Feet in and out, around and around until the store and parking lot are a blur. I want to shout out, "wee," but that would alert Dad to my less than stellar public display, and I'd have to stop. So I stuff my "This Little Piggy" finale down and concentrate on controlling the spin.
Something dark approaches, something in the form of someone. Darn, it's probably an old lady in need of a cart, and I'm blocking them all.
"Sorry, one sec," I shout.
But as I attempt to slow down, and attempt means to do it very slow so I don't wipeout and land on my face, I realize it isn't an old person wi
th the patience of…well, an old person. It looks like a young guy.
"Take your time." And his voice sounds cute.
Surprised and totally mortified that I look like a dweeb, I stop too abruptly and end up jerking forward. I reach my hands out to prevent permanent damage to my face and go down on my knee pads, right at his feet.
I look up and hope something witty will surface from my brain so I can kinda redeem myself.
He's totally my age, maybe a bit older, sportin' a wild afro that looks super soft, and a single dimple in his left cheek, beside a shy smile. Dark brown eyes to go with dark brown skin, and I'm suddenly counting down the days until I'm sixteen and I can date.
And that's when I realize my hands have landed, not on the ground, but on him.
On his faded, soft-from-too-many-washings jeans.
On both sides of his privates.
CHAPTER THREE
Ohmigod. I'm cupping his junk.
I jump up only to stagger and trip, sliding into a cart. It jabs into my boob and I cry out. But I don't care. I'm just glad I'm no longer moving or touching him.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Are you? I mean, I hope I didn't…you know, hurt you. I mean, I know it's sensitive and…" Heat bursts into my cheeks as if I just doused them in gasoline and struck a match. Hey, there's a way to end my humiliation.
"I'm fine." His smirk tells me he's enjoying this way too much.
Where's a knife wielding maniac when you need one?
"I'm Troy." He holds out his hand.
Whoa. I've never met another person my age that shakes hands. Dad will love him. I'm caught between wanting to feel his skin, still feeling uber mortified, and not wanting to be rude. Dad hates when I'm rude.
His grip is warm and slightly rough, and my breath catches a little.
"Piper," I say.
"Troy, what's taking so long?" A woman in beige pants and jacket and a white top walks over. She's a female version of Troy, but with a chin length bob rather than 'fro.
She looks at our hands, still connected. "Oh, I see."
"Piper?" Dad calls. His sneakers slap on the asphalt like he's wearing clown shoes, such a heavy walker.
Troy and I let go and turn to our parents.
"This is Troy."
"This is Piper."
We talk at the same time and share an awkward chuckle.
After introductions are complete, we learn that Troy and his mother, Olivia, have lived in Hollow Ridge all their lives and were expecting us.
Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. "How?"
"You arranged renting your house with a local realtor, Bridget Lansing. She informed us that Vincent Grimaldi was visiting. It is temporary and not permanent, right?" Her smile is friendly, but there seems to be a slight edge to her tone.
"Yes. The school year. So you're friends with the realtor?"
She frowns, confused, and looks to Troy, who shrugs, before back to Dad. Her eyes widen. "Oh, no. Not 'informed us' as in 'Troy and me.' 'Us' as in HRPD. I'm the Chief of Detectives."
* * *
After Dad makes an excuse about rotting eggs, we hightail it home, put away the food, and he goes into his office to begin work. He won't admit this, but he doesn't care for the cops any more than they care for his theories and involvement with closed cases. Dad doesn't disprove every murder. Some towns have great police forces and are meticulous. But some…
I walk from room to room looking for something to do. The Internet and cable won't be turned on until morning, and I'm sick of unpacking. I can access Tumblr and Facebook via my phone, but nothing interesting is going on, so I sit on the front steps staring at the street.
I'd knock on Kinley's door, but all the lights on the first floor are off. Her mom looks fuddy-duddy enough to go to bed at nine o'clock.
"Hey," a faint voice calls.
I lean forward and stare in the direction of her house.
The street lamp in between our homes illuminates Kinley in the upstairs window waving. She must have the front room like me. She holds up her index finger then runs off. A long minute later, she peeks her head out her door and slowly steps out, shutting it behind her. She runs over and bounces up my stairs.
"Sneaking out?" I ask.
"Yeah. My folks head to bed around eight. They're awake until ten, but they don't like me out after they settle down."
Knew it. I really should become a detective, but my options aren't great. A private investigator doesn't handle murder, and a police detective must be a patrol officer first, which totally stinks. Those uniforms are hideous, and who wants to direct traffic or break up bar brawls?
"How's your dad's car?"
"He needs a new one. They're hunting for one tomorrow. Dad's really picky and really cheap. So what's your dad doing?"
"Working. You'll meet him tomorrow. He doesn't like being interrupted. Do you know Troy? His mom is the Chief of Detectives." I don't remember if they mentioned a last name.
"Williams? Yeah, he goes to our school, but he's two years ahead of me. Why?"
A senior. How exciting. Not that Troy and I will date or that he even noticed me, except for the whole junk landing. He probably has a girlfriend anyway. Or even a bunch of them.
"You like him?" She uses that singsong voice which means she's teasing, and I hate teasing. It makes me feel stupid and inferior, and I want to smack people who do that. But I think smacking Kinley would hurt our budding friendship, so I ignore it. This time.
"Maybe. Is there anyone in school you like?" If I get the four-one-one on her love life then this convo won't feel so one-sided.
"There's one. Eli. He's a junior. He once held the cafeteria door open for me, and our eyes met. It was love at first sight, but I'm pretty sure it's one-sided. Besides there's no way Mom and Dad would let me date unsupervised. And do you know what dating with a chaperone would be like? Mucho humiliating."
I chuckle, and now we're even. "Yeah, that would suck. So, tell me about Troy?" I try to get the scoop on everyone. It's the detective in me. But there's something extra special about this boy.
She thinks for a minute. "He broke up with Shayla at the end of last year. I only know because I was in the bathroom stall and overheard her telling her friends she dumped him for an older and much more sophisticated guy."
"Who's Shayla?"
Kinley rolls her eyes. "Only a witch with a capital B. She's Linzy's mean, older sister."
Crap. Willowy and blonde? Of course. There's no way he'll be interested in short and round.
A red sports car pulls onto the street and slows down at the house across from me. It's one of those sleek two-seaters. It turns into the driveway and parks inside the garage. As the door descends, I make out a balding man with a pot belly.
"Who's that?"
She places her hands behind her and leans back. "Mr. Friedman. He and his wife live there. They have a son and a daughter, both away at college. Mr. Friedman just got that car. Mom says it's a mid-life crisis toy. Mrs. Friedman gardens, and Mom says the gardener is her toy."
I squeal then cover my mouth with my hand. "Ohmigod."
Kinley giggles and nods rapidly. "I know. Mom is usually so proper, but she got a bit tipsy at the New Year's Eve party last year and let it all spill. I guess she and her friends compare notes every week when they get together for their book club."
"What about over there?" I point to the house next to the Friedman's, directly across from Kinley's.
"The Rodriquez family. A mom, dad, and the cutest little girl."
"And what about on the other side of them?"
"Bridget Lansing."
"The realtor?" The woman mentioned earlier.
"Yeah, she's a part of Mom's book club, and Dad calls her a cougar. An older woman who likes much younger guys."
Duh. "Yeah, I know what it is. How about next to me?"
"Mrs. Jackson. She's super old and walks super slow. I don't know much about her."
Before I get to ask about
the remaining houses on the corners of our street, loud voices sound, and we look over to the Quinn house. Mrs. Quinn and Linzy stand in the brightly lit living room, shouting at one another. Mrs. Quinn has one hand on her hip, and the other points toward the doorway.
Linzy stomps her feet and screams, "No, I'm not doing that, and you can't make me."
"Wow," Kinley whispers.
I know. If I spoke that way to Dad, his head would do a three-hundred-sixty degree turn a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist, and I wouldn't see the outside of my room until we move to our next house.
"Go to your room," Mrs. Quinn shouts then turns her back on her.
Linzy runs out. The upstairs hall light goes on then off. And with it, our entertainment.
But a moment later it resumes as their back wooden gate opens, and Linzy tiptoes along the grass. She scurries past the house and down the street.
I stand. "Let's follow her."
Kinley gasps. "Have you gone mental?"
"Not since the hospital released me. Come on. Let's see where she's going."
I don't wait for Kinley's approval and run to the sidewalk. I stay in the shadows, several steps behind Linzy. If she thinks she has stealthy skills, she hasn't seen mine. I grew up on old reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That girl knew how to sneak.
"I can't leave the street," Kinley whispers, bumping into me.
"Sshh." I grab her arm and throw both of us onto Mrs. Jackson's lawn.
I peek out from around the bush that separates this yard from the next. Linzy stops and turns, but I don't think she sees us. She continues her trek.
I look to Kinley and hold a finger over my lips before getting up and following. Clearly my new friend needs pointers on spying.
When Linzy reaches the corner, she makes a right turn.
I step off the curb, and Kinley grabs my arm, her short fingernails digging into my flesh.
"I can't leave the block."
I nod, remembering, but, dude, this isn't the time to be so obedient. I bite my lip, wondering how far Linzy will go. I don't want to get in trouble, but I also don't want to lose her.
"I'll just go a little bit and be right back."
I Spy Dead People Page 2
