I So Don't Do Famous (22 page)

The article quotes his mother as threatening to sue the variety show for not taking full advantage of David's extraordinary talents. Apparently, despite rehearsing a bunch with the Raccoonites, he only appeared briefly in one episode. His mother denies
allegations of David bullying the other children in the show. She maintains he was ostracized.

Next, in her überdetailed way, Junie searches the names of all the victims. Leah provides the names that the actresses used as children. All the victims were members of the
After School with Uncle Stanley
cast around the time of the article. Including Kira Cornish.

“So, the actors whose homes were broken into were all on
After School with Uncle Stanley
at the same time as David Hughes?” I say. “Back then, he didn't fit in. And he really doesn't fit in now because they're all rich and famous.”

“That pretty much sums it up,” Leah says.

“Would they ever hang out with him now?” Junie asks.

“Are you kidding me?” Leah squeals. “They are so out of his league. Plus, he's creepy.”

I repeat all this for Junie. Minus the squeal.

“Wow, I'm incredible,” Leah says. “I aced my first mystery! Talk about natural talent. How many mysteries have you solved, Sherry? Ever solve one faster than me? I don't think so. Because I'm a natural. I'm the fastest.”

Nothing worse than a gloating ghost.

“Sherry, let's get going.” Junie logs off and pushes back her chair. “We don't have much time.”

L
eah wants to fly along next to me, but I explain we need to try that when time isn't so of the essence. “Leah,” I say, “a gust of wind could pick you up and blow you to Kansas. Who knows how you'll do as a ghost in the big real world?”

“I'm not saying I don't trust you, Sherry,” she says, “but don't leave me locked up in your purse. It's small and dark and there's a smell.”

After zipping her in, I sling the bag over my shoulder, and Junie and I trot off toward the Metro.

We find seats at the back of the train. Across from us, a young guy sits on the dirty floor, engaged in an argument with someone in his head. This is so not Phoenix.

Junie yanks her notebook and a pen from her backpack and writes,
How exactly are we going to ditch Leah?
She passes me the paper and pen.

I don't know
, I scribble back.
Now she's had some freedom and wants to hang with us all the time.

Hang with YOU.
Junie presses hard on the YOU, and the letters are thick.

'Cause I can talk to her.
Please tell me my best friend isn't jealous of a ghost.

Junie takes the notebook and pretty much writes an essay.
It's going to be tough enough convincing Detective Garcia that she needs to jump on board and take over the case the way we see it. But if Leah's with us, you're half paying attention to her. Then you're listening to her comments and trying not to answer. Basically, you end up looking like a flake.
She shakes her head and adds another line.
We can't take Leah to the Beverly Hills PD.
Junie pauses, her pen poised above the page.
Tell her we're going for food.

Me? Looking like a flake? I'm not even going there.
I think we should tell her the truth. We owe her that much.
I hitch my purse up higher.
She's been a huge help in this case.

“Humph.” Junie shrugs.

“Junie,” I say, “you've been my best friend for forever.” I point to my purse. “Not coming between us,” I say. “But it doesn't hurt to be nice.” I write
sideways on the notebook, which is on Junie's lap.
She's lonely. She lives miles from us. She's out of our lives after this trip.

Junie nods slowly.

I look around. No one's paying one drop of attention to us. No one's wondering why two girls sitting side by side are passing notes back and forth. People are hooked up to earbuds or Bluetooths or the voices in their head. We're in a group, but at the same time, we're not. We're in a compartment with lots of other commuters, but we're also in our own private world.

Same thing with David and his teen gang. With a few copies of
Fahrenheit 451
as camouflage, they're meeting in a busy public library to plan burglaries.

In Los Angeles, they hide the secret stuff right out in the open.

The train pulls into Hollywood Station. We exit and head to the hotel.

“I'm going to grab some snacks from our stash in the room,” Junie says. “I'll meet you back here.”

“Grab the sour Gummis,” I say, unzipping my purse.

A root beer scent rushes out. “Any chance you could invest in a backpack? Something a little roomier? And some air freshener,” Leah says. “And please turn down your phone. A text came in and about gave me a heart attack.”

“Leah, I am so not carrying a backpack everywhere I go.” I pull out my phone. There's a text from my dad, checking in with us. “But I'll change my phone to vibrate next time.” I text Dad back.

“Okay.” Leah claps, ready for action. “What's next?”

“The Beverly Hills PD,” I say.

She squeals. “This is too exciting! A chance to meet up with real detectives!” She pauses. “Not that you're not a real detective, Sherry. But at this point in my sleuthing career, I'm ready to deal with professionals.”

“Actually, Junie and I are going to speak to the detective on the case by ourselves.”

“What? You can't do that! You wouldn't be this far along without my insider knowledge!”

“Too true. You've been amazing, Leah,” I say. “But you can't exactly talk to the detective. 'Cause you've got that whole ghost thing going, right?”

“I know I'm a ghost. I'm not a moron,” Leah snaps. “Obviously, you'll talk for me. Tell the detective that I'm right there next to you. He can ask me anything, and you'll pass on my answers.”

I put my hand up like a stop sign. “Leah, we need this detective to totally believe in our whole theory. Not to decide I'm some kind of, uh, flake from Phoenix who, uh, chats with ghosts. I'm sorry, but you have to stay here.”

The elevator doors open, and Junie's walking over to me, a plastic grocery bag of treats clutched in her hand. “Let's go.”

“Just give me a sec,” I say.

“Oh, I get it,” Leah says. “Now that I've shared my Hollywood knowledge, it's all about you and Junie stealing the glory.”

“Is she still here?” Junie asks.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Leah says. “Tell her I'm still here because this is where I live. You guys are the visitors.”

I stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes. I count to ten, taking slow, even breaths. I open my eyes, grab the bag from Junie, then march to the door.

“What're you doing, Sherry?” Junie says sharply.

“Yeah, what's going on?” Leah asks.

I push on the door. “You two are stressing me out.” I step into a yellow patch of bright sunlight. “I'm going by myself.”

Luckily, I'm in Hollywood where dreams come true and where directors make sure everyone follows the script and events fall into place just as they should.

A checkered taxicab pulls up to the curb.

I hop in.

L
ast time, Dad and Junie came with me to the Beverly Hills Police Department. This time, I'm tackling it on my own. I walk up the cement ramp to the turquoise-trimmed double doors. With each step, I'm mulling over my strategy, figuring out how to talk Detective Garcia over to our side.

I pull open the door and cross the threshold. Behind the counter and protected by bulletproof glass, Officer Mullins messes with papers in a wire basket. Very déjà vu.

I'm starting to understand why the police haven't solved this case. They're caught in a time warp, never moving forward, just going through the motions.

“What can I do for you?” Officer Mullins roots
around under the counter. “I think we might have some—”

“I'm not looking for a coloring book,” I say. “Remember me? I was here a few days ago, talking with Detective Garcia about the Beverly Hills Bandits?”

Officer Mullins scratches his head. “A lot of people find their way through our doors. I can't be expected to recognize all the faces.”

“I need to speak with Detective Garcia,” I say, skipping straight to the point. “I know where the next heist will take place.”

The officer opens a little door in the glass and pushes through a yellow pad of paper and a pencil.

Not the pad-of-paper-and-the-pencil routine again. I refuse to be stuck in his time warp.

I grab my stomach and fake-groan. “Oh, oh, oh.”

“What's wrong?” the officer asks, still pushing his writing materials through the glass. He's very one-track-minded.

“I'm gonna hurl all over the place.” I paste a grimace of agony on my face. “Why did I eat that last really fat and greasy burrito? Why did I pour on a whole bucket of bright red, chunky salsa?” I punctuate my sentence with a belch.

“Stop!” Officer Mullins bangs on the glass. “Stop in the name of the law!” He pounds some more. “Do not throw up on the floor.” More pounding. “Throw up in that bag you're holding.”

I rattle the bag in the air. “This bag? It has candy in it. So, uh, ixnay on throwing up in it.” I clamp a hand over my mouth and groan and moan. My acting has improved by leaps and bounds since my arrival in Los Angeles. Must be something in the air.

“I order you to open that bag!” Officer Mullins shouts. He's all pressed up against the glass, his big stomach flopped on the counter.

Instead of following orders, I dash to the stairs. I slide my hand from my mouth to my chin and call over my shoulder, “I'm a sprinter at sports day for my school. I'll make it to the restroom.”

“Use the restroom on this floor,” he calls out.

I fake-drag myself up the stairs, clawing the turquoise banister. I turn and burp loudly a couple of times. “Too nauseated to descend.”

Officer Mullins sits down, safe behind his bulletproof, vomit-proof glass.

At the top of the stairs and out of the officer's sight, I straighten. Then I'm off, dashing around the corner and down the hall to the Detective Division, where yet another officer sits behind glass. He blinks at me. “Yes?”

“Sherry Baldwin for Detective Tatiana Garcia,” I say.

“She expecting you?”

“She sure should be,” I say. “Please tell her Sherry's
here with information about which star's home will be broken into next.”

He picks up the phone and mumbles away.

Within seconds, the door swings open.

“Hi, Sherry.” Several strands of flyaway hair have escaped from Detective Garcia's ponytail. She looks like a mad scientist.

I'm barely seated when she starts quizzing me.

“Whose house do you think will be next?” she asks.

“Kira Cornish's. At the top of that big hill.”

“Why?” she asks. “What are you basing this on?” She pulls a couple of Reese's Cups from her pocket and offers me one.

I shake my head and lift out the sour Gummi worms from the plastic bag. I pry off the lid, then tilt the container toward her.

She pulls out a green worm. What is it with detectives and sugar? It must help us think better so that we make connections and hook up the jigsaw pieces.

I talk about
After School with Uncle Stanley
and the actors' name changes and plastic surgery. Then I move on to the library meeting and Lorraine, Stef and Taylor. I describe David Hughes. I tell her about how he collects keys and how that explains the theft of Dear Elle's purse.

Detective Garcia's eyes never leave my face. I bet she doesn't even know she inhaled four peanut but
ter cups. “That's some amazing sleuthing work, Sherry.”