I So Don't Do Mysteries (11 page)

It's nine a.m.
Monday morning, my first full day in
San Diego. Kendra and I are in her rental Jeep Wrangler, zooming north. The wind is whistling and
whipping in through the half doors, attacking the many plastic grocery bags on the backseat. Because I
wasn't sure which Mary Kay products Kendra would use, I grabbed a few of everything.

Junie and Amber left crazy early for their big debut as extras. I told them I was going to
the Wild Animal Park with a tour group from the Hotel Del. I didn't want to lie, but I was
worried Amber would spill the beans to Damon about Kendra going to the Park. Besides,
Junie's made it clear she doesn't want to hear anything even remotely mystery related.
Because she's so convinced there isn't a mystery.

I'm cutely outfitted for detecting in navy shorty shorts and a white blouse with
teeny cornflowers around an elastic scoop neck. I'm carrying a large, floppy denim hat. Sadly,
Kendra's dressed only slightly better than last night. She's wearing old-lady clothes: a
tan safari-shorts-and-button-down combo with a thick masculine belt. She'd definitely earn a
Fashion Ewwww.

Both sides of the highway are blanketed with blindingly bright red, orange and yellow
plants. Miles off in the distance, green hills are dotted with rocks that look like huge Pippi
Longstocking freckles. It's like I'm in a high-def Nickelodeon cartoon.

“Sherry,” Kendra asks, “how'd you know about the
unauthorized rhino treats?”

I won't answer. I can't tell her about my mom because of Academy
rules. Plus, I don't want to. I don't need even more people thinking I'm
whacked. Cupping my ear, I say, “Huh? Huh? Can't hear you.”

She raises her voice. “How'd you know about the unauthorized rhino
treats?”

After pasting on a puzzled look, I mouth,
Can't hear you
.

Jaws open wide like a whale's, Kendra screams each word individually.
“How. Did. You. Know. About. The. Rhino. Treats!”

Help. She'll never give up. After drawing an X across my chest with my index
finger, I answer in a normal voice, “I promised I wouldn't tell.”

She picks up her sports bottle and squirts water down her throat. Then she slings a
slit-eyed look at me.

“I can't break a promise, Kendra. Sorry—really—but I
have my integrity to consider.”

Before I can pop off a question about Damon's finances, she asks,
“How'd you get so interested in helping the rhinos?”

Kendra, stop already. She's like Nancy Drew's obnoxious big sister.
“My mother.”

“Your mother?” Her eyes widen, even the smaller one. “Does
she work with rhinos?”

“Not that I know of. She's just, uh, you know, interested in
them.”

There's only the sound of the wind zipping around the Jeep, rattling the plastic
bags while Kendra digests this.

I get straight to the point. “So, I read in the paper that Damon's having
a hard time getting money for his movie. Is it true?”

Kendra brushes me off like I'm a nerdy thirteen-year-old. “Want to hear
the speech I'm giving at the ceremony?”

Eventually we exit the highway and drive along a two-lane road. We pass wooden
fruit-and-vegetable stands and signs for an ostrich farm. The closer we get to the Park, the more
all-business Kendra gets. She practices parts of her speech out loud. I learn that rhino horns are worth
a lot on the black market. People buy them for dagger horns and quack medicines. Kendra's
emotional and angry when she says this part.

She's very single-minded when it comes to the rhinos. Seems like
Damon's very single-minded about his movie. Too bad they aren't single-minded about
the same thing.

We turn up the drive to the Park, and Kendra pulls into a spot in the parking lot. Then
we hurry up the hill to the entrance, where she flashes her ID and I hand over one of the free passes.
Next we hustle along until we reach what looks like a small African village with a little picnic area and a
bunch of grass-roofed buildings. By the wooden signs I can tell they're restaurants and gift
shops.

“This is Nairobi Village, where the ceremony will be. I better check in.”
Kendra glances around. “Let's get you settled in a front-row seat.”

I don't think staying for the ceremony is a good plan for me. No, I definitely
need to poke around the Park. And buy a coffee to call my mother with. “I'm going to
look around first.”

“Well, okay, but don't take too long, or you'll miss the
beginning of the ceremony,” Kendra says. “I'll be done in a couple of hours.
Do you need a ride back to Coronado?”

“Definitely.”

She flips her wrist to see her watch. “See you after the speech. Let's
meet at the picnic area.” And she takes off.

I wait till she's out of sight before heading over to one of the little hut places for
coffee. When I get to the front of the line, I ask, “What's your largest
size?”

The woman, decked out in the same unattractive safari outfit as Kendra, holds up a
Styrofoam cup.

I frown. I mean, we're many miles away from downtown San Diego. I
don't see how my mother could find me from that cup. “Nothing bigger?”

Safari Waitress frowns. “It's a large. Twenty ounces.”

I look at the stuff displayed around her window. “How about the bucket for the
kid's meal?”

“You want me to fill the children's meal container with coffee?”
From her tone, you'd think I asked her to spend the night in the tiger exhibit. With hunks of
raw steak as a pillow. “That's a lot of coffee.”

I shrug. “That's how I roll.”

She shakes her head like it's all too bizarre. “I don't have a lid
that'll fit.”

“No problem. I'm extremely coordinated.” I smile wide.
“And could ya make it strong? No milk or whipped cream or sugar.”

Across her little ledge, Safari Waitress passes me the bucket of coffee, still shaking her
head. “Be careful. It's hot.”

“Which way are the rhinos?” I grip the flimsy handle with both
hands.

“The rhino exhibit's quite a walk from here. You'd be better off
taking the monorail.” She frowns. “After you finish your coffee. No drinks allowed on
the train.”

“Okay.” I'm all noncommittal.

Clutching the bucket to my stomach and trying not to slosh, I lurch in the direction she
indicated. This sucker is heavy. I hope my mom shows up soon. Before my arms fall off.

Suddenly, bobbing in the middle of the crowd up ahead, I spy a familiar head of orange
orangutan hair.

The familiar head of Monkey Man!

It's detecting time.
An eye on Monkey Man, I cram
on my floppy hat and grasp tight with numb fingers to the bucket of coffee.

I fight my way through the people until only a few families separate us. Not easy while
juggling a gazillion gallons of steaming caffeine. When Monkey Man joins the monorail line, I drop back
and hide behind a wooden column. The sec he's seated and looking away from me, I shuffle
toward the train.

“No food or drink on the monorail,” a girl in a safari outfit says. The
Park obviously got a huge discount on ugly uniforms. She waggles a finger toward a waste bin.

I switch directions, trying not to cause a tsunami in the bucket. When she's not
looking, I hug the bucket in close and cover it with my hat. I'm so not dumping the coffee, aka
my phone line.

Hunched over and chin tucked, I walk sideways to the end of the train. Safari Girl is
boarding, her back to me. I speed up.

Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Ack. A huge, ugly coffee stain spreads across my previously adorable white blouse.
Not even industrial-strength stain remover is gonna help this disaster.

I snag a spot alone in the caboose compartment a couple of rows behind Monkey Man.
I set the bucket on the floor and smooth out my shirt.

Monkey Man's sitting by himself too. His apishly long left arm hanging outside
the car, he's tapping the metal side with his fingers and staring out at the bush.

In case he looks back, I slump down in the seat, tugging the brim of my hat low over
my eyes. Then I get my bearings. There's a canopy roof above, and the sides of the train, open
from about three feet up, give way to a panorama of the savanna. It's brown dirt, ponds with
green water and patches of grass and shrubs. Very
National Geographic.

Lots of families are on board. In front of Monkey Man, a frazzled mom jiggles a fussy
baby on her lap while her toddler bugs the poor other woman in the compartment.

At the front of the train, Safari Girl stands. “Good morning, folks. My name is
Hannah. And I'm going to take you on an exciting safari through the wilds of
Africa.”

With a jerk, we're off.

Hannah drones on and on about our surroundings and the animals and their habits. She
inches the train forward, stops, talks and inches forward again.

My phone starts to ring. Ack. I slap it off quickly. It's a text from Junie. I text
her back, and we get a conversation going. Which is good, because I'm seriously tired of
animal trivia.

Yay. Junie's coming to the Wild Animal Park. Everything is better when
you're with a friend.

Monkey Man sneezes.

“The acacia trees are in bloom,” Hannah says. “Sounds like we
have an allergy sufferer on board.”

I do a mental high five. With his sneezing, I'll never lose him.

“Folks, look under the palm tree on the left side of the train.” Hannah
points. “See the group of female rhinos? The females are very sociable and like to hang out
together in a group called a crash.”

Hannah, puhleeze, put the pedal to the metal. I only have two hours till Kendra's
speech ends. I gotta figure out what Monkey Man is up to.

“Look over by the water hole. It's Frank, our Cape buffalo. An
extremely aggressive animal.” She slows the train. “In fact, Fightin' Frank is
being moved to his own enclosure later today because he's been bullying the other
animals.”

“What's the hut for?” a woman calls out.

I glance at the small stucco building.

“That's the rhino keeper's,” Hannah answers.
“The white rhino lying in the shade by the door is Ongava.” She stops the train.
“He's our youngest male calf. Until Gina's calf arrives, that is.”

“What's the calf doing by the hut?” the same woman asks.

“He probably wants to be near Sue, our head rhino keeper.” Hannah
continues, “Rhinos have a terrific sense of smell, and Ongava loves Sue's shampoo,
Sassy Girl.”

Just like mine.

“In fact, all our rhinos love it. Sue keeps a few bottles in the hut. Then, when
she wants the rhinos to change location, she dribbles Sassy Girl on the ground. They just follow the
shampoo trail.”

Obviously, Hannah could talk for centuries about animals. I drift off into my fave
daydream. The one where Josh and I are slow-dancing at a school dance. I'm snuggled up
against him. He's moving in for a kiss.

A child screams from way up front.

I sit up straight and look around. A giraffe is loping toward the first compartment.

The kid screams again.

“I made it,” a familiar voice says beside me.

I scream. My palm pressing down on my chest, I whisper, “Mom, you almost
gave me a heart attack.”

“I'm impressed I actually managed to find this place. And I successfully
negotiated a monorail landing. That's two firsts for me today.” She's probably
patting herself on the back. “The bucket of coffee was very helpful.”

“Thank you, thank you.” I mock-bow from the waist, then point to
Monkey Man. “See that guy with the long arms? He's the one from the tennis courts.
Who dropped all the weird seed.” I look around. “Where's
Grandpa?”

“Your signal was so strong; I told him he could stop in the aviary for a bite to
eat.”

Another scream from the front of the train.

“What's going on up there, anyway?” I crane my neck for a
clearer view.

A giraffe's head bobs closer and closer to a little girl. His tongue, long and
skinny, wriggles through the air toward a green, leaflike barrette in the kid's hair.

“Don't worry, folks.” Hannah stands. “He can't
get any nearer. What a great close-up view of a giraffe's blue-black tongue.”

“Gross.” I make a face. “That tongue looks like it was in a fight.
And lost.”

“Sherry, Sherry,” my mother whispers, all agitated. “He jumped
down.”

I peer over the side of the monorail. Ack. Eek. Awk. Monkey Man's hoofing it
across the plain.

“Jump. Sherry, now. While everyone's staring at the
giraffe.”

I look over the edge again. And waaaay down. Too far. “No, I'll break
my legs.”

“Sherry, you can do it.”

Can you believe my
mother
is asking me to do this? “There are wild
animals down there. With teeth. And claws.”

“I'll be with you. I told you how well I did in my Animal Mind Control
class. I'll plant thought suggestions to keep the animals away from you.”

“Like ‘Eat the clump of grass, not the tasty girl'?”
Right. This from the woman who can only find me in the presence of coffee. The woman who
crash-lands everywhere. The woman who floats off in the middle of a conversation. I squeeze as far
into the corner as possible. “Nuh-uh.”

My cell phone rings. I look at the screen. Josh! “Mom, I'll do the
detective thing when we're back at the monorail station. Promise.”

“You're letting a hot trail grow cold.”

“I'm not jumping. I don't want to die,” I say, flipping
open the phone. “I'm taking this call.”

“Hey, Sherry,” Josh says.

That voice, that voice, that voice. I would follow it anywhere. I'm goose
bumped from head to toe, inside and out.

“There's a change—” he says.

My cell is rudely ripped from my hand and tossed over the side of the train.
Josh's golden tones grow fainter and fainter. “Sherry? Sherry? Are
you—” His voice cuts out.

I watch in horror as the phone spirals down, whirling and twirling, glinting and gleaming
in the air. It splats on the dirt.

Hannah cries, “Here comes another giraffe.”

And my right leg is up and over the side of the monorail before you can say
“You'll pay for this, Mom.” I hang on for a second with curled fingers, then
belly-flop onto the hard-as-cement ground. My hat sails off my head and lands at the top of a small,
prickly tree.

My breath whooshes out. I lie still, flattened, corpselike, full of pain.