Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (11 page)

Now, it's not that Debra
is
a dumb dodo. She might actually be smart. I just haven't been able to get past that big ratty nest of bleached hair she wears on top of her head to check out her brain. I can't imagine why she wears her hair like that—or why she doesn't either chip the orange nail polish on her claws completely off or coat
it over. And then I get distracted by her nose. I mean, I know she's trying to hide it, but putting that much powder on it is like shoveling snow on top of Mount Everest. Every time I see her, I get this urge to strap on skis and cry, “Geronimo!”

Anyway, to me she's always just looked like some kind of freak dodo bird carrying a nest on her head. Officer Borsch, though, doesn't see her like I do. You can just tell. He's
friendly
with her, and if you know the Borschman, you know this is weird. Extremely weird.

Anyway, Debra the Dodo was right there behind the counter, and the minute she sees me, she breaks into a big-beak smile. “Hey-ya, Sams. I heard you were back makin' trouble. Here to see the big guy, I suppose?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, hang on. You're in luck. I know he's around 'cause he was just up here borrowing my tweezers.”

“Your … tweezers?”

“Yeah, now hang on. I'll go round him up.”

Two minutes later she was back, and she practically had him by the ear. “Here you go, Sams. At your service.”

Officer Borsch comes out to the foyer, saying, “You've got something, I can tell. What is it?”

So I tell him about the Camo-butt Queen and her West Side Posse. And after he gets done berating me for talking to gangsters, I show him my notebook and explain everything Marissa and I had figured out at the high school library.

Officer Borsch interrupts me a lot, like he always does, and frowns a lot, like he always does, but for once he jots
stuff down in his notebook like he actually cares. And when I'm all done he says, “Now
this
ought to get us somewhere, and you didn't have to stick your neck into gang territory to get it. Nice work, Sammy.”

I just sat there blinking, not believing my ears. I mean, Officer Borsch's idea of showing appreciation is the Grunt. The God-it's-killing-me-to-consider-this Grunt. So I didn't know what to say to his Nice work, Sammy.

Then the Dodo says over the counter, “Can you take a call, Gil? Line two,” and off he goes, grumbling, “I'll contact you if something breaks,” over his shoulder.

So off
I
go, to home sweet home. And on the way there I'm thinking, Okay. Now he'll find her. Or her family, at least. But then I start wondering, If she has a family, wouldn't they have called in a missing persons report? 'Course, maybe she didn't live at home. Maybe she'd been kicked out because of the baby. Still, her family had to be able to tell Officer Borsch
some
thing. They probably even knew Snake Eyes.

By the time I started up the fire escape, I was feeling pretty good. I'd earned myself a nice long shower and a good night's sleep. No baby to feed or change or
worry
about. After homework, I could just flop down and
zzzzzzz
, sleep!

When I got up to the fifth floor, I opened the fire-escape door a crack, like I always do; checked to make sure the coast was clear, like I always do; zipped down to Grams' door and let myself in, like I always do; and I'm about to toss my backpack down and call out “Hi, Grams,” like I always do, only Grams comes flying out of
the kitchen and drags me into the living room by the arm, whispering, “Did she see you?”

“No! Of course not.” For a split second I thought she was talking about our old neighbor, Daisy Graybill. But then I realized that that couldn't be, so I just shook my head and said, “Did
who
see me?”

“Rose!”

“Mrs. Wedgewood? No. Grams, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Grams collapses onto the couch and puts a hand to her forehead like she's feeling for fever. She takes a deep breath and holds it, then lets it out all at once. “Perhaps I have. Perhaps Daisy's come back to haunt us in the form of that … that … woman!”

“But … but Mrs. Wedgewood doesn't seem anything like Mrs. Graybill.”

Grams sits up a little and whispers, “At least with Daisy I knew where we stood. With this one, I can't tell. I just can't tell!”

I sit down beside her and ask, “What happened?”

“She heard, Samantha. She heard the baby last night.”

“She couldn't have, Grams! I kept him so quiet!” Then I remembered. “He did cry a little when I went to the bathroom, but it was only for a minute. Grams, I couldn't help it—I had to
go
.”

“I'm not blaming you, Samantha, I'm just not sure what to do.”

“Well, what did she say?”

Just then there's a knock at the door. And after Grams and I look at each other with bug eyes, I do what I always
do when there's a knock on the door. I pick up all my stuff, check the place over to make sure I haven't left something around that'll give me away, and head for Grams' room.

I really wanted to hear who was at the door, so I thought about hiding under Grams' bed, but the bed was stripped and the comforter was wadded in a heap on top. No cover there! So I made for the closet, but I left Grams' bedroom door wide open and the closet door open a few inches, too.

I could hear Grams answer the apartment door, and then I recognized the sound of Mrs. Wedgewood's walker creaking along and her voice saying, “Now, now, Rita. It's all right. We're
neigh
bors.”

I couldn't hear Grams' end of the conversation very well because she was keeping her voice down, but ol' Mrs. Wedgewood was talking loud—like she wanted someone in another room to hear.

It took me longer than it should have to realize that that someone was me.

I shifted a little on Grams' shoes and strained to hear more. Mrs. Wedgewood was saying, “Honestly, Rita. I'm glad about it. Truly I am. All I'm asking is for her to run an errand for me now and then. Maybe take down my trash, or run to the market—nothing big.” Then she calls, “Samantha? It's okay, sugar. You can come out now.”

I held my breath and froze. Then Grams' voice shoots through the air, loud and clear. “Mrs. Wedgewood! This is not acceptable. Mrs. Wedgewood? Mrs. Wedgewood, stop! Where do you think you're going?”

The creaking and thumping of the walker is getting louder and louder, so I slink back in the closet, hiding the best I can behind Grams' dresses and pants. Then I hear Mrs. Wedgewood say, “Rita dear, if we're going to be neighbors, we need to trust each other. The rest of my body may be falling completely apart, but my hearing has always been superb.” The thumping stops and I can practically see her turn to face my grams. “I can hear biscuits rising in my oven, I can hear ants march inside walls, so you'd better believe I can hear young girls coming home from school.” She knocks twice on the closet door and says, “Now please, can we help each other out?”

“Mrs. Wedgewood, honestly!” Grams cries.

“Rita, she's either in here or under the bed, and from the way you're fighting me back, I'd place my money on …,” the closet door swings wide open as she says, “… here.”

Through Grams' hemlines I can see Mrs. Wedgewood's ankles, swelling over the tops of her rubbery black shoes. And as hard as I try to hold my breath and wish myself away, I can just
feel
that she knows I'm there.

“Of all the nerve!” All of a sudden Grams is latching on to her,
swinging
on her back, trying to pull her away from the closet. But Mrs. Wedgewood is like a beached whale, and finally she just twists Grams off. Then she jabs my foot with the rubber tip of her walker, and says, “Samantha, I can
see
you, sugar. Come
out
.”

What could I do? It was all over. I pushed out through the clothes while Grams stuttered and sputtered excuses
that were even lamer than some of my very worst. “… and the headaches get so severe that she can't take the light. It's torture for her!”

Mrs. Wedgewood and I both look at her and sort of shake our heads. Then Mrs. Wedgewood says, “Rita, I won't tell a soul. She seems like a fine young lady, and I'm sure our arrangement will be mutually beneficial.” And before Grams can start an argument, she wags her nose at the closet and asks, “So where do you hide the baby?”

“The
baby
?” Grams asks.

She nods. “Samantha's baby.”

“It's not
my
baby!” I cry. “I really was baby-sitting!” She looks at me suspiciously. “Well, it wouldn't be the first time a girl your age got in trouble, you know.”

Grams throws her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Wedge-wood!”

“Oh, Rita. Take a Valium.”

Grams' eyes bug out so far they almost hit the lenses of her glasses. And while she's standing there with her mouth gaping, Mrs. Wedgewood hobbles out of the bedroom, saying, “The plain truth is that I'm not supposed to be living here, either. Anyone can see I've got Assisted Care written all over me, but I don't want that. I can't
afford
that. And since I managed to get in here, I intend to
stay
here as long as is humanly possible.” She stops and looks at us over the beef of her shoulder. “With your help.”

“But …,” I blurted. “What do you want me to
do
?”

“Nothing much, sugar,” she says with a smile. “I'm just
asking you to be a little neighborly.” She shrugs and pushes toward the front door, saying, “Run to the store for me now and again, help me around the apartment when I need it, and if I should fall again like I did the other night, help me up so's they don't have to call in the fire department.” She clanks out into the hallway, nodding that great wiggy head of hers. “So glad we got that all straightened out. Good night!” Grams slams the door behind her and fumes, “The
nerve
of that woman! Daisy, for all her flaws, would never have done that!”

“Grams, look. It's going to be okay. I don't mind helping her out.”

“Samantha, it's blackmail!”

“But she never said if I didn't help her she would tell people I was living here.”

“She didn't have to. It was perfectly clear.” Then she mutters, “‘Help each other out’—how is
she
helping
us
?”

I just shrug, so she says, “That woman is trouble with a capital T. In all my years I've never met anyone so brash. She may not look like a fox, but that one's crafty, believe me.” Then she grumbles, “ ‘Take a Valium’ … the
nerve
.”

“Well… what do you think we should do?”

“There's nothing we
can
do but keep her happy.” She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a package of red snapper, a head of lettuce, and some carrots. She stopped suddenly and said, “Before I start on this I've got to run down to the basement and get the laundry. I didn't want to risk missing you earlier, so it's all still down
there.” She scowls. “That is, if someone hasn't already run off with it.”

“Run off with it? Who would want to do that?”

“Audrey Brown was telling me she got her nightclothes and towels stolen just the other night.”

“Wow. A nightie-napper.”

“It's not funny, Samantha, it's theft. Now would you mind making some rice while I run downstairs?”

I would've gone to get the laundry for her, but there was that whole being spotted problem. So I just said, “Sure,” and pulled down a box of rice while she grabbed her keys and left the apartment.

And I'm busy reading the directions and measuring water, when I decide that if I hustle, I can surprise Grams and make everything. The snapper, the rice, the salad—everything. So while the water's heating up, I whip around the kitchen washing the fish, patting it dry, putting it in a glass pie dish with a little water and a lot of soy sauce, getting it ready to wrap and zap, just the way Grams likes it. And while I'm working, my mind kind of wanders around, thinking about Mrs. Wedgewood and whether she really is trouble with a capital T or just a lady who falls off toilets and needs a little help every now and again.

And then I remember how she thought Pepe was mine.

Mine
.

Please.

But that gets me thinking about Pepe's mom and how young
she
is, and I start wondering all over again about what in the world happened to her. Where
was
she? And
after Officer Borsch went off duty, who'd be looking for her? Anybody? And I'm in the middle of imagining the very worst when I yank open the drawer with Baggies and plastic wrap and see something that puts the brakes on me making dinner.

The phone book.

It's sitting there, right next to the plastic wrap, chock-full of information.
Important
information.

I stare at it for all of two seconds before deciding—it can't hurt. Just one little flip through the M's—see if there are any Morenos listed.

What could it possibly hurt?

“Moreno … Moreno … Moreno,” I muttered as I flipped through the white pages. And when I found the Moreno heading, I started counting. One, two, three, four … good grief ! There were about thirty Morenos!

I skimmed through the addresses. Some lived in Sisquane, some in Pomloc, some in Santa Luisa … only about half of them were in Santa Martina. I took a pencil and started marking the possibilities. Some of the streets listed were clear across town—there was even one on East Jasmine. Those had to be out. I couldn't see someone with a South West scar being from Marissa's neighborhood.