The Underdogs (3 page)

I thought it was sweet he was checking on us, even though my mom had made him do it.

Evie didn't answer for a second, and Lucky turned to me. “You'll look out for her, won't you, Chelsea?” He looked me right in the eyes. “You're the strongest one of all of us. You take care of my girl.”

“We're fine,” Evie assured him. “Can we talk about this at home? Later?”

Lucky shrugged, smiled, and patted her on the head, then me. “Sure, kiddo. I gotta go teach, anyway.”

Once he was out of the way, we stood watching the forensics team work in the blazing sun at the pool, and I stayed quiet while Evie thought about things. After a minute she said, “Chelsea, we've got to keep an eye on this detective. We have to find out what happened to Annabel. He doesn't have a clue about this place. How will he know where to look, or who to talk to?” She played with her braid and added, “I don't want that detective to miss any important leads. Whenever you can, stay near him, okay? I'll cover the front desk.”

She didn't have to say it:
Because that's where all the gossiping gets done
. She also didn't have to add,
Because no one will notice me there
. Well, they wouldn't, and this time it would come in handy. We'd already proved we could overhear the most private conversations without anyone raising a single eyebrow. We could go anywhere in the club. Speaking of which, I was catching a scent that wasn't exactly pleasant. I took a few sniffs. Oh, crap.

“What is it?” Evie took a few loud sniffs herself. “I don't smell anything.”

I did. It was faint, but it was there. Every summer, usually when July hit, the county landfill—also known as the town dump, because the powers that be had dumped it on the St. Claire border—behind the club started stinking, and with today's scorching temperatures the rich stench of superheated garbage was wafting our way. Poor Gene. Grumpy members complaining about the reeking landfill was the last thing he needed.

I wasn't surprised by Evie's interest in keeping an eye on the detective's every move.
Harriet the Spy
was, after all, her favorite book (after every single Laura Ingalls Wilder book ever written). I also wasn't surprised because Annabel had been one of the only people around here to ever be nice to Evie. They'd become pals this summer, and I knew this loss would weigh on my friend. Well, maybe the mystery surrounding Annabel's death was a wrong we could do something about. We really needed to keep our eyes and ears open so we would be prepared when Detective Ashlock questioned us. We had to make sure there was justice for Annabel.

Evie put her arm around me and squeezed. “It's all going to be okay, Chelsea.”

I felt a little better. I thought it would be okay, in the end.

 

Before

Evie and I had witnessed some of Annabel's ups and downs that summer. One day in early July, Annabel glided into the club as if she'd hitched a ride on a cloud. My mom was on front desk duty, munching on pistachios while gossiping with Lisa Denessen, who was lining up the shells in the shape of her initials.

Lisa was sixteen and did it all around here: taught exercise classes, worked the front desk, and acted as a roving trainer in the gym supposedly giving fitness advice, but instead spending her shift with members, mostly male, mostly muscular. She tried really hard to be attractive. She had these glints of blond in her shiny brown hair and she had a year-round tan and she was, shall we say, curvy, but her abrasive personality and cutesy-harsh voice—think evil chipmunk—made Evie and me cringe. She had distinctive features that were just short of beautiful: luscious lips, a prominent nose that bent slightly to the right, and wide, innocent eyes framed with long lashes usually weighed down with clumps of blue-black Covergirl mascara.

Anyway, we noticed something different about Annabel that day. For starters, her BFF Portia Belfort, who was glued to her side 99 percent of the time, had recently left for Europe with her family, so Annabel came in alone for once, greeting us with a twinkle in her eye and a smile that flashed two rows of perfect white teeth. My mom offered the simple salutation Gene required of all front desk staff—
Good afternoon, Annabel
(always use the member's name)—and surveyed the girl in her white short shorts, flat leather sandals, and a favorite hot-pink halter top that made her skin glow and accentuated her tiny waist. As always, the golden dog was shining away on her chest. Annabel's mom had given her the solid-gold charm necklace last year after their family pet, Old Fluff, died, leaving Annabel so sad the light had gone out of her eyes for months. She never took that necklace off, not even when she went for a swim. It had sapphire eyes, her mom had explained, to show how special Annabel was, and they were pink to honor her favorite color. I'd heard her call it her lucky charm more than once.

“Hi, Annabel,”
Lisa sang in a nasal, mocking voice, pretending to do it under her breath but, in fact, saying it loud enough for everyone to hear.

Annabel smiled and wiggled her fingers at Lisa, who was decked out in her full yoga garb of a shiny blue leotard and pink spandex shorts. Evie and I got a special wink. As Annabel continued toward the women's locker room, Nicholas burst out of the men's locker room and bumped into her. His hair was wet, and droplets were falling on his shoulders and down his tummy. Lisa straightened up and smoothed her hair. She'd always had one eye on Nicky.

“Hi, Nicholas,” Lisa said, batting her blue-black eyelashes. He glanced over briefly and said, “How's it going?” Before Lisa could tell him how it was going, he turned that smile on Annabel.

“Got my lunch, sis?” He kissed Annabel on the cheek. She put one hand on her hip.

“I most certainly do. And I don't know where you put it all.”

She pretend-punched him lightly in his washboard abs, and then reached into her tote to pull out two large Ziploc bags full of meat sandwiches. “Ah,” he said, taking the bags. “A veritable feast. See you at the pool?”

She nodded and smiled, and he took off into the men's locker room, drops of water snaking down his back. We watched Annabel walk slowly to the women's locker room, shaking her head and smiling to herself.

“That girl's in love,” my mom pronounced.

“What are you talking about, Beth? Why would you
say
that?” Lisa demanded, her hands angrily on her hips. “And, like, with
who
?”

“Because she has that wicked ‘in love' look in her eye, that's why,” my mother replied, using one of her favorite Boston-flavored terms.
Wicked
this and
wicked
that was all the rage again in Massachusetts these days. “And I don't
know
who, Lisa. I'm just making an observation. If anyone would know who was dating who, I figure it would be you.”

Lisa opened her mouth like she was totally insulted, though I wasn't quite sure why. I agreed with my mom. It was the happiness in Annabel's eyes, the way her nose had crinkled with that genuine smile, the joy in her gait. Evie's face darkened, and she played nervously with her braid. She'd been kidding herself all summer that there was nothing serious going on with Annabel and her secret lover, whose identity we were pretty sure we knew. My best friend shot me a look, and off we went to stealthily follow Annabel.

 

After

Once we'd heard that revealing conversation between Ashlock, Gene, and my mom, the first thing Evie and I did was to try to find Harmony to warn him about those two throwing him under the bus. After an exhaustive search of the club, we couldn't find the guy anywhere. As we huffed and puffed back at the front desk, Mom—who was back on reception duty—put her iced Dunkin' Donuts coffee (extra cream, extra sugar) down and waggled her index finger at us.

“Calm down, girls, and drink some water before you get heatstroke. Sheesh.”

We dutifully scampered behind the desk and my mom gave us some water. After I drank enough to satisfy her, she hugged me and sent us on our way. We were close, my mom and I. She'd adopted me about two years ago, and she always made a point of telling me that she never, ever had any doubts about taking me on despite what everyone said.

What did they say? Basically, that the stuff that had happened to me when I was younger might have made me “damaged goods” and cursed me with what grownups called “severe behavioral problems.” I'd never be “normal,” they explained to my mom. Sure, I have scars, and I have limitations, but Mom says those things make her love me even more. There's one scar on my ear—it's more of a dent, really, a triangular piece of cartilage missing forever—but it's covered by my hair. The ones on my tummy are rarely seen, so the average person would never know they were there; ditto the ones on my ankles. And the scars on the inside of me, the unseen ones, Mom says, make me even more
me
. I like that way of looking at it. I try not to feel sorry for myself, and most of the time I'm just grateful to have her. I try not to spend my time being angry at the people who hurt me. Plus, my best friend was in much more of a crisis these days than I currently was, so I spent more time tending to her and less time worrying that I wasn't exactly perfect.

At this point, I was rehydrated and ready to deal with the crisis at hand. Evie said, “Maybe we should look behind Court 9?”

I agreed. I sure didn't have any better ideas, so we dashed off to find Harmony before the detective did.

*   *   *

It turned out he wasn't behind Court 9, but he was close. Harmony was out by the Dumpster in the far corner of the parking lot, where a dirt path wound around toward the outdoor tennis courts. He was smoking and pacing. I winced. The icky landfill smell was far worse here than at the pool. It didn't really matter in the long run, though; people would keep coming to the club, odor or no odor, because it had cachet. The fancy Long Hills Country Club was twelve miles away and had no dump anywhere near it, but
we
had a summer waiting list full of the richest families in the Boston suburbs because there was
just something about this place
. Everyone said it. I tried not to breathe through my nose as we got closer to our target, who was wearing mirrored sunglasses, a black T-shirt, and baggy olive-green cargo shorts. He had a scraggly mass of hair that was so black it had glints of blue in it, and even when it was scorching hot outside he'd still be dressed in dark colors.

Evie and I stayed out of sight behind some hedges.
What now?
She put on a thinker's face, then focused on Harmony twenty feet away.
Pssst,
she hissed.
Pssssst! Harmony!

He furrowed his brow and whipped around to look our way. I felt Evie flinch. We wanted to help him, but then again, we weren't sure whether to approach him. What if he had had something to do with Annabel's death? He was strong, with a swimmer's shoulders and muscular legs.

Harmony mouthed,
What?

Evie beckoned him over. Seeing his face, remembering he was a friend who'd never hurt a soul, convinced us we were safe.
Hurry!
she mouthed.

But suddenly Harmony stopped pacing and looked in the direction of the club's main entrance. We were too late. He ran his free hand through his hair, brushing his feathered black bangs off his face before they flopped right back down over his eyes. He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with a worn sandal. He leaned back against the Dumpster and put his right leg up, like a stork, and waited.

“Harmony Goldblatt?”

Detective Ashlock came into view. He looked like he was melting again, but he still refused to take off his blazer. He had the handkerchief in one hand, and he extended his other to Harmony. Harmony looked at it like it was swarming with killer germs, but finally took it.

“Gold
en
blatt.”

“I'm Detective Ted Ashlock. I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind.” He stuffed his handkerchief in his pants pocket and took his notebook out of his blazer's inside pocket.

“I already gave my statement to your minions,” Harmony said. He was still in the stork stance, and his arms were crossed over his chest. “
And
my alibi.”

Ashlock didn't have sunglasses, and considering it was sunny and about ninety-five degrees, I thought maybe he should get some. “Oh, right,” he said. “Of course. But since you found her body and you're one of the only ones with a key to the place—”

“Whoa,” Harmony said, making a face like the detective was a moron. “Who needs a key? You see that fence? A grade-school kid could hop that thing with a boost. A little stepladder and anyone could get into that pool.”

It was true. The pool fence was only about eight feet high and it wasn't like there were any spikes or barbed wire on it.

“That's a good point, Harmony,” Ashlock conceded, and cracked a simpatico smile. “The thing is, we have evidence that indicates someone was in the pool with Annabel, and that they came in through that revolving door.” He pointed toward the club's entrance.

This Ashlock guy was turning out to have more gravitas than you could see at first glance.
That voice
, for one. It was like a radio announcer's with a bit of sandpaper thrown in. And it didn't go at all with his other standout feature, which was his smooth alabaster skin. In any case, Harmony was holding his ground against the voice and the questions, and Evie and I were cheering him on silently from our hiding place.

He shrugged at Ashlock's revelation. “Maybe so. But who knows who else could've come in over that fence?”

Ashlock flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Harmony, I want to get your take on what you think happened. Help me get to know the victim.”