Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  Watching Tammy talk was one of the weirdest things I'd ever seen. She was spastic—like an actress with a short circuit. And every time she opened her mouth, out came a different voice. A different character. The only thing they all had in common was a twitchy nose.

  And as I watched her hop down the stairs, it hit me how none of those characters seemed to care about LeBrandi. As a matter of fact, no one around here did. Not really. It was all other stuff they were worried about. Like jewels and clothes and underwear.

  And it was a strange feeling to wonder if her being dead bothered me more than anyone at Max's. I mean, I seemed to think about it more than anyone else, and I didn't even know LeBrandi.

  Well, not as an alive person, anyway.

  So I just kind of followed along behind Marissa and my mom, up the stairs and down the hall, thinking that if LeBrandi could pop up from the dead, she'd be pretty disappointed to see how everyone was acting.

  Then we came to my mother's room. And I think that's when it finally hit my mother that this was her room, and the body that had been hauled away could very well have been her body.

  She stares at the wide bands of yellow-and-black police tape for a minute, then turns to me and whispers, “Don't go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Home. I know I said you had to, and I know we've been spatting, but… would you stay? I'm sure it'll be fine with Max, given the circumstances….”

  It was out before I could stop it. “Why? So I can be your bodyguard?”

  To my surprise, she didn't snap back. Instead she said, “No, I just…” She shook her head and walked over to LeBrandi's room, saying, “I just don't want you to leave … like this.”

  LeBrandi's room was wide open. And empty. Well, except for one banged-up backpack and a pummeled pink suitcase. They were sitting on the bed Marissa and I had slept in. Everything else, and I mean everything else, was gone. The closet was empty, the dresser was empty…and with the bedding stripped and the sun slashing lines on the wall through the blinds, the room looked like some sort of weird prison cell.

  My mother just stands in the middle of the room for a minute, then lays the red dress carefully across LeBrandi's bed and says, “I'm going to ask for a different room. I don't care if it's the laundry room, I can't sleep here.”

  The afternoon sun's beating in, and the room's a little sweatbox. So I turn the window crank fast, saying, “It may be kind of creepy in here, but actually, this is probably the safest place for you to be.”

  Now, while I'm cranking open the window, I notice Max walking along the pathway to the swimming pool. He's carrying a white towel and is wrapped in a heavy white terry-cloth robe. When he gets to the deep end of the pool, he slips his glasses off his nose and into his pocket, then pulls off the robe and drapes it across a chaise lounge.

  My mother's saying something to me, but I'm not paying attention. I've got my eye on Max as he heads for the front of the deep end, and let me tell you, my heart is starting to hammer. This might be my chance.

  The chance I thought I'd never get.

  But I hadn't seen him take off his chain, and I couldn't really see from across the courtyard whether or not he was wearing it. If only I had Grams' binoculars!

  He's standing there in the direct sun, getting ready to dive, and I'm staring, focusing as hard as I can. Then, at the last second, I try a trick that Hudson taught me when he was explaining about pinhole cameras. I pinch my thumbs and index fingers together so there's a tiny diamond of space in the middle of them. Then I hold it up to my eye like a telescope and focus on Max. On his chest.

  He pushes off to dive into the pool, and it's like slow motion to me. Him lifting from the ground, arcing into the water, going in with barely a splash. And when I take my hands away, I'm sure—there had been no glitter of gold in the sun.

  I didn't know how I was going to sneak down there without freaking out my mother, but I had to get down to the pool. Now.

  So I come away from the window with my blood pumping, scrambling for an excuse—any excuse—but my mother's gone.

  “Where'd she go?” I ask Marissa.

  Marissa laughs and says, “I knew you didn't hear her. She told you she was going to Tammy's to borrow some things, and you said, Uh-huh.”

  “I did?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, look!” I drag her over to the window and whisper, “Max is swimming.”

  “So?”

  “So he's not wearing his chain. At least I think he's not.”

  “His chain? Why do you care if he's wearing his chain or not?”

  “Because of the key on it….”

  “Sammy, no! It isn't worth it. Besides, your mother signed the contract, it was her choice, it's legal, and hello, Sammy? What you're talking about is completely illegal. Besides, he probably has copies somewhere. Like at a bank or something.”

  “Then why the Fort Knox security? Maybe most people would, but I don't think he does. He's too much of a control freak!”

  “But still…”

  “Please, Marissa. Look at it this way —right now it's like he owns her. She didn't violate her contract, she didn't skip classes or break curfew or do any of the things Opal did. She just had the horrible luck of having him fall in love with her. And after tonight—assuming she tells him no— she won't be able to stay here. How can she stay here? But she can't afford to leave, either. Fifty percent of everything goes to him for the next eight years! Do you think he's going to just rip up her contract and let her go? Do you think that's fair? Do you have any idea what that's going to do to her? It'd be like you never playing softball again. And I don't want her coming home if she's going to be all bitter and resentful. It would be worse than having her be a bubblehead down here! Please, Marissa, please. It's my only chance.”

  Marissa frowns at me long and hard, then grumbles, “So what do you want me to do?”

  I practically hugged her in two. Then I let go and asked, “Where are your house keys?”

  “In my suitcase.”

  “Are any of them Schlage keys?”

  “Schlage? How am I supposed to know?”

  “They say right on them.”

  So she pops open her suitcase and digs through a mountain of clothes until she finds her keys. And I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to find a Schlage among them, but still, I was jazzed. I pulled it off the ring and said, “Let's go!”

  “But wait! Why do you need my key? How am I going to get in my house?”

  I couldn't stop to answer. I had to get down there. Fast.

  Marissa comes chasing down the stairs after me. “Sammy, wait! What are you going to do?”

  I whisper, “I'm going to exchange keys, all right? Now, shh!”

  She was not happy with me. Not at all. But she stayed with me as I zigzagged through the ferns and palms, keeping an eye out for Hali or anyone else who might be walking around. And before you know it, there we are, huddled in the shrubbery not more than ten feet from Max's chaise lounge.

  Trouble is, those last ten feet seem impossible. So exposed. Marissa whispers, “He'll see you, Sammy.”

  I try to sound all confident as I say, “He's underwater. Besides, he's not wearing his glasses. If he does see me, I'll be just a blur.” And really, I can't wait around forever. I mean, he's going great guns now, but who knows how many laps this guy can do?

  So the minute he flips over to start a new lap, I take one last look around and decide it's now or never. I scurry into the sun and across the deck, and twenty seconds later, I knew I'd been wrong. The key wasn't in his robe. Only his glasses were.

  I double-check, then drop the robe and dive back into the shrubs with Marissa. She whispers, “Did you get it?”

  “It's not there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, I didn't see it on him, either.”

  I look up to the second-story bedroom windows to see if anyone's spotted us. Then I check over
my shoulder toward Hali and Reena's cottage, and then off the other way toward Inga's garden. Except for Max swishing through the water, the place seems completely dead.

  I grabbed Marissa's arm and said, “C'mon.”

  Marissa was so glad to get away from the pool that she didn't even question me. Not until I cut off the pathway and charged past some ferns and banana palms and around the corner of the main house, that is. “Where are you going now?” she whispers, then sees me looking up at Max's balcony door.

  It was cracked open.

  “Sammy, no! You can't be serious.”

  I knew it was crazy. I knew I was crazy. Or really close to it, anyway. But there it was, an opening into Max's suite, begging me to at least try.

  I got to the base of a jacaranda tree that grew beside the balcony, and tried to shimmy up the trunk, but I couldn't. It was too slick, and the first branch was too far up. I turned to Marissa and whispered, “Give me a boost, would you?”

  “Sammy, it barely reaches. That branch can't hold you!”

  “It has to. Now give me a boost.”

  So she laced her hands together, I stepped in, and she floated me up to the first branch.

  Piece of cake.

  But the higher I got, the more this little voice kept telling me that she was right. The branches were naked, scrawny little twigs. They'd never hold me.

  Still, I inched out, farther and farther, glancing down at Marissa from time to time. She seemed miles away. And so did the balcony.

  I tried to keep my weight back as far as I could as I stretched my arm for the railing, but it was no good. I had to get out farther. Four more inches. Five more. I was bending down more than I was going out, but I was close. So close.

  Finally I just pushed forward and grabbed for the rail, and there it was, in my hand! But I heard the branch crack, felt it give, and suddenly there was no going back. I pushed against it with all my might and managed to catch the rail with my other hand before the branch collapsed from beneath me.

  Marissa got out of the way, but the branch didn't crash to the ground; it just hung there like a limp, broken arm.

  I swung myself over the rail and motioned Marissa to clear away. She couldn't help me down—there was no going back the way I'd come.

  The screen door was locked, but it was easy to jimmy. Pull up, wiggle, jiggle, snap. Hudson says they only keep honest people out, and he's right. Screen door locks are a joke.

  Now, you may not believe this, but I don't break into people's houses very often. Actually, I've done it once before, and let me tell you, it's creepy. Scary. The truth is, it makes you feel icky all over. Like there's nothing you want more in the world than a shower.

  And being in Max's suite, well, that's exactly how I felt. And no, I didn't stop and take a shower—I just wanted to get that key and get out of there.

  The first place I checked was his dresser top. No jewelry at all. I went into the walk-in closet. Nothing on the dressing table.

  Then I found the bathroom, and on the counter under the lid of an oblong obsidian dish were his watch and a bracelet.

  And one gold chain with a shiny Schlage key on it.

  I looped the key off the chain and slipped Marissa's key on. And since Marissa's wasn't quite as shiny as Max's, I took a towel and buffed it out until it shone. Then I put everything back the way I'd found it, tucked Max's key in my pocket, and headed for the door.

  The door. Well. It was a lot easier than the branch, but as it turns out, not any less dangerous, because as I'm closing it behind me I hear Marissa's voice coming up the stairwell, loud and clear. “No, really! Didn't you see that cat?”

  Then there's Inga's voice, shrill and harsh. “I know what I saw and didn't see. There was no cat. Now get out of my way!”

  I couldn't go forward—I'd run right into them. I couldn't go back into Max's suite—I'd be trapped inside and Inga'd catch me red-handed. And even though there was some furniture in the hallway between them and me, it wasn't enough to conceal me. I'd be like a parrot trying to hide in the snow.

  Then I looked to my right and it hit me. There was another way down.

  If only I could reach it in time.

  EIGHTEEN

  Personally, I wouldn't recommend a laundry chute as a means of transportation. It's fast, it's painful, and it's way smaller than it looks. But it was the only escape hatch around, and believe me, with Marissa and the Mummy getting closer by the second, I climbed in and dropped, like Alice on her way to Wonderland.

  And when I landed with a mighty thump at the bottom and dragged myself out, who's standing there staring at me?

  Not the Plaid Rabbit.

  Not Tweedledee.

  No, it's the Mad Hali.

  Now, let me tell you, she is not serving up tea. She takes one look at me and starts pouring cusswords instead. And when she's all done letting me know just how badly I scared her, she yanks me up by the arm and says, “You got no business clownin' around like that!”

  “Hali, shh! I'm sorry. I wasn't clowning around. I was—”

  “You were what?”

  Just then Max walks in, robe wrapped tight around him, glasses wedged in place. And I try not to look stupid, scared, or guilty, but seeing as how I'm feeling all three, that's not an easy thing to do.

  And it's strange. It feels like we're all connected by some force, yet separated by it, too. Like we've each got the negative pole of an invisible magnet pointed at the other guy, keeping us a safe distance away as we move around the room.

  Max tosses his towel on a heap of dirty laundry and says, “LeBrandi's farewell service starts in half an hour.” He looks back and forth between us. “You haven't forgotten that, have you?”

  Hali won't even look at him, but I manage to say, “Half an hour? I …I should have the beds made up by then.” He gives me a puzzled look, so I add, “The beds in…you know, everything was stripped?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you for taking care of that.” He turns to Hali and says, “I expect you there, too.” Then he adds, “Have you found your mother?”

  She whips around to face him. “What do you care?”

  He closes his eyes and makes it to three before opening them again. Very quietly he says, “Don't be flip, young lady,” then pushes out through the swinging doors.

  Hali calls after him, “I hope you don't expect me to rustle up chow! Or to do any more stupid laundry around here. Hey! Who do you think's gonna wash this towel? You think I am? Well, you can just servant this!”

  She lets the door close, then turns to me. “So you slid down here for some sheets. Likely story.”

  “Look, Hali, Inga was after me. It was my only way out.”

  She sort of prowls around me, studying me, her eyes sharp and focused. Like she doesn't know whether to trust me, either. “Inga, huh? Well, why was she after you?”

  “Because I … because she thinks I … Hali, it looks like we're going to stay here another night, so I really do have to make up the beds….”

  She flips open the washers we'd filled that morning. “Then you'd better get a move on dryin' these suckers.” She sneers at me and says, “Looks to me like you're back to being a punk liar. And this after I snuck those photos back into the reception room for you.”

  All of a sudden I feel awful. Just beat up with guilt. Why had I told my mother? Why hadn't I just let Max tell her? He would, he said he would! I'd betrayed Hali's trust, and for what? How had I become sucked into this world of lies and suspicions and backstabbings? How had I become part of this mess?

  With a shiver I realized that in less than twenty-four hours I'd managed to get myself hopelessly tangled in a giant web of deceit, and all my flapping around was just making things worse.

  I really didn't know what to do anymore. So I whispered, “Hali, I thought you were going to lose it earlier. You're so upset about Max and your mom that I thought…”

  “I was gonna blurt something I shouldn't?”

  “Yeah.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I didn't, did I?”

  “No, but you came close. And I don't know what your angle is anymore. Are you moving out? Are you blackmailing him?”

  She hops up on a washer and heaves a sigh. “I don't know. I can't find Mama, and that's all I care about right now. I've checked at Uncle Manny's, the neighbors'… everyone I can think of. No one's heard from her. And I'm starting to worry that maybe she, you know, did something to herself.”

  I go up to her and say, “Hali, she'll come back.” Then very softly I add, “Unless she's the one who killed LeBrandi.”

  Those braids go whipping around. “What? Mama? She is the gentlest, kindest creature on earth!”

  Just then Marissa comes blasting in. She takes one look at me, holds her heart, and slides down the wall, saying, “Inga … ohmygod, Sammy. She …”

  I give her a watch-what-you-say warning with my eyes and interrupt her with “I know. I heard.”

  She jerks her head toward the laundry chute and says, “Did you…?”

  “Yeah. And it really hurt.”

  Marissa says, “Not as bad as Inga's pitchfork would've.”

  “Her pitchfork?”

  “Yeah. It's not full-sized—I think it's some kind of gardening tool—but it could puncture your ribs pretty good!”

  A mummy with a pitchfork. I was almost sorry I'd missed it.

  I got busy moving sheets from a washer into a dryer and told Marissa, “Hali's real upset because Reena hasn't come back yet. And Max says we're supposed to be at that service for LeBrandi. It starts in like twenty minutes, so we'd better get going.”

  Hali must've been really worried about her mother, because she didn't ask any more questions. She just sat on the washer hugging her knees to her chest, her head down so her braids hung like a beaded curtain in front of her jeans. I whispered, “See you in a little while” as we made for the door, and her beads clicked together softly, but I couldn't tell if they were going up and down or side to side.