Bad Housekeeping

by Maia Chance

  “Okay,” Jodi said, shaking her head. “Fine. I’ll tell you about the Rolodex. I never saw it in person, but my sister Megan did, and even though Megan and I didn’t exactly get along, she told me about it last Christmas after she got totally plastered on eggnog martinis.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And?” This was like trying to squeeze the last bit of ketchup from the bottle.

  “Apparently Mom was collecting dirt on everyone in town—their secrets, you know—and keeping track of it in the Rolodex.”

  My mouth fell open. “Seriously? That’s . . . awful.”

  “Mom was awful.”

  “What kind of secrets?” Otis asked.

  “The usual stuff. Affairs, cheating on taxes . . . oh—here’s some stuff I remember: Dr. Baxter, the electrical engineering professor, wrote all of his son’s college application essays. That owner of the jewelry store downtown? He has a thing for boy bands. Oh—and you know Penny Jean Spence?”

  “Scariest church lady in town?” Otis said.

  “Yeah—she has a secret stash of naughty nighties.”

  “How did your mom know all this stuff?” I asked. “It’s so . . . private.”

  “Mom had ways of twisting people’s arms,” Jodi said. “She was so manipulative. When I was, like, sixteen, she read some love notes I’d gotten from this cute guy who raked the leaves at my boarding school in New Hampshire, and she used them to force me to get Dad to buy her a diamond tennis bracelet. She was screwed up.”

  “That sounds like . . . blackmail,” I said. Lots of people had commented on how Kathleen had had a way of getting people to do what she wanted, even though she was not well liked. Then I made the most glorious deduction ever: The reason Karl Knudsen the code-compliance officer had done Kathleen’s bidding and set the demolition date for the Stagecoach Inn was because Kathleen must’ve known he was stalking his ex-wife. Kathleen must have blackmailed Karl into bumping up the demolition date.

  “By the way,” Jodi said, “how do you know I’m not the murderer?”

  “Because if you were, you would’ve left us in the freezer until we were blocks of ice.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Honestly, though, I have my suspicions about Jentry,” I said.

  Jodi laughed. “Jentry? He doesn’t have it in him to kill anybody.”

  “He did lock us in your freezer,” Otis said. “You know, to be fair and all.”

  “He’s just messing around,” Jodi said. “Come on. Jentry’s going to be back any minute with the beer. I’ll tell him you guys escaped all by yourselves.” She picked up car keys from the counter and yelled, “Aspen! Come on!”

  * * *

  Once we were bumping down the farm’s driveway in Jodi’s battered Volvo, Jodi said, “If I say get down, get down. Cops are going to be out looking for you. Now where to?”

  Otis and I were in the back on either side of Aspen in his booster seat. A plan was taking shape in my mind, but I needed time. Time, and a place to hide for a few hours. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Your place, Otis?” I didn’t even know where he lived. Weird, considering—gulp—I’d told him I was in love with him. To which he hadn’t responded.

  “No, the cops might look for you there,” Otis said. “Let’s go to my grandma’s. She’ll be at the county fair for the next couple hours, and I have a key.”

  Chapter 27

  Otis gave Jodi directions to his grandma’s house, which was on the edge of the historical district. We got there without any police sightings, thanked Jodi, and waved bye-bye to Aspen. We went in through the kitchen door.

  Inside, Otis’s grandma’s house was like a museum of doilies and hard candies in crystal dishes. It felt snug and safe.

  “Hungry?” Otis asked, going to the fridge.

  “Yeah. Starving, actually.”

  Otis took out Wonder Bread, peanut butter, and a jar of marshmallow fluff and made us sandwiches.

  “I’m pretty sure the murderer has been killing to get their hands on that Rolodex,” I said, “so . . . I have a plan. If I pretend to have the Rolodex, I can sort of lure the murderer out.”

  “How?”

  “We can spread the word around town that I have the Rolodex—”

  “A rumor?”

  “Exactly. This town is a total rumor mill, so why not make that work for us? Once the murderer hears I have the Rolodex, they might get in touch with me, or try to find me or, well, or something. They might show their face.”

  “That sounds very dangerous.”

  “I don’t care. I’m seeing this through to the end. I’m about to be arrested, and once that happens, I have no idea what the police will or will not believe out of all this stuff I’ve figured out. Detective Albright suspects I’m guilty, and Police Chief Gwozdek hates Aunt Effie. They might let the murderer get away with it! Anyway, my plan might not even work. If Gracelyn was arrested for shooting at Roland’s trailer and she’s the murderer, this isn’t going to work. If Roland is the murderer, it’s not going to work either, since he will have been arrested for evading the police by now.”

  Otis, leaning on the counter, rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, I dispatched Otis in his grandma’s Buick—she’d gotten a ride to the county fair with a friend—to go find Chester and Lauren. The plan was that the three of them would go to gossip hot spots around town—the Cup n’ Clatter, the fair, the Black Drop, the Green Apple—and spread the rumor that I, Agnes Blythe, had Kathleen Todd’s Rolodex. They would say they had no idea where I was, they’d act all concerned for my safety and/or sanity, and we’d all keep our fingers crossed that the murderer would call me. I was pretty sure all the suspects had my phone number.

  After Otis left, I broke into a box of Nilla Wafers in his grandma’s kitchen. Would this work? Or would the police track me down and arrest me?

  Otis had been gone about half an hour when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Cordelia: You are wanted by the police. Your father is very disappointed in you. Also, did you steal a carrot cake cupcake from the fridge?

  Seriously?

  I ate more cookies, even though they were stale. I had only seven percent charge left on my phone. Not good. The clock ticked. The flour canister shaped like a sad kitty stared at me.

  Another buzz. This time it was a text from Chester: Demo tractors and trucks are parked at inn. Prepare for the worst tomorrow. BTW the rumor is really taking root here at the fair. You are going to have to pay me back for all the fried dough I’m having to buy.

  The Stagecoach Inn was going down. How awful, especially for Aunt Effie. Time for more cookies.

  Another twenty minutes passed. My phone buzzed for the third time. It was a call, not a text, and . . . I recognized the number on the screen.

  “Agnes Blythe,” I said, trying to sound calm.

  “Susie Pak,” a no-nonsense voice barked.

  “Oh. Hi. What’s up?”

  “Shut up and listen. I’ve got your lover-boy here.”

  “Huh?” Who was my lover-boy? I frowned. “You’re with Otis?”

  “Otis? No. I got your lover-boy Roger here, Agnes, the genius professor, but he doesn’t look too genius right now with all that sweat under his arms. Looks like a map of the Great Lakes on his nice button-down.”

  “Yeah, Roger has a sweating issue.”

  “You know they can give you Botox injections for that, right?”

  “Why are you telling me? Tell him.”

  “You know they can give you Botox under your arms for that, lover-boy?” Susie said.

  In the background, Roger’s feeble voice: “Agnes! Agnes you’ve got to do something! This lunatic has kidnapped me!”

  Susie was back on the line. “You heard it yourself, Agnes. Lover-boy has been kidnapped.”

  “What’s going on here, Susie? Are you planning on murdering Roger too?”

  “I will do whatever it takes to get that Rolodex
.”

  I made a little fist pump. My plan had worked!

  “Now listen,” Susie said. “I give you lover-boy, you give me the Rolodex. Straightforward trade.”

  “What if I don’t have the Rolodex?” I said since, well, I didn’t have the Rolodex.

  “Then lover-boy goes boom.”

  Chester had said Susie frequented Skeeter’s Shooting Range. She had a gun. I was going to have to play this just right.

  “She’s serious about this, Agnes!” Roger squawked in the background.

  “We’ll do the trade-off at the Tunnel of Love,” Susie told me. “At the county fair.”

  “The fair? That’s not exactly a private spot,” I said.

  “We’re already here.”

  “She just nabbed me by the cotton candy booth while Shelby was using the restroom!” Roger cried. “She’s an animal!”

  Susie said to me, “Plus, I don’t want lover-boy sweating all over my SUV upholstery. I just had an interior detail that cost a fortune.”

  “And the Tunnel of Love because . . . he’s my lover-boy?” I asked.

  “That’s right. And I don’t want to be in a wide-open space where people can see what’s going on. Tunnel of Love, six o’clock sharp. Got it?”

  “Uh, yeah, got it.”

  “If you’re late, or try to bring the cops or anyone else, lover-boy gets iced. It’ll be real crowded at the fair, and I’m quick. Anyway, who would believe cute little Susie Pak would shoot some sweaty genius professor for no reason?”

  “Probably no one,” I said.

  “You got it.”

  The line went silent.

  It was five thirty-one.

  I pictured Roger, quivering and helpless. He’d never been good at sticking up for himself when it came to assertive older women. It was a mommy thing. Still, we had a long shared history, and I cared about him even though he was a jerk, so I had to rescue him, right?

  There were a lot of problems heaped on my cafeteria tray. But the foremost one was that the fairgrounds were five miles away. No way would I make it there on foot by six o’clock. The plan had been for me to call Otis as soon as the murderer contacted me, but we hadn’t counted on anything like Roger being kidnapped. Susie said she’d kill Roger if I brought backup, so I was going to have to go it alone.

  I peeked into the garage, hoping to see a second Buick or a bicycle or, heck, a Rascal scooter. But there was nothing on wheels.

  I went into the backyard. Lots of flowers and a porch glider. No vehicles. However—I peered over the fence—there was a bicycle leaning on a shed in the next-door neighbor’s yard. Perfect.

  But first, since I was wanted by the police, I needed a disguise.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I climbed over the fence and skulked through the neighbor’s gate with the bicycle. It was a dirt bike small enough for a nine-year-old, with undersized wheels. I was wearing Otis’s grandma’s pink wrinkle-free slacks and matching jacket, orthopedic shoes, and a floral scarf to cover my hair. The slacks fit perfectly, but I didn’t care because in the guest room I had found—get ready for it—a Rolodex! It was filled with about fifty years’ worth of Grandma’s addresses. With a little finesse, I might be able to rescue Roger before Susie realized it was the wrong Rolodex.

  I hopped on the bike and set off. By the time I saw the glow of county fair lights, my legs were jellified, and I was panting. I ditched the bike in the crowded parking lot and headed on foot to the main entrance. Inside the revolving gate, four barns stood between me and the carnival where the Tunnel of Love would be. I checked the time on my phone. Shizap. Five minutes till six.

  I decided to take a shortcut through the barns. I zipped my phone into my backpack’s outer pocket and started jogging. I passed through a livestock barn and into the crowded arts and crafts barn colorful with quilts, oil paintings, half-eaten pies, and flower arrangements. Pushing through the crowd, I accidentally stepped on a small blue Keds sneaker.

  “Ooo!” a woman squealed.

  “Sorry,” I said. I tried to squeeze past.

  “Wait. Agnes Blythe?”

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Tucker.” It only seemed proper to call Dorrie Mrs. Tucker after I’d seen her galumphing away in her high-waist underpants only hours before. “Having your flower arrangements judged?”

  “I am the judge,” Dorrie snapped.

  “Sorry about earlier,” I said. “I didn’t know you were in the trailer with, um—”

  “You shut your mouth! Wait a minute. Aren’t the police looking for you?”

  “Gotta go,” I said. I shoved through people in T-shirts, plaid, and denim, denim everywhere, and I was sure, in a sixth-sense way, that someone was following me even though I didn’t recognize anyone when I glanced over my shoulder.

  I burst out of the arts and crafts barn, pressed on through a barn filled with rustling cages—Bunnies? Chickens?—and then I was in the carnival.

  Blinking lights, clattering machinery, nightmarish hurdy-gurdy music, and seething rivers of people. Adults clutched plastic cups, and kids munched cotton candy. Stalls peddled burgers, hot dogs, beer-battered bacon, fried butter, fried anything, really. I couldn’t see the Tunnel of Love; I couldn’t see much, honestly. I’d have to canvass the carnival to find Roger and Susie.

  “Yo, Agnes. Nice disguise. It’s like a preview of what you’re going to look like when you’re eighty.”

  I swung around. “Oh. Hey, Chester.”

  Chester was munching French fries from a huge, grease-splotched paper cone. “What’s up?”

  “You have mustard on your soul patch, and I’m in a hurry.” I elbowed into the crowd.

  Chester caught up to me. “Did the murderer contact you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. Who is it? Want a fry?”

  “Sure.” I grabbed one and stuffed it into my mouth by folding it into thirds. Salty, greasy nirvana. “It’s Susie Pak.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “Why are these fries so long? They’re like a foot long.”

  “Foot-long fries, baby. The miracle of genetic engineering.”

  “Gross.” I gulped it down. “Can I have another?”

  Chester tipped his fries cone toward me.

  We kept moving, and I searched for the Tunnel of Love.

  “So what are you up to?”

  “Susie Pak called to tell me she kidnapped Roger.”

  “Are you joshing me?”

  “Nope. And she said—and I quote—‘lover-boy is going to go boom’ if I don’t hand over the Rolodex in, like, one minute from now.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Too dicey. They want to arrest me, remember?”

  “This sounds dangerous.”

  “It is. And you can’t come with me. I’m supposed to go alone.” I grabbed another fry and smushed it in. We zigzagged through a tot crowd waiting to board the Tiltin’ Teacups and rounded a corner.

  I stopped hard. Chester bumped into me, and some of his fries launched into the air.

  “Hey!” Chester said. “Each one of those is precious and unique, Agnes!”

  Up ahead, the Tunnel of Love throbbed with blinking red lightbulbs. A heart-shaped exit was disgorging a train filled with couples from its dark bowels. Signs in juvenile handwriting said Romance! True Love! Thrills! None of the couples getting off the ride looked like they were in the throes of true love, although one couple looked like they’d just broken up.

  “So where’s the Rolodex?” Chester asked. “In your backpack?”

  “Didn’t Otis tell you? I don’t actually have the Rolodex. But I have a Rolodex.”

  “So you plan to bluff your way through a high-stakes trade-off with a triple murderer?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Chester shrugged, stuffing in more French fries. “I’m going to call nine-one-one. In the meantime, worst-case scenario, Roger explodes. That wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously, a
re you? Susie is psycho.”

  “Hey!” a woman said behind me. “Agnes Blythe!”

  Susie. Here goes. I turned.

  Multicolored carnival lights spun and bounced on the lenses of Susie’s big black sunglasses. Roger was right next to Susie, squashed up close. In fact, he had an arm around her waist like a lover. Susie’s arm was under his tweed jacket.

  “She’s got a gun,” Roger peeped. “Agnes, for God’s sake, give her whatever she wants! She’s a lunatic! She’s—oof.”

  Susie shut him up by grinding something—a gun, I assumed—into his back.

  Roger’s eyes teared up. And yeah, he was sweating like a pig at a Hawaiian luau.

  Susie seemed to be looking Chester up and down. Hard to tell with the tsetse fly sunglasses. She turned to me. “I told you not to bring anyone with you.”

  “Him?” I said. “He’s not with me. Anyway, does he look like a hero to you?”

  Chester had already disappeared into the crowd.

  He’d call the police, of course, but it was too late for them to help or hinder me.

  “Where’s the Rolodex, Agnes?” Susie asked.

  “In my backpack.”

  “Hand it over.”

  I swallowed. “Okay. But I want to do it at exactly the same time you hand Roger over.”

  “No.”

  “Then no deal.”

  “You want lover-boy to bite the dust?”

  “He’s not my lover-boy. Why do you want the Rolodex, anyway? As far as I can tell, it’s just full of people’s unsavory secrets.”

  “You do have it. Give it to me!”

  “It was you who broke into all those houses this week, wasn’t it? You were looking for the Rolodex.”

  “Wrong. Jentry did that.”

  “Jentry!” I knew it. Roland must have broken into the Stagecoach Inn to rip the flashing off the chimney. The other break-ins had been Jentry. “Is that why he followed my aunt and me around when we were, uh, investigating stuff?”

  “Sure. I told him to see what you snoops were up to and report back.”

  “He works for you?”

  “He does now, ever since I told him I knew about his ganja farm and he’d better snap to or I’m calling the cops.”