Lauren tensed and shot me a pleading look as Tommy approached. She was still expecting him to arrest her at any given moment. Tommy merely nodded to her and said, “Sad business. Preston should be sharing his new baby’s first day at home today. The days my sons were born were the happiest of my life.”
“Mine, too,” Lauren said. “I’ll never forget how overjoyed I felt when Rachel was born.”
“Mom?” Karen asked in a voice slightly muffled by potato-chip remnants. She and her brother were kneeling at the coffee table by a plate of hors d’oeuvres. “Can I go get us some orange soda?”
“No,” Jim interjected. “You can’t drink soda in here.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “You’ll have to—” He stopped abruptly, and I followed his gaze. Tiffany had entered the room with her boyfriend, Cherokee Taylor, followed by two girls about Tiffany’s age.
“We have plenty of soda at home,” Jim said. “Let’s go.” He got up, hustling the children to their feet as well. He gave me a quick glance. “Sorry, sweetie. I need to get back to work.”
And, I thought, you want us to leave now to stop me from investigating the murder. Jim knew my first task was to talk to Tiffany and her friends. I eyed Cherokee as I rose. I had only seen him once before, through my car window. He was a tall, solidly built young man. The Mohawk hairstyle he’d worn months ago had grown out. He now had lots of brown curls.
Tiffany brushed Cherokee’s hand from her shoulder and shot him a withering look, then turned on a heel and trotted upstairs. Cherokee winced. The two girls shrugged and started wolfing down food.
“Guess we’re leaving now, Tommy,” Lauren said, rising. She had ridden in our car.
As we drove home, I realized that Jim had done me a big favor by preventing me from talking to the teenagers. Cherokee couldn’t possibly remember me from our lone, brief, distant encounter. And, except for Tiffany, I’d had virtually no contact with high school students in this town.
As soon as Jim dropped us off and left for work, Lauren said, “So, I’ll bet I know why we made that hasty exit. You’re sleuthing again and Jim’s not taking too kindly to it. Am I right?”
“I’ve been thinking. The teenagers will never open up to me or to the police. There’s only one thing to do. Go back to school.”
“You’re going to pretend to be a teacher or an aide or something?”
I struck a goofy pose, twirled the ends of my hair around a finger, and grinned at her. “I’m, like, gonna, ya know, pose as Tiffany’s cousin.”
Chapter 6
Bahugen Buzzkills
Jim was working late to make up for Monday’s unplanned absence. Having decided to keep my husband unaware, I now had the opportunity to plan my foray into high school. Granted, keeping Jim in the dark was a less than noble decision on my part, but the fact that both of us knew when to keep quiet was a major reason our marriage had lasted for twelve years now.
After putting Karen and Nathan to bed, I called the Saunderses’ house. A woman with a deep voice answered. A few moments later, Tiffany got on the line. I asked her if she was taking tomorrow and Friday off from school.
“Mom thinks I should, but I’m, like, getting behind in my classes. I may as well go back tomorrow.” Her voice sounded trouble-free, almost happy. How could she be so glib with her father murdered just two days ago? Maybe Tiffany and Stephanie had a cabinet full of Valium.
“There’s nada for me to do around here,” Tiffany continued. “Mom hired a live-in nurse to help out for the next couple weeks, and that lady won’t let me near Michael. Like, what? I’m gonna drop my baby brother on his head? Does this nurse-lady think she’s the next Betsy Ross?”
Florence Nightingale, I corrected silently, pondering the image of the nurse sewing mini American flags for diapers and baby blankets. That explained the woman with the husky voice. But how would I explain my plan to pose as a teenager in Tiffany’s school? This was not the normal request one makes of one’s bereaved babysitter.
“Did your mom talk to you about the last thing your father said before he died?” I asked.
Silence. Then: “Yeah. But I didn’t do it, Molly. I told Mom that, too. She seems to think Cherokee did it, and that Daddy meant to warn me about him.”
The same suspicion had crossed my mind, more than once. “Does she have any reason to think so?”
“No way. It’s just…dumb stuff. Daddy was shot at nine forty. And Cherokee and his friend Dave and this other guy, Jose, got nailed for skipping third period. But Cherokee told me they just hung out at the mall.”
“So, third period is around nine forty?”
“It’s from nine thirty to ten twenty. But, like I said, they were at the mall.”
The mall was within two miles of the school, and less than a mile from Tiffany’s house. “Did Cherokee drive? He has a car, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. But so what? A lot of seniors do.” She paused. “Why are you asking me so many questions? You’re worse than my mom. I already told you, Cherokee didn’t do it!”
I felt a touch of guilt for questioning her at this time, but it was impossible to be respectful of Preston’s family’s mourning period when, by all appearances, they weren’t mourning. Nevertheless, I softened my tone. “Of course he didn’t, Tiffany. But what about the two other guys. Dave and Jose? Is it possible one of them has a gun?”
“Like, how am I supposed to know? They’re Roke’s friends, not mine. They keep telling him I’m too young for him. I can’t hardly go ask them about guns and stuff.”
“Your mother told me about the charges your dad was going to file against Cherokee. Are Dave and Jose such close friends of his they might’ve decided to confront your father on his behalf?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
I waited her out through a long silence.
“What should I do, Molly? I know Cherokee’s innocent, and I’m innocent, but how would I know about Dave and Jose? If they did it, the police might think Cherokee was behind it, but he wasn’t.”
“As a matter of fact, I have a suggestion. I was thinking about having your older cousin come to visit for a few days and go to Carlton High with you.”
“What cousin? I don’t have any older cousins.”
“You do now. But she could use a little help with her wardrobe and speech patterns.”
“Huh?”
I was seated at the vanity table in our bedroom, blow-drying my hair, when my husband got home. He paled as he looked at me. “What did you do to your hair?”
“I just henna’d it. Don’t worry. It’ll wash out.”
He grabbed the box. “This says it’s supposed to add natural-looking highlights! Why is your hair purple?”
“I left it on my hair a little too long.”
He scanned the directions desperately, as if seeking an antidote for poison. “How long until it washes out?”
His horror was beginning to annoy me. I didn’t look that bad. “Don’t worry. I bought a Bozo the Clown costume earlier, so my hair will blend right in.”
He set the box down and glared at my reflection. I inwardly chastised myself. If I’d come home and discovered he’d dyed his hair purple, I wouldn’t have heaped on the flattery, either. “Sorry. Thanks for noticing. Most wives would be thrilled to have their husbands notice they’ve changed their hair.”
“Most husbands don’t come home to purple heads.” He patted my shoulder. “I wouldn’t go near any gardens if I were you. Bees might mistake you for a giant petunia.”
The next morning I awoke at an ungodly hour. Tiffany’s bus would arrive at seven fifteen, and I wanted to be at her house for a dress rehearsal an hour early. My heart sank when I saw myself in the mirror. My eyelids belonged on a basset hound and there were suitcases under my eyes. I’d be lucky to be mistaken for a live person, let alone a young one.
I told Jim while he was still too asleep to listen that I had an early breakfast meeting. I drove to Stephanie’s house prior to my children waking. As planned the nigh
t before, Tiffany was waiting by the door so I wouldn’t have to knock and awaken the household.
She was back to her normal attire: skin-tight black jeans, an undersized green T-shirt with a black owl on the pocket, a black jacket, and high heel shoes that were on their way to being boots but ended below her ankles.
She eyed my jeans and white long-sleeved dance leotard. “You’re not thinking of wearing that to school, are you? You look forty!”
“Horrors. Of course not.” In truth, I had hoped merely to toss on a shirt of Tiffany’s as a top layer. “The leotard stays, regardless. It holds me in so I don’t jiggle in any un-teen-like places.”
“Gross. Well, come on upstairs. We’ll raid my closet. You have to wear some nice jeans or you may as well tattoo an L on your forehead. I just hope you don’t make me look like a cretin maggot in front of my friends.”
“We wouldn’t want that.” I followed her to her room, telling myself to be sure to use the term cretin maggot at least once today.
“What am I supposed to call you, anyways?” she asked, rifling through a pile of shirts on the floor of her closet. She grabbed one that looked ready to be turned into a cleaning rag and presented it to me.
“How about Molly? Your friends don’t know a lot about your extended family, do they?”
She looked confused, so I continued, “Would they know about your cousins?”
“Nah. We don’t talk about junk like that. The only reason any of us goes to school is to get away from our families.”
“All right, then.” I put on the shirt, taking care not to poke my hands through any fashionable tears in the fabric. “My last name can be Saunders. I’ll be your cousin who lives in Colorado. I’m a sophomore at the University of Colorado in Boulder. My family is staying at your house, and we tried to fly in yesterday for the funeral but our flight got delayed. We’re staying through the weekend to help your mom with her new baby.”
Tiffany rolled up my sleeves and fussed over my shirt as if she were a tailor who specialized in rips and wrinkles. Then she demanded that I take off my pants. I didn’t even get one leg out before she cried, “Holy crap! I was gonna have you put on some shorts of mine, but those are not the legs of a twenty-year-old. Sorry.”
“So am I, but I’m rather attached to them. Haven’t you got some pants I could borrow?”
“Duh. We have to put you in jeans. I only have the one over-sized pair, so you better not drink anything. You’ll never get them down over your wrinkles if you have to use the bathroom. What’s the four-one-one on why you’re going to school with me?”
“The four-one-one?” I repeated as I indignantly stepped into her jeans. They were so tight, I was going to have to cut them off me, but I was determined not to call more attention to my ancient legs.
“You’re not ready for this at all!” She stomped her foot. “This is hopeless! The four-one-one means… information. It’s the same as ‘shake me up.’”
“So, when I want to ask someone what’s happening, I say, ‘Shake me up. What’s the four-one-one.’”
She nodded, but looked on the verge of tears.
“Don’t worry. I’m a fast learner, Tiff, and I have a knack for languages.
Next Tiffany led me to her private bathroom, which was even messier than her closet, and sat me down at her built-in vanity table. She’d once told me she “wanted to be a cosmologist,” though she’d meant makeup, not star-gazing. She clicked her tongue and shook her head at the enormity of her task. Then she boldly applied makeup to my face and wove some red and blue strings into a small, long braid that dangled down my left shoulder.
Finally she said, “Just stay out of direct light, and we’ll be okay. Also, you may want to move around a lot so nobody can get a real close look at you.”
I stared at my reflection in dismay. The transformation was remarkable. I really did look like a teenager…or at least like a thirty-five-year-old with a severe case of arrested development.
“What are you going to tell my friends when they ask why you’re hangin’ at my school?”
“I’ll tell them I want to teach school when I graduate. This seemed like a good opportunity to check out what I’d be doing in a couple of years.”
“You’re a sophomore in college, and you already forgot what high school’s like? And you use words like ‘opportunity?’ Talk about a demoto.” In answer to my perplexed gaze, she explained. “That means an unmotivated student.” She gestured at my watch. “Take that gold thing off. Nobody’d be caught dead wearing that.”
While I applied makeup to hide the tan line around my ring finger, she located a plastic watch that looked as if it came out of a bubble-gum machine. Much more fashionable than the Swiss quartz watch my husband had given me for our tenth anniversary.
By now I’d concocted a new story and shared it with Tiffany. “I wanted to get away from my folks. Going to school with you was the lesser of two evils.”
“That flies. ‘Course, if you say, ‘get away from my folks,’ and ‘lesser of two evils,’ everyone’s gonna think you’re a real lamen.”
“I take it I don’t want to be a lamen?”
She rolled her eyes, then headed out of the room. I followed. We were partway to the stairs when a door opened and an exhausted-looking Stephanie emerged, wearing a lacy pink nightgown. She smiled at Tiffany, took a quick glance at me, and started to greet us. Then she did a double take and gaped at me. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Good heavens, Molly! Why in the world…” She whirled on a heel and said, “Never mind. I had twenty-two minutes of sleep last night. I don’t want to know.” She closed the door behind her.
Tiffany and I headed downstairs. “Can I borrow a coat or a jacket?”
She shook her head. “I don’t wear a jacket unless it’s like, twenty below.”
“But I’m cold-blooded,” I protested.
“Trust me,” she said, studying me with a scornful expression. “You’re not cold-blooded. That means you’re…really awesome.” I followed her outside where the air was, unfortunately, chilly but not quite twenty below.
“The best we can hope for in your case is not a total lamo. Lamo means a weirdo.”
That much I could’ve guessed. We headed toward the bus stop. Up ahead, a group of kids waited on the sidewalk.
My stomach fluttered nervously. “What’s the word to use for parents?” I whispered.
She clicked her tongue. “Couldn’t you just cop a case of laryngitis?”
“No. I have to blend in and ask questions.”
“Parents are called peeps, or Mom duke and Pop duke.”
Yuck. I had too much pride to use words like peep and Mom duke.
She pivoted and blocked my path before we reached the group. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything to anyone, unless they speak to you first. Also we need a signal. If I go like this,” she said, and flicked the corner of her eye with her middle finger, “that means ‘chill.’”
“As in, ‘Chill out, act a little more with-it,’ right?”
“As in, ‘Shut up; you’re embarrassing me.’”
Though the four teenagers already at the stop shot little glances our way, no one spoke. This annoyed me. From their body language, they clearly knew about Tiffany’s father, but didn’t offer a word of acknowledgment. The bus arrived. Tiffany and I were the last to get on.
The driver took off while we were still making our way down the aisle, and I nearly fell. A girl I recognized from the wake gestured for Tiffany to share her seat. The girl was thin, with dirty-blond hair and braces. She looked too young to be in high school, but then so did everyone on the bus except me and possibly the driver. Perhaps my whole concept of how mature high school students look had been warped by the thirty-year-old actors who played high school students on TV. I battled an urge to scream, “Stop the bus! I’m too old for this!”
“Hey, G,” the girl said to Tiffany as she sat down, “bahugen buzzkill ‘bout your old man.”
“Word up,” sa
id another girl behind her.
Bahugen buzzkill? This is what young friends now say to one another upon the death of a parent? The thought of my writing such a thing in a grievance card caused an involuntary shudder, and once again I nearly fell.
“Yeah, thanks,” Tiffany replied. “I’m still pretty mopped.” Tiffany slid over and gestured for me to sit on the six inches of green vinyl seat that remained.
The two-mile trip to school seemed to take forever with my one-cheek perch. Tiffany never introduced me to anyone, and though I tried hard to listen, the conversations around me were mostly unintelligible.
As soon as I stepped through the doorway of the school, what little confidence I still had instantly deserted me. I had felt like an outsider throughout my entire four years of high school. What had possessed me to think that I could “blend in” seventeen years later?
Though I’d gone to school at Carlton, I’d never been inside the high school building. It had been built ten years ago behind the building that once housed all grade levels but was now the elementary school. The air smelled foul, a combination of floor wax, sweat, and cafeteria food. Swept along by the crowd, I eyed my surroundings. The linoleum floor was a dark gray, dulled by countless scuffing heels. Metal lockers lined the walls, the tan paint chipped and marred with graffiti. The noise of students chattering and lockers opening and banging shut was deafening.
I mutely followed Tiffany and her friend Madison, whom Tiffany had finally deigned to introduce me to once we arrived on school grounds. The total of the conversation between Madison and me had been: “Hi.” “Yeah, hi.” If the whole day went like this, I might succeed in posing as Tiffany’s almost-but-not-quite-a-lamo cousin, but I would learn nothing about the possible roles Tiffany’s friends had in her father’s death.
Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 6