Higher Learning

by Clare Kauter

  “Um... Oh my god, yes! She is!” Chelsea was hyperventilating. “What do we do? Should we run?”

  “Um...” Suddenly all the doors unlocked. Chelsea whacked the lock back down and it unlocked again immediately.

  “Crap!” she cried. “Mum has the spare keys!”

  Shit. “Yes! Yes, run!” I yelled.

  We both jumped out of the car and ran as fast as our feet could take us – which was a reasonable pace for Chelsea and a kind of slow lollop for me. These frigging foot injuries, man. Chelsea had picked up her phone before leaping out of the car and she was now screaming into it.

  “Mr McKenzie, if you don’t get down here and shoot my mother RIGHT NOW –”

  “You need to try and stay calm, Chelsea,” James said.

  “That’s terrible advice!” I screamed at him. “Adrenalin is the only thing that’s keeping me from collapsing!”

  Chelsea looked back at me and noticed my bandaged feet. “My god, what happened to you?”

  She ran over to me and took my hand, pulling me along as she ran. “She’s probably not going to hurt you,” I said. “After all, she did all this for you.”

  “Clearly you’ve never seen her when I break one of her rules or screw up a cheer before,” she said. “She is absolutely going to hurt me, and the only thing that might be able to stop her is police protection.”

  I grimaced. “Maybe she is slightly worse than my mother.”

  “I’m – going – to – kill – you – both!” wheezed Margaret behind us. “Chelsea, you – ungrateful – little – bitch! How could you – betray me – like – this?”

  Chelsea redoubled her efforts in dragging me away, but my feet were having none of it. “Chelsea, go on ahead,” I said, blinking back tears from the pain. “I can’t keep running.”

  “I’m not just going to leave you,” she said.

  “You really should,” I replied. “I’m actually pretty good at bashing people. I got suspended for beating James up a few times when we were at school.”

  “Are you guys married or something?”

  I snorted. “No. We don’t quite have our shit together enough for that,” I said. “I’m serious, Chelsea – I’ll be OK. You need to get out of here.”

  “I’m not going to let you bash her up without me,” she said.

  “Scared I’ll go too far?”

  “Nope. I’d just be jealous.”

  Fair enough.

  We turned and watched Margaret walk the last few steps towards us, holding the syringe in the air. (At least, I was pretty sure that’s what it was – it could have been a turkey baster or, um, personal massage device, but contextually that made a lot less sense.)

  “I can’t believe you’ve let me down like this, Chelsea,” she said. “I’m very disappointed. But you can make it up to me now if you –”

  Chelsea cut her off with an uppercut to the chin. Margaret stumbled back, stunned, and Chelsea went in for an elbow to the cheek. Then a punch to the gut. Then one to the nose. I flinched, rubbing my own nose and remembering the pain I’d felt earlier when I’d suffered a similar injury. (Although to be fair, I’d also punched Margaret in the face, so I couldn’t talk.) I realised I wasn’t being a whole lot of help in this fight, so I grabbed Margaret’s flailing right arm, bent her wrist back until I felt something give and gingerly removed the object from her hand. Then I let Chelsea get back to work.

  By the time the cops rocked up, I was sitting on the ground watching Margaret try to army-crawl away while Chelsea circled around her like a vulture. There was a lot of built up resentment there. The risks of trying to live vicariously through your child, I guess – they kind of hated you for it.

  “You OK?” James asked when the cops arrived, sitting next to me as two more cops put Margaret in cuffs and Sarah Hollis put her arm around Chelsea, leading her away somewhere to calm her down.

  “Never been better,” I said. “I love it when people try to kill me. This wasn’t even meant to be a murder case yet I still solved one and nearly got bumped off myself.”

  “You’re talented.”

  “You bet. Oh, by the way...” I handed him the syringe. “I got you a present.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Meth dissolved in alcohol,” I said. “Party in a needle.”

  “Also death.”

  “That too.”

  James sighed. “Harcourt’s here,” he said. “I’d better go talk to him.”

  “Keep him away from me.”

  “That’s a given,” he said. “Adam’s on his way over to talk to you, anyway.”

  He stood up and walked away.

  “Charmander,” came Adam’s voice. “I thought I told you to stay off those feet.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Put your hand out.”

  I couldn’t see what he was holding, but I was curious. I did as I was told and he placed a pair of glasses in my palm. I put them on and, like magic, I could see again.

  “You’re a wizard,” I said.

  “They found them in her car boot.”

  I frowned. “So she didn’t even steal them after all? They must have just fallen off when she kidnapped me. Man, she was just messing with me. What a psycho. What kind of woman jokes about another woman’s glasses?”

  Adam paused for a moment. “She murdered a kid, Charlie.”

  “Well, yeah, obviously that’s bad too.”

  “You know that you’re actually insane, right?”

  I shrugged. “Matter of perspective.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  That Friday night, my friends threw a party for my twentieth birthday. What better way to celebrate never having to go back to school or cheer ever again than to graduate from teenagerdom? The party was being held at my house, which was kind of nerve wracking seeing as thanks to Elliot, Arnold and I had now developed a bit of a thing about having people come over. Lea and Stacey were keeping Arnold mellow by feeding her birthday party treats and keeping me mellow by feeding me gin and tonics.

  In the days since Margaret (whose real name I couldn’t remember) had been arrested, Chelsea had moved in with her dad, who she assured me was much more sane than her mother. Abhati was still in hospital but when I’d visited her she’d seemed a lot better. (In fact, one of the times I went there she was hanging out with Jared. I guess he’d finally worked up the courage to introduce himself, seeing as I’d never actually gotten around to it.) In light of my discovering two criminals plaguing Gerongate High, I hadn’t been fired. Things were looking up.

  The only problem to come out of this case was that James was up to his neck in paperwork and after one day off I was back at work, so we hadn’t had much of a chance to hang out. We’d sent the occasional flirty text message, but it wasn’t quite the same. We definitely had some unfinished business to attend to.

  Speaking of being back at work, John – the inferior receptionist – was still there. We now shared a desk, and frankly I was not at all impressed. He’d even used my stapler a couple of times. Plus every time he looked at my potted plant I swear I saw it wither. Adam claimed that it was a good thing that they had a second receptionist because now I was free to do more investigative work. But as I sat next to sweaty John, who leapt to answer the phone every time it rang, with two black eyes and cuts on the soles of my feet, I couldn’t help but think that being a receptionist all by myself and never having to go on another investigation might be nice. Still, at least I had a job, and after some of the things I’d done that week that was kind of a miracle so I probably shouldn’t have been complaining.

  I sat on my couch sipping a G&T, patting Arnold as she lay with her head on my lap, having a little snooze after pigging out (heh) on fairy bread. Before I knew it I’d finished another drink and I slipped out from under Arnold’s head and headed for the kitchen.

  “You think maybe you should slow down on the drinks, Char?” Celia said as I stumbled into the kitchen.

&
nbsp; “It’s just the foot injuries that are making me walk funny,” I said.

  “It’s true,” said Lea. “The last two drinks I fixed her were entirely tonic water.”

  That would explain why I was holding my alcohol so well tonight.

  The doorbell rang and I volunteered to go and get it. Sure, answering the door now made me a little nervous, but if I was going to get over it I’d have to just bite the bullet and do it. And not let any of my ex-boyfriends in.

  Flinging open the door, I said, “Happy birthday!” I paused, frowning. “To me.”

  James McKenzie stood before me. “Yes,” he said. “That.”

  Smooth, Davies. Very smooth.

  “James, come in,” I said. He began to head for the kitchen, but I grabbed his arm on the way and instead led him into one of the spare bedrooms. “We need to talk,” I said.

  He nodded. “I agree. We definitely need to talk. But before we do...” He leaned towards me until our lips were brushing against each other. “There’s just one thing we need to take care of.”

  I leaned my head back and we kissed. I slipped my arms around his waist and he jokingly pincer-gripped my bicep until I slapped his hand away, all the while maintaining lip contact. We kept it relatively PG – no tongue involved, seeing as it was just an interim kiss before we got back to our conversation. Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t have minded if we’d gotten carried away.

  “So,” I said when we broke apart, “is this a thing now, then?”

  James shook his head. “No, we’re just friends.”

  I punched him in the shoulder. He laughed as he rubbed it.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I would like for it to be a thing, if you would like for it to be a thing.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  James just smiled at me.

  “What?”

  “Why are you getting so stressed out?” he asked.

  “I would just like to know –”

  “Right, you want to know what to put as your relationship status on Facebook.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. We are obviously an ‘it’s complicated’ couple.”

  James gasped. “We’re a couple now?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t look sorry at all. He was still grinning. “We haven’t ditched a party together for a while.”

  I nodded. “True...”

  “And I did get you a present, but I left it at home.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “If you’re hard up for cash, you can just tell me. I understand.”

  “I can take you via Lord of the Fries on the way home.”

  “Now you have my attention,” I said. “Are you asking me on a date, James McKenzie?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” came a voice from the doorway.

  I turned and felt the blood rush from my face. Joanna Riley was standing at the door, clutching a knife and looking ready to murder somebody.

  Hey there, lovely reader!

  You’re looking mighty fine today. Have you done something with your hair?

  I’m here to ask you a massive favour. In return, you’ll receive my eternal love and affection...

  If you liked this book, will you please leave a review for me?

  OK, so you’ll get my eternal love and affection anyway, but I would appreciate it so much if you’d take the time to write just a sentence to let people know what you thought of the book. That way more people will be able to find it and read it, and I’ll be able to afford to pay rent. And eat. And boy, do I love to eat.

  Eternally, lovingly and affectionately yours,

  xx Clare

  Have you joined the Readers’ Group yet?

  No? Then you should head over to clarekauter.com/freestuff immediately.

  Why?

  Well, friend, because you’ll get:

  A FREE copy of the Charlie Davies prequel ‘Short Fuse’, PLUS ‘Deadhead’ and ‘Losing Your Head’ if you haven’t picked up your copies yet

  TWO EXCLUSIVE EXTRAS: an interview with Satan (based on the ‘Damned Girl’ series), and

  Charlie’s school counselling report (which her counsellor would probably also describe as an interview with Satan)

  SNEAK PEEKS into new books before they’re released

  INSIDE INFORMATION about upcoming sales

  BEHIND-THE-SCENES of writing my books (which to be honest is mostly me lying on the couch covered in crumbs, but hey – you’ll be right there with me. I know, the glamour is too much!)

  What are you waiting for? Join me in the Readers’ Group! It’s like a cult, but less terrifying.

  Also by Clare Kauter:

  The Charlie Davies Mysteries

  Losing Your Head

  Unfinished Sentence

  Graceless

  Higher Learning

  Santa’s Little Helper

  Short Fuse (Prequel)

  Damned, Girl!

  Deadhead

  Sled Head

  Hell’s Belles

  Loch Nessa

  About the Author

  Clare Kauter is a semi-professional lawn bowls champion and compulsive liar who writes books in her spare time. She describes her books as “mystery with a twist-ery and fantasy with banter-sy” - and advises that if you don’t like puns, you should back away now.

  Clare began writing her first novel at age 13, and eventually that book was published as Losing Your Head (the first of the Charlie Davies Mysteries). She also writes the ‘Damned, Girl!’ series, set in a modern fantasy world.

  Website: clarekauter.com

  Facebook: Clare Kauter

  Twitter: @clarekauter

  Instagram: @clarekauter

  What now?

  Now that you’ve finished this book, you’re probably wondering what comes next on your reading list. I’m guessing that since you’ve made it this far, you’re a fan of light-hearted mysteries.

  If so, I have a suggestion for you...

  How do you feel about a touch of magic alongside your mysteries? How about a bucket-load of magic? If that sounds like your kind of thing, keep reading. I’ve included the first chapter of my book ‘Deadhead’, which you can pick up in its entirety for free from clarekauter.com/freestuff.

  If you’re unsure, why not give it a try? After all, it’s free. What’s the worst that could happen?

  DEADHEAD

  CHAPTER ONE

  The lady in my kitchen was stuck up and stupid but I needed her money so I swallowed hard and put on my best Customer Service Fake Smile™.

  “Was there anything in particular you’d like me to ask him?”

  She was crying into the toilet paper I’d given her when she’d asked me for a tissue. Not that I didn’t have any tissues to give her; there was just something satisfying about watching annoying clients cry into toilet paper. You do what you can to keep yourself amused in this business.

  “I just want to know if he’s... happy!” She began to sob with loud, shuddering breaths. I tried my best to look sympathetic, although I suspect my facial expression may have been one of disgust rather than compassion. I didn’t understand crying loudly in front of people. It wasn’t something I did very often. Usually only when I was in a public place and desperately wanted to get my own way. It’s amazing what people will do to get you to shut up. But these tricks don’t work on me.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll make sure to ask. Just before we get started though, I’m afraid we have to discuss the subject of fees. It is much harder summoning the spirit of a deceased animal, as I’m sure you can appreciate – what with the language barrier and all – and hence for animal clairvoyance I charge double my standard rate.”

  “No price is too high for my Noodle.”

  Excellent.

  Now, before you get on your moral high horse and yell at me about taking money from a grief-stricken woman, just hear me out: this was a lady who had disp
osable income to spend on communing with the spirit of her dead pet. She clearly knew nothing about the spirit realm whatsoever and hadn’t bothered to do any research. She’d just assumed that I could talk to her dog. Now, let’s think about this...

  She wanted me to ask. Her dead dog. Questions.

  I love animals, but even to me this was a bit far. Firstly, she wanted me to summon the spirit of her dog (and let’s be fair, dogs don’t come when they’re called at the best of times, much less when they’re dead). Spirits don’t just hang around once they die. They pick the conservative party upstairs or wild times for eternity downstairs unless they’ve got some unfinished business to attend to. Most animals, especially pampered pet poodles, do not have ‘unfinished business’. The only ghost animal I’d seen in the last week was a cockroach coming back for a crumb he hadn’t finished. When he realized he couldn’t eat it, he moved on. Animals don’t tend to get hung up on the past. They go with the flow. And if, by some miracle, I did manage to summon a dog, I couldn’t be sure it was her dog, could I? Even if I were sure it was hers, how on earth was I meant to talk to it?

  Nevertheless, there was a lot of money at stake here, so I shut my eyes and gave it a go. I took a deep breath and with all my energy, projected my voice into the astral realm....

  “Here puppy! Come on, who’s a good boy? Come to Nessa, that’s a good boy. Noodles! Noooooodles!”

  Suddenly I heard a bark at my left ankle. I opened my eyes and looked down. To my astonishment, there was a dog there. A ghost dog. I’d actually summoned a dead dog. I looked away from the dog when I heard huffing and chair scraping from across the table.

  “I didn’t come here to be made fun of! I hope you don’t expect –”

  “Is Noodles a poodle with a pink diamante-studded collar?”

  She stopped in her tracks. “You – you actually –”

  “Yes,” I said. I was used to this reaction. People always thought I was having a go at them when I spoke to ghosts the way I spoke to normal people. Or dogs. They expected me to put on a sing-songy voice and talk in riddles, with perhaps the occasional head-twitch or possession. Reality was much tamer. Spirits were basically just the same as they used to be, but dead. You tried to talk to a ghost like you see people do on TV and the ghost would think you were crazy.