Alexandra Fry Private Eye
Book One
The Curse of the Lion’s Heart
By Angella Graff
Copyrighted © 2013 by Angella Graff
2nd Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and characters portrayed are used fictitiously, or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual persons living or deceased, business establishments, locales or events are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be printed, scanned or distributed in print or electronic form without permission of the author.
For Josh, as always, you are my rock. For Christian, Isabella, and Adia, your inspiration never ceases to amaze me. To the wonderful students at Whitmore Elementary in Mrs. Hanabergh’s fifth grade class 2012/2013, your feedback and support of this book has been fantastic. To my beta-readers, as always, you’ve kept me pointed in the right direction to make this book a success.
Isabella
Phoebe
Nahid
Hailey
For more information on the Tucson Alliance for Autism, how you can help, and where you can donate, please visit: www.tucsonallianceforautism.org
Other works by Angella Graff
The Judas Curse Series:
Book One: The Awakening
Book Two: The Judas Kiss
Book Three: Cry, Nike!
For more information on future works visit
http://www.angellagraff.com
https://www.facebook.com/AngellaGraffAuthor
Chapter One
Meet Alexandra
“Wake up earthling, you haven’t got all light-year. Wake up earthling, you haven’t got all light-year. Wake up earthling, you haven’t got all light-year.”
With a groan, one eye open, my hand fumbled for the horrible clock my sister gave me two weeks before she left for college. I can’t even remember when she got this thing, but it was definitely before cell phones were popular because the character, this weird black and green alien, was no one I recognized. The voice was horrible, too. Mechanical, low-tech, but I guess it did its job because by the third round of squawking, I was awake. I hadn’t even wanted to set the darn thing, but the night before, Amanda had gotten me so worked up that I’d sleep in, I had to do something drastic.
I fumbled on my nightstand and shoved the ugly plastic thing back into its round little space ship, fighting off the urge to throw the stupid thing in my little trash can by my desk. I stretched up, giving a groan, and winced as my knuckles rapped hard on the blue metal frame of my really old, really ugly bed.
It had been a bunk bed once, when I was six and bunk beds were cool. I used to throw a sheet over the side and make the bottom bunk my secret fort which no one, especially Amanda the Extra Annoying, could come in. But that was years ago, and not only were bunk beds not cool anymore, but squeaky metal frames were way out, too.
I mean, I was in middle school now, a seventh grader, and it was no time to get the year started off as the uncool kid. We’d just moved across town, to a new school district, so this was my chance. It was time to shed the reputation of being “That Weird Girl” and show the world that Alexandra Fry was cool. She was popular, mysterious—but not in a totally freaky way—and definitely someone you wanted to get to know.
The thing is though, I wasn’t, and probably never would be, just the regular girl. The kind like Stacy Anderson was. Stacy was from my old school across town. Tall and blonde, she started wearing a bra in fourth grade, makeup in fifth, and all the girls wanted to be like her. She knew all the popular bands and had her own cell phone and iPod. Every time she saw me she laughed, and starting in fourth grade called me Loopy Lexi, which I mean come on, what a stupid name. Even I could come up with something better than that. It caught on like wildfire, though and by sixth grade, the entire elementary school had taken to it. Even when the kids shortened it to Lexi in front of the teachers so they wouldn’t get in trouble, we all knew what they meant.
My mom, of course, told me to ignore them. She said I was unique and someday I’d appreciate that about myself, but whenever that day was going to come, it wasn’t soon enough. The truth is, I was kind of loopy. I mean, it wasn’t the kind of loopy that could be classified and diagnosed, though my mom had taken me to enough doctors to try and get me to focus better. It wasn’t something my mom could give me a pill for, though by sixth grade I’d been on every medication on the market with no success.
No, being under-medicated wasn’t my problem. My problem wasn’t something I could just tell the school counselor, Mr. Moore, about. Because yeah, if I did that, they’d do a lot more than give me a couple of peer therapy sessions a week, and a pill to take twice a day. My problem is the kind of problem I wasn’t sure anyone in the world had.
I was special. The kind of special that left me with a secret I couldn’t tell anyone. Ever. A secret that no one would believe, and if they did, they’d probably never want to be around me ever again. A secret that would get me locked up in a padded cell for the rest of my life.
Part of my secret, the part that isn’t so bad, is I’ve always been really great at finding things. Important things, expensive things. Historical, irreplaceable things. I’ve always had a knack for putting together clues, you know, kind of like Sherlock, solving mysteries. Alexandra Fry, Private Eye, I secretly called myself. Of course, no one but me knew that nickname, I didn’t want to be a total loser, but it was kind of true. Sometimes I felt like one of those detectives from those old black and white movies, where the damsel in distress would come in and tell the detective in the bowler hat all about her missing diamond ring. Except I didn’t have a bowler hat, and what came to see me weren’t ever damsels in distress. No. The things that came to see me, at any hour, without warning, without asking, were ghosts.
Yes, that’s right. Ghosts.
Okay, okay I know what you’re thinking, there’s no such thing, right? Well I’m here to tell you all, ghosts are real. They’re not the ghosts floating around in white sheets, or even the really messed up ones from horror movies that chase you with chainsaws and stuff. They’re not like anything in books or movies at all.
They look like regular people, except they’re a little… shiny, I guess you could say. Their voices sound kind of funny, too, like someone talking in a really empty, echoing room. They’re also dressed weird sometimes, in the clothes that were popular when they died. But otherwise, yeah, they’re the ghosts of dead people, and they come and find me when someone in the world of the living has stolen something important to them. Oh, and I should also mention, these ghosts aren’t your average dead-guys either. These ghosts are, for lack of a better word, famous. Famous in history, more accurately, and they’re really, oddly attached to the stuff they had when they were alive.
It all started when I was about seven, and I was outside pretending that I was on a deserted island and had to survive on fish and rain water—yeah I was a weird kid—and suddenly this guy was just standing there next to me. He was pretty young, in this weird outfit that you’d see someone wearing at the Renaissance Festival or something. A big floppy hat with a feather, and honest to God, he was wearing tights. Bright white tights all the way up his legs. He started babbling at me in Italian, although I didn’t know it was Italian at the time because I understood everything he was saying. I’m not too sure how I understand them when they don’t speak English, because I only know about ten words in Spanish, and definitely nothing in Italian, but I figure it’s some sort of ghost thing.
He didn’t seem to care that I was just a kid either, and kept repeating over and over that I had to tell my dad his co-worker had stol
en a compass from the museum where my dad worked. He went on and on for hours about the compass. I was really terrified, and when he followed me into my house, I realized that I was the only one who could see him. I remember crying and trying to tell my mom and step-dad that this man had followed me, but once she realized what I was saying, she assumed it was an imaginary friend and said I had an overactive imagination. Amanda just laughed at me, and eventually, when I realized I was either seeing a ghost, or I’d gone crazy, I calmed down.
Even though I was pretty sure I’d gone crazy, I told my dad what I’d seen in hopes that someone would believe me. I told him about the strange man, and the compass, and how his co-worker was a thief. Of course he thought I was nuts, too, and even called my mom to tell me she should take me to the doctor, because clearly something was wrong. He didn’t listen to my warnings, and even grounded me from the museum for an entire month.
A week later, though, it turned out that his co-worker had stolen the compass. In fact, it had been the compass used on some famous ship by Magellan, the really famous explorer. So my dad’s co-worker went to jail and the ghost of what I later learned was Magellan himself, had gone away. My dad came over after that, to talk to my mom, and they decided that it was something I’d seen and projected into an imaginary friend. However, that moment I realized I was very different from everyone else. I knew what I’d seen, and even if no one believed me, I had still solved a very important crime. The compass had been priceless and the museum was saved a lot of grief and money, or so said my dad.
Now, I realize that this actually might sound kind of cool, seeing ghosts, but it’s not. Trust me. Every time something goes missing, here come these ghosts. They don’t care whether I’m in school, or if it’s midnight and I’m trying to sleep, or even if I’m trying to take a shower! They come in with their weird echoing voices, and their hysterical pleas to find their stuff. They all have a story to go along with it, a story that’s supposed to prove why finding their things is more important than homework, or sleep, or being clean. And believe me, I’ve tried to ignore them, but they’re persistent. They’re dead, and they don’t seem to have anything better to do, which doesn’t work out so well for me.
They’ve popped in during school enough times where people have noticed my weird behavior, too. I’ve been caught talking to them, which looks like I’m talking to myself, and that’s where the Loopy Lexi name comes in. Even my sister thinks I’m a total weirdo, and my mom and dad think it’s some kind of phase. Part of me hopes it is, because I can’t imagine having to go through my entire life having to deal with this stress. I’m only twelve, you know, I’m not equipped to deal with this sort of thing.
I’m not even a really odd person. Maybe a little bit of a nerd, because I do love history, even though I’m constantly hounded by the ghosts of the past. I like video games and zombies. I don’t really care about make up, and you wouldn’t catch me dead in a dress. My hair’s not ever styled, because why waste time on my hair when I could be reading or killing vampires in my online games. I feel like I’m pretty typical, even if I’m not popular, so why me?
But no matter how hard I try, they won’t go away. Any time there’s a problem, it’s Alexandra Fry, Private Eye to the rescue. A twelve-year old with a full time job, without being paid, mind you, and believe me, the job is thankless. Over the last five years I’ve been doing this, I’ve been caught breaking into the museum more than once, the University twice, and one time I was even handcuffed by security before my dad talked them into letting me go.
I was visited by Abraham Lincoln. Yeah you know, President Lincoln? With the famous speech, and the war and Emancipation Proclamation, and getting assassinated in the theater? Well he’d had some hat or something that got stolen from the University, and let me tell you, trying to get the bad guy caught on that one was no picnic. A security guard busted me in the History building at midnight carrying a pair of wire-cutters. Lincoln had said I was going to need them to break into the box where the hat was being kept. The professor was the one who found me first, breaking into the box. He called security on me when he realized I knew what he was up to, and he said that I was the one who’d stolen the hat, and they handcuffed me.
Luckily, Lincoln knew the Professor was the thief and told me to tell the cops that the Professor had a bunch of other stolen items in his office closet. The professor started crying that it was an outrage, and they had no right to go through his stuff, and I was a liar. Luckily his behavior was suspicious enough that the other security guard went into the closet anyway and found everything I’d told them about. Some of the stuff had been reported missing for months, so there was no way he could pin that on me. In the end he went to jail, and I just had to lie and say I’d heard him talking about it on his cell phone one day when I was at the University coffee shop with my dad. It was tough explaining why I didn’t go to the police, or to my parents, but I said I wanted to be a detective when I grew up, and the cops believed me. I got grounded, big time, but was also given a ‘well-done’ pat on the back from the President of the University, and he said one day I’d make a great investigator.
So, that’s my big secret. I’m the weird girl who talks to ghosts. I’m also your average girl with a geeky dad who runs a museum, and a really uptight lawyer mom who have been divorced since I was four. I have an obnoxious sister, who spent most of her youth getting into way more trouble than I do, even with my little problem, but she’s off at college now and I finally have the house to myself.
My mom’s name is Melody Fry, and she lives with this guy named Jeff Hock, who isn’t too bad of a guy… for a lawyer. They met on a case, opposite sides, and believe me, if you think their fighting in the courtroom is bad, you should hear them at home. But I guess they love each other because they’ve been together for seven years. They’re common-law married even though my mom says that marriage is just some religious institution and she won’t bend to what society thinks is normal for a woman, so they refuse to make it official.
My dad’s name is Ethan Fry, and he’s still single, which being that he spends every waking moment knee deep in dusty old artifacts, it’s no surprise. He’s super smart, and everyone thought he was going to be some doctor or scientist, but he decided that working in a museum was his dream.
I look like him more than I look like my mom. Tall, really skinny, dark hair and glasses. I’m pretty plain, I’ve never had a secret admirer or anything like that, but my mom says I’ll grow into it. But you know what, I’ve seen what boys and girls are like together and well, no thank you. They say I’m a freak but you won’t catch me all googly eyed over some boy. There are way better things in life to get googly-eyed over. Like the latest edition of Zombie Apocalypse. Or my most favorite author coming out with a new series. I’ll take that over boys any day, believe me.
So anyway, that’s my life, and my gift. Even though secretly I hope I grow out of it soon, it’s just something I have to make do with for now. What I’m really hoping for, right now anyway, is that these ghosts give me a pass for a bit. Because while getting handcuffed by University security is terrifying, and waking up to some ghost hovering over my bed screaming about their lost gym shorts is nothing short of horrifying, I’m about to face something worse. Way worse. The most frightening thing a girl could face.
My first day of seventh grade at a brand new middle school.
Chapter Two
First Day Blues
Sage Middle School, a place where dreams go to die. At least, that’s what my sister told me when she was getting ready to head off for college. My sister was the kind of girl who didn’t care what people thought about her. She was tall like me, her hair was black with the bottom dyed this really awful shade of pink, and she had just about every free place on her body pierced. Both of her arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think my mom has looked her in the eye for about a year now. I actually think it’s cool, secretly, but not something I’d ever
tell my mom. Besides, Amanda had made it her mission to freak me out about middle school, so she wasn’t my favorite person at the moment.
I was already nervous about the school change to begin with. See, we’d just moved across town, which meant brand new school district, so I wouldn’t know a single kid there. The bonus, no one would know the stupid name Loopy Lexi. The bad news, making friends wasn’t something I was good at. Even though I’d gone to the same elementary school for my entire life, the only kid who ever sat with me at lunch was Aubrey Stills, and I still wonder to this day if it was just some dare.
I tried not to take it personally that Aubrey hadn’t bothered to keep in contact since I’d moved, but it was hard not to. I had to just let it go, though, and start anew. Friends were overrated anyway, and even though it made me a freak, none of them could see or talk to ghosts. Okay, okay, maybe that’s me being, as my mom calls it, overly defensive, but I had to make myself feel better somehow.
I knew if I could get through the first week of school without having some hysterical apparition start hopping up and down in front of me, crying about their lost belt buckle or whatever, I could actually make a friend or two. I just think it would be nice to, you know, maybe feel normal for once.
Today my morning alarm, as annoying as it was, had been set so I could have an extra hour to get ready. First impressions, especially in middle school, could make or break you. Or so Amanda had told me, though she went on to tell me that everyone in middle school were sheep, and that the only way to escape them was to make them all hate you. Yeah right, like that was my life plan. Make everyone hate me so I could be even more miserable this year than last.
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