The Case of the Bad Twin

by Shannon Greenland

  Then they both tell me different versions of the story, and while I’m chasing my tail in circles, they’re having a good laugh.

  Meanwhile, they’ll wait until the very last second to return it and then split the fifty-buck reward. They’ll come up with some story that they found it buried in a sand dune or some such thing.

  Yep, the more I think about it, the more I see it. They are in on this together. I know it. I would bet anything Ean knows something because Rocco tells him everything. Oh, I bet all three of them are having a good laugh.

  I stop in my pacing, suddenly feeling a weird sensation that someone is watching me. I turn a slow circle, scrutinizing the houses and the street. Maybe it’s Rocco, waiting to take back his bike. I make a U-Turn in my wanderings and find his silver BMX right where I left it, and then I look around again but see no Rocco in sight.

  Leaning down, I pick up Clover, noting the lady who gave me the stink eye is now sitting on her porch on a bedraggled couch with a yellow, brown, and white cat on her lap.

  Nitzi.

  With curlers in her hair and still in her flowered housecoat, she strokes the cat all while wordlessly watching me.

  Hesitantly, I approach, coming to a stop on this side of her peeling white fence. “Hi. I do believe that’s the cat I’m looking for.”

  She doesn’t say anything back, just keeps petting the kitty. Hm, if she likes kitties, maybe she likes dogs. Everyone likes Clover. I hold her up, squishing our faces together, and I smile. Who can resist a little girl and her dog? Luckily, Clover picks that moment to do one of her muffled woofs.

  The lady rolls her eyes. “You do believe or you know for sure this is your cat?”

  “Actually, it belongs to the little boy who lives in the lighthouse.” I wave my hand in that general direction. “He asked me to look for her.”

  The lady huffs.

  More smiling on my part as I straighten my neck scarf. “Nitzi is her name, and I’m sure she misses Turner. That’s the little boy’s name.”

  In actuality, it doesn’t look like Nitzi misses much of anything as she cuddles into the lady’s chubby middle.

  The lady looks beyond me in the direction of the lighthouse.

  I figure an effective private investigator has to have good reasoning and people skills, so I say, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I can take her back now.” I point to the gate that separates me from her tiny yard. “May I?”

  She doesn’t respond, and it may be my imagination, but her scowl seems less scowlier now. I open the gate and step through. Just a harmless and friendly little girl trying to help out a boy and his cat. “I really appreciate this,” I say.

  In response, she balks, but I keep moving forward. Maybe I should offer to get her a cat of her own since she seems to want one so bad. I take a tentative step up onto her creaky porch and a powerful whiff of litter box hits me in the face. Clover gets it, too, and sneezes.

  I glance over to her open screen door and inside her disheveled house where a dozen or more cats lie draped over piles of newspaper, stacks of boxes, and various other things. Wow, talk about a hoarder.

  Turning back to the lady, I take one more step across her porch, and then I’m right here looking down into her plump face. With pursed lips, she thrusts Nitzi into my arms, shoves up out of the lopsided couch, and the wood planks beneath my feet vibrate as she stomps past and slams through the screen door.

  I don’t wait around to see if she’s coming back, and I beat feet back to Rocco’s bike. I got Nitzi back, sure, but that lady’s house is just sad.

  Nitzi and Clover become fast friends and have no problem sharing the basket for the short ride home. Turner gets Nitzi back, and I even get a big hug from the kid. He tries to give me the ten again, and I give him a bunch of my business cards instead.

  “Tell you what, you can pay me back by passing my cards around.” Someone else around here might need a P. I. Never know.

  He grins. “Deal!”

  Carrying the cat, Turner heads back to the black and white checkered painted lighthouse, and right as I’m climbing on Rocco’s bike, my eye catches on someone standing in the shadow of a truck waiting in line to get on the ferry. A peculiar sensation creeps along my neck, and my heart leapfrogs when the shadow moves into the light to reveal Rocco.

  He glares at me and my first impulse is to shrink out of sight. Rocco steps onto his electric scooter and pushes off. Man, that scooter’s fast.

  I’m fully aware I’m on his bike and that he wants it back. I was planning on returning it, but not now. Not when I’ve decided he’s in on the prank. Or at least I’m pretty darn sure.

  I do a quick run-through of all my possible escape routes, but none of them seem quick enough. Rocco swerves around a clump of people waiting to board, and before I realize what I’m doing, I thrust my hand down inside my messenger bag and grab the key chain pepper spray.

  His glare transitions into alarm, and with a shaky hand, I hold it straight out. There’s no way I’m using this thing on Rocco, but he doesn’t know that. And oh my God, am I really holding up a teeny tiny can of pepper spray? What am I doing?

  He comes to a screeching halt, now just feet away from me and Clover. His light gaze bounces from me to the pepper spray and back to me. If anyone thinks it’s odd that two kids are having a standoff at the ferry, no one intercedes.

  “Are you kidding me?” he yells.

  “Tell me what you know about the missing time capsule and you get your bike back. I know you know something, Rocco Garcia!” They’re pretty fancy words considering I’m about to have a panic attack.

  “Who the heck cares about the time capsule?” he shouts. “You stole my bike!”

  I hike my chin. “I borrowed it.”

  “You what?”

  “I left my bike as collateral.”

  “Your bike?” he scoffs. “That’s a girl’s bike.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “My grandmother was right about you!”

  My jaw drops.

  He takes a step closer, and I’m completely speechless. What does he mean his grandmother was right about me? What did she say?

  Rocco takes one more step closer, and I keep the pepper spray pointed in his direction as I slowly begin to peddle away. The cap is still on, but I’m not sure he knows that. “Stay back or I will use this.”

  Thankfully, he doesn’t move, and I keep going, keeping one eye on him as I do.

  A couple of blocks later, I pull over, and with a shaky hand, I put the can away. I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe I just pulled a can of pepper spray on Rocco Garcia. A closed can, sure, and miniature at that, but what the heck? Ugh.

  With a sigh, I scrub my hands over my face and Rocco’s words come back to me, My grandmother was right about you!

  I’m sure he’s going to tell Mama Garcia all about this. You know what? Fine. She thinks I’m so bad? Let her think it. I don’t care. Rocco’s not so great either. Maybe someone needs to tell her that!

  NO LUCK AT THE SURF SPOTS, Diamond texts me. GETTING LATE. HAVE TO GO HOME. MEET UP TOMORROW?

  I don’t feel like giving her a play by play, so I type back. CATCH UP TOMORROW.

  She’s right, it’s getting late. I don’t have time to keep looking for Ean. Anyway, I’ve got a plan. Rocco wants his bike so bad, he can come and get it. I’ll park it in clear view, hide somewhere, and wait. He’ll come, I know he will, and then I’ll handcuff him, and I won’t let him go until he tells me everything he knows.

  Chapter 15

  With dark being my curfew, I make it home with only a few minutes to spare. Aunt Grace’s yellow Thing and Juice Truck sit under the extended carport, and I park Rocco’s bike in plain sight and right next to the shed that holds all the junk we don’t have room for in the house.

  Behind me on the porch, the wind tickles through our chimes and fills the night air with an orchestra of tiki wood, clinking shells, and tinkling bronze. Hopping up the porch steps
, I peek my head in the front door. “Aunt Grace I’m home!”

  “Okay!” She yells back.

  “I’m on the front porch if you need me!”

  “Gotcha!”

  I close the door and while Clover does her business, I glance up and down the coastal highway as it grows darker outside. I wonder if Rocco has a curfew.

  When Clover’s done, I tuck her inside the house and I grab my canvas bag. I study Rocco’s bike. If I can somehow disable it, then when he comes for it, he won’t be able to peddle away. I’ll sneak up, grab him, and then, and then…well, I’m not sure.

  It would be my first handcuffing, and I don’t want to take any chances of getting it wrong. My gaze wanders around my yard while I think through things, and then I look back at his bike and the shed it’s leaning against.

  Perfect. I’ll leave the shed door open and then I’ll just shove him inside and close him in. There are vents, so it’s not like he’ll suffocate or anything.

  But back to the bike, I don’t know a whole lot about them, but I do know how to remove a chain. This will be perfect. Tightening my ponytail, I grab a rag from a bucket in the carport and use it to remove the chain. I hide it in the shed and then I tuck in behind the hedge of red tip photinia that borders our porch.

  The front door opens and Aunt Grace trots down the steps. On the stone walkway, she pauses, looking around for me and I smile. Perfect, no one can see me.

  “Hey.” I step into view.

  She jumps. “Goodness, you scared me. What are you doing?”

  “Playing.”

  She glances at Rocco’s bike. “Where’d you get that?”

  I shrug. “Me and a friend traded bikes for a few days.” The lie comes way too fast and easy and doesn’t concern me as much as it should. But that does concern me—the fact I just lied and it doesn’t concern me. If that makes sense.

  “Oh.” She slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’m off to Bingo night. Thank you for that pot full of beans. They were very good. You didn’t have to do that, though.”

  “I know.”

  She points at me. “Don’t—”

  “Wander out of the yard.” I smile. “Got it.”

  “You’re a good girl. I never have to worry about you.”

  I hold my smile in place, but her words burrow in. I’m not so sure Aunt Grace would say those words if she knew all the things I’d done today.

  With a wave, she heads across the yard to her Thing, jumps in, and as soon as she’s out of sight, my smile slides away, and I tell myself to focus on Rocco, the bike, and my sting operation.

  Grabbing an empty potter from the carport, I carry it over. I slip behind the hedge again and take a seat on the upside-down pot. I check my phone for the time. 8:31 p.m.

  A mosquito lands on my knee and I smack it. I hate mosquitos. Balancing my heels on the pot, I tuck my knees up under my sundress and hug them into my chest. Mr. Taylor, our next-door neighbor, cranks on opera, and I know that means he’s doing his nightly elliptical work out. Another mosquito lands, this one on my bare shoulder, and I smack it, too. I check my phone. 8:35 p.m.

  I hate waiting.

  My stomach growls. I hate being hungry.

  Through the red tip photinia, I watch a moped buzz past on the coastal highway.

  I check my phone. 8:36 p.m.

  I hate being bored.

  I go through scenarios of using the things in my messenger bag. I come up behind somebody and spray them, then when they’re on the ground and incapacitated, I cuff them. No, that wouldn’t work because I would be spraying their back. I would need to strike up a conversation, then spray, then cuff.

  Or I could dress in all black, like a ninja, and skirt through the shadows. I could pick a lock with a simple flick and a twist and roll forward into the room. Surprise, bet you weren’t expecting me!

  Or I could dress like Katniss but instead of the bow, I would have my slingshot. I would stalk my victim, then from miles away (because I would be the sharpest slingshot shooter ever) I would fling my marble and hit my target.

  Or I would know martial arts and would do a flying kick. No, I’m a gymnast who knows martial arts and I would backflip my way through a crowd, coming up into a soaring somersault and then down to sweep the ankles of my target. With nunchucks. Yes, I definitely need nunchucks.

  I go through a few more scenarios, then I get bored and check the time again. 8:41. Only five minutes have passed? Geez.

  Closing my eyes, I think of all my books. I imagine re-organizing them by color. Then by title. Then by series. Then by author.

  I have to pee. I hate having to pee.

  I check my phone. 9:02. Hey, that’s not bad. My re-organizing of books killed some time.

  Propping my chin on my knees, I close my eyes again. This time I’ll re-organize my aunt’s books. Just when I’m getting to the ones with black spines, the wind changes directions and something foul fills my nostrils. Like a dead animal.

  With a cringe, I open my eyes and for some reason, Vail floats through my thoughts (not that he smelled like a dead animal, but he’s the first thing to pop into my mind). Wait a minute. What am I doing? This is about the time of the night when he came to my house.

  Okay, this plan is officially over. Even if Rocco does show up, at least my chain removal will prohibit him from riding the bike away. Unless he sends someone else to get it. Someone with a car, like that boy who got his backpack. Ugh, I didn’t even think of that. I really do stink at this P. I. thing.

  Actually, it’s exactly what I would do if I had a friend with a car and I needed something back and didn’t want to get caught. I need to start thinking more like a criminal if I’m going to make a real go at this private investigator business. It shouldn’t be too difficult. It is in my blood.

  Okay, fine, time to call it a night. I’ll lock the bike in the shed and be done with it. Time to go inside and pee and eat. My feet come down off the potter, and I slip from behind the red tip photinia.

  A blur of movement catches my attention, and my heart stutters a beat. Vail. I slink back behind the hedge, and my stuttering heart revs into full-on racing. Through the shrubbery, I try to see, but it’s too dark now.

  My messenger bag sits behind me on the porch, but I’m scared to move. Scared to draw attention. The blur moves again, coming right toward me. I open my mouth to scream, the hedge moves, and I start throwing punches and kicks.

  “Ow!” someone yelps.

  But it’s not Vail. It’s Rocco Garcia, and he does not look happy. In fact, he looks downright angry. Angry? What the heck is he angry for? He nearly scared all thirteen years out of my life.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I shriek.

  “Me?” He yanks me from behind the hedge. “What are you doing?”

  Waiting on you, but that’s so not the point.

  He jabs his finger at his bike. “Give me my chain.”

  “No.” I straighten my silk scarf.

  Rocco’s mouth flattens into an unsmiling line. That’s fine, I can scowl, too. With the best of them. I do just that, showing him all the defiance I’ve got in me.

  His unsmiling mouth transitions into a smirk. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  I’m not entirely sure what he’s talking about—the missing capsule, this private investigator business, the incident with Vail, borrowing Rocco’s bike, all of the above.

  His hand snakes out and he grabs my arm, but before I have time to register what’s happening, he shoves me inside the shed and slams the door shut. The same shed I had intended on shoving him into.

  I kick the door. “Rocco!” I kick it again. “Let me out!”

  Through the slats, I watch as he takes a wide step back and stands for a second surveying my face through the vent. “Tell me where the chain is, and I’ll let you go.”

  “Never.” My jaw snaps shut.

  “Fine.” He turns a slow circle, searching the ground for the chain. He moves
beyond the shed, slipping behind the red tip photinia and looking there too. He marches into the carport, and I hear more than see him rifling through things.

  I shove the inside of the shed door. “Let me out!” I don’t know how he got here. I didn’t hear his electric step scooter. Unless he parked it a few houses down and walked here. The sneak.

  He emerges from the carport with empty hands because, of course, the chain is in here with me. It makes me smirk. Ha! I may be stuck in here, but he’s not winning this round.

  “What I want to know is, why remove the chain? Why not just lock my bike to something?”

  “Because I wanted to lure you in. If you saw it hooked to something, I knew you wouldn’t approach.”

  He actually looks impressed, and I straighten up. That’s right. I’m good at this. I can have a good idea every now and then.

  “And what? You were going to jump out from behind the hedge and pepper me?” Now it’s his turn to smirk. “Looks like your little plan backfired.”

  When I get out of here he is going to pay for this.

  “I guess you weren’t counting on me carrying my bike home.” Through the slats, I watch as he picks up his BMX.

  No, I wasn’t. “Wait a minute.”

  With a snicker, Rocco strolls off.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a good plan. “You can’t just leave me in here!”

  “See you around Penny-Ann Piper.”

  “B-b-but—” I watch him weave through our yard and around the decorations, then he turns left onto the dark coastal highway and is gone.

  He is seriously not going to carry that bike all the way home. He lives on the north end of the island. That’s five whole miles away. Someone has to be picking him up. Plus, it’s dark. Is he really allowed to be out this time of night?

  Something over to my right shifts, like the sound of feet shuffling across the grass, and my heart contracts so hard I actually go deaf for a second. But then I catch sight of Mr. Taylor’s cat, and I breathe out.

  In my dress pocket, my phone buzzes, and I nearly burst into happy tears. I forgot it was there. I yank it out and look at the text from Aunt Grace: CHECKING IN. EVERYTHING GOING GOOD?