by Casey Lyall
I’d messed this case up royally. I followed the rules, and all of my plans went down the tubes. Now the blackmailer had the upper hand. If I didn’t turn things around, the bad guys were going to win, and my P.I. business wouldn’t be worth the sticky notes it was written on.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Pops pulled into our driveway, my mother twisted in her seat to look at me. “Go inside, Howard,” she said. “And go to your room.”
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I headed into the house. Once my coat was hung up and bag dispatched on the floor, I went up the stairs to my room and shut the door. I waited a couple of minutes before creeping out onto the landing. I wasn’t an idiot. They were obviously going to discuss phase two of my punishment, and I needed all the information I could get before I mounted my counterargument.
The acoustics in the hallway were not ideal. I shimmied forward to the top step. Better, but not perfect.
Snatches of conversation volleyed up the stairs. I could hear enough to know the discussion had morphed into a fight. My mother said they’d “played along long enough” and I “didn’t live in reality.” My work took me to the seedy underbelly of Grantleyville Middle School. If that wasn’t reality, I didn’t know what was.
The back door slammed: Eileen was home. I heard her walk toward the living room, but she detoured for the stairs, redirected by the sounds of our parents’ argument. Spotting me on the top step, she grimaced.
“I’m assuming this is your fault.”
“I could make a case for it being Mr. Vannick’s,” I said.
She joined me at my post and ground a knuckle into my shoulder. “What did you do?” she asked.
“Got picked up doing a little B&E for a client.”
“Ugh,” she said. “Mom and Dad had better ground you good this time. You get away with murder around here.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face and huffed out a breath. “They’re deciding my fate as we speak.”
“I don’t know why I’m the only one who thought this was inevitable,” Eileen said. “Maybe this will get it through your head. You’re a kid, Howard, not a detective.”
“Artistflower461,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Eileen went still.
“The password for your computer. Don’t tell me I’m not a private detective.” Her face went white and then a very interesting shade of red.
“Oh, and I added Michael Anjemi’s cell phone number to your contacts list since you love him so much.”
“You. Are. The. Worst.” Eileen grabbed my head and stuffed it down between my knees before she stomped off to her room . . . presumably to change her password, not that it mattered.
I was the worst. I was the best. It all depended on your perspective.
I returned to my listening and was met with silence. I dove back into my room, not a minute too late. “Howard,” Pops called from the bottom of the stairs. “Please come down here.”
Taking my time going down the stairs, I ran through the possibilities. A grounding for sure—the folks couldn’t let a suspension go unanswered. No TV—I could live with that. Probably yard work; Pops hated it and passed it off at any opportunity. Sitting through a lecture was a given.
My parents sat on the couch in the living room. Fixing on my very best remorseful look, I hopped on to the loveseat facing them.
“Howard,” my mother said. “What happened today was very serious. Your father and I have discussed what further action needs to be taken here at home.”
Pops cleared his throat. “And what we’ve decided, your mother and I, is that you are no longer to do investigative work of any kind.”
I froze as shock rocketed through me. “You’re joking.”
“No, Howard,” my mother said. “We’re very serious. Your behavior has been unacceptable.”
Ignoring her, I turned to my father: Brutus Wallace. “You love my investigations. We talk about my cases all the time.”
He sighed. “I encouraged you when I believed it was a healthy outlet. You were so miserable this summer, with Noah moving and Miles—”
“Stop bringing him into it.” This was all excuses and double-talk. I thought my father knew that being a P.I. was more than a means to an end.
“We were happy to see you actively interested in something.”
“And now you want to take that away.” I couldn’t even look him in the eye. I swallowed down hard on the bile rising in my throat. They had no idea what they were doing to me.
“You behaved in a completely inappropriate and disrespectful manner today,” my mother said. “You have lost the right to be out playing detective.”
“I never played,” I snapped. “And I didn’t do anything Philip Marlowe wouldn’t have done.”
“Howard.” My father’s sharp tone made me jerk in my seat. “Philip Marlowe is not real. You are not in a story. Your actions have consequences.”
“I know that”—better than either of them.
“You’re almost thirteen. Today you behaved like an irresponsible child. You’ve given us no choice but to treat you like one.”
My mother reached beside her and pulled something brown on to her lap.
My coat.
“We’re getting rid of this,” she said and sniffed. “After I wash it.”
“So, that’s it. No discussion. No negotiation.” The rank taste of betrayal filled my mouth. Of all people, I thought my father understood my work. Understood me.
“You didn’t give us any choice, Howard,” he said. “You went straight to breaking and entering.”
“It wasn’t locked.”
“The fact that you’re still arguing that point proves we’ve made the right choice,” he said. Right choice for them. From my end, it was six shades of wrong.
“Where was Ivy during all of this?” my mother asked. “Should we be calling her parents?”
Ivy. The last thing she needed was more black marks on her record. Her father brought her to Grantleyville for a fresh start, and I’d provided a detour. So far, I’d managed to keep her out of hot water. If my parents bought my song and dance, maybe she could keep her new beginning.
“No,” I said. “Ivy had nothing to do with it. I already told Mrs. Rodriguez, I did this by myself.”
My mother was primed for further interrogation when my father gently set one hand over hers. “We’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Go back up to your room. We’ll call you for dinner.”
I took the stairs up at a snail’s pace. No use expending energy on speed. I had nowhere to be. The last few hours felt like a terrible chapter out of someone else’s life. One wrong turn had destroyed everything.
The phone rang, and my father picked it up. “Oh, hello, Ivy,” he said. I paused on the step.
“No, he can’t come to the phone right now. He’s grounded. Yes, you can call tomorrow. Maybe he’ll earn time off for good behavior. Bye-bye.” He hung up the phone and waved me upstairs. My stomach lurched. Now I had to figure out how to tell my partner she was out of a job.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday marked the beginning of my forced retirement, and I’d yet to wrap my head around being plunged into a life of leisure. Fortunately, my father seemed determined to help me fill up the hours. We spent the morning changing Blue’s tires, and I took her for a few loops in the driveway. She started out a bit rocky, but bounced back to her good old clangy self quickly enough. It was nice to see her on the mend. At least one of us was back on track.
I gave Blue a quick wash and shine, trying to shake the sinking feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. Ivy still had to be filled in on the new law of the land. I could only imagine how well that was going to go over. I’d rather sit through the lecture from my parents again.
Blue’s handlebars swung to the right as I polished off her back fender.
“What? You want to chime in on this mess too?”
She hit me with a pointed look.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll ca
ll her.” Grumbling about bossy know-it-all bikes, I thumped inside and picked up the phone. Taking a deep breath, I dialed Ivy’s number.
“What is going on?” she demanded, answering on the first ring.
“Hi, Ivy,” I said.
“Don’t you ‘hi’ me; tell me what’s happening. Why is the office gone? What did Mrs. Rodriguez say? Meredith is freaking out, but I think I talked her down for now.”
I told her the whole story and ended with my parents’ ban on P.I. work. She raged over the injustice of it all, and I waited for her to wind down.
“Okay, what do we do now?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Wallace Investigations is kaput. All cases are closed, solved or otherwise.”
“I repeat, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you allowed visitors? Should I bake a cake with a file in it?”
Relief flooded through me as I caught on. I suddenly realized I’d half-expected her to ditch me once the P.I. biz was out of the picture.
Lucky for both of us, my mother felt a ban on detective work was ample punishment and, given her concerns about my socialization, barring my only friend was out of the question. I’d been given strict instructions on what to say when I called Ivy. “You want to come over tomorrow? Watch a movie?”
“Works for me,” Ivy said.
... .- -- -..-. ... .--. .- -.. .
She showed up at two the next afternoon. After a single knock on the back door, she let herself in and toed her shoes off onto the mat.
“Make yourself at home,” I said as I walked into the kitchen. “Person who’s never been in my house before.”
“Don’t be rude to your only friend,” Ivy said.
“Follow me, friend.” I led her into the living room, and she flopped down on the couch.
“Ooh, snack mix.” She reached out and grabbed a handful from the bowl on the table. Joining her on the couch, I started the movie my father had set up for us to watch. Something about alien robot machine things. We watched it in silence for about five minutes before Ivy sat up abruptly.
“What IS this?”
“Alien robot machine things,” I said. “The sequel.”
She shook her head and scrambled up on to the arm of the couch. “This is ridiculous.”
I crunched on a couple cheese puffs and contemplated the giant action figures pulverizing each other on the screen. “I agree,” I said, “but I think there’re some good explosions later on.”
“No, this!” Ivy waved her arms at me and the couch. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe we’re actually watching a movie.”
I reached over to grab the remote and pressed Pause. This conversation had somehow taken a left turn, and I needed to focus. “But that’s why you’re here.”
“No. No,” Ivy said as she bounced over from her perch to kneel beside me on the couch. “I’m here because I thought ‘watch a movie’”—she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“was code for ‘break me out of house arrest so we can finish investigating this case and catch the jerk who sliced up Big Blue.’”
My stomach dropped as Ivy’s words hit me. “Wow,” I said, blinking under her intense stare. “You read a lot of code into ‘come over and watch a movie.’”
This conversation was headed into dangerous territory, and I no longer had a lucky coat. I latched on to the next best defense: avoidance.
I grabbed the remote and pressed Play. The crashing clang of metal on metal filled the room. Ivy snatched the remote from my hand, pressed the Power button, and tossed it behind the couch. We stared at each other in silence before she poked me in the shoulder. Hard.
“Howard, come on,” she said. “Talk to me. Don’t you want to finish this thing?”
“There’s nothing to finish, Ivy.” I picked up the bowl of snack mix and dug around for a pretzel. “Wallace Investigations is dead. We killed it.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Passing the snacks over, I looked her in the eye. “I’m telling you the truth. It’s over. Rule number ten, remember?”
Ivy sat up straight and shoved the bowl back into my lap. “Exactly,” she said.
This could not be good.
“Pick your battles, Howard.” Standing, she set her hands on her hips. “How could I forget?”
I set the bowl on the table. “Ivy—”
She cut me off with a finger wag. “Pick your battles,” she said again. “It doesn’t mean you don’t fight if you can’t win. It means you fight for what matters. Fight for what you love.” Ivy slammed a fist into her hand, punctuating her point with a determined smile. Obviously some sort of response was required.
“Are you thirsty?” I asked. “I think there’s some juice in the kitchen.”
She groaned. “Howard, work with me here. You can’t just roll over on this.” Her eyes narrowed. “Right,” she said, clapping her hands together sharply. Ivy pivoted on the spot and stepped up onto the coffee table. I sucked in a breath. My mother would kill us both if that thing got scuffed. Ivy paced back and forth, kicking the snack bowl out of her way as she went.
“Quit it,” I said as pretzels and cheese puffs went flying across the floor. “You’re never going to be allowed over again.”
“Don’t care,” Ivy said. “We have more important things to deal with.” She stopped pacing. “Are you going to tell me that the guy who broke into a teacher’s classroom—”
“It wasn’t locked.”
“Still talking!” Ivy held up a finger. “Are you going to tell me that the guy who searched a teacher’s classroom, stared down a Grantley, and survived being locked in the janitor’s closet doesn’t love being a P.I.?”
I stayed silent. Ivy could rant all she wanted; it wouldn’t change the situation. She was pushing me into an impossible spot. If I did any more investigating, my parents would ground me for the rest of my life—or worse. As much as I hated giving it up, there was no other choice.
Ivy obviously didn’t see it that way. She resumed her pacing on the poor, abused coffee table.
“Are you going to tell me that the guy who built his own office out of scraps and pickle buckets is willing to let it all fade away?”
I stared at the TV and tried to will it to turn back on.
“Are you telling me”—Ivy stuck her hands on her hips—“that the guy who interrogated his evil ex-best friend is too scared to get back out there?”
“Ivy, stop.” The plea popped out before I had a chance to catch it.
“Howard, what are you so scared of?” She hopped off the table and sat back on the couch. “Getting caught again? Because I don’t care about that.”
I fought against the torrent of words that threatened to erupt from my mouth.
“I do,” I said.
Ivy scoffed, doubt clear in her eyes.
“Seriously think about it,” I said. “We go investigate, get caught, then what?”
She jerked her head toward my plainclothes T-shirt and jeans. “They already took away your coat and your office. What have you got to lose?”
Everything I’d lost too many times before. Everything I was scared I’d never have again. A big question with a simple answer—what have I got to lose?
“You.”
Ivy opened and closed her mouth once, frowning. “Howard—”
“I get in trouble again, they’ll ban you, and I’ll be back at square one.”
“A big weirdo whose closest friend is a cranky thirty-five-year-old bicycle?” Ivy bumped her shoulder against mine.
“As delightful as Blue is, friendship with her has its limits,” I said with a thin smile.
We sat in silence for a moment before Ivy shook her head. “You’re being ridiculous, you know that?”
The phrase “talking to a brick wall” suddenly came into my mind. “Ivy, I’m trying to save our friendship here.”
“I’m trying to save you,” she retorted.
“Oh, pl
ease.”
“How long do you think you’ll be able to keep up the regular kid act?” she asked. “Two weeks and you’ll go crazy. Then you’ll be miserable and we’ll still end up not friends because you’ll be unfit for human company.”
“I like the odds of my plan better than yours,” I said. “I’m not willing to risk it.”
“I thought we were partners,” Ivy snapped. “Don’t I get a say in our future? Don’t I get a vote?”
“Ivy.”
“You’re not the only one who’s had a miserable year,” she said. “You’re not the only one who’s been sad and angry and needed something more.” Tears threatened to spill over, and Ivy swiped at them furiously. “This meant something to me too.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I’d never felt like such a spineless worm. My stomach began to curl in on itself, and I pressed a hand to it. “I can’t do what you want me to do.”
“I’m not asking you to do it alone.”
“It’s too much, Ivy,” I said. “For both of us.”
“Exactly, Howard. This is bigger than just you or me. This is about principles.” Ivy dropped her head against the back of the couch. “Detective work is your life. You love it. I love it.” A small worry line creased her forehead. “If we don’t fight for that, when is anything going to be worth fighting for?”
I let her words sink in, and the terrifying truth of them hit the center of the black ball of fear in my gut. Nothing had ever fit me as well as being a detective did. I’d been deceiving myself about how easy it would be to let it go. Ivy was right. If you don’t fight when you have everything to lose, what you have isn’t worth keeping.
For once, I had something worth keeping.
Ivy squinted at me from her side of the couch. “What’s happening?” she said. “What’s going on in there? Are you monologuing? I’ve learned to recognize the signs.”
I sat bolt upright and slapped my hands down on my knees. “I’ve decided you’re right.” My heart pounded, and I didn’t bother to curb the grin stretching across my face.