The Boy Next Door

by Meg Cabot

  Besides, you’re acting like I don’t know I’ve screwed up. I have. I know I have. AND I’M GOING TO TELL HER. I just haven’t found the right time yet. Just as soon as I do, I’m going to tell her. Everything.

  Then we’ll all have a nice long laugh at this over burgers at your place, by the pool. You don’t know her, but believe me, Mel has a great sense of humor, and a very warm and forgiving nature. I’m sure she’ll think the whole thing is funny.

  Do you think anybody’s using the cabin in Vermont? Because I’m thinking that might be the perfect place to tell her. You know, drive up for the weekend and tell her in front of a nice romantic fire, over a couple of glasses of wine…

  What do you think?

  John

  To: jerrylives@freemail.com

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: What do I think?

  Oh, you want my advice? You want me to stop acting like your father, but you want my advice, and you want to borrow my ski cabin?

  You’ve got some nerve. That’s all I have to say.

  Jason

  P.S.: Dad isn’t in “jail.” It’s a minimum security criminal rehabilitation center. Stop making me repeat it.

  P.P.S.: No woman is that forgiving.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: George Sanchez

  Subject: Just where do you think you’re going?

  Don’t give me that innocent look over the cubicle wall. Yes, you. What, you think I didn’t notice all the lipstick and finger-combing? You think you’re getting out of here, don’t you?

  Well, you’re living in a fantasy world. You’re not getting out of here until I see the copy on the latest Drew Barrymore breakup.

  Got it???

  George

  To: jerrylives@freemail.com

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Dinner

  Hi, John. I’m afraid I’m not going to get out of here as early as I thought. Can we scoot dinner up to nineish?

  Love,

  Mel

  To: Sergeant Paul Reese

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Touching base

  Paul—

  Just a note to see if you’ve come up with anything on the Friedlander case. I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately, so I haven’t called, but I got a little time on my hands, so I was wondering if you’ve got anything new.

  You know, the other night when I came into the building, the doorman wasn’t there. When I looked around, I found him and the rest of the building staff in the super’s apartment watching the game.

  Understandable, of course, being the playoffs and all, but it got me thinking: Was there a game the night Mrs. Friedlander got assaulted?

  I did a little researching, and discovered that there was—at around the time the doctors say she was most probably struck.

  I know it’s not much, but at least it explains how someone could have gotten into the building without being seen.

  Let me know if you guys have any new information.

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Sergeant Paul Reese

  Subject: Shame on you

  You’re taking an awfully keen interest in the events surrounding this old lady’s assault. Any particular reason?

  And what do you mean, you were “in the building” the other night? Does this have something to do with that old woman’s pretty next-door neighbor? It better not. The DA does not take kindly to you all messing around with our cases, as I think you will recall from the last one you amateur-sleuthed your way through.

  Though since that did result in a successful conviction, they might go easy on you….

  In answer to your question, no, we don’t have anything new on the Friedlander case. We do, however, have a suspect in the transvestite killer case. Bet you didn’t know that, huh? Because we’re keeping it under wraps, and trust you will do the same. I know they say you can’t trust a reporter, but I’ve found you to be less unreliable than most.

  Anyway, here’s the 411:

  Kid’s found unconscious in his bathroom. I won’t go into details about why he was unconscious. I’ll let your lurid imagination figure it out. Let me just say that it involved a pair of pantyhose and a hook on the back of his bathroom door. And from what he was wearing, which was a number of ladies’ undergarments, I do not think suicide was on his mind—although Mom and Dad choose to think so.

  Anyway, the EMS guys take in the fancy duds and note that some of them fit the description of clothing missing from one or two of the homes of victims of the transvestite killer.

  Not much, I know, but it’s all we’ve got right now.

  So why, you might ask, haven’t we hauled the kid in for questioning? Because he’s still in the hospital from his little bathroom escapade, on “suicide watch.”

  But as soon as that bruised larynx of his is healed enough for him to talk, the kid’s coming down to the station, and if we can get him to chat, we’ll find out if your old lady was one of his more fortunate victims.

  Now how’s that for some detective work?

  Paul

  To: Sergeant Paul Reese

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Transvestite killer

  I’ll bet you a box of Krispy Kremes the Friedlander assault was the work of a copycat…and not a very good one at that.

  Let’s say this kid you’ve got your eye on is the one: Take a look at his other victims. All lived in walk-up buildings. No doormen to tangle with. All were considerably younger than Mrs. Friedlander. And all had items taken from their homes.

  Now, we can’t really tell if any of Mrs. Friedlander’s clothes were taken, but certainly her purse wasn’t, nor the cash in it. And we know the transvestite killer always takes whatever ready cash he can find lying around—even Victim Number 2’s laundry quarters.

  But Mrs. Friedlander had over two hundred bucks in her wallet, which was sitting in plain sight.

  I tell you, the more I think about it, the more I believe this whole thing points to someone who knew her. Someone she was expecting, so she kept the door unlocked. And someone who knew what apartment she lived in, so he didn’t need to stop and ask the doorman any questions…. And might even have known the doorman’s habits well enough to know that on the night of a ballgame he wouldn’t be excessively diligent about maintaining his post.

  What do you have to say about that?

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Sergeant Paul Reese

  Subject: Glazed, not frosted.

  And I usually like a nice tall glass of milk with them.

  Paul

  To: Max Friedlander

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Your aunt

  Max, did your aunt have any enemies that you know of? Anyone she knew who might have wanted her dead?

  I know it’s a big effort for you to think of anybody else but yourself, but I’m asking you to give it a try, for me.

  You know where to reach me.

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: Aunt Helen

  I don’t hear from you for weeks, and when you finally do write, it’s to ask me some cockamamie question about my aunt? What is with you, man? Ever since you started walking that damned dog, you’ve gone all weird on me.

  Enemies? Of course she had enemies. That old lady was a bitch on wheels. Everyone who knew her hated her, with the exception of that freakish animal-loving neighbor of hers. Aunt Helen was always campaigning
for some unpopular cause or another. If it wasn’t Save the Pigeons, it was Stop Starbucks. I tell you, if I were somebody who liked to sit in the park and drink coffee, I’d have taken out a hit on her.

  Plus she was stingy. REALLY stingy. You ask her for a loan—just a piddling five hundred bucks—and it was like World War II all over again, only you’re London and she’s the Luftwaffe. This from a woman worth twelve million.

  Look, Trent, I don’t have time for this stuff. Things aren’t going as well over here as I’d hoped. Vivica is proving to be far more avian than I ever expected. She’s going through money like it’s conditioner or something. It would be fine if it were her money, but it’s not. She forgot her bank card. I ask you, how does somebody “forget” her bank card when she goes on vacation?

  I wouldn’t care if it were just a matter of buying her a sandwich now and then, but she keeps insisting she needs new shoes, new shorts, new bathing suits. She’s got nineteen bikinis with matching cover-ups already. I ask you, how many bathing suits does a woman need? Particularly when the concierge and I are the only ones around to see them.

  Gotta go. She’s got a hankering to go to Gucci. GUCCI! Jesus!

  Max

  To: Max Friedlander

  From: Sebastian Leandro

  Subject: Your message

  Max—

  Got your message. Sorry I wasn’t in. Where were you calling from? Hemingway’s house or something? I hear there’s a bunch of stray cats that live there, which would certainly explain all that cater-wauling I heard in the background when you called.

  Look, bud, I don’t have a lot, workwise. I told you not to go on hiatus, or whatever it is you’re calling this extended vacation of yours. A week here and there is one thing, but this has turned into a full-on sabbatical. Dropping out of sight the way you’re doing has hurt a lot more careers than it’s ever helped.

  But, hey, the news isn’t all bad. If you can hang in there a few more weeks, the resort-and-cruise-wear issues of J. Crew and Victoria’s Secret are coming up. They’re looking at Corfu and Morocco, respectively. The pay’s not much, I know, but it’s something.

  Don’t panic. Swimsuit issues are right around the corner.

  Call me. We’ll talk.

  Sebastian

  To: Sebastian Leandro

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: You’ve got to get me out of here

  You don’t understand. I need work. Any work. I have to get out of Key West. Vivica’s gone mental. THAT’s what you heard when I called. It wasn’t cats. It was her. She was crying.

  And let me tell you, when Vivica cries, she does NOT look like a supermodel. Or any kind of model, for that matter. Except like one of those models they use in horror movies just before someone’s head gets chopped off by a flying pylon, or whatever.

  Anyway, she’s racked all my credit cards up to the max. Unbeknownst to me, she’s been buying every piece of crap driftwood sculpture she can find, and shipping them back to New York. I’m serious. She thinks she’s got a “real eye” for the next big thing, and that it’s going to be driftwood sculpture. She’s already bought twenty-seven driftwood dolphins. LIFESIZE.

  Need I say more?

  FIND ME WORK. I’ll take ANYTHING.

  Max

  To: Lenore Fleming

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: S.O.S.

  DEAR LENORE,

  HI! I KNOW IT SAYS THIS IS FROM MAX, BUT IT IS REALLY FROM ME, VIVICA. I AM USING MAX’S COMPUTER SINCE HE ISN’T HERE. I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS. PROBABLY IN A BAR SOMEWHERE. THAT’S WHERE HE ALWAYS IS THESE DAYS. LENORE, HE IS SO SELFISH! HE YELLED AT ME ABOUT THE DRIFTWOOD SCULPTURES. HE HAS NO APPRECIATION FOR FINE ART. HE IS JUST LIKE YOU SAID, TOTALLY BOURGEOIS.

  WELL, YOU WARNED ME.

  ANYWAY, I TRIED TO CALL YOU, BUT YOU ARE ALWAYS OUT. THEN DEIRDRE SAID I SHOULD TRY E-MAILING. I HOPE YOU GET THIS. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I GUESS I SHOULD COME HOME, ONLY I FORGOT MY BANK CARD. IN FACT, I FORGOT MY WHOLE WALLET. I DON’T EVEN HAVE A CREDIT CARD, WHICH IS WHY I HAVE BEEN USING MAX’S. BUT I WOULDN’T HAVE, IF I HAD KNOWN HOW SELFISH HE IS.

  PLEASE COULD YOU HAVE DEIRDRE GO TO MY APARTMENT AND GET MY WALLET AND SEND IT TO ME CARE OF THE PARADISE INN IN KEY WEST? ALSO, COULD SHE SEND SOME BODY LOTION FROM KHIEL’S BECAUSE I AM PEELING.

  WELL, THAT’S ALL. IF YOU GET THIS MESSAGE, CALL ME. I NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TO. MAX IS JUST DRUNK ALL THE TIME, AND WHEN HE’S NOT, HE’S ASLEEP.

  LOVE,

  VIVICA

  To: jerrylives@freemail.com

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: The cabin

  All right, I cleared it. If you want the cabin for next weekend, it’s yours—on one condition:

  YOU HAVE TO TELL HER.

  Seriously, John, you may think this girl is something special, and she probably is, but NO woman likes being lied to, even if it’s for a good cause—which I’m not even sure yours is. In fact, I know it’s not. I mean, come on, deceiving an old lady and her neighbors?

  Admirable, John, very admirable.

  Anyway, I’ll have Higgins drop the keys to the cabin at your office tomorrow morning.

  We’re off to Mim’s for dinner tonight, so I’ll talk to you later.

  Jason

  P.S.: One thing I have often found works very well with women, when you have to tell them something you don’t think they’re going to like to hear, is to accompany your confession with a pair of .75 carat diamond stud earrings in a platinum setting, preferably from Tiffany’s (the sight of that turquoise box does something to most women). I realize that this might be out of the price range of a crime reporter, but I assume you are going to tell her the part about how you are also a member of the Trent family, of the Park Avenue Trents.

  You are going to mention that, aren’t you? Because I think it might help. That and the earrings.

  To: Jason Trent

  From: jerrylives@freemail.com

  Subject: The cabin

  Well, you might be a pompous ass, but at least you’re a generous one. Thanks for the keys.

  I will, of course, take your counsel under advisement. On the whole, however, I don’t think Mel is the kind of girl who can be swayed by a pair of earrings, from Tiffany’s or otherwise.

  Thanks for the suggestion, though.

  Gotta go. Last night she made me dinner, and now it’s my turn. Thank God for Zabar’s prepared-food section.

  John

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Don and Beverly Fuller

  Subject: Remember us?

  Hi, honey! It’s been awhile. You haven’t returned any of my messages. I am assuming that you are all right, and that you have just been busy with this whole Lisa Marie Presley thing. I just don’t understand that girl. Why on earth she married that Michael Jackson, I will never comprehend. Do you suppose he is paying her alimony? Do you think you could find out for me?

  Speaking of marriage, Daddy and I just got back from the wedding of yet ANOTHER of your classmates. You remember Donny Richardson, don’t you? Well, he’s a chiropractor now, and QUITE well off, from what I understand. He married a darling girl he met at a NASCAR race. You might want to consider attending a few NASCAR races, Mellie, as I hear that there are quite a lot of eligible men in attendance at these events.

  Anyway, the wedding was just lovely, and the reception was at the Fireside Inn. You remember, where you and your brother and Daddy always took me for brunch on Mother’s Day. The bride was just lovely, and Donny looked so handsome! You can hardly see the scars from that nasty corn-detasseling accident he had all those years back. He’s certainly bounced back!

  How are things going with that young man you wrote about last time? Max, I think, was his
name. Or was it John? I hope you two are taking things nice and slow. I read in Ann Landers that couples who wait until marriage to have sex have a twenty percent less chance of divorcing than couples who don’t.

  Speaking of divorce, have you heard the rumors about Prince Andrew and Fergie getting back together? I do hope they can patch things up. He always looks so lonely these days when I see him standing around at Wimbledon or wherever.

  Write when you get the chance!

  Love,

  Mommy

  To: Don and Beverly Fuller

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Hi!

  Hi, Mom! Sorry I haven’t called or written in so long. I really have been busy.

  Things have been going really great. Really, really great. In fact, better than they’ve gone in a long time. That’s because of the guy I told you about, John.

  Oh, Mom, I can’t wait for you to meet him! I am totally going to bring him home for Christmas, if I can get him to come. You will just love him. He is just so funny and nice and sweet and smart and handsome and tall and everything, you will just DIE when you meet him. He is so much better than Donny Richardson could ever ever be. Even Daddy will like him, I’m sure. I mean, John knows all about sports and engines and Civil War battles and all those things Daddy likes.

  I am so glad I moved to New York, because if I hadn’t I never would have met him. Oh, Mom, he’s just so great, and we have such a good time together, and I’ve been late to work every day this week because of him, and I have accrued about eight more tardies in my personnel file, but I don’t care, it is just so nice to be with someone you don’t have to play games with and who is perfectly straight with you, and who isn’t afraid to use the “L” word.