The Boy Next Door

by Meg Cabot

  Fuller?

  I turn my back for one minute, and she’s gone. Do I have tomorrow’s column yet? No, I do not have tomorrow’s column. How can she leave without giving me tomorrow’s column? HOW CAN SHE DO THAT???

  George

  To: George Sanchez

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Mel

  Um, I think she had to do some research for her column. I’m sure she’ll hand it in before the copy desk shuts down. Don’t worry.

  Meanwhile, did you read my story on Mars 2112? Theme Restaurants: Not Just for Tourists Anymore. Has a nice ring to it, right?

  Nad

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: You are so dead

  WHERE ARE YOU??? George is furious. I tried to cover for you as best I could, but I don’t think it worked very well.

  Are you having a breakdown? Because, seriously, if you are, I think it’s pretty selfish of you. I’m the one who should be having the breakdown. I mean, I’m the one who’s getting married and all. I’m the one with the mother who’s furious that I’m not wearing her wedding dress, and just spent $700 on one from some outlet in New Jersey. You don’t have any right to have a breakdown.

  And I know you’re going to say that you do, that this whole thing with John has destroyed your faith in men and all of that, but, Mel, the truth is, your faith in men was destroyed a long time ago. I’ll admit that when you first started seeing the guy, I thought there was something kind of sketchy about him, but now that I know what it is, I have to say, you could do a lot worse. A LOT worse.

  And I know you really love him and are perfectly miserable without him, so could you please just call the man and get back together with him? I mean, seriously, this has gone on long enough.

  There. I’ve said it.

  Now, where the hell are you???

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Shhhh…

  You want to know where I am? Well, right now I am squatting in an emergency stairwell, which just happens to have a wall that adjoins Mrs. Friedlander’s living room.

  No, really! I’m using that satellite hook-in function George had installed in our laptops. That none of us could figure out how to use? Well, Tim showed me….

  I know you think I’m crazy, but I can prove to you I’m not. And the way I can prove it is by telling you exactly what I’m hearing right now, and that’s John Trent asking Max Friedlander where he was the night his aunt got her head bashed in.

  I am not the only one who is listening, either.

  John is wearing a wire.

  That’s right. A WIRE. And there are a bunch of policemen in my apartment, listening to the same conversation I’m listening to. Only they are using headphones. I don’t have to. I can hear the whole thing just by pressing my ear against the wall.

  I am not supposed to be doing this. I am supposed to be in the coffee shop across the street, for my own protection. When they told me this, I was, like, “Right!” As if I would wait in a coffee shop across the street when I could be here, getting the scoop first-hand.

  Nadine, I am telling you, this is going to be the story of the year, maybe of the decade! And I am going to write it, and George is going to have no choice but to run it. He will be forced to admit that I am too good for Page Ten, and put me on hard news. I can feel it, Nadine. I can feel it in my bones!

  Okay, so here’s what I’m hearing:

  John: I’m just saying, I could understand it, if you did.

  Max: Yeah, but I didn’t.

  John: But I’d understand it if you did. I mean, look at my family. They are loaded. Loaded. It’s a bit different in my case, but let’s just say my grandfather hadn’t left me any money, and had left it all to my grandmother. If she wasn’t willing to lend me a few hundred bucks now and then, I’d flip out, too.

  Max: I never flipped out.

  John: Look, I know how it is. I mean, not really, but you know how I’ve been trying to live off just my reporter’s salary? It’s tough. If I ran out, and I knew I didn’t have any more cash coming to me for a while, and I had a supermodel waiting downstairs, and I went to my grandmother for a loan, and she said no…well, I might get mad, too.

  Max: Well…You know. It’s, like, what do they think? They’re going to take it with them?

  John: Exactly.

  Max: I mean, there she was, sitting on this huge pile of cash, and the stupid bitch couldn’t part with a couple thou?

  John: Like she’d even know it was missing.

  Max: Seriously. Like she’d even know it was missing. But, no. I have to get the lecture: “If you’d learn to handle your money in a more responsible manner, you wouldn’t be running out of it all the time. You need to learn to live within your means.”

  John: Meanwhile, she’s dropping twenty grand flying to the opera in Helsinki every couple months.

  Max: Yeah! I mean, yeah.

  John: It’s enough to get a guy pretty hot under the collar.

  Max: It’s more like the way she said it, you know. Like I was a little kid, or something. I mean, Christ, I’m thirty-

  five years old. All I wanted was five grand. Just five grand.

  John: Drop in the bucket to a woman like that.

  Max: Don’t you know it. Then she has the nerve to go, “Don’t leave mad.”

  John: Don’t leave mad. Jesus.

  Max: Right. “Don’t be like that, Maxie. Don’t leave mad.” And she’s pulling on me, you know. On my arm. And I’m parked in front of the building, by a hydrant. And Vivica’s waiting. “Don’t leave mad,” she says.

  John: But she won’t give you the money.

  Max: Hell, no. And she wouldn’t let go of me, either.

  John: So you pushed her.

  Max: I had to. She wouldn’t get offa me. I didn’t mean to, you know, make her fall down. I just wanted her off me. Only…I don’t know. I guess I pushed too hard. Because she fell over backward, and her head slammed into the corner of the coffee table. And there’s blood everywhere, and that damn dog was barking, and I got scared that neighbor of hers would hear….

  John: So you panicked.

  Max: I panicked. I mean, I figured if she wasn’t dead, somebody would find her eventually. But if she was…

  John: You’re her next of kin?

  Max: Yeah. We’re talking twelve million, man. That’s chump change to you, but for me, the way I go through money…

  John: So what did you do?

  Max: I went into her bedroom and threw a bunch of her clothes around. You know, so people would think it was that guy, that transvestite killer. Then I got the hell out of there. I figured, lay low.

  John: But she wasn’t dead.

  Max: God, no. Tough old bitch that she is. And things…well, you know. Vivica. And my manager, he’s such a lardass. Won’t get off his butt to find me any real work. I was strapped.

  John: And she’s been in that coma how long?

  Max: Months, man. She’s probably going to croak anyway. I mean, if I gave her another little push, who’d even notice?

  John: Push?

  Max: You know. Toward death, as they say.

  John: And how were you planning on doing that?

  Max: Insulin, man. You just inject too much. Like that Claus von Bülow guy. Little old lady like that’d croak for sure—

  Uh-oh. Footsteps in the hallway. The cops must think they have enough. They’re banging on the door to 15A. I am telling you, Nadine, I am going to win a Pulitzer—

  Wait a minute. They are telling Max to come quietly. But Max isn’t coming quietly. Max is—

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Sub
ject: WHAT???

  MEL??? WHERE ARE YOU??? Why did you stop like that? What’s happening???

  ARE YOU ALL RIGHT???

  Nad

  To: George Sanchez

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Attempted murder

  Attachment: [For 1st AM (fp) SAY CHEESE w/exhibits: 1) Max Friedlander in cuffs, captioned w/cuts “The suspect being led away by New York’s finest”; 2) Helen Friedlander on skis, captioned w/cuts “Beloved opera buff and pet owner”; u have in rack]

  SAY CHEESE

  Famous Fashion Photographer

  Arrested for Attempted Murder

  In a sting conducted in tandem with the NYPD’s 89th Precinct, New York Chronicle reporter John Trent, and the New York Journal’s Mel Fuller, an arrest has finally been made in the brutal assault on Upper West Side resident Mrs. Helen Friedlander.

  Mrs. Friedlander, 82, was found unconscious in her apartment nearly six months ago, the victim of an apparent assault. Clothing spread across the victim’s bed indicated to police that the opera buff and animal lover might have been attacked by the so-called Transvestite Killer.

  But after last month’s arrest of Harold Dumas, who confessed to killing seven women over the course of the past year, it became apparent that Mrs. Friedlander’s assault was what police sergeant Paul Reese calls a “copycat.”

  “The perpetrator wished to throw investigators off track,” Sergeant Reese said in an interview early this morning. “He thought he could do so by making it look as if it had been the work of a serial killer known to have attacked other women in the area. There were several things, however, that just weren’t right.”

  Among them was the fact that Mrs. Friedlander had apparently known her attacker, having left her door unlocked in order for him to enter the apartment freely, and that no money had been stolen from the premises.

  “The motive for this attack,” according to Sergeant Reese, “was money, but after pushing the victim and causing her life-threatening injury, the perpetrator panicked, forgetting his need for cash.”

  The suspect arrested last night would not have needed the two hundred dollars that had been sitting in Mrs. Friedlander’s purse the night of her attack: Had the victim died, he would have stood to inherit millions.

  “The victim is exceedingly wealthy,” Sergeant Reese explained. “And the suspect is her only living relative.”

  That suspect, Maxwell Friedlander, is Helen Friedlander’s 35-year-old nephew. A well-known fashion photographer who has recently run into financial difficulties, Mr. Friedlander confessed to John Trent, New York Chronicle crime correspondent, and former friend of the suspect, that he was in need of money.

  Explaining that his aunt was “sitting on this huge pile of cash,” while he himself had none, the suspect justified his actions by saying that he had not initially meant to kill Mrs. Friedlander, but that if she died, he would benefit greatly from the inheritance left to him by her.

  Mrs. Friedlander did not die, however. She has languished in a coma for nearly six months. And to Max Friedlander, this was a situation that needed rectifying. And last evening, he attempted to do so, planning, according to a secretly taped interview between the suspect and Mr. Trent, to kill his aunt in her hospital bed with an injection of insulin.

  It was just after this admission that police moved to arrest Mr. Friedlander in his aunt’s apartment. Instead of coming quietly, however, Mr. Friedlander broke free and attempted to flee the premises by taking a back stairwell.

  It was at this point that Mr. Friedlander was struck hard across the face with this reporter’s laptop, a blow that stopped him in his tracks and required seven stitches at Manhattan’s St. Vincent’s Hospital.

  Mr. Friedlander will be arraigned this morning. Charges include the attempted murder of Helen Friedlander; conspiring to commit murder; resisting arrest; and fleeing an officer. Mr. Friedlander is expected to plead not guilty to all charges.

  George—it’s me, Mel. I had to type all this on John’s computer, since mine is being held as evidence. What do you think? Did I do good or what?

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: I suppose this means

  the two of you are back together.

  I will try to find room for him at the head table at our reception. Although I’m sure it will be difficult, considering how swollen your head will be by that time.

  Tony will be happy. He was secretly rooting for John all along.

  Nad ;-)

  P. S.: I always did like him, you know. Well, at least after he loosened Aaron’s molars for him.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: George Sanchez

  Subject: All right already

  I suppose we could work in a hard news story or two from you occasionally.

  Very occasionally.

  You are still on Page Ten in the meantime. And now that I know what you can do, I want to really see some good stuff in that column. No more of this Winona Ryder crap. Let’s hear about some real celebrities. Like Brando, for God’s sake. Nobody talks about Brando anymore.

  George

  P. S.: Don’t think if anything happens to that laptop that you aren’t the one who’s going to be paying for it, Fuller.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Dolly Vargas

  Subject: Darling

  Just a quick congratulatory note before Aaron and I jet off for Barcelona—yes, I know, I can’t believe he finally gave in, either. But I suppose in light of your recent journalistic coup, he is finally admitting defeat…and I’m the consolation prize!

  As if I care. You know, a hard man really is good to find, and I honestly don’t mind what kind of music he listens to. He’s single, he’s childless, and he can sign a check. What more can a girl ask for?

  Anyway, best of luck to you and Little Lord Fauntleroy—I mean Mr. Trent. And do consider inviting me up to the house on the Cape…. It really is divine, from what I saw in Architectural Digest.

  XXXOOO

  Dolly

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Vivica@sophisticates.com

  Subject: MAX

  OH, MY GOD, MEL, I AM HERE IN MILAN FOR THE SPRING SHOWS AND I HEARD FROM EVERYONE THAT MAX IS IN JAIL FOR TRYING TO KILL HIS AUNT, AND THAT YOU ARE THE ONE WHO PUT HIM THERE!!!

  OH, MY GOD, YOU ARE THE COOLEST GIRL EVER!!! ALL MY FRIENDS WANT TO KNOW IF YOU WILL PUT THEIR SCUMBAG EX-BOYFRIENDS IN JAIL TOO!!! MAYBE WE COULD START A BUSINESS TOGETHER: YOU COULD PUT GIRLS’ BOYFRIENDS IN JAIL, AND I COULD TEACH THE IMMIGRANTS HOW TO DRESS!!!

  ANYWAY, I JUST WANTED TO SAY THANKS FOR PUTTING MAX IN JAIL WHERE HE BELONGS, WITH ALL THE OTHER DIRTBAGS. I AM ESPECIALLY HAPPY BECAUSE I HAVE MADE A NEW FRIEND HERE IN MILAN. HIS NAME IS PAOLO AND HE IS A GALLERY OWNER AND A MILLIONAIRE!!! NO KIDDING!!! HE IS VERY INTERESTED IN SEEING MY DRIFTWOOD DOLPHIN COLLECTION!!! HE SAYS THEY DON’T HAVE THOSE IN ITALY AND HE THINKS I CAN MAKE A FORTUNE SELLING THEM HERE. THIS SHOULD SUPPLY US WITH SOME GOOD START-UP CAPITAL FOR OUR BUSINESS TOGETHER, HUH, MEL?

  One of the girls just told me it is considered very rude to write in all capital letters in e-mail. Is that true? Did you think I was being rude? I am sorry.

  Anyway, Paolo is taking me out to dinner now, so I have to go. I do not think I will get anything very good to eat. Did you know they have no Applebee’s in Milan? No, really. Not even a Friday’s. Oh, well. See you when I get back!!!

  Vivica

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Don and Beverly Fuller

  Subject: I’m afraid

  Daddy and I didn’t understand that last e-mail you sent us at all. What do you mean, you aren’t coming
home after all? Daddy already moved all of his bowling trophies out of your room. You HAVE to come home. Mabel Fleming is counting on you taking over as Arts and Entertainment writer. She says if she has to review one more school play, she just might…

  Well, I’m too much of a lady to write it. You know Mabel. She’s always been so…flamboyant.

  I suppose I should be happy you’re coming home for Christmas, anyway. Five days is better than nothing, I suppose. But, Melissa, where is this John fellow you’re bringing along going to sleep? I mean, you can’t expect me to let him stay in your room. What would Dolores say? You know she can see everything that goes on in our house from her attic window. And don’t think she doesn’t look, that old cat….

  He’ll have to stay in Robbie’s old room. I’ll start moving my sewing things out of it.

  I’m happy to hear about your neighbor, anyway. Why, it sounds like something out of Touched by an Angel or that new show, what is it called? Miraculous Cures, or something. I’m glad to hear that she has woken from her coma and is doing so well, and will be out of the hospital in time for the holidays, though why her nephew should have tried to kill her…

  I’m telling you, Melissa, I just don’t like your living in that city. It’s too dangerous! Murderous nephews and serial killers who wear dresses and men who tell you one name when it turns out their name is something else entirely….

  Just think, if you moved back here, you could have a mortgage on a three-bedroom house for what you’re paying in rent for that little bitty apartment. And you know your old boyfriend, Tommy Meadows, is a real estate agent now. I’m sure he could get you a very nice deal.

  But I guess if you’re happy that’s all that matters.

  Daddy and I can’t wait to see you. Are you sure you don’t want us to pick you up at the airport? It seems a waste for you and this John person to rent a car just to drive from the airport out to Lansing….

  But I suppose you both know best.