by Laura Bowers
I hate that video. And slimy Brie cheese. And how would they react if they knew where I got my dress? Probably the same way Larson reacted to Mom’s cheap wine.
Huh. Let’s find out.
“Thanks, Bridget, you really like my outfit?” I ask her, smoothing down the bodice and making the skirt twirl by twisting back and forth like an agitating washing machine. “I got it for ten dollars.”
“Seriously?” she asks.
“Seriously,” I repeat in a shrill, girlie voice. “From eBay.”
Torrance drops her mouth and Bridget almost chokes on the Brie. “You actually shopped on eBay? Was it, like, used? That’s so gross.”
I cock my head to the side, as though deep in thought. “Hmm, no, not this one, but that skirt you borrowed from me, Torrance? That was totally used. Oh, and my Kate Spade bag? The one you love so much? It’s, like, a total knockoff.”
Chunk on that, ladies.
22 Dee
Saturday’s events don’t really sink in until I wake up Sunday morning. Fighting with Jake, which bothers me more than I care to admit. Hanging out with Roxanne, who is, well, nice. And Danny—Jake was right, he’s actually pretty cool, once he’s away from Blaine and his conceited bunch. But Rex Reynolds with my mom? No, that part is NOT cool. I mean, he’s the guy who destroyed all our beautiful land. He’s the one making a killing from the swanky houses he built, and he’s the one who will benefit from the lawsuit after he gets his hands on those four acres. A nagging thought keeps haunting me, though.
If my mother likes him, how bad can he be?
And she did say that he offered her more than a fair price, as well as a large deposit she could use to pay off Mona. Was he being helpful … or crafty? No, this is a subject I can’t deal with right now. That’s tomorrow’s worry, but today?
Today is for spying.
“So, how exactly are we going to get to Larson’s?” Natalie asks me as she peers into the bag of snacks we bought from the store.
“Shh, not so loud!”
I motion to where Madeline is writing an announcement on the message board with pinpoint precision. When she starts to watch us suspiciously, Natalie leans back into the porch swing and calls to her, “Well, I hear that congratulations are in order, Mrs. Barton, after your mighty victory in yesterday’s golf tournament.”
Madeline reads her announcement with what she must think is a humble smile. “Oh, it was nothing.”
Natalie gives her a double thumbs-up. “Well, ya did all right, Dee’s grandmother. And good news—the little girl you beat finally stopped crying at midnight.”
Madeline’s pride over her big win trumps any suspicions of us, but I still have no clue how we are supposed to get to Larson’s. Roxanne is taking care of that part and after a few more minutes, we hear gravel crunching beneath tires. A familiar red truck appears. The driver brakes, pulling his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose before saying, “I hear you ladies need a ride.”
Jake.
Jake and Danny, who opens the passenger door and moves to the backseat. Roxanne appears out of nowhere, carrying a stuffed backpack. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asks, taking Natalie by the sleeve and pulling her to the back with Danny, leaving the front seat open. What? I thought Jake was still mad at me. Did Roxanne talk to him? And why, exactly, does she find it necessary for me to sit beside him?
Honestly. If we didn’t just start getting along, I’d totally kill her.
* * *
I’ve often wondered what a stakeout would be like. They seem so fascinating on TV, what with the binoculars, coffee, and junk food—can’t have a proper stakeout without junk food. But what happens if you have to pee? Poor Natalie is finding out the hard way. She fidgets and squirms in the backseat. “Why did we have to get here so early? And why can’t I go to the bathroom?”
We are parked in the Swains’ new driveway behind the construction dumpster, with Roxanne’s eyes focused on Larson’s closed garage doors. “Because,” she says, clutching the backpack on her lap. “You can’t blow a stakeout by arriving too late. Larson’s lunch is at one o’clock and it takes about forty-five minutes to get to Fairfield, plus we had to factor in the chance that he could leave earlier to run errands.”
“But that doesn’t tell me why I can’t pee,” Natalie says, her legs tightly crossed. “There’s a port-o-pot right there.”
“Nope, too risky,” Roxanne says. “It’s already twelve-thirty. Larson should have already left.”
I prop my bare feet on Jake’s dashboard and adjust my favorite pink skirt that I broke down and wore because refusing to flirt doesn’t really mean you can’t dress flirty, right? “Oh, please. Blaine was always late so if Larson is anything like him, she has plenty of time.”
With that, Natalie opens the door and runs to the portable clutching her stomach. Danny digs into a bag of Cheetos and says, “You know, I never liked Larson much. Neither did my dad—Larson kept trying to get extra work done for free, and I’m pretty sure he still owes Dad some money.”
Rex doesn’t like Larson? Well, I suppose that’s a mark in Rex’s favor. But I’m just now realizing there’s a remote possibility that Danny could one day be my brother.
Oh, no, do NOT think about that now.
“And man, a real stakeout,” Danny says. “Just like in Splinter Cell.”
Roxanne’s mouth drops. “Get out, I love that game! Last week, I got through Conviction’s final mission with no cheat code help.”
“Mission eleven? How did you get by the agents near the turret?”
As they talk about Black Arrow guards and assassinations, Jake tilts his head to scratch his ear and glances toward my bare legs. Is he checking them out? Or is he only annoyed that my feet are leaving marks on his freshly polished dash? He jerks his gaze away and says, “So, why are we tailing Larson? What if he just has a business meeting today?”
I kick my legs down and cover my thighs with my purse. “I guess that could be true, but how many people do you know who have Sunday business meetings at French restaurants? They’re more for romantic rendezvous.”
Jake drums his fingers on his knee. I’m about to thank him for driving us—especially if there is someone else he’d rather spend the day with—when Danny notices Larson’s garage door rising and a silver Audi creeping out. “It’s him. Get down!”
Jake and I duck at the same time, crouching on the seat with our faces inches apart. The smell of his citrusy shampoo and the warmth from his skin make my heart pound. Jake blinks, his green eyes holding me captive until Danny taps the seat. “He passed us. Hurry up, Jake, before we lose him.”
Moment gone.
Jake starts the engine as Natalie dashes back into the truck. “Ugh, remind me to never go into a port-o-pot that’s been used by construction dudes,” she says. “Man. They must eat tons of fiber.”
Moment definitely gone.
We follow Larson for nearly an hour, with Danny and Roxanne barking orders from the backseat. Change lanes. Slow down. Stay four car lengths behind. Dee, look away, act natural. Does being good at spy-themed video games make you good at tailing people? It must. We follow Larson all the way to Fairfield. He parks at a swanky restaurant and steps out of his Audi, wiping dust off the hood with his sleeve before going inside. “What now?” I ask. “We haven’t thought this out and Larson knows everyone here except for maybe Natalie—”
“I’m going in,” Roxanne announces.
No, that’s impossible. Larson will surely recognize her.
I turn to see her clutching her backpack, letting out a breath of air with her cheeks puffed like a diver getting up the nerve to jump. She grits her teeth and says, “Just let me out, okay?”
We watch as she disappears behind a thick cluster of the pine trees that surround the parking lot. Minutes later, I have to do a double take when she steps out in a cotton summer dress and cute strappy sandals, her hair pushed back with a wide headband and pink gloss on her lips.
&nbs
p; Oh my gosh.
Roxanne tosses her backpack through the open window. “Don’t say it, okay?”
“Say what, that you look beautiful?” Danny asks.
* * *
The minutes drag after Roxanne steps into the restaurant. Jake eats Twizzlers and Natalie discusses Disney fast passes with Danny, seeing as how he’s been there twice, until we notice Roxanne waving from the front door. When she makes frantic camera motions with her hands, I grab my purse and jump out without thinking twice.
Inside, a stylish hostess tries to block me but Roxanne grabs my arm. “There you are, Priscilla! Tsk, tsk, late again. Mother and Father are so disgruntled!”
Disgruntled? And Priscilla? “Hey, do I look like a Priscilla to—”
Roxanne shushes me and heads down the hallway past several small dining rooms before pulling me behind a large palm plant. She points to a table next to the fireplace where Larson is holding hands with an attractive woman in—I’m guessing—her late forties wearing a blue wrap dress and diamond studs the size of grapes in her ears. “Now there’s your Gotcha, Priscilla,” Roxanne whispers as a waiter serves Larson a plate of food. “He’s cheating on Mona.”
Son of a scum-sucking toad!
Of course Larson is cheating on her, just like George Clooney will always prefer models to pie-serving waitresses his own age. My face burns as the waiter makes small talk with Larson and his date. But then it hits me. “No. He’s cheating on her, the one at the table.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Simple. Because his food was served when he arrived, meaning she pre-ordered it for him. People who haven’t been dating long don’t have that level of intimacy yet. And,” I say, just as his date shoves a healthy amount of cheese soufflé into her mouth, “most women eat salad when they’re first dating, because Lord forbid she dare have an appetite.”
Roxanne nods. “Good point. Got the camera? This would make an interesting photo.”
Oh, yes. Yes, it would.
I fish my digital from my purse and hand it to Roxanne. She leans out to take their picture, but when the flash fills the hallway with light, she pins her back against the wall with her stomach sucked in. “Man, maybe I should have been eating more salads.”
“Are you kidding? You look great.”
“Yeah, right. You’re just saying that.”
“Roxanne, I swear, you are not—”
A couple walks by and stares at us. Okay, no time for chitchat, we need to bolt. Now. Outside, Nat is lingering near an empty bench. She quickly leads us to where Jake is now parked in a less conspicuous spot, but before we make it to his truck the restaurant’s back screen door opens. A waiter steps out with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. As he bends his head to light it, Roxanne yanks Natalie and me down until we are crouching beside a Volvo. “Isn’t that the guy who served Larson?” she whispers. “It seemed as though he knew Larson and his date personally.”
We lift our heads over the Volvo’s hood to see the waiter inhale deeply as though his life depended on nicotine. “Huh. He could be quite helpful,” Natalie says.
“Indeed.” Roxanne grins. “What do you think, Natalie, the helpless card?”
Natalie ducks back down, turning to me with her head cocked to the side and a challenging gleam in her eye. “Well, playing the helpless card is perfectly acceptable in emergency situations such as these.”
As a busboy opens the screen door and flings dirty water out onto the parking lot, I wipe away their ridiculous notion with a flick of my wrist. “Oh, no, I’m retired from flirting, remember?”
“Are you serious?” Roxanne asks, picking up the sides of her new dress and giving it a shake. “I’m wearing a dress my mother picked out so the least you can do is whip out the Superflirt, okay?”
I look over to where Jake and Danny are waiting in the truck. No, for some weird reason, I don’t want Jake to see me flirting anymore. But what if the waiter does know something that can help us with the lawsuit? And I’m losing time, now that he’s halfway through his cigarette.
Well, fine, a flirt’s got to do what a flirt’s got to do.
While the waiter’s back is turned, I fluff my hair and creep out from behind the Volvo, easing my way onto the sidewalk, and making it appear as though I’m just going for a stroll. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I ask, catching his attention while walking toward him in full flirt mode with my hips swaying.
The guy tries to hide his cigarette by cupping it in his palm. He’s about nineteen, with streaks of acne and heavy jewelry peeking out from underneath his uniform. “Can I help you with something? The, ah, main entrance is around front.”
I thrust my lips out in a pretty pout. “Oh, I know. I’m having lunch with my parents, but it’s boring so I went for a walk. Who are you, the head waiter or something?”
The guy nervously stomps out his cigarette and brushes the smoke away with his hands. “Well, no, I’m not really the head waiter.”
“Stop,” I tease, swatting his arm. “You’re being way too modest.”
Someone snorts from around the corner. Natalie and Roxanne must have crept up to eavesdrop. The waiter looks over my shoulder so I block his view and twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I saw how you carried those heavy trays, and wow—I could never remember the names of all those wines!”
Argh! I’m teetering way too close to fake flattery territory, but the waiter smiles, proving that I struck a chord by complimenting what some could see as a mundane career. “Well, yeah, my parents hate my job, so thanks … um, what’s your name?”
I think for a second, and then drawl out a coy “Priscilla.”
Another snort.
“Cool. And, hey, Priscilla, I bet you’d be a good waitress, too.”
“Really?” I press a hand against my chest and give a little hop, like a beauty pageant contestant who just won the crown. “That would be so incredible.”
I look deep into his eyes. One … two … three.
Gotcha.
Time to go for the kill.
“But something’s bugging me.” I rest my hand on his forearm. “That couple you served by the fireplace—the tall man and the woman in the blue dress—they were so familiar!”
I toss my hair back, just as the wind picks up. Oh, the sweet timing. The waiter watches my hair tumble across my shoulder and says, “Yeah, uh, Kathleen Myers? She’s a real nice lady. Her husband was nice as well—he used to leave me these huge tips before he died last winter. That was, like, a total bummer, man.”
What? That Kathleen lady is a widow? And a wealthy widow at that, judging from the huge tips and her diamond jewelry. What exactly is Larson doing with a rich widow while he’s also dating Mona, a woman who’s trying to win a large lawsuit?
The answer is clearer than the pimple on the waiter’s nose.
* * *
On the way back to the campground, Roxanne and Natalie have themselves a jolly time mocking me from the backseat. Me? A waitress? You think so, big strong waiter guy who can carry those awfully heavy trays?
“Ha ha,” I say to them, just as Jake gives me one of his disapproving scowls. “And yeah, I know, Jake, so you can stop looking at me like I’m a complete idiot.”
He grips the steering wheel, watching the road with steely determination before saying, “I never once thought that, Dee.”
I turn to face him. “Oh, please, you love making me feel like a total bimbo!”
“No, I never once thought you were an idiot or a bimbo, Dee. But yeah, I’ve always hated the way you flirt.”
“Yeah, the truth comes out.”
“But—not for the reason you think,” Jake says, before putting on the blinker and turning onto the road that takes us home.
* * *
After much deliberation, we decide that showing Ivy the picture of Larson is not a good idea. Not only would she say that if Larson is, indeed, a conniving dirtbag, it has absolutely nothing to do with the case, but she’d also be f
urious about us following him. And there’s the restraining order, the “very real, very serious restraining order,” she’s warned me not to violate a thousand times. If she knew I was anywhere near Blaine’s house, she’d flip her lid.
Besides.
Ivy doesn’t look all that good when we get back.
Her sophisticated makeover from a couple of weeks ago has morphed into a disheveled mess, with her tailored clothing replaced by frumpy sweats and her hair a battlefield of frizz as she pores over paperwork. After the disastrous settlement meeting, she blamed herself, saying that maybe those Wyatt, Hyatt & Smith farts were right to push her out if she’s the kind of lawyer who allows her clients to be destroyed.
But nobody is going to destroy us, not if I have anything to do with it.
I have a plan … one that requires a little help.
The Cutson brothers, wearing Spy Gear headphones, are giggling behind an evergreen, listening to two girls on playground swings gripe about cramps and uncomfortable tampons. I sneak up behind them and grab their scrawny arms.
“Hey,” they yell. “Let go!”
“Absolutely,” I say in a super-sweet voice. “I just wanted to compliment your stellar spying skills. Those girls had no idea you were watching them. I bet you two are the best spies in the whole town. No, the whole state!”
Lyle takes off his headset. “We’re not stupid, Miss Dee.”
“Yeah,” Tanner says. “What do you want?”
Well, well, well, charm doesn’t get you far with these guys, so I drop my smile. “Fine. I have an assignment for the both of you next Friday night. A secret mission, one that you will accept or I’ll be forced to tell your momma about that little incident involving water balloons and Miss Ivy’s camper, deal?”
“You ain’t got no proof !” Tanner protests. I stand tall over them with my arms crossed, causing the two dirty mongrels to whisper in each other’s ears.
“Deal,” Lyle says. “But for five bucks each.”