by Karen Karbo
The Poor Old Grannies who shopped at Under the Covers preferred to write checks. Dwight would copy the numbers, then pass them on to Jordan, who would pass them on to Tiffani, whose cousin, a sophomore at Portland State named Carl Hollingsworth, worked part time at a check-printing place.
Pansy had been right: This is where Jordan had gotten the money for her cool leather jacket and camera phone. According to Tiffani, Jordan also wrote checks for Cash Only whenever possible, and that’s how she made the down payment on her cute red Jetta.
It was all good. She and Tiffani planned to get an apartment after graduation. They went window shopping at Pottery Barn, where they picked out the cool new furniture they planned to buy. Jordan had talked about going to college, but Tiffani didn’t see any need for a college education when they were already making more money per month than most adults they knew.
Then Jordan was awarded the Hightower Scholarship and started making plans to go to Stanford. She had her picture in the paper and an article about what a fine young woman she was because only fine young women were awarded the Hightower. She wanted out of their identity theft scheme. She started talking about how it was wrong, and that really got on Tiffani’s nerves.
Tiffani and Jordan argued about it for months. But Jordan liked the money. So she’d still collect the eyeglass cases from Dwight, but then she’d cry that she didn’t really want to do it anymore. And on and on it went. The day I went with Jordan to Under the Covers was supposed to be Jordan’s last pickup. She’d put her foot down: no more.
Tiffani had known it was coming. She was furious. She knew it the day Jordan won the Hightower and was suddenly a fine young woman instead of the daughter of a single mom with two jobs. So, for reasons she couldn’t really say, Tiffani got a fake driver’s license with Jordan Parrish’s name and information on it. She held on to it. She didn’t know what she would do with it, but one day it would come in handy. One day, Jordan would be sorry she’d ditched her best friend for some snooty school in California.
Then, on Valentine’s Day, Tiffani was caught shoplifting a scarf from Saks Fifth Avenue. That very day Jordan had yelled at her at lunch that she, Tiffani, needed to grow up and move on. It was the “moving on” part that got her. Tiffani showed the arresting officer her fake license with Jordan’s name on it. It was reckless, she knew. She wasn’t sure what sort of trouble this would lead to for Jordan, but she’d hoped it was something big, something that would make her feel she’d gotten her revenge. It was pure luck that the dumb police lost her mug shot.
On the afternoon Jordan was arrested, Tiffani smashed the taillight on Jordan’s cute red Jetta while we were at Under the Covers, where Jordan was picking up an eyeglass case for the last time. When Jordan called Tiffani from the Portland Police Bureau with the news she’d been falsely arrested, Tiffani thought she was a pretty clever chick. According to Tiffani, in the statement she gave Detective Peech, her phone call to Emma Larson at the Hightower Scholarship office was sheer in-the-moment genius. She knew Jordan would come running back once she was stripped of the scholarship. She would have no choice.
The next morning, feeling optimistic, Tiffani dropped in at Under the Covers to see Dwight, to tell him she and Jordan would be back in business in a matter of days. She was giddy with the little trick she’d played on Jordan. She bragged about it to Dwight.
She described to Detective Peech the way Dwight had looked at her. He wore those ridiculous Harry Potter glasses, but behind them she could see the look of disgust in his eyes. He’d told her that he’d just been promoted to manager and that she and Jordan might be back in business, but he was not. It was over.
Then he said the thing that had probably cost him his life, that stealing your best friend’s identity was something only a psycho would do and that if Tiffani knew what was good for her, she’d get her crazy self out of there and never come back.
It was too much. Dwight turned his head to straighten a pile of books, and when he turned back Tiffani whacked him on the side of the head with her suede platform clog, the same one she’d used to break my left cheekbone. Then she took all the money from the register, left the store, and, in another spur-of-the-moment decision, tucked the bills into the pocket of Clyde Bishop, who was sound asleep against the wall outside the store, cuddling with his three-legged dog.
I got this whole story from Mrs. Snowden, who was able to connect Tiffani’s check-printing cousin Carl Hollingsworth to another, much larger gang of checking-account-number-stealing thieves.
To show her gratitude, Mrs. Snowden took Pansy and me out to lunch at a restaurant where the waiters open the napkins for you and lay them in your lap. I ordered a sandwich called a croque monsieur, which is a fancy name for a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich.
“My question is,” said Pansy, digging into her Caesar salad, “who was on the phone the day Jordan was picked up? You know, the call you answered that got this whole thing started?”
“It was Toc, just as I’d guessed. He’d been after her to hook up with him, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’d had a fight,” I said. Quills had contributed that piece of the puzzle.
“But what’ll happen to Jordan now?” I asked Mrs. Snowden, pulling the ham out of my croque monsieur and laying it on the side of my plate. Even though most of the swelling had gone down from my broken cheekbone, it still sometimes hurt to chew.
“They’ll continue to investigate her involvement. Right now they have only Tiffani’s word, which, given that she’s just confessed to murder, isn’t worth much.”
I tried to call Jordan a few times, but she never returned my call. Charlie said I shouldn’t feel bad, that her lawyer was probably telling her not to talk to me. But I did feel bad. Jordan was my favorite cousin, my idol who floated above life, an angel with her perfect hair. Until the day I was electrocuted and was somehow rewired to look past the outside of people—especially my own self—I thought a perfect outside meant a perfect inside. Now I’m thinking it’s the other way around.
I still thought Jordan should get credit for deciding to get out of the scheme on her own, for realizing that it was wrong. Charlie thought the courts might make a deal with her in exchange for her testimony against Tiffani. But one thing was for sure: The Hightower, and her chance to go to Stanford, were gone.
“I’m doing a huge story on this whole thing for the school paper,” said Pansy. “They also want to talk to me at the Oregonian.” Pansy happily stuffed a huge piece of dressing-drenched lettuce into her mouth. She was the fastest eater I’d ever laid eyes on.
Kevin didn’t come to the fancy restaurant lunch, but Mrs. Snowden gave me the little origami box he’d made that day at the water park. I hadn’t realized it was for me.
Inside it said, “U R Cool.”
It was almost a rebus, but not quite.
My brothers and I were sitting on the Cat Pee Couch watching—what else—The Matrix, when my mom called and said she was coming to town for the Rose Festival and to make sure my cheek was healing up all right.
I had already been to a regular doctor and a brain doctor and a plastic surgeon and the orthodontist. I had seen Dr. Lozano, who didn’t know the effect my injury would have on the other “changes I’d sustained”—her words—from being electrocuted. I was a little worried I would go back to being the old self-conscious, self-loathing freak show freak Minerva Clark. Dr. Lozano said only time would tell.
I had been doted on by my brothers in a way that was nearly embarrassing. Dish duty had been immediately suspended. Mark Clark stayed home from work to make me every soft food you can think of: tapioca pudding and chocolate mousse, cheese souffleé and scrambled eggs. He tried out this really nasty recipe with pureed cauliflower, but he didn’t make me eat it. He said it was in the interest of making sure I ate my vegetables.
Quills had gone to school every day and picked up my final homework assignments and my yearbook. He even sucked up a little to Ms. Kettle, who was on the verge of giving m
e a C in religion until Quills offered to give her son bass lessons.
Quills was extra embarrassingly nice since he admitted that he was the one who’d sent the death threat rebus. He didn’t mean it to be a death threat, he claimed. He’d just wanted to scare me a little. Here’s a big secret: Quills is the coolest brother, but he’s also the biggest worry-wart. That, for a guy like Quills, is worse than coming from a family of champion square dancers.
Morgan was busy with finals, but he brought me DVDs—even Troy!—and fresh ice and towels while I iced my cheek, which the doctor told me to do a few times a day. He talked to me kind of endlessly about a lot of Buddhist stuff, how virtuous deeds were a shelter, and all life was suffering, and blah blah blah. He meant well, but I couldn’t keep track of most of it. The doctor had given me some fierce pain medicine that made me sleepy. Once, he told me a Buddhist joke.
Question: What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?
Answer: Make me one with everything!
I didn’t get it.
Mark Clark hung up the phone and said, “Mom’s bringing that guy with her, Rolando. Is he her boyfriend, or what?”
“I wish the answer was ‘or what,’” said Morgan.
“The swami?” said Quills. “Pass the Vines, would you?” We were eating Red Vines, at my request. The box had fallen between the cushions.
“I think he’s a yoga instructor,” said Morgan.
“That’ll go over big with Charlie,” said Quills.
“Charlie?” said Mark Clark.
“He called the other day. Said he was going to be home on the weekend, too. They both said they wanted to see Jordan waving from her throne on the parade float.”
“Do they know our perfect Jordan is on her way to the Big House?” asked Quills.
“What’s the Big House?” I asked. “Our house is pretty big.”
“It means jail, dummy.” Morgan threw a licorice vine at me from the other side of the couch.
“Of course they don’t know,” I snorted.
Not one brother called me on my tone.
We were at the part where Morpheus asks Neo whether he wants the red pill, which leads to the truth, or the blue pill, which allows him to remain clueless. I snuggled up next to Mark Clark’s shoulder.
I took my new cell phone from my pocket. It was no longer for Emergencies Only, and it had a cool faceplate with red flames. I punched in Reggie’s number. He was still mad at me, but if I’d learned anything from living with all these boys, it was this: He’d get over it.
Also by Karen Karbo
Minerva Clark Goes to the Dogs
A Note on the Author
Karen Karbo is the author of the Minerva Clark mysteries, as well as several books for adults, including The Stuff of Life, Motherhood Made a Man Out of Me, The Diamond Lane, and Trespassers Welcome Here, all four of which were New York Times Notable Books. Her writing has appeared in numerous publications, including Vogue, Esquire, Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times, and Redbook. Karen lives in Portland, Oregon, with her own mysterious (and way cool) teenage daughter.
Read on to discover Minerva’s next big mystery in
MINERVA CLARK goes to the dogs!
- 1 -
I Was trying to figure out whether I’d get in trouble for using a dish towel to sop up the dead radish goop at the back of the crisper drawer when my cell rang. I held my breath, said a little prayer to whatever saint oversees the boyfriend-girlfriend situation, and flipped open the phone without checking the number. I wanted it to be Kevin, who I met while I was solving my last mystery. Kevin. He was taller than me. He had crunchy shiny swimmer’s hair and blue eyes and dark eyebrows. A hottie extraordinaire. Extraordinaire is French for extraordinary.
I’d invited Kevin to the last dance of the year. We slow-danced every slow dance, and he told me he liked my wild hair, that surfer girls on the island of Maui had hair just like mine. Then, the day after school got out he left on vacation with his parents, which is where he was right now. At the dance, he bought me a Dr Pepper from the snack table using his own money. I didn’t let myself think about it too much—I thought about it all the time! I could hardly think of anything else!—but I wondered if he would be my boyfriend, if he wasn’t in Montana fly-fishing.
But the call wasn’t from Kevin. It was someone who normally never called me, except once in the sixth grade, when she was having a slumber party and wanted to make sure I got the point that I hadn’t been invited.
“Minerva, I didn’t know who else to call. I need some help, like right now. I thought about how, since you’re so good at solving mysteries and everything, maybe you could help me. I lost a ring and I need to find it immediately. I am so in trouble. My dad wants to kill me. I hate it when my dad wants to kill me.”
The voice was familiar, but it was hard to tell who it was because she was sniffling and hiccupping, gulping down air as if they weren’t making any more of it. “Who is this?” I asked.
“It’s Chelsea. De Guzman? From your class?” She sounded irritated that she had to identify herself, like rich people sometimes do when you ask them normal questions. “I’ve got to get the ring back tonight, or sooner. As soon as possible. I am so busted. I am in so much trouble.” She tried to catch her breath.
“Okay,” I said. I closed the crisper drawer. Someone would go to the grocery store soon and toss a new bag of carrots in there and no one would ever see the dead radish goop puddle in the back. I grabbed a can of Mountain Dew, closed the refrigerator door, and sat right down there on the kitchen floor to listen to Chelsea’s story.
The day after school got out, Chelsea went to London with her mom and dad. Chelsea is an only child and her mom is one of those moms who always has perfect hair and fingernails and helps out at school, and her dad is Louis de Guzman Fine Jewelry. If you live here in Portland, you know his name, but I think he also has shops in fancy places like Beverly Hills. The de Guzmans live in one of those giant mansions on Knott Avenue that take up an entire block and have pillars and balconies and a Japanese gardener out front pinching off the tiny dead azalea flowers, one by one.
Chelsea and her parents were at the airport with their matching luggage, loopy tired from the eight-hundred-hour flight from London. It was a little after 10:00 A.M. They’d been flying all night. Chelsea wanted a cappuccino. Chelsea was the kind of girl who drank cappuccino and got manicures and wore ankle bracelets. I don’t like coffee just yet, although somewhere along the way kids start drinking coffee. In my opinion this, and not taking out the garbage without being asked, is the first sign of being a grown-up.
Chelsea said she would die if she did not have a cappuccino, but her parents just wanted to get home. Chelsea begged, and they gave in, but said that she needed to be down in the baggage claim area at 10:30 sharp, or else they were going home without her. Chelsea was a well-known dawdler.
She got in line at a small coffee place on the main concourse called Coffee People. She said the line was all the way out the door. She said she must have waited an hour, standing there staring into the fingerprint-smeared glass case of scones and muffins. But of course she couldn’t have waited an hour, because her parents had given her about twenty minutes.
The lady ahead of her sighed a lot and folded her arms, and kept switching her weight from one hip to the other, all impatient. She had waist-length hair, thick and coarse like a horse’s tail, and she kept swishing it around. “This is so ridiculous,” said the lady to no one in particular. She had an accent, but not like the de Guzmans’ housekeeper, Agata. Maybe the lady was Hispanic? Then she turned and asked Chelsea the time. Chelsea looked at her phone. It was 10:15.
“She asked to see my ring—you know that flower ring I got at Claire’s? All the popular girls wanted one, remember? That totally adorable one, with the silver band and the little crystals that formed the petals around the bigger pink crystal? Remember? I wore it to the dance.”
“Not really,” I said. In case you didn’t
notice, I was totally into that guy I was slow-dancing with, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “So you showed her the ring.”
“For only six bucks it was really the cutest ring. Very girly, but it would still look good on someone like you. Wait. That sounds really bad. I didn’t mean it to sound bad.”
I laughed. “So you showed her the ring.”
“Are you secretly hating me right now?”
“Yeah, Chelsea, I’m secretly hating you. Except now you know, so it’s not a secret.” I rolled my eyes, even though there was no one around to appreciate it.
“Don’t tease me. I’ve had a terrible day.” She sniffled.
“So the lady in line ahead of you wanted to check out your ring.”
“She wasn’t a lady exactly. More kind of probably twenty or something. Not old, but not a teenager either. She was wearing this awful awful purple tunic-y thing over jeans with a studded belt on the outside. Anyway, she asked if she could try it on and I said sure, and she tried it on and then she said she’d give me fifty dollars for it.”
“For your ring from Claire’s?” My tone said: Only a crazy person would offer fifty bucks for one of those cheap, cut-glass rings from Claire’s, world headquarters for the type of cheesy jewelry and hair ornaments girls my age can’t resist.
“Yeah, I know. What was up with that? I thought she was joking at first, but she wasn’t. She really really loved it. She said she was all into flowers, especially daisies, and she’d been wanting a ring like this just for forever, but could never find one. I thought I was being really smart.”
“So the girl gave you fifty bucks? Just like that?”
“Yep. Two twenties and a ten. I could buy five rings with that money. My dad is always hammering me about how you should never let opportunity pass you by and that’s what I thought I was doing, and then when we were in the cab on the way home my dad asked where my ring was. He picked up my hand and saw it wasn’t there and freaked out. He started yelling at me right there in the cab and cussing and that big vein in his forehead stuck out and his face was so red I thought he was going to have a heart attack, like he’s had before, you know my dad had that heart attack? When we were in fourth grade? I didn’t get to sing my solo in the Christmas pageant? Anyway, we’re in the cab and my dad’s screaming at me, and my mom’s screaming at my dad to calm down and then he’s like complaining about chest pains and my mom makes the driver go straight to the hospital.”