The Wig in the Window

by Kristen Kittscher

  Dedication

  For Papa’s kiddos, Sophia and Juliette

  Contents

  Dedication

  One: Midnight Mission

  Two: Seeing Red

  Three: The Root of the Matter

  Four: S.M.I.L.E.!

  Five: Shadow of Doubt

  Six: Wigging Out

  Seven: A Blue Streak

  Eight: Stranger Danger

  Nine: Cracking the Code

  Ten: Awkward Encounter

  Eleven: Texas Hold ’Em

  Twelve: Impatient Bait

  Thirteen: Famous Last Steps

  Fourteen: Special Delivery

  Fifteen: Bottoms Up

  Sixteen: Exhibit (Dr.) A

  Seventeen: Enemy Incoming

  Eighteen: A Shocking Discovery

  Nineteen: All Locked Up

  Twenty: The Face in the Window

  Twenty-one: Rock Bottom

  Twenty-two: Hairtight Evidence

  Twenty-three: Questionable Assumptions

  Twenty-four: Over and Out—Forever

  Twenty-five: The Nightmare Begins

  Twenty-six: Initial Breakthrough

  Twenty-seven: The Art of War

  Twenty-eight: Amazing Grace

  Twenty-nine: Happy Family

  Thirty: Walking Tall

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Midnight Mission

  I thought I’d mastered the art of escape. It was our third midnight spy mission, after all. I knew to oil my bedroom window so it wouldn’t squeak. I knew how many stuffed animals to shove under my comforter. I knew how to lash my black rope to the bed frame, how to ease out of the window and rappel down the side of my house. I knew when to jump to avoid the rosebushes. And I knew exactly where Grace would be waiting.

  So when I lowered myself out of my window and fell backward into the fog, I was so shocked when the rope didn’t tighten that I barely caught the ledge in time.

  How could I have forgotten to secure the rope? That was the easiest step of all.

  My fingers ached. My grip was slipping.

  If I had been in a movie, it would have been easy. I’d have dropped down, landing with a quiet thud as my impossibly long legs bent to break my fall. But I was not in a movie. And my legs aren’t long. Seriously, some people’s arms are longer than my legs.

  My best hope was to jump for the rose trellis and climb down. Sun Tzu said that when you face a desperate situation, you have no choice. You must fight. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. Then I leaped. The trellis swayed under me but held fast. For once I was grateful to be so small.

  By the time I had plowed through the rosebushes and hobbled next door, Grace was waiting on the patio outside her room, perched on the railing and dressed almost entirely in black Lycra. Her long legs ducked into the mist and reappeared again as she swung them impatiently. “Sophie! I was just about to come find you,” she whispered as she jumped down. “We’re on for Operation Freezer Burn. The feds just sent word.” Grace clicked on a tiny headlamp fastened around her black knit cap and pulled out a grainy printout of an FBI mug shot from her backpack. “Here’s our man. Freddy the Freezer, aka the Italian Ice. Known for his chilling method of storing his victims’ bodies . . .” She squinted at me and plucked a leaf from my hair. “What happened to you?”

  I looked down at myself, swimming in the folds of my dad’s ratty black softball shirt. My blue sweatpants were ripped and covered with rose brambles. “I ran into some complications,” I said.

  “Thorny ones.” Grace tried not to laugh as she helped me pick off the rest of the brambles. When she stood up again, she looked at me intently, eyes glistening. “You still up for this?”

  I shivered a little as I looked down the hill at Luna Vista’s rows of identical red-tiled roofs rising up from the fog. A breeze rattled through the silhouetted palm trees along our street. Things were spiraling out of control. They had been ever since Grace started getting real-time FBI bulletins and poring over Most Wanted mug shots. It didn’t matter that the bulletins were actually mass emails from the FBI’s community-outreach department. We were pushing our luck. But I wasn’t sure I could stop the missions now—not even if I wanted to.

  I looked back at Grace and smiled. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Grace grinned. “Then let’s do this.” She unclipped her walkie-talkie from her neoprene belt. Its sleek pouches and holsters held everything from a mini black light to a mobile fingerprint-dusting kit. “Frequency check,” she said. “One-eight.”

  I rummaged in my backpack for my own walkie-talkie. “Got it,” I said, adjusting my handset. We were old-school. Grace insisted we have military-grade equipment that she ordered from an online spy-gear supplier. Cell phones were for backup only.

  “Breaker, breaker, one-eighter,” Grace whispered. “Agent Yang here. Agent Young, do you copy?”

  “Agent Young here.” I frowned. “What about my code name?”

  “I’m not calling a white girl that. I’ll get laughed out of Chinese school.”

  “Doesn’t that happen all the time?”

  Grace pretended to look stern. “Watch it, shorty.”

  I stretched onto my tiptoes. “Hey, I’m four foot six now.”

  Grace could have easily pointed out that I still looked about ten, tops—especially when you factored in my freckles. She was already busy unzipping her backpack, though. “Binoculars,” she said, tossing me a pair before peering through the fog with her own. She thought we should buy night goggles, but it’d be a while until we’d saved enough money. We’d only been running night missions since the start of the school year, when Grace had decided twelve was the right age to train for a real FBI career. I considered telling her we could have started a whole year earlier if we counted by the Chinese calendar, but I knew she would have just rolled her eyes at me.

  “Binoculars, check,” I whispered. “Flashlight?”

  “Check.” Grace spun her flashlight like a gun and slid it into a holster on her belt. We alternated our way through the rest of the checklist like always. Extra batteries, notebook, spy pens—even ponchos, in case it happened to be one of the ten days a year it actually rained.

  “What about food?” Grace finished off the list. “In case we need to extend the stakeout?”

  I rattled a box of Nerds.

  Grace gave me a look. She was good at giving looks.

  “Never underestimate Nerds.” I smiled back.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, nerd.” Grace patted me on the shoulder. “So. Here’s the deal.” She pulled a map from her backpack and unfurled it on the patio. It was a smaller replica of the neighborhood satellite map of Luna Vista that we kept mounted on a bulletin board in our command central in Grace’s room, only without our news clippings and detailed notes. In one corner, in red pen, we had listed our “persons of interest,” or possible neighborhood spy targets. Black Xs marked the houses that were off-limits. I had crossed off anyone associated with Luna Vista Middle School, like Rod Zimball. (Who cares if people still called him Rod Pimple? He was cute now, and I wasn’t about to get caught crawling around in his dad’s azaleas.) Grace had put her Xs over any houses near the beach. In fact, to make her feelings perfectly clear, she’d drawn an army of skulls and crossbones over the ocean, next to her chain of Xs lining the entire coast. I couldn’t blame her. When she was six, she’d nearly drowned when a rip current carried her and her father out to sea.

  “The feds say Freddy the Freezer’s on the loose in a suburb.” Grace pointed to a house on the map. “I think it’s Mr.
Fabiani.”

  “The dry cleaner?”

  “Just a Luna Vista dry cleaner? I don’t think so.” Grace raised her eyebrows. “No one stores that much steak in his garage freezer.”

  My stomach tightened. I was fairly sure Mr. Fabiani was just enthusiastic about prime rib. But considering we were talking serial killers, being fairly sure is very different from being sure. I hoped we’d end up spying on whoever still had their lights on, like we had the last two missions. Of course that meant paying another visit to the Wagners—the world’s most boring insomniacs. Grace would probably rather continue being homeschooled by Miss Anita for the rest of her life than put up with watching Mrs. Wagner clean out her toe jam again.

  Grace ran her laser pointer over the map as she detailed our route in FBI lingo consisting mostly of Greek letters.

  “We’ll zero in on Omega from the back,” Grace finished.

  As I looked at her hunched over the map, I found it hard to believe that a month ago our biggest spy achievements had been catching my older brother asking his mirror out on a date or spotting Grace’s dad dancing around the living room with the family cat. Forget night missions. I was usually home doing vocab work sheets by five p.m.

  “Okay. Time synch.” Grace looked at her lone digital watch. Usually, for style’s sake, she wore about six watches—most of which didn’t work. Some were vintage, a couple were neon and plastic, and at least one rattled around on her wrist like a bracelet. If I did that, they’d whisk me off to the insane asylum. Grace Yang wears six watches, and it looks awesome.

  “Twelve ten,” I said.

  “Twelve hundred ten,” Grace corrected into the walkie-talkie. “Roger.”

  “Is that really how you use ‘Roger’?”

  “Oh, just let me have my lingo.”

  “I will.” I smiled. “Once you let me have my code name.”

  Grace rolled her eyes at me, crouched, then led the way down the hill—diving for cover behind shadows and bushes as I followed.

  How did we go from joking that Mr. Peterson’s bushy mustache was a disguise to sneaking out at midnight? If I knew exactly, you can bet I would have stopped it before I was ducking in and out of shadows, heart pounding in my chest, on my way to spy on a potential serial killer. I do know that, like most things that eventually spin out of control, it all started as a joke because we were bored. One minute you’re making fun of the old Barbies on your shelf, and the next you’re co-hosting a wedding extravaganza for Barbie and Ken, complete with honeymoon hot-tub frolicking. Only—if you’ve made the mistake of joking around with Grace Yang—an hour later she has her heart set on a career as a wedding planner.

  Grace stopped short behind the hedge at the bottom of the hill. She grabbed my arm and pointed through the mist.

  The lights were on at Dr. Agford’s.

  “No way, Grace. Not Agford.” I crossed my arms. “That was the deal.”

  When I had drawn my big black X over Agford’s house on our satellite map, there was a reason I’d made it twice as big as all the rest and traced over it ten times: Dr. Charlotte Agford was my school counselor at Luna Vista Middle School. She was, more specifically, the world’s worst school counselor. “Dr. A” (as she asked us to call her), aka Dr. Awkward (as we called her behind her back), couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. She’d glide across campus with half-closed eyes, smiling and tilting her head in her forced Pose of Compassion, then she’d sidle up to some poor soul dumb enough to have trusted her, gently place a hand on his shoulder, and ask loudly if he was “okay now” or if his “little problem” had cleared up. The resulting rumors usually provided the entire school weeks of entertainment. Grace claimed she understood that if I got caught at Agford’s I would find myself below virtuoso nose-picker Julian Winkle in the seventh-grade social order. But, then again, Grace herself had never witnessed the devastating power of a Dr. Awk-topus tentacle touch and “check-in.”

  “This calls for a lights-on exception,” Grace said, digging into the pouch, where she kept a black notebook. It was like she’d forgotten Freddy the Freezer had ever existed.

  “When a serial killer might be on the loose?”

  “Oh, Mr. Fabiani just buys in bulk.” Grace waved her hand. “We’ll spy on him next week . . . if his lights are on.”

  Grace had been itching to spy on Agford since the summer. It was hard to blame her. Even my parents thought Agford was strange. In the two years since she’d moved across the street from us, no friends or family had visited. Though she positively smothered her house with kitschy decorations for every holiday, she’d never invited any of the neighbors over for a party—or even dinner. Once, when Grace stuck a misdelivered letter in Agford’s mailbox, Agford had come rushing out of her house and—without ever letting her perma-smile falter—pretended to be very concerned she might not know that “in this country” interfering with mail was a federal offense punishable by up to five years in prison. Grace had resisted the urge to kick her in the shins and had bolted back home, but she never forgot it.

  “Mr. Fabiani is only maybe a serial killer,” Grace said. “But we know something’s not right with Agford.” She rattled off her same old reasons we should spy on her, some of which were pretty convincing. Whose name only gets four Google hits, all in the last two years? I’m twelve, and I get at least seven hits that are actually me.

  “C’mon, Grace. You know I can’t risk it,” I interrupted.

  “We won’t get caught.” Grace’s eyes flashed. “When have we ever been caught?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “The Valdez Disaster?”

  “That doesn’t count. We had the perfect excuse!”

  That past summer, after we hadn’t seen our neighbor Mrs. Valdez for a while, Grace got it in her head that Mr. Valdez’s brand-new vegetable garden housed not only heir-loom tomatoes but also his wife’s body. Her hypothesis quickly crumbled when—as we stood in their backyard wielding shovels—Mrs. Valdez and her mother returned home from a two-week Alaskan cruise.

  “Lost soccer balls don’t require excavation, Grace.”

  Grace shrugged. “They totally bought it. Anyway, we’re real spies now. And it’s much harder to get caught at night.”

  I had to admit there was an awful lot that didn’t add up about Dr. Agford. Her hair alone merited a spot on our list of “persons of interest.” It fanned out from her scalp in a translucent auburn helmet that—judging from its eye-watering hairspray scent—required some serious styling effort. Her special fondness for tacky Southwestern jewelry clashed with the suits, high heels, and pantyhose she wore to cultivate a professional look. She’d definitely had some plastic surgery, too. No one with a petite frame like that could support such colossal boobs. They bobbed in front of her like overfilled balloons. Grace and I were pretty sure she inflated them each morning. They looked uneven.

  “Why do you think she’s still awake?” Grace asked. She must have sensed I was wavering.

  “Probably trying to fit her hair into its nighttime protective bubble.”

  Grace snickered. “Maybe she popped a boob.”

  I giggled. I couldn’t help myself. Soon we were both doubled over.

  “Shhh! Someone will hear us,” Grace said, catching her breath. “But seriously, Soph. When are we going to have another chance like this?”

  I looked up at Agford’s. Her white stucco walls blended into the fog, and the yellow glow of her lights floated eerily above us. I had to admit it was tempting to find out what she was up to this late. Spying on her had to be more interesting than examining the Wagners’ bedtime hygiene routines. And it was certainly less dangerous than getting caught in a potential serial killer’s yard.

  I looked back at Grace. Her binoculars were in hand. She was ready to spring into action. The next day she’d be alone with scowling Miss Anita, finding square roots and diagramming sentences. Boredom was like an unstable chemical compound when it came into contact with Grace. Too much of it, and something might explode. />
  “Okay,” I said. “But this is a one-time exception.”

  Grace smiled as she raised her walkie-talkie. “Breaker, breaker, one-eighter. Agent Yang here,” she whispered into it. “Hidden Dragon, do you copy?”

  Now that was more like it.

  “Ten-four,” I said into my handset, grinning. “Hidden Dragon reporting for duty.”

  Chapter Two

  Seeing Red

  Minutes later we were crawling across Dr. Charlotte Agford’s manicured lawn, trying to blend in with the shadows as we headed to a narrow side yard that led around to the back of her house. Grace stole ahead and signaled for me to follow before she disappeared into the fog.

  We had crept as far as Agford’s side door when I heard a gentle click and buzz. A spotlight burst on. I froze. Spy clothes are no help when some genius has managed to harness the entire power of the sun into a motion-detector light.

  Grace dashed to the shadows beyond us and crouched by the hedge along Agford’s back fence. I tried to follow but went only two steps before my toe caught an uncoiled hose in the grass. I went flying, smacking face-first into what I thought was a pile of dirt but which—surprise!—was an anthill.

  It turns out ants wake up when a human destroys their colony with her face. Luckily they weren’t the biting kind. The last thing I needed were painful, blotchy red trails of ant bites to ensure that I would never, ever win Rod Zimball’s love.

  Just then Agford flung open the side door. Blinded by the glare of the motion-detector light, she held a phone in the crook of her neck and squinted into the fog. “Gosh-darned raccoons!” she spat—except what she actually said was a hundred times worse.

  I couldn’t believe it. At school Agford always spoke in a sickly sweet falsetto, never uttering anything harsher than gee or my goodness as she discussed the importance of hygiene during poo-burty, as she pronounced it. Now she was cursing raccoons?

  But it was Agford, all right. Her poufy helmet of hair seemed askew. I held my breath. In half a second, Agford’s eyes would finally adjust to the light, and there I’d materialize beneath the fog, outstretched on the lawn and clutching a walkie-talkie.