The Wig in the Window

by Kristen Kittscher

  “Thank God someone does,” I said. Of course, Grace and I both knew she had my back only until around eleven, when she’d be leaving to go to Natalie’s birthday party in Los Angeles. Grace would be staying over there until early Monday, since Natalie was going to the same competition.

  Grace leaned around the side of the house to peer at Agford’s with her binoculars. “I’m not the only surveillance team on the case. Oh—I think he just nodded.” She saluted at a white truck parked just one house up from Agford’s. I’d noticed that pickup truck right after we’d caught sight of Ralston in her sedan the first time. It must have been one of her agents.

  “A white pickup? Is that the best they have?”

  “Standard FBI procedure, Soph. If the stealth team zoomed around in Crown Vics, the target would be tipped off in no time. Same thing with the agents. They throw off suspicion by using all types—senior citizens, nuns, parents pushing strollers, you name it. Anyway . . .” She handed me the binoculars. “Maybe you have other backup, but I think you’ll agree I am much cuter.”

  I adjusted the focus and took a look. Grace wasn’t kidding. In the truck’s cab sat a frog-faced, bulky, thick-necked man with short black hair and a single, extremely bushy eyebrow framing the top of his dark aviator glasses. At least he looked strong, which was more than I could say for Ralston. He shot another quick glance our way, then turned to rummage in his glove compartment.

  “Maybe just a tiny bit cuter,” I said, smiling. “But if ol’ Agent Unibrow gets busy with his tweezers, he could give you a run for your money.”

  Grace shoved me teasingly. For a moment I almost forgot where I was about to go. Then she grew solemn. She grabbed my shoulders and leaned in before sending me off. “You can do this, Hidden Dragon.”

  I made my way down Agford’s front walk. Her dark windows reflected my own house back to me as if the fake cobwebs hanging there had captured real prey. In fact, it was the very fakeness of Agford’s over-the-top display that was the most chilling. At her house it seemed not only possible but likely that the goofy pirate skeleton might thrust his bony hand out and grab me by the throat. Or that real victims’ bodies were rotting underneath those plastic tombstones etched with corny names like Ima Goner. I stepped over a cluster of pumpkins, took a deep breath, and pressed the bell.

  “Sophie! I almost forgot.” Agford practically sang out her greeting. “Your last visit.” She winked. “Glad we could work that out with your parents.”

  Her eerie good cheer sent a shiver through me. I thought back to Ralston at the Seashell. Her clenched jaw, her urgent tone. The words echoed in my head. Y’all are in enough danger as it is.

  “Aren’t things coming along nicely?” She pointed to her graveyard and a fake witch “flying” from her tree. “I’d ask for your help, but I’ve got something else in mind for you,” she said, her falsetto slipping slightly. “Wait for me by the garage.” She disappeared through the front door.

  My heart leaped as the garage door growled open and Agford’s car engine roared to life. I jumped to the safety of a bed of impatiens, only to feel silly when Agford parked her convertible in the driveway. She frowned at her trampled plants and gestured to the mouth of the garage that gaped before me. “What a mess, huh?”

  Agford watched me take in the scene. The smell of damp concrete and mildew filled the air as fat spiders loitered on real cobwebs in every corner. Layers of grime and grease coated the floor. Spotting the walls were cloudy brown stains that looked like dried blood.

  I looked back at the street and felt my stomach drop. The white truck was gone. Had Ralston’s agent driven off when Agford had backed out her car?

  “Something wrong?” Agford said, studying my reaction.

  “Not at all,” I said, pasting on a smile.

  “All righty, then.” She handed me a bucket and scrub brush. “I’ll be inside if you need me!” She flashed a grin like the skeleton’s and swiveled away in her Easy Spirit sneakers.

  I dragged the bucket into the garage. Pincher bugs scuttled for cover. Garden tools—all jagged saws and sharp points—were mounted along the wall like a collection of medieval weaponry. Agford wasn’t crazy enough to ambush me in the house when my parents knew I was there. Was she?

  I scrubbed away layer after layer of black grease as Grace’s jarring chords clanged down, stopping and restarting every once in a while when she—I hope—paused to check on me through her binoculars. I knew I was supposed to find out more. But how? I looked around. All at once, it hit me. This was our best chance? What, had Agford hidden her old driver’s license in the empty flowerpots? Clamped an old picture of herself between the grips of her abandoned ThighMaster?

  By noon it was official. My first real spy mission was a total bust. Grime coated my hands and forearms. My bony knees ached from rocking against the hard concrete when I scrubbed. I dumped the pitch-black water down her drain, then knocked at the garage door to the house to let Agford know I was leaving.

  The door creaked open. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Dr. Agford?” I stepped into the laundry room. I listened. Water was running upstairs. I took two more steps. “Hello?” My heart raced.

  “‘Build me up! Buttercup!’” Agford’s warbling voice floated downstairs as she burst into full song. She must be showering. I shuddered.

  She had no idea she’d forgotten to lock the door. If the enemy leaves a door open, you must rush in, Sun Tzu said. My heart pounded in my ears. Maybe there was still a chance. I had time to look around. Not much time, but enough.

  I drew in a deep breath and rounded the corner to the kitchen, expecting to see the blood-spattered tile that had etched itself into my brain that night. But it seemed like a plain old kitchen. The scent of Agford’s god-awful perfume mingling with a moldy odor from the trash can was the only sign it was definitely hers. Even though it was lunchtime, fluorescent lights were on, coating the room in a sickly glow. A half-empty coffee mug sat on the counter next to a crumb-speckled dish. For just a moment, I actually felt sad as I pictured Agford standing at her counter alone, hovering over this plate as she chewed a dry piece of toast and stared into space.

  “‘I need you! More than anyone, dar-ling,’” shrieked Agford above the running water. I scanned the room wildly. The counters were bare. A magnet on the fridge pinned up a flyer for a bra sale at the Preppy Plus Boutique. I saw a pen by the phone and grabbed it. If Agford made it down before I could escape, I could say I was just leaving a note. I didn’t know what would be worse—seeing her in a towel or getting caught. And what would her real hair look like anyway?

  I slid open a drawer that housed some twist ties, rubber bands, and a few odd cooking utensils. I don’t know what I was expecting. A neon sign flashing her real name would have been nice.

  The water shut off. Agford’s humming seemed to speed up, like a horror-movie sound track swelling as the killer approached. The countdown was on. I flung open a cupboard: spices. Another one: Tupperware and soup cans. Where were the blood-soaked machetes? I’d discovered her boring old silverware drawer when my pocket let out three piercing beeps. The cell phone. We’d forgotten to switch it to vibrate. Grace must be texting me.

  Agford trailed off midchorus. A door clicked open. I couldn’t run; she’d hear my footsteps. I reached down to muffle my pocket and tiptoed toward the door, sighing in relief as I reached the laundry room. I glanced behind me and gasped.

  A telltale trail of my black, smudgy footprints extended all the way to the kitchen.

  Frantic, I yanked off my sneakers, strung their laces together and tossed them over my shoulder. Then I shuffled around in my socks like a maniac to wipe away my footprints. The black grease only smeared in wide arcs. I felt like an artist working with charcoal. Famous Last Steps, I named my masterpiece in my head. Mixed Media: Black Grease on Linoleum.

  Agford’s footsteps creaked overhead. My arms and hands developed wills of their own, grasping at everything in sight I might use to clean the
mess. A Post-it pad? An eraser? Didn’t this woman own a sponge? At last, just as I heard the thud of Agford’s tread on the stairs, I spotted a thick roll of paper towels. I unraveled a generous handful and spat a loogie into it that would have made Jake proud. I crouched down and—using the flawless scrubbing technique I’d honed over the course of the long morning—furiously mopped the floor as I backed out.

  The floor sparkled white again. I was going to escape. Agford would never know. You would have thought I’d be pleased. Instead I wanted to curl up into a ball and sob. I’d risked everything, and all I had to show for it was a wad of spit-dampened paper towels.

  I sprinted to my house and collapsed in a panting heap on my back lawn. Something sharp stabbed at my backside. I reached behind me and felt a long, thin bulge in my back pocket. The pen. I must have shoved it into my pocket while I was cleaning up. It was a fancy pen, made of a heavy metal that might have been silver. Some curlicue decoration was on the cap. It was just nice enough for Agford to notice it was missing.

  I sighed and pulled Grace’s cell from my pocket. The screen blinked back at me:

  Mission accomplished?

  I held out the phone and texted back.

  Mission failed

  I lay on the lawn and stared at the pale blue sky. Drained of color and clouds, it looked almost as empty as I felt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Special Delivery

  My heart pounded every time the doorbell or phone rang that weekend. I knew Agford would come with a full report for my parents. She’d demand her pen back. There would be questions. More worries. More reasons for Agford to get me alone. I wondered if I should go back and throw myself at her mercy first.

  But Agford never came. In fact, Agford’s house was very quiet Sunday. I only knew she was home once I saw Agent Unibrow on surveillance, waddling down the street nearby. Between him and Officer Grady, I’d concluded the government really ought to look into some better fitness programs. Let’s hope Unibrow was a good shot. He sure wasn’t going to be able to run fast enough to save me—if they were even planning on saving me in the first place.

  Not being able to talk to Grace all weekend was torture. Not that I would have been able to see her anyway. Inspired by Agford’s “observations,” my parents had been all about family time that weekend. We didn’t go to the beach. We didn’t try to catch a movie. My parents had something else in mind.

  They bought a puzzle for us to do together.

  A one-thousand-piece puzzle consisting entirely of blue ocean and sky. Grandpa took one look and retreated to the TV room upstairs, where he shouted out answers to Jeopardy! reruns on the Game Show Network. My parents were enthusiastic but got sidetracked by phone calls from work. Pretty soon it was just Jake and me, joking as we tried to distinguish between a zillion shades of blue and jockeying for the end pieces. Something about it felt like old times—back when he and I would play laser tag and have epic rock-paper-scissors marathons. Of course, pretty soon he was back in the garage playing the same two notes on his bass like he always did. Later he sneaked into my room to topple over some of my Buddha figurines, because he thought it was funny to mess with my chi.

  If my school counselor hadn’t been a wanted fugitive, I would have been dying to go to school on Monday.

  Agent Ralston’s blue-sedan security detail followed several car lengths behind as I rode my bike to school Monday morning. I wondered if she’d follow if I kept riding. Maybe I could even make it to Malibu and hide out in the hills until the feds swooped down and solved it all. Grace was right. They were the pros. I was just the one who left smeared footprints everywhere.

  No matter where I walked at school, it felt like S.M.I.L.E. was always there, their lips pursed like Agford’s. That day they were handing out flyers on beating stress that pictured a smiley face literally beating the word stress with a club. They gave me five. “For my whole family.” I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had established a nonprofit to raise funds for my psychiatric care by now.

  I carried my tray out to the patio for lunch. I hadn’t seen Trista since lunch on Thursday. I wasn’t sure I was ready to—or if she even wanted to hang out. I had the feeling she’d rather spend lunch with Car and Driver than shoot down persecution fantasies about Charlotte Agford. Only they weren’t fantasies now, were they? In any case, I’d bought a side of steamed vegetables to go with my “Jurassic” chicken nuggets in the shape of stegosauri, hoping she’d take me a little more seriously.

  As I sat down, Trista gave a curt nod hello and shoved aside a book on something called “photovoltaic cells,” which she’d filled with Post-its. Her T-shirt read: I DO MY OWN STUNTS. No kidding. Trista did her own everything. The last time Trista asked someone for help was probably when she was learning to tie her shoes.

  “Was it a null?” Trista said, after she finished the last forkful of her salad. “The code?” she added, when I didn’t answer right away.

  “Yeah. Thanks for the tip.” I bit into a watery broccoli floret.

  “Thought so,” Trista said. I followed her gaze as she looked over at Rod and Peter’s table on the other side of the patio. Rod’s dimple looked adorable as he laughed and listened to Peter tell a story. That was what I liked most about him. He always seemed to be listening. If only the code really had been from him.

  Trista scratched the back of her neck and shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “So he ask you out or something?”

  I nearly spat out the broccoli again. It had never occurred to me that Trista would actually ask about Rod. Should I lie or spill the whole story?

  “No,” I said, finally.

  “Oh.” Trista slowly folded her napkin into quarters while she searched for something to say.

  “It wasn’t Rod at all.” I felt as though I’d stepped off the bluffs themselves.

  Trista cocked her head. The seagulls caught wind of my chicken nuggets and began squawking and flapping.

  I leaned in. “In fact, what would you say if I had proof Charlotte Agford isn’t who she says she is?”

  Trista frowned. “All from a code?”

  “From the FBI directly.”

  “The FBI,” Trista repeated. Her lips twitched as she tried to keep a neutral expression. She was humoring me. Or was she? She reached for the pen on her sketchbook, clicking it open and closed a few times before she spoke again. “Well, I’d say . . .” She looked at me very seriously. “I’d say we’d better be sure they’re FBI.”

  I breathed a little easier. She believed me. I even felt a tiny spark of pride that she and I’d had the same thought. “Exactly,” I said. I went ahead and told her the rest of the story, only holding off on my break-in at Agford’s Saturday. Trista spun her pen on her fingers as she listened.

  “You actually called the FBI out on not telling your parents?” Trista asked when I finished. She looked impressed. “Bold.” She dropped her pen and shooed away a gull.

  “Something doesn’t seem right, though, does it?” I said, fiddling with my straw. “That’s why . . .” I hesitated, then told her about our worries and my failed mission to Agford’s. “I think I got out without her knowing, though.”

  “Hope so. Where did you say Grace was? A birthday party?”

  “No—I mean, that wasn’t until later.” I blushed. “It’s not how it sounds.”

  “Sophie, you’re in the quicksand, and you’re in deep,” Trista said. “But the thing is, you can—” She stopped midsentence and scowled.

  A millisecond later I felt a gooey splat! against my lower back just as a gull passed overhead. I turned around to curse the bird, but instead my gaze met Trent Spinner’s. In his raised hand was a plastic spoon smeared with the remains of chocolate pudding.

  “Something’s coming out of your anus, AY-NUS!” Trent shouted. He erupted into his machine-gun laugh as a thick drip of chocolate pudding oozed down the seat of my shorts. His friends, Matt and Jae, clutched at their sides, practically hyperventilating, they found it so
funny.

  Trista’s eyes grew dark. She looked directly at Trent Spinner. “As I was saying, the thing is,” she said to me as quietly and calmly as I’d ever heard her say anything, “you can do something about it.”

  My ears still blazed red, and my breath was tight, but I nodded. “If you know the enemy and you know yourself—”

  “You need not fear the result of a hundred battles!” Trista shouted. “Sun Tzu!” She held out her hand for a high five.

  Trista ushered me off to the science lab, where she whipped together a mix of ammonia, peroxide, and water that had my “ay-nus” stain out in no time. Before I knew it, we were on our way to the gym. Mr. Katz had called for another of his Special Assemblies, which weren’t so special, considering he called for one just about every other week. For Mr. Katz, the Special Assembly was a magic formula capable of curing all school problems in twenty minutes. Bullying? Racial insensitivity? Let’s hire someone to give a talk in the gym. And voilà!, as Madame Tarrateau would say, problem solved.

  I didn’t think anything of it until Dr. Charlotte Agford clip-clopped her way up to the microphone in her cream-colored suit, stockings, and hideous turquoise pumps. Pinned to her lapel was the same bedazzled brooch embossed with the silver A that she’d worn in Katz’s office.

  Trista frowned. My temples began to throb. No good could come of this. I looked toward the gym door, wondering if there were any way to scramble over a row of forty kids sitting in bleachers without attracting attention.

  Agford sniffed and tilted her head. “So, ladies and gents. I’m here to—Matt, honey, please sit down, the people behind you want to get a better look at me.” Her snort at her own joke sounded like a bomb explosion when amplified by the mike. A shriek of feedback followed. It was almost the same pitch as her unbearable falsetto.