The Wig in the Window

by Kristen Kittscher

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “I know. It’s been like this all day,” Grace said.

  “Former Tilmore, Texas, Assistant School Superintendent Deborah Bain—believed to have died in a fire two years ago—was very much alive when she was arrested by police,” the reporter continued, her flimsy jacket ruffling in the breeze. “She faces charges of embezzlement, manslaughter, and—along with her brother, Daniel Slater—three counts of attempted murder.”

  “Now that’s a victory,” Grandpa said, patting me on the back so hard, I cried out. I had a feeling it was going to be a long time before my bruises went away.

  We stayed glued to the set as newscasters summarized the details of the case. It was all just as Grace and I had figured out from the articles that night. Even most of what Agford had said in her melodramatic performance as “Cassie Ogden” had actually been true, I realized, as the news ran archival footage of the Tilmore Eight media frenzy. Except, of course, that Ralston was perfectly sane. Agford had simply taken on one of the Tilmore Eight mothers’ stories as her own and twisted the facts about Ralston in an effort to throw us off her trail. I shuddered to think it had almost worked.

  “FBI software programmer and Tilmore Eight mother Louise Ralston had long been trying to convince authorities to reopen the closed case,” explained a reporter standing in front of an official-looking building in Texas. He described how police had repeatedly ignored Ralston when she had pointed to irregularities in the investigation of Bain’s death by fire. Frustrated, she’d continued to investigate on her own. She used her high-clearance access to flag police background checks of people with fewer than two years’ history under a name. Because Ralston had tracked Slater to Los Angeles after he was paroled, she was particularly interested when our call to police triggered an alert about Agford in nearby Luna Vista—especially since the first recorded use of Agford’s name was so close to the time of Bain’s supposed death. Ralston took an unauthorized leave to investigate. “Though Ralston has been suspended without pay, pending investigation, police have released her from custody,” he finished.

  Grace and I both let out sighs of relief.

  “Told you she was real FBI,” she said.

  “Kind of real FBI,” I corrected.

  “But not crazy.”

  “At least not as crazy as we are.” I smiled to myself. “You think our parents are ever going to let us hang out together again?”

  “Yep,” said Grace. “In fact, my mom and dad want to invite everyone to a banquet at Happy Family tonight. Lobster, abalone, egg-drop soup—the whole deal. I’ve already invited Trista and her family. Do you think you all can come?”

  “I’ll check with my mom and dad,” I said. “They’ll say yes to anything right now. Start thinking of stuff I should ask for.”

  “Get your phone back, at least,” Grace said. “Better yet, get it upgraded. I’m so over the walkie-talkies.”

  “Ten-four,” I replied.

  Grace laughed. “Over and out.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Walking Tall

  After school on Monday, I stood at my booth in the gym as the science fair wound down. It was hard to believe that just days ago I’d been sitting in the gym bleachers surrounded by the same sweaty smell of old gym mats and varnish as Agford clip-clopped across those hardwood floors and leveled her cold stare at me. I wondered what sound her prison-issue shoes would make when she paced her Texas jail cell.

  Though I hadn’t gotten to the bottom of sugar’s effect on teeth, people had been stopping by my booth in a steady stream to congratulate me on that other hypothesis I’d nearly died proving. My poster board left a lot to be desired, but it looked gorgeous compared to Marissa’s disaster. She stood glumly a few booths down from me, her bangs looking as wilted as the houseplants around her that cowered in the roar of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. “Do Plants Like Music?” her otherwise plain poster read in black marker. Then, underneath it, she’d written simply: “No.”

  S.M.I.L.E. had been devastated when they had learned the truth about Agford. If it all hadn’t been bad enough, they’d discovered that the money they’d raised over the past two years had never been donated. Even the knitted Peshawar scarves were found stashed in the back of a closet in Agford’s office. They apologized to me for everything and were shocked when I apologized back. I was truly sorry. I had never seen them as anything but extensions of Charlotte Agford—a single beast of rolling backpacks and fake smiles. In reality, they were victims.

  We had all been victims. That much was clear, even if we were still learning some of the details of the case. The police suspected that Bain had come to Luna Vista to wait until her brother was free, falsifying her résumé to secure a position in a school so that she might be able to pull a similar scam again.

  I folded up my poster board. It had been quite a first day back. High fives during passing periods. Ms. Gant coming up to praise me for my logic. Madame Tarrateau, her poodle curls bouncing, had spent half of French performing elaborate charades to teach us words like fugitive and private investigator. And Rod. I’d never forget how Rod looked when he asked if he and Peter could sit with Trista and me at lunch—nor, for that matter, the smile Trista gave me when she kicked me under the table. She finally got it.

  The crowd had thinned, except for a throng of people clustered around a booth at the end of the row. Trista’s. I smiled. I should go congratulate her on her first prize. I finished packing up, chuckling when I almost forgot the gift Mr. Katz had given me.

  Trista bent over her solar panel as she animatedly explained its features to the crowd of kids and parents grouped around her, appearing oblivious to the big blue ribbon pinned to the display. I’d never seen her surrounded by so many people, let alone look so at ease among them. Someone’s mom, who must have worked at AmStar, asked a technical question. As Trista rattled off an answer, I turned to look at the large white screen displaying captioned PowerPoint slides of her building process. I nearly fell over when I saw who stood there.

  “Grace?” I asked.

  Grace smiled at the crowd and clicked to the next slide, then gave me an open-palmed shrug. Her outfit was impeccably put together, from her tights and funky shoes to her cute skirt and updo. A single silver vintage watch graced her wrist.

  “Trista needed a little help,” she explained sheepishly as I approached. “She knew you were busy with your project. So . . .”

  “Trista needed help?” I repeated.

  “Happens more often than you think,” Trista interrupted, stepping away from her crowd of admirers for a moment. “My slide themes were awful. And the place needed a little dressing up.” She gestured to her booth, which was very stylishly decorated in earth tones and orbs suggesting suns.

  Grace looked over at Trista’s plain black T-shirt and jeans. “I made some fashion suggestions, too. But . . .”

  Trista held up her hand. “This is my dress T-shirt.”

  I laughed. “Want to wear it out on the town? Let’s all go to the Seashell.”

  Trista jerked her head toward the crowd. The AmStar mom was waiting for more details. “I need to stick around here a little bit. You two go ahead. But”—she pointed to the cardboard poster tube I held in my hand—“make sure you tell Grace all about that.”

  As Trista wheeled around to answer a question on semiconductor materials, Grace looked at me expectantly.

  “Oh, you’re going to love this.” I slid the poster out of the tube and unfurled it. Grace gasped and covered her mouth. It showed a mountain climber scaling the face of a snow-covered peak. COURAGE was printed in large, bold purple letters underneath. “Mr. Katz presented it to me at a Special Assembly today. You know, for my heroism and all,” I explained.

  “It’s going to look awesome in your life-path gua,” Grace joked as we headed for the exit. “Oh my God, you have to tell me everything. Trista gave me, like, zero details.”

  As we walked through the outdoor halls to my locker, I expl
ained how Mr. Katz had practically gotten down on his knees in front of the whole school—as well as a group of angry parents who’d shown up—to apologize for not checking Agford’s background. I did tell her everything, from S.M.I.L.E.’s apologies to Ms. Gant’s congratulations and Madame Tarrateau’s charades. Grace smiled but looked around apprehensively, no doubt remembering the last time she’d passed the same classrooms. When a couple of kids waved to me and she looked away shyly, I was startled to realize that she was nervous to be at school with me at all.

  “Trent Spinner actually high-fived you?” Grace asked, trying to hide her unease. “He was probably thanking you for his three-day vacation from school.”

  “Probably. He did still call me Ay-nus, though.” I shut the rest of my stuff in my locker and waved my new blue Lightning iFlash at Grace. “Then there’s this.”

  “Full data plan and unlimited texting?” Grace asked, beaming.

  “Not quite. But close enough. And look who emailed.” I handed it over. Grace read aloud as we headed out the doors, trying her best to imitate Louise Ralston’s drawl:

  Dear Young and Yang,

  How can I ever thank you? You’d think there’d be a Texas expression up to the job, but I’m at a loss.

  I hope that someday you will find it in your hearts to forgive me for not trusting you with the truth. I should have known better than to sell you short. Sometimes, on the way to find justice, we can lose sight of what’s really important. I bet you two understand that better than anyone.

  You’re fine investigators—finer than hair on a frog’s legs, as we like to say here. Steer clear of trouble. And be sure to stay in touch. Maybe one of these days I’ll take a real vacation and come see you. I’ll leave the blue car at home . . .

  Yours Truly,

  Louise Ralston

  “I’d forgiven her a thousand times already,” I said as Grace finished. We stood outside school, about to make our way up the hill toward town. The sun shone low behind us, as always. Pink clouds looked raked across the sky.

  “Me, too.” Grace grinned. “Except for that hairy-frog-leg comment. I’m holding that against her.” She fiddled with my iFlash. “Wait. Rod texted you?” She turned my phone sideways and squinted at it. “A code?”

  My cheeks turned red.

  “Oh, I hope this is really from him,” Grace joked. “You break it yet?”

  “It’s a Caesar substitution code. ‘Madame Tarantula is finally interesting again. Glad you are back safe.’”

  “Aww . . . ,” Grace said. “He totally likes you.” As she handed back my phone, I saw something glimmer on her neck in the sunlight.

  “Hey . . . ,” I said. “You’re wearing it!”

  It was the little white teardrop pendant with a circle of black in it—the yang part of the split yin/yang charms that Mrs. Dr. Yang had given to us last year.

  Grace broke into a smile. “You don’t know what I had to go through to make it look right with this outfit.”

  I tried to keep it together. I really did. But I couldn’t hold it back. I burst into laughter. Uncontrollable, hiccupping laughter—with maybe even a few snorts tossed in à la Charlotte Agford.

  Grace shook her head at me, then flicked me on the shoulder—hard. “Watch it, shorty,” she said.

  “Hey, I’m four foot—”

  “Four foot six. I know, I know. You’re actually looking pretty tall these days.” Grace grinned and took my arm. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.” I hooked my arm around hers.

  We headed up the hill and turned down Luna Vista Drive, walking in silence past the clean-swept driveways and manicured front yards, past Mr. Valdez watering his lawn and Mrs. Stenwall calling for her cat.

  All seemed peaceful in Luna Vista, California. Boring, even.

  And for once we didn’t mind.

  Acknowledgments

  Though Sophie Young merely imagined she possessed the strength of an entire army, I relied on a very real and embarrassingly large one to help me tell this story. I’m very grateful to my wise and hilarious agent, Jennifer Laughran, for leading the charge so passionately and for finding a perfect home for my young sleuths. Young & Yang may be clever, but they have nothing on editorial duo par excellence Rosemary Brosnan and Andrea Martin. This book (and I) benefited immeasurably from their patience, enthusiasm, and insight. I am so fortunate they were on the case.

  My heartfelt thanks also go to the remarkable team at HarperCollins Children’s—from editorial to design to marketing to publicity and sales—including Phoebe Yeh, Cara Petrus, Kim Vandewater, Patty Rosati, Renée Cafiero, and cover artist Marcos Calo.

  I’m deeply indebted to Kara LaReau, who took me under her wing and not only taught me how to do this but also showed me that I could. She is a rare bird, indeed.

  Tania Casselle and Sean Murphy, Young & Yang’s earliest champions, helped me “Write to the Finish” in their fantastic workshop and gave me the confidence to share my writing.

  My dear friends offered tireless support and welcome distraction. Thanks, especially, to Elena Ritchie, Elise Gibney, Jody Gibney, and Caitlin Thompson, who slogged through bad early drafts and cheered me on regardless, and to Sacha Howells, who channeled his inner twelve-year-old girl and gave me invaluable revision advice. Tim Terwilliger not only inspired me with his own creativity but always offered a sympathetic ear. A special shout-out to my fellow former sixth-grade spy, Heather McAuley Gilman, and to her very generous husband, Bill, who produced a trailer for the book.

  I’m not sure what I would do without my brilliant (and tactful) writing partners-in-crime, who gave constant encouragement and feedback: Cynthia Mines, Maggie Parks, Sarah Skilton, Amy Spalding, Melle Amade, Ingrid Sundberg, Toni Sherwood, and Melanie Abed.

  I’m also very grateful to my readers and advisers, Jane George, Elsie Chapman, Rachel Lee, Ryan Lee, Millie Shih, Lori Walker, Sophia Chang, Stefanie Tatalias, Amy Rigsby, Katie Nelson, Angela Russell, Amy Chou, and Jenn Reese, who weighed in on everything from tai chi moves and FBI protocol to title suggestions and banquet menus.

  Thanks to Cecil Castellucci, who lent me some of her boldness when I needed it, and who has helped create such a vibrant Los Angeles young adult/middle grade literary community. Connecting with writers and people passionate about books has been one of the best parts of this adventure. Thanks, also, to the LAYAs, SCBWI, Bridge to Books, and the Lucky 13s, especially Alison Cherry, Brandy Colbert, and Lindsay Ribar.

  I owe so much to my family for all of their support: the O’Connors, the Cliff Island Cusbacons, particularly Agnes, Lavinia, and S.B., and, of course, the Altwaters and Fiedlers, especially my brother, Eric, my cousin, Konrad Tho, and Bess and John Fiedler, who offered so much of their time, advice, and enthusiasm.

  To my mom, my most trusted reader: I wish that I had half of your patience, kindness, and intelligence. (Dad was right. You are the best.) And lastly, to Kai. Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz. Thank you.

  About the Author

  KRISTEN KITTSCHER is a writing tutor in Pasadena, California, where she lives with her husband. She is a graduate of Brown University and worked for several years as a middle-school English teacher. The Wig in the Window is her first novel. You can visit her online at www.kristenkittscher.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Credits

  Cover art © 2013 by Marcos Calo

  Cover design by Angela Navarra

  Copyright

  THE WIG IN THE WINDOW

  Copyright © 2013 by Kristen Kittscher

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any mea
ns, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

  www.harpercollinschildrens.com

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kittscher, Kristen.

  The wig in the window / by Kristen Kittscher. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: When their game of neighborhood spying takes a dark turn one night, pre-teen sleuths Sophie Young and Grace Yang find themselves caught in a dangerous cat-and-mouse game with their bizarre guidance counselor, who may be hiding something sinister.

  ISBN 978-0-06-211050-3 (hardcover bdg.)

  [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Middle schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.K67173Wi 2013

  2012025337

  [Fic]—dc23

  CIP

  AC

  * * *

  13 14 15 16 17 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FIRST EDITION

  EPub Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780062110527

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