Smart Cookie

by Elly Swartz

  Dear Mom,

  Do you think my plan is going to work? Please don’t be mad. I just want to be a family again. Like before. The three of us. Not just Dad and me. Not two. Two is a pair of socks, yin and yang, war and peace. Two is sandwich bread. Our family was never two slices. Our family never fit on a bicycle. I just want what we had. I want our pieces back.

  Besides, if I can find a mom, then maybe Dad won’t be so focused on Gram. And she won’t move out. Not ever.

  But if I’m being spill-the-beans honest, I’m kind of nervous. What if Dad doesn’t want this? What if he wants to fit on a bicycle? What if I’m making a mistake? A. Big. Fat. Mistake.

  Love you,

  Francine

  My phone rings. It’s Elliot.

  “Didn’t we just hang up?”

  “The timetable has changed.” His voice sounds like a fifty-year-old newsman is broadcasting live from inside his body.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My dad’s meeting—the one Reggie is supposed to go to—has been rescheduled. Something about an upcoming snowstorm.”

  “Sometimes I hate winter.” I rub Lucy’s belly as she stretches out across my comforter. “So when’s our break-in scheduled for now?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  At the float meeting that Elliot made me go to the next day, I spin the plastic four-leaf-clover in my pocket. It’s the one Annie gave me. She said it was for Fitzgerald. That everyone needed extra luck. I’m a fan. Of Annie and luck. I also made a wish when the clock hit 11:11. I consider both very good signs for my day not ending in prison. But time drags and the flips in my stomach show no sign of slowing down. I can’t even think about eating the tacos Shanti’s mom donated to the after-school float meeting. No chicken taco with cilantro, hot sauce, beans, guacamole, and extra cheese. I eat a package of dry crackers and hope I don’t puke all over my lap.

  “Let’s go to the library after the meeting to work on our rap,” Jess says. It’s not really a suggestion, more like a that’s-what-we’re-doing.

  “Can’t.” Figure I’ll leave out the details—that I’ll be spending the afternoon breaking into Reggie’s office with a box of cookies and a bad excuse to find out what’s going on with Dead Mickey and the B&B.

  “Our presentation is next week. Could even be Tuesday if Charlie and Ashley finish early.”

  “I’m aware of our upcoming rap debut. Just can’t practice later today.”

  “Doctor’s appointment?”

  “Nope.”

  “Dentist?”

  “Nope.”

  “Gram?”

  “Just can’t.” No need to bring Gram into this. “Have to help my dad with some stuff.”

  Which is not entirely false.

  “Fine.” She smiles.

  After the float meeting, I reconnect with Elliot in Headquarters with a box of cookies.

  “You’re late,” I say as I hand him the cookies. “I thought you were just stopping home to grab the map?”

  “Sorry. Ran into my mom who promptly gave me a new nonemergency emergency to-do list. I even negotiated an early release, but I had to promise to be home by five thirty to finish.” He opens the lid to the cookie box.

  “Don’t eat those. We need them. They’re my cover.”

  “I know. I just want to smell them. I mean this one here, this chocolate thing, smells so good.”

  I close the lid before smelling turns to tasting turns to one missing. “What was the nonemergency emergency this time?”

  “The spices needed to be organized alphabetically.”

  I think of all the spices at the B&B and try to imagine how long it would take to put them in alphabetical order.

  “I was almost done, until I found the smoked paprika. Then I had to go in and reshuffle because it didn’t fit.”

  “Did you put it under S or P?”

  “S.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why ‘hmm’? It starts with an S.”

  “But it’s paprika, so I’d put it under P. The way a library or bookstore ignores the word ‘the’ when they alphabetize books.”

  “I never got why they do that. I mean, it’s in the title,” Elliot says, pulling the map of Reggie’s office building out of his backpack. “Remember, if anyone asks, you’re just there to deliver cookies.”

  “And that’s not weird or obvious?” Seems to scream weird and obvious to me.

  He stares at the plans.

  “Were you like some sort of spy in a former life?” I’m almost convinced that could be true.

  “Hope so,” he says.

  “Remind me again why I’m the one going in and you’re the one sitting in the lobby?”

  “Because I have no reason at all for being in Reggie’s office. Just showing up would raise suspicion. But you do. He’s been hounding your dad.”

  “So that makes me showing up with a box of cookies from the B&B not weird?”

  “Not that weird. It’s like when my family moved next door and your gram brought over her famous chocolate, chocolate cookies. The cookies are like a normal neighborly gesture.”

  “Nothing about this fits any definition of normal,” I say.

  “It’s normal enough.”

  “I’ll be waiting here.” He points to an area on the map. “And I’ll have my phone, so I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  “Except you won’t be breaking the law with baked goods.”

  “Look, if you go to jail, we both go to jail.”

  “Feeling better already.”

  We walk the six blocks through the snow to Reggie’s office. The building is skinny and taller than most with a lobby that’s too bright. Elliot settles onto a leather bench. A woman in a pencil skirt, blazer, and silk shirt passes us. She’s barking into her phone and walking like her spiky blue heels are on fire.

  “You really needed to bring that?” I point to the ghost-hunting laser in Elliot’s hand.

  “I’m blending in,” he says.

  If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d burst out laughing.

  “You’ve got this,” he says.

  “Easy for you to say while sitting on the bench with your laser in the lobby.”

  I take my four-leaf clover, the cookies, and what’s left of my confidence, and make my way to the elevators, where I bump into a woman with a crying baby in a stroller and a man in a suit with a scowl. Don’t faint, I tell myself as I take a deep breath. A brief moment of happiness fills me when I realize there’s no thirteenth floor. Then I hit the button for the fifteenth floor, and wedge myself between someone who desperately needs to go home early to shower and someone who had an Italian sub for lunch. Lean toward Sub Man and try to ignore the nausea swirling around my belly.

  The doors open, and I follow the signs left and right and then left again. The tan swirls on the carpet make me dizzy. Definitely don’t need another reason to puke, so I steady myself as I open the door to the outer office of the real estate company and get ready to make my move.

  Sitting at a large desk in front of the hall is a woman with a bun, a long neck, and a fire engine red face—the gatekeeper of all-things Reggie.

  “May I help you?” Gatekeeper asks.

  “I have cookies for Mr. Hogan.” The lie slides out easier than expected.

  “Well, Mr. Hogan isn’t here right now.”

  “If it’s okay, I could just put them on his desk and leave them as a surprise for when he returns,” I suggest, as if surprising Reggie is something I might actually do.

  Smile big.

  Act normal.

  Breathe.

  “You can leave them with me, or wait for him to return. But you can’t go into his office until he gets back.”

  I eye Gatekeeper. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who’s going to change her mind. “I’ll wait.” I figure this will give Elliot and me time to revise our plan.

  I text Elliot to devise a new strategy and find a plan B.

  I have no signal.
<
br />   No service.

  No Elliot.

  So much for being with me the whole time.

  The air in the waiting room feels stiff like stale bread. I look around and realize I need a plan. Sitting here is not a plan.

  Think.

  Think.

  Think.

  The cookies and I get up. “Excuse me,” I ask politely. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”

  Gatekeeper glares at me suspiciously, unless that’s just her natural face. Which seems totally possible. “Down the hall, then right, second left, and first right. It’ll be on your left,” she tells me.

  The first hall is mint green. Not sure why that’s a good choice. I weave to my right and left staring at every door in the pastel-colored halls. Thomas Jameson. Cecily Richards. Matthew Sterling. Juan Garcia. Brianna Jackson. I hope I can find my way back. Next right. Patrice Kendrick. Second door down, across from the bathroom, I see a sign for Reggie Hogan.

  The cookies rattle in the box. Just be normal, I tell myself. But it’s not working.

  Normal is nowhere.

  I look down the hall, and when I don’t see anyone coming, I knock on the door.

  No answer.

  Take a deep breath, turn the knob, and step inside.

  The office smells like burger grease. Like Reggie. On the walls, there are pictures of Reggie holding a big fish, Reggie in the woods, Reggie and some guy who looks like Reggie, and one of an old man with a long gray beard. I set the cookies on his desk next to a mug filled with toothpicks, and take out my phone. Still no service, but at least the battery isn’t dead. I snap pictures of the papers and stuff scattered on top of Reggie’s desk. Not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but Elliot said to document everything, you never know where the clues are hiding. Secretly I wish this were a board game that came with directions: Go three spaces, select a card, read the clue, and find the evidence you need to solve the mystery. My hands shake. Steady and click. And click. And click. Don’t bother looking at the pictures now. Mostly just praying my hangnail doesn’t bleed on anything.

  Then I move to the desk. The top right drawer is locked. So is the one on the bottom right. But when I pull on the bottom left drawer, it opens. There are piles of papers and folders stuffed inside. Look at my watch. Running out of time. The room snatches my breath. Stealing my nerve.

  Focus. Help Dad, I tell myself as I continue the hunt.

  Snap. I take pictures of Reggie’s chair. His toothpicks. Each file, hoping these will tell us something. Anything.

  As I pick up the last folder, I notice the address across the tab. 51 Lincoln Street, Dennisville, Vermont.

  That’s the B&B.

  My home.

  My fingers shake as I open the file. There are architectural plans and letters from the bank and emails. Lots of emails. Then a photo slips out.

  The yellow dress startles me.

  I hear footsteps in the hall and quickly slip the photo back into the file and close the drawer.

  But I can’t leave her here. My brain spins while my hands take over, opening the drawer, taking the photo, and stuffing it in my pocket.

  I close the drawer a little harder than I mean to, slowly back out of the office, and walk quickly but not too quickly down the hall.

  “Good afternoon,” a man in a paisley tie says. By the time I catch my breath to say anything, the guy’s around the corner.

  In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and try to breathe normally, but I’m not sure it’s working. I stare at myself in the mirror. My mind spins, trying hard to justify what I just did. Dad needs me. I’m his person. I wait for a sign telling me that it’s all okay. The lights to flash. The hot water to turn on. The toilet to suddenly flush. But none of that happens.

  So I weave my way back to the waiting room, trying to remember if it’s Creamsicle to new snow to something else to mint green. I’m almost there. But just as I turn the corner to the last hall, smack!

  I run right into Reggie Hogan.

  “What are you doing here?” Reggie wants to know.

  Helping my dad. I don’t say that. Actually, I don’t say anything. The air in my lungs deflates and my brain shuts down.

  “I asked you a question, little lady? What are you doing wandering the halls of my office?”

  “Bathroom.”

  He pulls the gnawed-on toothpick out of his mouth. “Doesn’t that B&B of yours have plumbing?”

  I nod. “I meant I needed the bathroom while I waited for you.”

  “Why in blazing glory did you come to see me?”

  “Cookies.”

  He looks around.

  “I brought cookies. From my dad. For not being able to meet.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  “They’re still warm. I mean, they were when I got here.”

  “Great. I’m starving.” He rubs his too-many-burgers belly. “Those zoning and permit meetings are nothing but a bunch of poorly dressed men and women serving up bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise. Let’s have at those cookies.”

  I freeze.

  My hands are empty. Where are the cookies? My mind rewinds. The bathroom. The man in the hall. The office. I stop breathing. The cookies are on the desk in the office. Reggie’s office. Think. Think. Think.

  “I put them on your desk.”

  “My desk?”

  I nod again.

  “Who let you into my office?” Growl.

  “Um, the door was open.” Not exactly, but it wasn’t locked. “I was going to the bathroom and realized it was getting late and that I’d have to leave the cookies with, um, that lady at the front desk.” Pause. “And, well, I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea, so when I saw that your office door was open, I just put them in there.” I hold my breath. Please, please, please believe me.

  He snorts and laughs, and I exhale.

  “That Ms. Limestone’s a good woman, but she has been known to consume a dozen cookies in one sitting.”

  I love Gatekeeper.

  He moves toward his office and my heart freezes. I feel Mom’s photo in my pocket. Can’t go in there. I look at my watch. “I’ve got to get back to the B&B,” I say, as if that’s the only reason I need to leave this place immediately. “Enjoy the cookies.”

  “Well, you be sure to tell your daddy that while I appreciate these here cookies, which I do, he’s running out of time.”

  As I speed-walk down the mint-green hall, past Gatekeeper, and into the elevators, Reggie’s words bounce around my brain. Running out of time for what?

  The bright white lobby reminds me of disinfectant. A woman with a briefcase and tappy heels trots past me. A bald man’s yelling into his phone. And Elliot’s still sitting where I left him, worry carved across his face.

  “What happened? It’s been twenty-eight minutes since you left. This was supposed to take thirteen total. Why didn’t you call?”

  The yelling man stomps his shiny loafers and swears something Gram would not be happy about.

  “There’s no service up there.”

  Elliot’s face turns that weird shade of green it turned the day I took him on the upside-down roller coaster at Peak Park. “Oh,” he says, and then falls silent as we walk out the door.

  Back at Headquarters with the cardboard door closed, I tell him what happened.

  “You all right?” he asks in a voice that sounds like it’s covered in the blanket I wrap around myself during lightning storms.

  “Yeah.” I try to sound braver than I am.

  “Sorry, Frankie,” Elliot says, and I know he means it. “We’re okay, right?” Something Elliot always needs to know.

  I nod.

  His complexion’s coming back to a less alien color. “Let’s see what you got.”

  We scroll through the photos on my phone.

  Boring. Boring. Boring.

  I bite my right pinkie nail as I decide whether to tell Elliot about the picture I stole.

  “Maybe we’re wrong,” I say. “As much as
I don’t like Reggie, maybe he’s got nothing to do with the ghost.”

  “Maybe,” Elliot says as he zooms in on each picture for a closer look.

  “There’s something else.”

  He looks up.

  “I found a photo in his files. Of my mom.”

  “Your mom?” he asks. “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Weird.”

  I agree because it is weird. Hugely weird. I knew they both grew up here, but there’s no way the guy who doesn’t give out Halloween candy was friends with my mom. No way.

  Then Elliot stops scrolling. “Take a look at these three photos.”

  They’re of plans to build some big thing. “So?”

  “Frankie, Reggie wants to develop this area. Build condos or apartments or something. That’s why he’s been talking to your dad.”

  “What does my dad have to do with it?”

  “Because it looks like he wants to build on the land where your B&B is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. Not for sure. I have to finish going through all this stuff,” he says. “But look at the surrounding area. That’s Maisy’s Florist, Sal’s General Store, and Bert’s Ice Cream Shack. And the land where he wants to build a big development he calls Hogan West looks like it’s sitting right where the B&B should be.”

  “But we’re here. It’s not like he can build on top of us.”

  “He can if he owns the land.”

  “But he doesn’t. And my dad said he’d never sell.”

  Elliot scratches his chin. “That’s the part I don’t get.” Then his eyes roll into the back of his head.

  “And what does the dead guy have to do with all of this?” I ask, wondering if the ghost can hear me.

  “Don’t know yet. I need time to connect the pieces,” Elliot says. “But I can’t do it now. I promised my mom I’d be back by five thirty to finish her nonemergency emergency to-dos.”

  When Elliot leaves, I take out the photo of my mom in the yellow dress. I didn’t give this one to Elliot. This mystery is mine. I look at her smile and realize it reaches all the way up to her eyes.