The Tell-Tale Con

by Aimee Gilchrist

  I could visually track the progress of this thought as she processed it and my words hit home. She’d been so involved in her plan that she’d disregarded Harrison’s role as an innocent child. I wouldn’t have exactly called him a child, but to her he was, and he was certainly innocent. Bewilderment crossed her features, and her hesitation gave me a chance to think. How could we get out of this?

  Finally, her disorientation cleared, and she raised the gun again. Evidently my question had been irritating, distracting, something that agitated her. Oops. Not my best work.

  She raised her gun, got a visual on Harrison and fired without her expression changing. Three things happened at once. I threw myself at Harrison, since he’d done it for me twice, intending to knock him to the ground. I hit the ground. Hard. Hard enough I almost blacked out, since, as it turned out, Harrison was no longer standing in the same place he’d been. Harrison, himself, dropped without hesitation. Like the way someone dropped a piranha. A piranha on fire. Covered in bees. So when I’d been planning to make contact with him, I made contact with empty air, and then gravel, instead.

  And thirdly, the homeless man I’d seen stirring earlier jumped on Vickie Bridges back and took her down like in every action movie I’d ever seen. While I was still on the ground wondering if it was possible to break your boobs, Vickie was flat on her face and cuffed.

  Under the exterior of general hoboness, it would appear that this dude was a cop.

  I would have called it fortuitous, good luck on our part. Whatever. Hobo Cop was not nearly as thrilled. Apparently, we’d destroyed the final stages of a months long sting operation to take down the church-run crisis center next door to the theater. They were selling God and also crack. I didn’t actually think it was our fault, but Hobo Cop was less understanding.

  We spent the next six hours at the station while the cops tried to make heads or tails of our story, and Hobo Cop, whose name was Willard, came along to periodically tell us again what a pain in the butt we were. As though we’d almost been murdered just to irritate him and ruin his sting operation.

  Willard ran between rooms and brought Harrison and me the info as it came. Jennifer the nurse was also 'Jessica' the daughter. Vickie had sought her out once she was grown, and she’d used her nursing skills to come and help with her mother. Jennifer didn’t want to see people get hurt, but she believed that her mother deserved some restitution. I was willing to bet that she was still a little bitter, too, about growing up with a douche for a dad when she could have grown up with Lady Psycho. Which would have been so much better.

  “Vickie’s been planning revenge on Van Poe almost from the moment her kids were taken away,” Willard told us. “In the beginning, I guess she couldn’t think much at all, let alone plan her poetic retribution. But later, when she’d been released from the hospital, she’d tried moving near her kids, but the court wouldn’t allow visitation.”

  “How’d she end up in New Mexico?” Harrison asked.

  “Well,” Willard’s eyes narrowed. “She chose to move to New Mexico, so she could be near Van’s kid instead.”

  Van was still in LA at the time, I knew. Which struck me as kind of the creepiest thing of all.

  But being agoraphobic prevented her from acting on any of her plans. She’d stayed in her house, stalking Harrison and Van on the internet, and planning. When Jennifer had come along, right when Vickie was learning to go out again, small increments, into the yard, out for a walk, they’d made great strides together.

  A slender woman with short blonde hair poked her head into our interview room and asked Willard to come out into the hallway for a moment, leaving Harrison and me alone for the first time since the cops had picked us up. We were quiet for a long moment. He cleared his throat. “Talia…”

  I wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but the words petered off, leaving nothing but a heavy silence in the room, so thick I could almost feel it. He slid his hand across the glossy black table and took mine. My pulse spiked, thumping out a sporadic and enthusiastic rhythm. There was no denying that kind of reaction, even for me.

  “Talia, listen. I…”

  The door slammed open, and Willard stepped back inside, looking harassed. I flung myself away from Harrison so fast I nearly overturned my chair. Thank goodness he’d come back. I’d momentarily lost my mind. Next to me, Harrison sighed, but said nothing.

  Willard flopped back into his chair. “Anyway, four months ago, Jennifer went to a bar in Albuquerque and scored herself a new boyfriend. The wayward son of the rich and successful Malhotra family. It was a coincidence, but one that Vickie immediately saw as valuable.”

  I leaned forward in my seat, focusing all of my attention on Hobo Cop, and absolutely none on Harrison. I didn’t trust myself right now. I listened with absolute concentration while Willard detailed Jennifer’s quest for information. She’d asked questions a plenty about Van and Harrison, saying she knew them, and among the stories was the truth about the years-long demon prank he’d been pulling and how he’d paid the fortune teller to bring it up at the fair. From there, Vickie had convinced Nate to help her make Harrison think he was crazy.

  That’s what she had wanted to do.

  But then even twelve thousand dollars hadn’t been enough to assuage Nate’s uncustomary guilt, so she’d had to kill him.

  But Nate’s murder meant the plan to make Harrison have to spend years in a mental institution was defunct. So she’d elected to kill Harrison instead. She’d sent Jennifer off to follow us wherever we went, which explained how Vickie always seemed one step ahead. Now Vickie and Jennifer were both in the station and both being, wisely I thought, tested for mental issues before they were sent to prison. Jennifer’s lesser charge of conspiracy to commit murder, would likely see her out in a few years. Vickie was very likely going to be back to being a ‘shut-in’ for the rest of her life.

  Finally, when our stories had been told dozens of times, and Harrison was asleep with his head down on the table, the police finally came into the room and told us we were free to go. Though it had been early in the morning when we’d first set out for the coffee shop, it was dark by the time we left. Harrison got into a black sedan with Kanako and My Sharona, and I was shuttled into the backseat of Mr. Wong’s compact while Mom and Mr. Wong argued about whether or not I should be punished for my part in almost getting killed.

  Harrison and I glanced at each other for a long moment out the windows of our respective cars. I felt oddly desolate after what we’d been through. He smiled, a lopsided, half-hearted attempt, and waved goodbye with a very small movement of his fingers.

  For the rest of the week, I didn’t hear from Harrison at all. Which was fine. Really. Now that the thing that had brought us together at all was over, what reason did he have for coming? Nor did I see much of Hector and Sam, only a few glances in the hall and a couple of short conversations at lunch.

  I spent the afternoons at home catching up on school work and trying to watch TV. I went to bed early every night and slept badly. I refused to consider that I was restless and unhappy because I wanted to see Harrison. Or even Hector and Sam. Or anyone at all.

  On Sunday morning, Mom got up early and went to church. It was a new thing for her. I thought maybe her motivation was how moved she’d been by the spiritual experience of hearing that the church the cops had planned to bust got thousands of dollars in legitimate donations a month. No doubt she had to find some way to make that work for her.

  She invited me, but I declined because that was so not happening. For a moment I considered attending to keep her out of trouble. But I figured it would take a while to build enough of a relationship with the church leaders to get her fingers in the donation plate. In the interim, maybe a little religion would do her good.

  She’d been gone about half an hour, when I heard pounding on the steps and Sam, Hector and, finally, Harrison, appeared at the door. My heart leapt and, refusing to call it happiness to see them, I called it nervousness. I h
ad no idea how I was supposed to act around them now.

  I glanced at Harrison, almost afraid to meet his eyes. “I’ll go get the phone.”

  He frowned. “What phone?”

  “Your phone. The one you lent me.”

  He still didn’t look as though he understood exactly what I was talking about. Though he seemed to be trying. “Why would I want that back? If you gave it to me I’d never be able to call you, unless I talked to your mom first.”

  “And no one wants that,” Hector pointed out, moving to the large bank of windows so he could look down at the street.

  “I thought that’s why you were here.” I felt stupid, all of a sudden, in addition to the awkward I’d already been feeling.

  Sam put down the brochure she’d been reading off the glass case, incredibly reminiscent of Harrison on the first day. “We’re here to see if you wanted to go to the movies.”

  “That’s okay. You guys go ahead.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Like we’ll go without dragging you. You’re going either way, so you might as well come without argument.”

  I laughed slightly. “You make it sound so alluring.”

  I realized they weren’t planning to let me walk away with a mix of profound dread and a bizarre kind of relief. I was such a loser. “What are we seeing?”

  Hector rattled off the name of some action movie that sounded absolutely stupid. But I would go anyway. Sam and Hector headed off for the car while I went to get my coat, and when I returned, Harrison was still there.

  “I thought I would wait.”

  I slid on the coat, back to feeling awkward. “Okay.” I injected my voice with a hint of indifference, like I didn’t understand his actions, but it was a free country.

  “I wanted to say thank you. For last Sunday. I’d have come over this week but Kanako dragged me off to LA to see my dad so we could talk about my lack of focus. Anyway, I owe you one. Actually, I owe you several ones. We went way over those twenty hours.”

  Ugh. The stupid money again. “I don’t even want to hear about that. Whatever we went over, it doesn’t matter.” I wished I could give back the money he’d already given me, but I couldn’t.

  “Are you sure? If not for you I would have checked myself into some hospital the day I came in here the first time. I was pretty sure I was completely losing it.”

  “It was no big deal.”

  He laughed. “I’m not here to argue with you, Talia. But that is the least of what you did. I would likely be dead if not for you. Or in prison. Certainly I wouldn’t have figured out it was Vickie Bridges on my own because it never would have occurred to me to try to investigate.”

  “You’re a smart guy, Harry. You’d have figured it out eventually.”

  I realized I’d used the hated nickname, but he didn’t flinch like the first time. He merely raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly. “You’re a resourceful girl, Tallulah.”

  I managed not to flinch either. It was my fault anyway. This time. “Maybe.”

  “I’d say we make a good team. If we ever need to solve another murder.” He grinned at me.

  “If I ever encounter another murder I’m going to turn and walk away slowly and pretend like I never saw anything. Forget about solving anything.”

  We headed for the stairs. “Oh, I don’t know. I was impressed. I bet you’d make a pretty good cop. I could be your partner. I’d be the one with the mustache, of course.”

  “Never in a million years,” I said.

  “Fine, you can have the mustache, but I don’t think it would suit you.”

  “Shut up, Harrison.” I moved in front of him as we walked out of the building, mostly so he couldn’t see me smiling.

  * * *

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  About the Author

  Aimee Gilchrist lives in New Mexico with her husband and three children. She writes mysteries for both teens and adults. She calls her lifetime of jumping from one job to another 'experience' for her books and not an inability to settle down. Aimee loves mysteries and a good, happy romance. She also loves to laugh. Sometimes she likes all of them together.

  A fan of quirky movies and indie books, Aimee likes to be with her family, is socially inept, and fears strangers and small yippy dogs. She alternates between writing and being a mom and wife. She tries to do both at the same time but her kids don't appreciate being served lunch and told, "This is the hot dog of your discontent." So mostly she writes when everyone else is in bed.

  Aimee also writes YA and Inspirational Romantic Comedies under the name Amber Gilchrist.

  To learn more about Aimee, visit her online at

  www.aimeegilchrist.com

  BOOKS BY AIMEE GILCHRIST

  Rules of the Scam Mysteries:

  The Tell-Tale Con

  Other Works:

  Into Darkness Peering

  If you enjoyed The Tell-Tale Con, check out this sneak peek of another young adult mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first

  Disturbia Diaries Mystery

  by Jennifer Fischetto:

  I SPY DEAD PEOPLE

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  I hold the magnifying glass over the eight-by-ten glossy of the blood-splattered bedroom, searching for a clue that everyone else missed.

  "Piper Monalisa Grimaldi."

  I roll my eyes and lower the photo. "Dad, do you have to call me that?"

  He steps forward, snatches the picture from my fingers, and swats me on the butt with it until I step away from his precious French provincial desk. Mom gave it to him for their fifth wedding anniversary. According to him, she gave him a notebook on their first, and told him to write the book he's always dreamed of. It became his debut crime novel. Her giving him paper and wood is significant because of some ancient list about anniversary gifts. The olden days were weird.

  "It's your name, isn't it?" He stuffs the picture back into the manila folder, files it into the drawer, and locks it with a key.

  I flop into an armchair, sling my legs over the side, and push my purple-framed glasses to the top of my nose. "I don't want people to hear it. I'm not some creepy painting with death ray eyes."

  He smirks and runs a hand through his thick dark hair. "Your grandmother, my mother, is named Monalisa. It's a beautiful name."

  "In the twenty-first century it's weird, and you know it."

  He sits in his tall black leather chair. "Then be grateful your mother's beauty wooed me into using it as your middle name."

  "Yeah, well Piper may be semi-normal, but being named after a witch from a TV show is not."

  "Your mother was obsessed with Charmed."

  I don't remember the details, just what Dad's told me. When the show was airing, I was too young to notice, and by time I got older, Mom had already skipped town.

  "Now, how many times have I told you to not snoop through my office? This room is off bounds to you, young lady."

  "I don't see what the big deal is. Crime scene pictures don't bother me."

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. "That is exactly the problem. My fifteen-year-old should not be unmoved when looking at photos of dead bodies."

  "There is no body in that photo." Sometimes I'm a stickler for semantics.

  He sighs. "That's not the point. I don't want you in here. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "But will you listen?"

  "I'll try." I jump out of the chair and head to the door.

  "You better. Where are you going?"

  "To snoop around this town. May I do that?"

  "Be home by dinner."

  I turn and smile. "You mean the one you'll order in?"

  "No, Miss Smarty-Pants, I'll cook."

  I chuckle. Like that'll happen. The last time Dad cooked, it was pancakes on a lazy Su
nday morning six months ago. That was right after he finished writing the first draft of his latest book, Homespun Murder. His publisher always gives him cheesy titles. Being a bestselling author, you'd think they'd let him pick his own.

  "I'll have Kung Bo Chicken, extra spicy," I call out before slipping into my flip-flops and stepping onto the front stoop.

  A small stack of flattened cardboard boxes lie on the porch, beneath the large front windows, the ones that look into Dad's new office. It should be the living room, but Dad needs a lot of space. The TV and couch are up in the spare bedroom, cramped and uninviting.

  Seven hours since the moving van left, and I've unpacked the kitchen, bathroom, and part of my room, while Dad's handled just his office. Knowing him, he'll end up sleeping on the recliner in there more often than his bed upstairs.

  I skip down the steps, stand at the end of the walkway, and stare at the houses across the street. They're all the same. White, yellow, or light blue with white trim. Small Victorians, two-story, with an attached garage and small front yards. Having lived in a different house and town each year for the last eleven, I know houses and towns. And this is suburbia with a capital S.

  "Hi."

  I spin to my right and see a girl my age walking up the sidewalk. She has short, straight, black hair with bangs and skin so pale she either never steps out into the sun or wears SPF 100. Since it's hot enough to melt the tar off the asphalt, it must be the latter.

  "Hey," I say and meet her halfway, in the middle of my driveway. I hold out my hand, a habit I picked up from Dad. "I'm Piper Grimaldi. We just moved in."

  Her skin is super soft, like she just slathered it in lotion and it hasn't dried yet, but her handshake is weak. We'll have to work on that. Dad says a firm shake, especially by a woman, shows character.