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Authors: Kimberly Reid

My Own Worst Frenemy (18 page)

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
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Chapter 26
T
his time it's the real deal. I've been charged with a felony, and I've been given a court date. Just two weeks to figure out who really did this. But at least I'm out on bail and able to investigate.
“You won't be doing anything close to investigating this case,” Lana says over dinner. “My C.O. doesn't even want
me
near this case. Thinks I'm too ‘emotionally invested.' ”
“So neither one of us will know what's going on?”
“I said my C.O. doesn't want me near this case. I didn't say anything about obeying him.”
“You always follow orders.”
“Well, no one's ever tried to send my kid up for a class-two felony, either.”
“So you believe me
now
.”
“I may have underestimated what you were telling me was going on at school, but I always believed you were innocent. The only thing you're guilty of, the only thing you're
always
guilty of, is being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and usually with the wrong people. That's why I don't want you doing any investigating, observing, detecting, or whatever you want to call it because it will just get you into more trouble.”
“But I have access that you don't.”
“What kind of access?”
“I don't know . . . possible witnesses, likely suspects.”
“Who? Give me names.”
I don't think I'm ready to show my hand just yet. Lana's a great detective—I mean, she taught me everything I know—but if I give her names, she might scare off the people I most need to catch in the act to prove my innocence.
“Okay, so I don't have anything, but I just thought . . .”
“Well, stop thinking. I'm not going to let you go to jail for something you didn't do. I know it's hard, but try to focus on schoolwork and let the professionals handle this.”
 
Right now I need to talk to someone other than Lana. Even though she worked in burglary and was probably the best detective they ever had, she can't look at this case in full-on cop mode because she can't see past it being about her kid. Funny how things change in an instant—the day before my arrest, I wanted her to act more like a mom than a cop. Now it's the other way around.
I find Tasha in her driveway handing tools to her father, whose legs are sticking out from underneath his Whole World, as Tasha calls it. The rest of us call it a Corvette—a really old one from the seventies. Tasha figured out a long time ago if she had any chance of competing with the Corvette for her father's time, she'd better learn the difference between a manifold and a carburetor. Her dad is a mechanic who comes home everyday from working on other people's cars to work on his own. I always thought that was strange. I only do homework after being in school all day because I have to. But I guess it's the same way Lana comes home and watches cop shows on TV. Except now she gets to work on the real-life case involving her daughter, thanks to whoever is setting me up.
“What's up?” Tasha greets me.
“You have a second?”
“Dad, I'm going inside with Chanti now,” Tasha yells loudly like being under a car is like being down in a well. “I'll make you some iced tea and bring it out.”
“Thanks for helping me out, baby girl,” her dad says, sounding a little like he
is
down a well. Pretty much the only time I think about what it would be like to have a father is when Mr. Morgan calls Tasha
baby girl
. It makes me think I may have missed out on something.
I haven't been in Tasha's house for a while, not since I started hanging with MJ and Tasha made friends with Michelle. But now it's just like coming home, it's so familiar. Her mom is really into the Southwestern motif, so everything in the house is the color of an Arizona desert at sunset: sage, copper, blue, and clay.
“You still have problems at school?” Tasha asks as she puts the teakettle on to boil.
“Worse. How'd you know?”
“We don't talk like we used to. I figured it must be something bad for you to come over.”
I feel a little guilty because she's right.
“You can't tell a soul about this, Tasha. Not Michelle, not even your parents.”
“Have I ever?” she asks.
“I got arrested last night for a burglary at the home of one of my boss's clients.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly. Whoever is setting me up did a great job—they planted my wallet at the crime scene.”
“Man, somebody must really hate you, Chanti.”
“Somebody really wants to avoid getting arrested so they're framing me. But it could be anyone who has been around me and my sorry excuse for a drawstring purse.”
“When's the last time you remember having the wallet?” Tasha asks, putting a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies on the table.
A true friend knows I need chocolate when I'm stressed, and that's what Tasha is. I was worse than Bethanie when I brushed her aside so easily for MJ. Bethanie has known me only a couple of weeks; I've known Tasha since third grade. If I were Tasha, I'd let me suffer without cookies.
“Thursday when I put a couple of dollars in Ms. Reeves's donation jar. I noticed it missing Saturday morning before I went to work.”
Talking to Tasha helps me think. It might be anyone in study hall—or at Langdon, for that matter. It could have been Annette or anyone at her party. I may have lost it while I walked all over Cherry Creek Friday night looking for a bus stop, or even on the walk home from the bus once I finally made it to the Heights. But it still had cash in it when I identified it for Bertram, and no one around here would have left the cash, even a few dollars.
Tasha breaks me from my thoughts when she asks, “You didn't need your wallet all day Friday?”
“I keep my bus pass in a separate holder, and Bethanie—this girl from school—bought everything when we went out Friday night.”
Now I feel guilty all over again about neglecting my friendship with Tasha—first for MJ, now Bethanie. But Tasha lets it slide.
“So who is Ms. Reeves?”
“She's the crazy teacher I thought was doing all the stealing at school, but apparently not. She confessed to stealing some stuff, but not everything, so the school's still watching me, too.”
“You're a mess, Chanti.”
She pours me a glass of milk and joins me at the table.
“I busted Ms. Reeves and got her fired. I can figure this out, too.”
“Maybe it's the teacher setting you up. You probably aren't her favorite person right now. Can you really trust a crook's confession?”
“No, the connection has to be Mitchell's Moving. Whoever did it drove a Mitchell van. They had access to my wallet and the clients' keys.”
“How do you know they didn't just break in?”
“No signs of forced entry.”
“You watch way too many cop shows, Chanti. You're starting to sound like one,” Tasha says. It's a testament to my storytelling skills that I've kept my best friend from knowing what my mother really does for a living, and I can't ruin it now.
“That's what the cops said when they questioned me.”
“Okay, so name all the people who could have gotten your wallet and a key to those houses.”
“There's Marco, but that can't be possible.”
“Why?”
“Because he's . . . Marco.”
Tasha looks at me for a second like she doesn't understand, then smiles.
“Oh. I guess there's a lot we haven't talked about lately. You'll have to fill me in after we keep you out of jail. Who else is on the list?”
“Malcolm—he's the supervisor of my moving team. Lissa Mitchell, queen witch at school. Annette Park, one of her minions. Annette's house was burglarized the same night she gave this lame party I went to, and Lissa was there.”
“Wait—is it a coincidence this chick's name is Mitchell?”
“Not a coincidence. She's my boss's daughter. I guess I haven't told you all the facts,” I say, sounding like Lana. I lay it all out for Tasha, after which she just shakes her head.
“You should have gone to North High,” she says just as the teakettle begins to whistle.
 
After I get back home from Tasha's and have dinner with Lana, I tell her I need to do homework, but really I'm going over my list of suspects. The only motive I can give Annette is that she's afraid I'd bust her on the shoplifting charge. But it would make more sense to butter me up than to set me up. Malcolm stays on the list. Marco might think he's an okay guy, but Marco would probably see the best in anyone. So not my style.
Maybe my phone wasn't the only thing that fell out of my bag when I was at Mitchell's on Friday, acting out the lie I told Bethanie. But why would Malcolm do it? Could he dislike working with Marco and I so much that he'd set us up? Tasha said somebody must really hate me. Maybe Malcolm does, though it would be easier just to tell Paulette we suck as movers and get us fired. But he stays on my suspect list until I can find out where he was when the house was burglarized. I'm pretty sure Smythe hates me, and she must have some kind of shady background for her to owe Lana a favor, but she wasn't driving that van and she didn't leave my wallet in that house.
You need three things to make a good suspect: a reason to commit the crime, a way to do it, and the opportunity to get it done. Right now, no one on my list has all three ingredients. Only one person in this mess has all the ingredients, and that would be broke, lost-wallet, stolen-goods-knowing, alibi-challenged me. Basically, I'm screwed.
Chapter 27
O
kay, so there's one other person as screwed as I am right now, and I wish I'd had the nerve to call him yesterday when I got out on bail, but I figured it was harder to hate someone in person than it is over the phone, so I decided to wait and see him at school. Really he has nothing to hate me for—I mean, I didn't do anything wrong other than want desperately to be his girlfriend, which made me such an easy target to punk. But then so was he. He showed up at the park because he was just as desperate to have me. And really, is love a crime?
That's what I'm thinking as I walk up the tree-lined drive to Langdon, because there's no way I could face these kids if I didn't know this was my chance to see Marco and make sure we were okay. We have to be okay because it's us against them and because, well, I'm mad about him. But as soon as I get to the circular driveway in front of the quad, I see Smythe standing there with Marco, and neither of them look happy too see me.
“No need to hurry, Miss Evans. As I was just explaining to Mr. Ruiz, you will not be attending classes today. You're both suspended until you're no longer under suspicion by the police.”
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I ask. The last thing on earth I want to do is walk into Langdon Prep, but that's where all the clues are.
“We aren't locking you up.”
“But you're locking us out,” Marco says. “We worked hard to get our scholarships. If we miss classes, we'll jeopardize our grades. And I'm supposed to start in the next game.”
“While I appreciate your concern for your studies, I would think you'd have more on your mind at the moment. We'll arrange for you to keep pace in class. Your teachers will e-mail your assignments to you. Your parents can bring in your completed work. It's the same process we use for students with long-term illness. And the game is the least of your worries.”
“We didn't do this, Mrs. Smythe, and I'm going to prove it,” I say.
“I wish you luck. But given the circumstances—the thefts that have occurred on campus—the board thought it best that we wait until the police have completed their investigations.”
Mildred is coming toward us, looking sad and holding a cardboard box.
“Here's Mildred with your things,” Smythe says. “I had her clear out your lockers.”
“You didn't even trust us to be inside Langdon long enough to clean out our own lockers?” Marco asks.
“The board made a decision . . .”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Smythe,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“It must be a great day for you, finally getting rid of the scholarship kids you never wanted here in the first place. Two out of three of us, anyway.”
“That is not true.”
“Neither are the charges against Marco and me.”
She stares at me for a second like she might be human, like she might actually want to know the truth and maybe give me the benefit of the doubt. But she quickly reverts back to Headmistress from Hell, turns around, and heads for Main Hall. Marco and I have been dismissed.
“I'm sorry this happened to you kids,” Mildred says, handing over the box to Marco. “It's the same thing that happened to my Reginald. I guess you couldn't help him or yourselves, Chanti.”
“I'm not done yet.”
“Who's Reginald?” Marco asks.
“Mildred, is this the sign Smythe claims she caught your son defacing?” I ask, pointing to the marble
LANGDON PREPARATORY SCHOOL
sign inside the grassy circle.
“That's the one. Well, that's the replacement. They had to get a new one carved—part of which Smythe docked from my pay. I'm still paying for it. The art teacher said she saw Reginald in the art room just before Smythe claimed she caught him out here. Some spray-paint cans turned up missing. Reginald told Smythe he was just in that room looking for his sketchbook, but she wouldn't hear it.”
“So how did she make the leap from missing spray-paint cans to Reginald being guilty?”
“Said she caught him red-handed with that paint spraying up the sign, even though it was getting dark and the real culprit ran off when she walked up on him.”
“They put the replacement sign in the same spot?”
“Yes, why?”
“Did anyone look at the surveillance tape? That camera is angled right at the sign.”
“Smythe did.”
“Did you?”
“I tried to, but she claimed it was part of police evidence.”
That sounds like BS to me. I can't imagine Smythe called the police for such a small-time offense. It wouldn't be worth sullying the Langdon name with any negative publicity. Too many kids of Denver's glitterati attend Langdon and she'd never jeopardize those fat tuition and endowment checks.
“What did the kid spray on the sign, anyway?” Marco asks. “Was it about Smythe?”
“How she's a word that rhymes with witch. In big red letters.”
“No wonder she's so mad,” I say, though I can't really blame the perp. “Mildred, did you ever hire that lawyer?”
“Just did. I meet with her today.”
“First thing you ask her to do is subpoena that tape from the surveillance company. They'll have the master. I don't think the tapes went into state's evidence.”
“You think she lied about Reginald?”
“No, but it was dark and I think she
wanted
to see Reginald, so she did. It's amazing what witnesses think they see.”
She gives me a big hug and hurries off to call her lawyer.
“Talked to a lot of witnesses, have you?” Marco asks, looking at me like he might be onto me. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.
“Uh, no. That always happens on
Perry Mason
. The classic cable channel plays the reruns.”
“So you and Perry Mason save Mildred's kid, but what about us?”
“I guess we have a free day,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“This is no joke, Chanti. Remember when I got upset with you the other day? My cousin is the reason I jumped off like that.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yeah, David. His parents brought him here from Mexico when he was a baby. They were here illegally and got deported last week, but they brought him to stay with us before the feds came. He's fifteen and this is all he knows—the States.”
“After all these years they got deported?”
“I don't know—the whole illegal-immigrant thing is getting intense. They had jobs, paid taxes, weren't living off anyone, but they're cracking down I guess. But David shouldn't have to leave everything he knows because of a decision his parents made fifteen years ago.”
“Won't he miss his parents?” I say, realizing I sound a lot like a suspicious detective with all the questions, and I don't want to go there again.
“My aunt and uncle just want him to finish high school. It's only three more years.”
I don't ask any more questions, just try to imagine what it would feel like if I was told today that I must move to, I don't know . . . Bangladesh, and never return.
“We're going to figure out a way to make him legal, but in the meantime I don't want the police looking too closely at my family. I don't want him kicked out because of my problems with the cops.”
“I'm sorry,” I say, touched that he would trust me with his cousin's secret. “This must be so scary for your family. But we're going to get out of it. We were set up. I just have to figure out who it was, and then prove it before the cops start digging into your family. Like in the next day or two.”
“You know something the cops don't?”
“I know a lot the cops don't. That's why I really need to get inside Langdon. That's where the answers are.”
“Is Perry Mason helping you figure this out, too?”
“Something like that,” I say, distracted by the sight of Bethanie's car, convertible top down, driving past Langdon Prep on her way to her secret parking spot. I take off down the drive, planning to intercept her before she can walk to the school entrance.
She's still checking out her hair and reapplying her lip gloss when I reach her car. You'd have thought I was about to jack her BMW given the look on her face. It's amazing how quickly your so-called friends can turn on you.
“What are you doing here? I heard you were suspended.”
“How'd you hear that? I just found out myself,” I say as I make myself comfortable in the passenger seat.
“I just heard, that's all.”
“From Lissa right? Because she's all up under Smythe and Smythe can't keep her mouth shut,” I say, wondering how much other information Lissa has about me thanks to Smythe. Somehow she found out about my arrest, even though Lana says the record was expunged. That must be how Lissa was able to tell all my business at Annette's party, and to all of Langdon the next day.
“Look, Chanti. I know you didn't do this, but I also know I'm not trying to mess up my thing here, right? Sorry, but bad news follows you, girl.”
“Does that bad news include you?”
“What?”
“Did you set me up, Bethanie? Why did you take me to Annette's house when you knew it was the last place on earth I'd ever want to be?”
“Okay, so I should have told you where we were going, but I didn't set you up. I was surprised to find out it wasn't really a party. Remember? I was expecting to meet some guys and get to know all the power people at Langdon.”
True, and I don't think she was faking that.
“You said you got a last-minute invite from Lissa,” I say. “How last-minute?”
“Right before you walked up to me at my locker that morning. She'd just invited me, and suggested I bring you and Marco. Which is why I was kind of surprised when we got there and she said she'd planned a girls' night out.”
So maybe Lissa was planning to set up both Marco and me that night, and when he didn't show, she went to plan B.
“I can't believe you would think I'd ambush you.”
“Well, you wanted in with Lissa and Langdon so much, I wasn't sure how far you'd go.”
“I'd never go that far. Look, I have to go,” she says, looking at the clock on her dash. I guess getting to class on time is more important than helping me beat a false arrest charge. “I can't get caught up in your drama, Chanti.”
“I'm not asking you to. All I want to know is what happened that night at Annette's. Can you give me that? No one from Langdon has to know you told me anything.”
“You already know what happened. Someone broke in and took all her stuff.”
“Not all of it. What did they take? And was there really a break-in?”
“What does it matter? Stuff was taken.”
“Please, just replay it for me.”
“Okay, the two-minute version and then I'm going to class,”
“That's all I'm asking.”
“All right already,” she says, adding a final touch to her lip gloss before snapping the visor mirror closed. “We got back to the house a couple of hours later. . . .”
“It took that long to get something to eat?”
“First Lissa wanted burgers, then she wanted to go to Dairy Queen for a sundae. After that, she made me stop at Safeway to get some snacks to take back to the house.”
“You wouldn't think someone as skinny as Lissa would have such an appetite.”
“She could be a model, right?” Bethanie says, still enraptured with Lissa. “So when we get back, the front door was open a few inches.”
“No broken glass, no busted doorjambs?”
I'm thinking whoever did it almost wanted to show that there were no signs of forced entry. I mean, could they have not taken two seconds to make sure the door was closed?
“No, the door was just open. We didn't think much of it because we figured in the excitement of you storming out and us following you, whoever was last out the door didn't close it all the way.”
“Do you remember who that was?”
“I know it wasn't me because I felt bad for you and I was the first one out. I was gonna try and stop you.”
I want to ask her why she doesn't feel bad for me now, but I only have about ninety seconds left.
“So it could have been any of the other four?”
“Man, you sound like Five-O. I know it couldn't have been Annette, because she came out behind me jangling that ridiculous keychain she has, you know the one with about fifty charms that make all that noise. Drives me crazy.”
BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
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