He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to me,
"My client says, you help him find Lee Sheppard and then he'll talk."

"No," I said. "First he has to release the hostage. In the meantime, he can talk to himself if he wants to talk."

---

 
12. Time To Find Out
 

Even though Mr. Fisby said he'd talk to Lee Sheppard about the way she treated Jordan and me, I was pretty nervous. Each time the door of the tea shop opened and the little bell jingled, I glanced up nervously.

Jordan told me that she felt the same way, although you'd never know it from looking at her.

Mr. Fisby made himself busy out front. He wanted to be there when Lee walked in. He wanted to be sure he talked to her before she talked to either of us girls. As luck would have it, the moment Mr. Fisby went into the back room, the door opened, the little bell jingled, and Lee Sheppard stepped in as if she owned the place.

She was wearing a light gray tailleur, which was a lot dressier and more professional than she usually dressed. Her shoes were a no-nonsense pair of dark gray pumps, whose heels clicked loudly on the stone floor of the shop. She carried a black leather briefcase that closed with a zip at the top. She was also wearing more makeup than usual. When I took in her whole look, apart from the alarm I felt, my first thought was, I wonder who she's skinning today?

Jordan and I happened to be standing at opposite ends of the shop: she was in a corner by the front window; I was next to the tea counter in back. We looked at each other across the tables, mutely asking What do we do now?

Lee sat in her usual table, near the wall, apart from the few other patrons. She didn't look up. She didn't look at us. She busied herself with something on her table. She expected service; she expected one of us, probably Jordan, to pop over right away.

Neither of us wanted to move. It was almost as if we could remain invisible if we stood stock still.

After a few prolonged seconds, Lee gave a sniff that was heard through the whole place, and I decided I had to move. Whatever she was going to say to me wouldn't kill me, after all. I just had to be careful to not lose my temper or say something stupid. Above all, I had to be careful not to apologize. I was just going to ask for her order and ignore anything else she happened to say.

Jordan had the same idea (it turned out). The two of us put a foot forward at the same moment.

We both paused, and before we could take another step, Mr. Fisby came out like a shot from the back room. He moved swiftly to Lee's table and sat down without asking. Lee looked up in surprise, and as she parted her lips to speak, he leaned forward, and looking her straight in the eyes began talking very intensely and seriously. Her eyes widened in surprise. Jordan and I moved behind the counter and pretended to straighten things, wiping counters that were already clean, dusting containers that weren't dusty, and both of us nervous as could be.

"Go, Dad!" Jordan muttered under her breath, and the two of us shared a quick smile.

Their conversation didn't last very long. I didn't want to look, but Jordan did. I saw her eyes trail Lee as she walked from the table to the door. The door opened, the bell jingled, and the door shut with a bang!

"You should have seen her face!" Jordan crowed gleefully. "Dad must have really told her, because she was angry! I wouldn't be surprised if she never comes back again!"

"Here's hoping," I replied.
 

---

 

When I got home from work, Mom was peeling a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. "Uh-oh," I said. "That's not dinner, is it?"

She laughed. "No. These are only for me. Somehow I can't get enough boiled eggs. I asked your father to buy more eggs on the way home."

It's the twins, I thought.

"It's the twins," Mom said, as if reading my mind. "My babies want eggs."

"Mom!" I protested. "Gross!"

She was in a good mood; she laughed. Then, as she picked up an egg to take a bite, she suddenly stopped. "Oh, Marcie!" she told me, "Maisie called you. Five times! The last time I let it go to the answering machine."

I walked over to the table in the entry way and hit PLAY. After some beeps and noises, I heard Maisie's voice: "Marce! Call me! Call me call me call me call me call me! Hey, and when you get a chance, call me!"

"I guess she wants me to call her," I said, laughing.

"She sounds pretty excited," Mom observed. "She must have some kind of news. Maybe her father is finally going to wise up and let her come back here."

I doubt it, I thought.

Mom added, "And wasn't there talk of you going out to see her?"

"I dunno," I told her, looking down. I didn't want to talk about it.

Mom bit into a hard-boiled egg and moaned with pleasure. "I can't believe how good these taste!" I rolled my eyes and trudged upstairs to my room.

"Don't drop your backpack—" she called after me, just as I was letting go of it. Boom!

"Sorry!" I called. "Next time!"

I threw myself on my bed and pulled up Maisie's number on the phone.

"Hey, Maze," I said. "What's up?"

"Hey yourself," Maisie said. "Guess what? Guess what? You'll never guess!"

"I don't know," I said, searching for an answer. "You dyed your hair?"

"No!" she said. Then, after a pause: "Do you think I should to dye my hair?"

"No," I said. "Don't! You said to guess, but I have no idea!"

"You'll never guess!" she repeated, laughing.

"I'm sure I won't!" I replied.

"Try," she demanded.

"Okay," I said. "Your father changed his mind."

She stopped laughing. "No. Sorry."

"It's okay," I told her. "Just tell me, Maze."

"Alright. This is rich! You know that woman... Lee Sheppard... the Ponzi lady?"

"Yeah. I saw her today."

Maisie chortled. "It turns out that she is the one who ripped my father off!" Maisie burst into laughter, laughing so hard I had to hold the phone away from my head.

I groaned, disgusted.

"Isn't it funny?" Maisie asked.

"No, not really," I replied. "I hate that woman. She's an awful, spiteful person! She's really vile. And mean."

"She sounds just like my father," Maisie retorted. "But guess what?"

"No, Maze, just tell me."

"Okay. He wants to know where she is."

"Your father wants to know where Lee Sheppard is?"

"Yes, he told me to ask you."

"I wouldn't give him the time of day," I retorted, hotly. "I'm not telling him anything!"

"Good!" Maisie said.

"Do you mind?" I asked her.

"Hell, no!" she laughed. "I'm glad. Serves him right! I'm glad that woman ripped him off. He deserved it!"

"Did you tell him about the tea shop and Mr. Fisby?"

"No."

"Well, don't."

"Okay. I've zipped my lips. But I kind of thought you'd want to tell."

"Why?"

"Because my father would have her arrested, and Old Mr. Fishface would be saved."

"Fisby," I corrected. "And he doesn't want to be saved. And he isn't old."

"Hmmph. Oh, well. His loss," she said. "Literally."

"Don't tell your father anything that could help him," I told her. "Don't mention the tea shop or my job, or Jordan, or Mr. Fisby, or anything."

"I won't." I could almost hear her shrug at her end of the line. "It's not like I ever talk to him, or he ever listens. He only wants me here because it pisses off my Mom. Anyway, I don't blame you. And honestly, I couldn't care less. Except that your not telling is going to piss him off royally, which is great. He's dying to find that lady. He wants to string her up."

"Literally?" I asked.

"No," she said, laughing. "He just wants his money back."
 

---

 

A couple of days later as I was leaving school, Miss Overmore stopped me in the hall. I'm not sure what it was about. Maybe she just wanted to chat. She asked about my mother, how she was handling the pregnancy. She asked about my nose. She asked about Miss BYHS. She asked about the friendship between Mallory and Susan. Last of all, she asked about Blair. By the time she got that far, the hall was empty. Everyone had gone, except the basketball team. We weren't far from the gym, so I could hear the balls bouncing, the sneakers squeaking, the shouts and hustle.

Miss Overmore was speaking quietly now, and I got the idea that this was the point of the chat. I did feel like I was being pumped for information... but in a nice way. I didn't like it much, but then again, something was going on with Blair. Clearly Miss Overmore felt it and wanted to get a handle on it.

Then she looked at her watch and said she had to hurry off. I did too, so I shouldered my backpack and trudged to the front door.

As I was about to push it open, I saw the man. He was across the street, wearing dark glasses, leaning against a car as if he was waiting for someone.

He was tall and a little overweight. His brown hair needed a haircut, but his khakis and polo shirt were clean and pressed.

But why was he there? He was outside school yesterday, too. And come to think of it, I'd seen him outside a store this morning, while I was walking to school.

Was he following me?

He couldn't be waiting for anyone else. There wasn't anyone else to wait for. The basketball team was nowhere near the end of practice. There was only me.

I thought for a moment, and said out loud, "Time to find out!"

I pushed open the doors and took a left, walking fast as if I was late. I pretended not to see him. From the corner of my eye I saw him straighten up when I came out. I took a left at the corner, and in the reflection in a window opposite, I could see he was coming my way.

I didn't speed up, but I didn't want him to catch me yet. I went straight for four blocks. This wasn't my usual way home. In fact, it was the wrong way, but I needed to get to the Hill.

Every time I passed a car that had a decent reflection, I checked that he was still there. The man stayed on my tail, but two blocks back. If I wasn't watching, if I wasn't suspicious, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about him.

At last I reached the street I was aiming for: Valley Street. The moment I turned the corner and was out of sight, I took off running. Valley Street runs across the foot of the Hill, and the Hill is where the rich people live. The higher you go, the bigger the houses get, and the larger and lusher the lawns. Right here, on this bit of Valley, a stone staircase cuts through a wall five-feet high, and runs up between rows of greenery all the way to the top of the Hill. There are landings and benches every so often, and once a year there's a Heartbreak Race to the top. But today I wasn't going that far.

After a dozen steps, I found a break in the wall of bushes, and there I pushed through to the grass behind, ignoring the scratches and the leaves and twigs in my hair.

Once free of the bushes, I walked back down toward Valley Street.

My timing was excellent. The man was standing almost right in front of me, his head turning in every direction except toward me.

I cleared my throat and he jumped. "Looking for me?" I asked, and showed him my cell phone. As I hit the buttons, I told him, "I'm dialing 9-1-1, but before I press SEND I'll give you one chance to explain yourself."

I was nervous, but I felt pretty safe. He couldn't reach me, up where I was, and if he tried, all I had to do was take a step back. If he tried to climb the wall, I could walk up the hill. If he came up the stairs, he'd wouldn't get through the bushes, and in the meantime I could climb down to the sidewalk and run away.

No matter what, I could do any of those things and call 911 at the same time.

"Don't do that!" he said. "Don't make that call! Please, just wait a moment! I only want to talk to you."

"If you want to talk to me, why didn't you come to my house and ring the doorbell? Why didn't you use the phone?"

"Look," he said, "I'm not a weirdo. My name is Clark Riswold. I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for Lee Sheppard."

"Clark Riswold?" I repeated. "That sounds like a made-up name."

He shrugged. "What can I do? I didn't pick it. Look, here's my business card." He opened his jacket with one hand, showing me his shirt pocket. With his other hand he pulled out a card, and with exaggerated slowness he approached the wall and set the card under a tiny rock. Then he took two giant steps backward.

"All I want to do is find Lee Sheppard," he repeated.

"And do you think I'm her?" I asked.

"No, of course not. But according to my information, you know where she is."

"That's not true," I said.

"But you know who I'm talking about."

I didn't want to waste time playing around, so I said, "I know who you're talking about, and I could probably help you find her, but I won't."

"This woman is a criminal, do you realize that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why would a nice girl like you want to help a wanted criminal?"

I made a face when he said nice girl. I told him, "I don't want to help a criminal. That's why I'm not going to help you."

"I'm not a criminal," he retorted.

"No, but your client is."

"I didn't say who my client is," he replied, "but in any case, he's not a criminal."

"He's a kidnapper," I said.

He looked at me in silence for a few moments, perplexed, then gestured to his business card. "Look: You can call your friend, the police detective," he said. "Theresa Dandino knows who I am."

I frowned. I wasn't about to ask how he knew that I knew Theresa. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I shook my head. "It won't do you any good. No matter what she says, I won't help your client."

"I never said who my client is," he repeated.

"It's Maisie's father," I said. "It's Mr. Beale."

When he didn't answer, I added, "Your client is a kidnapper. You tell him I said so. You tell your client that I'll help you find Lee Sheppard, but before I do, he has to release the hostage."

The man frowned. "Hostage?" he asked.

"He'll know what I mean."

"Hold on a minute," he told me. "I'm going to ask him now. Don't go away."

He pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed dial, and began talking in a low voice. Then, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to me, "My client says, you help him find Lee Sheppard and then he'll talk."

"No," I said. "First he has to release the hostage. In the meantime, he can talk to himself if he wants to talk."

Clark's eyebrows bounced at that, but he repeated it word for word into the phone. Then he jerked it away from his ear. As far away as I was, even I could hear Mr. Beale's shouting.

Then, after a final shout, Maisie's father hung up. Clark Riswold looked at me.

"Stop following me," I said. "Leave me alone, or I'll make sure you never find her."

He scratched his ear.

"Besides," I told him, "No offense, but you're not very good at it."

"No offense?" he scoffed. "Listen, it's easier tailing adults. Kids are tricky. But who cares? Forget about that. Call Detective Dandino. She'll set you straight."

"I'll make sure I don't call her, then," I replied. "And anyway, it isn't you. It's your client I don't like. I wouldn't help him for anything on earth."

"To tell the truth, I don't like him much either," Clark told me. "Anything else you want to say? Might as well get it all off your chest."

"Yes," I said. "Get rid of those glasses. They make you look creepy."

"Mmm," he said, with a smile and a nod. "My wife says the same thing."

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way