JOSIE
The next day, Grandma is at the front door before I get to it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Boots,” Rika chirps, standing on our porch, smiling like nothing happened.
“This is Rika, Mrs. Snickett’s granddaughter,” I explain.
“I know,” Grams says.
Apparently, I’m the last one to find out all the news. And why wouldn’t Grandma tell me about Rika if she and Mrs. Snickett were talking again?
“Come on in.” Grandma motions for Rika.
“Oh, I’m just here to pick up this girl.” Rika tilts her head in my direction. “She said she wanted to get her car cleaned.”
Did I? It’s either a clever excuse or an actual thing.
When I put on my parka and walk outside, Rika tells me, “I’ll meet you at the car wash on Walnut Street,” and gets in her car.
“So I’m actually getting my car cleaned?” I shout into her back.
She turns on the engine and rolls down her window, the music blasting through her car speakers. “Detailed, Josie,” she says. “You are getting it detailed, yes. I already booked the slot for you.”
Once I drop off my car and put emphasis on the trunk that needs work, I get into Rika’s car. She doesn’t ask where to take me. I was planning to go home and maybe talk to Grandma more, then go for the late shift at the diner. But Rika takes Blossom Street, which leads north out of town.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To an Amish market.”
“Why?”
“Because I want some baked goods and spring plants. And because that’s what people do. Normal things. Every day. Shopping, cooking, not nervously waiting for their car to get detailed.”
I don’t argue. Those were probably Mrs. Snickett’s instructions.
She’s a tough cookie. Rika must take after her, because there’s no trace of worry on her face.
In fact, when I stare at her, waiting for her to bring up what happened last night, she ignores me and starts singing along with the song on the radio.
Rika grew up in Florida, yet she’s well-versed in the shoofly pies and pickled eggs she plans to buy at the market. When I point it out, she argues, “Not really. I’m learning. I’m in Pennsylvania for now, so I might as well explore the local stuff.”
“You still didn’t tell me what you are doing here.”
“Honestly, just taking a breather, getting my things straight.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
She snorts. “I’m not that sneaky, Boots. I do well with my art stuff. I needed to get away from the noise and bad company.”
“Uh-huh. So you are trouble.”
“No, just staying away from it.”
“And here we are.”
I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but Rika ignores me anyway.
We stop at an Amish greenhouse, and she picks up a couple of pies and some early-spring plants and buys us both potted succulents. I realize I left my wallet at the house. I need to pay for my car to be detailed, so before I get back to the carwash, Rika drives me back home.
Only two hours together, and I’ve learned more about her life, art, and what she did back in Florida. We were strangers just a week ago, and now we are partners in crime.
As Rika pulls up to my grandma’s house, I see Mrs. Snickett’s beat-up Toyota in the driveway and a police car next to it.
“Well, isn’t that a gathering of old birds?” Rika says, eyeing both cars with interest.
“Just go around and pull into the back alley,” I say, nervous right away.
“I think you are paranoid.”
“Are you blind, Rika? There’s a police car there.”
“So what?”
“What if they are there for me?”
“They’re not. It’s the chief.”
“So?”
“The chief has been buddies with your grandma for decades.”
“Obviously I know that.”
“Buddies with benefits.”
“Ew. Will you stop spreading rumors?”
“Those are facts.”
“Oh, yeah? Because everyone in this town is into facts.”
“No. But that one is a fact.”
“Maybe he’s giving Grams an update.”
“Yep. Stopped for tea.”
I roll my eyes. “Cut it out.”
“Chill, Boots. Go get your wallet. Maybe get an update on what those three are talking about. Unless their gathering is more intimate.”
“Seriously?” I stare at her as a Cheshire grin spreads on her face. “What’s with all these innuendos?”
“No innuendos. Just conspiracy theories.” She winks at me. “Don’t be a chicken. Go.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who found the body.”
“Boots?” she warns, her face turning serious in a second. “Shut up, yeah?”
I know, I know. We agreed not to mention it. Our phones are always listening. These days, you can’t go anywhere or say anything without it being recorded by some stupid device nearby. I’m not into conspiracies, but these days, it’s a fact.
Rika does as she’s told and veers her car into the alley behind my house. “See if you can get a scoop from the chief.”
“Yeah,” I say, getting out of the car. “I’ll call you straight from jail.”
“Oh, don’t be a drama queen, Bootsie.”
I spin back and duck inside the car. “You call me that again, and I’m gonna hurt you,” I say, only half joking.
“Got it, Boots,” she says and winks.
Gah, this girl, seriously.
She tosses her blue hair back and says, “Keep your eyes peeled, kid.” Those have to be Mrs. Snickett’s words.
I sneak through the side door into the enclosed patio. I want to get a heads-up about what’s happening in the house. There are voices coming through the glass door that leads into the kitchen. I tiptoe toward it and freeze, tilting my ear in the kitchen’s direction.
“Things don’t add up,” says the chief. “Her car was seen the day it happened. The knife at the scene is suspicious. Just the general calmness, it’s… There are signs. Everywhere. Something is not right. But we don’t have a way to prove it. I just need to put a finger on it. And it’s damn tricky.”
I think they’re talking about me. His mention of the car makes me uneasy.
Someone could’ve seen me during the hit-and-run.
Maybe someone took a video of me. Obviously, I have bad luck with videos.
This sounds like I might be a suspect in something, but I walked in on the end of the conversation, so there’s no way to figure out what exactly the chief is talking about.
Except Mrs. Snickett is there, too. She’s the one who got rid of the body. No way she would’ve told him about it.
“He’s still missing,” the chief says. “Or on the run. That’s the official police statement.”
“More coffee?” my grandma offers, her voice weak compared to his deep one.
“I’m good,” says Mrs. Snickett.
The chief clears his throat. “That’s not the main thing I wanted to talk about.” There’s a rustling of papers. A squeak of heavy boots against the tile floor. “This.”
There’s silence again, and I wish I could look through the glass to see what’s going on.
There’s the sound of papers rustling again, then Grandma’s quiet voice. “Where did you get that?”
“A match came through with a criminal record.”
“A criminal record? Really?”
“K, don’t,” says Mrs. Snickett. That’s the first time in a while I hear anyone call Grandma by her initial.
A longer silence follows.
“Did you tell her?” asks Grandma, and I’m so confused and very curious as to what I’m supposed to know. That is, out of the gazillion things she’s been keeping a secret.
“K? K?” That’s Mrs. Snickett.
“K? Are you all right?” the chief says louder.
There’s the sound of them scrambling, and I can’t hide any longer. I swing the door open and rush into the kitchen.
Mrs. Snickett is already by my grandma’s side, stroking her shoulder. The chief is rubbing his beard, his eyes worried as he catches sight of me.
Grandma’s hands cover her face, and she’s sniffling. My heart tightens—I’ve never seen Grandma cry.