Chapter 26
The sherry pools at Tond’s feet.
“I told you the text was bad news,” Marlowe says as she pulls herself up and climbs through the window.
“I hate news,” Tond says miserably. “It’s always bad.”
“Everybody stay calm,” I say, mostly to myself. I will not spiral. “Let’s look at the facts. What do we actually know?”
“What do we know?” Tond echoes, his voice getting shriller with each word. “This parking garage is cursed! Bad things happen to people involved
with it!”
“Who is this guy again?” Marlowe asks me.
“I’m the guy who’s next!” Tond cries.
His panic is contagious, and I can’t hold back the spiraling any longer; my mind swirls with questions about how deep the conspiracy goes.
Gas company hit men has to just be the tip of the iceberg, right?
So many people are involved in this kind of deal!
The neighborhood is clearly full of secret corruption.
It’s all around me. Anybody could be anybody, I don’t know!
Like, who is “Sheila,” really? Is she actually Roy’s mom, or is she a plant keeping an eye on me? Is she on payroll? What’s her deal?
“I dont’t deserve to die!!!!!!!” cries Tond as he drops to his knees.
And just like that, I’m not spiraling anymore.
Because— Is that what I look like? That guy on his knees sweating and checking to make sure we’re acknowledging his meltdown?
Is that how Hannah sees me? And Eva? And my mom?
Woof. Okay. That is not what I want. Personal growth moment happening in real time here.
I need to take a step back. Like, seriously. While Tond weeps into a nearby houndstooth pashmina, I ask myself again: What do I definitely know?
Cran’s death really was an accident, just not the accident it looked like. Check.
Which means Claudia was wrong—at least about it being murder. Check.
But—even though she was wrong about that, investigating Cran’s hypothetical murder meant sticking her nose into some pretty dirty business dealings. And that’s why she had to die.
The room goes topsy-turvy and I realize that if I’d managed to convince Claudia that Cran’s death was an accident, she’d be alive right now. Oh god. I should have tried harder.
And then, because my body can’t physically contain any more guilt, suddenly, I’m furious.
Claudia’s only mistake was that she got too close to a bunch of crimes that were actually happening. The crimes of greedy, corrupt people who had no respect for human life and who would throw money and favors and
murder around to get what they wanted.
Or maybe just one greedy, corrupt person. Someone who needed to hang on to his power no matter what it cost. Someone who’s been in the background this whole time. Someone she warned us about as she was dying.
“Is it possible that Claudia was telling us who killed her?” I can barely whisper the words, but they tumble out of me. “Did
Alderman Merle Carey murder her? I’ve been to his office, it didn’t look murdery.”
“Bro,” says Marlowe with a shake of her head. “I saw him light the neighborhood Christmas tree-slash-giant menorah last year.
You think you can trust a guy.”
Tond leaps up and grabs me by my shoulders. “This is what I’ve been telling you,” he cries. “I’m next! I need your help!”
He looks genuinely terrified, and, wow, I am SO out of my league here. From the very start, in fact.
Dead guy in a sinkhole, botulismed on his own pickles.
Death threat at a funeral.
Cops after me.
Neighbor murdered in cold blood.
Cutthroat political corruption.
And now this guy thinks I can save him?
Nope nope nope. I am out. Out of this mess. Out of Chicago. Out of the country? I’ve got those three years of high school
Latin, maybe I can hide out in . . . the Vatican?
“Take the dogs,” I offer. “For protection.”
Maybe a two birds situation?
But he ignores the offer and turns to Marlowe. “How about you, Nancy Drew? You’re weirdly young looking, but you obviously
have the investigative skills. Please, you gotta help me!” He lunges for her, and oh my god, absolutely the fuck not—I jump between them as the dogs leap up and flank me.
“Tond, she is not weirdly young looking, she is a child,” I say firmly.
“Oops.” He glances past me at Marlowe. “On the other hand, that’s a good cover—”
I growl and Jean growls along with me.
Tond steps back.
“I swear to god,” I say in my most terrifying voice. “This dog is always hungry, and he is not picky.”
“It’s just you two are clearly the only ones I can trust,” Tond says as he backs off and sniffles pathetically. “Come on, secret girlfriend.”
Oh. Right.
“I have a confession,” I say.
“You’re the murderer?” Tond asks, horrified.
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t Cran’s secret girlfriend. I’m a crossing guard, and he was kind of a jerk to me.”
“I knew it! Cran exclusively dates models. Usually from Slovakia.” Tond leans in and whispers, “Never lets me meet them. On
account of I’ve got too much game. Check out these abs.”
He fumbles with his clothes, and Marlowe and I quickly look away, at literally anything else, as though Cran’s decor has recently gotten very interesting.
And it turns out I actually am interested. In all the chaos, I missed the fact that the walls are, I mean, covered with ribbons and trophies and huge, blown-up glossy framed photos of the dogs at competitions. In some pictures they’re leaping
over tiny fences; in others they sit proudly next to Cran.
“Wait,” I say. “The dogs are show dogs? That’s why they can do all those tricks?”
“See?” Tond says, blessedly forgetting his abs. “You totally just detected that. You’re great at figuring stuff out.”
And you know what? I am. Because I spot mop-dog Charlie in one of the pictures, and a laugh bursts out of me as I realize
that Tasha actually meant it when she said Charlie won awards for being a good boy. And thinking of Tasha just makes me more determined to get out of this mess. I want to be the kind of person Tasha could fall for, and I don’t think that person is mixed up with cooking sherry–guzzling lunatics.
“Tond, listen,” I say. “This has gotten way out of hand. Marlowe is in seventh grade; she needs to pass math. I am a crossing guard; I help kids like Marlowe cross the street. We suck at this. We’ve already gotten an innocent person arrested. Speaking of
which, we need to go deal with that.” I nod at Marlowe, who hustles toward the exit.
“Please??” he begs, slipping past Marlowe to plaster himself against the front door. “Stop me from being next?”
“Tond,” I say, trying to wedge my arm between him and the knob. “We all need to forget about this. We need to walk away.”
“I’m in too deep! I can’t walk away!”
“And we can’t help you with that. Marlowe, get the dogs.”
“You’re the only ones who can,” he says, desperate. “And . . . and look! You’re already on the case. You just have to infiltrate
Merle’s office, see if he might be wanting to kill me, and if so, keep me alive. That’s it!” He opens his palms like the shrug
emoji.
“Is that all,” I mutter.
“That is not all. Because if you do this . . .” His eyebrows waggle at me. “I’ll let you keep the money. From Claudia’s house.”
Oh. Shit.
That stops me. Eleven point five thousand dollars.
I really need that money.
Really, really.
It would, in fact, change everything.
I wouldn’t have to worry about Sheila or how long it takes me to get rid of the dogs. I wouldn’t have to worry about making
rent. I could buy the good pepperoni. I could take Tasha to fancy restaurants.
Oh god. Am I actually going to do this?
Hang on. “Is this another bribe?” I ask suspiciously.
“No!” he says quickly. “It’s a payment. For your services. But you only get it if you keep me alive.”
“And that’s how you leverage money,” Marlowe points out.
“I can’t promise to keep you alive.” I grit my teeth. “But for 11.5K, I will try.”
“Yes!!” Tond pumps his fist. “I knew you’d cave—”
Buyer’s remorse hits immediately with the reality of what I’ve signed on for. Am I going to barf? Maybe.
“I need a sec,” I say and run back to the kitchen for a glass of water. What the hell am I doing?? Other than agreeing to
something impossible and dangerous because I’m broke. Just like I thought Benny was doing. And, again, got him wrongfully arrested for.
I search all the cabinets for a glass, but they’re all dirty and piled up in the sink. The only things to drink out of are
the empty jars on the floor, but I don’t do pickle water. I groan. Come on, is a glass of lead-infused Chicago sink water too much to ask??
And that’s when I see Cran’s okra-drenched calendar on the floor.
The pukey feeling dissipates.
Because—suddenly—I have an idea. I snatch the smelly calendar off the floor. Cran’s handwriting looks cramped and easy to
forg . . . erize. Forge? Easy to forge. Point is, maybe there’s a meeting between Cran and Merle that just so happens to appear on this calendar, the week Cran died. And since I’m already boobs-deep in the alderman’s office (thanks to Tasha),
this soon-to-be-forged calendar is the boob in the door I need to compare with Merle’s calendar and piece together his past
movements and future plans. Plus, I’ve got plenty of Rodney O’Malley videos if I need help.
Maybe this is doable.
“Mo Ellery’s on the case with a new growth mindset!” I hum a little bit of a cool theme song I’ve just made up and strike
a detective pose.
“Mo . . . you okay?” Marlowe says, and I freeze mid theme song.
She and Tond are standing in the kitchen, watching me. Tond grabs a nearly empty pickle jar and sticks his fingers in.
“Tond,” I say. “If I’m going to work this case, I need something from you. You have to tell the cops this Benny stuff was
all a big misunderstanding. That he wasn’t creeping around or murdering, he was just dropping off an envelope of real estate
info for you.”
Tond huffs. “You want me to lie? To the police? How dare you.”
I give him what I hope is a stony expression. “Would it be better if I asked you to bribe them?”
He turns pale and looks away. Nice job, my face!
“But what if the cops find out the envelope was actually full of money?” he says.
I think of my hiding place in Claudia’s basement. “They won’t. Trust me.”
“How do you know? How can you be sure?”
“You want me to poke around a murderous alderman’s office or what?”
“Okay, okay I’ll do it,” he says. He pops a pickle in his mouth and then freezes midchew. “Oh god, the botulism. Do you guys
think I have it? I want to live! Nancy Drew, call 911!”
Amateur.
“No way, you’ll sit in the ER for hours,” I say, hustling Marlowe and the dogs toward the door. “Urgent Care all the way.
Tell Jessie I sent you.”