And Everything Nice (5 page)

Someone laughed nervously, and Freckles turned around and gave us an evil stare to go with Richard's. Screw them all. On the edge of my music sheet, I wrote:
We'll talk about this later
. I showed it to Anna. She bit her lip and nodded.

Just before practice ended, Anna rushed up to the front of the church and made an announcement. She described the notebook, said she'd lost it and asked anyone who found it to please, please let her know. Behind me, Kristi muttered to Carmen, “All this fuss for a notebook. What a drama queen.”

After we'd all joined hands and sung the circle song, Anna and I left the church together and stood outside on the sidewalk. “Let's mentally retrace your steps,” I said. “As best as you can remember.”

She'd made her phone call, come back to our pew and sat down. She took out the notebook and made a note of a tricky passage in a song that she wanted to review later at home. Then she put the notebook away in her bag, which was on the floor at her feet. For five minutes or so, she walked around and talked to some tenors. Freckles, whose real name was Pauline, was the section leader. When she'd said that the first sectional practice would be held on Saturday afternoon, Anna had looked in her bag for her journal to write down the date. Only the journal wasn't there.

I said, “There's a sectional practice this Saturday?”

“At one o'clock. Pauline said she'd email everybody the details. But what am I going to do? I want my journal back. I need it.”

“Because your notes are important to you. I understand. Your ideas for your new show must be, like, trade secrets.”

She shook her head. “That's not the only reason.”

“You're upset because those notebooks are expensive?”

“No. Though they are costly. No, the problem is that I've written some personal things in the journal, private things.”

Oh. “You don't have to answer this, but what kind of private things?”

She hesitated. “Things I wouldn't want anyone to read. It's hard to explain.”

“I'm sorry. I don't want to pry.”

“You're not prying. You're being a good friend. I'm going back in to look again. Maybe it got kicked under another pew. Or tucked in with the hymn books on a shelf.”

I offered to go in with her and help her search. She said no. She'd taken up enough of my time. I should go home. She'd email me if she found it.

“Thanks for listening,” she said. “I know I'm making too big a deal out of this. And after I told you I was low-profile compared to the other choir people! Forgive me.”

I said there was nothing to forgive, and goodnight, and I let her be.

And for all the tv crime shows I'd watched in my time, I'm sorry to say that thoughts of blackmail didn't even cross my mind. They crossed hers though.

CHAPTER TEN

A
nna emailed me later that night. She said:

Hi Steph:

I searched all over the church and didn't find the notebook
:(

As promised, I've attached the on-camera checklist.

Good luck with the filming.

Anna

I printed off her checklist, read it over and spent an hour rehearsing my script in front of the mirror. I laid out my clothes for the next morning, and at eleven o'clock, before Joanne even got home from her post-practice drinks, I went to bed. I wanted to look rested when I woke up.

To be honest, in the time between practice and going to sleep, I didn't think much about Anna's journal. If someone in the choir had found it, they would have told her by now. And if a random stranger found it, they'd probably throw it away. So what if her notes went into the garbage? How important could things like the word
spicier
written on a page be?

The next day, Joanne and I were up and getting ready for work at the same time.

“You look beautiful,” she said when I came out of my room, hair and makeup done. “Like a TV star.”

“Mo-om,” I said and rolled my eyes.

“My bad. I forgot I'm not supposed to act proud of you. Ever. Do you want a lift to the mall? I have enough time to make the detour on the way to school.”

In the car, I asked how the pub night had gone.

“It was fun. About fifteen people from the choir came, men and women both. A group of them go out for drinks after every practice.”

“Did you meet any cute guys?”

She shot me an Are-you-kidding? look. “No. But the conversation was lively. The first topic of the night was your friend Anna Rai. That was weird, wasn't it? That tearful announcement she made about the missing notebook?”

“Yeah. I talked to her about it a bit afterward. It was her private journal that was lost. She doesn't want anyone reading it.”

She chuckled. “Wendy was making Nancy Drew jokes. She kept referring to it as
The Mystery of the Missing Notebook
.”

I didn't say anything.

She said, “Nancy Drew? The teenage detective?”

“Wasn't that a movie a few years ago?”

“I was talking about the Nancy Drew books. As you know. Anyway, a man at the table who's a psychologist said the oddest thing about the incident was that Anna looked guilty when she stood up in front of the choir. As if she'd done something wrong.”

“Yeah? What does he know?”

“Probably nothing. I'm just telling you what I heard. They sure like to gossip, that crew.”

“God, the choir really
is
like high school.”

Joanne took that as a cue to start singing “High School Musical,” one tune that was
not
on the choir's playlist. And that was the end of that conversation.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

N
athan was sitting on a bench in front of the Gap store, pretending to be asleep, when I came down the hall. The only other people in sight were elderly mall walkers. I handed him a large coffee and the shot list I'd prepared. “Read this while you drink your coffee.”

He peered at the list with one eye open. “You made a shot list?”

“Yup.” I unlocked the main door, turned off the alarm and let Nathan in. When I'd turned on the lights, I said, “I'll hang up my jacket. Then I'll be ready to go. How do I look?”

“You look gorgeous, gorgeous.” He pulled out a small video camera and a folded-up tripod from the bag he carried. “I'll get set up.”

My shot list was basic: shot #1 was of my head and shoulders while I introduced myself. Shot #2 was of me demonstrating how to fold T-shirts—yes, there is a proper way. And in shot #3 I gave a tour of the women's section of the store. Pretty simple. Though it took us over an hour to shoot those three things from different angles. To end up with twenty-five minutes of video that Nathan would edit down to five.

None of the staff would show up until 9:50 am, but I made sure Nathan was packed and ready to go by 9:35. The less anyone at work knew about any aspirations I might have, the better.

On his way out, Nathan stopped on the men's side of the store, picked up a sweater from the top of a pile and stroked it. “I like this,” he said.

“I'll remember that on your birthday. Now go. And thanks for being my cameraman.”

He looked at the ceiling. “What's to stop me from slipping out with this under my arm? Have you got video security in here?”

“We sure do. And I have to check your bag before you go.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I'm not. It's procedure. So put down the sweater, show me there's nothing in your bag except the camera and tripod, and say goodbye.”

“My babe, the responsible boss. I love it.” He put down the sweater and opened his bag wide for me. “Do I get an all-clear?”

“Yes. Thanks again. I'll see you tonight.”

I locked the door after him, went into the back room and turned on my phone. I had three messages. One was a text from Joanne:

How'd the shoot go? Bet you were swell! Love you.

The second was from one of the sales associates, asking what time her shift started. I texted her back and checked the third message. It was an email, from Anna. It said:

Steph:

Are you working today? Can we meet briefly to talk? Wherever you like. Please let me know. It's important.

Anna

What the hell? I sent a reply, saying I was at the store and couldn't take a real break till two, when the assistant manager came in. Her message came back right away. She'd meet me outside the store at two fifteen. She'd be wearing a scarf and sunglasses.

A scarf and sunglasses, for god's sake. A getup right out of Nancy Drew.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
nna spilled the beans as soon as we sat down on a bench outside the mall, far from the foot traffic. “I'm sorry to burden you with my problems, but I don't know who else to tell, who else I can trust.”

What made her think she could trust me? I mean, she could. But how did she know that, after meeting me only a month before? I said, “Don't be sorry. What happened?”

“Swear you won't breathe a word of this to anyone.”

I felt stupid, but I said, “I swear.”

“Someone got in touch about the journal. He wants ten thousand dollars for it, or he'll send it to
The Star
.”

“Who got in touch? How, and when?”

She pulled her scarf—a fancy silk one— down lower on her forehead, which made her look like she was in disguise. Or was a nutjob. And she told me the latest developments in what I couldn't help thinking of as
The Mystery of the Missing Notebook
.

She'd received an email that morning from someone called [email protected]. She showed it to me on her phone. It said:

I have your notebook. It will cost you $10,000 to get it back. Considering the incriminating shit you wrote in the book, $10,000 is a bargain and you know it. If you want it back, tell NO ONE about this message and bring an envelope containing the cash to the sectional this Saturday. I'll give you instructions later on how to make the drop. If you don't answer this email by tomorrow, and don't pay up, I'll send the notebook to The Star. You know what that would mean. Goodbye to two careers: yours and a certain someone else's.

There was no signature.

I said, “Are you sure this is for real? Could it be someone's idea of a prank?”

“No. He knows what I wrote—things that could get me into trouble.”

“And can you tell me what those things are yet, or not?”

Her eyes got wet. “No.”

“Okay then,” I said. “Why are you referring to the blackmailer as ‘he,' by the way? What makes you think a guy sent this?”

She looked thoughtful. That is, the small part of her face that wasn't covered by the scarf and sunglasses looked thoughtful. “I just assumed,” she said. “But it could be a woman.”

I could already think of two female tenors who weren't Anna's biggest fans. Could their resentment of her success and status have led them to blackmail?

“Did you check the choir email list for this email address?”

“Yes. It wasn't there.”

I said, “So the blackmailer isn't a total idiot.”

She covered her face with her hands and mumbled through them. “I don't know what to do. I'm such a mess. I don't even know what I'm doing here, talking to you about this when he—or she—said to tell no one. Someone could be watching us right now!”

Jesus. No one was watching us. “Why
are
you telling me?”

“Because you were sympathetic about it last night. Unlike those two bitches who sit behind us. Do they think I don't see them making fun of me whenever I open my mouth?”

She was dead serious, but I laughed. “Kristi and Carmen
are
bitchy.”

“I'm telling you because I can't tell anyone I work with, or any of my friends who have media jobs. And you seem street-smart. I thought you might know what to do.”

Is that what I was? Book-dumb and street-smart? I could run with that, try it on for size.

“Let's review what we know and don't know,” I said.

The blackmailer was a tenor in the choir, male or female. Anna had no idea who it could be. And clearly the perp wanted to keep it that way.

“Maybe we could trace where the email was sent from?” she said. “I could ask one of the it guys at work to look into it, make up a fake reason why.”

“I wouldn't bother. The it guy might get suspicious. And the blackmailer probably created and accesses the email account on a public computer. At a library or an internet café. Somewhere that doesn't track its users.”

We knew that the blackmailer had been at the last practice and would attend the sectional one. And that he or she had read the journal and recognized that its contents could wreck Anna's career if they were made public.