Creeping with the Enemy (6 page)

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Authors: Kimberly Reid

BOOK: Creeping with the Enemy
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“What were you going to say about your father?” Cole asks, taking a page from my book and trying to coax it out of her. I hope he has more luck because I've been dying to know what her family is hiding besides the lottery money.
Bethanie looks like she wants to talk—or confess—but doesn't know how to start. Cole and I both give her room and just stay quiet, but I guess Marco doesn't know the nuances of interrogation the way I, and apparently Cole, do.
“I'm lucky my pops and I get along well. Not all the time, but we're pretty good. I'm definitely proud to have his name. I know a lot of kids who see their parents as the bad guys but—”
“I'm surprised to hear that about Mr. Larsen,” I say, interrupting Marco. I know it was rude, but I didn't want Bethanie to hold back just when it seemed she was about to talk. It might be my last chance to get some really good information tonight. “You and your dad seem so close.”
“Wait, are you talking about some other man you
think
is my dad? Because we definitely aren't close. I wish we were like you and your father, Marco,” Bethanie says. Then she fake-laughs and touches Cole's shoulder, obviously trying to reroute the conversation. “But he'll also play the ‘no one is good enough for my daughter' routine. So you'd better be very charming when you meet him.”
The moment is lost, but not because Cole and I didn't make an effort. I still don't trust him, but I'm beginning to think he might make a good sidekick in my effort to solve Bethanie's mystery.
“Oh, I don't think Cole will have any problem winning over your parents,” I say, and turn to Marco just in time to notice a strange look on his face. The sexy smile that said
we share a secret
just a couple of minutes ago is gone. Long gone.
Maybe I
have
been too pushy with the questions. I can get a little focused when I'm on a case. Cole's interest in Bethanie's father makes me wonder if somehow he knows Mr. Larsen is Powerball rich and is using Bethanie to get to her dad's money. Now I just have to give Bethanie some real evidence because the girl is so sprung over this guy that she will never believe me. I stay quiet all through dessert, putting together clues that will give me the ammo to convince Bethanie I'm right.
Later, after Cole picks up the check and we're outside waiting for the valets to bring the cars, Marco pulls me aside. I'm sure Bethanie and Cole don't mind a bit, but I'm still keeping my eye on them.
“You were so quiet the last half of dinner, I thought maybe you were mad at me about something,” Marco says.
“What? No way. I was just thinking about some of the things Cole said—you know, trying to figure out if his evasiveness was just mysterious charm or crazy stalker. I was just a little distracted.”
“You mean like now?”
Oops. I guess he noticed I was still watching Bethanie and Cole when I should be concentrating on him. Marco is hot, it's a beautiful fall night, but I can't help myself when there's a mystery on my mind.
“Sorry, Marco. For the next three minutes until the valet brings your car, it's all about you and me.”
“If you want, we could have more than three minutes. I was thinking maybe I could drive you home, then Bethanie doesn't have to go out of her way. I live pretty close to you; it would give us a chance to hang out, talk, and you know—whatever.”
All of that was sounding really good until he said
and you know—whatever
, the part that worries me. No, I don't know
whatever
and I doubt I'll be any good at it—something I don't want Marco finding out, not after what Tasha told me.
“You know it's rude for a girl not to leave with the person she came with,” I say, adding a light laugh and hoping I sound flirty instead of frigid.
“You know, I actually believed you set this up as a way for us to see each other, but now I'm beginning to think it really was all about that dude Cole.”
“It was about checking out Cole
and
spending time with you. But letting Bethanie drive me home is a chance to learn more about what both of them are hiding. We girls love to rehash a double date.”
“Right. Whatever. My car is here,” Marco says when the valet pulls up in his old Grand Prix. He leaves me standing there without even saying good-bye.
Chapter 6
T
he next morning, my mind is still on the wrong boy. When I should be worrying about whether I was a little neglectful of Marco, I can't stop thinking about Cole. No, not
that
way. Everything about him has my BS detector going crazy. Yeah, he's cute and all man-of-the world (which isn't so hard to pull off when you're charming girls five years younger who are used to high school boys), but I can look past all of that to see that he's a liar. How perfect he and Bethanie will be together—two people who wouldn't tell the truth about themselves if someone paid them. Well, no one needs to pay me. I'm going to figure it out for free
.
This morning, Lana caught me heading out of the house at the crack of way too early when she arrived home from a stakeout that went longer than planned. All she wanted was her bed and didn't question my story about going to Bethanie's house to work on a school project, or why I had to start so early. It's true that I'm going to Bethanie's house. I've been up since four o'clock thinking about Cole and the game he's running, so I figured I'd take the first bus over to her place to see what I can find out.
Just before I reach the bus stop on Center, I'm surprised to run into MJ coming out of the bodega. I didn't even know it was open this early. She looks just as surprised to see me.
“What are you doing out this early on a Sunday?” she asks.
“Catching the bus to a friend's house. Gotta work on a school project.”
“Y'all must be real dedicated to homework to start this early.”
“It's a really complex project,” I say, reading the sign on the door behind her. “The bodega doesn't open until seven. It's six thirty.”
“And?”
“And I just saw you come out of there.”
“I know the owner. Big Mama sent me for milk,” she says, rubbing her hands together. It's a cold morning and she obviously didn't plan on being out very long since she's only wearing a fleece hoodie. No coat, gloves, or scarf—all required gear most Colorado mornings in mid-October.
“How do you know the owner?” I ask, not believing MJ even if I do trust her with my life.
“Dang, Chanti, always trying to get the 4-1-1. I
just
do, okay?” MJ says in a tone that says
back the hell off.
But of course, I don't. “Where's the milk?”
“Look, Chanti, just 'cause I saved your butt and agreed to keep your mother's secret don't mean I'll let you question me like you some kind of five-o.”
“I'm not trying to get in your business,” I say, which is a complete lie, but I don't need MJ on my bad side and I'm actually hoping we can be friends again. “I'm just wondering about the owner because I was here when the bodega was held up last week.”
“How you know about that?”
“I just said I was here when it happened. But you can't tell anyone. My mother would kill me if she found out.”
MJ looks at me like she isn't sure she should believe me, and says, “Nobody knows about that holdup.”
“Apparently you do. And as I said:
I. Was. Here
.”
I'm hoping that saying it slowly and with emphasis will make it sink in. I start walking toward the bus stop knowing MJ will follow since she doesn't think I should have information on the robbery. As much as I need to hear what she knows, I can't miss this bus. On Sundays, they don't run very often.
“MJ, you weren't involved, were you?”
“Hell no, I wasn't involved. I can't believe you would even ask me that. You know I'm straight now, getting my GED and all. I can't say how I know about it, I just do.”
I figure it's no use pressing MJ for more, not now anyway. But if she knows something, I might be able to get it out of her by telling her what had me up so early thinking about Cole.
“Not that I'm an expert on robberies or anything, since this was the first one I've ever been in, but the whole thing felt off to me.”
“Off like how?” MJ asks.
“How it happened in broad daylight, for one thing.”
“Robberies happen during the day all the time,” MJ says. “My ex tried to rob that bank in the middle of the day.”
She's talking about the robbery that got her a two-year stint in juvie. I don't bring up the fact we've already determined her ex wasn't the brightest gangster out there, but stay focused on the bodega robbery.
“True, but everyone in Denver Heights knows that Friday afternoon is the absolute worst time to hold up the Center Street bodega because it's always packed with people buying tamales. But that day, the Friday Freebie line wasn't going out the door even with half an hour to go until they returned to full price.”
“That don't mean anything. Maybe Tastee Treets was running a special and everyone was over there instead.”
“Maybe. But then the regular cashier, the one who has
always
been there since I started high school or something, wasn't there.”
“That's 'cause he's the owner's nephew,” MJ says.
“Huh?”
“I mean that's why the same guy was always there. It's a family-owned business and the whole family works all the time.”
“I guess maybe you do know the owner.”
“I said I did,” MJ says, sounding even more defensive than usual. Then she softens her tone and adds, “Big Mama knows the owner, okay? That's how come they let me in the store before opening.”
That's plausible. Big Mama knows everyone. The owner is about the age of her average customer—MJ's grandmother runs an illegal betting game called the Numbers. She's sort of like the Godfather of Aurora Avenue, except she's gray-haired and she would never kill anyone. I don't think.
“Whether you know him or not, you have to admit it's coincidental that he picks the very day of the robbery to take time off. So did the lady who usually helps out on Fridays. And who is this new cashier, anyway? When did they hire him—just in time for the nephew to take the day off? Then they make him start work—alone—on the busiest day of the week. It's also curious that I haven't seen him in there since.”
“First you ask if I'm involved. Now you think Eddie had something to do with it?”
“Who is Eddie?” MJ has me totally confused.
“Look,” MJ says, pointing behind me. “I see your bus coming.”
I turn around and see the bus, but it's still two blocks away, and I really want to know whether Eddie is the owner's nephew, the new cashier, or someone entirely new in this convoluted story MJ's telling. And why the nephew wasn't there that day and why the new guy was gone when the cops arrived after Ada called them. Most importantly, I want to know what MJ knows and why she's holding out on me, but by the time I turn around to ask her, she's twenty yards down the block, yelling, “Catch you later, Chanti.”
 
As if this robbery wasn't strange enough already, now I can add MJ somehow being connected to the list of oddities. Cole showing up in the middle of it looking like he got lost on his way to a polo match might actually be the least bizarre part of the weirdness. That's what I'm thinking when I ring Bethanie's doorbell. Her mother answers after a few minutes, and it's obvious I woke her. Her hair's smashed in on one side and she hasn't done her makeup yet. I have never seen Mrs. Larsen without full makeup. No matter the occasion or time of day, she looks like the victim of an overzealous cosmetics counter lady who is a frustrated makeup artist for a reason. I also have never seen Mrs. Larsen without at least one item of animal print clothing on, and this record still stands.
She is holding together her leopard print robe to keep from revealing the zebra print pajamas underneath. Animal print is great, but even fashion-challenged me knows head-to-toe is a definite don't. When I first met Bethanie, I couldn't figure out why she had so much money and wanted so desperately to fit in with the Langdon rich, but could never quite pull off that effortless style and snobbishness that the born rich must have stamped on their DNA. Until I met her parents, saw her house, and learned about their lottery fortune. Then it all made perfect sense.
“Honey, do you realize how early it is? Something better be on fire for you to get me out the bed this early on a Sunday morning.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Larsen. I thought it would be okay. Most people are up by now.”
“Most people have jobs or religion. I ain't got either one. Bethanie is asleep, but you're welcome to go up and ruin her morning, too.”
Then she left me standing in the door and went back upstairs, all that animal-printed polyester flowing behind her. If they ever made a
Real Housewives of Denver
, Mrs. Larsen would totally get the part of rich-but-tacky-diva-you-best-not-piss-off.
“Wake up, Bethanie.”
My command is met with silence. I try again and see some progress because this time she grunts.
“Look, I brought your favorite chai from the coffeehouse. I had to get off the bus two stops early for that, Bethanie.”
“What the hell are you doing here? And why are you calling me that?”
“Because it's your name,” I say, though I've always figured it was an alias. I'm hoping in her semiconscious state she'll prove me right, but I'm not that lucky.
“What are you doing here so early?” she asks, sitting up.
“I thought you might want to talk some more about dinner last night.”
That gets her attention and she pops up as though she'd never been asleep. She looks a hotter mess than her mom did. Of course, no one looks good fresh out of a deep sleep, but I've never seen her looking anything but magazine-cover ready. Even if her style is a little much, Bethanie is really pretty. She's got that whole exotic-girl look the magazines like. You know, when they want a black girl for diversity but they don't want her to be
too
much of a black girl—full lips but not
too
full, wide nose but not
too
wide
,
brown skin but not
too
brown. I'll never be on anyone's cover because I'm
too
all of that, plus some. That's fine by me because I think I'm kinda cute, which is probably far less expensive and worrisome than being beautiful.
But now Bethanie looks like a mere mortal, like the rest of us. I must not hide my shock, because she tells me not to go anywhere and heads for the attached bathroom. I thought she'd just brush her teeth and splash some water on her face, but when I hear the shower go on, I'm glad for the opportunity to snoop.
I have limits—no drawer opening, no diary reading, but anything in plain sight is fair game, which is how I learned her dad is not really a rich oilman like the Larsens play off to the rest of the world. I saw a letter from the lottery commission on their kitchen counter and called Bethanie on it. It was weird. She got mad when she realized I knew the truth about her family (or some of it), but then we actually became better friends. She didn't have to play the rich socialite around me anymore, and I learned we're more alike than not. She won't tell me anything about herself that happened before her dad picked six winning numbers, but I do know she'd fit in better on Aurora Avenue than she does in this swanky Cherry Creek neighborhood.
There isn't really much to go on. The room doesn't have that lived in, been here forever feel to it, which makes sense because I don't think Bethanie has lived here very long despite her efforts to make me think otherwise. Every now and then her accent goes all country grammar. The only personalized space in the room is a big corkboard hanging on the wall over her desk. There are photos of Bethanie and her parents, with her ranging in age from maybe six or seven to now. They must be vacation pictures because they're all shot outside and in various locales: palm trees and ocean; mountains and snow; cactus and desert. These are the only photos—no pictures of other family members or of Bethanie's friends.
For Bethanie to be so romance-crazy that she keeps reading
Romeo and Juliet
over and over, I'm surprised there isn't a single photo of a boyfriend or crush. I don't have much experience in that department, but I imagined Bethanie was something like Michelle, who is such a romantic she thinks all those men going in and out of Ada Crawford's house are boyfriends. Michelle has all kinds of boy-related stuff in her room: movie stubs from dates, photos of boys she dated or crushed on, even a couple of love notes written on actual paper. Last month, just so she could meet some Langdon guys, Bethanie tricked me into going to the party where I was set up for that crime I didn't commit. So what if she didn't know I was going to be set up. She still conned me in the name of romance, making the lack of boyfriend evidence in her room a little strange.
Also on the board are school mementos, things like sports team banners, school decals, announcements for dances and fund-raisers, spirit buttons—the usual school stuff. What's unusual is that the keepsakes are from so many different schools. It seems like a weird thing to collect—mementos from schools you didn't attend. Bethanie must be really good at something because there are lots of blue ribbons pinned to the board. I have ribbons like this from science fair every year since sixth grade, but nowhere near this many. I unpin a batch of ribbons from the board and look at the back of one, only to find the little card usually attached to this kind of ribbon—the card that says what the contest was, the date it took place, where it was held—has been torn off. I look through all the ribbons and find the card has been torn off all of them.

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