Jex Malone (39 page)

And then he takes a step closer to me, leans even closer, and reaches out. Taking my right hand in his, he places it on his chest. Over his heart. Then he leans in and gives me a sweet, soft kiss right on the lips.

My. Knees. Are. Buckling.

Buckling. Knees. Are. The. Best!

After the kiss, Cooper Matthews doesn't draw away. He keeps my hand over his heart by holding it there with his own and says in a low voice that only I can hear, “And FYI, Nancy Drew … you snore. Loudly.”

I can feel his heart beating under my overjoyed fingertips.

Deva watches the whole scene from the limo and whispers to Nat, “I think we need to re-evaluate him. Seriously re-evaluate.”

Meanwhile, I just stand there with my hand on Cooper's beating heart for what seems like eternity. In real time, it's about twenty more seconds until my father comes out of the meeting room and notices that his daughter is—God help him—touching a boy.

Luckily he doesn't reach for his gun, but quickly barks as he walks past the two of us, “Jex, we have to go. Now!”

My hand drops.

“See ya … but when?” Cooper asks.

“Oh, when you least expect it,” I respond with a huge smile.

For a moment, I don't care if my father and my friends saw the whole thing or if my red hair is frizzing or if I can possibly breathe anymore. All I can do is memorize Cooper's every step as he gives me a quick wink and then walks back into the building to find Ricki.

“My brother did turn out pretty cute, didn't he?” says the voice suddenly standing next to me.

It's Patty and she watches me say a silent prayer for immediate evaporation that clearly goes unanswered.

“Oh … he's … okay,” I stammer.

“Uh huh. I've been missing. I'm not dead, remember,” Patty says with a laugh.

“I may have some instinct for sleuthing.”

—Nancy Drew

“So, I guess you're pretty mad, huh?” I say, looking down again at my feet to avoid Dad's piercing stare, which I can feel like a laser beam drilling into the side of my head. Somehow, we wind up next to each other in the back of the stretch limo.

Dad stares at me so intensely that it's a wonder my brains aren't already splattered across the leather seats as we drive back to the Four Seasons to get our gear before flying back to Nevada.

“All of you are so grounded and the sentence is forever. That's it! You're grounded forever,” Dad says, and on the “forever,” I look up with total astonishment. I imagine being twenty-two and still grounded, but then again I have never been in real trouble before, so it is utterly possible.

“Your punishment, young lady,” Dad continues, his hands on his very muscular legs. “Well, it starts next summer.” And then he puts his beefy finger under my chin and forces me to meet his gaze for real. Softening his voice to an almost whisper, he adds with considerable longing, “You are coming back next summer. Aren't you, honey?”

Without giving it a minute of thought because I'm much more worried about the tears slipping from my eyes to my cheeks, I blurt out, “Yes, Dad, I am. I have custody of you for the entire season.”

At that moment, he grabs me in another fierce bear hug.

Deva, Nat, and Cissy sit there and watch in happy silence until one of them just can't take it anymore.

“I was thinking,” Deva says, wiping an uncharacteristic tear from her own eye, which means she will have to totally reapply her makeup back at the hotel. “Um, I was thinking that the terms of our grounding sound very good. We've very sorry, too, and our parents should also be informed by a top, very handsome detective such as yourself that our
groundation
begins next summer. In fact, I'll put it in my Day-Timer so no one forgets.”

Cissy and Nat bring up the rear.

“Next summer, sir, I swear we'll just sit at home all day, never go outside, and not even TiVo reruns of
anything
,” Cissy says, trying to think of a fate that sounds truly heinous to her.

Deva jumps in. “And we'll torture ourselves reading great works of literature like Jane Air,” she says. “Was she that pilot who got lost?”

“The pilot was Amelia Earhart, brain surgeon,'” Nat corrects.

“Girls, let's be clear. This was a one-time, no-repeat-performance, you-lost-your-minds type of act,” Dad scolds, trying to sound all fake tough while holding my hand tightly like he will never let it go. I'm not exactly protesting here—or agreeing to his terms. What is that line about silence speaking volumes? Mine speaks the language of total evasion.

“You can be certain that we will never do that Drew-Ids thing again,” Deva announces, sitting there with her Jimmy Choos crossed, which in all higher fashion circles means that she isn't telling the
whole
truth. Instantly, I cringe at her choice of words, which I know my cop pop will never miss.

Deva!

“Druid?” Dad says, looking at me quizzically. “What does that mean? Don't tell me you've gotten into some weird pagan stuff, too?”

“Oh my God, I'm starving. Before we leave California, maybe someone would want to buy us some pizza,” I reply, giving Deva the I-will-murder-you-in-a-minute look.

If he ever finds out about the Drew-Ids …

When my dad isn't looking, Deva winks at me while Nat and Cissy make a mental note to kill her later.

Back at the hotel, Deva is stealing the last of the really good bathroom products. “Bvlgari soap is the best,” she says, putting four bars of it in her backpack for a rainy day. “Honestly, I think we should just set up Drew-Ids headquarters right here in this hotel. We could have a lavish suite, work our cases, and then clear our minds with daily facials and spa treatments.”

“For twelve hundred dollars a night!” Cissy says with a happy sigh. “I'm in, but Deva, even your allowance won't cover it.”

“But if we charged for cases,” Nat begins, doing the math in her head.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say in a dejected voice. “But you guys would have to call me and let me know how the spa treatments were going because in a week, I have to go home to New Jersey.”

That announcement sucks all the air out of the room.

“Can't you just get your mom to move to Nevada?” asks Cissy, flopping down on the cloud-like bed and burying her head in the softest pillow she's ever felt in her life.

“But next summer vacation is only … well, it's really far away. I guess this does suck,” Nat says.

“Yes, but Christmas vacation is only five months away,” Deva calculates, tossing one of the good bars of soap to me. “And when you come back at Christmas, I don't want to see you with ruddy, horrible New Jersey skin.”

“I don't know if my mom will let me come out that soon,” I begin.

Deva immediately jumps in. “I bet with some clever convincing you could talk your mom into letting you bond with your father over the holidays,” she says.

“Do a hard sell,” Deva advises. “
Blah, blah, blah
. You were just getting to know your father and now you really love him and need a male authority figure in your life, but you didn't have enough time. For the rest of your life, you will have messed-up relationships with dudes because there was no strong male role model for all those thousands of formative, guilt-inducing years, which is why you need to spend more time with your one and only father over the holiday season in Nevada, where your best friends live.

“Face it,” Deva surmises. “I'm a best-dressed genius.”

“Tell her you saw something like this on
Oprah
,” Cissy advises. “Whatever Oprah says scares parents. A lot.”

I have to smile because all of the above is actually true, plus my mom has always wanted to go on a Christmas cruise with the other professors at her college, so this might not be such a hard sell.

A well-timed knock on the door puts all schemes on hold. Two seconds later, Dad's frame fills the space.

“Hello, ladies, I have a quick update for you,” Dad says, trying to sound all official. “That boy Cooper,” he begins with obvious disgust in his tone, “has decided to hang out here and spend a little time with his sister. She has a house here. I just got off the phone with his mother, who approves of that plan. In fact, she will be joining him for this happy reunion.”

The girls and I smile at each other because this is better than what we ever imagined.

Of course, we already knew all of this. Isn't it funny that the Drew-Ids are always a step ahead of the police?

“Ladies, stick with me here,” Dad continues, trying to sound all tough and official. “This means that the five of us have to get our butts to LAX airport to get on Deva's father's private jet so we can fly back to Nevada before her parents leave for Singapore tonight. In other words, you have ten minutes to get your booties and all your stuff downstairs because the limo is waiting for us. The rest of the families are already at the airport and they're chomping at the bit,” he concludes.

“Yes, Dad,” I say. “We'll be there.”

“A private jet. Better than first class,” Deva chimes in, doing a little happy dance on our terrace.

“Ten minutes, ladies,” says my dad, who turns on his heel and walks away smiling like he handled that very well for an inexperienced father of a teenage girl.

Of course, he will wait until later to tell us about our reward money for finding Patty. There was a $25,000 reward put into an account thirteen years ago and promised to whoever found Patty or her killer. With interest, it's now worth over $40,000—ca-ching!

And yes, we do have to give Deva oxygen as she tries to calculate
exactly
how many pairs of shoes that covers.

Exactly seven minutes later in the elevator of the Four Seasons Hotel, Nat is in full detective mode, breathlessly and naturally planning our next case.

“I know it sounds extremely nuts, but there is this other mystery in town. I'm not even kidding, but there is this guy who knows my parents who swears that at the university one of the anthropology buildings is haunted from all the old mummies there. They keep real bones in that basement.”

“Bones?” I repeat.

“Haunted?” Deva adds.

“Nat, this can't be true. You're warped,” Cissy says, poking her friend in the arm as the elevator stops on every single freaking floor of the hotel.

“Ouch—and I mean it,” says an indignant Nat. “Swear on the life of Tatum Ryan.”

We hear familiar laughter.

It's coming from a man in a white baseball cap and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses who shakes his head. I noticed that he was standing in the corner of the elevator car when we walked on, but just figured he was another eccentric L.A. type.

“Girls, please,” the man begins in a slightly raspy voice. “Don't gamble with my life. I kinda like being alive. Very much, thank you.”

With a flick of his wrist, Tatum Ryan whips off his Ray-Bans and grants us the same dazzling smile he used to save his cute behind in countless heavy dramas about cops, robbers, and the high school prom (the early days of his career).

“Oh my God!” I gasp. “Oh … oh … I'm freaking! Oh my God!”

“I'm Tatum,” he continues, smiling and shaking each quivering hand.

We might have to call 911. I can see that Cissy has turned bright cherry red while Nat looks like she might pass out but still manages to croak out, “I've seen
Man on a Mission
fifty-seven times.'”

“I haven't seen it that many times,” Tatum replies, reaching for Deva's hand, but at the last minute, after summing up all the guts she can muster, Deva lifts her perfumed palm for him to kiss it.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says to her, giving her a peck on her naked hand skin.

For the first time in her entire life, Deva says absolutely freakin' nothing.

The authors would like to thank the following:

Jacquelyn Mitchard, a great editor and an even greater inspiration. To work with an author of your caliber is a dream come true.

Jill Kramer, a great agent who followed this case to the end.

David Pringle, the best manager in the world and an even better friend, whose unwavering belief will write the next chapter.

Orian Williams, a visionary artist whom we're so fortunate to have on our side.

Our cover artist, Sylvia McArdle: You gave our character great face. And thank you to everyone at Merit Press for your hard work, especially Meredith O'Hayre.

We would also like to thank every editor who made us stay late rewriting sentences, chasing down leads, and double-checking our facts—you know who you are.

A last thank you to a very special place called Matthews Center at Arizona State University, home to the best student newspaper that ever existed, the
State Press
, a place where friendships and dreams that have lasted a lifetime were born.