The Case of the Missing Mascot (A Sherlock Shakespeare Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

That meant taking backup with me.

I found Watson out by the practice field getting stuff set up for what must be a short practice before the parade this evening. I grabbed his arm and pulled him far enough away that the few people milling around to watch practice wouldn't hear me. "I need your help."

"With what? You're going to get me in trouble if I don't get this stuff done before the coach comes out."

"I'm pretty sure I know who has Champers. I need you to come with me in case I need help."

"No way. This detective thing is all yours. I'm not interested in being a sidekick."

"
Wats
... please?"

"No way. Just call the cops like a normal person and report the tip."

"You don't get it."

"No, you don't get it. You're running around like a crazy person, accusing your friends of pignapping, following total strangers in the middle of the night. You need to figure stuff out with Tom so you can be normal again."

"Maybe I didn't like normal." I turned on my heel and left before he could say anything else.

And ran right into someone.

"Sorry," I mumbled, not realizing I'd run into Drew until I looked up. "Perfect."

"What?"

"Don't worry about it. I'm leaving anyway."

"Sherlock, are you okay? What was that at lunch?"

"Stop pretending you care and get out of my way."

"Of course I care. We're friends."

"Oh, we're friends again all the sudden? Where the hell were you when I actually needed you?" I shoved past him. "Leave me alone."

I knew that I didn't have any right to be mad at Drew for the way he'd been ignoring me since last night, but I was basically mad at the world right now. No one understood what I was doing. I didn't even understand it myself, but I was going to find that stupid pig on my own whether my friends liked it or not.

Turns out, anger is an excellent source of energy. I made it to LePort's house in what was probably record time for me. It was well after three o'clock when I got there, but I didn't see so much as a single car in his driveway. Could he possibly have gotten through all the interviews that fast?

I'd have to improvise, whether I was good at it or not.

Go home.

Awesome. The voice was back.

I marched up to the door and knocked firmly before I'd have the chance to lose my nerve. I was about to knock a second time when the door opened.

"What do you want?"

"I'm here to interview for the waitress job."

"Are you a waitress?"

"No, but I could use the extra cash."

He let out an exaggerated sigh before stepping aside to let me in. "In here," he said, gesturing to the office off to the left of the entrance. It was a nice house. From the entrance, I could see through a living area straight to the windows that overlooked the backyard. On one side was a hallway, on the other was the entrance to the kitchen.

I couldn't tell if he was hammered already, but his breath was definitely two hundred proof. I set my backpack on the floor in front of the desk and sat in one of the chairs I found there. He took his sweet time joining me in the office and sitting behind the desk. I wasn't sure why, but I had an uneasy feeling about this whole thing. I didn't know if it had more to do with Ricardo's warning or the way Tom always got a little too handsy for my taste when he was drunk.

Who was I kidding? Tom was a straight-up asshole when he drank. I'd found him making out with the prom queen last May after someone spiked the punch.

LePort stared at me for a long moment. "Let me have your resume."

"I don't have a resume."

"And you certainly didn't dress appropriately for a job interview."

Okay, so maybe I could've been a little more prepared. "Someone spilled something on me at lunch, so I had to change into some clothes I had in my backpack. I didn't want to be even later by going home to change."

He snorted. "Do you have any serving experience?"

"Just at home." When he didn't say anything, I added, "I'm someone you can trust with a butter knife."

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together on top of his jiggly gut. "Do you imagine this interview is going well?"

I was about to get kicked out if I didn't think of something fast. "Well—"

"Luckily for you, I still haven't found anyone adequate for the job. Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand up so I can get a look at you."

That was a weird request, but I did it anyway.

"You might do." He gestured to something behind me. "Change into that. If the uniform fits, you have the job."

I picked up my backpack and crossed the room to the garment bag hanging on the coat rack. "Where do I...?"

Was he seriously staring at my butt right now?

"Guest bath is at the back of the house."

So, I know I didn't have a lot of experience with job interviews, but this didn't seem on the level. At this point, I had two choices. I could dump the uniform in the bathroom while I searched part of the house, but if he caught me it was game over. The other option was putting on the uniform, searching as much as I could and then claiming to get lost if he caught me. I'd burn a little time putting on the uniform, but I might be able to do a little more snooping after I changed back into my regular clothes.

Neither were great plans, so I picked the one that would give me the most time to look for Champers. I headed to the back of the house anyway and locked myself into the bathroom. When I unzipped the garment bag, I didn't see what the fuss was about. It was a white button down and a black skirt. Seemed fairly standard.

Until I put it on.

The shirt didn't have as many buttons as I was used to, so it was open from mid-boob up. And the skirt... no way. It was basically the real-life equivalent of a Barbie skirt. It fit fine, but if I tried to sit down in it, this scrap of fabric wouldn't cover anything.

Seriously. Why the hell was this the uniform? Was I supposed to be a waitress or an escort?

There was no way I was walking out of the bathroom in this. Just the one quick glance I gave myself in the mirror was enough to fuel my nightmares for years to come. And to make matters worse, there was a strangled grunting sound coming from outside the bathroom. If LePort was even standing right outside the door waiting for me...

Except, it really wasn't the kind of sound a grown man would make—not even a pervy one. I didn't have a lot of experience with grown men or pigs, but I was willing to take a chance on gut instinct. Right now, my gut was telling me that LePort was still in his office, but he wouldn't be for long. No time to change right now. I slipped into the hallway, closing the bathroom door behind me, and tiptoed toward the noise. I opened the door carefully and poked my head inside.

Champers!

Okay, it might not be Champers, but it was a pig. This one was a little bigger than I remembered from the picture and he was just lying on his side making a pitiful sound. Hardly the kind of pig that looked like he'd be able to pull off weird Homecoming stunts in twenty-four hours.

I stepped into the room and whispered, "Champers?"

It was a sluggish move, but he turned his head to look at me in response. Maybe LePort had kept him drugged or something. I wouldn't put it past him to force-feed the pig to fatten him up a little before slaughter as well.

Champers was like a limp doll when I picked him up. I'd need to get him into my backpack for sure if I was going to get very far with his dead weight in my arms.

I heard LePort's labored breathing before I saw him, so I darted back into the room where I'd found the pig and closed the door as softly as possible. He'd look for me in the bathroom first, so I had a little time. I went to check out the window as an option for escape, but realized it was out. Even if there hadn't been ginormous shrubs with prickly leaves taller than I was blocking most of the window, the latches were rusted shut.

I was trapped.

Even worse, I was trapped in a creepy man's house while I looked like a streetwalker.

I could hear LePort's labored breathing and footsteps getting closer. He stopped several feet away from where I was and knocked on the bathroom door. "Miss, I don't have all night for you to fluff your hair."

Yeah, cuz I'd really try to make myself look pretty for him when he just had me put on a skirt small enough to double as a postage stamp. No one needed the job that bad.

My options weren't great right now. If he discovered me in this room, I'd be trapped. If I made a mad dash out of here with Champers in my arms, I'd never be able to get around his giant gut. Either way, my chances for escape with the pig were slim.

That was about the time I started seeing that familiar shade of brown fabric out of the corner of my eye. Perfect. I was already stressed to the max and my brain had to pick
now
to hallucinate?

Panic brings death.

Seriously, what did that even mean?

The doorbell rang out through the house just as his knocking was becoming so insistent that I just knew he'd open the bathroom door at any second to find me gone. Once I couldn't hear his breathing any longer, I opened the door and snuck out into the hall. In the time it took LePort to get to the front door, the bell rang out half a dozen more times.

Someone must really be looking forward to being treated like dirt.

While LePort's back was turned, I darted out of the hallway and across the living room into the kitchen, hoping I'd find a patio door there like Jamie had at her house. No dice.

It took me a minute to process my mistake. I'd run across the living room with a pig in my arms in full view of whoever was at the door. This could be bad.

Very bad.

"Ah, Richie. What can I do for you?"

"My father sent me to go over a few things for Saturday night."

"Of course. The menu is in the kitchen."

Since the kitchen only had one way in, I ducked behind the island at the same time Ricardo walked into the kitchen just ahead of LePort. There was eye contact.

"On second thought, Frank, I'm more concerned about where you're serving dinner."

"We're having the luau on the patio, of course."

"Of course."

Something about hearing LePort's voice must've snapped Champers out of his funk because he began struggling in my arms and making that weird grunting sound again.

"Did you say something?"

"I said we should take a look."

When I heard footsteps move from the kitchen's tile floors to the soft carpet of the living room, I poked my head around the side of the island. It looked as though part of the wall had opened in the living room. So that's why I hadn't noticed the back door when I was running through there just moments ago.
 

I started to stand up with Champers still in my arms, but Ricardo was holding up a finger at me to wait. I ducked back down just in time to avoid being seen and struggled to keep the pig quiet when LePort came back inside. "As you can see, preparations are well under way."

The door closed loudly, nearly overshadowing the sound of the lock clicking.

"I can see you have everything under control. How about you give me two fingers of that scotch in your office and I'll make sure he knows Saturday's dinner is in good hands."

"Sounds good, Richie."

I peeked around the corner of the island again just in time to see Ricardo unlock and slightly open the patio door. He waved me over without looking at me and then followed LePort to his office. I slipped through the back door as quietly as possible and was relieved to find there was no padlock on the gate.

This was crazy. I actually did it.

Now I just had to get away with it.

As with every other aspect of this case, that was easier said than done. I'd gotten tunnel vision as soon as I found Champers and forgot all about my backpack and clothes on the bathroom floor. My house keys, my cell phone... everything except the sandals I was wearing was still in LePort's house.

I was seriously going to have to walk at least a mile looking like a hooker and carrying a million-pound pig in my arms. This was stupid. Ricardo wouldn't be drinking with LePort forever. Once he left, LePort would surely check the bathroom and come after me the minute he realized what I'd done. I couldn't outrun a car even if I didn't have Champers' weight to deal with.

"Hey, Shakes. Get in."

How had I been so lost in my frenzied thoughts that I didn't hear Ricardo driving up behind me? I turned, expecting to see his yellow Camaro, the perfect getaway car. Instead, he was grinning at me from inside a golf cart.

"Where's your car?"

"At home. Get in."

I climbed in and my arm muscles sang with relief when I set Champers down between us. "You know you're not supposed to take these from the country club, right?"

"Yeah. This is mine. I take it out whenever I don't feel like stopping for gas."

"You're a weird guy, Card."

"And you're looking especially good this afternoon. What are you supposed to be? Pedophile catnip?"