Too Many Secrets (9 page)

After saying goodbye, Jennie dropped the hung up and walked away. She felt rotten. She'd lied and been a total brat toward Michael and Mom, and now they were letting her have a choice in whether or not they stayed together.

At first it had sounded like a great idea; now Jennie wasn't so sure. In fact the more she thought about it, the more angry she became. If she said no, everyone would be mad at her. If she said yes, she'd hate herself. Saying yes would be like giving up on Dad and Jennie couldn't do that.

Get a grip, McGrady. Even if it means everybody hating you, you have to say no. Besides, would they really listen to a sixteen-year-old? Probably not—but maybe you can hold them off until you find Dad
.

And for that she needed Gram. Jennie closed her mind to Mom and Michael. She had to concentrate on finding Gram. The whole rest of her life depended on it. As soon as Ryan came back, they could launch into a full-scale investigation.

To keep busy, Jennie decided to wash the dishes. From the kitchen window she could practically see the whole block. Gram's house was set up like a lot of beach houses. The living room faced the ocean, and the kitchen faced the street side. Azalea and rhododendron blossoms splashed the yard with pink, lavender, and peach, giving it the impressionistic look of a Claude Monet painting. Birds flitted all over the feeder that hung from the big maple tree. Everything looked so sunny and bright—and normal—everything except for a shiny black Cadillac.

The driver cruised to the end of the block, turned around and came back. This time, instead of going past the house, he stopped on the other side of the street. Jennie remembered what Ryan had said about the big guy driving off in a dark car and wondered if this was their intruder.

Even though her hands were soaking in hot sudsy water, Jennie felt cold. A chill started in her neck and shivered through her. When she realized he wasn't coming in, Jennie began to relax. He just sat there, like he was on some kind of surveillance. Maybe he was one of the jewel thieves. Maybe he knew Gram had the diamonds and was trying to catch her, or maybe he was waiting for her to leave so he could search the house.

Jennie wanted to get a closer look at him. But how?

Of course, the mailbox. She could walk out, nonchalantly check the box, maybe even strike up a conversation. “Hello,” she could say. “Nice morning. Did you read about that diamond robbery the other day?” Okay, so she wouldn't talk to him. She just needed to get close enough to see his face and get the license number.

Yeah, right
, the common sense part of her said,
and what if he grabs you?

“He won't,” Jennie reasoned aloud. “Not in broad daylight.”

She took a deep breath, unbolted the door, and walked down the steps, pretending not to notice him.

It took forever to get to the mailbox. Her feet felt as if they'd been cast in concrete. She opened the box and pulled out a peach-colored envelope, just like the one Gram had sent to the school.

The sound of a car engine startled her. She dropped the letter and spun around. The black Cadillac had pulled away and raced down the street and around the corner. Relief and disappointment filled her. Just another minute or two and she would have seen him.
Another minute or two and you could have been dead
.

Jennie bent over to pick up the note she had dropped. It was then that she noticed the shiny black boots, the stone-washed jeans—and the hand reaching toward her.

“Let me get that for you.”

Jennie screamed and jumped back … well actually, it was more like a squeak and a shuffle.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you.”

He wasn't wearing his uniform, but Jennie had no trouble recognizing him. A guy like Joe Adams was hard to forget. He retrieved the envelope and handed it to her.

The breath she'd been holding went out in a swoosh. “Thanks.” She shoved the letter into the back pocket of her jeans.

“Are you always this nervous around cops, or is it just me?” He smiled and Jennie had the distinct feeling he was flirting with her.

“I guess I'm still jumpy from last night. You and Sheriff Taylor scared me half to death.”

“I'm sorry about that. The sheriff is taking this thing with your grandmother pretty hard. They've been friends a long time. You sure you haven't heard from her?”

His eyes were the color of melted chocolate, warm and sincere. Jennie almost told him the whole story.
He's a cop
, she reminded herself.
And he's after Gram
. He's being nice so you'll trust him. “I … I told you last night I haven't seen her.”

“And you have no idea where she might be or where she's hidden the diamonds?”

Jennie couldn't lie to him. He'd know. Gram had told her once that police officers are trained to read people. Gram sure could. Jennie wondered how Joe was reading her. “Do you know Gram?” she asked.

Joe nodded. “We met when I first started working down here.”

“Then you know she couldn't have stolen anything. She's missing. Someone could have kidnapped her. She could be in serious danger. You and Sheriff Taylor should be helping her, not trying to put her in jail.”

Joe shook his head. “People aren't always what they seem.” The sad look in his eyes told her he was speaking from experience.

“I know, but Gram … did you know she used to be a police officer?”

He nodded. “She's helped us crack a couple of cases. But cops, even good ones, can go bad.” Joe straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms. “Tell you what,” he said. His tone had changed along with his posture. “It may not look like it, but I'm on your side. The evidence against Mrs. McGrady is incriminating, maybe a little too incriminating. I'm not convinced she's guilty. But I need to talk to her—hear her side of it. So if you hear anything, see anything, that might help me find her, you let me know, okay?”

Jennie nodded. Joe seemed nice enough, but she wasn't convinced. Part of her wanted to trust him, but part of her held back. She could, however, tell him one thing. “There was a black Cadillac here a few minutes ago,” Jennie said. “The driver sat here and watched the house for about ten minutes. I think it might be the same guy who was in Gram's house last night.”

Joe studied her for a moment, then took a small black notebook out of his front shirt pocket, flipped it open, and wrote in it. “I don't suppose you got a license number.”

“No.” The envelope had distracted her, but she didn't tell him that. Gram might have written it, and she wasn't about to show it to him.

Joe left, saying he'd check back later and reminding her to be careful and to call him if she found anything. She wouldn't, of course, but it didn't hurt to let him think she was cooperating.

Way to go, McGrady
. Jennie scolded herself as she returned to the house.
Nancy Drew would have remembered to get the license number
. Drew was a fictitious character, she reminded herself.

Besides, she had noticed something even Drew might have missed. Joe Adams hadn't seemed surprised when Jennie mentioned the burglar having been at Gram's the night before. He acted as if it were old news. Ryan had reported the first one. But neither of them had mentioned the guy being in Gram's house before she had arrived. And the guy in the car. Joe had taken notes and seemed concerned, but why hadn't he asked for more information? And why had he happened by when she was about to get a look at the mysterious man in the black car? Were they working together?

Jennie poured a glass of orange juice and sat down at the kitchen table with her note pad. She pulled the envelope from her back pocket and tore it open.

I know you have the diamonds
.

Jennie didn't recognize the handwriting. It slanted upward across the page and had jiggles in it, like Grandpa Calhoun's did after he got Parkinson's Disease. Even with medication his writing was practically unreadable.

She didn't know anyone else with Parkinson's. Grandpa Calhoun certainly hadn't written it. He'd had a stroke a couple of years ago and lived in a rest home. Gram hadn't written it. So who? It could have been the man in the black car—or Joe—or maybe the man on the phone.

And why? Was the note for Gram? Or had it been meant to scare her?

He—or she—had written it on stationery exactly like Gram's. Was that a coincidence, or was it part of the message? Did the writer have Gram? Jennie didn't even want to think about that possibility.

You're not afraid
, Jennie told herself. Actually, petrified was probably a better word. Maybe getting involved hadn't been such a good idea. Well, she was here now and for Gram's sake had to keep going.

She wrote the latest clues on her note pad and read through the list of clues again; hoping something would click. Gram had called the Johnsons and the sheriff—supposedly from Canada. But the day before she'd written Jennie a note and mailed it from Lincoln City.

A phone-message burglar wearing spicy aftershave, the watcher in a black Cadillac, a million dollars worth of diamonds hidden upstairs in a grocery bag, a warrant for Gram's arrest, and a note from someone who knew that Gram—or Jennie—had the diamonds.

None of it made much sense.

Jennie tore off her list of clues, crumpled the paper into a tight wad, and made a clean shot into the waste basket. Good thing Coach Haskel hadn't seen that. The basketball coach at Trinity called about once a month trying to recruit her for the girls' team. Every month she refused. Mom and Nick needed her more than the team did. At least they used to—before Michael came along. Before Michael. B.M.
Bad joke, McGrady. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. All this detecting is affecting your brain
.

Jennie tossed the pad aside and gulped down the rest of her juice. The digital clock on the microwave told her Ryan wasn't due back for another hour. Time enough, she decided, to call some of the people in Gram's phone directory. Maybe one of them could fill in the missing blanks.

Jennie got through the M's before finding anything helpful. Sherry Martin, who was a close friend of Gram's and an English teacher, told her that she had driven Gram to the airport on May fifteenth and was to pick her up on the twenty-third. “I got a call a few days later,” Sherry said. “Helen said that she'd changed her plans and that I didn't need to pick her up after all. That's the last I've heard. I don't mind telling you I'm worried.”

“Me too,” Jennie said. She promised to call Sherry and let her know what developed.

Jennie felt pretty depressed by the time she got to the Z's. No one had seen Gram or knew where to find her. Jennie flipped through the remaining pages and on the last one saw a scribbled message. Actually it was just a string of letters, but Jennie had the feeling they were important. They began with
J.B
. The same initials she'd seen in Gram's computer file and on back of the picture upstairs. After them Gram had written
koecjoptsv
.

Jennie spent about ten minutes trying to make a word out of the letters but nothing made sense. “Maybe they're numbers,” she murmured, assigning each letter a number, but that didn't make any more sense than the letters.

She was about to give up on the whole thing when her brain finally kicked in. This was Gram's telephone directory—what if the letters in her note matched the numbers on the telephone? Jennie punched in the numbers 563-256-7878. It rang. A recording told her to dial a one. It rang again.

“J.B. here.”

It was the guy—the man with the James Bond voice who'd left a message on Gram's answering machine the night before.

“Hello! I say, is anyone there?”

“Ah …,” Jennie stammered. “Is Helen there?” Jennie had no idea why she'd asked him that, but it sure got his attention.

“Helen?” The voice boomed. “Now look here, who are you? Where did you get this number? Hello! Hello!”

Jennie hung up. She still didn't know who he was, but it felt good to have one piece of this crazy puzzle coming together. Her imagination conjured up all sorts of possibilities. He could be an editor. But that didn't fit. People didn't usually write a friend's or editor's name in code. Then Jennie thought about Grandpa McGrady and the uniforms. “Maybe he's a spy.”

“Who's a spy?”

Jennie spun around, her elbow connecting with Ryan's midsection.

“Ow!” Ryan backed away, holding his stomach. “What was that for?”

“Sorry.” Jennie rubbed her elbow. “But that's what you get for sneaking up on me. Did I hurt you?”

“I'll live.” Ryan sprawled onto the sofa and rubbed his stomach. “So what's this spy business?”

Jennie showed him the coded message in Gram's book and told him about J.B.'s picture and the phone conversation.

“Well, whoever he is, one thing is certain. She doesn't want anyone to know about him.”

“What has she gotten herself into, Ryan? Why can't Gram be a normal gray-haired grandmother who spends her days knitting, baking cookies, and rocking?” Like Grandma Rose. Mom's mother would
never
have become involved in something like this. Prim, proper, and poised. That described Mom
and
Grandma Rose. At least it had until her mother had flipped out over Michael.

Ryan shook his head. “Come on, Jennie. You love Gram the way she is. She's a McGrady—like you.”

Jennie brightened. “You're right.” She started to tell him about her trip to the mailbox and the note but decided not to. She figured he wouldn't have been too happy about it, especially when he'd been so adamant about her locking the doors and staying inside.

Fortified with hamburgers and sodas, they headed downtown to see if any of the locals had seen Gram. Bay Village wasn't a big town, just long. It sat on a rocky cliff with the ocean on one side and the Cascade Mountains on the other. Most of the fifty or so shops, restaurants, condominiums, and motels were located on the main highway. Their plan for the afternoon was to hit them all.

They parked Ryan's truck in a parking lot in the middle of town and walked up one side of the street and back on the other, stopping in every restaurant, store, motel, antique and gift shop on the way. No one could remember having seen Gram in the last month.

By three in the afternoon Ryan and Jennie were ready to give up. They stopped for ice cream, then took their cones across the street to a wayside park and sat on the thick concrete guardrail where they could watch the ocean smash into the rocks below.

“Ready to give up?” Ryan asked. “We could head down to Newport. Have dinner on the wharf and go agate hunting on the beach.”

“Sounds great.” The sky was a gorgeous shade of blue—almost the color of Ryan's eyes. The wind blew saltwater spray in their faces as the big waves splashed up over the railing and onto the sidewalk. “But we can't give up yet. We don't have too many places left.” Jennie licked her chocolate-vanilla twist. “Maybe we could split up. You take the east side of the street, I'll take the west. I'll meet you at the parking lot behind the used book store at the end of town.” Jennie smiled and added, “It shouldn't take us long. We'd still have time to go to Newport.”

“Okay.” Ryan crumpled his napkin and tossed it in a nearby trash can. “I'll come back and get the truck first … about twenty minutes?”

Jennie nodded and watched him jog across the street and into a gift shop. The thought of spending what was left of the afternoon and evening with Ryan had her heart doing cartwheels. She should have been cheering. Instead, she shivered. All of a sudden she felt uneasy. Jennie looked around, halfway expecting to see someone watching. There were a lot of tourists around, but no one seemed to be paying attention to her. No suspicious-looking character in a trench coat, or a slimy, sleezeball type in a stocking cap. And no black Cadillac. The only person she recognized was Sheriff Taylor driving by in his county sheriff's car. He waved.

Even though the sheriff was after Gram, seeing him drive by made her feel a little safer. Still, she took off across the street and didn't stop running until she got to the brick building, which housed an art gallery on one side and a souvenir shop on the other.

Ten minutes, three gifts shops, and a restaurant later, Jennie entered the used book store. It was a run-down, ramshackle old place that looked as if the only thing holding up the roof were the million or so musty-smelling books that filled it. Jennie scrunched down to pet the resident guard cat as it wound around her legs.

“Mrs. Stone?” she said to the gray-haired woman behind a counter littered with enough books to keep her reading for the next ten years.

The older woman peered over the top of her novel, one of those thick paperbacks with a mushy romance cover, and adjusted her glasses. “Jennie McGrady. It's been ages since you were here. I've got a bunch of new mysteries back there.” She pointed in the general direction of a back room that housed her mystery collection. “And tell Helen I'm holding the Dorothy Sayers novel she wanted.”

“Actually, Mrs. Stone, that's why I'm here,” Jennie said. “I don't know where Gram is. I was hoping you'd seen her.”

“Oh, my.” She set her book down and leaned toward Jennie. “I knew all that chasing around would come to no good.”