were possible.
“It’s Hubble,” he hollers. “And I got some confidential info on Galena Lang. Just like you wanted.”
Now I grant you, if I were a totally upfront beauty queen who didn’t have a secret investigative agenda, I would confess to this Hubble person that I am not Ingrid Svendsen. In fact, I’d probably go so far as to inform him that Mrs. Svendsen can no longer be found at Damsgard but is holed up at the Lang Funeral Home on Frontenac Street and not in a position to take phone calls, either. Instead I say: “That’s good news. What can you tell me?”
Then he gets cagey. “Not over the phone. Plus I’m owed my payment.”
“Your payment. Right. How much do I owe you?”
“Three hundred dollars. Just like we talked about.”
“That sounds right,” I lie.
“Cash. Like last time.”
“Yes, of course.” I try to think fast, not always my strong suit. “Will this be the last payment I’ll be making?”
He roars with laughter. “I doubt it! You’ll want me to dig more when you get a load of this.”
I am now dying to hear this dirt on Galena the Goth Mortician. “Where do you suggest we meet?”
“How about where we met last time?”
Darn! “Maybe you could jog my memory. I just can’t bring things to mind the way I used to.”
“At the lake, remember? By the boat landing.”
“Right, right.”
“How’s about nine tonight? Shouldn’t be too many people out there at that hour.”
“Nine tonight is good.” Then it dawns on me there’s another problem with this scheme. “You know, since my congestion is so bad—”
“It is bad,” he says. “You really sound different.”
“It’s very bad,” I assert, “and it might get even worse if I’m out in the cold. So I wonder if I might send my niece to meet you. She’ll have the cash.”
“I suppose that’s okay. How much does she know about all this?”
“You can share all the details with her,” I assure him. “She’s one of my closest confidantes.”
“What’s her name?”
My mind cranks. “Trudy. Trudy Barnett. Lovely redhead. You’ll like her.”
“I’ll see her then.” Click.
Now I have to get Trixie—sorry, Trudy—on board.
Everyone is chatting about dinner when I return to the living room. I sit down next to Trixie. “You want me to figure out who murdered Ingrid, right? I have a way you can help.”
“If it doesn’t involve haunted houses, I’m in,” she tells me. Like every beauty queen worth her sash, Trixie is game for anything.
“No haunted houses,” I tell her. “But it does involve a late-night clandestine meeting by the lake where you’ll trade cash for information.”
“What?” Trixie screeches.
I hasten to explain. “I’d do it myself but he’d recognize my voice. He mistook me for Ingrid on the phone because he thinks she has a cold and sounds different. And we can’t have Shanelle do it because she doesn’t look like she could be Ingrid’s niece.”
“I’m not pale enough,” Shanelle says.
“And Mario can’t do it,” I go on, “because Hubble might recognize him from TV.”
“I could do it!” my mother cries. “You could’ve said you’d send Ingrid’s friend instead of her niece. You never give me enough credit.” My mother glares at me. “But I don’t mind too much because what I want is dinner.” She rises to her feet. “I’m taking the fruitcake out of the oven. Then I want to go eat.”
“Yes, let’s,” Shanelle says. “I missed lunch and I’m starving.”
I missed lunch, too—quite the rarity for me—so I’m also ravenous. “Let’s swing past the lake so we can scope out the location then go get dinner. Plus I have to go to the ATM.” Three hundred smackers is a lot to dole out for what might be useless information but maybe I can expense it to the pageant. Mr. Cantwell has said more than once that my sleuthing is excellent P.R. for the organization.
Trixie gripes about my changing her name to Trudy but, as I
“It’s Hubble,” he hollers. “And I got some confidential info on Galena Lang. Just like you wanted.”
Now I grant you, if I were a totally upfront beauty queen who didn’t have a secret investigative agenda, I would confess to this Hubble person that I am not Ingrid Svendsen. In fact, I’d probably go so far as to inform him that Mrs. Svendsen can no longer be found at Damsgard but is holed up at the Lang Funeral Home on Frontenac Street and not in a position to take phone calls, either. Instead I say: “That’s good news. What can you tell me?”
Then he gets cagey. “Not over the phone. Plus I’m owed my payment.”
“Your payment. Right. How much do I owe you?”
“Three hundred dollars. Just like we talked about.”
“That sounds right,” I lie.
“Cash. Like last time.”
“Yes, of course.” I try to think fast, not always my strong suit. “Will this be the last payment I’ll be making?”
He roars with laughter. “I doubt it! You’ll want me to dig more when you get a load of this.”
I am now dying to hear this dirt on Galena the Goth Mortician. “Where do you suggest we meet?”
“How about where we met last time?”
Darn! “Maybe you could jog my memory. I just can’t bring things to mind the way I used to.”
“At the lake, remember? By the boat landing.”
“Right, right.”
“How’s about nine tonight? Shouldn’t be too many people out there at that hour.”
“Nine tonight is good.” Then it dawns on me there’s another problem with this scheme. “You know, since my congestion is so bad—”
“It is bad,” he says. “You really sound different.”
“It’s very bad,” I assert, “and it might get even worse if I’m out in the cold. So I wonder if I might send my niece to meet you. She’ll have the cash.”
“I suppose that’s okay. How much does she know about all this?”
“You can share all the details with her,” I assure him. “She’s one of my closest confidantes.”
“What’s her name?”
My mind cranks. “Trudy. Trudy Barnett. Lovely redhead. You’ll like her.”
“I’ll see her then.” Click.
Now I have to get Trixie—sorry, Trudy—on board.
Everyone is chatting about dinner when I return to the living room. I sit down next to Trixie. “You want me to figure out who murdered Ingrid, right? I have a way you can help.”
“If it doesn’t involve haunted houses, I’m in,” she tells me. Like every beauty queen worth her sash, Trixie is game for anything.
“No haunted houses,” I tell her. “But it does involve a late-night clandestine meeting by the lake where you’ll trade cash for information.”
“What?” Trixie screeches.
I hasten to explain. “I’d do it myself but he’d recognize my voice. He mistook me for Ingrid on the phone because he thinks she has a cold and sounds different. And we can’t have Shanelle do it because she doesn’t look like she could be Ingrid’s niece.”
“I’m not pale enough,” Shanelle says.
“And Mario can’t do it,” I go on, “because Hubble might recognize him from TV.”
“I could do it!” my mother cries. “You could’ve said you’d send Ingrid’s friend instead of her niece. You never give me enough credit.” My mother glares at me. “But I don’t mind too much because what I want is dinner.” She rises to her feet. “I’m taking the fruitcake out of the oven. Then I want to go eat.”
“Yes, let’s,” Shanelle says. “I missed lunch and I’m starving.”
I missed lunch, too—quite the rarity for me—so I’m also ravenous. “Let’s swing past the lake so we can scope out the location then go get dinner. Plus I have to go to the ATM.” Three hundred smackers is a lot to dole out for what might be useless information but maybe I can expense it to the pageant. Mr. Cantwell has said more than once that my sleuthing is excellent P.R. for the organization.
Trixie gripes about my changing her name to Trudy but, as I
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