Ninth Key by Meg Cabot Page A

project, this strip mall here, was endangering the habitat of this rare kind of mouse, found only in this area. And this lady here —” Another photo came up on screen. “She tried to stop it to save the mouse, and poof. She disappeared, too.”
    “Disappeared,” I echoed. “Just disappeared?”
    “Just disappeared. Problem solved for Mount Beau — that was the name of that project’s sponsor. Mount Beau. Beaumont. Get it?”
    “We get it,” Adam said. “But if all these environmentalists connected with Red Beaumont’s companies are disappearing, how come nobody has looked into it?”
    “Well, for one thing,” CeeCee said, “Beaumont Industries made one of the biggest campaign donations in the state to our recently elected governor. They also made considerable contributions to the guy who was voted sheriff.”
    “A cover-up?” Adam made a face. “Come
on
.”
    “You’re assuming anyone even suspects anything. These people aren’t dead, remember. Just gone. Near as I can tell, the attitude seems to be, well, environmentalists are kind of flighty, anyway, so who’s to say these folks didn’t just take off for some bigger, more menacing disaster? All except this one.” CeeCee hit another button, and a third photo filled the page. “This lady didn’t belong to any kooky save-the-seals group. She owned some land Beaumont Industries had its eye on. They wanted to expand one of their cineplexes. Only she wouldn’t sell.”
    “Don’t tell me,” I said. “She disappeared.”
    “Sure did. And seven years later to the day — seven years being the time after which you can legally declare a missing person dead — Beaumont Industries made an offer to her kids, who jumped on it.”
    “Finks,” I said, meaning the lady’s kids. I leaned forward so I could get a better look at her picture.
    And had quite a little shock: I was looking at a picture of the ghost who’d been paying me those charming social calls.
    Okay, well, maybe she didn’t look
exactly
the same. But she was white and skinny and had the same haircut. There was certainly enough of a resemblance to make me go, “That’s her!” and point.
    Which was, of course, the worst thing I could have done. Because both CeeCee and Adam turned to look at me.
    “That’s her who?” Adam wanted to know.
    And CeeCee said, “Suze, you can’t possibly know her. She disappeared over seven years ago, and you just moved here last month.”
    I am such a loser.
    I couldn’t even think of a good excuse, either. I just repeated the one I’d stammered to Tad’s father: “Oh, um, I had this dream and she was in it.”
    What was
wrong
with me?
    I had not, of course, explained to CeeCee the reason why I’d wanted her to look up stuff on Red Beaumont, any more than I had told Adam how it was that I knew so much about little Timothy Mahern’s cat. I had merely mentioned that Mr. Beaumont had said something odd during my brief meeting with him the night before. And that Father Dom had sent me to look for the cat, presumably because Timothy’s dad had admitted abandoning it during his weekly confession — only Father Dom, being sworn to secrecy, couldn’t actually
tell
me that. I was only, I assured Adam,
surmising
….
    “A dream?” Adam echoed. “About some lady who’s been dead for seven years? That’s weird.”
    “It probably wasn’t her,” I said quickly, backpedaling for all I was worth. “In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t her. The woman I saw was much…taller.” Like I could even tell how tall this woman was by looking at her picture somebody had posted on the Internet.
    Adam said, “You know, CeeCee has an aunt who dreams about dead people all the time. They visit her, she says.”
    I threw CeeCee a startled glance. Could we, I wondered, be talking about
another
mediator? What, was there some kind of glut of us in the greater peninsula area? I knew Carmel was a popular retirement spot, but this was getting ridiculous.
    “She doesn’t have