We Know It Was You Page 6

  “Sorry,” Virginia found herself saying again. “I think I touched your boob.”

  “Is she in there?” Corny breathed urgently.

  “Yeah . . . she was asking for you.”

  Without another word Corny whirled past her. Virginia watched her dash on her tiptoes toward the bathroom, the door whooshing open in front of her. Virginia peered in for a second—and immediately wished she hadn’t. It was possibly the saddest thing she’d ever seen: Angie Montague weeping on the filthy bathroom floor in a puddle of perfume.

  The music hall, 2:50 p.m.

  Benny leaned his ear against the heavy wooden door. Silence. He knocked lightly. No answer.

  In a way he was relieved. He hadn’t planned what to say if Mr. Choi had actually answered. The two things detective work required were intuition and authority: the ability to see through your suspect and the ability to make him crack in front of you by trickery or intimidation. But Benny didn’t know if he could do that with a teacher. Benny was the kind of guy who said “yes, sir” compulsively, even to Rick the janitor who was twenty-four years old and always laughed at him. He had been raised to be respectful.

  He looked for the appointments roster on the door. It took him a moment to find it, because the door was covered with posters of famous jazz musicians. Mr. Choi was obsessed with jazz. He was in the house band at the Sapphire Lounge, and was always trying to persuade his students to come see him play. But the Sapphire Lounge was in the bad part of town, and Benny knew there was zero chance that his mom would ever let him near it. “Monday through Thursday, I’m always there!” Mr. Choi was constantly reminding the class. Nobody ever went. It used to make Benny feel guilty, and also kind of embarrassed. It seemed a little desperate, not to mention inappropriate, for Mr. Choi to be inviting his students to a place like the Sapphire Lounge.

  Benny found the roster half concealed behind a black-and-white print of Charles Mingus. The roster was blank, except for the hour between three-thirty and four: Marty Robeson. Private lesson. 3 and 3:30.

  Benny Flax, he wrote beneath it. Question.

  The football field, 3:20 p.m.

  Benny felt a little weird watching the cheerleaders halfheartedly doing stretches on the field. He knew he probably looked like some clueless pervert hoping to prey on one of the grief-stricken girls after practice. It didn’t help that Gerard Cole, the sappy water boy, was there too, staring at the cheerleaders and periodically weeping.

  I wish Virginia would get here already, Benny thought. She’d left a note on his locker reading, in bright pink marker, Meet me at cheer practice this aft —important clue to discuss. It was just taped to the front of his locker for anyone to see. Virginia had yet to absorb the finer points of investigating a crime, for instance that you don’t advertise to the world when you have an “important clue.”

  Only about half the cheerleading squad was in attendance. The principal had declared all extracurricular activities optional until after Brittany’s funeral, which kept getting pushed back. It was supposed to be Wednesday, then Thursday—now people were saying next week. The problem was that the body had been drifting downriver so fast that no one could catch it. It might have been funny if it weren’t so grotesque.

  Yesterday the immense, waterlogged wildcat head had finally washed ashore, but the body it had encased was proving more elusive. There had been sightings as far south as Troup County. People were calling the police hotline claiming to have seen the body floating right past their backyards. A video had popped up on the Internet of a white, corpselike form floating past the Cherokee Trail Bridge. It already had more than one hundred thousand views. Benny had watched the video himself at least thirty times. It was about ten seconds of footage, taken on a jerky camera phone: a grayish expanse of skin—the naked back of Brittany’s corpse—bobbing into view before disappearing around the river bend. Just remembering it made Benny shudder.

  The local news had been dominated all weekend by outraged community members demanding to know how the police force could possibly be so incompetent. The river was basically a one-way street. All they had to do was stake out a position downriver and wait for the body to float past. But so far no one had been able to catch it. Maybe Virginia was right, Benny thought. Maybe this really is some horrible, morbid prank.

  “Can you believe they’re keeping the mascot costume?” Benny turned and saw Virginia clomping down the bleachers toward him.

  “They’re keeping it?” Benny repeated incredulously as Virginia plopped down next to him.

  “Apparently the wildcat head was like three thousand dollars, and there isn’t any money to get a new one. I just saw Coach Graffe scrubbing it down in the locker room. Some poor girl’s going to have to wear it at the game next week. After Brittany, like, decomposed in it for two days.”

  At this Gerard Cole suddenly snapped out of his stupor. He glared at Virginia and shouted, “Don’t talk about Brittany like that!”

  Virginia scoffed. “What? I barely said anything.”

  “Brittany will never decompose in our hearts!” Gerard shouted, thumping his chest with his curled fist.

  Virginia snorted, trying not to laugh, but obviously not trying very hard.

  “Leave him alone,” Benny said. He wished Virginia would just ignore Gerard and explain what they were doing here.

  “You should give that video to the police,” Gerard said, standing up and pointing at them. “You think this is a game, you and your silly club!”

  “What is he talking about?” Benny whispered.

  “Oh, the bridge footage,” Virginia said. “I showed him.”

  “You WHAT?” Benny hissed.

  “You’re both jerks,” Gerard went on. “You don’t care about Brittany at all.”

  “Shut up, Gerard,” Virginia snapped at him. “Leave us alone. Go cry on Corny’s boobs.”

  “You’re jerks!” Gerard repeated, and with that he turned and stumbled over to the far end of the bleachers.

  “Wow, that guy needs to get a grip,” Virginia said. She glanced at Benny, expecting him to agree. But he was just gawking at her. She realized Benny probably didn’t think it was cool to make fun of dweebs, because he was one.

  “Oh my God, Benny, you’re not even close to that bad,” Virginia assured him quickly. “He’s pathetic.”

  But Benny just looked confused. Finally he said, “What on earth possessed you to show the video to him? Gerard, Virginia! Gerard!”

  “Oh, that? I don’t know. He had some revolting theory about Brittany being raped in her mascot suit by Trevor Cheek. I felt sorry for him.”

  “Well for all we know, that was him on the bridge, and now he knows somebody saw.”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t think of that.”

  You never think, Benny thought. It was Virginia’s main liability. He’d known something like this would happen eventually. He should never have let her join Mystery Club in the first place, but Benny believed in justice and inclusivity, and that everyone deserved the chance to improve themselves through the act of mystery solving.

  “I’m sorry,” Virginia was saying. “I’m really sorry.”

  Benny looked at her. She looked sorry. She looked more than sorry—she looked scared, like she was afraid Benny was about to kick her out of the club or something.

  “It’s okay,” Benny said, trying to swallow his irritation. “I mean, it probably wasn’t Gerard on the bridge anyway, or else he wouldn’t be telling us to give it to the police. He’d be glad we were keeping it to ourselves. It’s just . . . the principle. Don’t ever show anything to anyone without asking me first.”

  “I won’t,” Virginia swore, actually making the cross-my-heart sign like a kindergartener. Benny looked at her and felt tense. He wasn’t sure Virginia actually got what he was saying. Maybe she could be obedient, but it would be better if she could just understand.

  “Do you know that expression ‘knowledge is power’?” he asked.

  Virginia nodded.


  “Well it’s not true,” Benny said. “Not intrinsically, anyway. Knowledge is only powerful when you have it and other people don’t. And that’s why we don’t share information—not with the police, not with anyone. Not even harmless-seeming people like Gerard. Every person you share information with, you reduce your own power. I reduce my power by sharing information with you. But I choose to do it, because I choose to trust you.”

  Virginia looked at him, nodding earnestly. “I appreciate that. And I totally trust you, too.”

  Benny winced a little and felt his cheeks getting hot. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. It’s just a matter of . . . machinery. The more moving parts in a machine, the weaker the machine is. So . . .” Benny trailed off. Oh my God, what am I rambling about? “So what are we doing here?” he asked.

  “Oh!” Virginia exclaimed, suddenly excited. “I have a hunch!”

  Benny rolled his eyes. Virginia was way too into the mystery-solving lingo like “hunch” and “gumshoe.” “What kind of hunch?” he pressed, humoring her.

  “You’ll see. Watch.” She pointed at the cheerleaders, who had begun running in a small circle in the football field. Benny raised his hand to shield his eyes against the afternoon sun.

  “Brittany would want us to keep cheering,” Coach Graffe was saying to the girls somberly. “We still have a tri-county championship to win!”

  “There,” Virginia said. “Look at their feet.”

  Benny looked. They just seemed like normal feet to him. “Um, okay . . .”

  “They run on their toes. Every single cheerleader does it. I noticed it when I ran into Corny Davenport in the hall today.”

  Benny nodded slowly. Virginia went on. “It’s totally unconscious. Like, ingrained in their feet. They could be running for their lives, and I bet they’d still do it just like that—on their toes.”

  Benny closed his eyes, the memory of Friday night flashing in his mind. The bright stadium lights, the music blaring from the speakers. The great lion charging across the field, carried by a pair of stomping, flat feet.

  The music hall, 3:45 p.m.

  “I think Angie’s having a nervous breakdown,” Virginia declared. She and Benny were sitting on the floor outside Mr. Choi’s office. The halls were empty and quiet. “She seemed, like, disconnected from reality.”

  “I can’t believe she even came to school,” Benny said. He checked his watch. It was three forty-five, and nobody had entered or exited Mr. Choi’s office. He was starting to feel like they were wasting their time.

  “Apparently she’s been wandering around school all day, randomly napping. Like, sleeping in bushes and stuff. That’s what I heard.”

  “Someone should drive her home,” Benny said. Why did no one ever take responsibility in these situations?

  “And she said my perfume was trailer trash, but it’s not,” Virginia continued. “It’s French.”

  Benny looked at his watch again.

  “Do you like my perfume?” she said, shoving her wrist in Benny’s face.

  “Hey, are you guys waiting for Mr. Choi?”

  Benny and Virginia looked up. It was Marty Robeson, dragging his giant stand-up bass.

  “Yeah, do you know where he is?” Benny asked.

  “No. He’s not here. I’ve been dragging this bass around for half an hour trying to find him.”

  “Couldn’t you just put the bass down?” Virginia asked. Next to her, Benny rolled his eyes again. Why did Virginia have to harp on everyone all the time?

  “No,” Marty said. “It might get stolen. Right, Scooby?”

  Benny nodded weakly. The Case of the Disappearing Horn felt childish and ludicrous to him now. He wished people would stop reminding him of it.

  The parking lot, 4:00 p.m.

  Virginia dropped some change into the Coke machine and pulled out a Dr Pepper. “They’re replacing this with a juice machine next semester,” she said. “Which is stupid, because juice has just as much sugar as soda. It’s like the biggest impostor of healthy beverages.”

  Benny was standing behind a tree, peeking his head out to scan the parking lot for Mr. Choi’s blue Honda.

  “Did you know that?” Virginia asked, crossing toward him. “About juice having just as much sugar as soda? It’s like, you may as well drink a soda. Are you even listening to me?”

  “Hm? Yeah, I’m listening. . . .”

  “Well what did I just say, then?”

  Benny pointed suddenly. “Look, there it is!”

  “There’s what?”

  “Mr. Choi’s car. Way over there.”

  Virginia looked where Benny was pointing and saw Mr. Choi’s dented blue Honda parked at the end of the lot. Benny got out his phone and started dialing a number.

  “Who are you calling?” Virginia asked.

  “My mom. I have to tell her I’ll be late for dinner.”

  “Why, are we going somewhere?”

  “We should stay here until Mr. Choi shows up.”

  “A stakeout!” Virginia cried excitedly.

  Benny sauntered off to argue with his mother on the phone. “Mom, it’s for Mystery Club. . . . I can’t; I’m the president. . . . I have barely any homework. . . . Mom, please?”

  Virginia dug a pair of sunglasses out of her bag, prepared to wait a while. She’d grown used to overhearing this weird ritual between Benny and his mother. It wasn’t very suspenseful—Mrs. Flax always let Benny do what he wanted in the end. But she always made him fight for it first. Maybe that’s the difference between Benny and everyone else, Virginia thought. He’s been trained to have convictions.

  She looked up from her Dr Pepper and noticed a girl walking toward the parking lot. She immediately recognized the lithe frame and billowing blond hair: It was Angie Montague. Quickly Virginia ducked behind the tree and motioned frantically for Benny to hang up the phone.

  “Hm? Mom, I have to go. I love you. Bye.” He snapped the phone shut. “Virginia, what?”

  “It’s Angie!” she hissed, pointing across the parking lot. “I don’t think she saw me.” They watched Angie striding between the cars, heading toward her silver Lexus. Her gait was graceful and quick.

  “She doesn’t seem very drugged out to me,” Benny said. “I thought you said she was, like, a wreck.”

  “Well maybe the drugs wore off . . . ,” Virginia answered. Angie seemed very crisp and put together for someone who had been on drugs and sobbing in the girls’ room an hour ago.

  “Is that how drugs work?” Benny asked. “One minute you’re a wreck; the next you’re fine?”

  “She changed her shoes,” Virginia observed. “When I saw her, she had on these ludicrous high heels. Wait, look.” She pointed to the Lexus. “There’s someone waiting for her in the passenger seat.”

  Benny squinted. A thick white cloud reflected on the windshield, making it hard to see. “I can’t tell.”

  “Here, look.” Virginia took off her sunglasses and placed them awkwardly on Benny’s face. Her fingers brushed against his temple as he straightened them on his nose. Benny already wore glasses, and adding the sunglasses on top made him look like the Terminator.

  “They have polarizing lenses,” she explained.

  Benny peered at the Lexus.

  “You look cool in sunglasses,” Virginia said.

  “Everyone looks cool in sunglasses.”

  Virginia shrugged. “I guess so. . . .”

  “Wait a second. That’s . . . Whoa.”

  “What, what? Let me see!” Virginia snatched the sunglasses off Benny’s face and put them on. She looked back to the Lexus. Overhead, the cloud passed. Now Virginia could clearly see a blond girl, barely conscious, slumped in the passenger seat. At that moment Angie reached the car and jumped in the driver’s side. She gave a quick glance to the knocked-out girl beside her, and then turned on the ignition.

  “It’s . . . it’s both of them,” Benny was saying.

  Virginia felt a surge of excitement as the sight of both
twins in the car confirmed her vague suspicion.

  Someone else was in the mascot suit that night, Virginia thought. That was no cheerleader.

  4:10 p.m.

  There was a crack as the soda can slammed against the tree and exploded. In her excitement, Virginia had just hurled it, and now she was gripping Benny’s shoulders and shaking them hard.

  “Ow, stop! Please calm down.”

  “Oh my God,” Virginia said feverishly. “This is really exciting. This is really mysterious. You know what word I just made up? Twinister. ‘Twin’ plus ‘sinister.’ ”

  Benny gritted his teeth, wishing Virginia would stop rambling and help him think. Across the empty parking lot, Angie had gotten out of the car and was dragging Brittany into the backseat. Corny Davenport appeared, scurrying to the trunk and pulling out a Wildcats blanket. She unfolded it and threw it on top of Brittany, who was curled in a lump.

  “Are they trying to hide her under a blanket?” Virginia asked, her voice way too loud.

  “Shhh!” Benny hissed.

  “Maybe Gerard was right, and there is a mascot rapist, and they’ve been hiding her from him this whole time!”

  Benny had about two seconds to decide what to do. The brain can do a lot in two seconds, he knew. When people have a near-death experience and report their lives “flashing before their eyes,” what’s actually happening is that the mind is reviewing the entire sum of their experiences, seeking some tidbit that might help them survive this life-or-death scenario. And it all happens in the space of a microsecond.

  Benny had always scorned the idea of the action-adventure detective, the guy who scales buildings and wears elaborate disguises and puts himself in reckless and dangerous situations in order to solve a case. Real mysteries weren’t about being a daredevil; they were about being patient and observant. For instance, at the start of the school year a bunch of the really popular guys kept getting their tires slashed. Everyone assumed the culprit was some trashy townie who was jealous of their cars. “The Slasher,” people called him, almost fondly, like they felt sorry for him. But to say the tires were “slashed” was inaccurate, Benny found upon examination. “Stabbed” was a better word. The tires hadn’t been cut; they had been punctured.