Framed & Dangerous (9780545443128) (6 page)

“And you weren't speaking Monday morning, when the fire happened.”

I frowned and gripped the tray tighter in my hands. “No, we weren't. Why?”

“You don't think …” She hesitated, not meeting my gaze.

My mouth dropped open. “You think
Darcy
framed Zane?”

Maya's eyes widened and she whispered, “Shh. No. I'm just saying, maybe it's a possibility. You guys had your big blowup on Sunday, and then Monday morning this happens. The timing is weird, is all I'm saying. Maybe she was really mad and did something stupid and now she regrets it.”

I stood, speechless, and watched Maya return her tray. I thought back to the day I had argued with Darcy. She had been mad at me because she felt like I was forgetting about her and spending too much time with new friends. I'd happily gone to her house to tell her the good news — that Zane liked me. But that made her even angrier. She'd snapped back something sarcastic, like, “Great, now you can go off
and be boyfriend-girlfriend with him and ignore me even more.”

And then the fire happened the next morning. And Zane had been framed.

I felt like a giant weight was being lowered onto my chest. Darcy had a bad temper, I knew that. And she'd gotten in trouble quite a bit at school. But she would never have done something like this.

Would she?

Later
that day, I followed Darcy through the door into the Danville Public Library. My thoughts were churning. I had no evidence that Darcy had anything to do with the fire. But Maya's words kept ringing in my head.

It's a possibility.

It's a possibility.

It's a possibility.

I shook my head roughly.

“Are you okay?” Darcy said, eyeing me strangely.

“Yeah. Just a little … headache,” I lied.

She gave me a worried look. “Do you want to go home? We could do this tomorrow afternoon.”

Here she was, being all concerned and nice, even
though we hadn't officially made up. And meanwhile I was suspecting her of arson.

I waved my hand. “I'm fine. Let's start the research.”

“Oookay,” Darcy said, and started walking toward the reference desk.

I steered my thoughts away from the fire and toward the Prom Killer.

The reference librarian was typing on the computer. Her hair was a pretty shade of red and held up in a tortoiseshell clip. A pair of glasses perched so low on her nose, I wondered how they stayed there without falling off.

Darcy coughed into her hand.

“Oh!” The librarian gazed up from the computer and looked at us over the rim of her glasses. “I didn't even see you two there. How can I help you?”

Darcy said, “Our school librarian said that you have old copies of the
Danville Reporter
here. On microfilm?”

The librarian raised her eyebrows in surprise. “We don't get too many people your age coming in here to use the microfilm.” She got up and walked around the desk. “Was there any specific time period you were looking for?”

I stood with my hands clasped, letting Darcy do all the talking. This was her thing. I was sure she'd already figured out what papers she needed to look in.

“Spring 1948,” Darcy answered quickly.

The librarian nodded. “Okay. You girls get settled downstairs, and I'll bring you the rolls.”

Darcy and I looked at each other.
Rolls? Downstairs?

At our confused expressions, the librarian said, “I take it you've never used microfilm before.”

“No,” I said, almost apologetically.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled. “It's no problem. I'll show you how it works. The machine is in the basement.”

I'd never been in the library's basement. In fact, I hadn't even known there
was
one. But we headed in the direction the librarian had pointed and, sure enough, there was a darkened stairway in the back corner of the library.

“Looks creepy,” Darcy said.

I'd been thinking the same thing, but shook it off. I reached out and flicked a switch on the wall. The stairwell lit up with a dim yellow glow.

“See?” I said. “It's fine.”

Darcy nudged me with her shoulder. “You first, then, Bravey McBravepants.”

I grabbed the wooden railing tightly as I descended the creaky stairs. Darcy kept close behind. The basement air was musty.

As I stepped off the bottom step, I squinted through the dim light at the shadows. It was eerily quiet. Large filing cabinets lined one wall. Beneath a dangling lightbulb stood a table, two chairs, and a big gray machine.

“That must be the microfilm machine,” I said, pointing.

“People must hardly ever use this,” Darcy said, wiping a layer of dust off the top.

“Here you go!”

I jumped as the librarian swiftly entered the room. She stretched out her hand toward us. It contained something that looked like miniature versions of the rolls of old camera film.

“How do you load it?” Darcy asked, taking it from her.

“You two sit down and I'll walk you through it,” she said.

Darcy and I followed her directions as she explained what to do. “Put the roll onto the spindle. Now push
it in hard. Great. Pull the tray out. Now thread the film under the glass. Stick it into the other reel and roll it to make sure it's secure.”

I was trying hard to memorize each step in case we needed to do it again with another roll.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Now turn on the machine.”

I leaned forward and pressed the power button. The microfilm machine whirred to life and a bright light illuminated the glass on the tray. An old newspaper article came up on the screen.

The librarian pointed to a knob. “Now just turn the dial until you find a story you want to read. Then you can zoom in and focus to make it easier to read.”

“Okay,” Darcy said, sounding more confident than I felt. “Thanks.”

The librarian gave us a little wave. “I'll be upstairs if you need anything. Return the rolls to me when you're done.”

Now that we had privacy, I asked Darcy, “Isn't this going to take forever?”

Darcy fiddled with the dial, trying to bring the grainy black-and-white newspaper print into focus.
“Hopefully not. We know prom takes place in the spring. So we just have to look through April, May, and June 1948.”

A blur of articles went by. Now and then Darcy slowed, squinted, then continued turning.

“Still,” I said skeptically. “Three months?”

Darcy continued to turn the knob. “It was a weekly paper, so we only have four issues in each month. And something like this would be a big story with at least one photograph. Probably on the front page.”

She was right. I sat back and tried to stop my eyes from glazing over as we examined each issue in April. There was no mention of anything related to a prom. We worked together to unload the film and reload the roll for May. We flipped through the first week. Then the second. Then the third.

I started to get a little worried that we wouldn't find anything at all.

But then Darcy jolted in her seat. I blinked and forced my tired eyes to focus on the screen. And there it was. My jaw dropped.

 

PROM NIGHT DISASTER

 

The headline was huge, and underneath was a black-and-white photo showing the ruins of the school's original gym. Girls in fancy dresses and boys in tuxes huddled together. A caption beneath the photo read: “The scene of the fire where prom festivities turned deadly.”

Goose bumps raced down my arms. It
was
real. The gym had burned down on prom night.

“Where's the rest of the article?” I asked. The grainy photo took up most of the page.

Darcy rolled the dial a bit and there it was, in smaller print. She fiddled with the focus until it came clearly into view.

“Is there anything else written about it?” I asked. “This is the last week of May.”

Darcy quickly unloaded the May film and I loaded
the one for June. Darcy flipped to the first week and the story was on the front page again. “Here.”

I stopped reading and leaned back in my chair. The story of the Prom Killer was based on truth. Except, instead of a crazy psycho who killed
everyone
at prom, only one person had lost his life. But it was clear the arsonist had never been caught.

“If the case was solved,” I mused out loud, “there would have been an end to it. It never would have become legend.”

“Right,” Darcy agreed, shutting the microfilm machine off. “The story took on a life of its own and grew and grew because the town never had closure. They never got answers.”

I gave her a sidelong look. I knew this wasn't the end for her. I felt like I needed to know, too. I was hooked. “What's next?” I said.

Darcy smiled, happy that I was still coming along for the ride. “I think we should find out more about Charles Austin, the only person who died. And I know just where to start.”

The
next day at school, word about the Prom Killer spread like … well … fire. One minute Darcy was telling Fiona the true story behind the urban legend. And the next minute the whole school knew. That's sometimes a side effect of telling Fiona something.

So, of course, everyone was whispering about the ghost of Charles Austin coming back and burning the field house.

I was searching through my locker for my math textbook. I had study period next and wanted to get a head start on my homework. Violet and Amanda were in the hall, stopped outside a classroom. Violet was
going on and on, trying to scare anyone who would listen.

“The ghost of Charles Austin decided that, if he couldn't have his dance, no one could!” Violet said with feverish delight. “Or maybe it wasn't the ghost of Charles Austin. Maybe it's the Prom Killer himself! He could still be alive. Or maybe … he's one of the undead.”

Amanda's eyes widened, and she took a big step back. I didn't blame her. Violet was enjoying this scary story a bit too much. Despite how unrealistic it was.

I muttered sarcastically, “And did the Prom Killer plant Zane Munro's wallet at the scene to frame him?” It was one of those times when my brain formed a thought and it came out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Violet whipped her head around. “Are
you
talking to
me
?”

I cleared my throat, feeling nervous. “I'm just saying … someone put Zane's wallet there. A ghost or some old killer would have no grudge against Zane.”

Violet cocked her head to the side. “And why are you so sure Zane
didn't
do it?”

I opened my mouth to explain that I'd been with him on Sunday when he realized his wallet was gone. But Violet stormed away before I had the chance to speak.

Amanda stepped closer to me, her long black hair hanging like a curtain over half her face. My stomach clenched. I didn't want to be yelled at by her, too. One popular girl tantrum per day is my limit.

“Sorry about Violet,” she said softly. “She gets over-dramatic sometimes.”

She was apologizing? “Uh, thanks,” I said, half in shock.

“For what it's worth,” Amanda continued, “I think Zane's innocent, too. I'm sure he didn't mean for any of this to happen.” She was whispering, like she didn't want anyone to hear.

“Amanda!” Violet shrieked from farther down the hall. She'd probably just realized that Amanda hadn't stormed off with her.

“Coming!” Amanda called, running.

Darcy strolled up to me with an unreadable expression on her face. “Planning the dance with your new pals?”

I ignored the taunt behind her comment. Arguing wouldn't help us solve either case. “No. They're not my friends,” I said, still turning over Amanda's words. “You've gotten the whole school in a tizzy about the Prom Killer.” I yanked my math book free from the pile and used my elbow to close the locker door.

Darcy softened. “Speaking of … you have study period in the library now, right?”

I pulled my books up to my chest and asked suspiciously, “Yeah, why?”

Darcy grinned. “Because we're going to say hi to Charles Austin.”

 

Thankfully,
she didn't mean the ghost of Charles Austin, but you never knew when dealing with Darcy.

Study period in the library was supposed to be silent, but Mrs. Wixted was pretty cool and didn't mind if you whispered. So, when Darcy led me to the back corner of the library, I said, “What are we doing?”

Darcy whispered back, “Finding Charles.”

The tall bookcase in the rear of the library contained all the yearbooks, dating back to when our school used to be the high school. As in … 1948. I realized this as Darcy ran her fingers along the books' spines. She stopped at 1948, said, “Bingo,” and pulled the yearbook out.

She handed it to me as we sat at the nearest table. I cracked open the book, sending a plume of dust into the air.

“He should be near the front,” Darcy whispered.

“I know how alphabetical order works,” I said back. But before we even got to the regular pages of photos, there was a full-page spread devoted to the life of Charles “Charlie” Austin. The words
In Memoriam
were centered at the top.

My chest tightened as I stared wistfully at the photos. He was tall and had dark hair and the kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes. In other words, this dude from 1948 was totally cute. And, clearly, popular. The list of clubs and sports he was involved with went on and on.

“Quite the joiner, huh?” Darcy said.

I flipped to the superlatives page and his face was all over that, too. Charlie had been voted “best looking,”
“most popular,” and “most likely to succeed.” We found his individual photo in the seniors pages, but nothing about it gave us any clues.

Darcy chuckled. “Look. All the girls have the same hair.”

I flipped through the pages, and she was right. All the girls' hairdos were short with no bangs and wavy curls. The boys' hair was all slicked to the side, and they wore shirts with big collars. One even had a bow tie! Darcy and I giggled and pointed at the old-fashioned looks until suddenly a name made me stop.

“John Wolfson,” I said, pointing at a skinny young man. “I wonder if that's Mrs. Wolfson's husband.”

Mrs. Wolfson was an old lady who lived on Maya's street. After her husband died many years ago, she let her yard overgrow, and house repairs didn't get done. She barely left the house and earned the reputation from kids in the neighborhood as being a witch. Darcy and I found out that wasn't true at all. In fact, she was very kind. And we helped clean up her house and yard. Hopefully the kids didn't call her names anymore.

Darcy looked closer at the photo. “Mrs. Wolfson
said they were high school sweethearts, so she'd be in here, too. But I don't know her maiden name.”

“Her first name is Dolores,” I said. “How many of them could there be?”

We flipped through and found two, but one was clearly our Dolores. I recognized the oval shape of her face and her big, round eyes.

“Dolores Gensler,” Darcy read out loud. “That's her all right.”

My skin prickled. “That means Mrs. Wolfson was in the Class of 1948. She knew Charles Austin. She was probably there, that night, at prom.”

I looked at Darcy.

She looked at me.

And, at the same time, we said, “Field trip!”

Apparently our BFF telepathy still worked, even if we were no longer officially BFFs.