Framed & Dangerous (9780545443128) (8 page)

Darcy
was waiting for me in the hall.

“What happened?” she asked, grabbing my arm as she noticed my teary eyes.

“Why aren't you in class?” I asked back.

“I got a bathroom pass so I could wait out here for you. Who cares about that, what's wrong?”

I leaned up against a row of lockers. “Everything.”

“Did you tell him about the perfume?” Darcy prodded.

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Yeah. And he told me the fire had started with perfume. Someone poured it all over a bunch of napkins and stuff. That's why Mr. Gray smelled so much of it.”

“Oh no,” Darcy said, running her fingers through her hair.

I slid down the lockers until my butt hit the floor, and laid my face in my hands. “We've failed,” I moaned. “We're never going to prove Zane's innocence. He's going to be charged. He's going to end up in juvie!”

“You're bugging out,” Darcy said.

“I'm not bugging out.”

“You are completely bugging out.”

I looked up at her. “I know we were supposed to go see Mrs. Wolfson this afternoon and ask her about Charles Austin, but I just can't. I need to talk to Zane. I need to tell him that I failed.”

Darcy reached down and pulled me back up to standing. “Look. His parents aren't even allowing him to talk to anyone. Plus, you don't need to say anything yet. We can still solve this case. Wait …” Her eyes flashed. “You're giving up!”

“I am not!” I said. And I wasn't. I totally wasn't. Okay, maybe a little bit. “But can you blame me?” I cried. “The odds are stacked against us.”

Darcy tucked the purple strand of hair behind her ear. “News flash, Norah. We're twelve. We're geeks.
The odds are always stacked against us. But we always pull through. Together. And we will again.”

“But what if this is the time that we don't?” I asked. I wasn't quitting, I was just being realistic.

“Meet me at your locker after the last bell. I'll think of something.”

 

When
the final bell sounded, all the other students ran out into the halls, bouncy and loud, barely able to contain their weekend excitement. But I shuffled along toward my locker like a mummy from a horror movie, my limbs hanging down, my head dipping low.

Until I saw Darcy, Fiona, and Maya waiting for me.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked. I'd thought it would just be Darcy.

Maya stepped over to me and squeezed my shoulder. “Darcy told us the perfume lead didn't pan out.”

Fiona flashed her brilliant smile. “So we all canceled our plans and we're going to spend the afternoon investigating together.”

Fiona was probably the only one of us who had
plans, but I got what she was saying. They'd banded together to lift my spirits. To motivate me.

It was kind of working.

“One more thing.” Darcy passed her cell phone to me. “You got a message.”

Someone sent a text message to Darcy's phone for
me
? That didn't make any sense. I felt a twinge of nervousness, but Darcy had a huge smile. I looked down at the lit up screen.

 

norah, it's zane. i'm taking a chance 2 sneak out 1 message. i know u don't have a cell but i hope darcy will show this to u. thank u 4 believing in me. it means a lot. i miss u.

 

My heart flipped in my chest. Zane had risked his grounding to send me a secret message. He'd been thinking about me. He
missed
me. I knew I was blushing and grinning at the same time. The fog I'd been stuck in lifted, and I felt a jolt of determination.

“Let's do this,” I said to the girls. “Any ideas?”

Darcy grinned — clearly, she knew Zane's text would encourage me. She said, “There's one place
that we haven't checked for clues … the crime scene.”

“The field house?” I said, too loudly, and Maya shushed me. “Principal Plati said we were supposed to stay away from there,” I whispered. “It's roped off.”

Darcy shrugged. “We'll get as close as we can without going over the line.”

Before we put our plan into action, I texted Zane back. My heart was pounding like crazy as I typed:

 

hi, it's norah. darcy and i are actually working on ur case. i miss u too.

 

That last part was the scariest to write, but I pressed
SEND
before I could chicken out. Then I passed the phone back to Darcy. I knew Zane probably wouldn't write back since his phone time was obviously limited. But I was so glad we'd been in touch.

Darcy, Fiona, Maya, and I took our time at our lockers and chatted outside for fifteen minutes. We weren't breaking any rules by going close to the field house, but we didn't want a crowd. After everyone had cleared out, we crept behind the school and
crossed the grass, then the track, and finally got near the remains of the field house.

I could still smell the fire, even though it had long been put out. The charred building was surrounded by yellow police tape. As we got close, my hope started to fizzle. We couldn't go inside the building because it was unsafe, plus any clues would've been ashes by now. Even the area around the building was wrecked. The water from the giant fire hose had turned the dirt around the field house to mud.

“Any evidence that was here is gone now,” I said.

“If only we'd looked closer that morning when we first got here,” Maya said. “When the fire was still raging and we were all standing back, there might have been some clues left behind.”

I heaved a breath. “We weren't looking for clues then. We were in shock and never figured the fire wasn't an accident.”

Darcy was suspiciously quiet. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned it on.

“Expecting an important call?” Fiona joked.

But then I remembered. The morning of the fire, I saw Darcy walking around taking pictures with her phone.

“Did you get anything with those pictures you took?” I asked, hurrying to her side.

She started flipping through them. “I totally forgot I took them until just now. I mostly took photos of the fire itself because it looked cool. I wasn't thinking about evidence.”

“Still,” I said. “Maybe something's on there. Let's look.”

We all crowded around as Darcy swiped each photo past. She was right, they were mainly pictures of the flames shooting out of the building. Until the last one.

“What's that?” Fiona asked.

“It was a mistake,” Darcy said. “I meant to take another photo of the building but I ended up taking a picture of the ground.”

I squinted at the photo, which was mostly brown. “Can you blow it up bigger?”

Darcy used two fingers on the screen to make the photo go close up. Her eyes widened as the photo did. “Holy guacamole! It's a footprint!”

Darcy handed the phone to me and I gasped. There was a distinct footprint in the dirt. “That wasn't made by a fireman's boot, either,” I said. “It's small. Like a girl's shoe.”

“And it's close to the building,” Maya said. “None of the students were allowed that close.”

“It's the arsonist's print,” Darcy said, her eyes shining. “Made either when she entered or left the building!”

“Awesome!” Fiona said, grabbing the phone.

But I wasn't so sure this would help us. A footprint didn't tell us who the person was.

“I know what this is!” Fiona yelled.

We all stared at her.

“It's the Delancey flat!” she said.

“How could you know that?” I asked, astounded.

Fiona reached her hand out toward Maya. “Give me your shoe.”

Maya frowned. “What?”

“You're wearing Delanceys, too,” Fiona said quickly. “Just give me one.”

Maya took off her right shoe and placed it in Fiona's hand. Fiona turned it over, exposing a design on the sole. “You know how Delancey shoes all have the same silver buckle on the toe? The designer put the imprint of the buckle on the sole, too.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Her own special touch. A branding thing.” Fiona
waved her hand as if that wasn't important. “Anyway, look at the dirt in the picture.”

We all did, and understood. The design was there. Fiona was right. Whoever had set the fire had worn Delanceys.

And just like that, my mood lifted. It was like someone had taken a blanket off the sky and let the sun out. I had … hope.

We had a clue.

The
next morning, I went downstairs half asleep, following the scent of bacon. Dad had made breakfast, including his specialty: happy-face pancakes. I rubbed my eyes and dropped into a seat at the table.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dad said, sliding a giant pancake on to my plate.

“Thanks,” I answered, looking down at it. The pancake had chocolate chips for eyes, an orange slice for a mouth, and a piece of wavy bacon for hair. I cut into the chin area and took a bite.

I usually looked forward to weekends, but when I woke that morning I was actually sad that it was Saturday. Odd, I know, but I couldn't wait for the
next school day so I could shoe-inspect every girl I saw.

The doorbell rang as Mom was setting the jug of orange juice on the table. Darcy was supposed to come over in a little bit, but she'd probably come early, lured by the scent of food like a wild animal.

“I'll get it,” Dad called. A moment later he was back in the room with Darcy.

Mom smiled brightly. “Darcy, won't you join us for breakfast? There's plenty!”

Darcy slid into the seat across from me. “Thanks, Mrs. Burridge!”

Mom snuck me a little smile that said,
I'm so happy things are back to normal!
I knew she'd been worried about my argument with Darcy.

Mom poured Darcy a tall glass of OJ. “So what's new with you girls?” she asked. “You've been busy lately.”

I finished chewing and said, “Yeah, I've had a lot of schoolwork. And I joined the Dance Committee with Fiona.”
And we're trying to solve two cases.

“The Dance Committee?” Mom said, looking pleasantly surprised. “You're really expanding your horizons.”

I shrugged. “I don't even know if I'll be going to the dance.”

Darcy froze with her fork in midair. “Why not?”

“You know why,” I hissed. I didn't want to get into the whole Zane thing in front of my parents. It was awkward enough to discuss crushes without bringing up the fact that the boy you liked was a suspected criminal.

“But even if …” Darcy struggled to disguise her words. “If … that
thing
doesn't work out, you can still go without a date.”

“Thing?” Mom asked.

“What date?” Dad asked, looking alarmed.

I clumsily dropped my fork, and it clanged loudly against the plate. “Um, there's no thing. No date. There's just this … dance,” I stammered out quickly. “And — and I was hoping that a boy I liked would be there. But it looks like he's not going.” I stared at my plate and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment. “Can we not talk about this anymore?” I asked.

Mom and Dad shared one of their parent looks. “Sure,” Mom began. “But if you ever do want to talk about it —”

“I know, Mom!” I said, in a forced happy tone. “Thanks!”

After breakfast, Darcy and I hopped on our bikes and finally headed toward Mrs. Wolfson's house. There was nothing we could do on Zane's case until Monday. So our plans for the weekend were to research the Prom Killer.

Sheesh, that sounds weird. One of these weekends I'm going to just stay home and bake cupcakes, I swear.

If Mrs. Wolfson had gone to high school with Charles Austin, maybe she could shed some light on what happened that infamous night. It was worth a try.

We laid our bikes on the grass and walked up the freshly painted porch steps to Mrs. Wolfson's door. Darcy knocked, and we stood patiently waiting for Mrs. Wolfson. She walked with a cane so it took her a little longer to get around. After a minute or so, I saw the telltale flutter of the window curtains and then the door swung open.

“Girls!” Mrs. Wolfson called. “I'm so happy you're here! Come in, come in. I baked some fudge brownies you've just got to try.”

“Yes!” Darcy said, doing a little shimmy as she walked through the doorway.

Darcy and I made ourselves comfortable on the big flowered couch in the living room while Mrs. Wolfson served us brownies on fancy china and milk in teacups. I was still full from breakfast, but took a bite to be polite. And, wow, that was a fantastic brownie. I suddenly wasn't too full after all.

“I'm so glad you stopped by,” Mrs. Wolfson said. She tucked a loose strand of her long gray hair back into the bun on top of her head. “The house looks so beautiful. I wanted to thank you again for getting all your friends to help out.”

My heart felt all warm and proud. “It was no problem.”

Darcy, always one to get right to the point, said, “So, Mrs. Wolfson. We were checking out old school yearbooks and saw that you graduated from high school here in Danville.”

“Oh, yes, I sure did,” she said, nodding. “My high school is actually your girls' middle school now.”

“We know,” I said. “We were doing some reading about …” My voice trailed off as I tried to find the most sensitive way to bring the topic up.

“Your prom night,” Darcy finished for me. “The fire. Were you there?”

The teacup paused halfway to Mrs. Wolfson's mouth and her eyes got a faraway look to them. “Yes,” she said softly. “It was supposed to be the most magical night of our lives. Instead … it was terrible.”

“What do you remember?” Darcy said, leaning so far forward I thought she was going to fall off the couch.

Mrs. Wolfson laid her cup down on the saucer. “It started out beautifully. The music, the decorations. But then came the smell, the smoke … and the screams.”

I shuddered at the thought. “Did you know the boy who died? Charles Austin?”

The corner of her mouth lifted up in a tiny smile. “Everyone knew Charlie. He was the most well-liked boy in our school.”

I set my teacup down on the table and noticed my hand shaking a bit. That night had just been a story in the newspaper, a legend, something that happened long ago. It wasn't until I sat here with Mrs. Wolfson, listening to her speak, that I fully realized it was something true. Charlie had been a real person. Sadness seeped through me.

Darcy said, “The article we read said that Charles wouldn't leave the building because he was looking for ‘his girl' but his date was already outside. Why the confusion?”

“Because his date wasn't his girl,” Mrs. Wolfson answered matter-of-factly.

Darcy and I looked at each other.

“There was another girl?” I asked, confused.

Mrs. Wolfson looked off into the distance. Her voice took on a dreamlike quality. “Charles Austin and Helen Fallon were friends for a long time. Everyone knew that Helen loved Charles, and we were starting to think that Charlie loved her back. There were rumors that they were going to prom together. But then Betty Frazier asked Charlie to prom.”

She said that last part dramatically, but I didn't get it. “Okay …” I said.

“I know in this day and age, it's not a big deal for a girl to ask a boy out,” Mrs. Wolfson explained, “but back then it was very forward of Betty. Though Betty and Charlie did make sense. Betty was the prettiest, most popular girl. What boy would turn her down?”

“So he went to the prom with Betty and not Helen?” I asked, trying to keep it straight in my mind.

“Yes. Helen was so distraught that she didn't go with anyone. She stayed home alone. Though, Charlie wouldn't leave the building because he swore he saw her there.”

“And
was
she there?” Darcy chimed in.

Mrs. Wolfson gave us a skeptical look. “No. She never went to the dance. People think that the fire messed with Charlie's mind. Maybe he felt guilty about dropping Helen for Betty and he thought he saw her in the smoke.” She paused to take a sip of tea. “In any case, we'll never know what he saw. He perished in the flames.”

A chill ran across my skin. “Do you know what happened to Betty and Helen?”

“Betty married some handsome young man and moved to the West Coast. Helen never married. Sometimes I wonder if it's because she never got over Charlie. She's still here in town.”

Darcy straightened. “Do you know where?”

“Yes. At the Maples Nursing Home,” Mrs. Wolfson said.

Darcy looked at me, eyes aflame. I knew that look. Helen Fallon was going to get a visit soon. From us.

 

On
Sunday, we tried to visit Helen at the nursing home, but were told by the woman at the front desk that Helen wasn't feeling well and couldn't accept visitors. We'd have to try again in a few days.

On Monday morning at school, I walked the hallway with my head down, eyes peeled for the Delancey-wearing arsonist.

But by the time I reached my locker I'd already seen two girls wearing the shoes. I opened a notebook and jotted down their names, but a pit was beginning to form in my stomach. What if too many girls wore that brand? I sighed. Why did the arsonist have to be so trendy?

Darcy strolled up to my locker with a notebook in hand and a pencil behind her ear. “I've been patrolling the hallways, and I've got four shoe suspects already!”

That pit I mentioned before? Yeah, it was growing.

“You say that like it's a good thing,” I mumbled.

Frowning, Darcy said, “This
was
the plan, right?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, but I figured maybe like three girls would have the shoes. Then we could rule out
those with alibis, figure out who was here early the day of the fire, and bam. Arsonist exposed. But we already have six names before first period! This clue isn't going to help us much at all.”

I gazed down at the floor as yet another pair of Delanceys approached.

“Did you guys see the posters?” Maya asked nervously.

I looked up into her worried brown eyes. “What posters?”

“We've been focused downward this morning,” Darcy explained, motioning at Maya's shoes.

Maya suddenly looked uncomfortable. I wondered how she felt about owning the same shoes the arsonist wore. I noticed Darcy giving Maya a long stare, and I knew the gears were grinding in her head. But I wouldn't suspect Maya. No way. She was friends with Zane. She wouldn't frame him.

Maya tugged on my shirtsleeve and said, “Come with me.”

Darcy and I followed her around the corner. Even though it was hopeless, I continued to scan shoes along the way. Until I nearly walked into Violet and Amanda, only one of which was wearing Delanceys.
Before I could figure out who was who and why they would stop and stand in the middle of the busiest hallway, Darcy squeezed my hand and pointed up.

The big dance banner hung on the wall, but it looked a bit different this morning. It had been vandalized.

More people came to stop and stare. Their whispers filled the hallway.

“Who would write that?”

“This is creepy.”

“I don't even want to go anymore.”

I ignored the comments as my eyes traveled over the words that had been painted across the banner. Words that felt like a threat.

THE PROM KILLER IS BACK.