Waking the Witch
Page 8

“Well, I’m not going to ask how you got in here,” I said. “But it isn’t the kind of place for kids to hang out, so I’ll walk you upstairs—”
“I’m not hanging out. I’m investigating.”
She tugged a backpack off her shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a pad of paper. She flipped to a page, then, pen poised, looked up at me. “Your name, please.”
“Savannah Levine. Private investigator.”
“License?”
I started pulling out my ID. She gave me a look that called me a moron.
“Private investigator’s license?”
Damn, she was good. What did they teach kids in this town? Fortunately, I had one—two, actually, for both Oregon and Washington. I gave her both. She wasn’t impressed; just jotted details down and handed them back.
“So you’re an investigator, too,” I said.
“No, I’m a kid.”
“So how come you’re here?”
“Because the police aren’t.”
“Ah. So you’re investigating because you want to grow up to be a detective?”
“No.” Her gaze lifted to mine. “I’m investigating because I want to know who killed my mother.”
 
 
four
 

It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say—it was that I knew from experience that almost anything I did say would be wrong. After my mom died, I wanted to plug my ears every time someone found out ... or zap them with an energy bolt before they could speak. It was always the same empty words. I’m sorry for your loss, from people who didn’t give a shit about me or my loss. Deep down, your mom was a good person, from people who, deep down, thought she was an evil bitch. She’s gone to a better place. That one killed me. Like any twelve-year-old gives a damn where her dead mother went—all that matters is that she’s not with you.
The only thing I liked to hear was stories about her—something cool or funny she’d done. But I’d never met this girl’s mother, so I couldn’t offer anything there. After fumbling around, I said the obvious—you must be Ginny’s daughter—which was obvious because only Ginny Thompson had a child.
She nodded. “Her real name was Genevieve, but the newspapers didn’t say that because the reporters were too lazy to ask.”
Stupid cops. Lazy reporters. A girl after my own heart.
“They didn’t mention your name either.”
“Kayla Thompson.” She extended her hand.
I shook it. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I’m homeschooled. Grandma didn’t like the way the other kids acted after my mom died.” After what she’d said about the chief’s grandson, I didn’t blame her grandmother. I’d like to have a chat with the little ghoul’s parents myself. “Grandma’s at work today, so I’m staying with Aunt Rose. She thinks I’m at the library.”
“Well, then, Kayla, since it seems we’re both investigating this crime, we’d better get to work.”
 
KAYLA WAS NOT impressed by my lack of fingerprint powder and evidence bags. I tried to explain that wasn’t how private investigators worked, but she clearly considered that a pathetic excuse. She had powder and plastic zip bags from her Junior Detective kit.
I did manage to redeem myself a bit by teaching her the proper way to use the powder. Then I left her to her work while I did mine. She was so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there until she announced she had to go—her aunt was picking her up at the library and she needed to check out some books to show for her visit.
We went out the back door, then around the building together.
“Is he with you?” she asked, pointing. It was the guy from earlier, now standing in front of his BMW, hood open, scowling down as if he could shame the motor into turning over.
“Nope. Think I should offer to help?”
“You can fix cars?” Her look said she was mildly impressed.
“Cars, bikes ... That’s my motorcycle over there.” I hoped to win some cool points for the bike, too, but she only glanced at it, then back to the guy with the BMW.
“I bet he can’t fix it,” she said. “I bet he can’t even pump his own gas.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You should see if you can help.”
“Nah, I’ll walk you to—”
“I’ve got a few minutes.”
She started across the road and I hurried to catch up.
“Hey, there,” I called. “Having trouble getting her running?”
He turned. He blinked, as if seeing a mirage, then turned back to glare at the misbehaving engine again.
“Transmission, I think,” he said, with the air of a man who couldn’t find the transmission on a dare, but wants to sound like he could reassemble one with his eyes shut.
“You’re in luck. Transmissions are my specialty.”
He eyed me, clearly torn between not really wanting to tell an attractive young woman to get lost, but not wanting her mucking about with his luxury car either.
“I’m going to call for a tow,” he said.
Kayla snorted. “From where? Nearest tow truck is in Battle Ground.” She gave him that same critical look I’d gotten earlier. “You don’t think she can do it because she’s a girl.”
“Of course not. I just don’t want to bother—”
“No bother,” I said.
I walked over to my saddlebags and got out my tools. Then I set to work. It wasn’t the transmission. I could have figured out what was wrong, but after a few minutes of hovering anxiously, the guy insisted I give up.
I wish I could say I was gracious about the blow-off. I wasn’t. But he wasn’t gracious either. All the more reason, I say, not to do favors, even for hot guys.
“Jerk,” Kayla muttered as we walked away. “Real estate vulture, I bet. They’ve been hovering, picking at the corpse of this town.”
A line obviously picked up from eavesdropping on an adult conversation. I had a feeling Kayla did a lot of that. An only child, homeschooled, mother dead, no father in the picture, an off-kilter personality that would make most other kids steer clear. She’d spend a lot of time around adults. Probably, in some ways, thought of herself as one. A feeling I remembered well.