The Bungled Bike Burglaries (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries Book 3) Page 10

  She immediately pumped Brandon for more info about his next dance competition.

  “It’s an Elvis impersonator thing,” Brandon said. “But it’s more like an audition. If you’re good enough, you can get a summer gig at the oceanfront.”

  “As in they pay you?” Pete asked, obviously impressed with the idea of getting paid to do something fun.

  “Yup. But I won’t win,” Brandon said.

  “You’re too modest. You’re the best. I bet you can,” Becca gushed.

  “Nah, even if I am the best, which I won’t be, I’m not eighteen, so I can’t get hired, therefore I won’t win.”

  “Then why audition?” I asked.

  “My dance coach said it’s good experience, plus it gets my face out there for future things.”

  I made a mental note to congratulate Becca on her choice of topics as the Diva dropped by. Or should I say, dropped a bomb.

  “Here’s the twenty I owe you.” She disdainfully dropped a cream-colored envelope so it nearly plopped into Brandon’s chili. “By the way, you shouldn’t have waited until the thieves painted it before you called the cops. That horrid purple won’t come off, so my bike is basically ruined.”

  She sauntered off.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pete’s frown as what she said sank in. I stood without consciously willing myself to do so and stuffed the envelope into a back pocket, hoping if it disappeared, the problem would as well. It didn’t work. Pete’s mouth dropped open in disbelief once he pieced it together.

  “You! You were the one who turned Tyasia in to the police?” Pete’s voice carried more malice than question. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused? It took her parents the whole weekend to convince the police they didn’t know it was stolen property when they bought it.”

  “Pete, I . . .” My mouth was in gear before my brain was engaged. I was speechless. I held up my hands in surrender.

  Becca jumped to my defense. “If you had been up front with Gabby about you and this girl, none of this would have happened.”

  “You’re making this my fault?” Pete bellowed. His brows dropped as he first scowled at Becca and then glared at me. “So do you two talk about everything that goes on between us? Including stuff that isn’t even true?”

  The arrow of his accusation hit the bull’s-eye. My lips remained frozen shut.

  “I’m outta here.” Pete snatched his tray and rose in one motion.

  “It’s not like that,” I called after him, too late to do any good.

  “Miss St. Claire! Keep your voice down,” barked Ms. Lynnet.

  I started to protest but wisely shut my mouth. Instead I sat and cradled my forehead in my hands.

  “Awkward,” observed Brandon as he left.

  “Now what do I do?” I moaned.

  “You did the right thing reporting the theft, even if the Diva hadn’t been blackmailing you. But”—Becca paused—“you might have, I don’t know, said something like . . .”

  “Like what?” I threw up my hands.

  “I dunno.” My BFF shrugged.

  The pained look on her face stopped me from growling at her further. None of this was her fault.

  But it seemed like I had more than my share of troubles piling up.

  And the pile just kept on growing.

  CHAPTER 29

  I clutched the time capsule possessively as we walked through the doors to the Hampton University Museum, a red brick building flanked by two huge columns. Dr. Hinkley was waiting for us, and I could tell by the way he looked at the old flour tin that he was eager to delve inside. Thus I was surprised when he took us on a tour of the museum first.

  We wound through art galleries and displays of artifacts from Virginia history including elaborate Native American clothing and weapons. The professor’s British accent added to the experience.

  “Our Enduring Legacy collection provides a wonderful opportunity to share with the public objects that have not been exhibited for many years,” Dr. Hinkley explained. “But our contemporary art exhibition boasts originals from artists like John Biggers, Elizabeth Catlett, and Jacob Lawrence.”

  “We studied about Jacob Lawrence in sixth grade,” I said, then immediately wished I hadn’t. All I remembered was the name. If the professor asked me anything, I’d look like a real dummy.

  He didn’t. Instead he explained about the Great Migration and its importance in American history, and about donors who unselfishly gave their valuable works of art so that the public could enjoy them and learn about history.

  He looked directly at me. “Donors made this museum what it is.”

  We went into his office, and I explained how I’d gotten the tin and about the monologue project. Dr. Hinkley photographed the capsule, opened it, and carefully opened the letter. He read it, nodding and making little murmurs that I couldn’t decipher.

  Dr. Hinkley handed me back the letter. “Possibly Hope was a pseudonym she chose and not her real name at all.”

  “Was that to hide her identity from the women who killed her dad?” I asked. Dr. Hinkley looked confused, so I elaborated. “Hazel and Betsy.”

  “The hurricanes?”

  Hurricanes? Suddenly it all clicked into place, and I felt exceptionally stupid. Hope’s dad had died in a hurricane. There were no creepy assassins. The family wanted to leave the area because of the frequent storms. Fortunately, Dr. Hinkley seemed not to notice as he took more photographs and smoothed open the newspaper wrappings.

  “Maybe she chose the name Hope to represent all the people hoping for a better world. She then filled the capsule with what she wanted to leave behind, like the walnut and sewing machine, which might represent the limited opportunities African American women had. Most worked as domestics: cooking, cleaning, sewing.”

  “I can understand that,” my mom said. “It’s hard work for little pay and no chance of moving up.”

  I looked at my mom—really looked. Did she wish for better jobs, better opportunities than cashiering and cleaning? I bet she did. Then why didn’t she pursue them? She was smart and hardworking. She could get a college degree.

  Gabby, she has to take care of you and Dad. That’s why. Who’d pay the bills?

  I got the urge to wrap my mom in a huge hug but restrained myself. I’d thank her for her sacrifices for us on the way home, not in front of Dr. Hinkley, who was holding up one of the newspaper scraps.

  “Elvis Presley!” Dr. Hinkley and my mom said the name in unison and burst out laughing.

  “This is an ad for his concert in Norfolk on February 13, 1956,” Dr. Hinkley continued. “Tickets were one dollar.”

  A dollar! Concerts nowadays cost tens or hundreds of dollars.

  “I loved his music,” the professor admitted, sounding more like a regular person.

  “Still do,” added my mom.

  “Music has always been a fundamental force in our culture. How we express joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain.” The professor switched back to his scholarly voice.

  “And a source of rebellion,” my mom said. “My parents were shocked at how Elvis danced onstage as he sang.”

  Elvis. Could I work Elvis into my presentation? Before I could fully formulate my idea, I was derailed by Dr. Hinkley handing me back the capsule.

  “Think it over carefully, Gabby. This could be a powerful local addition to our collection. It would draw attention to what was going on in ‘our own backyard,’ as your mom put it. We have as much of a story to tell as Alabama. Isn’t it time people knew about the struggle in Hampton Roads? About Hope’s story? There’s no telling how many thousands of people would benefit from your contribution.”

  I swallowed. This was a way bigger deal than I’d ever imagined.

  My mom put her arm around me for a quick side hug.

  “I’m sure Gabby will make the right decision, won’t you, Tootsie?”

  My face flamed red, and I put the lid on the flour tin. How could my mom embarrass me by using her pet na
me for me in front of a college professor? I stared at the floor and shoved my free hand in my back jeans pocket.

  The envelope from the Diva.

  Back at the car, I ripped open the envelope. Inside was a cream-colored piece of stationery. I opened it. Andrew Jackson stared up at me, and I smiled. The Diva had scrawled, “My parents insisted I thank you for your assistance in locating my bicycle. Thank you.”

  “What’s that, Tootsie?” Mom asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  “It’s a finder’s fee for helping return the Diva’s bike to her.” I waved the twenty.

  “See, I told you they were nice people. By the way, Dr. Bullock called to change my day during the summer months. It wasn’t to fire me.”

  “That’s good,” I agreed, very relieved. It seemed like a perfect time to celebrate and thank Mom, so I waved the twenty and added, “Andrew Jackson suggests we stop for ice cream with gummy bears and chocolate chunks on the way home because you’re the greatest mom in the world.”

  My mom grinned and agreed. “Who am I to argue with a former president?”

  I should have known that the good times wouldn’t last.

  CHAPTER 30

  “I’m sure the garage door was shut when we left,” Mom said as we pulled into our gravel driveway.

  Instead of turning the car off, she left it running, the headlights illuminating the half-opened double doors in front of us. I was pretty sure I had closed them when I stashed my bike inside earlier. I thought I remembered jamming the stick in the slot where a lock would go to hold it shut.

  “Maybe Dad’s cleaning the garage out,” I said without much conviction.

  “He’d have the light on.” My mom’s voice sounded strange—not exactly worried but not normal either.

  Goose bumps broke out on my arms. I rubbed them without knowing I did.

  “Unless he started before dark and then . . .” I didn’t bother to finish the sentence. It was a silly explanation. Dad never did stuff like that. But he did check to make sure I closed the garage door when I put my bike away because of his “valuable” surfing stuff.

  As possibilities raced through my mind, a chill ran up my spine and the hair on the back of my neck rose.

  I, Gabby St. Claire, am not afraid of the dark.

  I would prove it.

  “I’ll shut ’em.” I opened the passenger door.

  Mom laid her hand on my arm. I shot up in surprise, banging my head on the roof of the van.

  “No. You go on inside. I’ll take care of it,” Mom murmured. She stared straight ahead, not at me, when she said it. It hadn’t even registered that she’d startled me; she was that intent on watching the yawning blackness beyond the headlights’ reach.

  “No way, Mom. I’m coming with you.” I wasn’t going to let her face this alone. Whatever this might be.

  Mom quickly glanced at me. “No, sweetie. Go to the front door and get your dad. I’ll lay on the horn, you know, in case . . . in case I need you quicker.”

  I swallowed and dashed around the van, up the steps, and into the house. “Dad! Dad! Come quick. We need you!”

  I ran back on the stoop to keep an eye on Mom.

  “What? What is it?” My dad’s voice drew closer, but I didn’t look to verify how close.

  “Something or someone . . . the garage doors are open. Did you . . . ?” I babbled, watching the dust motes dance in and out of the beams from the van, waiting for something or someone to burst out of the garage.

  “That’s odd” was all Dad said as he slipped around me and down the steps.

  I followed three steps behind as he approached the menacing darkness, wishing I had a baseball bat in one hand and our phone in the other.

  My dad hauled the left door back, and I tensed. Nothing flew out.

  He crossed to the right and pulled it back. The lights illuminated the entire interior. Nothing there that shouldn’t be.

  I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  Then it hit me. Something was missing.

  My bike. Chain lock and all.

  Instead of dialing 911, Mom called the Chapmans. While we waited for them to arrive, I mentally ran down a list of suspects. College Guy, Pete, and Raff topped the list.

  I quickly dismissed College Guy. Choosing our garage tonight would be way too random, since he’d only seen me at Page Turner’s. He’d have no reason to target me.

  Pete, however, knew where I lived. He knew my combination. He’d have motivation, if he wanted to get me back for calling the cops about Tyasia. But would he commit a crime to make his point?

  Raff, on the other hand, did criminal things that had landed him in juvenile jail and warranted an electronic monitoring device. But he probably didn’t know where I lived.

  Of course, he could have ordered one of his gophers to follow me after school. Plus, everybody thought the Mocha Locos were behind these burglaries. And Raff had grabbed my arm and warned me off at the pawnshop.

  I debated whether or not to tell Mr. Chapman about Raff, Pete, and College Guy as my top three suspects when he and Becca arrived about fifteen minutes later. I’d been surprised that he’d volunteered to come right over and even more stunned that he’d brought my BFF on a school night. Becca gave me a huge hug but said little as we all watched her dad examine the area for clues.

  “No sign of forced entry, but that’s to be expected, since you didn’t have it locked,” Mr. Chapman started. “I suggest you get one. It won’t deter a determined thief, but at least it will slow one down.”

  “I’ll pick one up.” My mom wrapped her sweater more tightly around her thin shoulders.

  “Good. Since you had the chain wrapped through the wheels and I don’t see the lock, we can assume whoever took it probably loaded it into a vehicle, maybe a pickup, without bothering with the lock. That’s unusual.”

  My insides were churning as I reconsidered whether or not to tell him about my suspects. But if I did, only grief could come of it. Especially with Pete. Even if he’d taken my wheels as a sick joke, he could be arrested. If the police showed up to question him, there was no doubt in my mind Pete would never in a million years speak to me again.

  Either way was a losing proposition. It would be better just to be quiet for now. If the police didn’t find my bike in a few days, I’d confront Pete myself. If I had to, I could sell the golden walnut to finance another set of wheels.

  I, Gabby St. Claire, could handle this on my own.

  My mom handed Mr. Chapman the paper on which I’d written the color, model, and serial number.

  “Are you sure nothing else was taken?” he clarified.

  “Yup,” said my dad. “Good thing. My surfing stuff is irreplaceable.”

  “My guess is the thief is focused on one item. Bike thefts spike in the spring as the market for cheap used bikes expands. We’ve also seen the number of thefts of home electronics rise, but we don’t think the crimes are related.”

  “I guess there’s big money in stealing other people’s things,” I muttered.

  Mr. Chapman nodded. “We’ve had more than thirty bike thefts reported in the last two weeks. But this is the first from a residence where the bicycle wasn’t in plain sight.”

  “How likely is it you’ll find it?” My mom put her arm around me and hugged me to her.

  “Fewer than fifty percent of all stolen bikes are located by the police. They’re sold, sometimes out of the area, or scrapped for parts, making recovery difficult, if not impossible.”

  My heart sank. I had grown to depend on my wheels, and I knew my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a new bike. I crossed my fingers that this was just a stupid stunt of Pete’s and he’d return it.

  “I’ll write up a police report first thing tomorrow and swing by to get your signature,” my BFF’s dad said. He turned to me. “Gabby, I’m really sorry this happened to you. I know how much that bike meant to you, how you earned the money to buy it yourself.”

  He loo
ked at Becca, and the glance they exchanged put my senses on full alert.

  Something is going on, and Becca knows about it.

  Becca had barely said a word since she’d arrived other than “I am so sorry” and “What a crummy day.” That was highly unusual for her, especially since she knew I’d just gotten back from the museum. Something had to be up.

  “Let’s step inside for a moment.” Mr. Chapman jerked his thumb toward our house, and Becca squeezed my arm.

  Something was going on.

  ***

  “The PD has decided to try a sting operation,” Mr. Chapman began. “We’ll bait the criminals to boost some bikes fitted with transmitters. These bikes will be poorly secured in a public location where previous thefts have occurred.”

  As he hesitated, Becca jumped in. “It was Gabby’s idea!”

  My parents turned to me with puzzled looks. My initial pride quickly melted into panic. I did not want to have to explain the idea was born in the principal’s office with Officer Glenn giving me the third degree about a crime I had not committed. Luckily, Mr. Chapman went on before they could ask questions.

  “If and when a bike is stolen, we can track it down. We have some unclaimed bikes in impound that we’re using as bait. One could be rigged up; Gabby could ride it to school. If and when the bike is stolen, she reports it to the school authorities, like any student would, and we track it down,” explained Mr. Chapman. “With two bikes, we double our chance of success.”

  My heart started beating faster again but this time from enthusiasm instead of nervousness. I could be part of police operations while getting my bike back! I could help save the day for everyone!

  “I’ll do it!” I volunteered.

  “Hold on, Gabby. We need to think about this,” my mom said, putting up one hand like she was stopping traffic. She looked at Becca’s dad. “Would she be in any danger?”

  “No. She would only use this bike to go to and from school, which I believe is less than a five-minute ride. It would be daytime, lots of people around, plus we’d have surveillance, just not any the thieves would notice.”