Finding Zola Page 6

“She didn’t say. I’ve been askin’ all her friends, but no one has seen her.” A new song filled the room, and the dancers started to choose partners. He turned to leave. “Hey, that’s my cue. You gotta find her. She never misses a class.”

  I nodded, then smiled, imagining Zola out there dancing. She’d really been looking forward to this class. Milton’s comment about her taking pictures matched what Anna had said. But why would taking pictures get her lost? I headed back to the front lobby and outside to the fountain.

  Shading my eyes from the bright sunlight, I wished I’d brought my sunglasses. There were more classrooms across the patio. Signs on the doors said “Lapidary,” “Woodworking,” and “Ceramics.” This must be where Matt came for his lapidary class. Slowly, I wheeled by each classroom. They were empty now, the lessons over, and the lights were dimmed. As I turned down the sidewalk, I thought someone called out my name in a harsh whisper.

  Crystal … over here.

  Without thinking, I followed the raspy sound into the ceramics room. The door stood open, the room half lit. Four long work tables filled the room, wiped clean for the day. Unfinished clay projects lined the shelves in the back of the room. It didn’t look like anyone was there. I turned to leave.

  You are looking for me?

  I strained to listen. Was that Zola’s voice I’d heard? My pulse quickened. The voice seemed to come from a lighted room in the back. I zigzagged my way around the worktables toward the sound.

  “Zola? Is that you?” I asked. Pushing the door open wider, I eased into a crowded storeroom. Three silvery kilns took up most of the area, emitting a steady warmth like giant round ovens. Along the walls, painted but unglazed rabbits, clowns, and vases waited to be finished and fired.

  “Anyone here?” I asked.

  As if in answer, the light went out and the door banged shut behind me. I backed up, trying to turn around in the tight space. My chair knocked against the shelving. Clay figures crashed to the floor. I reached behind me, fumbling frantically for the doorknob. It wasn’t locked, but I couldn’t push the door open, either. Something was blocking it. Panic prickled inside me as I felt the temperature in the room begin to rise. I strained to focus in the near-total darkness. All I could make out were the eerie red numbers ticking off the baking time on the kilns. They were like little eyes, watching me, waiting for me.

  “Hey! Let me out of here!” I shouted.

  My voice slammed back at me. I banged on the door and waited. No one came. So much for thinking I could handle things on my own. My scalp grew damp, and sweat trickled down my neck. Now what? I wondered if anyone ever came to check on the kilns. How was I going to get out of here?

  I held my breath, listening. A drop of sweat plunked from my eyebrow into my eye. Calm down, calm down, I told myself, rubbing away the drop. Take a deep breath. Relax. The earthy smell of baking clay filled my nose. An image of Gran floated in my memory, of her scolding me for doing something stupid. “Antes que te cases, mira lo que haces,” she’d warn me when I was about to get myself into trouble. It meant something along the lines of “Look before you leap.”

  Trapped in the darkness, old fears swarmed over me like pesky beetles—fears from the other time I was trapped, after the accident. Why doesn’t someone come? Hasn’t anyone seen the wreck? Why is Dad so still? Why can’t I feel my legs? Maybe they’re trapped under something. Dad? Dad? Oh, Daddy … please don’t die!

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the raspy voice that lured me in here. Who knew my name, or that I’d even be here? Had I really heard a voice? Yes, I was sure of it. But was it Zola’s voice or someone trying to sound like her? The heat was making me groggy, and I wondered how long I’d been stuck in here. Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? More?

  My only hope was to get that door open, at least wide enough to let in some fresh air, and so I could call out. There wasn’t enough room to turn around, so I shoved my chair backwards, banging against the door. I tried again, pushing harder on my wheels. The door moved a tiny bit, letting in a welcome shaft of light. Now I could see better.

  I spotted a broom in the corner, propped against the wall. I reached out and grabbed it. Sticking the handle in the crack of the door, I pried it back and forth. Each movement opened the door a little wider. I could hear something scraping against the floor—probably a chair or table propped against the door to keep it from opening. Finally, the door opened enough to let me turn my chair a little. I reached out and shoved hard. A worktable groaned with movement, and the door opened wide.

  I pushed myself across the floor and onto the sun-drenched patio, gulping the fresh air. Brightness dazzled my eyes, forcing them closed for a moment.

  When my heart finally stopped jumping up and down like a grasshopper and my breathing was back to normal, questions screamed at me. Who shut me in there, and why? An ugly thought sent a chill through me. Someone definitely wasn’t happy with my nosing around, and that could mean only one thing. Zola wasn’t just lost or away on some trip. She’d been kidnapped. And whoever did it was trying to stop me from finding her.

  I needed answers, but I couldn’t get them here. I gave my wheels an angry shove and headed back to the main hall and the woman at the information desk.

  “Where can I get a bus?”

  “Bus? ’Fraid not,” the woman replied. “There aren’t any buses in Copper Valley. I can call you a cab.”

  Great, just great. How can there be no buses in this stupid town? The few dollars I had in my backpack probably weren’t enough for a cab ride. Now what? Call Anna Norberg to come back for me?

  As if in answer to a prayer, I spotted Matt and his dad across the patio. Today they were dressed in tennis whites and carrying racquets.

  “Mr. Andrews! Matt! Wait up!”

  Mr. Andrews turned. This time he recognized me.

  “Hey, little lady. What are you doing here? Slumming with the old folks?”

  “I’m looking for your neighbor, Zola.”

  “She’s still not home?” he asked.

  “No. I thought she might be here at her dance class.”

  Matt tilted his head, staring at me. “Are you okay? Your face is all red.”

  I was too upset to explain how I got shut in the ceramics room. “It’s just the sun. I’m not used to this heat. Are you two on your way home? I could use a lift.”

  “Sure. We were just leaving,” said Mr. Andrews. “I need to make one stop at my office first. On our way there, you can fill us in on your search. Maybe we can help.”

  Feeling grateful for the ride, I agreed. It would give me a chance to talk to Matt again. But why was Mr. Andrews so concerned about Zola now? He hadn’t seemed very interested in looking for her yesterday. Maybe he just wanted to find out what I was up to.

  Chapter 15

  WHEN MR. ANDREWS DROPPED ME OFF, DJ sprinted out to meet me, her face a mix of anger and relief.

  “¡Ay bendito! Thank God you’re okay!”

  “Why? What’s happened?” I asked.

  “Come see for yourself.” DJ shoved the door open wide, letting me inside.

  The place was a total mess, and not just the packing mess we’d made. The house had been ransacked. Sofa cushions leaned on each other like dominoes. Gran’s tiny knickknacks lay scattered on the floor. In the kitchen, drawers hung at awkward angles, and a few had been dumped out. Every cupboard was wide open. Some of the boxes we’d so carefully packed and sealed were ripped open. A bag of groceries leaned against the entry wall.

  I felt the color drain from my face. “Oh, my God! Were we robbed?”

  DJ’s hand flew to her chest. “I just got home. When I saw this mess and then couldn’t find you, my heart about stopped. Another ten seconds and I would have called the cops. Where were you, anyway?”

  “I was over at the social center, looking for Zola and asking questions. I had a little trouble, though. Someone shut me in a sweltering kiln room.”

  DJ’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  �
��I’m all right. It took me a while, but I forced the door open and got out. Matt and his dad brought me home.”

  “Good grief!” She picked up the bag of groceries and trudged into the kitchen. “Actually, it’s a good thing you weren’t here when all this happened.”

  As I scanned the “scene of the crime,” a thought hit me like a two-by-four. “I bet whoever did this knew I wouldn’t be here. Someone obviously doesn’t like that we’ve been asking about Zola. Whoever trapped me in that kiln room knew you were gone, too. A perfect time to come ransack this place.”

  “Good point. Scary, but good,” DJ said. She started scooping up the silverware and utensils scattered on the floor, then stopped. “Before this happened, I thought you were going overboard with your suspicions. But now I’ve changed my mind. Now we call 911.”

  Ten minutes later, good old Officer Lawrence was back, this time with an evidence technician who started dusting for fingerprints. We were taken more seriously this time.

  The cop made a pass through every room, then came back to the living room. “Anything missing?” he asked.

  DJ shrugged as she scanned the front room. “It’s hard to tell. Part of this mess is our own doing. We’re packing up our grandmother’s stuff. But we did not toss sofa cushions to the floor or dump out drawers or pull the mattresses off the beds.”

  He handed DJ a form to fill out. “You can bring this down to the station after you’ve checked what’s missing. It looks to me like someone was searching the place. Any drugs or weapons here?”

  I shook my head. “No way. Gran wouldn’t touch a gun. The only drugs were her medications, and we flushed those soon after she died.”

  “Well, if nothing’s missing, maybe the person who did this got nothing. I see your TV and VCR are still here. That’s good.”

  Frankly, I didn’t see anything good about it. Someone had broken into the house. I wondered if I’d feel safe here anymore.

  After the cops left, we started cleaning up. I did what I could to shove drawers closed. “I’m worried that Zola’s really in trouble,” I told DJ. “Someone has either hurt her, locked her away, or … oh God. What if she’s dead?”

  “Don’t scare me like that. What kind of threat could an old lady be?”

  “You don’t have to be young and spry to see things you shouldn’t.”

  DJ reached into her tote bag. “You know, I’m wondering if our burglar was looking for this.” She held up a yellow-and-white envelope. “On my way here, I stopped at the drugstore and picked up Zola’s pictures.”

  “Excellent!” I said, excited again. “Let’s see what we have.”

  It had been a 24-exposure roll, but not all of them came out. We spread the photos out on the kitchen table, separating them. Ten showed some family at Christmas—kids opening presents, mugging for the camera, that sort of thing. But the last four photos were different.

  “There’s Anna Norberg in her patio,” I said.

  “Not a very good shot. She put her hands up like she didn’t want her picture taken.”

  The next one showed part of a different patio. A youngish man looked like he was cleaning golf clubs, or maybe repairing them. Three other golf bags were piled beside him. Boxes were stacked in the background, possibly other jobs needing work.

  “Whose patio is that?” asked DJ.

  “Beats me. All these patios look alike.” I picked up another photo. It showed Mr. Andrews bending over to sort some papers that lay open on a table. I laughed. “He’d sure be ticked if he knew Zola took a picture of his butt.”

  The last photo was another patio, empty, except for a lawn chair with tattered webbing in the seat.

  “It’s the Tuckers’ patio,” said DJ. “I remember seeing that ratty chair when I looked over the wall.”

  “This is useless,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I was hoping we’d find something suspicious.” I looked at the last photo again. “There’s someone by the sliding glass door. It’s probably one of the Tuckers.”

  DJ peered closer at it. “Hmm. That’s real suspicious, all right. Standing in your own house, looking out to your own patio.”

  I put the photos down. “I’m confused. Why take pictures of patios? I hoped she’d have pictures of burglars breaking into houses or something. This doesn’t look like anything that would get her in trouble.”

  We spread out the photos and ran through them again.

  “Maybe the clue is what isn’t in the photos,” suggested DJ.

  I sighed. “Great. How are we supposed to figure that out?” I returned the photos to their envelope and slipped the package into my backpack. Maybe later something about them would make sense.

  DJ started unpacking cheese, avocado, and tortillas from the grocery bag. “All this high intrigue is making me hungry. Want some quesadillas?”

  “Yeah. I’ll grate the cheese.” I reached for a cutting board and grater and balanced them on my lap.

  “So tell me what happened today,” DJ said, putting a big skillet on the stove. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  “After Anna Norberg dropped me at the social center, I started asking around for Zola. I met her dance partner, by the way. He seemed really worried about her. He’s been looking for her, too.”

  “How did you end up trapped?”

  I hiked my shoulders. “I was just checking the place out. Then I heard someone call my name. “

  “Man’s voice or woman’s voice?”

  “I couldn’t tell. It was a raspy whisper. It almost sounded like Zola’s voice. Next thing I know, wham! I’m stuck in that hot, dark room.”

  DJ cocked her head. “You said Mr. Andrews and Matt were there.”

  “Yeah. After I got out, I spotted them. They took me home.”

  “Why were they were at the center?”

  “Playing tennis, I guess. On the way home, we stopped at his office. Something to do with that hush-hush land deal Matt told us about.”

  DJ made a face and shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone. You had to go off and play detective while someone trashed this place.”

  I poked at the pile of cheese, thinking. “Well, I’m not giving up, Deej. This has made me even more worried. It looks like Zola’s really in trouble.”

  “Who knew you would be at the social center?” DJ asked.

  “Anna Norberg, for one. The Tuckers could have seen you leave, then followed Anna and me to the center, for two. And Zola’s dance pal, Milton, knew I was there.”

  As I talked, DJ peeled the avocado and put down a slice for each suspect. She added two more. “I hate to say it, but Matt and his Dad sure were close by when you got out.”

  “So five people either knew I would be there or saw me there. Not much help in narrowing things down.”

  Waving an arm at the chaos around us, she said, “At least we can’t blame Matt or his dad or that friend of Zola’s for this mess.”

  “Unless they had an accomplice.”

  DJ’s face fell. “Oh, yeah. Creepy, isn’t it?” She cleared the table and put out a jar of salsa and some napkins.

  I checked the pile of grated cheese on the board. It looked like enough. After placing a large flour tortilla in the skillet, I sprinkled the grated cheese on top. As soon as it began to melt, I added a few slices of avocado and folded the tortilla in half, browning the other side, just like Dad used to do. Before it burned, I slipped it onto a plate and did another one.

  With the first bite of my quesadilla I closed my eyes, letting the warm cheese ooze across my tongue. To me, anything with melted cheese was pure heaven.

  “Mmmm. For a while today, I wasn’t sure whether I’d ever eat again.”

  DJ slumped back in her chair, her eyes narrowed. “Please, promise me—don’t go exploring without me anymore. Your mom would kill me if anything happened to you.”

  Chapter 16

  THAT NIGHT I WAS TOO WIRED TO EVEN WATCH TV. Who had shut me in the kiln room? Who had trashed the house? Someone
out there must feel threatened enough to spy on us, follow us, and break in. What had I gotten myself into? The whole thing scared me to death, but it also made me determined to end it. Once and for all.

  It reminded me of a story Gran used to tell. A tiny mouse wanted to stop a hawk from swooping out of the sky and catching all her relatives. She propped up a pointy stick and piled some brush around it. Then she sat on top of the pile, waiting for the hawk. Sure enough, the hawk came by looking for lunch. Just when the hawk was about to grab her, the mouse dived into the brush, and the hawk speared itself on the pointy stick.

  Before going to bed, I spent a few moments with the David and Goliath painting. Just like Gran’s story, it showed the little guy up against the big guy. Staring at it, I felt a calmness flowing over me, comforting me. Dad was here—not just in the painting, but right here in the room. I felt his spirit close by me, just like Gran had felt about Granddad.

  “If someone’s out to get me, Dad,” I said, “let’s hope I’m as quick as that mouse.”

  I woke in the middle of the night to grumbles of thunder and bright lights flashing outside my window. Unlike the last time I woke up to noises, I knew what these were. Gran used to talk about a summer “monsoon season” here in the desert. This time of year brought wild lightning storms and, with any luck, tons of rain. The thunder grew louder, until it sounded like ten bowling alleys overhead. I gave up on trying to sleep, threw back the covers, transferred to my chair, and went out to the living room. When the lightning flashed, it cast an eerie glow over everything. Sometimes the flashes came so fast they were like cameras going off around a rock star.

  Lightning lit up the room again. In the brief seconds of brightness, I noticed the pile of old videos the burglar had dumped next to the television. These were the keepers I’d set aside, the home videos. Special only to us. Pictures of family—Mom, Dad, me … Dad! I hurried over, reached down, and fumbled through them, tossing the ones that didn’t interest me back into the box. The labels on the sides said things like “Christmas” or “Trip to Disneyland.” I finally found the most recent one, the one we made last summer just before the accident.