Bess looked at the two of us with wide eyes. “Whew, she’s good. Why isn’t she running for office?” she whispered.
George didn’t look quite convinced, though. “Because she lies too much?” she whispered back.
“Of course,” Julia was saying now, picking up her wineglass and settling back in her chair, as if this were just a casual fireside chat, “I’m sure Carrie would consider giving other incentives to drivers. The idea is to raise as much money for the schools as possible. Perhaps we cut down on bus service so more people will drive?”
George cleared her throat. She looked like she’d heard enough of Julia explaining what Carrie did and didn’t believe. “Actually,” she said, “I’m pretty sure Carrie would be against cutting bus service in this town. A lot of people rely on it. Also, didn’t you tell us that you took the bus here tonight?”
Silence fell over the table, so thick and unexpected, it was like we’d all been covered in glue. Julia turned and looked over at the three of us—as if noticing us for the first time—and clearly did not like what she saw. The older man, who hadn’t acknowledged the three of us in any way up to that point, gave George a disapproving look.
Julia pasted on a frozen smile and cleared her throat. “I’m sure you misunderstood my story, George,” she said, before waving a vague hand in our direction. “I love to drive. Anyway, have you met Carrie’s little cousin and her friends, Mr. Driscoll? Sooooo cute, aren’t they? Carrie thought it would be fun to let them come to this dinner and get a little firsthand political education. Of course, they’re all too young to fully understand the ins and outs. . . .” She glanced up, and her eyes shot daggers at George. “George, would you be a dear and go find the waitress? We need a coffee refill.”
George glared at her for a second, but then quickly seemed to remember how much her cousin needed Julia and got up from the table. “Sure thing,” she murmured, before disappearing into the crowd. I turned around and shot Bess a look: Poor George. She nodded as the conversation continued around us, the three of us forgotten.
A few minutes later, while George was still gone, Carrie stepped up to the podium that had been set up on a raised platform along the inner wall of the ballroom. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, and the ballroom erupted in applause. “I wanted to tell you a little bit about how much I love Boylestown— and some of my plans for its future, should I be lucky enough to be elected to the town council.”
Carrie paused and took a breath, and George slipped back to our table and sat down. She shot an annoyed look at Julia, but the campaign manager was already focused on Carrie’s speech, making a video recording with her phone.
“As I was saying,” Carrie went on, “I love this town. When I was just a little girl—”
At that moment, a loud noise came over the sound system—like someone breathing deeply into a microphone. It didn’t line up with what Carrie was doing, though, and that was confusing. I glanced at Bess and George, wondering what we were hearing, when suddenly Carrie’s voice came booming out of the speakers at a much higher volume than her actual speech. “I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY THINK,” the voice, clearly Carrie’s, boomed through the speakers, “AS LONG AS THEY CAN AFFORD A TICKET. ONCE I’M ELECTED, I CAN DO WHAT I WANT. I DON’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO A BUNCH OF RICH OLD FOGEYS!”
A stunned silence fell over the crowd, followed immediately by a buzz of angry voices. What was going on? Carrie stopped her speech, looking like a deer in the headlights—where was this coming from?
George was frowning, looking at the nearest speaker. “It’s a recording,” she whispered. “Somebody’s playing it over the sound system.”
“But why?” Bess hissed.
“And where did they get it?” I added. “It sounded like Carrie was insulting the kind of rich donors to her campaign who are here tonight!”
George shook her head, looking over at Julia. The pretty redhead had stood up and was craning her neck to look into the back room. She glanced back at Carrie onstage and spread her arms wide, as if to say, I don’t know what’s going on—I can’t help you.
Carrie cleared her throat. “I—I—” But as soon as she spoke into the microphone, her voice was drowned out by angry shouts.
“When did you say that, Ms. Kim?”
“When was that recording made?”
“If you really feel that way about your supporters, why are we wasting our time here?”
Carrie shook her head, looking miserable. “I didn’t—just give me a minute, please—I can’t—”
But people were already beginning to push back from their tables and throw their napkins onto their plates. Angry voices joined in frustration, a kind of chorus of disgruntlement.
“—show her what I think about her attitude—”
“—entitled and selfish!—”
“—throw my support behind the other candidates—”
Carrie was stunned and silent at the podium. She watched with hollow eyes as many of the guests headed for the door. Even the older man at our table, Mr. Driscoll, who’d been so concerned about the parking meters, shook his head and got up.
“Please, Mr. Driscoll, don’t go,” Julia begged, her smile wide but desperate. “Obviously we’re having some sort of technical difficulty, but I know Carrie’s heart—”
But Mr. Driscoll gave Julia a look of pure contempt. “I’m leaving. At the very least, Ms. Kim has some explaining to do,” he said crisply. “I am withdrawing my support until she can explain her statements.”
Julia’s face fell like an undercooked soufflé. Mr. Driscoll nodded at the carefully styled older woman next to him, and they rose to leave together. Slowly the rest of our table began moving on too. I looked helplessly at Bess and George. It seemed safe to say that the dinner was breaking up.
George squeezed my arm. “Let’s go find Carrie,” she said.
I didn’t argue. I could imagine that whatever had happened tonight, George’s cousin could use a sympathetic ear right about now.
Bess, George, and I all made our way to the corner of the platform where Carrie stood, bent over and looking stricken.
“Are you okay?” George asked softly, touching her cousin’s shoulder.
Carrie let out a sharp laugh and turned. Her eyes were red with tears.
“I’m very much not okay,” she whispered, dissolving into a sob. “I don’t even know what happened!”
“Someone must have hacked into the sound system to play a recording,” George explained.
“Was that recording really you?” Bess asked softly.
Carrie nodded. “That was really my voice,” she said. “But those words were taken totally out of context! This was a conversation I had with a few local reporters. The piece you heard was part of a much longer answer about how I’m not going to be swayed by special interests—I want to govern in the best interest of my constituents.” She sniffled. “I think it’s important for politicians to represent their town fairly—not just the people with money.”
“Well, someone got access to that recording and created a totally different message,” George said grimly. “Someone with pretty good editing software, because it sounded natural. Usually if you cut and patch dialogue together like that, it sounds choppy.”
Carrie shook her head and swiped at her eyes. I followed her gaze across the room, where Julia was chasing down a group of four little old ladies. “—all a big misunderstanding!” she was saying. “If you knew the Carrie I know—like I know her . . .”
Hmmmmmm.
My mind was spinning a mile a minute. So many questions were swirling around in my brain. If Carrie was telling the truth and the recording was taken out of context, who would want to sabotage her campaign like this? Was it the same person who’d written the mystery note? Could this be step one of what the note had promised: YOU’LL BE SORRY? And did it all trace back to worries about the environmental effects of building a new sports complex?
Carrie accepted a tissue Bess offe
red from her purse and wiped her face, then noisily blew her nose. She seemed to be trying to pull herself together. “Come on, girls,” she said, looking from George to Bess to me. “I want to see something.”
Carrie led us through a closed doorway that led to a noisy, hot space. The kitchen lay down a narrow hallway. Just off the hallway was the control room.
Carrie walked over to a large sound system. She reached out, and before I could yell, Don’t touch it—you’ll mess up the fingerprints!, she pulled a tiny flash drive from a USB port.
George held up her hand. “Give it to me,” she said. She dug into the black leather tote she’d brought and pulled out her shiny tablet. As soon as Carrie handed her the drive, George had it plugged in and was touching the screen to play the audio file that lay within.
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY THINK . . .” Carrie’s voice rang out, small and tinny, from the tablet’s speakers.
George stopped the recording and looked at me. “Ladies,” she said, “I think we’ve found some evidence.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Fishing for a Culprit
WHEN I GOT HOME AFTER the failed fund-raiser, I felt so exhausted that I got into bed right away. I figured I’d be out like a light as soon as my eyes closed. But instead I tossed and turned for an hour, mulling the whole case over in my head: Carrie’s sports complex plan. What it would do to Willow Woods. Barney and the mysterious Ms. Meyerhoff, beloved teacher and Green Club sponsor. How effortlessly Julia had bent the truth to win over Mr. Driscoll. And the recording—which Carrie claimed was manipulated—and her face when we’d gone to comfort her after her speech was disrupted.
What was really going on here?
I stared out the window at the willow tree outside my bedroom, the long fronds undulating softly in the night breeze. I wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but I must have, because suddenly . . .
I stood in a small clearing surrounded by dense forest. It was pitch dark there—I had a tiny flashlight to light my path—and even though I knew we weren’t far from the high school or the road it sat on, it was dead silent.
How had I gotten there? Where was everybody?
“Bess? George?” I called urgently, shining my flashlight in a slow circle around me. “Dad?”
An owl hooted, and when I turned around, Barney was standing right in front of me, his pale skin almost blue in the dull light.
“How did you get here so quickly?” I demanded. I hadn’t heard any movement behind me.
Barney just smiled. “I think a better question is, what took you so long? Come on.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the trees so roughly I dropped my flashlight. “Wait . . . wait!” I cried. “I lost my—”
Barney turned around, his lip pulled back in a sneer. “You don’t need it,” he hissed, dragging me farther. “This is important, Nancy. I want you to stand right here.”
He knows my real name? The thought occurred to me after Barney pushed me roughly up onto a tree stump, then disappeared into the darkness.
“Barney?” I called. “Barney? Where are you?”
“Don’t move!” his voice yelled from the darkness, but I still couldn’t make him out or tell where the voice was coming from. He sounded angry now. “Really, Nancy, it’s the least you can do.”
I stood uncertainly on the stump, staring into the darkness. What’s the least I can do?
Then I was blinded by an overpoweringly bright light. I let out a cry, but it was lost in the ear-melting roar that suddenly came from behind the light, the sound of a hundred truck engines starting up at once. The light started moving toward me, and I realized what it was: a steamroller! And it was headed right at me!
I screamed again. “Barney!” I tried to scramble off the stump, but it felt like my feet were held by heavy concrete. “I’m stuck here! What do I do? What do I do?”
He slipped up next to me then, as silently and surprisingly as he’d first appeared. His expression held a terrible disappointment.
“Duh, Nancy,” he said, turning to the oncoming steamroller with a shrug. “Just tell them to stop.”
I woke up panting, soaked with sweat. The tree outside my window shifted in the breeze, the leaves making a soft shhhh sound, and it only made me tremble harder. I glanced at the clock by my bed: 3:24 a.m.
It was just a dream. I settled back against my pillows, trying to calm my jangled nerves. It can’t hurt you. It was just a dream.
I tried counting to one hundred, slowing my breathing, imagining myself at the beach—all the things that usually calmed me down. But nothing seemed to work.
It was just a dream, I told myself again.
But why did it feel so real?
The next day I stumbled through school, tired and irritable, until my last, free period, when I changed my clothes and jumped into my car. I was back at Boylestown High, filled with a new sense of purpose, just as the bell signaling the end of the school day rang. Sure, in real life, Barney had seemed nice enough, and the goals of the Green Club seemed noble and sensible. If Carrie’s sports complex really was going to cause irreparable damage, then yes, it made sense to let people know. But the events at last night’s fund-raising dinner still turned my stomach. It seemed awfully below the belt to frame Carrie for saying something she’d never really said, robbing of her the chance to explain her views.
As the hallways cleared, I stepped cautiously through the doorway of room 238—sophomore English. “Ms. Meyerhoff?” I asked.
The woman I saw at the desk was not at all what I was expecting for the Green Club advisor and possible note writer. She was soft and round, with slightly frizzy, long brown hair and warm, gentle brown eyes. I realized that in the back of my mind, I’d been imagining some hip, edgy woman with piercings, organic designer clothes, and a punkish haircut. “Can I help you?” she asked, looking up curiously.
I cleared my throat. “Um . . . I hope so.”
She smiled encouragingly. “Need some help with Shakespeare?” she asked, organizing some books on her desk. “All the English teachers send confused students my way. Just read it out loud. It always helps. It’s amazing how universal the problems seem when you speak the words out loud.”
I pulled my laptop out of my backpack. “Actually . . . I’m an intern for the Boylestown Bugle. I’m doing an article on the new football field and sports complex that Carrie Kim is proposing. I’m collecting quotes from a sample of teachers. Would you mind chatting for just a moment?”
Ms. Meyerhoff’s open expression suddenly closed off, and she sighed and shuffled her books into a messenger bag. “I’m sure you could find more interesting people to talk to, Ms. . . . What was your name?”
“I’m sorry.” I put my laptop down on a desk and held out my hand. “Katrina Vicks. And I’m interested in whatever you have to say, really.”
Ms. Meyerhoff gave me an appraising look, then shrugged and sat back down behind her desk. “Very well. Can we make it quick, though? I have a dentist appointment in half an hour.”
I smiled and sat down at one of the student desks, opening up my laptop. “Great. No problem. Can I ask your name and what subjects you teach?”
She nodded. “Ms. Meyerhoff—Marina—and I teach English and music.”
I nodded too and tapped out some notes on the laptop. “And how long have you been at BHS, Ms. Meyerhoff?”
“Twelve years.”
A long time. I typed that down as well, thinking that Ms. Meyerhoff had been at BHS long enough to develop some strong opinions.
I looked up. “And—Ms. Meyerhoff—can you tell me honestly, how do you feel about the proposed sports complex?”
Ms. Meyerhoff shook her head and looked down at her sweater, where she pulled at a pilling bit. “Well, honestly? I’m sure it will be nice for the athletes, but I wish that money could be spent on arts education instead. Did you know we had to let two art teachers go last year, because there wasn’t enough money? But we have money for a new state-of-the-art spor
ts complex. I know the woman proposing the complex was some kind of sports prodigy when she was a student here. I just wonder about this town’s priorities sometimes.”
I nodded dutifully and wrote all that down. Then I paused and looked Ms. Meyerhoff in the eye. “So the environment doesn’t feature at all in your concerns?”
Ms. Meyerhoff didn’t blink. “The environment? What about it?”
I pulled the flyer Barney had given me from my backpack, unfolded it, and handed it to her. “Are you familiar with these conflicts? This flyer was handed out by the Green Club.”
Ms. Meyerhoff took the paper from me, glanced down at it, then up at me. “Yes, I am familiar with these. And?”
I cleared my throat. “Are you opposed to the sports complex for the reasons detailed in the flyer?”
She shook her head. “I’m more concerned about what it says about how much this town values sports versus art education.” She glanced at her watch. “Is that all? I’m running short on time.”
I kept pressing. “But aren’t you the faculty sponsor of the Green Club?”
Ms. Meyerhoff stopped short and gave me a curious look. “I’m sorry. What kind of an interview is this?”
I tried to smile. “A thorough one?” I glanced down at my laptop, pretended to type something, and added, “I’m really just hoping to get a wide range of opinions on the proposal, Ms. Meyerhoff.”
She stared at me for a moment, bemused. “Yes, I am the faculty sponsor for the Green Club, but I have little input—the kids run the club themselves. I’m sure they put a lot of research into this flyer, and it was written by one of my best students. Would you like to talk to her?”
I nodded vigorously, then tried to slow myself down, lest I look insane. “That would be very helpful, yes.”
“It’s Eloise Stromberg,” Ms. Meyerhoff said, then spelled it. “Did you get that?”
“Yes.” I typed the name into my notes, then looked up at Ms. Meyerhoff. She really doesn’t seem like an angry note writer, I reflected. She seems like someone’s kindly, artsy aunt. “Thank you very much. I hope I didn’t make you late to your appointment.”