Chapter Six

Wigging Out

Early the next morning, the house was quiet except for my grandfather’s uneven snores drifting from his bedroom down the hall. My parents had gone into AmStar at the crack of dawn to keep the launch on schedule after losing a workday because of me—a fact they’d managed to mention each of the five times they’d reminded me about my Saturday yard work.

I pulled up the blinds in my room and stared across the street. The red clay tiles of Agford’s roof seemed black in the dim light, and the long windows gazed back emptily at me, like Agford’s eyes. It didn’t matter that the dark sedan was no longer outside. Her front lawn felt menacing enough.

I rang Agford’s bell at eight o’clock sharp. She opened the door so quickly that she must have been waiting and watching through the peephole. In one hand she brandished a sharp, shiny new pair of pruning shears. She held them out in front of her and pumped the handles together, grinning at the sound of their snip, snip. I flinched.

“Let’s put you to work, shall we?” She stepped outside and shut the door, locking what seemed to be a hundred dead bolts, then led me past the half-demolished ant colony where I’d tripped over the hose. I tightened my grip around Grace’s cell phone in my pocket and regretted telling her I’d be fine on my own.

I had to hide my surprise as Agford ushered me around back. Her front yard might have been flawless, but—in the light of day—her backyard was a disaster. If it hadn’t been for the hedge at the back fence and, of course, the kitchen windows, I wouldn’t have even recognized it. “Bit of a mess, huh?” Agford shook her head. She gestured at a tangle of brambles, pushed the pruning shears into my hands, and wished me luck.

I was supposed to remove endless climbing rosebushes that slunk their way throughout her garden and through a mess of ivy, doubling and tripling over to create forbidding dreadlocks of vegetation. In To Kill a Mockingbird Jem thought it was bad when Atticus made him read to old Mrs. Dubose after he ruined her flowers. I wonder how he would have liked doing forced labor for a possible fugitive.

Without gloves the work was bloody. But by then blood and this backyard were inseparable in my mind. As I worked, I imagined Agford watching me from her upstairs windows, delighting in each crimson scratch. When I looked up once, the curtains swung as though someone had just dashed away.

By ten o’clock I had cleared only about a quarter of the climbing roses, but I sat down in the shade for a break and braced myself for the two hours still ahead.

“How about something cold to drink?”

The voice made me jump. I turned to see Agford, her outstretched hand offering up bright red punch.

“A little leftover blood juice?” She laughed at her own joke, letting out a series of piggish snorts.

“Thanks,” I said. What choice did I have? I took the drink. Sure enough, it smelled of beets. I pretended to take a sip, giving myself a bloody mustache instead.

Agford looked at the pile of rosebush brambles I’d gathered. “I wish you’d spied on me months ago, Sophie. Next week maybe you can help with the garage.” There was the smile again, the lips that pulled back over her teeth like an animal bearing its fangs.

“I’m headed out for some errands,” Agford continued. “If I’m not back before noon, just put the shears by the side door. Watch your step, now. That hose can sneak up on you.” With that, she swiveled on her heels and headed inside, where she again made an elaborate show of locking every door and window before she left.

I went back to work and tried not to look at the house. It seemed strange that Agford would leave me alone on my first day. Suspicious, even. But, as curious as I was about what Agford might be hiding behind those walls, I wasn’t about to risk a trap.

An hour later my T-shirt was damp with sweat. A blister bubbled up on my thumb. I was debating slipping home to get a Band-Aid when—suddenly—a piercing shriek rang out across the street. By the time I had spun around to look, the shriek had already given way to giggles. Through Agford’s side yard I could see Jocelyn, Natalie, and Grace spilling out of a minivan, crouched over, they were laughing so hard. Natalie wore a gauzy scarf just like Grace’s. Grace was tugging on it, trying to snatch back a picture from Natalie and Jocelyn.

I gripped the pruning shears and hacked at the rosebushes. I knew I’d told Grace I’d be fine, but did she really have to yuk it up with Jocelyn and Natalie right in front of me? I mean, she hadn’t even looked my way. The three of them were probably headed to Grace’s room to fawn over Nux Vomica pictures or something. I ripped away a tangled rose vine. It whipped against my arm. I winced.

“Hi,” said a voice behind me.

It was Grace. Though she looked carefree in her loose sundress and sandals, her eyebrows were knitted in concern.

“You scared me,” I said, hoping Grace would think my flushed cheeks were from the heat. God, I was stupid. Of course Grace hadn’t forgotten about me. I glanced toward the road. The minivan was gone. They’d just been dropping off Grace after Chinese school, before continuing their Jocelyn and Natalie gigglefest somewhere else. I guess they hadn’t gone out to lunch after all.

“I saw Agford’s convertible in town and figured the coast was clear,” Grace said. “Everything okay?” She twisted one of her long French braids around her finger nervously. Each of her fingernails was painted a different fluorescent shade. I hadn’t noticed them before. She’d probably painted them with Jocelyn and Natalie sometime, but I tried not to care.

“Yeah.” I looked back at the house. The curtain in the upstairs window that had twitched earlier hung slightly open now. Or was that the glare? “You should go,” I said. “If Agford comes back . . .”

“But this is the perfect opportunity!” Grace interrupted, her eyes flashing. “When did she say she’d be back?”

“Oh, no. No way.” I raised the shears, attacking the rose vines with a vicious snip. “After what happened last time?”

“This time we know she’s trying to hide something, Sophie.” She looked at me with pleading eyes. “Twenty minutes?”

“She locked up the house.”

“We can peer in the windows, at least.”

I turned to Agford’s. The blue sky reflected in the windowpanes made the house seem friendlier than it had before—like maybe it wouldn’t even mind if we slipped closer for a quick peek. I looked back at Grace. I was getting tired of reining her in all the time. It wasn’t like I could get in much worse trouble than I already was.

“Ten minutes,” I said.

“Fifteen.”

“How about until we get caught and your parents disown you?”

“Deal.” Grace shook my limp hand and smiled.

She crept toward the house, leading the way. Fearing she’d trip an alarm, I cringed as she tugged at the locked patio door and waved me forward to the kitchen windows. My stomach somersaulted as we pressed our faces up against the cold glass and peeked through the famous gap in the blinds. There was no terrifyingly sharp cleaver lying around. No blood spattered across the counter. Just a cereal box and a copy of Us Weekly. Grace complimented Agford’s taste in reading before beckoning me toward the basement windows. We flattened ourselves on the ground to peer in, not sure exactly what we were hoping to find. Boxes lined the walls, and dust floated in the beams of light that stabbed their way through the dark. Not much else.

We stood up and brushed ourselves off. Grace froze. Her eyes went wide. I turned to look. I nearly screamed.

It was Agford. Right above us in the bathroom window. There was no mistaking her puffy cloud of hair. If she hadn’t already seen us spying, she’d catch us both as soon as she turned around. So Agford knew her Sun Tzu, too. Had to go do some errands? Right. When you are near, you must pretend you are far. Nice one, Charlotte.

Grace hoisted herself up to the window. Panic seized me. I would have reached out to stop her if my short legs hadn’t rooted themselves in place. I couldn’t even cry out for fear Agford would hear us.

“Relax, Soph! It’s not her,” Grace said. “Look.” She pointed.

To the right on a shelf stood Agford’s helmet of hair. Or, more accurately, one of her helmets of hair. Perfectly coiffed, it flared out from its perch on a Styrofoam head.

“A wig!” I laughed.

“I guess we know what’s up with that hairdo now,” Grace said, giggling as she eased herself down from the sill.

“And why she never puts the top down on that convertible.” I snickered.

“Ha! I know,” Grace said. “Can you imagine—?” The color drained from Grace’s face. “Oh my God, Sophie.”

“What?”

“What woman buys a convertible when she wears a wig?”

I shrugged. “Maybe she bought the convertible before she bought the wig.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?” Grace gripped my arm. Her eyes were filled with fear. “It’s a disguise, Sophie.”

The back of my neck prickled. Women wear wigs all the time, I tried to tell myself. During cancer treatment. If they’re old and losing hair. To achieve a certain look. Agford’s wearing a wig wasn’t necessarily a disguise. So why were my hands shaking?

Just then a dark blue sedan cruised slowly past Agford’s house. Our heads turned to follow it.