Suspect #6: Pamela Preston
“I’m at the mall,” said Pamela tartly, when Bethesda called her on Saturday morning at 10:45. “By all means, come on by.”
So Bethesda Fielding, Master Detective, unchained her blue Schwinn and rode to Pilverton Mall. She walked past the movie theater and the video arcade; she walked past the Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips and the Sbarro’s Pizza in the Food Court, smiling in passing at Chef Pilverton with his big wooden rolling pin; she walked past the Build-a-Bear Workshop and the H&M. She found Pamela Preston just where she said she would be: shopping with Natasha at Brace Yourself, a tiny store on the second floor that sold only bracelets.
Bethesda’s theory about Pamela Preston had been simmering in her head for over two weeks now, bubbling away quietly like a pot of her father’s chili. There was nothing left to do but confront her and see what happens. The worse thing she can do is laugh at me, Bethesda thought. Which, as it turned out, was exactly what happened.
“Oh my god, Pam, that is so cute on you!”
“You’re right. It is.”
Pamela was modeling a pink-and-black bracelet, studying her own arm in the mirror while Natasha oohed and aahed appreciatively. Bethesda muttered argle bargle under her breath—she would have preferred to talk to this particular suspect alone. Of course Bethesda had to interrogate Natasha, too, but one thing at a time, right? At least Todd Spolin, who usually traveled with Pamela and Natasha in a little pack, was nowhere to be seen.
“Ah. Detective Fielding,” said Pamela, her voice lightly glazed with sarcasm, as she worked the pink-and-black bracelet over her hand and replaced it with something jangly and silver. “How can I help you?”
Pamela smirked, and Natasha shifted uncomfortably, looking like she wished she were somewhere else.
“Well, okay,” Bethesda began. “Pam, do you remember when we were on the Hustlin’ Pancakes?”
“Of course.”
When they were six and seven, and still close friends, Bethesda and Pamela had both been star defensemen on the soccer team sponsored by a popular local diner. “And do you remember the time I twisted my ankle and they had to call off the whole game because I was so hurt? And do you remember how, afterward, my dad took us all out for root beer floats, to make me feel better?”
“I love root beer,” Natasha said softly, and smiled awkwardly.
“The truth is—” Bethesda continued, but Pamela cut her off.
“Ooh . . . the truth is, the great Bethesda Fielding faked it! Tsk, tsk.” Bethesda winced. Pamela was too smart—she could already see where Bethesda was going. “So, what, you think I stole my own trophy? To get attention?”
“Um . . . that’s not exactly what I’m saying.” In fact, it was. That was exactly what she was saying. “I just mean—”
That’s when Pamela laughed at Bethesda, tilting her head back to let out a long, pretty laugh, like a tinkle of sleigh bells. “You caught me!” she cried out between giggles. “I did it! Oh, have mercy on me!”
“Pamela.”
But she kept right on laughing. Natasha laughed, too, but falteringly, like she didn’t really understand what they were laughing about. Bethesda just stood there, looking around the store as the waves of mocking laughter washed over her. This unpleasant interlude was at last interrupted by the high school junior who worked at the store.
“Excuse me? Aren’t you that girl who got her trophy stolen?”
Pamela nodded, immediately dropping the laughter and putting back on the tearful, vulnerable expression she’d been wearing for three weeks.
“Oh, wow. I’m so sorry. That bracelet is totally on the house.”
“Aw, thank you so much.”
Pamela winked brazenly at Bethesda, took Natasha by the arm, and swept out of the store in a cloud of lilac perfume, her new bracelet glittering on her arm. Bethesda sighed, toying idly with the racks of bracelets. Did Pamela really think her theory was as stupid as she acted? Or did she want Bethesda to feel foolish, because she really did steal her own trophy?
“Hey. You.” The high school girl crossed her arms and scowled. “You gonna buy something or what?”