Deadly Ride Page 2

  “It’s not skeevy or porny! It’s sexy. My generation thinks sexy is rad.”

  “Your generation?” Marisa asked, her voice rising an octave. “We’re the same generation!”

  “No, we’re not. I’m younger.”

  “By two measly years!”

  “So? That’s an entire generation.”

  “Do you even know what a generation is?”

  I decided to intervene before this got out of hand. “Look, this stuff you’re posting? It’s porny and I don’t like it and neither does Mom. Or Dad.”

  Marisa, who was smirking triumphantly, said, “See? I told you.”

  “And you need to lighten up,” I told her. “Maya has a beautiful singing voice and she’s right. She just might follow in Charlene’s footsteps one day.” When Maya squeaked out a happy squeal, I quickly added, “But not today.”

  Her squeal ended in a pouty whimper. “So when?”

  I shrugged. “When Charlene decides to retire.”

  “But that can take years!”

  “Generations,” Marisa muttered.

  “So. You’ll have to wait years. Which doesn’t mean you can’t work on your craft and become a great singer in the meantime.”

  “And get rid of the demeaning porny stuff,” Marisa said.

  “It’s not demeaning or porny!” she yelled as we descended the stairs. “It’s all in perfectly good taste.”

  “Which simply tells me you’ve got lousy taste,” Marisa said.

  “You’ve got lousy taste.”

  “You take that back!”

  “You take it back!”

  I rolled my eyes as we entered the kitchen. Mom and Dad were already breakfasting, Dad on the phone with one of his engineers and Mom checking her iPad. Dad is a stocky man in his early fifties with a tan, lined face and blond hair streaked with gray. Mom, like my sisters and I, is delicate and dark-haired. Her brow was furrowed as she read up on the candidates that had applied for a summer job. Dad ended his call just as we walked in.

  “Mom. Dad,” said Maya, planting her hand on her hip. “Marisa says I should ditch the Instagram. What do you think? She’s totally off-base, right?”

  Dad glanced up, then looked at Mom, who put down the iPad. “Honey, do you really feel that those lurid pictures are what you want to be known for?” Mom asked gently.

  “They’re not lurid!” she yelled, stomping her foot. “They’re… art.”

  Dad arched an eyebrow. “Art is… Well, I admit I don’t know the first thing about art, but I’m pretty sure what you’re posting is not it.”

  “And did you really have to post that picture of you smoking that cigarette in the nude?” Mom asked with a worried frown. “This is a family park, honey. We promote a healthy, wholesome lifestyle.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Mom that wasn’t a cigarette but a joint. Along with the Instagram thing Maya had fully embraced marijuana lately.

  “It’s the it thing, Mom,” said Maya. “Everybody’s doing it these days.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to do it,” said Dad. “If everybody jumped off a cliff, would you jump, too?”

  Maya looked dubious. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Look, you have to set an example, honey,” Dad tried again. “Be a leader, not a follower, if you see what I mean.”

  “I am setting an example,” Maya said. “I have half a million followers.”

  Mom gave her a look of confusion. “People follow you… how, exactly?”

  “They watch my pictures, Mom,” said Maya. “And they read my messages. I’m an inspiration to a lot of people now.” She took a deep breath. “Which is why I think it’s time for me to headline Sapsuckeroo this year.”

  “Oh, not again,” Marisa groaned.

  Mom and Dad shared another look. This wasn’t going to go over well. “Charlene headlines Sapsuckeroo, honey,” Mom said. “She has for the last forty years.”

  “So I think it’s time for something new,” said Maya brightly. “Me.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to sit well with your grandmother,” said Dad.

  “She’s the one who suggested it!” said Maya. “She said she was sick and tired of putting herself out there and people being ungrateful and it was time for someone else to do the work for a change. And when I told her I could headline, she said I was welcome to it since she was never going to set foot on stage ever again. Ever. Yes, she repeated ‘ever’ twice.”

  Mom gave her a sweet smile. “Honey, you know how Charlene gets. You probably caught her at a bad time. Maybe she read a bad review.”

  “Yeah, she’s promised to quit about a million times,” said Marisa. “But when push comes to shove she never does. Just keeps on going. And going. And going. Just like that Energizer bunny.”

  She sounded wistful, as if she couldn’t wait for the day Charlene would hang up her hat and quit showbiz for good.

  “She just wants people to clamor for her return,” I said. “She wants them all to go ‘Oh, no, Charlene, you can’t quit! You’re the greatest—you’re the best—you’re the star—please don’t quit! Please, please, pretty please, Charlene!’ So she makes her triumphant comeback and then after a year threatens to quit all over again. It’s just a ploy to get more attention.”

  I suddenly sensed how a hush had descended upon the kitchen. And how my family were all staring at me with bated breath.

  I didn’t turn. “She’s right behind me, isn’t she?”

  They all nodded. So I swiveled around and saw my grandmother standing in the kitchen door, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together. She might be slim, but she’s a force to be reckoned with. Her trademark big blond hair was piled high on top of her head, and her sizable bust was barely concealed beneath the folds of her pink housecoat.

  “Oh, hi, Gran,” I said in as chipper a voice as I could muster. “So glad to see you. How did you sleep? Well, I hope? Did you have breakfast already? No? Why don’t I set you a plate? And pour you a cup of coffee?”

  “I heard you,” she said in that trademark raspy voice of hers that has enthralled millions over the last forty years. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you because I did. Making fun of me. Saying horrible things behind my back.”

  “Maya wants to headline Sapsuckeroo this year,” I quickly said, blithely throwing my sister under the bus. Hey. When it comes to Charlene it’s every woman for herself.

  Maya gasped, “Ooh, you didn’t!” Then shot me a killer look.

  “Well, you do. She says you promised her she could,” I added.

  Charlene’s eyes swiveled from me to Maya. “I headline Sapsuckeroo. I’ve headlined Sapsuckeroo for the last forty years and—God willing—I hope to headline it for the next forty too.”

  “Which would make you a hundred-and-five,” Dad muttered.

  “But you promised!” said Maya, doing that foot-stomping thing again.

  “I promised no such thing!” Charlene snapped.

  “Maybe you forgot?” Maya tried.

  Charlene’s eyes shot fire. “Are you calling me senile, young lady? I’m far from senile. I know what I said and I said no such thing.”

  “You said you were sick and tired of people being ungrateful and that it was time for someone else to put herself out there for a change. You said you were never going to sing live on stage again! Ever! You even said ‘ever’ twice, so you were serious this time!”

  “You must have misheard. I’m sure I never said that.”

  “You did, too!”

  “The stage is my life. I would never quit.” She walked up to the table and plunked down on a chair, pouring herself a cup of piping hot black coffee. She pushed at her mass of bottle blond curls. “Besides, you’re not ready. To headline Sapsuckeroo you need to be a star. You’re not a star. Yet.”

  Maya clung to this last word. “But I’m going to be a star one day, right?”

  Charlene took a sip of coffee, pouring the hot brew down her throat as if it was l
ined with Kevlar. She grimaced. “Before you’re a star you still have a thing or two to learn, honey. First of all, a real star projects refinement. Grace and beauty. Which means she doesn’t look like a prostitute. Or posts a lot of porny stuff on the Internet.”

  “I don’t look like a prostitute! And my pictures are artful!”

  “And what’s more, smoking pot will ruin your voice, so you better stop that nonsense.”

  “Pot?” Mom’s eyes had gone wide. “Have you been smoking pot?”

  Maya groaned. “Everybody does it, Mom. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal to us,” Dad grumbled. “You’re not to smoke that stuff again, you hear me? What if the press found out?”

  The entire world had already found out, as she’d been posting pictures of her bong online, calling herself Lady Bong Bong. Very original.

  “But all the stars smoke nowadays! Just look at Miley Cyrus.”

  “I’m pretty sure Miley stopped smoking pot,” Marisa said. “Her boyfriend made her. And she stopped posting the porny stuff, too.”

  “‘I’m a star and I don’t smoke,” said Charlene. “I used to smoke when I started out, but Captain Sellers said I should stop if I wanted to go places, so I did. Smartest thing I ever did. I’d be dead if I hadn’t listened to him.”

  Captain Sellers was Charlene’s manager. He’d owned a record label back in the day, and had made her a star by recording her first-ever hit. Even though he was now older than Methuselah, he was still around.

  “I can’t stop now, Mom,” said Maya. “People will accuse me of being wishy-washy.”

  “Look, us Ruggs don’t go in for this kind of nonsense so you’ll stop now or else,” Dad growled.

  Maya uttered an exasperated howl and stomped off. We heard her pound up the stairs and then slam the door to her room. Moments later the sounds of one of the songs she’d been working on came drifting down. There was another loud bang, and a fine plume of plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  Dad quickly rose, his face beet-red, but Mom shook her head and he settled down again, his jaw working furiously. Maya might be twenty-two, but she still acted like a teenager. Maybe she was right. Maybe she did belong to a younger generation than Marisa and me.

  “Did you really promise her she could headline this year?” I asked Charlene.

  My grandmother shrugged. “If I did I’m sure I don’t remember.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of you,” Marisa said. “Raising her hopes like that. You know how she’s dying to get out there and perform on the big stage.”

  “Well, she’ll just have to wait,” said Charlene, picking up a piece of toast and languidly buttering it. When she felt our eyes on her, she added with a laugh, “I’m not dead yet. I’ve headlined Sapsuckeroo for forty years and—”

  “At least do a duet with her,” said Mom. “You owe her that much.”

  Charlene uttered an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, all right, if it means that much to her I’ll do a duet. Maybe I’ll even let her do a song.” She held up her perfectly manicured index finger. “Just one song, mind you. Give the girl a finger and she’s liable to take a leg.”

  “An arm,” I said.

  “That, too.”

  “I’ll go tell her,” said Marisa, pushing herself up from the table.

  I watched her leave and smiled. Marisa and Maya might fight a lot, but they also care about each other. Well, we all do. Us Ruggs are a pretty tight-knit bunch. You have to be, when you’re running a business together.

  Mom picked up her iPad again, Dad took out his phone, and so did Charlene. I munched down a Nutella sandwich and was just about to take out my phone as well—the picture of the modern American family—when Luitpold walked into the kitchen, a grave look on his face.

  “There’s been an incident,” he said.

  “An incident?” I asked, already getting up.

  “Two kids found the body of a woman at the bottom of the Haunted Ride. Looks like she fell out.”

  Chapter 2

  Luitpold—also known as Leo—is a heavy and hearty man, who’s worked for my family since Charleneland opened in 1993. Back then, the park was even smaller than it is today, and Luitpold handled security pretty much all by himself, along with his small crew. Now, with security demands expanding, we oversee a large team of professionals, to make sure everyone is safe when they come to Charleneland. We even do bag checks nowadays.

  We left the house, which is located on the edge of the park, and started in the direction of the Haunted Ride, which is basically a rollercoaster rumbling through a classic haunted house, with skeletons and monsters popping up, and a sound and light show to add chills and thrills.

  We set out along Main Street, with its candy stores and restaurants, our feet pounding the asphalt. Tourists were already milling about, licking ice cream cones and eating hot dogs and blissfully unaware of the drama that had taken place.

  “We took the kids and their moms to the lodge and comped them a suite. It’s the least we could do,” Luitpold said, taking off his cap and wiping his brow with his sleeve. It was getting pretty hot already, even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. “They’re two ten-year-old cousins. Jamie McDougall and Carson Morse. They wanted to check out what was going on inside the Haunted Ride. They figured it was probably full of monsters and ghouls and skeletons and stuff.”

  “They must have been surprised when they found an actual dead person inside.”

  “Ran out of there screaming like banshees, straight into Charlene’s childhood home. Their moms alerted Byron, the ride operator, who immediately shut down the ride and called in the incident.”

  “So who is the victim?”

  “Anny Reckitt. A voice doctor. Pretty famous one, too.”

  “A voice doctor?”

  “Yeah. A laryngologist. Treated artists with vocal issues.”

  “So what exactly happened?”

  Luitpold shrugged. “Looks like she fell from the ride. Though how that’s possible I don’t know.”

  “Maybe the harness malfunctioned?”

  “If that were the case, Byron would have noticed. He checks the cars when they return to his station.”

  We’d arrived at the Haunted Ride, and I saw a couple of Luitpold’s men talking out in front. And then I saw the cop. He was talking to Byron, taking notes.

  “When did the police get here?”

  “Just before I went and got you.”

  I didn’t recognize the cop. “Where’s Frank?”

  Frank Gifford was the cop we usually dealt with at the park. Whenever there was a problem, he was the one to come in and handle it.

  “Didn’t you hear? Frank retired last month. This is his replacement. Blane Jamison. And I hear he’s a real hard-ass. He was LAPD but got transferred out here when he arrested some famous rapper on a bogus charge. The rapper filed a complaint with the Police Commission so the Chief of Police sent him out here to cool his heels.”

  “He doesn’t look happy.”

  “Nope. I guess he’s not a fan of Sapsucker. Or Charleneland.”

  He also looked very handsome. The sun glinted off his sunglasses, and lent his blond curly hair a gorgeous sheen. If not a cop, he could have made a career as a hair product model. He was also broad and built like a Muscle Beach bodybuilder.

  He looked up when we joined him and Byron.

  “Detective Jamison? Meet Mia Rugg. She represents the family. Mia, this is Detective Blane Jamison.”

  He gave me a slight nod. “Miss Rugg.”

  “So what have we got here, Officer Jamison?”

  “Detective Jamison. What we’ve got is either gross negligence on the part of your family, Miss Rugg, or… murder.”

  I slowly turned to him. “Murder? How do you figure that?”

  “Mr. Laraway here just told me there’s no way those over-the-shoulder harnesses could have malfunctioned. He says he checks them after every ride and he never noticed any problem. He also menti
oned that there’s an emergency release located underneath the seat, and maybe Mrs. Reckitt triggered that.”

  “Nobody knows about those emergency releases,” I said. “They’re only there in case the ride gets stuck and we have to notify the visitors to release themselves from the restraints and head for the nearest exit.”

  “So you admit there’s no way the victim could have hit that button?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, full of conviction. “It’s located in a place they can’t accidentally hit, no matter how hard they wiggle in their seats.”

  “So the only reason this poor woman fell to her death was if she was ejected on purpose—either by Mr. Laraway, or by someone else on the ride.”

  I stared at him. “That’s just ridiculous,” I said. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

  He gave me a penetrating look. “Not from where I’m standing. In fact it’s the only explanation possible, and the reason I’m treating this as a homicide.”

  “But it was an accident!” I cried. “It has to be. There’s no other possibility.”

  “There’s the possibility I just explained to you,” he pointed out.

  I shook my head. “Impossible. Nobody murdered anybody. Anny Reckitt fell out of the ride by accident, end of story.”

  He flipped his notebook shut and carefully tucked it away in the pocket of his shirt. “I know you want to protect your family’s business, Miss Rugg. And I know a homicide at Charleneland will lead to a mass exodus of visitors and a huge dent in your profits this season, but just like Martin Brody, I have to ask you to look at the evidence and the evidence is irrefutable. There is a killer on the loose in your precious theme park, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can catch the culprit.”

  “Martin Brody? What…” And then I got the reference. I narrowed my eyes at the man. “The police chief from Jaws? The one who warned the mayor to close down the beaches because a shark was preying on the tourists?”

  He displayed the tiniest of smiles. “I see you know your classics.”

  I thrust out my hip and placed my hand on it. “Oh, I know my classics, all right. I also know I’m not going to close down my park. This is the high season. If we close down now we might not reopen before the season is over. We could lose the whole summer!”