Meg Cabot - Ninth Key

"Yeah," I said. "He mentioned that, too." And had looked very upset about it, too.

"But I assure you, Miss Simon, that he isn't in any way a menace to society. He's actually quite harmless - he's never hurt a soul."

My gaze strayed over toward Tad. Marcus must have noticed because he added quickly, "Well, let's just say he's never caused any permanent damage."

Permanent damage? Your own dad slipping you a mickey wasn't considered permanent damage around here? And how did that explain Mrs. Fiske and those missing environmentalists?

"I can't apologize enough to you, Miss Simon," Marcus was saying. He had put his arm around me, and was walking me away from the couch, and toward, of all things, the front entranceway. "I'm very sorry you had to witness this disturbing scene."

I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me, Yoshi had appeared. He turned Tad over so his face wasn't squashed into the seat cushion, then draped a blanket over him while a couple of other guys hauled Mr. Beaumont to his feet. He murmured something and rolled his head around.

Not dead. Definitely not dead.

"Of course, I needn't point out to you that none of this would have happened" - Marcus didn't sound quite so apologetic as he had before - "if you hadn't played that little prank on him last night. Mr. Beaumont is not a well man. He is very easily agitated. And one thing that gets him particularly excited is any mention whatsoever of the occult. The so-called dream that you described to him only served to trigger another one of his episodes."

I felt that I had to try, at least, to defend myself. And so I said, "Well, how was I supposed to know that? I mean, if he's so prone to episodes, why don't you keep him locked up?"

"Because this isn't the Middle Ages, young lady."

Marcus removed his arm from around my shoulders and stood looking down at me very severely.

"Today, physicians prefer to treat persons suffering from disorders like the one Mr. Beaumont has with medication and therapy rather than keeping him in isolation from his family," Marcus informed me. "Tad's father can function normally, and even well, so long as little girls who don't know what's good for them keep their noses out of his business."

Ouch! That was harsh. I had to remind myself that I wasn't the bad guy here. I mean, I wasn't the one running around insisting I was a vampire.

And I hadn't caused a bunch of people to disappear just because they'd stood in the way of my building another strip mall.

But even as I thought it, I wondered if it were true. I mean, it didn't seem as if Tad's father had enough marbles rolling around in his head to organize something as sophisticated as a kidnapping and murder. Either my weirdo meter was out of whack or there was something seriously wrong here . . . and a mere "fixation" just didn't explain it. What, I wondered, about Mrs. Fiske? She was dead and Mr. Beaumont had killed her - she'd said so herself. Marcus was obviously trying to downplay the severity of his employer's psychosis.

Or was he? A man who fainted just because a girl poked him with a pencil didn't exactly seem the sort to successfully carry out a murder. Was it possible he hadn't been suffering from his current "disorder" when he'd offed Mrs. Fiske and those other people?

I was still trying to puzzle all of this out when Marcus, who'd shepherded me to the front door, produced my coat. He helped me into it, then said, "Aikiku will drive you home, Miss Simon."

I looked around and saw another Japanese guy, this one all in black, standing by the front door. He bowed politely to me.

"And let's get one thing straight."

Marcus was still speaking to me in fatherly tones. He seemed irritated, but not really mad.

"What happened here tonight," he went on, "was very strange, it's true. But no one was injured...."

He must have noticed my gaze skitter toward Tad still passed out on the couch, since he added, "Not seriously hurt, anyway. And so I think it would behoove you to keep your mouth shut about what you've seen here. Because if you should take it into your head to tell anyone about what you've seen here," Marcus went on in a manner one might almost call friendly, "I will, of course, have to tell your parents about that unfortunate prank you played on Mr. Beaumont … and press formal assault charges against you, of course."

My mouth dropped open. I realized it, after a second, and snapped it shut again.

"But he - " I began.

Marcus cut me off. "Did he?" He looked down at me meaningfully. "Did he really? There are no witnesses to that fact, save yourself. And do you really believe anyone is going to take the word of a little juvenile delinquent like yourself over the word of a respectable businessman?"

The jerk had me, and he knew it.

He smiled down at me, a little triumphant twinkle in his eye.

"Good night, Miss Simon," he said.

Proving once again that the life of a mediator just ain't all it's cracked up to be: I didn't even get to stay for dessert.

CHAPTER 15

Dropped off with about as much ceremony as a rolled-up newspaper on a Monday morning, I trudged up the driveway. I'd been a little scared Marcus had changed his mind about not pressing charges and that our house might have been surrounded by cops there to haul me in for assaulting Mr. B.

But no one jumped out at me, gun drawn, from behind the bushes, which was a good sign.

As soon as I walked in, my mother was all over me, wanting to know what it had been like at the Beaumonts - What had we had for dinner? What had the decor been like? Had Tad asked me to the prom?

I declared myself too sleepy to talk and, instead, went straight up to my room. All I could think about was how on earth I was going to prove to the world that Red Beaumont was a cold-blooded killer.

Well, okay, maybe not a cold-blooded one, since he evidently felt remorse for what he'd done. But a killer, just the same.

I had forgotten, of course, about my new roommate. As I approached my bedroom door, I saw Max sitting in front of it, his huge tongue lolling. There were scratch marks all up and down the door where he'd tried clawing his way in. I guess the fact that there was a cat in there was more overpowering than the fact that there was also a ghost in there.

"Bad dog," I said when I saw the scratch marks.

Instantly, Doc's bedroom door across the hall opened.

"Have you got a cat in there?" he demanded, but not in an accusing way. More like he was really interested, from a scientific point of view.

"Um," I said. "Maybe."

"Oh. I wondered. Because usually Max, you know, he stays away from your room. You know why."

Doc widened his eyes meaningfully. When I'd first moved in, Doc had very chivalrously offered to trade rooms with me, since mine, he'd noted, had a distinct cold spot in it, a clear indication that it was a center for paranormal activity. While I'd chosen to keep the room, I'd been impressed by Doc's self-sacrifice. His two elder brothers certainly hadn't been as generous.

"It's just for one night," I assured him. "The cat, I mean."

"Oh," Doc said. "Well, that's good. Because you know that Brad does suffer from an adverse reaction to feline dander. Allergens, or allergy-producing substances, cause the release of histamine, an organic compound responsible for allergic symptoms. There are a variety of allergens, such as contactants - like poison oak - and airborne, like Brad's sensitivity to cat dander. The standard treatment is, of course, avoidance, if at all possible, of the allergen."

I blinked at him. "I'll keep that in mind," I said.

Doc smiled. "Great. Well, good night. Come on, Max."

He hauled the dog away, and I went into my room.

To find that my new roommate had flown the coop. Spike was gone, and the open window told me how he'd escaped.