Abandon - Meg Cabot [48]
I felt the pain in the back of my neck begin to throb harder than ever.
“Now that I have your full attention,” the chief of police said in a quieter voice, “I want you to know that until further notice, the cemetery gates are going to be kept locked twenty-four hours a day — after they’ve been repaired, of course — just in case any of you aren’t taking me seriously about this. And because there might be one or two of you stupid enough to try to scale that fence” — uh-oh — “several of my officers will be patrolling it at night. Since I’m sure this is going to upset those of you who wish to pay your respects to your loved ones who are buried there, feel free to make an appointment with Cemetery Sexton Richard Smith.”
Chief of Police Santos indicated an elderly man, elegantly attired in a linen jacket, bright green bow tie, and straw porkpie hat, who was sitting in a folding chair at the bottom of the stairs to the auditorium stage, a briefcase perched on his knees. At the mention of his name, he stood up, tipped his hat at us, then sat down again.
I recognized him at once as the same man who’d yelled at me so many times for using his cemetery as a public thoroughfare.
“Cemetery Sexton Smith will be happy to unlock the gate and escort any of you who wish to pay respects to loved ones directly to their graves, and wait with you there until you’re finished,” the chief of police explained.
Cemetery Sexton Richard Smith stood up again and called, in a deep voice for such an old man, “During appropriate visiting hours,” before sitting down again.
“During appropriate visiting hours, of course,” Chief of Police Santos repeated into the mike.
More unhappy muttering from the crowd — with the exception of Alex, who raised a single eyebrow as if he found the whole thing quite interesting. He began tapping a nervous drumbeat along the back of the seat in front of him with a pen, much to the annoyance of the girl sitting there.
“Would you please quit it?” the girl suddenly whipped around to ask.
“Sorry,” Alex said, and quit drumming.
“Who’s up for Gut Busters after this?” Kayla looked up from her phone to ask.
“I’ve only got five bucks,” Alex said.
“Chickie here can pay,” Kayla said. “Isn’t her dad supposed to be all kinds of rich? You in, chickie?”
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”
I had no idea what I’d just agreed to. All I could think as I sat there — feeling almost as stunned as if I’d just tripped over my scarf and given myself another subdural hematoma — was that somehow, John had done it again:
Left behind substantive proof that he was real, and committed a criminal act while doing so.
A criminal act that the Isla Huesos police — just like the police back in Connecticut, who’d felt they’d had no other choice because how could they blame a six-foot four-inch shadow, who, though he’d shown up on video, had left no footprints or fingerprints? — were going to blame on me.
Could my day possibly get any worse?
But it turned out my day could get worse. Lots worse.
Because when I walked into the New Pathways offices after the assembly to get my phone — Alex and Kayla trailing behind me, bickering over why we even had to stop to pick up my phone since I’d said no one ever called me, anyway — who should I find in there chatting up Tim and Jade and the other counselors but my mom?
But that wasn’t the worst part. Not by a long shot. Because sitting quietly in one of the purple vinyl chairs in the waiting area, peering down at an outdated copy of Time magazine through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, was Cemetery Sexton Richard Smith. His straw hat and the briefcase were both sitting on the chair next to him. On top of the briefcase