Page 21 of Just Beachy

“Someone’s in my studio!” she whispers back.

“Which is why we want to stay in here with the doors locked and call the police!” I reply.

“No,” she insists. “Let go of me. Someone’s in my studio!”

“I know you’ve got work in progress, but there can’t be anything down there worth dying for!”

She looks at me, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t let go of the doorknob. We’re still struggling over possession of it when we hear the sound of feet crunching on glassfollowed by shouts and the sound of a boat engine roaring to life back behind Grand’s town house.

We race into the garage and through the door into the bonus room, where Grand’s things have been tossed around, paper ripped from canvases in progress, easels knocked over. One of the sliders has been smashed and glass litters the floor of her studio and the porch outside.

“Do you have your cell phone with you?”

She nods.

“Call nine-one-one!” I shout to her while I race outside, only to see the boat disappearing around a spit of land.

“What did they say?” I ask when I return out of breath. “How long until a car can get here?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Are you okay? What did they say?”

“I didn’t call,” Grand replies.

“Are you kidding me? Why not?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says.

I straighten and look her in the eye. I see fear in them but also something that I can’t identify.

“Of course it’s a good idea,” I say as calmly as I can. “Somebody, maybe two somebodies, if you count whoever was driving the getaway boat, smashed your slider, broke into your home, and tore your studio apart. They were looking for something, Grand. And if they left empty-handed, they could decide to come back and look some more.”

“I’m sure it was just some random…something. There’s no need to make a fuss.”

I look at my grandmother, who should be shrieking with fright but isn’t.

“There’s every reason to make a fuss, Grand. We’re just lucky they didn’t come through the garage door and into the foyer to see if there were better pickings inside. Tomorrow, we’re going to call a security company and get information and prices on having a security system installed. Right now, we need to call the police.”

She doesn’t call 911 but only turns and begins to pick up the mess.

“Don’t touch anything, Grand. It’s evidence.”

“Stop overreacting. It’s nothing but vandalism,” she says.

“That we need to report. I may have only pretended to be a cop, but I do, in fact, understand basic police work. Any actor worth his or her salt does research on the kind of character they’re playing. And I prepped for Cassie Everheart by going to the local police academy, doing ride-alongs, and talking to real cops who did the work I would pretend to do.

“Fine,” I say, pulling my own phone out of the waistband of my pajamas, which are too short for a pocket. “I’ll do it. But don’t touch anything else. We don’t want to smear fingerprints or any other evidence.”

A police car arrives in minutes, siren blaring. I press the garage door opener.

“Oh, thank goodness!” I say as the garage door finishes grinding upward and a Treasure Island police car screeches to a stop.

“We’ve had a break-in,” I shout as the two TI cops jumpout of their cruiser. They’re already hunching over to get into the garage when another police car arrives. My voice trails off when Luke Hayes and his partner vault out of the second car. Like the TI policemen, Luke and his partner are wearing uniforms, glossy black shoes, and badges.

I am wearing shorty pajama bottoms, a sleeveless crop top with a picture of Bugs Bunny on it, and no bra beneath it.

Where’s the justice in that?

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