Free Ninth Key by Meg Cabot

a very good Boy Scout.”
    “Ha ha,” I said. The only way, I thought to myself, that this could get any weirder would be if it turned out he had that dead lady’s head on ice somewhere in the basement, ready for transplantation onto Cindy Crawford’s body as soon as it becomes available.
    “Well, if I could get straight to the point, Mr. Beaumont —”
    “Of course. Ten most influential people in Carmel, is it? And what number am I? One, I hope.”
    He smiled even harder at me. I smiled back at him. I hate to admit it, but this is always my favorite part. There is definitely something wrong with me.
    “Actually, Mr. Beaumont,” I said, “I’m not really here to do a story on you for my school paper. I’m here because someone asked me to get a message to you, and this is the only way I could think of to do it. You are a very hard person to get a hold of, you know.”
    His smile had not faltered as I’d told him that I was there under false pretenses. He may have hit some secret alarm button under his desk, calling for security, but if he did, I didn’t see it. He folded his fingers beneath his chin and, still staring at my gold cross, said, “Yes?” in this expectant way.
    “The message,” I said, sitting up straight, “is from a woman — sorry, I didn’t get her name — who happens to be dead.”
    There was absolutely no change in his expression. Obviously, I decided, a master at hiding his emotions.
    “She said for me to tell you,” I went on, “that you did not kill her. She doesn’t blame you. And she wants you to stop blaming yourself.”
    That
triggered a reaction. He quickly unfolded his fingers, then flattened his hands out across his desk, and stared at me with a look of utter fascination.
    “She said that?” he asked me, eagerly. “A dead woman?”
    I eyed him uneasily. That wasn’t quite the reaction I was used to getting when I delivered messages like the one I’d just given him. Some tears would have been good. A gasp of astonishment. But not this — let’s face it — sick kind of interest.
    “Yeah,” I said, standing up.
    It wasn’t just that Mr. Beaumont and his creepy staring was freaking me out. And it wasn’t that my dad’s warning was ringing in my ears. My mediator instincts were telling me to get out, now. And when my instincts tell me to do something, I usually obey. I have often found it beneficial to my health.
    “Okay,” I said. “Buh-bye.”
    I turned around and headed back for the elevator. But when I tugged on the doorknob, it didn’t budge.
    “Where did you see this woman?” Mr. Beaumont’s voice, behind me, was filled with curiosity. “This dead person?”
    “I had a dream about her, okay?” I said, continuing to tug lamely on the door. “She came to me in a dream. It was really important to her that you knew that she doesn’t hold you responsible for anything. And now I’ve done my duty, so would you mind if I go now? I told my mom I’d be home by nine.”
    But Mr. Beaumont didn’t release the elevator door. Instead, he said in a wondering voice, “You
dreamed
of her? The dead speak to you in your dreams? Are you a
psychic
?”
    Damn
, I said to myself. I should have known.
    This guy was one of those New Agers. He probably had a sensory deprivation tank in his bedroom and burned aromatherapy candles in his bathroom and had a secret little room dedicated to the study of extraterrestrials somewhere in his house.
    “Yeah,” I said, since I’d already dug the hole. I figured I might just as well climb in now. “Yeah, I’m psychic.”
    Keep him talking, I said to myself. Keep him talking while you find another way out. I began to edge toward one of the windows hidden behind the sweeping velvet curtains.
    “But look, I can’t tell you anything else, okay?” I said. “I just had this one dream. About someone who seems like she might have been a very nice lady. It’s a shame about her being dead, and all. Who was she, anyway? Your, um,