Uncovering Sadie's Secrets Read Online Free

into cyberland, first answering a couple of emails from school chums, including one from Kerrie that would save me a phone call.
    “tried to call you but no answer,” she wrote. “marsha called. she said doug is definitely interested in you, asked about you last week at some debating club thing. remember that rose velvet dress at lerner’s? that would look good for the mistletoe dance. . .”
    I wrote her a quick note back, thanking her for her intelligence report, reporting to her that Sadie hadn’t called Connie about the “attempted murder,” I ate too much at dinner, and was now going to look up where Doug lived. I sent it off and a few seconds later got an Instant Message back, heralded by a wind-chime noise.
    “Turn off the sound, hon,” my mother called from the living room. So I pushed the off button and watched the screen as Kerrie weighed in again.
    “sadie is spooky. marsha says she talks like she’s from somewhere else. doug lives in towson, near nicole but don’t know exactly where. . .”
    “How come you never told me?” I IM’ed back.
    “you never asked,” came the answer a second later. “how do you know sadie didn’t call connie?”
    “I asked her,” I wrote Kerrie. Then we went back to gossiping about school, complaining about our teachers, and bemoaning the fact that we didn’t have any study halls together. An hour later, Connie came into the kitchen and glanced at me as she went to the fridge for water.
    “You still on? You’re tying up the phone!” she said.
    “We’ve got voice mail. Besides, I’ll be off soon,” I said and waited for her to leave before signing off with Kerrie and wandering into an Internet search engine. I punched in the name “Sadie Sinclair” and waited. Most of the places I searched didn’t turn up anything, but I did get a few interesting hits for some artist out in California named Sadie Mauvais Sinclair.
    Just for fun, I went to a few of those articles, one of which had a photo, but the artist looked nothing at all like our Sadie Sinclair. She was a Tahitian woman who specialized in “neo-primitive paintings with an island theme.”
    I dutifully checked the voice mail after logging off and there wasn’t a single call for my family of forgotten souls. But before I put down the receiver, I decided to check the voice mail again, not our voice mail but Connie’s office. After all, I did know the password.
    I punched in the numbers and waited. “You have two new messages,” the electronic voice said. I checked them both, careful not to do anything to them, but neither was from Sadie. One was a telephone solicitor, the other a call from a client about rescheduling a meeting. I was about to hang up when I decided to listen to the “saved” messages as well. There were three of those.
    The first two were run-of-the-mill calls about ongoing jobs. Then, bingo, I heard her voice.
    “Hi,” she said tentatively. “I’d like to talk with Constance Balducci. . . a friend recommended you. . . for a friend of mine. . . Anyway, I’ll call back. I guess you’re not in on Saturdays. My name is. . . Bobbie McCormack. . .”
    Bobbie McCormack? I hit the replay button and listened again. That was no Bobbie McCormack. It was Sadie’s voice. This was getting too weird. First, she asks about private eyes to help “a friend” with a frame-up for murder, then she uses a fake name? I hung up the phone and meandered back upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with this information. Information is power, I always say, so it’s best to think it through before spilling all you know.
    I sat in my room awhile, hugging a pillow to my chest while I listened to a couple CDs. Then, I walked down the hall and rapped on Connie’s door.
    “Yeah?” she called out.
    “It’s me.”
    A few seconds later, she came to the door and opened it, letting me in.
    “What?” she asked. She had on her robe, and a towel was wrapped around her head. She had slathered