Beware The Babysitter (Sweet Valley High Book 99) Read online

  "It's Winston, right?" asked the harried young woman at the door. In one arm, she held a plastic tote bag with a dorky-looking design of dancing hippopotamuses. In the other, she cradled a soft bundle, wrapped in a light-green blanket.

  Winston nodded, chewing furiously. He recognized the plump, dark-haired woman as Betsy something-or-other. She had moved into the neighborhood a few weeks earlier.

  "Winston, I've got a tremendous favor to ask you," she said quickly. "You know me, don't you? I'm Betsy Zvonchenko. I just moved here from Wisconsin. My husband and I are renting the Morgans' house, around the corner—you know, the little yellow one with the brown trim—since Dave and Caroline Morgan are on sabbatical for a year."

  Winston gulped down the mouthful of sandwich and opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs. Zvonchenko was too fast for him.

  "I know this is a terrible imposition," she said. "But I don't know another soul in California, and your mother has been kind enough to drop by with some groceries and to invite us over for dinner last weekend—even though, of course, we did turn down her offer. But we're new here and haven't had time to make any real friends, and I couldn't think of anyone else to ask, so I thought that your dear mother might be willing to—"

  "Actually," Winston interrupted, "she's out—"

  "I'm so sorry I missed her," the woman continued. "But I really can't wait—my plane's leaving in an hour, and I'm already late."

  Winston opened his mouth again, but Mrs. Zvonchenko rushed on.

  "You see, my husband's a journalist in Central America, and there's been one of those coups, you know, when they take over the government? Ian's fine, thank goodness, but he can't leave the country because his hotel was taken over by terrorists and his passport was in his room. He was downstairs in the restaurant at the time and was able to get out, but now he's stuck in customs and they won't let him leave the country—"

  "I'm terribly sorry," said Winston. "I wish there was something I—"

  "Aren't you sweet?" Mrs. Zvonchenko interrupted. "I knew you would say that. That's why I thought I'd come over here. You know, I said to myself, 'Betsy,' I said, 'that nice Mrs. Egbert and her wonderful family might be kind enough to watch little Daisy overnight, while I travel to Central America to bring Ian his birth certificate so those ridiculous customs officials will let him leave the country.'"

  Her tongue should be arrested for speeding, Winston thought. As she continued breathlessly, he shrugged his shoulders and took another bite of his sandwich. Sooner or later, she'd have to come up for air.

  "Ian's in no danger, of course," Mrs. Zvonchenko was saying. "But communication out of such places is so limited at times like this. There's no other way for me to get the birth certificate to him but to bring it down myself. Of course, I can't take an eight-month-old child into such a situation, you understand—even if there is no real danger. Besides, you know how cranky babies get on long flights—"

  Winston opened his mouth to reply.

  "I'm talking too quickly, aren't I, Winston?" Mrs. Zvonchenko said, cutting him off again. "Ian calls me Turbo Tongue! He says nobody can ever get a word in edgewise."

  Winston's eyes widened as wailing sounds began emanating from the green-blanketed bundle Mrs. Zvonchenko was carrying. This is definitely out of my league, he told himself.

  Mrs. Zvonchenko was undaunted. "It must be time for Daisy's bottle," she said brightly, struggling to see her watch around the edge of the soft bundle. Then she shrugged her shoulders and held out the baby. "Here," she said. "You take her while I find her pacifier. It'll have to do for now."

  Before Winston knew what was happening, he was holding the warm, squirming thing. Mrs. Zvonchenko's conversation didn't slow down at all as she rooted through the tote bag.

  "Thank you so much, Winston, for agreeing to do this. It's such a load off my mind. Daisy won't give you much trouble. She's a very good baby. She can't exactly crawl yet, but she's just figured out how to creep along, and she can really get up some speed when she wants to, so she does take some watching. I'll be back tomorrow night—"

  "But I don't know anything about—" Winston managed to say.

  "That's perfectly all right, dear," said Mrs. Zvonchenko, reaching forward to place the plastic pacifier in the baby's mouth. "Until your darling mother gets home, just give Daisy her bottle. There's nothing to it. And remember to keep her little bottom dry!"

  She leaned forward to set the tote bag on the floor. "The bag contains plenty of diapers," she said, "and some cans of formula, a few clothes, and Daisy's favorite giraffe. Oh, and she likes it when you sing to her."

  "But I—" began Winston.

  "Good-bye, little Daisy!" Mrs. Zvonchenko said, leaning forward to kiss the baby on the forehead. "Now, I must be going, or I'll miss my plane! Tell your mother how much I appreciate this, Winston. I'll see you tomorrow night."

  Winston opened his mouth to object, but was too dazed to utter a sound as Mrs. Zvonchenko raced down the front walk.

  The pacifier fell from Daisy's mouth and the baby began to wail indignantly. Winston's mouth was open, too, but couldn't make a sound. He jiggled the screaming baby in his arms as her mother disappeared around the corner. In one hand, he still held the half-eaten peanut-butter-and-sardine sandwich.

  Sunday afternoon, James lay on the bed in his one-room apartment, cradling the phone with his chin.

  He spoke again into the receiver. "Elizabeth is the responsible one, Mandy—"

  "Huh?" said the girl on the other end of the line. "Oh," she added quickly. "Go on, James."

  James narrowed his eyes and wondered for about the sixteenth time how much this Mandy girl was keeping from him—if Mandy was her real name. He was beginning to have his doubts about that, even. She always seemed startled when he used it.

  He shrugged. She could call herself Jack the Ripper, for all he cared. Two thousand bucks was two thousand bucks.

  "Elizabeth gets good grades," he continued. "She's the person everyone at school tells their troubles to. Jessica's always been more of a partier. But since her old boyfriend died, she's been more serious—more like her sister."

  "What about hobbies?" Margo asked intently. "Does Elizabeth have any?"

  "She wants to be a writer," said James. "She works for the school newspaper, and she likes to read."

  "That's not very much to go on," Margo said sharply. "I'm not sure you're earning your pay. I hired you to go out with Jessica because I need to know everything there is to know about the Wakefield twins—especially Elizabeth. And I mean everything!"

  James shuddered at the sinister note he heard in her voice. This Mandy is one weird chick. But he could deal with her, he told himself with a grin. And dating a gorgeous blonde wasn't exactly combat duty.

  James still didn't know why Mandy wanted all this information on the Wakefield family, but he'd handled enough of these kinds of jobs to know not to ask too many questions. She hadn't asked him to do anything dangerous, or illegal—not yet, anyway. All in all, it looked like this was going to be the easiest two thousand dollars he'd ever earned.

  "Don't worry, Mandy," James reassured her. "Jessica is like putty in my hands. Remember what I told you about what happened yesterday on the mountain. I was trying to see if she trusts me completely. And she does. She really thinks I was trying to save her. But I could've killed her if I wanted to."

  "Let's leave that to the experts," Margo said.

  James's eyes widened as he wondered again: Just who is this girl, and what is she after?

  "What about the twins' relationship?" Margo asked, sounding perfectly ordinary again. "Has it warmed up any?"

  "It's hard to say. They're still not speaking much, but Jessica doesn't seem so hostile. She still resents Elizabeth for Sam's death, but she acts as if she feels kind of guilty about it herself—"

  "That doesn't make sense," Margo interrupted, exasperated. "Jessica Wakefield doesn't strike me as having enough backbone to kill anybody."

  "Heck, no,
" James said, shaking his head. "Jessica's a sweet kid. I didn't mean she had anything to do with Sam's accident. Maybe she argued with him that night, and never got a chance to tell him she was sorry. That kind of thing would bother her."

  "Yeah, that sounds about right," said Margo. "But what's this 'sweet kid' stuff? You're not starting to like her, are you? Remember whose two grand you're working for, James. I can be very tough on employees who get their priorities mixed up."

  James fumed inwardly. Who does she think she is? Nobody threatens me and gets away with it. He opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it, remembering the money.

  "Don't worry, Mandy," he said after a moment. "Jessica's not my type. I like women who are more . . . experienced. Jessica's just a blond, blue-eyed two-thousand-dollar bill"—he couldn't help smiling broadly—"with great legs."

  "Yeah, yeah," said Margo. "But while your eyes are on her legs, I want you to keep your ears on what she's saying."

  "Anything in particular?"

  "Find out more about the night Sam kicked," Margo ordered. Her tone was commanding, but James held his tongue.

  "Nobody in town seems to know what was going on with the twins that night," she continued. "I hear Elizabeth was a total freak—not the usual Miss Goody-Two-Shoes act. And nobody's sure why she was with her sister's boyfriend. I want all the dirt. And if Jessica does have something to feel guilty about, I want to know what it is."

  "I'll get it for you," James assured her. "But I'd better get it fast. Another few dates with me, and Jessica won't even remember Sam's name!"

  "What else have you found out about the parents?" she asked suddenly.

  "Jessica thinks they're great," James replied. "She also thinks that Elizabeth's their favorite, but she's a little paranoid about that. They sound like the usual, boring, respectable suburban parents."

  Margo's voice took on a quiet, dreamy quality. "Isn't Alice Wakefield the most beautiful, perfect mother?" she asked. "She's warm, loving, and protective."

  James noticed a fervent, almost obsessive tone in her voice.

  "She would do anything for her daughters—anything at all," Margo continued. "She always keeps them near her. She doesn't let other people hurt them or criticize them." She raised her voice an octave. "Isn't that right, James? Isn't that what Jessica says about her mother?"

  James realized his heart was pounding. This girl is beginning to seem more and more flipped out. He shook his head in disgust.

  "Yeah, Mandy," he agreed, telling her what she obviously wanted to hear. "Jessica likes her mother a lot. In fact, until lately, the whole family was like one of those television sitcoms—perfect parents, perfect kids, perfect house." He rolled his eyes.

  "Good, very good," Margo said in a distracted voice. "Keep getting close to Jessica. Find out everything you can."

  "I will. I've got another date with her Tuesday night."

  "It's time to start the next phase," Margo said suddenly.

  "What next phase?" asked James.

  Margo went on as though she hadn't heard him.

  "I've chosen a day-care center," she said. "The one run by Project Youth. It's called Little Darlings Day Care, and it's pretty close to Calico Drive. It'll be a good place to learn more about the people in Sweet Valley . . . because kids talk. And I have ways of getting them to talk to me."

  James had no idea what she was talking about, but there was something seriously wrong with this girl. Maybe this wasn't such an easy way to earn two thousand dollars, after all.

  "Jessica, do you have a minute?" asked Alice Wakefield, walking into the dining room that night.

  "Sure, Mom," said Jessica. She looked up from the book that lay open on the table in front of her. "I might as well take a break. I'm certainly not getting anywhere with this algebra assignment."

  Alice tried to hide her amused smile, but Jessica was pretty sure she knew what her mother was thinking.

  "I know, Mom," she admitted. "It's Sunday night, and I should have started my homework two days ago. And if I studied every day, like Liz, instead of once every leap year, I might understand the difference between the x-coordinate and the y-coordinate, and that—"

  "Whoa, Jess!" her mother said, laughing. She pulled out the chair next to Jessica's and sat down. "I didn't come in here to criticize your study habits."

  "No?" said Jessica, surprised. "You mean I wasted all that humility for no reason?"

  "I promise I'll forget every word. You can use it all again the next time I do criticize your study habits."

  Jessica pushed her algebra book out of the way. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

  Alice hesitated. "Did you have a good time hiking with James yesterday? You seemed a little upset when you got home."

  "Oh, that was nothing," Jessica said. "I leaned too far over the edge of the mountain and almost fell off. But James caught me in plenty of time."

  Jessica spoke flippantly, but she couldn't help remembering the chasm tilting wildly beneath her and the feeling of James's hand against her back. . . .

  "Jessica," her mother said, interrupting her thoughts. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But your father and I are concerned. You've been through a terrible time, and we don't want to see you hurt again. We know so little about James. For one thing, he's a bit older—"

  "He's eighteen!" Jessica protested. "Just two years ahead of me."

  "And he doesn't go to school."

  "He graduated last year. Not everybody can afford to go to college right away. But I'm sure he will eventually, if he can save up some money—"

  "Jessica, all I'm trying to say is that I want you to take it slowly. You're still vulnerable right now. Even a boy who cares about you might take advantage of that without meaning to hurt you."

  "I know, Mom," she said, suddenly understanding her mother's drift. "And I promise to take things slowly. But don't worry—James has always been a perfect gentleman."

  "Good. I was hoping you wouldn't think I was being a nagging mother." She pulled Jessica's algebra book forward and pantomimed rolling up her sleeves. "Now let's take a look at these x- and y-coordinates of yours. I studied algebra myself a few hundred years ago."

  Margo had another one of her headaches that night. It felt like an ax handle pounding against her forehead—pounding, pounding, pounding. She'd been having these headaches for some time now—ever since she started hearing the voices that spoke only to her.

  "No!" she yelled, eyes squeezed shut as she stood in front of the rickety dresser in her tiny room at the boardinghouse.

  "Think of nice things," Margo ordered herself aloud. She forced open her newly blue-green eyes—the same shade as the Wakefield twins' now, thanks to the colored contact lenses she'd bought at the mall. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. "Think of things that make you happy."

  She remembered her little foster sister's pleading voice, as Margo locked the back door from the outside—just before the fire raged through her foster parents' home. There Margo had been completely in control. She had planned out her whole escape and then carried out the plan without a hitch.

  She laughed wickedly. A fire was about the best thing that could have happened to that tacky place. Anyone who would paint a living-room wall orange deserves to have it incinerated to a nasty, smelly, black heap of charcoal.

  For a little brat, Nina hadn't been that awful, Margo admitted. But she was young and weak. Her death had been necessary to Margo's master plan. And a master planner never lets human weakness get in her way.

  She smiled triumphantly. "I can do it this time, too," she said to her reflection in the cracked mirror. "I can set a goal and I can reach it—without any help from anyone."

  Georgie's death, now—that carried a real feeling of accomplishment. It was amazing that a kid so young had already become such a fat, disgusting little wimp. Margo remembered the strength she'd felt coursing through her arms as she'd held his round little head under in the lake. His struggling was too we
ak to cause more than a tiny ripple in the surface of the water.

  "It was too easy!" Margo announced gleefully. "Just once, I'd like a worthy opponent!"

  Josh, said the voice in her head. The voice carried a tone of warning, but Margo thrust it aside. Georgie's older brother had been following her west, but Margo was sure she'd managed to elude him in Los Angeles. At first, she'd found Josh Smith attractive, with his intriguing, fair-haired good looks. But Josh had turned out to be a self-righteous bore. Besides, he had been off-limits, even when Margo was still in Ohio. Margo didn't believe in mixing work and pleasure.

  As soon as she became Elizabeth Wakefield, she'd be able to have any guy in Sweet Valley. And it was a sure bet that the Wakefields' living room wasn't painted orange!

  Margo frowned at her raven-haired reflection in the mirror. This was her natural hair color—before she'd lightened it. Now she whipped off the dark wig and tossed it onto the dresser. She yanked out a few bobby pins and watched, entranced, as her own hair swung loose around her face—as golden as California sunshine. Just like Jessica Wakefield's.

  But Margo needed to look like Elizabeth, not Jessica. Margo knew the twins preferred different hairstyles. She deftly pulled back locks of hair above her ears, as if she were going to hold them in place with barrettes. Margo smiled. She looked exactly like Elizabeth. Of course, it was still too soon to become Elizabeth. But it was just about time to create Marla Field.

  The pounding in her head had eased up a bit. She turned to the bed, where she had spread out her disguises earlier.

  Margo chose a brown, curly wig and a pair of large-framed glasses, the tinted kind that turn darker in sunlight. She was already collecting copies of the clothes she'd seen both of the twins wearing. But it was too soon for that. As Marla, she would wear gauze skirts and loose, cotton tops. That would be inconspicuous, and different enough from either Wakefield twin to discourage comparisons. She laid out an outfit for her job interview the next morning.

  Margo reached for the letter of recommendation she'd written on her rented typewriter.

  "Rave reviews for Miss Marla Field, age twenty, from her former employer!" she said aloud, sitting on the edge of the bed. She scanned the letter again, reading occasional passages out loud.