by London James
“Do you think this has anything to do with the Curse of Vidalia Isle?”
Avery gasps. “Julie!”
The woman shrugs. “It seemed like a good moment,” she says.
As is to be expected, the calm control of the crowd goes straight to hell. The word curse travels through the gathering faster than Tic-Tacs on prom night, and soon everyone is in what can only appropriately be referred to as a tizzy.
“Please, everyone,” the doctor says, but the rest of the sentence is silenced by two people rushing up on the ride platform with her.
Andrew and I jump over the barrier and onto the ramp, grabbing hold of the two teenage boys before they can get to the bucket.
“Enough of that,” I say to the squirming redhead I’ve got by the back of his plaid flannel shirt.
“We just want a selfie with him,” the other boy whines from Andrew’s grip.
“What is wrong with you?” Andrew asks.
He’s holding the boy with one arm twisted behind his back in a grip that speaks to a combat past.
“Has anyone called the Sheriff?” the doctor asks.
“He should be at the table with the Doo-Wops,” Andrew says. “He’s pretty adamant about not letting any more street battles break out between them and the barbershop quartet during events like this.”
“Somebody go find him,” the doctor says. “He needs to get over here and get this under control.” She looks at Andrew and me. “Bring them out into the green and set them loose. As much as I’d like to hand them over to the deputies, stupidity still isn’t a crime in Vidalia Isle.”
Knowing they’re not going to be able to wriggle their way away from us, the two teenagers let us lead them down the exit ramp and away from the ride. We release them onto the green, and they run away with only the socially required look back over their shoulders to glare at the oppressive adults. Avery is still standing exactly where I left her when I get back, staring at Mr. Mercer’s body. The doctor has positioned herself between the crowd and the corpse, trying to conceal it as much as possible, but she doesn’t have the girth to fully block the somewhat-sprawling pose of his sizable frame.
The crowd splits to let the sheriff and two deputies run through to get to the wheel. Moving the barrier out of the way, they rush up onto the platform. I notice something balled up under the sheriff’s arm and he pulls it out, flapping it like a sheet so it settles over the body. Once it’s in place, I can see it’s one of the festival banners that had been stretched across the boardwalk at the entrance to the festivities.
“Classy,” I murmur.
“Alright, everybody,” the Sheriff says firmly. “We’ll take it from here. Everybody go on your way.”
“What about the curse, Sheriff?” a voice calls.
I look over at Julie, who has her face in her hand. This is the second mention of The Curse, which dispels my hope she had just made it up so she had something to contribute to the crowd shouting experience.
“There’s no curse,” he responds. “Dr. Molly has already stated she believes this to be a death from natural causes, and there’s no reason to think anything else. It’s an unfortunate moment for the festival, but that’s as far as it goes. Now, everyone go on. Enjoy the rest of the activities. Get something to eat. The band will be playing soon. We need to clear the area for the coroner to come.”
Those sentences don’t sit properly together. Please proceed to the funnel cake station, so there’s room for the hearse. Thanks.
Even with the doctor saying Mr. Mercer’s death was the result of a heart attack, the reaction of the crowd is stirring up an uncomfortable energy.
“We should go,” I say to Avery, gently pulling her wrist.
She resists for a second, then lets me guide her away from the barrier and through the gradually dispersing crowd. We’re almost to the middle of the village green when Sebastian and Skylar come running toward us. Seb gathers Avery in his arms for a tight hug, then hands her over to Skylar.
“Are you alright?” he asks. “We heard someone died on the Ferris wheel.”
She nods. “It was GPS—shit. Mr. Mercer. He’s dead,” Avery tells them.
Skylar gasps and covers her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide and fearful.
“We sold him a caramel apple like an hour ago,” she says through her hand.
“He’s holding it,” Avery says, her voice cracking. “Remember when I said I had to make the apples at Seb’s house because no one could pry them out of Mercer’s cold, dead hands? Well, Dr. Molly is over there, trying to prove me wrong.”
Skylar shudders. “And I recommended the peanut one,” she whispers.
I have no idea what significance that has, but she seems deeply disturbed by the idea.
“Let’s go,” Sebastian says. “I don’t know about you three, but I’m not exactly feeling like hanging around here anymore for a corn dog and a dance around the green. Those fiddles sound a hell of a lot creepier tonight.”
The band has climbed up into the spotlights of the stage beside the Hall of Mirrors, and the strains of them warming up their instruments float through the evening air toward us. With only a few people straggling up to listen to them, the effect is eerie.
Avery is still quiet when we make it back to Hometown Bed And Breakfast. The building is quiet, and it seems like the rest of the guests are still out. She drops down onto the couch in the parlor and leans forward to rest her head in her hands.
“I was thinking awful thoughts about a man who is dead,” she says.
“He doesn’t know that,” Skylar says, rubbing her back.
A knock on the front door makes her jump, and Seb holds out a hand toward her like he’s trying to send the force to keep her in place.
“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s for me.”
He opens the front door, and two men come in. Their sides are pressed together as they inch their way into the parlor, unsure of Avery’s reaction to them being there.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the taller of the two, a man with long braids I vaguely remember seeing before, says. “Leo and I were going to meet up with Seb for dinner at the festival, but since that whole… thing happened, he said we could come here.”
“Of course, I don’t mind,” Avery says. “Come on in. We’re just in here wallowing. Owen, this is Leo and Shawn. Leo and Shawn, Owen.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Avery’s head suddenly falls back, and she lets out a groan. “I’m going to have to go pack up his room and figure out what to do with his stuff,” she moans.
“You contact a next-of-kin to do that,” Leo offers. Avery lifts her head to look at him, and he nods. “Up in New York I used to live in a shoebox with three other people. We’re talking loafers here, not even thigh-high-boot-sized box.
“Anyway, one of them was about nine hundred years old when the rest of us moved in. To be honest, I’m not even 100-percent positive she knew we were living there. Sometimes she would pick up a broom and start whacking the ceiling and walls. She might have thought we were rats.”
“Moving on,” Shawn says supportively, touching Leo’s back.
“Right. So, she died. Nothing bad happened to her or anything, she just ate a bowl of cabbage soup one night, wrapped up in this ugly brown crocheted blanket she loved, and sat down to watch old black-and-white reruns, and never got back up. We called the police, they came and got her, blanket and all, and told us to contact her next-of-kin.
It took a bit, but eventually we found her granddaughter, and she came to get her stuff and deal with all her final arrangements and stuff. We ended up having to leave the apartment, which sucked because we had just gotten all that extra space.”
Avery stares at Leo for a few seconds, waiting to see if he has anything else to say. When he doesn’t continue, she nods and goes back to resting her face in her hands.
“That was very helpful, Leo. Thank you,” she says.
“Where are you going to find his next-of-kin?” Seb asks.
“I have no idea,” she says. “I don’t know anything about him or where to even start looking for a family.”
“You’re not going to do it tonight,” I tell her. “You’ve had a long day, and you’re just going to relax. Are you hungry? I’m going to order some pizzas.” I scan the rest of the faces in the room. “Anybody? Toppings?”
I gather everyone’s input and walk out of the parlor to call the pizza shop in the village. Something draws me through the house and down the hall to what had been Mr. Mercer’s room. Like the others, it’s closed. I know it’s locked but try the knob anyway. It’s strange to think what was going through his head the last time he touched that knob and closed the door, heading for the festival without any idea he would never come back.
Chapter Sixteen
Owen
I've ordered the pizzas and changed into different clothes when I hear voices in the hallway. I walk toward them and see Shawn and Leo walking slowly along, admiring the pictures hanging on the wall.
"I like the color," Leo says. " I think it brightens up the space a little bit."
"It's too bright," Shawn argues. "I've never been a big fan of yellow anything, anywhere in a house other than a kitchen. I’d probably choose dark blue with a gray stripe."
Leo reaches up and runs his hand along the wallpaper, nodding as if he can visualize what Shawn was describing. They both smile at me as I walk past and head back toward the parlor. Avery has a glass of water clutched in one hand but doesn't seem to have taken any sips out of it. Sebastian and Skylar sit close on either side of her like they are trying to hold her up. Mr. Mercer's death is hitting her hard, and I hate to see the strained look on her face.
“Better watch out,” I tell her as I come into the room. “Seems like Shawn and Leo might be your competition sometime soon.”
I grin at the two men as they follow me in.
“What do you mean?” Avery asks.
“I caught them talking wallpaper in the back hallway,” I tell her.
“We were just talking about colors,” Leo says.
“Are you planning on opening a bed-and-breakfast?” Avery asks.
He shrugs and looks at Shawn. “It's something we've talked about,” he says. “There aren't any concrete plans in the works or anything. It's just that now that Leo has made the permanent move to Vidalia Isle from New York, we both feel like we should be putting down stakes and having our own life here. We both came here to help our best friends. That's something we have in common.”
Shawn laughs.
“That's true. Now it's time to kind of figure out our own place on the island.”
“I love working with Mr. Pellegrino at his gown boutique and designing costumes, but I feel like there has to be something else, you know?” Leo says. “Anyway, like we said, it's not like there any concrete plans. Just ideas and dreams.”
Avery gives a small smile and nods. “I know how those are,” she says.
She looks down at her glass of water, and I know she's thinking about the caramel apple clutched in Mr. Mercer's hand and the dreams that went into making it.
There's a knock at the front door.
“Wow, that was fast,” I say.
I open the door, but it's not the pizza delivery man standing on the front veranda. Instead, several young women dressed in black and wearing a really extraordinary amount of black eyeliner clustered together in the circle of light from porch lamps.
“Is this where he was staying?” one of them asks.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“The man who died on the Ferris wheel tonight. Everyone's saying he was a guest at one of the bed-and-breakfasts. Is this the one?”
Avery and Sebastian appear beside me.
“What's going on?” Avery asks.
“We want to visit where the man who died was staying and see if we can channel his energy,” another of the young women says.
“You've got to be kidding me,” Avery says.
“A human being has left this Earth,” another of the women says. “We need to seek out the last vestiges of his energy and commit them to the spirit world.”
“Are you planning on hopping a flight to the spirit world and are concerned about TSA regulations?” Sebastian asks, swirling one hand in front of the woman's face. “Because that's a whole lot of undeclared liquid you're trying to smuggle up in your eye area.”
The woman shoots him a disgusted look and turns her eyes back to Avery.
“Do you have no respect for where he took some of his last breaths?” she asks with an air of shock and dismay, as if she can't possibly imagine how we haven't thrown together a candlelight vigil already.
“He took his last breaths at the Village Green,” Avery points out. “Why don't you go back there?”
“We want to prostrate ourselves where he slept,” a fourth woman declares.
“All right, that's enough of that,” I say. “You ladies have a good night.”
We step back into the foyer and close the door.
“You'll see,” one of their voices comes through the door. “It's all happening again.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Avery asks. “What is happening again?”
“Don't worry about it,” I tell her. “They're just hopped up on funnel cake and black nail polish. Just relax. This is all going to blow over.”
Two days later, Sebastian appears at the front door clutching a cup of coffee just as a man with an armful of complicated camera equipment scurries down the steps and heads back up the driveway. A tractor rigged with a hayride wagon is stopped several yards away. It's one of the few workarounds for the vehicle restrictions on Vidalia Isle, and it seems a few intrepid inhabitants have set up rides up to Hometown Bed And Breakfast.
“Seriously?” Avery says when she notices the man and the wagon. “This is getting completely ridiculous.”
The pumpkin-spice smell wafting out of her coffee cup draws me in, but I don't reach for her the way I want to. She's been tense and on edge since the festival and it hasn't seemed like the right time to keep exploring what we discovered in that kiss in the Hall of Mirrors.
“It's still new,” I tell her. “People don't know how to process it. If I'm not mistaken, there aren't a whole lot of unexpected deaths in Vidalia Isle. And the whole Halloween aspect of it is appealing.”
“Appealing?” she asks. “Forgive me if I don't know what's so appealing about someone dying on a Ferris wheel.”
“A Ferris wheel at a Harvest Festival not long before Halloween,” I point out. “People get wrapped up in stuff like this. You can't let it bother you.”
“Well, it does bother me. It bothers me that people are showing up at all times of day and night trying to take pictures or find out more about him. It bothers me that half the tourists who were here fled the island because a stranger dying in our midst took the zip right out of their vacation.
“And it bothers me that they were followed by a wave of new tourists flocking here out of purely macabre fascination because a stranger died in our midst. I haven't been able to find any next-of-kin for Mr. Mercer, and it really creeps me out to be having to do this in the first place. I didn't even have to do it for my grandparents when they died. I was the only kin. So now one of my rooms is full of a dead guy's stuff, and I have to just wait around and figure out what to do with it. And then you have all the people running around talking about this curse, and I just can't deal. I can't even imagine what it's going to be like on actual Halloween.”
“By then the medical examiner will have performed the autopsy and confirmed it was a heart attack, so all this can just die down,” I tell her. She looks at me with a withering expression. “I'm sorry. That wasn't the best choice of words. The point is, it's going to be over soon. You won't have to deal with any of this anymore. You just have to get through a little while longer. Until then, why don't you let me take your mind off this.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Where are we going to go?” she asks with a dismissive, almost hopeless note in her voice.
“To the Summer Palace,” I tell her. “You know it's not far from here. There's a skeleton staff there all year, so it's prepared anytime we want to visit. We can go over there for a few days, relax, and wait for all this to blow over. How does that sound?”
She looks like she's getting ready to resist, but a paper airplane crafted out of black construction paper soars up onto the veranda and lands at her feet. I catch a figure running across the grass and disappearing into the tree line as she leans down to scoop it up. She looks at it, then shows me. The unfolded note has a skull and crossbones pasted into the middle and a word from the newspaper glued beneath it.
Cursed.
“I'm going to go pack,” she says.
Half an hour later, I have everything I need packed, and I go to Avery's bedroom. Sebastian is perched at the end of her bed, holding the paper airplane note.
“I didn't realize people actually do this,” he says. “I mean, who sits around cutting words out of newspapers and turning them into threatening paper airplanes? That has to be against some sort of airspace law or something.”
“It's just a hoax,” I say. “Some kid trying to get a rise out of Avery.” Sebastian looks up at me. "Cinnamon Buns," I say.
“Pecan Pie,” he replies.
“It definitely got a rise out of me,” Avery says. “I don't care if it was just some kid. All this talk and people dying and me sending the bad juju at him is just really creeping me out.”
“Who said you sent the bad juju at him?” I ask.
“Me,” she admits. “I'm the one that said about myself. But it doesn't make it any less true. I did. The whole time he's been here, I've been doing nothing but talking about how difficult he is and being scared to death about what he was going to say in his review. Then he winds up dead.”
“You are not the only one who thinks about him like that,” I reassure her.