Nancy Drew

by Micol Ostow

  She rolled her eyes. Still salty; I guessed she hadn’t yet gotten over not being cast in the Naming Day reenactment. Though, given recent events, it felt like she should honestly be considering herself lucky.

  And speaking of … Caroline’s had been the first name to come up after the first note was found. Or, at least, the second name, after Theo managed to convince us he was way too much of a slacker to ever pull off anything so elaborate as that little number. But I hadn’t had the chance to interrogate—I mean ask—her about it yet.

  She was scowling at me, though. “If you have something to ask me, Nancy, just go for it.”

  O … kay. Cutting straight to the chase. I liked it; it made things easier. “I mean … as long as you brought it up.”

  She sighed heavily.

  “I was wondering if you were anywhere on the school premises on Monday afternoon … say, around the time the Masthead was meeting?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you were also wondering if I had anything to do with your girl Daisy’s locker today. That whole ‘curse’ vandalism thing.”

  Okay, you got me. I had to admit, I was surprised she’d preempted my questions. At my curious look, she went on. “Lena ‘talked’ to me. After school today.” The emphasis she placed on the word “talked” wasn’t lost. I doubted it was a light, casual chat.

  Oh. “Okay,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffed.

  It was hard to blame her for being disbelieving. “I swear,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with as much sincerity as possible. “I had no idea. Although it does make sense, now that you mention it.” As much as any of this made sense, which, of course, wasn’t saying that much.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, eyes flashing, “but I’ll tell you what I told Lena. As it happens, I was at school on Monday afternoon, working on a paper in the library. And on Tuesday, I was with a teacher.”

  “Okay.” I waited. I had a sense there was more to it, and that she was about to share—however resentfully.

  “I was with Mr. Stephenson.” She put a hand on her hip, daring me to challenge her.

  She made it sound so certain, like this was the definitive be-all and end-all of the conversation. I wished I could see it that way. On the one hand, a person definitely wouldn’t have had to be physically near the office to send that raven on its way … but on other hand, it was a seriously bold move to invoke a teacher’s name the way Caroline had, in that, as alibis went, it was eminently verifiable. Not to mention, she hadn’t mentioned a raven, which a guilty person might do to specifically refute their involvement, if he or she were trying to distance themselves from such a bizarre, specific action.

  “You can ask him if you want.” Caroline was still looking at me, waiting on a more dramatic reaction, I guessed.

  I tried to look casual, though of course, of course I was definitely going to do just that, as soon as I had a chance. “Okay,” I said. “But you know that even if he verifies your alibi for Tuesday—”

  “Oh, now it’s an alibi that needs to be verified?” she asked, raising her voice.

  Now I sighed. “What do you want me to say, Caroline? Something weird happened. You definitely already know that, because apparently Lena approached you about it. It sounds like she wasn’t super nice either. And whatever she said, it made enough of an impression on you that you assumed I’d have questions of my own.”

  “It did.” Her voice was tight. “And here you are. Look at that.”

  “I’ve definitely been called worse things than ‘predictable.’ Look, Caroline, you say you were with Mr. Stephenson on Tuesday? I’m inclined to believe you. As alibis go, it’s one that’s too easy to verify—or debunk—as I mentioned. But that doesn’t account for what happened during the newspaper meeting. As you must know, someone vandalized Daisy’s locker sometime today. And even if you didn’t pull the locker prank, the Masthead incident definitely could have been you.”

  “How could that have been me? Or are you planning to question the entire student body?” Caroline asked.

  Point.

  But: counterpoint. “Daisy’s my best friend. Do you really need to ask? If I have to, I will. But for now, I think I’ll settle for the kids who have motives for wanting to take the reenactment down.” I arched an eyebrow of my own. “Like you.”

  She swallowed, the spring breeze brushing her hair back from her face. “Look, I know I freaked out in the quad after the cast list was posted.”

  “That was more than just a ‘freak-out,’ ” I said. “If I recall, it was a breakdown that required intervention from Stephenson himself.”

  “Okay, whatever. It was a total meltdown. I’m not gonna argue with you about what to call it. And yeah, I was disappointed, big-time. I expected to be cast. The reenactment show is a huge thing around here. I mean, what else do we even have going on in this Podunk town?”

  “I happen to like this Podunk town,” I replied, realizing as I said it that it was an easy claim to make, knowing I had an application to Columbia University just waiting to be filled out next year.

  Caroline softened at that. “I do too,” she admitted. “I guess making fun of Naming Day is just my way of pretending like it’s no big deal I’m not gonna get to participate in the way I was hoping. You have to get it, right? I mean, I know you’re, like, ‘in’ ”—she made little air quotes with her fingers—“but those of us who are out? Well, we really feel it.”

  It was hard not to sympathize with her when she said that. I gave her a small smile. “If you’re trying to play it cool, I get it. But I feel like the cat’s maybe out of the bag by this point. I think people have the idea that you’re upset. Or that you were.” I held my breath: Would she be offended? I was trying to tease, but if Caroline had proven anything about herself recently, it was that with the right provocation, she could be easily triggered.

  For a moment, her face was impassive, and I worried I’d set our conversation back at least fifty proverbial paces. But then, miraculously, she broke into a smile of her own. “Burn,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “I like it.”

  Unexpected, but I’ll take it.

  “I don’t blame you for suspecting me,” Caroline said. She shrugged, looking resigned. “Honestly, I’d be surprised if you didn’t. And, like I said, talk to Stephenson. He can tell you, at least, that I was with him on Tuesday. As for the Masthead thing? I don’t know, I guess you’ll have to decide whether or not to take my word for it.”

  “I can’t promise I’m not going to do any more digging,” I said.

  “Again: unsurprising,” Caroline said. “Your reputation precedes you as much as anyone’s does.”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “In a town like this, whose doesn’t?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the short time I had to spare between bumping into Caroline and meeting Parker at the Claw, I managed to catch what was maybe the first break I’d had since I started investigating the Naming Day curse. Which was to say, when I googled Strathmore, I found more than one hit, but only one of a person: Glynnis Strathmore, who could plausibly have written an op-ed piece in 1971, who was also currently still living within ten miles of Horseshoe Bay, in the nearby hamlet of Stone Ridge.

  I’d driven through Stone Ridge on family vacations to Shadow Ranch—before solving a mystery there had rendered it yet another awkward place for our little family to spend our free time—but I’d never stopped in. Still, though, this hit, this lead—it felt promising. I had that little hum in my blood that told me I was on the right track. Over the years, I’d learned well enough not to ignore that hum.

  Whatever superstitions had inspired Glynnis Strathmore to write an opinion piece on the Naming Day curse, she wasn’t so paranoid that her phone number didn’t come up online right away. I dialed it eagerly from my bedroom, feeling grateful that my parents’ work kept them occupied enough that I had way more privacy and independence than your av
erage teenage girl. It wasn’t something I took for granted.

  She sounded surprised to hear from me, but I took it as being more surprised to hear from anyone than from me in particular, which was mildly heartbreaking. I mentioned the op-ed and she seemed stunned that anyone had stumbled across it. “That was so long ago, dearie,” she said, her voice shaky with age. But she was perfectly happy to tell me more about it. “It’s probably better if we meet in person, though” was her one caveat.

  “Are you … Is privacy an issue?” She didn’t strike me as someone who’d be very concerned with phone taps and stuff like that, what with being so very findable online. But I guessed even that blood hum I get can occasionally be wrong, especially when it comes to the tin hat brigade. You never do know what specifically is going to set someone off.

  “I assure you, I’m very discreet,” I went on. “I’m just curious. About the piece you wrote, anything you might know about the curse. I’m covering the Naming Day reenactment for the Horseshoe Bay Masthead, and I stumbled on a few mentions of it. But only a very few. No one seems to know anything about it, and I was wondering what the story was there.”

  There was a burst of static at the other end of the phone, followed by a snort of laughter. “Privacy? Heavens, no,” she said, barely able to contain herself. “Certainly I’m of no interest to anyone important out there. There’s nothing to be so private about. It’s only that the backstory to the curse is one of those stranger-than-fiction sort of deals. And, like you said, no one does seem to mention it nowadays—I suppose people prefer their curses connected to sexy vampires or zombies, like those loud TV shows on the cable—”

  “Well, I can’t say I’m all that important, but I for one would love to hear what you have to say,” I cut in, hoping to head off a long, rambling diatribe on the current state of pop culture, about which, even within the short few minutes since we’d been speaking, Ms. Strathmore had already made her opinions clear.

  “Why don’t you come here, then?” she suggested, and the hope in her voice was almost more than I could bear. “You say you’re in Horseshoe Bay; that’s not terribly far.”

  “Not far at all,” I agreed. “Is there a time that works best for you?”

  “Oh, heavens—my schedule’s quite open,” she said, snort-laughing again with gusto. “Retirement, you know. Twenty-two years on the school board—”

  “Well, how about”—I glanced at my watch—“half an hour? It shouldn’t take me longer than that to get myself together and drive over.” I’d heard all about her years teaching first grade. Honestly, we’d covered a startling amount of ground in the short time since I’d called her. This was a woman who was thrilled to have someone to talk to.

  And I was all ears. It would mean pushing Parker back a little bit, but I could do it.

  We confirmed her address, and I plugged it into my phone’s GPS. Whoever it was that had ripped her piece from the official city hall records of the Horseshoe Bay Tribune had obviously not counted on a twenty-first-century teenage girl and her trusty smartphone.

  I love being underestimated.

  Nancy: Hey, quick favor: Any chance you can meet closer to 8 p.m.? Something came up.

  Parker: You sure? If you need to reschedule, it’s no problem.

  Parker: I mean, sure, my pride will be wounded beyond all repair, but, like, other than that, no problem at all.

  Nancy: The last thing I’d want to do would be to wound your pride, clearly. But even if you weren’t such a clearly fragile flower, I promise—I want to see you. I just have some stuff to take care of.

  Parker: As long as you’re sure. I mean, I can’t help but notice that 8 p.m. is dangerously close to what some might consider a more traditionally date-like hour. Harder to play things off as super casual, come 8 p.m.

  Nancy: I’ll take my chances.

  Parker: I love a girl with a sense of adventure.

  * * *

  Though it wasn’t far at all from Horseshoe Bay, the short geographic distance to Stone Ridge spanned huge gaps just in terms of topography. As I drove, dune brush gave way to pine trees, and the roads grew thick and wooded. Pine needles covered the roads rather than sand, and the ocean salt in the air faded until all I could smell was crisp evergreen growth.

  If I’d googled Maine retiree, home environment, the house at the end of the drive I was currently pulling up to would have been the photo to accompany the Wikipedia entry I turned up. I was also getting the slightest tinge of “murderer’s cabin in the woods” from Glynnis’s driveway, but I was doing my best to push those thoughts out of my mind as I twisted along the tree-lined path, braked, and killed the ignition.

  Glynnis’s home was a modest cottage, a sturdy one-level cabin built from dark logs and adorned with chalet-style red shutters. Window boxes were planted with bright yellow marigolds, despite the fact that the season was almost over. Whoever this woman was and whatever her backstory, she clearly took a lot of pride and pleasure in her home, even if it wasn’t big or flashy. The yellow of the flowers and the red of the shutters went a long way toward undoing the creepy horror-movie vibe that came over me as I’d first turned down the drive.

  I’ll take it.

  The door swung open away from me just as I raised my finger to ring the bell, telling me that Glynnis had already been poised directly on the other side of it, waiting. While her enthusiasm for my visit was great news for the investigation, every cell of her being screamed loneliness. It made me feel slightly uncomfortable about the self-serving nature of my visit. But not uncomfortable enough to turn around and go home.

  “Hello, dearie,” she said, smiling over a pair of embellished mother-of-pearl glasses that on someone twenty years younger would have been the height of geek chic. “Please do come in.”

  She ushered me into a living room that felt like a time capsule: frilly chintz upholstery cased in plastic slipcovers that squeaked awkwardly as I settled myself on a small sofa, setting my bag beside me. The space felt a little lonely, desolate, but quiet and harmless. “Thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me, Ms. Strathmore,” I said.

  “Of course. Happy to do it. As you’ve probably guessed, I don’t get too many visitors these days.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said, meaning it. “Do you—ah, I normally take notes, and record my interviews. Would that be okay?” I pulled out my leather notebook and set my phone to record.

  She frowned for a moment, like she was considering it. Her white hair hung in tight corkscrews that bobbed with her every movement. “I don’t see why not.”

  Really? The total lack of information available—and the fact that someone had gone to pretty decent lengths to hide the information that was available in the first place—said otherwise.

  I hesitated, unsure whether to mention that it had literally been pulled from the official records. I decided to wait. I didn’t want to risk spooking her now and accidentally creating an abrupt ending to our meeting.

  “Oh!” Her eyes flashed with realization. “I almost forgot. I baked cookies.”

  Of course she had. Now that she mentioned it, though, I could smell the sugar and spice in the air.

  “I hope you like oatmeal raisin,” she said, bustling through a low doorway into what was obviously the kitchen.

  “It’s my favorite,” I said, which wasn’t strictly true, but in this case, a white lie was harmless enough.

  “And some tea?” she called. “The water’s just boiled. I have mint and chamomile.”

  “Um, mint, please,” I said.

  “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you,” I called back, beginning to feel slightly fidgety. Glynnis Strathmore clearly did not share my personal sense of urgency.

  After a moment, she came back into the room, this time carrying a silver tray with a platter of the oatmeal cookies and a small tea set: a pot, two teacups and saucers, and tiny spoons. She set the entire platter on the polished mahogany coffee table, poured me a mug of tea from the pot, and
sat back into an armchair catty-corner to me, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Now, then,” she said, taking a generous bite out of one of the cookies, spraying a fine layer of crumbs down the front of her popcorn-knit sweater, “you had questions about the Naming Day curse.”

  “I did, yes.” Ready to get down to business, I tucked my hair behind my ear and replaced the cup of tea with my notebook and pen. “Mostly, I’m just interested in the details. The actual origin story. What is the curse?”

  “I’m certain you know more than you think you do,” she said, looking wistful for a moment. “The Naming Day curse is really just one of so many ghoulish legends on which Horseshoe Bay was first founded.”

  I shivered. “But you’re saying this one, at least, isn’t just a legend.”

  She nodded. “That’s precisely what I’m saying.

  “Horseshoe Bay has a bloody backstory,” Glynnis said, startling me out of my reverie. “Perhaps you can even recall when you first heard some variation on one of its more ghastly history lessons.”

  I thought for a beat. Images flashed: Fourth of July fireworks celebrations. Mayoral parades. Slumber parties. Campouts. Whispers throughout them all, grown-ups and children alike. But I actually couldn’t think of when I’d heard of a specific Naming Day curse.

  I pushed the phone closer to Glynnis as she went on. “This one begins like any other. Naming Day celebrates the town’s roots. But the town’s roots were, in fact, slow to take hold. The first winter settling Horseshoe Bay was difficult. Food was scarce, and deaths were plentiful. The cold was bitter and unforgiving. The settlers persevered, though, and through some minor miracle, they survived to see spring.”

  Spring. Hope. All things bright and optimistic. Why did I suspect spring hadn’t been so shiny and hopeful in this story?

  “A celebration was planned, the youths of the town set to prepare a performance, right on the bluff overlooking the magnificent bay. They’d been preparing for weeks. But when the day of the performance arrived, the actors were … missing.”