Granny Smith Is Dead

by Chelsea Thomas

  Miss May exhaled. “OK. Well, the way I heard it, something happened. Food poisoning, water quality problem, I don’t know. But people say all the patients lost their minds at the same time. Well, the patients were already a little nutty. But things went off the deep end. And then... Oh whatever. It’s just a silly tall tale.”

  “What happens next?”

  Miss May scratched her head. “After the patients lost their minds, uh...there was a fire. You can see where the roof collapsed. And uh... Well... Everyone burned alive.”

  I shook my head. “OK. Turn around. We’re going home.”

  “Wait,” Miss May said. “When I volunteered here, back before the fire, a patient told me the tunnels from the house on Beacon Hill ran beneath the asylum. She said you can access the tunnels through the basement.”

  “One of the mental patients told you that? Not the most reliable source.”

  Miss May shrugged. “We might as well find out if she was telling the truth. Those tunnels are our only hope at getting a look at the crime scene.”

  “But Miss May... ghosts are one thing. Crazy ghosts who died in a horrible fire... whole other bag of terrible.”

  Miss May waved me off. “That’s a story. That’s all. Something the kids used to say.”

  “Miss May!”

  “OK, it’s creepy!” Miss May looked over at me. “But do you have a better idea?”

  “Yes. Go play with Nacho’s puppies so we can decide which one we want to adopt.”

  Lightning split the sky overhead.

  Crack! Flash!

  “Not a good sign,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly, Chelsea. It’s just lightning.”

  Another thunderclap boomed overhead. Miss May jumped in her seat. “Fine. I’m scared.”

  31

  Going in Circles

  We circled the building three times, seeking an entry point. I was about to suggest we give up. Then I noticed a broken window on the first floor, around the back of the building.

  I cleared the shards of glass around the edge of the window with a large stick. Then Miss May dragged over two cinderblocks.

  I stacked one on the other and hoisted myself inside. Then I helped Miss May flop through the window, and we were both inside the asylum.

  We had entered a long hallway, illuminated by streaks of bright white moonlight.

  Either side of the hall was lined with doors, which I assumed opened into creepy hospital rooms.

  Someone had painted each door frame with a bright pewter green years ago. That night, all that remained were a few verdant accents peeling to reveal gray paint below.

  Papers, letters, and clothes were strewn along the hall haphazardly.

  A rusty metal bed frame sat in the middle of the hall, topped with a chewed-up mattress. Brown sheets clustered at the foot of the bed. I imagined the patient who had once lain in that bed, awaking and roaming the halls.

  Miss May’s story had seemed outlandish when we were parked outside in the rain. But inside the walls of the former mental institution, the tale seemed one hundred percent true.

  I glanced at Miss May. Her face was white. Like a ghost.

  My aunt swallowed. “This place...has gone downhill. When I worked here it was clean. Bright and white. I remember seeing the workers paint the green on those doors. Age isn’t kind to any of us.”

  “You look better than this place does.”

  “I haven’t caught on fire,” Miss May said.

  “Come on.” I gestured down the hall. “Let’s find the basement.”

  Miss May nodded and we continued down the hall. It felt wrong to disturb the debris that littered the ground. Like stealing flowers from a cemetery. So we tip-toed, careful to avoid burned-up clothes, papers and personal effects.

  We came to a large double door at the end of the hall and Miss May stopped walking. “I think the door to the basement is through there.”

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s go in.”

  Miss May exhaled then leaned into the double doors with her shoulder and entered.

  We found ourselves in what appeared to be a cafeteria or dining hall. A dozen rectangular tables were scattered throughout. A buffet counter lined the wall in the back. And a basketball hoop hung above the buffet, its net reduced to a few stubborn strings.

  The room had a familiar feel, like an elementary school cafeteria, and my shoulders relaxed slightly down my back. “This is a nice cafeteria.”

  Miss May hung back by the entrance. I turned to her. “Why won’t you come in?”

  Miss May looked at me. Her eyes appeared gray in the dim light. “This is where the fire started.”

  I looked up. There was a chasm where the ceiling should have been. Charred at the edges. And I could see a crescent moon above us, only half-hidden by storm clouds. “It must have stopped raining.”

  “I know,” Miss May said, following my eyes upward. “But this place is so creepy. I forgot there was such a thing as ‘outside.’”

  Miss May’s words echoed in my head. I considered how the people who’d lived here probably hadn’t been allowed to leave. So strange, I reflected, that society’s solution for mental illness or criminal behavior was to lock people in cages. As if being trapped in a box would ever help restore someone’s sanity or morality.

  Freedom, I thought, staring heavenward. Thank goodness for my freedom.

  “Let’s find this basement already,” Miss May said. “I need to get out of here.”

  I scanned the room. “Do you remember where it is?”

  Miss May nodded at an old wooden door across the cafeteria. We walked toward the door. As we got closer I could make out the word “BASEMENT” written in peeling red letters.

  “I’m ready if you are,” Miss May said.

  I shook my head. “I’m not ready.”

  Miss May reached out, grabbed the copper knob and turned. The basement door creaked as Miss May swung it open. A hinge possessed by a wicked spirit.

  “Flashlight?” Miss May asked.

  I flicked the light on my phone and followed Miss May down the steps. After this, I vowed, I am done descending into dark tunnels. For at least a couple weeks.

  Miss May’s shadow stretched ten feet in front of her, shepherding us down the stairs like a slender tour guide.

  Mice and rats scurried in the walls like tiny tap dancers.

  Dripping water echoed around us. But I couldn’t see or feel any moisture.

  We reached the foot of the stairs and I took a deep breath to calm myself. It didn’t work. Once again, we were in the tunnels. My heart thudded like I had just run a 5K.

  “What do we do now?” I asked. “How do we find our way back to the house on Beacon Hill?”

  Miss May held a finger to her lips.” Shh. We listen.”

  I stopped moving. Cocked my head to the left. Listened.

  “Do you hear anything?”

  Miss May held her finger to her lips again. She spoke in a whisper. “Voices. In the distance.”

  Miss May started toward the end of the tunnel. I followed. We each walked without a sound. Quieter than the rats tap-dancing in the walls.

  I held onto Miss May’s shirtsleeve to make sure we didn’t get separated. With each step we took, the voices got louder, clearer.

  Scarier.

  Miss May either had incredible hearing or supernatural instincts for navigating the tunnels. She made a left. Then a right. Another left. All the while, moving like a ninja on a Tokyo rooftop.

  Then she stopped in her tracks. She held up a hand to make sure I stopped too, and I did.

  Miss May swallowed. “I think they’re right around this corner.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost not a sound.

  She flattened herself against the wall. I did the same. We sidestepped closer to the voices, one centimeter at a time.

  Miss May motioned for me to turn off my flashlight. I did.

  We took three more sideways steps, flat against the wall, invisible in the dar
kness. Then we rounded the corner.

  Although we were under the cover of darkness, we could see a cluster of five or six cops thirty feet away, awash in floodlights. The group of officers formed a small circle. They appeared to be looking at something on the ground.

  Or someone?

  Miss May and I inched closer, emboldened by the cover of darkness and driven by our curiosity.

  The cluster of cops parted.

  And that’s when we saw Buster.

  Slumped against the wall.

  Shot between the eyes.

  32

  A Shot in the Dark

  We stayed hidden in the darkness, backs pressed against the wall, for half an hour. And we listened as police officers, crime scene photographers, and a blood spatter expert discussed Buster’s murder.

  Neither Miss May nor I could hear much of what the officers were saying. But as time passed, it became clear they didn’t have much information. Chief Flanagan shook her head. She crossed her arms in annoyance. She yelled at Hercules and didn’t bother to apologize.

  Eventually, the deputies and analysts trickled out , so Chief Flanagan and Wayne were the only two members of the Pine Grove Police Department remaining. Miss May and I inched closer to listen as they spoke.

  “Please tell me you can make sense of this,” Chief Flanagan said. “Word will get out. And we need to have an answer for the press.”

  Wayne shrugged. “I want to tell you I have a theory, but I don’t.”

  “There’s nothing we haven’t thought of? Nothing we haven’t discussed?” Chief Flanagan exhaled.

  Wayne took a small step forward. “There is one thing. Remember that vandalism case from a few months back? We arrested that girl?”

  “Willow Alfonsi,” Flanagan said with a dismissive wave.

  “Right. Willow.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  Wayne shrugged. “I think it’s possible. The girl had a romantic thing with Buster. I’ve seen them around town together.”

  “For real? She was with him?” Flanagan shot a look at Buster’s body. “No offense.”

  It was too dark for Miss May and me to exchange our typical surprised glance, so instead I nudged her with my elbow.

  Willow and Buster? Willow Alfonsi worked at the Brown Cow, and she wore combat boots and had cool tattoos. She was a hip, attractive twenty-something. Buster was... Buster.

  Wayne nodded. “Not what you’d expect, I know. I don’t think either of their parents approved. But yeah, Willow and Buster were an item. And Willow had the motive to kill Granny Smith.”

  “Why?”

  “Granny Smith is the one who reported Willow for vandalism.”

  Flanagan shook her head. “But the Alfonsi girl couldn’t have killed Smith. We investigated her. We dismissed her.”

  Wayne retorted sharply. “Now we have more information. Her boyfriend is dead. That’s significant. That mandates further exploration.”

  “Watch your tone, Detective. I’ll tell you what mandates further exploration.”

  Wayne touched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. Stressful job. And these tunnels put me in a bad mood.”

  Flanagan put her hand on Wayne’s arm. I didn’t like it. “I’m sorry. You’re right. And you may have a point. The girl may have killed Granny Smith for revenge. Maybe Buster found out. There was conflict between them. So the girl killed him, too. It’s the best theory we’ve got.”

  “Pretty dark,” Wayne said. “But then again, most murders are.”

  I nudged Miss May again.

  Miss May nodded. “I know,” she whispered. “We need to talk to Willow.”

  We sidestepped back toward the tunnel exit. But I kicked something. A pipe or a rock. And the sound rattled down the tunnel.

  “What was that?” Flanagan’s voice was sharp.

  “Maybe a rat. Raccoon. Large mouse. These tunnels are filled with vermin,” Wayne said. Somehow, I felt like he was covering for me even though he didn’t know I was there.

  Chief Flanagan stared right at the spot where we were standing. Neither Miss May nor I moved. We put all our trust in the darkness to hide us. Like our own private invisibility cloak.

  I felt a tickle in my throat, but I fought the urge to cough.

  “Vermin,” Flanagan said. “You don’t see anything else?”

  Wayne held his hand to his forehead, squinting to see into the dark. He shrugged. “Nope.”

  Chief Flanagan peeled her gaze away from our spot and turned back to Buster. “OK. Call the coroner. Get this guy out of here.”

  Chief Flanagan walked down the tunnel, in the opposite direction from where we were standing. She reached for the bottom rung of a ladder, climbed up, and disappeared.

  ——

  When we got home that night, Miss May and I had a quick meeting over cold pizza. We could have heated it, but we didn’t have the patience. Plus, I loved cold pizza.

  Something happened when pizza got cold that amplified its deliciousness. The sauce tasted tangier. The cheese firmed up and developed a buttery texture. The crust had a chewiness that... I’m rambling about cold pizza now, aren’t I? I’ll stop.

  Miss May pulled her fancy extra-virgin olive oil from the cupboard. She poured a few tablespoons on a saucer and sprinkled it with Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes. She ripped the crust off of a slice, plunged the bread into the oil and took a big bite.

  “Good?” I asked.

  “Soul food.” She handed me a hunk of crust. I copied her dipping strategy. Extra oil, extra cheese, extra delicious.

  “Buster wasn’t such a bad kid, you know,” Miss May said. “He had a tough time, growing up under Granny Smith’s thumb. To think, he and his mother both met their ends in those dark, dank tunnels. Buster didn’t deserve that.”

  I nodded but I didn’t have much to say. Miss May always tried to see the best in people, especially after they died. I often had the same impulse. But Buster hadn’t said a single nice thing the whole time I’d known him. Even the way he’d said hello was mean.

  “I mean it,” Miss May said. “I remember the first time I met Buster. His first-grade class came up to the orchard on a field trip. Just like the one you led the other day. Granny Smith attended as a chaperone. She watched that poor kid like a hawk with a mouse. It wasn’t without good reason. Buster was rambunctious. He ran everywhere. Plucked apples off the trees and threw them at the other kids. But he did it all with a smile on his face. He was still sweet then. Over the years, that sweetness turned sour.” She furrowed her brow. “Sour like a Granny Smith.”

  “Willow Alfonsi must’ve seen something in him. So he couldn’t have been all bad.” I dipped more crust in the olive oil. “You think her dad was the man who was yelling when we were in Buster’s bedroom, right? The guy screaming like, ‘Stay away from my daughter.’”

  “That’s right. It had to be Aldo Alfonsi.”

  “Aldo Alfonsi. Some name.” I chewed the crust. “So you think Aldo Alfonsi killed Buster?”

  “I think he’s our number one suspect,” Miss May said. “But you never know.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Miss May shook her head. “Not really. But he works at the barber shop near the grocery store in town. He only cuts men’s hair. Italian-American. Very stoic. When he’s not cutting hair he keeps to himself. So I’ve never met him.”

  “Maybe it’s time to change that,” I said.

  Miss May exhaled. “First thing in the morning. Maybe Willow will be home, too. She still lives with her dad, and I think she only works nights for Brian.”

  “But what if the police get to the Alfonsi’s first? Shouldn’t we act fast? We’ve got a hot fresh clue.”

  “Sometimes clues are like pizza,” Miss May said. “They’re great when they’re hot. But they can be even better what they’ve cooled down.”

  Miss May took a big bite of pizza to prove her point. But I had lost my appetite.

  Confronting suspected killer
s had that effect on me.

  33

  Barbershop Barbs

  Aldo and Willow Alfonsi lived in the next town over from Pine Grove in a little village called “Cayuga Lake.” Cayuga Lake had a post office and a general store. There may have been a gas station, too. But other than that, Cayuga Lake was nothing more than a smattering of houses with no real center.

  Cayuga Lake kids attended Pine Grove schools. Cayuga Lake parents shopped in Pine Grove stores. For all intents and purposes, those from Cayuga Lake were from Pine Grove. Unless you were writing them a letter or entering their address into a GPS.

  According to local lore, developers had built the homes in Cayuga Lake in a loose cluster around, you guessed it, a lake. But the lake had dried up many years prior and trees grew in its place. So there was no discernible logic to the community or its moniker.

  The Alfonsi residence was a one-bedroom craftsman that sat at the square edge of a dead-end street. The home was olive green with maroon shutters. It had a large front porch with a classic white, swinging bench. Though the place was modest there was an obvious pride of ownership, and despite the serious nature of our visit, the home put me at ease.

  Willow Alfonsi answered the door. Her long dreadlocks were pulled back into a ponytail. She wore an oversized hooded sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. It would have been a dowdy outfit on anyone else, but she accented it with gold hoop earrings and bright neon Nikes. Willow had an effortless cool, and I wondered again why she’d dated Buster.

  “What do you want?” Willow said. “You think I killed Buster?”

  Once again, our reputation was getting us in trouble.

  “Not at all,” Miss May said, with a reassuring smile. Then, as she oft had before, my aunt produced a small apple pie from her giant purse and extended it toward Willow. How did she fit all those pies? “We came to offer our condolences. We hear you and Buster were... an item. And we were hoping the three of us could chat. We thought you might know who might have wanted to hurt him.”

  “First, I’m a vegan. So that’s a no on your butter crust pie.” Willow pushed the pie away. “Second, I have nothing to say about Buster. I didn’t know him.”