My heart is thudding in my chest. I am onto something. I am sure of it. “How about Monica Goodman, the third girl, the one they found at school? Did anything like that happen at her house?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Same as I told that investigator, not that it's done a damn bit of good because they're not taking spontaneous combustion as seriously as they should in my humble opinion. The call was made by the little sister. Called 9-1-1 and everything. There's a wooden gazebo in their backyard. Caught on fire, but we got there in time before it spread. Smart girl let me tell you. Probably around my son's age. She swore up and down she saw a lady back there, doing what I don't know.”
I sit up straight. “A lady?”
“That's right. Says she saw a lady wandering around in the backyard. A little suspicious if you ask me.”
We hang up and I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. The window over the sink looks out onto our backyard. The shadows are darkest at the bottom of the slope near the creek. Just the idea of a lady creeping around out there makes me clutch the glass harder, makes me shake my head to get rid of the unwanted image.
I drink the water and call Alfie. He picks up immediately. “What's up?” he says. Not rudely, but anxiously. He is still not sure where things stand between us and I haven't been in any hurry to reassure him, either.
I tell him about what I've learned. There's a pause as it sinks in. “You've been busy. What do you want to do?”
“I think we should go to Emily's house. And Monica's. See if anyone will talk to us, see if anyone saw a lady hanging around.”
“How about Nicole?” Alfie asks.
“I know her brother,” I say quickly. “I can ask him, see what he says. The mom isn't around.”
“Oh yeah?” There’s a long pause. “Wait. Isn’t that the guy you had a major crush on when you were little? The one who used to draw you the unicorn pictures?”
I used to bring them home and pin them on my wall. And show them off. No use denying it. “Yes. Same guy.”
“You just said you know him. So you’ve seen him? Like, recently?”
“Yes, Alfie,” I say. “When the shuttle bus caught on fire, we stopped in front of his house and I ran into him there. And we talked.” I tell him the rest of the story but leave out the part about swimming in the pool in a microscopic bikini.
“Poor guy. That’s some tough shit he’s dealing with." Alfie clears his throat. “Sure. I’ll go with you to talk to the families. When do you want to go?"
I think this over. If Emily and Monica's parents are anything like mine, they'll be tired and cranky after a long day's work, in no mood to answer nosy questions from two student reporters in the evening.
“Saturday,” I say. “Saturday morning. Nine o'clock. Most everyone is around then."
This is met with a groan. Friday nights are party nights for Alfie. He hates getting up early on the weekend. “Alright chickenshit, but this time, you can do the talking.”
“I was planning on it,” I say, but he's already hung up.
Chapter 22
Marguerite: Hillside, 1868
The house is in an uproar.
Mrs. Arundel this very morning called us maids together and announced that David Wirth himself will soon arrive on a visit from San Francisco.
I am looking forward to seeing him—Mrs. A. calls him the handsomest man in California—but his visit is piling on the agony.
We are to clean every inch of the house as if it weren't clean enough already. Now I must dust and polish every bit of furniture in every parlor and take the rugs outside for yet another beating.
William caught me about the waist while I was throwing a rug over a low hanging tree branch on one of the grand terraces.
He tried to exact a promise that I would sneak out and come to him in his little cabin at the edge of the property this very night. He says he has an awful hankering for me and this I do not doubt, as there was full evidence of it as he pulled me to him in an ardent embrace.
But I am afraid that Mrs. A. will discover such a meeting. She has a way of finding things out. Or the beak-nosed kitchen maid will surely catch me before I can creep past the washroom, her ears are that keen.
But there is also another matter to consider, a matter I cannot explain to my dearest, blue eyed William. For one thing I know for certain, men have no care of womanly things. Of that my mother taught me well.
For my purposes, I must find a drug store that sells female syringes.
It may be too much to hope to find a physician here in the countryside, this distance from San Francisco, who is friendly to young ladies not yet married, so I have saved a dollar for the preventative called a Pessairre. The Ladies in Full Bloom who were my friends did use them most faithfully, as did my mother, who kept it under her mattress as a way of hiding it from me. Her secret I discovered when I was but twelve. The old French prostitute patted my head and explained its necessity to prevent a child from coming, unwelcome into this world.
I made my excuses as best as I could to my dear, impatient William and off he went in a fine sulk. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying it hurt me so to see him so bitter.
There was not much time to fret about such things as Mrs. Wirth walked into the Grand Parlor this afternoon. I was quite surprised to see the lady, alone, without Mrs. A. by her side. She was in quite a state, all possessed-like.
“Stand up girl! What are you doing there on the floor?”
“Dusting the legs on this pretty chair,” I said. And while it was true I was dusting, most carefully, it was an outright lie that I thought it pretty.
The furniture in the Grand Parlor is too heavy and dark for my taste, nearly black. I much prefer the lighter wicker in the veranda and the rosewood in the mirrored ballroom.
“David will not be crawling on the floor like a baby, so do not waste your time there. And what is your name girl?”
“Marguerite, ma'am,” I said, lifting my chin a little proudly. For my name, I have been told, is as beautiful as I am.
Then she looks me up and down and sniffs. “I do not care for such foreign names myself, but I hear they are common enough in San Francisco. You look like a capable girl and Mrs. Arundel is busy at present, so come with me. David must have a study to work in while he is here. I am converting the little library for that purpose.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Mrs. Wirth ordered me here and there, bringing this, taking that, moving lamps and books and chairs until everything was just so. She paced the room, a terrible scowl upon her face.
The library—with its tall windows—was quite transformed, but still she was unsatisfied. At her further instruction, I brought plants from the veranda, some pillows from the ladies' parlor, a red carpet from one of the bedrooms.
“You may go,” she finally said when the time had nearly reached seven o'clock. I had not yet had my dinner, so I was very well tired and hungry.
She did not thank me for all my drudgery. “That is not her way,” Mrs. A. later explained.
Mrs. Wirth is a respectable woman. With that I cannot argue. But she should not flatter herself that she is anything close to pretty for her looks are as severe as her manner.
I must confess I do feel sorry for jolly Mr. Wirth to have such a hard woman as a wife. It is perhaps his good luck that she pays him little attention. But it is clear she dotes upon her handsome young son. Such a mother’s devotion I have rarely seen.
Chapter 23
Friday. Finally. Madison has the afternoon off from her job at the Wirth Mansion and she wants us to get together after school. At The Cuts, of all places. Destiny says she’d rather do pizza and a movie, but Madison says she can't because she's busy later.
A brisk wind chases away the clouds and sends fallen strips of eucalyptus bark skittering across the quad at school. The sun is out, but the air is crisp.
Chloe and I are waiting for Destiny on a bench at the back of the school. Madison ran home to grab somethi
ng and said she'd meet us. I have a sneaking suspicion what that could be.
We're talking about stories for the next update of Not-the-Clarion when Mary McKissick walks by without saying hello or even glancing our way. Which is odd because Mary tends to be overly friendly. Chloe looks at me and I shrug.
Something is not right about Mary. Her expression is blank. She's mumbling to herself, walking in a herky-jerky way that makes me feel uneasy.
I call after her. “Hey Mary!”
If she hears me, there's no sign of it. She continues to walk her strange walk and then lurches off the path and tumbles into some bushes. We rush over to help her up.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Chloe asks, picking leaves out of her hair.
Mary nods, but vaguely, like she didn't quite understand the question.
After making sure she didn't hurt herself, I give her arm a gentle shake. “Mary. What's going on? Are you sick?”
“Sick? No, no.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“Let me drive you home.” I'm not sure if Mary has a car, but if she does, the last thing Hillside needs is her behind the wheel.
“That's okay. My mom's picking me up. But thank you.” Then she gives a weak smile and walks away, more steadily this time.
“Should we let her go alone like that?” Chloe asks. We watch as Mary turns a corner and disappears from view.
“I think she'll be okay,” I say uncertainly. “She said her mom's coming.”
“That was weird, don't you think?”
“Yeah.” I think back to the editorial meeting when Mary waved her hands around her ears. And the time Alfie and I saw her getting escorted into the nurse’s office. I tell Chloe about it.
“That's weird, too,” she says, gathering her long hair in one hand and twisting the ends. “Did you see how she was acting right now? Maybe she’s hearing voices. Isn't that a symptom of schizophrenia? I hope she isn't coming down with it.”
I give Chloe a poke in the ribs. “It's not the flu. You don't come down with schizophrenia.”
Chloe pokes back. “You know what I mean.”
***
All three of us are waiting for Madison in The Cuts. Since it's Friday, party time, some younger kids are already there smoking and drinking.
Destiny, having lost weight on a ridiculous diet, is wearing all black. She decides to pull a Madison and order everyone out. They ignore her. Which makes me and Chloe laugh. When Destiny glares at us, we laugh even harder. I am not sure why we're laughing. It's not that funny, but it feels good. When a sophomore guy—totally high—walks up and tells Destiny she has great tits, she begins laughing, too.
“Bitches,” he says, then trips and falls over a rock.
Madison arrives and yells at everyone to “Get the fuck out,” and they do. There's some whining and complaining, but they're not about to ignore her. She's wearing chunky black boots and so much eyeliner it looks like a mask. Her hair is in a new style, too, long with a few braids. So now she looks like a six-foot-one Viking warrior superhero.
“What the hell?” Chloe asks when everyone has shuffled off, looking her up and down.
Madison gives an evil grin. “My sister is coming home for the weekend.”
That explains everything. Madison's sister is three years older, an annoying goody-goody who secretly tortured Madison when they were kids. Once, Mackenzie trapped Madison in the doghouse in the backyard and left her there for hours. When Madison hit 5 foot 9, some things changed and some didn't, like Madison still trying to even the score.
Madison sits on a log, unzips her backpack, and begins pulling out mini bottles and cans. She sets them on the ground in front of us. It's like she raided a hotel minibar.
“Drink up girlfriends! We're celebrating!” She pulls the tab off a can of one of those sparkling alcoholic drinks.
I wave my hands in the air and she throws me one. “What are we celebrating, exactly?” The grapefruit drink explodes in my nose, making me cough.
“Life! Survival!” Madison says, holding up her can in a toast. “Here’s to making it another week without going up in flames.”
“Yay, us,” I say. Madison kicks some dirt at me.
Chloe picks up a bottle, wrinkles her nose. “Is this the same stuff that made us throw up when we were sophomores?”
Madison shakes her head. “No way. That was Scotch. This is whiskey. Try it.”
“No thank you,” Chloe says. Then she chooses some white wine and sips it slowly, closing her eyes. “Mmmm. Tastes like summer.”
Madison is now eying Destiny, who's sitting there with her arms crossed in front of her chest, mouth pinched. “What's up over there in the emo corner?”
Destiny lifts her chin. “I'm on a diet. I wish you would have asked me first if I wanted to drink.”
“You wanted to get pizza!” Madison snaps. “There are way more calories in pizza than one of these! Go ahead, read the label yourself.”
That is just the beginning of the argument. And on it goes. Destiny accusing Madison of never asking for her opinion and always getting her way. Madison accusing Destiny of being passive aggressive and obsessed with the scale.
Destiny grabs a fizzy drink. And then another. And then after some more arguing they're laughing and hugging. Chloe and I exchange looks. This is old drama, not new drama, and we're used to it and we know better than to get involved. The last time we did no one talked to each other for weeks.
When the laughing stops, The Cuts are eerily quiet. The only noise in the little clearing is the sound of our breathing. I suddenly feel death's cold presence, the memory of Emily, Nicole and Monica. It's a memory that comes back when I least expect it, along with the worry, the wondering why it's happening and what's going to happen next.
We decide it's time to leave. Chloe, buzzed, texts Alfie—of all people—to give us a ride. As we pick our way across the uneven ground of the wood, the talk turns to Alfie.
“He was the worst boyfriend ever, Chloe,” Madison says.
“I thought you were over him. Like, totally, forever done with him,” says Destiny.
Chloe gives a loud, agonized moan. “I thought I was. But it’s been really hard spending all that time with him on The Clarion. And he’s been so nice.”
Madison snorts. “And now you’ve come up with an excuse to see him. Well, we all know where this is going to lead.”
“And how it’s going to end,” Destiny adds. I keep my mouth shut because I’m too close to Alfie and Chloe to get involved, like I did the last time.
Chloe is sniffling now. Great, now they’ve made her cry. “Can you two stop with the mean girls routine?” I snap. “Chloe’s almost eighteen, not fifteen anymore. She can make up her own mind.” Chloe grabs my hand and gives it a little squeeze.
Destiny stomps off ahead. “Uh! Why did we even do this? Now we're all shit-faced and it's not even six o'clock yet!”
The rest of us find this hilarious so we begin laughing, which annoys Destiny and she flips us off over her shoulder. As she passes under a long row of lights, they wink off, one by one. It's as if she's somehow turning them off. She's oblivious, but we stop and stare. Then she turns around. “What? What are you looking at?”
But no one says anything because, for once, we're speechless.
“Uh! You guys! You can be so annoying!” Destiny yells, then runs into a hallway lined with lockers. At the first one, she slams her hand against the metal in a dramatic show of frustration. Sparks fly.
Destiny jumps back and gives a little shriek. She lands in a puddle of water.
And then she sparks again.
A shower of white and silver sparks fly out of her. A sizzling, crackling noise fills the air. Destiny screams. As suddenly as the sparking began, it stops. We all hold our breaths, waiting for it to happen again. But it doesn't. Seconds pass.
Chloe and Madison look like they've fallen under a magic spell. They stand there like statues with their hands half raised, mouths open. The on
ly one moving is Destiny. She's stamping her feet and brushing at her jacket like it's covered with tiny spiders.
“You okay, Dest?” I ask, keeping a safe distance.
She hesitates. “Yeah. I think so.” Her eyes are as big and round as plates.
“Good,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, steady. “Step out of the water, Dest. Okay?”
As soon as she does, Madison unleashes a stream of “What the hell's!” and Chloe starts tugging my arm. “Oh my god, what was what? What just happened?”
Destiny is now shaking. Her face is so white I'm afraid she's going to faint. I approach her, warily, with Madison and Chloe close on my heels. Each are clutching the back of my sweater like two scared children.
The first thing I do is ask Destiny to take off her jacket, which she does, and hands it to me. No shock, no static electricity. I relax, just a little. Then I place my hands on her shoulders—not even the tiniest shock—and spin her around slowly and inspect every inch of her sweater and jeans.
Nothing unusual. No burn marks. I sniff the air. It's fresh and clean, fragrant with the smell of eucalyptus and pine. The sparks left no odor, no smell of sulfur, the smell of fireworks. Or the Devil.
“Check under her sweater,” Madison says.
I give Destiny a questioning look, half expecting her to protest, but she just gives a stiff jerk of her head, wide eyes begging me to get it over with.
Holding my breath, I lift her sweater. But there are no marks or burns. I'm not about to ask her to take her pants off. Besides, the sparks seemed to come from her chest, not her legs. “Looks fine,” I say.
“What the hell just happened?” Madison says.
The sound of approaching footsteps makes us jump, whirl around. It's a police officer. Big nose under a cap of gray hair. He's walking towards us. “You ladies okay?”
We nod, guiltily. Even Madison keeps her mouth shut for once, probably because she knows she's had too much to drink.
The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery Page 8