by Maia Chance
“All I want to do is sleep.”
Otis helped himself to the last miniquiche. “I’ve never seen you in a dress before. You look cute.”
Sensitive topic. Must change. “You’re a fan of Gracelyn Roy?” I asked.
“Nope.” Otis wiggled the book tucked under his arm. “But my grandma is, and since she’s got bingo tonight, I said I’d bring her book to get an autograph.” He showed me the cover. Barnyard Upcycle. “Whatever upcycle means.”
“It means recycling a thing into something better.”
“Oh, like when people BeDazzle old jeans?”
“More like when people make old jeans into bridesmaids’ dresses. Does your grandma enjoy handicrafts with rusty tractor parts?”
“In theory, yeah, I think she does. She grew up on a farm. Taps into something for her.”
“Nostalgia. Marketing genius.” Awkward silence. “So,” I said, “how’s your brother Garth?” Garth had been one year behind us in school, the high school football god and Mr. Popularity.
“Garth?” Otis’s eyebrows lifted. “He’s doing all right. He owns an RV dealership over in Lucerne, has two little kids—he married Debbie, remember her?”
“The captain of the cheerleading team?”
“Yep.”
“A match made in heaven.”
Otis quirked his lips. “They still talk about high school a lot. Reminisce, you know. It was the high point of their lives. But I’m kind of surprised you want to know about Garth after, well . . .”
“After what?”
Otis shrugged. “Nothing. Water under the bridge.”
What was Otis talking about? He was the one who had caused me to stay home due to sheer mortification for the last two weeks of senior year. Not Garth.
I thought of the day at the end of senior year, when our AP Chemistry class had taken a field trip to the Corning Museum of Glass. This was the one time Otis and I had spent time together outside of our chemistry classroom. We had shared a seat on the bus ride down and eaten lunch together while exchanging little inside jokes that only we got. In the afternoon, we had somehow become separated from the herd and wandered into an exhibition of nineteenth-century glass sea creature models. Otis had stopped me in front of an amazingly lifelike glass octopus. He’d been smiling about something, but his face had gone grave, and he’d been moving closer to me . . . and then our class had burst noisily into the room, and he’d pulled away.
He had been about to kiss me. Had I done something to make him feel rejected? Or maybe I’d had bad breath? I just didn’t know. We’d sat together on the bus ride home, but things had grown awkward. Less than a week later, I found the Hagness Blimp note on my locker.
“Are you okay, Agnes?” Otis asked. “You look . . . tired.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
“No, I just meant—”
“You know what? I am tired. I’m completely exhausted. I have had three of the weirdest days of my life back to back, and it just won’t end.” I studied Otis. He was way too handsome, of course, but he knew everyone in town, and he happened to be really smart. I’d heard he’d gone to Rochester Institute of Technology for mechanical engineering, and that’s a really good school. So as we stood there in the crowded library foyer, I told him—whispering, of course—about my sleuthing adventures.
By the time I’d finished, Otis’s eyebrows were furrowed. “This sounds really dangerous, Agnes. Are you sure you don’t at least want to report Jentry shooting at you to the police?”
“No. Aunt Effie and I are persons of interest, and we were trespassing on Jentry’s farm when we saw his pot crop, and Detective Albright thinks that—you know, this is just great. I told you all that because I trusted—”
Otis spread his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry. No police. Got it.”
“Narc,” I said, mustering a weak smile.
“Me? No way.” Otis grinned. “I’m a bad boy. I’ve got a wife-beater on under this shirt.”
My gaze coasted a little way down his blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Jeez. Two days with Great-Aunt Effie, and I was already acting like a junior cougar on the prowl.
“Just promise me you’ll steer clear of Jentry,” Otis said. “He’s unbalanced.”
“Have you met him?”
“Not really, but this is a pretty small town. Everyone has a reputation, right?” Otis caught my eye. “Although, sometimes reputations are unfounded.”
Wait. Was he talking about Jentry’s reputation, or his own?
I looked away. I just had to remember that Sharpied sign on the metal locker: Do the Math! Agnes Blythe = Hagness Blimp. Even though it had been more than a decade since all that had happened, it stung like a fresh paper cut.
Otis lightly touched my arm. “Be careful—and call me if you ever need help with anything, okay? Here, let me text you my number.” He pulled out his phone, and I told him my cell number. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
The trilling tee-hee of Aunt Effie cut through the hubbub. I was more than glad for an excuse to bolt. “That’s Aunt Effie, nice seeing you,” I mumbled to Otis and wedged myself and my empty quiche tray into the crowd.
Chapter 13
“Why hello, Agnes, darling.” Aunt Effie stood out from the blah book-signing crowd in her candy-yellow sheath dress and sky-high black pumps. Her legs looked like swizzle sticks, her makeup was geisha-perfect, and her shoulder bag was so big, it looked like it might tip her over. Next to her stood Dr. Avi Gupta. “Aren’t you serving champagne?” Effie asked.
“You sound hurt,” I said.
“It’s a matter of basic thirst.”
“That,” Avi said, “and the need for a little anesthesia. My eyes actually hurt from all this chambray and plaid.”
“Are you a Gracelyn Roy fan, Dr. Gupta?” I asked.
“God, no. I’m just here to soak it all in. Everyone wants to know the latest gossip about the murder, which is why so many people have turned up for the signing. Naturally, Gracelyn thinks it’s all about her, but she always thinks that. She’s got the ego of a steroid-jacked body builder—and, between you and me, the molars of a horse. But didn’t you notice everyone’s sneaking peeks of you and the chic vision that is your auntie?”
“Great-auntie,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work or Chris will have a conniption.”
“What about the champagne?” Effie said.
“There is no champagne.”
“I brought some,” Avi said. He held up his leather satchel. Well, let’s be honest: it was a man-purse.
“You gorgeous little man, you!” Effie breathed. They sneaked off together, and I went into the back office for more hors d’oeuvres.
I came out with a tray of barbecue nuggets. It was a good thing I had my uniboob-causing sports bra on, because it was starting to seem like some of the gents in the lobby had had something to drink other than ginger ale, the way they were leering at me. Slap on an ill-fitting polyester French maid’s uniform, and suddenly you’re looking pretty dang hot. Throw some barbecue nuggets into the mix, and you’re a sex goddess.
As I wove my way past Gracelyn Roy’s table, I heard her speaking in low tones to a guy in designer jeans and a pink polo shirt with a popped collar, a shaved head, and a nose ring.
“This is what my fan base looks like,” she whispered to Popped Collar.
He said something I couldn’t hear. Then Gracelyn said, “Well, we could hire actors, right? At least for the front row? Because—” The rest was lost in the chatter.
I kept going, but I was frowning. Because Gracelyn’s cute hick accent had all but disappeared while talking to Popped Collar.
Edging away from Gracelyn’s table, I had to hold my tray of barbecue nuggets aloft to get through the bodies. I couldn’t see very well, so I smashed right into . . . Roger. Bleh.
“Oops. Sorry.” I backed away from him, stepping on someone else’s toes. I didn’t want Roger to think I was foisting myself upon him. Ev
en if I technically had foisted myself upon him.
“Agnes. Hello.”
“Barbecue nugget?” I proffered the tray.
“No, thanks. I’m eating healthfully now.” His eyes flicked to Shelby, who was right up in the first tier of Gracelyn groupies. Her face was aglow as she flipped her long blonde hair. “Shelby just loves Gracelyn Roy.”
“I’ll bet she does.”
“God, Agnes, why do you have to be so negative all the time?”
“I’m not being negative!”
“Your tone clearly indicated that you think Shelby’s admiration for Gracelyn Roy is ridiculous.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
Roger flushed. “That’s beside the point.”
“Okay, and what is the point? That you wouldn’t have dumped me if I’d somehow summoned up my inner cheerleader?”
“Would that have been so difficult?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it would have. Do I look like a freaking cheerleader to you?”
“You could if you tried.”
My blood was boiling. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing! You’re a professor, Roger!”
“I’m still a red-blooded man.”
“You know, Roger, you’re right. Maybe we don’t belong together. But it sure would’ve been nice of you to tell me all this stuff earlier. Like, during the years I supported you financially while you were in grad school? Do you even realize that you’ve dropped an atom bomb in the middle of my life? That I’m starting over at square one in my dad’s house, broke, alone—”
“I didn’t ask to fall in love with Shelby.” Roger cleared his throat. “Although, of course, perhaps I was slightly understimulated in our relationship.”
“Understimulated?”
“In layman’s terms, bored.”
“Bored?” I saw red. The room seemed to sway. I took a sticky handful of barbecue nuggets from my tray and stuffed them in Roger’s breast pocket. Then I wiped my fingers down his shirt, leaving four reddish-brown streaks.
“I see,” Roger said. “You are trying to seem not boring.”
“Go to hell!” I shoved away through the throng, banging people’s elbows with my tray. My eyes were doing that hot and squinchy thing. I couldn’t face Chris the Slug or Hairnet. She probably wouldn’t even let me back into the office before these stupid barbecue nuggets were gone.
The stacks. It would be quiet there.
I went into the library’s north wing, dumped the tray of barbecue nuggets in a trash can, and kept going. Behind nonfiction was a small reading area made up of leather chairs, next to the utility closet doors. I slumped into one of them. I stared at the wall through the blur of tears. What had happened to my life?
“There she is!” This was Avi Gupta’s chirpy voice.
“Darling!” That was Effie.
Fantabulous.
They clattered over. Effie was holding a copy of Barnyard Upcycle.
“We saw everything with Roger and that bimbo,” Avi said. “Ugh. She’s just like Barbie’s little sister—what was her name?”
“Skipper,” I said. “I know. But with some chipmunk DNA.”
“Exactly. She’s a mutant. And anyway, those abs of hers will stretch out like a hammock when she gets pregnant. After that, Shar-Pei city and no going back. I also heard that last year she dated a much older married man from Rochester—”
“Roger said I’m understimulating,” I blurted.
“He’s understimulating,” Effie said. “He could make an airline magazine shrivel up from sheer boredom.”
Avi dug in his man-purse. “Here.” He thrust a half-full bottle of champagne at me. “It’ll do you good.”
Normally I would have said no way. But I took the bottle and gulped some champagne down. It made me want to eat cheese.
I heard shuffling heavy footsteps on the other side of the stacks.
“Chris!” I whispered. “Hurry!” I hurled myself to my feet and yanked open the utility closet door. “Get in!”
Effie, Avi, and I pushed ourselves into the dark closet, and I pulled the door shut. We waited there, holding our breaths, as the footsteps drew closer and closer . . . and then receded. Chris hadn’t found us.
“What is this place?” Avi said. “A mildew spore-breeding facility?”
Someone snapped on the light. We were standing in a largish closet with shelves of cleaning products and library supplies—binding tape, book glue, containers of bar code stickers—and, on the floor, several cardboard boxes of old magazines.
Effie bent and picked one up. “Good Housekeeping, May 1967. No wonder it smells funny. It’s dripping with housewife’s angst.”
“Kathleen Todd donated all these magazines to the library,” I said, “and Chris was too afraid of her to get rid of them.”
“Really? These belonged to Kathleen?” Effie studied the magazine in her hand with more interest. “Maybe I’ll just take a few. Perhaps they’ll shed some light on our murder victim.”
“That’s stealing,” I said.
“On CSI they call it profiling,” Avi said, taking the champagne bottle from me.
Effie stuffed three or four magazines into her large shoulder bag. Then she waved her copy of Barnyard Upcycle. “Gracelyn’s bio says that she grew up dirt poor in the Adirondacks and that her father was a professional possum trapper and that her mother sold homemade wild-berry jam to make ends meet.”
“Possum trapper?” I said. “There aren’t possums in the Adirondacks.”
Effie frowned down at the book. “That’s what it says.”
“She’s padding her hick resume,” I said. “Did you happen to hear her talk?”
“Better. I spoke to her one-on-one and asked her about the rumor.”
“And?”
“And she said yes, she heard it at the Black Drop, but she couldn’t recall from whom.”
“Great. More evasion.”
“I gave her your telephone number and told her to call if she thought of anything.”
“Why not your phone number?”
“I don’t like giving out my number. I enjoy my privacy.”
“Gracelyn’s accent,” I said. “Isn’t it over the top?”
“Mm. Sounds like a reject from The Beverly Hillbillies.”
“I know, it sounds fake, right? I swear she dropped the accent when she was talking with this guy earlier.”
“Which guy?”
“The guy in the pink shirt with the popped collar.”
Avi said, “Oh, he’s the TV producer from Hollywood. Cute, isn’t he? Gracelyn is in talks for her own show. She’s going to be huge.”
That made sense. Gracelyn’s accent was all about developing her brand.
“Something else about her seems so very off to me,” Effie said. “She could be the murderer.”
“Shh!” I whispered.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Avi said to me. “Your auntie told me absolutely everything.”
I made laser-beams-of-annoyance eyes at Effie. She told the town gossip everything about our investigation? “I can’t believe you did that,” I said.
Avi smirked. “Your auntie told me you bear a grudge against her, Agnes, which makes you extra-impatient with her. I’m simply dying to hear what that’s all about. She won’t—”
“You guys have been talking about me?” My head felt like it was about to pop.
“I thought it wasn’t right for me to mention the precise nature of your grudge to Avi,” Effie said. “I thought you should be the one to tell it.”
I have no idea why this angered me so much. It was the last straw, I guess. Or maybe it was the champagne. I swung to Avi and told him all about the husky teen model incident.
When I finished, Avi blinked. “What’s wrong with that?”
“That’s what I thought, darling,” Effie said to him.
“Do you have any idea what that did to my self-esteem?” I raged.
“But Agnes, you were—and are—so very pretty. And
models come in all shapes and sizes.”
“You’ve got great teeth too,” Avi said.
“She got that from my side of the family,” Effie told him. “I starred in a Pepsodent commercial in sixty-three.”
“Teenage girls don’t want to be called husky!” I yelled.
Effie and Avi stared at me. Finally, Effie said, “I’m sorry, Agnes. It wasn’t meant as an insult. Please forgive me.”
I swallowed. I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. Weighty silence. Avi chugged champagne. “Okay, Aunt Effie. I forgive you.” Just like that, sixteen years of resentment rinsed away. “Now can we get out of this closet?”
* * *
Effie promised to meet me in the library parking lot after the book signing so I didn’t have to ride the ten-speed back to dad’s house. She was acting supercontrite and subdued. It was unnerving, to tell the truth.
When I arrived in the dark parking lot, she was sealed up in the driver’s seat of the Cadillac and smoking with her eyes closed. The duct tape on the windshield glinted in the light of a streetlamp. I rapped on the window. Smoke and Rachmaninov billowed out when she opened the door. Maybe her secret to preservation was, like a cured sausage, smoke. “There you are,” she said.
“Did Avi go home?”
“Ages ago. He has three root canals to do first thing in the morning.”
“Ew. Could you pop the trunk?”
Effie popped the trunk. While I was trying to figure out how to stuff my bike into the trunk, I heard voices. It was Gracelyn Roy, having a hushed parting conversation with Popped Collar on the steps of the library. They were glancing around and talking in low tones. I mashed the bike in the trunk but left the door open. The bike lolled halfway out.
I got in the passenger seat. “I can’t close the trunk.”
“I’ll drive carefully.”
“Omigod,” I said on a lung-emptying exhale. I didn’t inhale. Too freaked out.
“What’s wrong, Agnes?”
I pointed across the parking lot.
“Oh, my.” Effie’s cigarette froze in midair.