The Foxglove Killings

by Tara Kelly

  Bube only came up with a Zippo. “What’s this for?”

  “It generates a flame, sir,” Matt said without a twitch.

  They stared each other down for what seemed like minutes before Bube turned his attention to Jenika and Officer Mackey.

  “Are me and Alex free to go?” I asked. “I’m late for my shift at the diner.”

  Bube opened his mouth, but Mackey beat him to the punch. “Yes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Can we go, too?” Jenika asked as we walked away.

  “Not yet,” Bube said.

  Jenika said something that sounded like a protest, but her voice faded as we crossed the street.

  “What were you thinking?” I asked Alex. “Matt’s got it in for you now.”

  “Then he can bring it on.”

  I touched his arm. “You don’t mean that.”

  His muscles tensed for a second. “I’m not afraid of him, Nova.”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  We walked to the diner in silence, an overwhelming sense of dread growing inside me. Just knowing there was someone in town capable of gutting a deer and staging its corpse kept me looking over my shoulder. People that unhinged didn’t stop with one act.

  Chapter Two

  The Emerald Spoon sat on the corner of First Avenue and Beach, right in the heart of the downtown, but it was nothing to look at. Moss and grime dulled the bright green paint, and the neon spoon in the window didn’t light up anymore. Tourism had been down for the last three years. We were lucky to still be open.

  Steve De Luca implied it was an eyesore every time he stopped in to eat. It didn’t match the utopia he was trying to build around here. The decorative crosswalks and sunshine-colored flower beds on Beach Street. The fountain on Second. New paint slapped on decaying buildings.

  Gramps said it was like someone gave the town a sponge bath and some lipstick. Emerald Cove was basically made up of four sections, with downtown and the Inn in the middle. The north side, where I lived, was known as the Green Rock neighborhood. Nobody seemed to have any idea who came up with the name—probably someone who got tired of naming things. It was a nest of small houses built in the early 1900s. The east side, along Highway 101, was known as “tweakerville,” and it included Alex’s trailer park, the Hemlock Tavern, a couple cheap motels, and your run-of-the-mill hermit shacks.

  The south side was higher in elevation. It had been built up over the last twenty years, when all the retirees from California started moving here. Vacation homes, perched on jagged cliffs, overlooked the ocean—and the rest of us. That was where most of the cakes spent their summers.

  Grease thickened the hot air inside the diner, but there were also hints of cinnamon, sugar, and fresh apples—my favorite pancakes. Only about a quarter of the green booths were occupied, and Gramps’s girlfriend, Rhonda, had those covered. Weekend mornings were a whole different story. We got tourists of all kinds—truckers, ghost chasers, photographers, musicians, newlyweds, bikers, and a ton of Canadians, just to name a few.

  Rhonda gave me the stink-eye as she walked by with plates of pancakes and eggs. Her way of telling me I was late—she could be a real hard-ass about that, even when there was nobody for me to serve.

  She was good for Gramps, though. Gave him the love he needed, but didn’t take his crap. When it came to the ladies, he had always been a heartbreaker. Just ask my grandma in Phoenix—she called him Don Not.

  Alex followed me through the swinging doors, into the kitchen, which hopefully meant he was sticking around. He used to hang out here all the time during my shifts, but lately he’d been staying home.

  Gramps smiled at us before turning his attention back to a sizzling ham-and-cheese omelet. His assistant buzzed around him, juggling eggs and tins of fruit. But Gramps was a statue with a black and silver ponytail. His big hands moved with grace and control.

  “I’m going to take a ten,” his assistant said before heading out the back door. His twitching fingers made it clear he was ripe for a smoke.

  “You get a good look at that deer?” Gramps asked, his dark eyes focused on me.

  “How did…” I trailed off when a sharp radio voice echoed across the kitchen. Gramps’s clunky old police scanner was back on top of the fridge. “I thought you were going to give that thing a rest.”

  “I will”—he pointed his spatula at Alex—“when he gives me something decent to listen to.”

  “I got something.” Alex unzipped his black backpack and took out a blank CD case. “If you don’t like this, you’re a lost cause.” After turning off the scanner, he reached for the boom box that shared a shelf with retired bottles of ketchup Gramps insisted on collecting.

  Alex burned CDs for Gramps all the time to prove that good music was made after 1990. Gramps hated MP3s, calling the quality “chicken scratch.” Those two could never agree on anything music-wise, and they’d go on for days about it, if allowed.

  “What are these jokers called?” Gramps asked, sliding a steaming plate of eggs and sausage out for Rhonda to take.

  “The Gutter Twins,” Alex said.

  “Oh.” His eyebrows rose, and his lips curved up. “Well, that sounds promising.”

  The singer had a rough baritone voice, the voice of a haunted man. When he started singing about the rapture, all I could see were the glassy eyes of that deer.

  Gramps shook his head. “It’s a wonder you get out of bed in the morning. Would it kill you to listen to something…happy?”

  Alex leaned against the metal fridge, folding his arms. “Probably.”

  “How’d you know we were at the park?” I asked Gramps. “Did they say our names?”

  “Nope. They mentioned four juveniles at the scene. And that one had quite a mouth on her.” He smirked.

  “They did not.”

  “So, the deer’s head was on a swing?” Gramps asked. “Is that right?”

  I nodded, folding my arms. I could still smell the decay. That wrong kind of sweet. “Someone stuffed a foxglove in its mouth. It was just sitting there on its tongue.” Like it was being served.

  Gramps ran his hands up and down his white apron, his eyes scanning the walls, as if he heard or saw something we couldn’t. He did this whenever his wheels started turning. I used to think he was searching for ghosts.

  “Was it male or female?” he asked.

  I hadn’t even noticed if it had antlers or not. Some detective I was.

  “Female,” Alex said.

  “Hmm.” Gramps’s thick brows pinched together as he mixed the batter for his infamous black raspberry pancakes.

  “Why’s that matter?” I asked.

  “Everything matters,” Gramps said without looking up. “You know that.”

  Rhonda shoved the swinging doors open, reminding me I wasn’t even in my uniform yet. “You comin’ out or do I need to drag you out?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s been one of those mornings.”

  Rhonda put her hands on her square hips, a smile flickering across her lips. “Clearly.”

  “Be right back.” I hustled to the bathroom to change. I’d give anything to assist Gramps in the kitchen rather than grin and serve, but we’d lose all our customers. Destroying perfectly good food was my specialty.

  Rhonda had me work the counter until more people came in. The tips were crappy, but I actually preferred being there to the tables. It let me eavesdrop without being obvious about it, and I got to hear all kinds of dirt. That was the thing about most customers, even the locals. They didn’t give a damn what I heard—I was invisible until they wanted something.

  Betty, the ancient owner of the salon across the street, sat at one end of the counter, talking away on her cell. “All the money he dumped into that park,” she said, adjusting the green rhinestone bird clip in her hair. “What a waste. Who’s going to go there now?”

  Steve De Luca donated money to replace all the equipment in Neahkahnie Par
k six months ago. He said he wanted it to be safer for the kids, as if there were that many. Most of the population here was over sixty.

  “They should’ve taken out those trees years ago,” she continued. “Too many places to hide.” Her blue eyes flickered up to mine. “We can thank all the busybody tree huggers.”

  You sure love your tree hugger banana cream pie, I wanted to say. Instead I turned and made a new pot of coffee, gritting my teeth.

  Around eleven, other locals started showing up at the counter, most of them taking their lunch break. Everyone was talking about the deer mutilation, speculating who’d done it. Jenika and her friends came up a lot. So did a guy who was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia last year.

  We had some petty theft around here. Plenty of drunks. The occasional drug bust. But nothing like this—at least not recently.

  Nobody was asking why or what it meant. If it would happen again.

  That was all I could think about.

  Alex’s little sister, Megan, showed up just in time for my lunch break. She slowly weaved her way toward the counter, tangled blond hair hiding her face, arms crossed. Given the time, she should’ve come straight from summer school, but she didn’t have her backpack with her—which meant one of two things. She either didn’t get up in time or got halfway there before realizing she forgot her bag. Probably both. That girl would be late to her own funeral and forget her body, too.

  Alex came out from the kitchen, clutching a dish tub. He insisted on busing tables in exchange for all the free meals he and his sister got here. We’d feed them regardless.

  “You go to school today?” Alex asked Megan, squinting at her.

  “Yes, Dad.” She’d just turned fifteen, but she seemed younger in some ways.

  They could almost be twins. Megan’s face was heart-shaped, while Alex’s was more angular, but they both had big green eyes rimmed with dark lashes and fine blond hair that curled up at the ends when it rained.

  “Where’s your backpack?” Alex pressed.

  “Forgot it.”

  He exhaled, setting the dish tub down. “Megan…”

  “Don’t start,” Megan said. “We weren’t all born perfect little students.” She gave me a look, urging me to agree with her.

  I held up my hands. Joining that conversation never ended well. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t envy Alex sometimes. Two hours of homework for me was one hour for him. He aced tests without even studying, and he was a master at bullshitting his way through essays, even when he didn’t read the book.

  Okay—maybe envy was an understatement. Sometimes I wanted to throw books at his head.

  “Pick a booth, guys,” I said. “You want the usual?”

  They both nodded, still staring each other down.

  After putting our order in and getting us drinks, I found them in the last booth by the window. They argued a lot, but they were almost inseparable. They’d lived in Reno with their mom and her ex-convict psycho boyfriend until Alex was in fourth grade. One day their mom dropped them off at their grandparents’ mobile home here in Emerald Cove, promising she’d be back when she cleaned up.

  She never did.

  Now all they had was their grandma. She’d always been a fanatical Catholic and a little bit north of neurotic, but her drinking had gotten much worse since their grandpa died. His heart stopped. Just like that. I’d let someone break both my arms and legs if it meant things would get easier for them.

  I set down our drinks and slid in the booth next to Alex. The cracks in the vinyl scraped at my jeans. These booths needed to be replaced years ago.

  “I heard you guys found that deer at the park,” Megan said.

  “Did you see it?” I asked.

  Her face crumpled a little as she sipped her root beer. “No. But people won’t stop talking about it. Like, describing it. This guy in my class even drew a picture.”

  “Dick,” Alex muttered.

  “Did you guys hear what happened to Gabi?” Megan asked.

  “Her dad bought her an island?” I asked.

  Alex smiled at me.

  Sadly, it wouldn’t surprise me if Steve De Luca was in the market for an island. Or the world.

  “No. There was a dead raccoon on their porch this morning.” Her green eyes widened. “Gabi said there was blood everywhere.”

  The muggy air turned cold against my skin. Steve De Luca had recently announced he was running for mayor next year, and he was always boasting about his love of hunting. Maybe someone was trying to send him a message.

  “Did Gabi tell you this herself?” I asked. One bad thing happening in this town got a lot of people in the mood to tell stories. It was hard to tell what was true.

  Megan nodded.

  “You’re still hanging out with her?” Alex asked.

  She shrugged, watching a group of seven tourists try to fit into a sedan outside. Gabi De Luca didn’t give anyone at our school the time of day except for her boy toy Brandon Koza—and now Megan. Not that I blamed her. People were nice to her face because her dad employed their parents, but most of them hated her.

  Megan and Gabi were paired together in their creative writing class last semester. The thought of Gabi, Alex’s only real competition for valedictorian, having to cowrite a short story with a slacker like Megan was actually pretty comical. But at some point they became friends.

  The thing was…I didn’t like it. Not because Gabi lived in a 6,000-square-foot house in the hills overlooking the Pacific or because of who her dad was—neither of which she had control over.

  It was that—outside of Brandon—Gabi’s only friends were the cakes. Most of them were rich kids from Vancouver BC, Seattle, or Portland. We weren’t real people to them. We were slow, and weird, and undereducated.

  We were something to laugh at.

  “Isn’t Gabi’s house like a fortress?” I asked, breaking the heavy silence.

  “Sort of,” Megan said. “They’ve got a security gate.”

  “What about cameras?” I asked.

  Megan shook her head. “Her dad thinks it’s some animal rights activist trying to make a point.”

  “Uh, what point would that be? ‘I love animals so much I’m willing to kill and maim them’?” I rolled my eyes. “Way to be a detective, Steve.” Just about anyone in town had motive to mess with him.

  I glanced over at Alex. He was staring off into space, like he wasn’t even here. Usually he had plenty to say when it came to Steve De Luca.

  “You should see their den, though.” Megan’s voice rose. “It’s like a taxidermy museum.”

  I’d never understand people who thought the skin of dead animals was some kind of trophy. I was taught to believe animals had spirits. Good and bad. Just like us.

  Rhonda walked by with a plate of burgers, the juicy aroma of the meat overwhelming. My stomach turned. Every sip of my strawberry lemonade had the aftertaste of rot. I swore that stench was stuck to me.

  “Did Gabi say anything about a flower, like around the raccoon?” I asked Megan.

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “Can we change the subject?” Alex asked, piling sugar packets and knocking them down. “I don’t want to see that shit in my head anymore.”

  “Sorry.”

  Megan tore the foil off a mini creamer and downed it like a shot.

  “Is that my shirt?” Alex asked her.

  Megan glanced down at the black In Flames shirt that hung on her like a nightgown. A smile flickered on her lips. “No.”

  “Stay out of my room.”

  “Why? You aren’t going to wear it again.”

  “Would you like it if I snooped through your room and stole your crap?” Alex asked.

  “Go ahead. I don’t have anything interesting, anyway.” Megan grinned. “Like condoms in my dresser.”

  “What?” I asked.

  A pink flush rolled up Alex’s pale cheeks.

  I was the only girl—not blood related—who spent any time in Alex’s room. A
nd as far as I knew, he didn’t see me that way.

  “Explain.” I punched him in the arm. “Now.”

  “No.” He stirred his raspberry lemonade with his straw. “It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  “The box wasn’t opened,” Megan said to me.

  “Shut up.” Alex glared at his sister.

  I felt myself relax. The thought of Alex having some secret relationship made me a little sick. We told each other everything.

  “Hey, guys.” Gabi De Luca stood at the head of our table, looking like a fairy tale with her brown curls and Bambi eyes. Speak of the devil…

  We all froze and stared at her. “Can I steal Megan for a sec?” she asked, unfazed by our silence.

  “Yeah.” Megan wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and let out a nervous laugh. “Be right back.”

  Megan followed Gabi to a booth on the other side of the diner. I held my breath at the sight of Christian Barnett in Gabi’s booth.

  “Relax,” Alex said. He put a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “He’s not here.”

  But seeing Christian was bad enough. Everything I felt last summer came rushing back. The lump in my throat that wouldn’t go away. How I could barely keep food down. The shame, even though I did nothing wrong.

  Christian’s dark blue eyes met mine. His blond hair was down to his shoulders now, and he looked even broader than last summer, but he still had that douchey smile. The one that said, you’re a joke to me.

  I shifted my gaze, my chest tightening with anger.

  “Didn’t Christian graduate this year?” Alex asked, his voice tense.

  “He was supposed to.”

  Most of the cakes stopped coming to town with their parents when they graduated from high school. It was just like Christian to come back and haunt us for yet another summer.

  Megan slid back into our booth with excited eyes.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  She hesitated, her long fingers tangling with her hair. “Gabi invited me to the summer kickoff party at Winchester Beach. It’s tomorrow night.”