by Brat
“You again?” He made a face—not entirely displeased, she thought. Conrad had another baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. And Meg, who finally put down her menu and acknowledged Rhyme, was wearing a scarf tied around her head.
“Me again,” said Rhyme. “I come in peace.” Armed with information the twins didn’t yet have, Rhyme felt unusually confident. She slid into the booth beside Conrad, trying not to look directly at Meg. At either of them, really. She had forgotten how intimidating their beauty was.
“So,” Rhyme said, “I found something at Mrs. Simpson’s I thought you might be interested in.” She waited for them to attain the proper amount of anticipation. But neither seemed to care. They always looked so cool.
“And?” Meg said impatiently.
“A heart carved into the oak tree out front.” Meg and Conrad looked at each other. “With the initials B. C. Isn’t that your grandmother? Betty Cassidy?”
“We never told you her last name,” Meg said.
“Have you been looking into us?” Conrad added.
“And then it said ‘plus V. P.,’” Rhyme finished. “I didn’t recognize those initials, though. I’m not sure—”
“Vinny!” Conrad exclaimed, rifling through his bag and pulling out a letter. But Meg grabbed Conrad’s arm—hard—and shushed him.
“Enough,” Conrad said. “We’re getting nowhere, and maybe this Rhyme can help us with the house and Attaway.”
“I can,” Rhyme said, pleased that Conrad still remembered her name. “At least I can try. But I need to know what’s going on. The whole story.”
“Fine,” Meg said, taking the letter from her brother. “But before you read this, there are some things you need to understand first.”
Rhyme settled into the booth, all ears, as Meg looked at her brother. Then, Meg took a deep breath and began their story.
CHAPTER 9
The twins were born a few years after the turn of the century, on the third day in May. The family lived in Wilmington, a coastal town in North Carolina, and died when Meg and Conrad were young. (“They were musicians,” Meg said, cutting off Conrad. “But we never knew them.”) Only a few weeks after the twins were born, there was a fire at one of their parents’ shows in Wiki Wachee, and in the ensuing madness, both of them were trampled by the crowd. Rhyme caught Conrad giving his sister a look when she described this part, so Rhyme wasn’t sure whether to believe it. Then again, she would never call someone’s bluff on their parents’ death—what if it were true?—and besides, it was a good story.
Meg and Conrad were sent four hundred miles away to Asheville, where their grandmother, Betty, lived. Betty was kind and soft-spoken, nearly seventy but with the mannerisms of a schoolgirl. She was an experimental cook and an amateur antique appraiser. Even in those later years, she still read the Lord of the Rings books, and could even speak Elvish. (“Suilad,” Conrad told Rhyme. “It means ‘hello.’”) Betty raised Meg and Conrad in her house, an old Catholic church that she’d remodeled, keeping all the original pews and fixtures and stained glass. Conrad’s bedroom was originally a rectory, and their dining room table was a converted altar.
Talking about home, Meg and Conrad’s eyes misted over, which told Rhyme that the twins weren’t pulling her leg. It was clear that they loved, and deeply missed, their grandmother. When he spoke of her, Conrad’s mouth upturned to a slight smile, as if he was lost in a pleasant memory. Rhyme noticed a small gap between his front teeth, which made him whistle ever so slightly. Rhyme found herself wondering what he could fit in the gap—a dime, maybe. Conrad described their home’s yard full of pinwheels, dandelions, and secret hiding spots under giant oaks. He talked about Agata, the Polish pianist who lived next door and played wacky, experimental concertos that carried out the windows; and Stan and Melanie, whose seven children had all grown up and moved away.
Meg stopped Conrad there, her face darkening as she hurried him along. “Then she started forgetting things,” Meg said, tossing her napkin on the table.
Conrad sighed as he recounted the first time they noticed something was wrong. Betty couldn’t figure out where she put her car keys, but Conrad found them right on the hook by the door, where they always put them. Then she forgot her address, parked the car outside a house down the block, and tried to use her key in the neighbor’s front door. Then there was the time she took Meg with her to go to the salon. “I have an appointment at four o’clock sharp,” Betty had said, though she couldn’t remember where. They drove around for over an hour, asking passersby and shop owners for directions, before Meg figured out the salon had closed fifteen years earlier.
“We told ourselves it was normal,” Conrad said, slurping the dregs of his third milkshake. “That she was just getting old. But then she started getting lost.”
Betty would leave the house unannounced, once at three in the morning, wearing only her nightgown. She simply wandered the streets, bewildered and anxious. Conrad and Meg would have to drive around the neighborhood, calling out her name and trespassing in backyards. Even when she wasn’t lost, Betty seemed vacant and scared, a shell of the warm, quick-witted woman who’d raised them. One night, Betty escaped for hours, and that time it was the police who found her. They took her to the local hospital, where she was promptly diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
Meg gritted her teeth as she described what came next: a visit from Child Protective Services. It was about a week after they had all left the hospital, and Meg answered the door to find a woman with a clipboard. The hospital had informed her that two underage kids were in the guardianship of a woman with Alzheimer’s, and she was there to check the “suitability of living.”
Meg shook her head, and for the first time Rhyme could see how delicate her features were, how small she actually was. Something about the way Meg carried herself, or the intensity of her expression, made her seem larger and more imposing. Rhyme wondered how she could harness that kind of energy. She bet no one had ever called Meg a “girl next door.”
“That’s when Uncle Fiske showed up,” Conrad said, grimacing at the mere mention of his name. “They must have called him.”
“Who’s Uncle Fiske?” Rhyme asked, her head spinning with names and details. “And what does ‘V. P.’ have to do with him?”
“We’ll get there,” Meg said, narrowing her eyes in Rhyme’s direction.
“Just show her the letter,” Conrad said. Meg looked up and down the diner, as if they were spies in a foreign land. But then she withdrew an old envelope, sliding it across the table toward Rhyme. Inside, the paper was rough and cracked. Rhyme unfolded the note.
It read:
Hidden under the canopy of this quiet oak tree, how many hours have I spent studying the delicate latticework on the side of your window? If it were the Sistine Chapel, it would not inspire any greater depth of feeling. Knowing you are only a few feet away, doing what? Listening to records, studying Latin, or—I can only hope—writing a letter to me in return.
Yours in eternity,
Vinny
CHAPTER 10
Half an hour later, Rhyme, Conrad, and Meg sat crouched in front of Mrs. Simpson’s, staring silently at the carving in the tree. B. C. + V. P. The afternoon was fading, and fireflies were beginning to blink on the empty street. In the waning light, Conrad’s olive skin gave off an otherworldly glow. “This has to be Vinny,” he said finally, after inspecting the tree.
No one disagreed.
As soon as Rhyme had read about the “oak tree” and the “delicate latticework,” she knew that this Vinny character was talking about the window at Mrs. Simpson’s house (or, rather, the window at Betty’s house, which now belonged to Mrs. Simpson). It was the only one in the house—in the neighborhood, actually—with a design that could be described as “delicate.” Rhyme’s mother had once called the pattern a “tracery,” which she had to look up in the dictionary. A delicate branching pattern. From across the street, it looked sort of like vines growing over the glass. A few n
ights before, she had looked out that very window, tracing the dark lines as she thought about T. K. Yet another set of initials. Although whoever this “V. P.” was, he sure knew how to write a love note. A “greater depth of feeling” was a lot more romantic than “Ha no way.”
“So, now what?” Conrad asked. “It’s not like we can DNA test the initials … Can we?”
“I still don’t understand what we’re trying to find,” said Rhyme. It felt like she was the only person left out of an inside joke. “Who is Vinny? Where did you even get the letter?” Meg absentmindedly peeled some of the bark from the tree.
Conrad started to explain, but Meg cut him off. “It was one afternoon before Betty died,” Meg said. “She invited us into her room, asked me to go to her closet to find an old-fashioned hatbox decorated with pink roses. Neither of us had seen it before. When we asked her what it was, Betty said she needed to tell us something about our past.”
“We didn’t know what to make of it,” Conrad said. “That was only a few weeks before she died, and she hadn’t been lucid for days.”
“She was totally with it, Conrad,” Meg insisted. “I hadn’t seen her that clearheaded in years. Which is why I was so surprised when she brought up Grandpa.”
Grandpa? Rhyme’s eyes widened. Why hadn’t they mentioned him before?
“I guess we should explain,” Conrad said, sensing her confusion. “See, growing up we had only heard stories about Grandpa Al. He died way before we were born.”
“Betty never really talked about him,” added Meg. “But she said the box was about our grandfather. So when we opened it, we thought it would be stuff about Grandpa Al, and how they met.”
Conrad smirked. “Turns out there was another guy in the picture.”
“Love letters. All with the same handwriting. All of them postmarked from Attaway,” said Meg. “The box was full of them.”
“Whoever Vinny was—” Conrad said.
“Is.” Meg gave him a sharp look.
“He really loved her—like, worshipped her—when they were young,” said Conrad.
“So does that mean Vinny is really your grandfather?” Rhyme was all confused. “Or was he like … a secret boyfriend?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Meg, with an eye toward Mrs. Simpson’s house. “Read the rest of the letters, then let’s get to searching.”
“Why would anything still be here, though?” Rhyme asked. “Mrs. Simpson isn’t related to Betty, right?” The twins shook their heads. “So wouldn’t she have just thrown anything that was left by the old owners out?”
”You’d be surprised what manages to stick around,” Conrad said. “We found a load of stuff in Betty’s basement that the previous owners left and Betty never bothered to throw away.”
Meg huffed impatiently, “Just read the letters, and let’s get going!”
Letters? Rhyme held the single envelope in her hands. As if reading her mind, Conrad unzipped his backpack and handed Rhyme a stack of papers—like she was back at the library with Ms. Sharpe. Rhyme wanted to dive in, but pouring over such intimate details in front of perfect strangers made her feel a little embarrassed.
“Go on,” said Conrad. “If you’re going to help us, you need to know everything.”
The first few letters were about the first summer the lovebirds spent together. They met one balmy afternoon at the town pool. (“You were on the diving board when we locked eyes, and time stood still.”) Then, when school came back in session, they danced together at the junior sock hop. (“Pardon me, my dearest, for having two left feet.”) Another letter spoke of their first kiss, as they were leaving the Attaway Diner one night. (“Golly, was there ketchup on my shirt?”) Was that really how people spoke back then? Rhyme couldn’t help but smile. Imagine if Betty had replied Miss u, and Vinny had written back Sup?
“You look like you’re thinking about something else,” said Conrad, stripping grass blades in his hands as he watched her read.
“How could you tell?” Rhyme set the letters down in front of her. A gentle breeze came around the corner, rustling the shaggy leaves overhead.
“Are you making fun of me?” Conrad asked.
“No, I’m serious!” said Rhyme.
“Admit it. You’re picturing a drive-in movie with Betty and Vinny,” he said with a grin. Rhyme shook her head.
“No, no. Someone else. Sorry, I mean something else. Anyway, it’s not important.”
“Well, good. ’Cause that’s my grandma.” Conrad laughed.
“Our grandma,” Meg said, none too impressed with this line of thinking. “Can we go inside now? I’m getting cold.”
They headed in. Reggie was dozing on the stairs and barely looked up as they came in. Meg looked around the foyer, as if she expected Grandma Betty to come home at any minute. “You sure the old lady won’t be home anytime soon?” Meg said.
“We’ve got at least an hour, maybe two,” Rhyme said.
With that, Meg stepped over Reggie and opened a door in the hallway. “You two start here, and I’ll see what’s in the basement. Let’s search the place upside down,” she said. “If you find anything, shout me a holler.”
“Wait!” Rhyme moved toward her. “I still don’t understand. What are you doing in Attaway? Do you think there’s an old man named Vinny hiding somewhere underground? Because I think I would’ve seen him.”
“It’s not about Vinny,” said Meg. “It’s about Uncle Fiske.”
Uncle Fiske?
But before she could even ask the question, Meg opened the basement door. “Conrad will fill you in,” Meg said, before descending the staircase. “I’m busy.”
And for the moment, Rhyme and Conrad were all alone.
CHAPTER 11
The ground floor of Mrs. Simpson’s was fairly straightforward. To the left of the foyer was a dining room with a long mahogany table, wicker chairs, and a sideboard holding all sorts of candles. Behind that was the kitchen, where Rhyme had hidden from the twins on their night visit to the house. Across the way was the living room, with the comfy sofa, and behind that a dimly-lit den, used mostly for storage. Rhyme and Conrad started there. It was a cramped, dusty room, covered in tarps. “Scoot over,” Rhyme said, as she fumbled at the light switch. When she flipped on the lights, Conrad was right beside her. They’d never been this close. He smelled like something familiar, something her mom cooked. Basil, mint? Whatever it was, it wasn’t bad.
“Where do we start?” Conrad asked, after a moment of lingering. Beside them tavern-like lanterns hung over a pool table, which looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Bamboo folding chairs gathered cobwebs in the corner, beneath a dozen bulging cardboard boxes that reminded Rhyme of the library. A single shaft of daylight cut through the room like a knife.
Rhyme sighed. “Before we keep hunting, I need to know what we’re looking for. Who is your uncle, and what does he have to do with all this?”
“Quick game of Eight-ball?” Conrad said, ignoring her. He picked up a pool cue, aimed it at the red ball in the corner, and struck it too hard. The ball jumped the pool table’s edge, caromed off a box of broken trophies, and clattered to the floor. “Oops …”
Rhyme replaced the three ball on the table. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really understand what this is all about. Attaway. Grandma Betty. Uncle Fiske. What’s the connection to the guy in the letters? Even if you find this Vinny guy, why does it matter?”
Conrad stood up. “Vinny is our last and only hope. If we are really his grandchildren, then maybe there’s something he can do before Uncle Fiske …”
“Before he what?”
“Uncle Fiske is our mother’s brother.” Conrad looked out the narrow window, as if he wanted to escape from whatever had happened. “Besides our mom, he was Betty’s only other child. We never heard from him, until Betty was checked in to the hospital. At first, we were relieved. He seemed like a nice enough guy. That he’d fought with Grandma Betty a long time ago, bu
t wanted to patch things up before she passed.”
“That’s good, right?” Rhyme said hopefully, even though Conrad’s face—not to mention that he was a runaway in Attaway—suggested the opposite.
“It seemed like it. He dealt with the hospital and got child services off our back. He was handling everything, interviewing people to be Betty’s night nurse.” Conrad’s face grew a shade darker than usual. “Or at least that’s what he told us.”
Leaning against the pool table, Rhyme formed a picture of Uncle Fiske in her mind: cruel, sarcastic, and sharp-tongued, like a male version of Robin Robbins.
“What we found out later was that Fiske was meeting with lawyers and tricking Betty into signing over everything to him. All of her money, the house, you name it. Not to mention, custody over us.”
What?
Finally, Rhyme was starting to understand their predicament.
“And then she died,” Conrad said bitterly, rubbing his eyes and looking very tired all of a sudden. “Almost everybody in Asheville came to the funeral. Meg and I read her favorite parts of The Hobbit. We served Sno Balls and escargot. It was so gross.” Tears glinted in his eyes. “But I like to think it was everything she would’ve wanted.”
“I’m sure it was,” said Rhyme. She wasn’t sure how to console Conrad—a pat on the shoulder? A hug? “It sounds perfect!” Rhyme said, wrinkling her nose at the thought of escargot….
Conrad shrugged. “It’s not like Fiske was going to plan the funeral. You should’ve seen him at the service,” Conrad said. “On his phone the entire time with the lawyers. A few days later, Meg listened in on a call between Fiske and his girlfriend in Minneapolis. The long and short of it was, he’s planning to take all the money and send us to foster care.”
“Foster care?” Rhyme thought of Meg and Conrad as practically adults—but they were still teenagers. “He can’t do that to you!”