Chicken Girls

by Brat

  Rhyme flipped to the senior portraits. She found Betty quickly, since her portrait stood out from the rest. Betty looked different from Meg, even though they were clearly cut from the same cloth. Flightier, or something. Less intense. Betty looked kind, if strange. She wore white, flowing robes, her hair in braids and covered with a tall crown. And Rhyme wasn’t positive, but it looked like she may have put on fake pointy ears as well.

  But there was no Vinny or Vincent in Betty’s year. Rhyme checked three years above and below as well. None that matched Vinny.

  Yet again, she was stuck.

  She dug around in her backpack for some lip gloss, and instead came up with the red envelope from the night before. With her fingernails, she opened the seal, and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Bordered by blue flowers, a gray rectangle with an eagle above it spelled out the words: “H. U. Y. Enterprises,” and beneath that were a few signatures and dates. Rhyme searched for the name on her phone, and found a single entry, explaining the company had gone defunct many years ago. Another dead end. She was about to tidy up when another presence entered the room. Quickly, she put the stock certificate back in her bag, reminding herself to return it to the trousseau.

  “You got here awfully early today,” said a voice from behind her. “What’s going on?”

  Matilda.

  CHAPTER 14

  The two girls hadn’t spoken in days. Not since Rhyme had misfiled Attaway’s coverage of the Pentagon Papers, and Matilda had thrown a conniption. Now, she stood next to Rhyme without saying anything. Rhyme braced for impact.

  “You trying to upstage me?” Matilda said, offering a weak grin. “I’ll have to start coming in at six!” The only thing worse than Matilda’s bad attitude was when she tried to be friendly. That almost always spelled danger. “What are you up to?”

  Rhyme answered cautiously. “I’m … looking for a friend. Sort of. Or, looking for a friend of a friend, if that makes sense. Vincent. Or Vinny P., as he goes by sometimes.”

  Oof.

  “You don’t even know his last name?” Matilda said as she took up one of the yearbooks. Rhyme shook her head. “And you’re sure he was in one of these years?”

  “Yes, I know he was from here, and there’s no sign of him in the yearbooks. I checked. Twice.”

  Matilda was silent for a moment. “What else do we know about him?”

  “Just that he was about this old,” Rhyme admitted. “And he was from around here.”

  Matilda’s eyes lit up. “Follow me,” she said, turning on her heel. They walked down a breezeway to the large storage closet where Ms. Sharpe kept private things—like the answers to Rhyme’s homework, lots of old files, and pictures of Kayla’s dad from before they were divorced. When they got to the door, Matilda pulled out a large set of bronze, jangling keys. Rhyme couldn’t believe it. “Don’t worry, Ms. Sharpe is meeting a donor at Junior’s. She won’t be back for an hour.” Matilda flashed a devilish smile, and it was then that Rhyme remembered something. Last year, the Attaway Appeal had reported on a cheating scandal, which had turned out to be fake news. That’s why Matilda was no longer the paper’s editor-in-chief. Because she had stood by the story, even though it wasn’t true. Principal Mathers had fired her.

  Why are you helping me? The question sat on the tip of Rhyme’s tongue. But when she spoke, something else came out of her mouth.

  “Why do you hate me so much?”

  Rhyme’s question lingered in the air as the closet door opened.

  Matilda turned on the lights and stopped in her tracks. She kept her back turned. “I don’t hate you, Rhyme,” she said. “And I’m sorry about this summer. I’ve been awful to you. It’s just …” Matilda now turned and looked at Rhyme, as if trying to decide whether she could keep a secret. “Way back when, when I still worked on the paper, there was a cub reporter. He was a year younger than me. But we had—something. Maybe, in some ways, that’s why I went after the story so hard. Because of him.”

  “Even though you knew it was wrong?” Rhyme stood in the doorway. “I don’t understand.”

  “It felt like the only way to keep him interested,” Matilda said, her eyes on the ground. “Because I was losing him to someone else.” Matilda looked up, right into Rhyme’s eyes, and everything made sense. The other day, when Matilda had said, “You’re always getting things you don’t even want.” She had been in love with Tim Sharpe. Right when Tim had started courting Rhyme. Never mind that Rhyme was only dating Tim to make T. K. jealous. In one fell swoop, Matilda had lost the Attaway Appeal and Tim Sharpe. And if there was anyone to blame, she was standing right there in the closet. “But how could you have known …” Matilda said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “I’m really sorry, Matilda,” said Rhyme.

  “It’s not your fault,” Matilda said, closing the door behind them. “Anyway, it’s not very feminist for the two of us to fight over a stupid boy.”

  “Betty Friedan wouldn’t approve,” Rhyme laughed, mentally patting herself on the back for remembering the name. “Not to change the subject, but why are we in Ms. Sharpe’s closet?”

  “You said this Vinny fellow lived around here. Yesterday I was reading about redistricting, and they’ve moved around the lines between Attaway and Millwood about a dozen times in the last century.”

  Millwood. The next town over. Kids there ran in a faster circle, riding motocross bikes instead of team dancing. Rhyme thought of the Millwood cheer captain, Autumn, who had cheated at last year’s competition to beat Luna and PowerSurge. Now that she thought about it, Millwood was exactly the sort of place a forbidden boyfriend might’ve lived in 1963….

  “See, the library in Millwood is scheduled for a big renovation,” Matilda said, as if reading Rhyme’s mind. “That big donor has been giving money to local organizations. In the meantime, Ms. Sharpe has been holding on to some of the Millwood books, especially ones that can be helpful for the county fair. And as it happens, I was filing away a few just the other day….” Matilda dug around under some shelves and pulled out a stack of Millwood yearbooks. “Here,” she said, pulling out the five Millwood High yearbooks from 1963–1967. Rhyme immediately began flipping through the ’63 volume, scouring page by page. A few names stuck out, like Alice Hargrove with the C-minus grade point average. At least she was beautiful, Rhyme thought.

  After a moment, she looked up at Matilda. She had the 1964 yearbook opened to the back. On it was a tidy list of names. “You never heard of an index?” Matilda said, making Rhyme grin sheepishly. “It’s an easy way to find Vincent Patterson, Class of ’67.” Matilda, spinning back the pages, couldn’t help but contain her smile.

  Two of the boys on page sixty-three were in uniform. One of them, without the hint of a smile, had the good looks of a magazine model. High cheekbones, full lips. In a way, he looked a lot like Conrad. Except for one thing. Vincent Patterson was African American.

  “Is this your Vinny?” Matilda asked.

  CHAPTER 15

  Twenty minutes later Rhyme was armed with fifteen photocopies of Vincent Patterson’s senior portrait, biography, and quote—as well as a snapshot on her phone. She was sure she had found Vinny, but she was less sure how to explain her interest to Matilda, who kept asking questions as they worked the machine.

  “It’s just cool, I guess,” Rhyme said, on her third attempt to convince Matilda she wasn’t up to something mischievous. “You know that feeling? When you finally figure out a problem, or find exactly the thing you were looking for?”

  Matilda was silent for a moment, and Rhyme awaited a cutting remark. “Eureka,” Matilda finally said. “That’s the word for it. Eureka.”

  “Oh, right,” Rhyme said, understanding. “Einstein?”

  “Archimedes,” Matilda corrected her. “Greek mathematician. But Einstein said it, too, maybe.”

  Rhyme wasn’t used to Matilda second-guessing herself. But she wasn’t about to complain. Just then, her phone buzzed. It was from Meg: “Kk.” That�
��s it? After receiving the yearbook photo of Vinny, Rhyme would’ve expected more from Meg. But maybe everybody was going to text like T. K. Then, three dots pulsed on her screen. “Nice work.” Rhyme beamed, then caught herself as Matilda looked on.

  “Let me guess, your maybe-boyfriend?”

  “No,” Rhyme said, pocketing her phone. “Can you do me a favor? And tell Ms. Sharpe that I came down with something?”

  “You’re really pushing it,” said Matilda. “But just this one time, I’ll play along. Tomorrow, you better tell me what’s up.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Rhyme extended her hand, and they shook on it. Not like friends, exactly. But definitely not like enemies.

  Ten minutes later, Rhyme was flying on her bike toward Mrs. Simpson’s. It was high noon, and the sun beat down on her face. She couldn’t help but smile. For the first time in a long time, she felt needed. That she was part of something. Earlier that year, when the Chicken Girls were all together, she’d felt that way constantly. She, Ellie, Quinn, and Kayla were inseparable, a unit. We are a girl gang, like birds of a feather, as their old song went. Over the last year, though, cracks had appeared in their friendship. Somehow, that feeling was lost. But as she pedaled faster up the hill on Huntington Avenue, Rhyme felt happy, a part of something bigger.

  They’d done it. Finally, they had found Vinny. She had found Vinny. She couldn’t wait to see Meg’s and Conrad’s faces. As she turned the corner, she saw Mrs. Simpson standing on the front lawn. Oh no, she thought. I thought she’d be at the Sunset Club. Rhyme tossed her bike on the sidewalk and went up to the house. Parked in the driveway, she saw an unfamiliar car, a purple sedan with the front door slightly open.

  “There you are, dear!” Mrs. Simpson said, spotting Rhyme. She waved her over. Reggie sat on the stoop with his tail between his legs, oddly quiet. Through the car’s windshield, Rhyme could see a take-out bag, a suitcase, and an orange pamphlet from a car rental company. “I thought you’d be at the library at this hour,” said Mrs. Simpson.

  Rhyme tried her best to act casual. “Ms. Sharpe let us out a little early today.”

  “Then this must be Rhyme.” A man’s voice came from inside the house, baritone and menacing. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, wearing a blue button-down shirt, black jeans, and cowboy boots. His long, auburn hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Stubble covered his face.

  “We’ve had an unexpected visitor,” Mrs. Simpson said, pulling Reggie close. “Rhyme, dear, this is Mr. Quentin.”

  “You can call me Fiske,” he said, without extending his hand.

  Mrs. Simpson smiled. “Fiske here says you’re acquainted with his niece and nephew?”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Uh …”

  “Er …”

  “Um …”

  It took a few tries for Rhyme to get out the words. “No,” she said eventually. “I don’t know them.”

  “But I haven’t told you who they are yet,” Uncle Fiske said with an icy smile. Rhyme fell silent.

  “I just mean I haven’t met anyone new this summer,” she said, still taking in Uncle Fiske. He was taller than Rhyme had imagined—rail thin—and he was wearing a shirt unbuttoned three below the collar, where dark hair sprouted over the silk floral. His boots were white leather. Looking at his face made a chill run down her back. While she could see a slight resemblance to the twins, the features he had—even the ones he shared with them—didn’t match up. His eyes were too small, and his nose too crooked. Everything that made the twins so appealing, on him looked suspicious. Shifty was the word that came to mind.

  “Believe it or not, Fiske’s mother used to live in this very house,” Mrs. Simpson said, blinking her long eyelashes. “Her name was Betty Cassidy.”

  Rhyme raised her eyebrows and nodded—oh!—as if this was news to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fiske’s tongue dart between his teeth.

  “My mother passed recently,” Fiske said, taking a deep, melodramatic breath. Rhyme tried not to scowl. “And my dear, dear niece and nephew, Meg and Conrad, went missing shortly thereafter.” Mrs. Simpson put a comforting hand on his back. “I don’t blame them, of course,” Fiske said, giving Rhyme the distinct impression that he had rehearsed this before. “My dear sister and her husband left us at such a young age. They were hardly parents to the children at all. I doubt those kids ever got over the loss.”

  “But why would they come all the way to Attaway, when nobody’s here anymore?” Rhyme said, trying to root out Fiske’s motives. “Why wouldn’t they stay with you?”

  A flicker of rage struck Fiske’s face. But before Mrs. Simpson noticed, he collected himself and grinned. “Grief plays tricky games with us,” he said. “I think they wanted to know more about their Grandma Betty. To see where they came from.”

  Mrs. Simpson nodded solemnly, as if she understood completely. Rhyme was watching Fiske like a hawk. He had said “where they came from.” Did he know about Vinny? That they were looking for their real grandfather? Or did he just mean that Attaway was Betty’s hometown?

  “See, I was worried sick and searching everywhere for them,” Fiske was explaining to Mrs. Simpson. “They’re all I have left in this world. Believe it or not, I was about to alert the police, when a nice librarian by the name of Sharpe called around the house, saying a pair of teenagers who lived at our address had tried to check out books. Well, I hopped on the next plane down and asked around. Someone over at the diner recognized their picture. Said they’d been palling around with a girl, a tad younger, with long brown hair. They sent me looking at the house next door, but it was empty, all the lights off. I was about to head back to the airport, when Mrs. Simpson here pulled up. She said if you knew anything, you’d be the last person to keep a secret.”

  Fiske stared pointedly at Rhyme.

  “It’s a shame there are so many young girls with brown hair who live in Attaway,” Rhyme said.

  “Why don’t I put on some tea?” Mrs. Simpson interjected. “After all, you’ve had such a long journey, Mr. Quentin.”

  “Thank you kindly, but I should really keep looking,” Fiske said. “If I don’t find them soon, I may have to think about contacting the police again.” He shook his head as if he had no choice.

  “Why’s that?” Rhyme said skeptically.

  “I’m sure it was an accident, but Meg and Conrad may have stumbled on something very valuable that belongs to me. And if it’s not recovered soon, they could be charged with something pretty serious.” He turned to Rhyme. “And so could anybody who aided and abetted them in the theft.”

  Rhyme tried not to give anything away. But she was scared. Was he telling the truth? Something very valuable? What could he be talking about? Was it something about the letters? Or maybe something from the box upstairs? Old pictures? Those junky earrings? There must’ve been something else that Betty had given the twins, something that they hadn’t told her about. That made her feel angry with Conrad, that he was still keeping her in the dark.

  “Here’s my phone number, little lady,” he said to Rhyme, handing her a business card. “If you happen to stumble on my niece and nephew, you know where to find me.” Then, Fiske handed Rhyme his phone. “Why don’t you store your number here, too, just in case I need to get ahold of you.”

  Rhyme reluctantly typed her number into Fiske’s phone, her fingers shaky and palms sweaty. As he said goodbye to Mrs. Simpson—oozing with charm, of course—she slipped past them into the foyer. Inside, she let the air-conditioning cool her as she tried to settle down, taking deep breaths through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. Her mind was racing, her heart pounding. What would they do? If they hadn’t skipped town already, Meg and Conrad needed to make a plan. They couldn’t go around town looking for Vincent Patterson with Fiske on the loose.

  Rhyme walked upstairs to her room and sat on the bed, among the seashells. It would’ve been nice to sit beside an actual ocean, far away from Fiske Quentin and his foul business. Through t
he window, she could still hear Fiske chitchatting with Mrs. Simpson. With a big wave—“We’ll be in touch soon, I’m sure,” he said—Fiske climbed into his car and sped off. Rhyme watched the taillights disappear from view as he rounded the corner and waited until she could no longer hear his engine before exhaling.

  “That was a close call,” a boy’s voice said from beneath her. Conrad’s head poked out from under the bed. “Sorry to spook you.”

  “Fiske can have that effect on people,” Meg said as she stepped out from the closet.

  “So,” Rhyme said, brushing off her clothes. “What do we do now?”

  “First,” Meg said, “you tell us about Vincent Patterson.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Luckily, it was masquerade night at the Sunset Club, which meant Mrs. Simpson would be out late. Even so, Rhyme brought the twins to her house. She kept the curtains closed, and the lights at a minimum, just in case Fiske was watching the house. As Conrad and Meg analyzed the photocopies of Vincent Patterson’s senior portrait, Rhyme set about making them dinner. She looked in the cabinets, virtually untouched since her parents left, and found a box of linguini and an unopened jar of marinara sauce.

  “This has to be Vinny,” Conrad said, looking up. “It all fits.” But Meg didn’t respond. She was reading through the pages for the sixth time, this time with a red pen she’d commandeered from the den. Conrad held the paper up to the light. “He looks like me, doesn’t he?”

  Rhyme looked over Conrad’s shoulder, even though she knew Vincent’s photo by heart. Rhyme could see what he meant. Their mouths were similar shapes, and there was something familiar about the eyes. Unfortunately the photo was black and white, so it was impossible to tell if Vinny’s eyes were green like the twins’. In fact, as she looked more closely, Rhyme realized it was impossible to tell very much at all.