Chicken Girls

by Brat

  “And now what are you looking for?” Matilda said, walking over. Rhyme closed the folder a little too quickly.

  “It’s nothing, really,” Rhyme said, already heading back to the table.

  “Oh, okay,” Matilda responded casually. “Then I guess you don’t want my help searching for Vincent Patterson, right?” Matilda said. Rhyme didn’t know how to respond, so Matilda rolled her eyes and grabbed the mouse. With impressive dexterity, Matilda started clicking and closing scans of the old newspapers.

  “Vincent Patterson … Graduated Millwood ’67, you can see the class picture here.” She pointed to a front-page photo from 1967 showing Millwood’s graduating class. Vincent was near the back, tight-lipped, only the barest of a smirk on his face. “Joined the army,” Matilda continued. “Same year.”

  “Anything about him now?” Rhyme asked. “Like an address? It’s possible he’s still around here.”

  “Hold on, Nancy Drew,” Matilda said. “There’s nothing really about him for the next couple years, then …” She clicked on another link. “Received a Purple Heart, wow, for …” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?” Rhyme asked, looking over her shoulder. Matilda shielded the screen, as if to protect Rhyme. Then, deciding against it, she sighed and moved back. “What?” Rhyme repeated, genuinely fearful now. Matilda didn’t respond, just angled the computer toward Rhyme.

  It was a newspaper article, and Rhyme read several lines before she saw what had startled Matilda. Vincent Patterson did receive a Purple Heart in 1972. But it was the next two sentences that took Rhyme by surprise: “On April 2, North Vietnamese troops attacked Camp Carroll, engaging in deadly combat that injured forty-seven soldiers and took the life of one. Vincent Arthur Patterson was a hero and he sacrificed his life in service to his country.”

  Rhyme’s stomach dropped, and she had to reread it several times to make sure she was understanding correctly. “Sacrificed his life.”

  Sacrificed his life. Vinny was dead.

  CHAPTER 20

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Matilda offered uncomfortably. “If it is your loss.” Rhyme couldn’t talk. She could barely breathe, only just regaining control of herself after the shock.

  “Are you … Are you sure?” Rhyme croaked out. But Matilda had already found several mentions of him.

  “He’s buried here, in Millwood Cemetery if you …” But Rhyme wasn’t listening, pulling her phone out of her pocket to turn it off airplane mode and text Meg. But text her what? Oops. Vinny’s dead. My bad. Sry. Her phone buzzed with incoming messages. Most were from her mother.

  “Surprise!” the first read. “We’re coming home in a few days! Production’s on hiatus.” Rhyme took off for the exit. As if she needed any more problems, now Rhyme had nowhere for the twins to stay, in addition to breaking the news that their only hope of finding their real grandfather was dead. Literally.

  “Where are you going?” Ms. Sharpe said. “Aren’t we reviewing meiosis today?” Rhyme stopped, unsure what to tell Ms. Sharpe. There was a growing lump in her throat, and her face felt hot. “How’s the seventies exhibit coming?” Rhyme’s big, brown eyes got bigger, and Ms. Sharpe had barely uttered ‘What’s wrong?’ before Rhyme was crying—big, fat, hot tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Rhyme tried to explain, but all that came out were gargles. She wasn’t even sure she could explain it to herself. She was sad about Vincent, sure, but it was more for the twins’ sadness. At what? They’d never even known Vincent Patterson. He wasn’t even their grandfather. Was she sad about their future? Rhyme wiped away her tears and shook her head.

  “It’s fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Can I just … ?” She pointed outside, and Ms. Sharpe nodded, her face an odd mix of confused, horrified, and sympathetic.

  Rhyme pushed open the front doors and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air, which smelled of geraniums and freshly cut grass. In the distance, she could hear a lawn mower going. Rhyme slowed down at the bottom of the stairs. She could feel tears coming on again.

  “Hey!” she heard, as the front door opened and Matilda emerged. “What was that all about?” the older girl said. She didn’t sound angry, though, more genuinely concerned.

  “It’s—”

  “‘Nothing,’ I know,” Matilda said, rolling her eyes. “It’s clearly something, so why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help out.” Rhyme hesitated, bit the edge of her lip. Meg would kill Rhyme if she told. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, especially now that Fiske was stalking Attaway. But Matilda had already helped out, even if she didn’t know what for. And Matilda could keep a secret, Rhyme thought. Like, for instance, that she wasn’t always bossy and terrible.

  Rhyme started walking home, seeing if Matilda, the Goody Two-shoes in all black, would leave her alone. She didn’t.

  “Okay,” Rhyme began, taking a deep breath like Meg had done that first night. “It’s a long story …”

  To Matilda’s credit, she didn’t interject the entire time Rhyme was speaking, asking only an occasional follow-up. But Rhyme could see her struggling to believe the story. It was unbelievable—sure—but was there any real alternative? That Rhyme made up an elaborate cover story to hide a web search for a dead guy?

  “So now we’re back where we started, basically,” Rhyme said, sighing again with despair. “Clueless and running out of time.” Matilda was silent, her eyebrows knitted together in thought. They walked like this for several blocks before they were in front of Rhyme’s house. Unthinkingly, Rhyme headed up the stone path, then noticed Matilda beside her. Meg would definitely not want to meet her. But Rhyme did want Matilda to see Meg and Conrad, if only to show her that the twins were real. And maybe to impress Matilda, who always thought Rhyme was so young and dumb and silly, troubling herself about dance and best friends and T. K. But here was a real problem, one she felt sure Matilda had never solved before.

  “Do you want to come inside?” Rhyme asked. Maybe she just wanted somebody else around when she broke the bad news that Vinny was long gone.

  Rhyme unlocked and opened the door, holding her breath and scrunching her face as she entered. No one was home. “Hello?” Rhyme called. “Meg? Conrad?”

  Rhyme looked over at Matilda and shrugged her shoulders with a grin, as if to apologize for children that were behaving badly. Matilda’s face grew skeptical. Now she had to find the twins, who she felt sure were hiding. Unless they had already left. Had Fiske come by? Had he broken in? Without explanation, Rhyme ran to all the doors, checking to see if they were locked. She hadn’t left them a set of keys.

  Rhyme came back into the foyer and dialed Meg’s number. She waited, hearing it ring once on her end before she heard a faint buzzing coming from somewhere near the kitchen. Rhyme motioned for Matilda to stay as she crept closer to the sound, getting to the pantry door before Meg opened it in a huff.

  “Who is that?” she said, grabbing Rhyme’s arm with more force than was necessary.

  “A friend,” Rhyme said decisively, wondering if she meant it. Really, Matilda was more of a prickly ally.

  “Matilda,” they heard, turning around as the girl in question came through the door. “And your secret’s safe with me.” Meg gave her a once-over, then glowered at Rhyme.

  “She’s helped us already,” Rhyme said. “Matilda’s the one who helped us find …” Her voice trailed off as she remembered Vincent Patterson. Meg and Conrad filled in the blank.

  “So,” Meg said, temporarily putting aside her ire. “Did you get an address? Where does Vincent Patterson live?”

  “I, um, well, so …” Rhyme stammered, failing to look either Conrad or Meg in the eye.

  “Millwood Cemetery,” Matilda said, ushering in a seemingly permanent silence. Then, Meg and Conrad turned to Rhyme, hoping she would step in and tell them that this was just a terrible joke. “He died in the Vietnam War,” Matilda added.

  “It’s true,” Rhyme said, her voice shaky, threatening to break again. “I … I’m sor
ry, I had no idea, but—”

  “How?” Conrad said. “When?”

  “1972,” Rhyme said. “I … I’m so sorry I didn’t look this up earlier and—”

  “And save us time, energy, and hope?” Meg asked, working herself up. She could barely even look at Rhyme as she spat out the rest: “Now we have nothing.” The word hung in the air for several seconds before Matilda jumped in.

  “It’s not like she killed him,” Matilda said. “Plus, if Vinny sent you the letter five years ago, then Vincent Patterson isn’t Vinny, which means that your real grandfather is probably still out there.” Rhyme, even in a state of distress, still couldn’t believe Matilda was now defending her. So much had changed that summer.

  “You told her everything?!” Meg said, her green eyes now flashing with rage. She was terrifying—and almost more beautiful because of it. She turned to Conrad. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted her.”

  Rhyme hadn’t hazarded more than a glance at Conrad, whose eyes she now met. She felt the lump in her throat drop to her stomach, and she audibly gulped to keep from crying. Conrad’s expression was worse than Meg’s. Not angry. Not angry at all, in fact. But stunned. Stunned and speechless and devastated. Then he looked away. Rhyme didn’t think she had ever felt so ashamed. Then Meg spoke again.

  “This may seem like some exciting adventure to you, something to brag about to your friends,” she said, the word friends sounding like a slur. “But for us it’s the only chance we have left. You may think Attaway is the middle of nowhere, but at least you have a family. And friends. And a future.”

  “Meg …” Conrad said weakly.

  “No, Conrad,” Meg said. “How hard would it have been to look it up yesterday before swearing to us he was Vinny—”

  “That’s not what I did,” Rhyme said. “I was only trying to help.”

  “No wonder you failed that test,” Meg muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

  “Meg!” Conrad said, following his sister as she stormed out of the kitchen. “Where are you even going? We can’t leave here.” His voice trailed off, and it sounded like they both had gone upstairs. Rhyme groaned.

  “My family’s coming back tomorrow sometime. They didn’t say when.” she said, turning to Matilda, having forgotten about the lesser of her two problems. “How am I supposed to tell them they actually have to leave now? Maybe I could try to hide them? In my closet, or under the bed. I could probably feed them scraps from dinner.”

  “They’re not dogs,” Matilda said, grinning. “Though Meg seems like a real—”

  “You got any better ideas?” Rhyme asked, shaking her head and sitting at the counter.

  “Actually, I do,” Matilda responded smugly. “They can stay with me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Rhyme had Matilda pull her car into their garage so the twins could exit without being seen. Probably overkill, Rhyme figured, but Uncle Fiske didn’t seem like he was messing around. The twins came into the garage. Meg wouldn’t so much as look her way, while Conrad offered a grin and eye roll as if to apologize for his sister, who hadn’t apologized herself—let alone spoken to Rhyme. They climbed in and drove off in silence.

  But they had only gone about four minutes when Matilda turned into a drive.

  “This is your house?” Rhyme said. “How did I not know you lived like two houses down from Ellie?”

  “Because you guys never invited me to hang out?” Matilda said, shutting Rhyme up. She walked to the front door and unlocked it, motioning inside for the twins to come. Rhyme, after a second’s hesitation, followed. Even though she was pretty sure Matilda was on her side, the idea of stepping into her house still gave her the creeps.

  But inside, Matilda’s house looked just as normal as Rhyme’s did. No shrunken heads or voodoo dolls or shrines to Betty Friedan.

  “You’re sure it’s okay if we stay here?” Meg asked Matilda, looking around.

  “Positive,” Matilda said. “My parents are visiting my sister in Detroit and won’t be back for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks,” Meg repeated, her face turning dark. “More time than we have until Betty’s estate is settled and everything gets handed over to Fiske.” No one quite knew how to respond to that, and Rhyme dared not breathe lest she unleash the wrath of Meg Cassidy.

  “You guys should be safe here,” Rhyme finally said, walking over to the curtain and peeking out. “I don’t think anyone followed us here.”

  “Thanks, Rhyme,” Conrad said, looking her straight in the eye so she knew he meant it. Despite the circumstances, hearing him say her name still made Rhyme’s stomach flip.

  “It’s no problem,” Rhyme said, now idling by the door. “I should get home, though. Clean up a bit before my parents get back.” Conrad nodded amiably. “And I get it, obviously, if you guys don’t want my help anymore. I, um, I didn’t mean to mess things up so badly.”

  “You didn’t,” Conrad said, looking significantly at Meg, who turned away. “Without your help we never would have gotten even this far.” Meg stayed silent.

  “Okay, well, let me know if you need anything. Matilda, you good?” Matilda gave a thumbs-up from the couch, where she had already turned the television on to Antique Appraisers.

  “I love this show,” Rhyme heard Conrad say as she closed the door. That Conrad could still muster enough enthusiasm for a rerun of a show for old people impressed her. More than that, actually. It moved her. This only made her feel that much worse for the situation they were in, which, as Matilda said, was not her fault. And yet, Rhyme couldn’t help feeling responsible, if only for having delivered the message.

  Rhyme took the long way to Mrs. Simpson’s, walking through the path behind her house. It was so peaceful there, with the dappled shade of the trees and everything green and fresh. Cicadas whirred and crickets sang. A small creek babbled and a bullfrog croaked before Rhyme’s footsteps scared it off, and she heard a plunk as it took refuge in the water. Rhyme sat on a fallen log and sighed. Right now, she was almost wishing for the boring summer she had wanted so desperately to escape. Where her only responsibilities were to study trigonometry and shelve books and avoid snarky comments from Matilda. When she didn’t have the weight of someone else’s life in her hands—two lives.

  If only she could call up Ellie and tell her everything. She had no one to confide in, Matilda only just clearing the bar as a friend. It took her a second to realize she hadn’t even considered calling T. K. to talk about it. What did that mean? Did she no longer care about his opinion? Unsure of what to think, Rhyme kept walking toward Mrs. Simpson’s, passing some of her friends’ houses along the way. Empty, naturally. As she continued along, skipping over cracks in the sidewalks, Rhyme noticed something strange: yellow flyers. Pinned beneath windshield wipers, sticking out of mailboxes, slipped under doormats. If this was Ms. Sharpe’s big idea for promoting the county fair, she really needed to take a chill pill.

  Rhyme plucked a flyer from a picket fence and stared at it for several seconds before the letters swam into order. After a moment she realized what she was looking at. It was like a notice for a missing dog, except the picture wasn’t of a canine. It was of Meg and Conrad. The photograph was from a few years ago, when the twins were closer to Rhyme’s age. Below, a short description made them sound like delinquent thieves, runaways with an ax to grind. And there were two numbers at the bottom, one of which she felt certain was Fiske’s. The other was the Attaway police station.

  Sitting on the curb, Rhyme read and reread the flyer, not believing her own eyes. Not only had Fiske alerted the cops, but he had apparently canvassed the whole town.

  Meg and Conrad were sitting ducks.

  CHAPTER 22

  The next day, Rhyme tried to sneak out early to stop by Matilda’s and warn the twins. Unfortunately, Mrs. Simpson, who had all but ignored her all summer, decided that now was the time to make up for it. After a full breakfast of all her favorites—chocolate chip pancakes, sunny-side up eggs, chilled watermelo
n—Rhyme said she needed to leave.

  “Not to worry, dearie. I’ll take you to the library,” Mrs. Simpson said, refusing to take no for an answer. “It’s right on my way to the vet. Reginald needs his paws inspected. Don’t you, boy?” Reggie pressed his snout to the ground sadly.

  On the way there, Rhyme kept checking her phone for a text from Meg. She texted several times, but her phone must’ve been turned off. And she didn’t have Matilda’s number. As they drove along—very, very slowly—Mrs. Simpson sang along to WMLD, 103.6, the local station. She remembered very few of the lyrics but belted them out nonetheless. Reggie buried his head in the back seat, while Rhyme pressed her head to the window.

  Finally inside the library, Rhyme beelined for Matilda. She was sitting in front of a computer, blowing up old photos in preparation for the fair. “I’m sending these to the printer today. They should be ready by Friday, don’t you think? Hey! What’s wrong?” Rhyme pulled out the crumpled yellow flyer from her pocket and held it out. Matilda looked at it for several seconds before she stood up, grabbed her bag, and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Ms. Sharpe said, coming in with a mannequin dressed in vintage army fatigues. “Isn’t this fabulous? Mr. Brody at the Millwood Home for the Elderly is letting us borrow it.”

  Rhyme looked at Matilda, who didn’t blink an eye as she said, “We’re going to scope out the fairground, find the best place for the retrospective.”

  They hurried out before Ms. Sharpe could approve, but Rhyme did hear as they ran out: “Don’t forget our tutoring session tonight! We’re a little behind!” Rhyme didn’t have time to think about that. It felt so drastically unimportant, given their current predicament. As they turned the corner from the library, Rhyme ran straight into a pedestrian, knocking him over and sending papers flying.

  “I’m so sorry, sir! I didn’t see—” But she hadn’t gotten the full sentence out before she realized the papers were yellow, and the man muttering expletives was Uncle Fiske. She immediately swallowed her apology. Uncle Fiske stood up and brushed himself off before he recognized Rhyme. His face broke into a smile that made her skin crawl.