Chicken Girls

by Brat

  Rhyme started throwing all of Betty’s possessions back into the trousseau and slammed the lid shut. She slid the trunk back into the closet and shut the secret door before barreling downstairs and running out the door. Rhyme was trying to figure out how she would explain any of this to Mrs. Simpson. When she got outside, she heard Matilda telling Mrs. Simpson some elaborate story about a town scavenger hunt … clues … prize money, all tied up somehow in the county fair.

  “Mr. Quentin must’ve just let his competitive side get the better of his manners. Next time you can be on our team.” Matilda cocked her head and batted her eyelashes, smiling: the picture of innocence. Almost like she was doing a Rhyme impression.

  “Oh, how bizarre. Well now, dear, that makes more sense. In fact, I think I remember hearing Mr. Fitzroy say something about a scavenger hunt the other day at the Sunset Club. In fact, I’m sure of it. You girls better run along if you want to win.” Mrs. Simpson turned to Rhyme, seemingly oblivious to her blotchy cheeks and swollen eyes. “Dear, give your parents a call, won’t you? I think I got a message they were coming home early. Tiny Harmony was doing one of those insufferable accents again, and I couldn’t possibly comprehend.”

  “Great,” said Rhyme, grabbing Matilda’s hand, “will do!” The two girls walked quickly back to the car.

  “A scavenger hunt? Really?” said Rhyme, getting into the car.

  “It was the first thing that came to mind!” said Matilda. “What is it with these two? The minute we find one of them, the other goes missing. Come on, we need to get back to Meg. Now.”

  CHAPTER 26

  They bolted into the house, shouting Meg’s name. No answer.

  “Hello? Hello? Meg!” Rhyme was terrified. If Fiske had both twins in his clutches, all hope was truly lost.

  “We should never have left her alone.” Matilda said breathlessly. “For all we know, Fiske picked her up while we were driving to Mrs. Simpson’s. What was I thinking?”

  Matilda continued calling out Meg’s name, but Rhyme fell silent. She had officially reached capacity. Conrad had been kidnapped. Fiske had found the secret closet. The trousseau. The cemetery. The Test Test. Harmony, her parents. And then—as if on cue—Rhyme’s phone rang.

  “Is it Meg?” Matilda practically jumped her. But, no. It was T. K., calling from Hollywood. Matilda rolled her eyes, and ran upstairs to keep looking. Ring. Ring. Ring. Before she could second-guess herself, Rhyme declined the call. Right now, she had no space left in her brain for T. K. Air. That’s what Rhyme needed. She went to the kitchen, through the sliding glass door, and stepped into the backyard. It was a trim, tidy square of grass, with a winding flagstone path that led to a little pebble garden. There was a wrought iron table and two rickety chairs. Two cell phones were placed side by side on the table, and in one of the chairs, Meg sat stock-still, staring out into the hedges.

  “He has Conrad!” Rhyme squealed, as she ran to Meg. Without taking a breath, she recounted the last hour—Fiske’s getaway, Conrad’s capture, Mrs. Simpson’s confusion. But the whole time, even after Matilda joined them, Meg was as lifeless as a statue, transfixed in her chair. Only when Rhyme mentioned Fiske by name did Meg stir at all, like she was a caged animal itching for a fight. Rhyme finally finished talking, and they waited for Meg to say something. It seemed like an eternity.

  “The worst part is,” Rhyme said, starting up again, “we still don’t know what Fiske is looking for.”

  “Yes, we do.” Meg turned to face them. Both girls looked back, confused.

  “When I got back to the house the front door was wide open. It was clear that someone had left in a hurry. The TV was still on. The refrigerator was wide open. Conrad’s phone had clearly been thrown across the room—it was lying in the corner with a cracked screen.” She held out the second phone, its screen shattered. “When I unlocked it, this came up.” The beginnings of a text message. To Rhyme. Three worlds, all in caps. IT’S THE CERTIF. She didn’t know whether to gasp or blush.

  “You have it, right? Please, Rhyme, tell me you have it.” Meg said.

  “Hang on,” said Matilda, running up behind them, “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on? What certificate?”

  Meg turned to Matilda. “You know how Conrad and I got in a fight earlier?”

  Matilda nodded.

  “Rhyme here was keeping a secret from us. With my brother. When we went snooping through Grandma Betty’s old house—”

  “You mean Mrs. Simpson’s?” Matilda interjected.

  “Right. While I was hunting around the basement, Rhyme and my brother found a hidden room upstairs with an old trousseau—”

  “What’s a—” Matilda looked confused.

  “It holds the dowry!” Rhyme exclaimed. Both girls gave her a look.

  “Anyway,” said Meg, “my dear brother and Rhyme decided to keep me in the dark about this box.”

  Rhyme butted in again. “There was nothing up there except old junk. Conrad didn’t want you to get all worked up over nothing.”

  “Well, for better or worse, he didn’t tell me. Until we were fighting earlier, which is why I stormed off.” With that, Meg gave Rhyme a pointed look. “The problem is, the box had more than old junk.” Meg held up Conrad’s shattered phone, and Rhyme again read the text.

  “It’s the certif,” she said aloud. “The certificate!”

  “What certificate?” said Matilda.

  Meg said, “There was a stock certificate, from an old company called H. U. Y. They thought it was worthless, but apparently it’s not. Because Fiske isn’t only here to send us to foster care. He’s here because that certificate is worth a lot of money. And until it’s in his hands—and we’re out of his hair—he can’t cash in.”

  Matilda looked glum. “And now Fiske has Conrad, and he has the certificate. This stinks.”

  The girls hadn’t noticed that Rhyme had left to grab her backpack from inside the kitchen. When she came back, she set the bag on the table, shuffling between problem sets, gum wrappers, and pencil shavings. Enough! She turned the backpack upside down, letting everything spill out onto the table. The other girls stopped talking. There it was. Rhyme found the blue envelope and lifted it up into the air like a golden ticket. She pulled out the piece of paper, and there it was: ten shares of H. U. Y. Enterprises.

  Meg and Matilda broke into smiles, and the three girls shared a brief, awkward hug. “Now we just need to figure out what this is worth,” Meg said, “and get Conrad back. And get rid of Uncle Fiske. And then we’re basically home free. Easy, right?”

  Rhyme looked down at her phone, which had started buzzing again. Couldn’t T. K. take a hint? Only, it wasn’t from California. She read the text aloud: “Meet me under the striped tent tomorrow at the Fair. 8pm. You give me the certificate, I give you Conrad. Or else!”

  The text was from Fiske.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Attaway County Fair was the highlight of summer for most of the town residents. The town green was covered in pinstriped tents and stalls with carnival games and stuffed animals, pens with real animals, and tables and carts selling wares from local artisans and every type of fried food imaginable. Rhyme had been going to the fair every year since she could remember. Usually, she would wake up early with Ellie and head to the diner for a stack of pancakes before being first in line when it opened. It was tradition for them to ride the Ferris wheel together and say goodbye to summer.

  But the morning of that summer’s opening day, Rhyme was in an empty room in the back of the library staring at a large packet of paper. Next to her lay two number-two pencils and a calculator. The clock on the wall seemed to be moving at a glacial pace, and she could’ve sworn the second hand was ticking toward the twelve with decreasing speed. But her nerves weren’t so much for the numbers and problems ahead, but for the Test Test retake to be over, and the real challenge to begin.

  “You may open your test booklet … now,” said the proctor, a thin, wiry woman with an imp
assive face who looked like she wouldn’t let you out to use the bathroom if you asked. Rhyme took a deep breath and opened the test packet. She had studied with Meg the night before, using flash cards Matilda had for her—and Rhyme hoped the content hadn’t changed too much since then. The first section was history.

  “Which of the following Supreme Court cases ruled interracial marriages legal nationwide?” Rhyme read the question several times over to make sure she hadn’t misread before her face split into a grin.

  Two and a half hours later, Rhyme sprinted out of the library for the green, which had transformed overnight. The late afternoon sun beat down on Rhyme as she squeezed through crowds of excited Attaway families and toward the tents near the back. The Attaway Horticultural Society had their station, a stall constructed from flowers—lines of sunflowers for the walls, creeping violets wrapping a wire frame roof, a mote of zinnias. The Historical Preservation Society was beside that stall, with several models of sites they were trying to save around town—the well from the first settlers in Attaway, the crumbling Fitzroy Manor, the remains of the rubber factory that was slated to become a museum. Rhyme smiled, wondering what would be on display, and immediately conjured a vision of Madonna’s scrunchie on a marble platform in a dramatically lit glass box. What an odd place to live, she thought, but what a special place, too. A ways back, beside the Ferris wheel, was the striped tent—glinting ominously as the sun started to fall. In the back corner, in the largest tent, was the library’s exhibit, which Rhyme still hadn’t had a chance to see in all its glory.

  When she entered the tent, walled on three sides by canvas, Rhyme nearly gasped. Every inch of it was covered, each section sorted chronologically and bleeding into the next, starting with the 1930s.

  “Wow!” Rhyme said as Ms. Sharpe scurried over, flush with excitement. “This looks incredible.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ms. Sharpe said, looking around with shiny eyes, as if she might cry. “And it’s thanks to you and Matilda. I couldn’t have done it without you girls. Now tell me, how was the Test Test?”

  Rhyme shrugged noncommittally, not wanting to jinx anything by talking about it.

  She looked around the tent to see if Matilda was in sight. But the only people in the tent were a mother pulling her son, who just wanted to go on the tilt-a-whirl, several older citizens reliving their golden days, and somebody wearing one of the Attaway Armadillo masks they always passed around. The three girls had arranged to meet here, but when Rhyme checked her phone, she realized she was early. She also realized that her phone was already running on low battery, and that she better conserve battery in case Meg went missing.

  With nothing better to do, she began to explore the exhibit. It really was an impressive display. They had the steering wheel of the first car manufactured in Attaway—a Model T Ford assembled at the Fitzroy Auto Factory. She saw suffragettes in gorgeous hats and pins and sashes leading a rally for the right to vote (Nineteenth amendment, Rhyme thought automatically, still in a studious mode). They had the front pages from 1929, when the stock market crashed. Attaway had been hit hard then with the drought, the town being on the outskirts of the Dust Bowl. From there, she moved on to an exhibit of photos from World War II—factory lines of women smelting bullets and firearms and automobiles from scrap metal, taking charge of “men’s jobs” while their husbands were fighting overseas. There was the civil rights section, the photos Rhyme had found of the sit-ins at the shuttered department store, and the march up Main Street.

  Down the wall was an exhibit on Vietnam, surrounding the vintage army fatigues Ms. Sharpe had found. Rhyme went over to the wall of fallen heroes—her idea!—a list of locals who had been lost in war. She quickly found Vincent Patterson, with a “DIA” next to his name. She ran her finger over his name, remembering how just a week before they’d been sure he was their Vinny.

  “It’s time,” said a muffled voice from behind her. Turning, Rhyme saw it was the person in the Armadillo mask. Fiske? Before she could step back, Meg lifted the mask from her face, revealing a cheeky grin. “Just to be extra safe,” Meg said. Beside her, Matilda removed a Millwood Muskrat mask, and the three girls were back together. “All for one, one for all,” Meg said, huddling close.

  They paused at the veterans’ wall, seeing Vincent Patterson’s name.

  “Whether or not it’s Vinny,” said Rhyme, “we’re going to find your grandfather.”

  They stepped outside, and the fair was brimming with families and faces—some she knew, and some she didn’t. The whole town had come out. Scarlet and cream-colored lights blazed across the fairgrounds, over the booths and tents and children, all of Rhyme’s neighbors. Everyone except her parent and Harmony. Except the Chicken Girls. But she wasn’t on her own. The girls stood together, three in a row. A searchlight atop the Ferris wheel pointed directly to the shadowy corner where the striped tent was raised. They started off together, ready or not, to confront Uncle Fiske.

  CHAPTER 28

  Tap, tap, tap.

  From behind them came the thunderous tap of a microphone, broadcasted across the field. Rhyme turned to see as Principal Mathers stepped up to the podium. “Greetings, Attaway!” he said. “As many of you know, I had my wisdom teeth out last semester, but I’m happy to be returning to school this year. I trust you all enjoyed working with Principal Journey, however.” Meg tugged on Rhyme’s sleeve, pulling her back toward the striped tent. Everyone else, however, was moving toward the stage, the three girls swimming like minnows against a thick current. The cheerleading captain from Millwood, a bossy girl named Autumn, brushed past Rhyme without so much as looking up. “Hurry!” said Meg. “If Fiske thinks we’re not coming, he may try to hurt Conrad.”

  “ … And without further ado,” Principal Mathers was saying, “please welcome Debra Sharpe, our town historian, to the stage.” The microphone screeched over scattered applause. As much as Rhyme wanted to turn around, the girls continued their steady march.

  “Wow, it is wonderful seeing so many familiar faces out there,” she said. “So many of you donated to the library’s fund this year—and your attendance here will help further fund our community of libraries. Reading. Is. Everything.” That didn’t draw too many claps—especially out here, where the crowd had thinned. The girls were only twenty paces from the striped tent now.

  “What now?” said Matilda, looking from side to side.

  “Now, we go get my brother back,” Meg said.

  But before they could get anywhere, two kids from school stood in their way.

  “Matilda?” said one of them, a jovial, sandy-haired guy. Beside him was a girl from school named Holly. “Long time, no see! How’s your summer been?” asked the boy.

  “Oh, hi, Billy,” said Matilda. “The thing is, we’re sort of busy right now, and—”

  But her plea fell on deaf ears. Without catching a breath, Billy started recounting his entire summer: a tag football league, his family’s trip to Washington DC, how his neighbor had sprained her wrist, and what subjects Billy was taking next year.

  Agitated, Rhyme turned back toward the stage, where Ms. Sharpe

  was still speaking. “Now,” the historian was saying, “I would like to introduce someone who’s been a patron and friend of the library for decades.” Rhyme’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the curlicue logos that decorated the tents. The same logo was emblazoned in signs across the fair’s enclosure. Now that she noticed it, the symbol was everywhere. The letters connected and looped in such a way that it appeared as a design first, a word second. “And this year,” said Ms. Sharpe, “thanks to an extra special donation, we’ve doubled our operating budget for the next ten years …”

  “ …I’m thinking earth sciences, but my mom wants me to do biology …” Billy was saying.

  “ … I’m sure you are all familiar with his name, as his company has sponsored several philanthropic organizations over the years,” said Ms. Sharpe.

  “ … We really need to be
going now, Billy,” Matilda said.

  Rhyme’s head was swimming.

  “ … So I hope you’ll please help me in presenting Silas Manderley with our Attaway Altruist Award,” Ms. Sharpe said, to resounding applause.

  That’s what the letters said, stenciled on the tents. Manderley. Rhyme scrunched up her nose. Where have I heard that before? But she couldn’t quite remember. With the aid of a cane, an old man mounted the stage. Even in the fading light, Rhyme recognized him right away. She tapped on Meg’s shoulder and pointed to the stage.

  Billy, meanwhile, was still rambling on. “Holly here’s been doing a bang-up job, but we definitely miss you at the paper. If you ever want to come back, you know …” But Matilda was no longer listening. She was looking in the same direction as Rhyme and Meg: at the podium. The elderly man on stage—the wealthy donor, Silas Manderley—was the same man they’d seen at the Millwood Cemetery.

  “Thank you, Ms. Sharpe,” he began, his voice hoarse with age and weariness. “And thank you, Attaway. This was a difficult year,” the old man started to say. The girls all looked at each other, hovering on the edge of a revelation. But before they could speak, Billy interjected yet again.

  “There’s a man over there who seems to be looking your way,” he said. “You know him?”

  They turned. In the doorway to the striped tent, Fiske Quentin was waiting impatiently. He drew his finger across his neck. Or else. Beside him, disguised by the tent’s flap, drawn in crimson and cream, was somebody else.