“Nate!” she said. Out with the hand. Meet his eye. “I’m Stevie.”
Nate looked at her outstretched hand, and then at Stevie’s face, seemingly to check if this was a serious gesture. With a sigh that probably (probably?) wasn’t supposed to be audible, he shook it once and let it go quickly.
Stevie decided to drop the handshake move.
Pix greeted Nate and got out his key, while Ellie examined him from her upside-down position.
“Nate’s a writer,” Stevie offered. “He wrote a book. The Moonbright Chronicles.”
“Never read it,” Ellie replied. “But that’s cool. What about you?”
“I read it,” Stevie said.
“No,” Ellie said. “You. What do you do?”
“Oh, right,” Stevie said, brushing away her mistake. She borrowed her technique from one of her current favorite TV detectives—Sam Weatherfeld of Stormy Weather. Sam never got stuck on moments like that; she always moved with the flow of conversation and didn’t try to walk against the current. It was time to declare herself for what she was. She had considered many terms. It was too presumptuous and silly to say detective; she wasn’t any kind of law officer or private investigator, and she had never really solved a case. Crime buff just sounded like a weird hobbyist with a high gloss. Crime historian wasn’t quite right and was definitely too dull. Her solution was not to give herself a title, but to state an activity.
“I study crime,” she said.
“To do it or stop it?” Ellie said.
“To stop it,” Stevie said, “but it probably works either way.”
“So you came here because of the crimes?” Ellie said. “The murders?”
“Kind of,” Stevie said.
“That’s cool. Someone should. They’re good murders, right?”
She did half a backward somersault out of the chair. Her skirt stuck up in the back, revealing her butt.
Ellie had simply accepted her, just like that. For a moment it was all endorphins and rainbows in Stevie’s head. That was all it had taken—one nice, accepting word from another student and she realized it would all be okay.
And yes, they were good murders.
Then she caught something in her peripheral vision—her parents were coming down the path with another pair of parents, mostly likely Nate’s. Nate’s parents were very angular people, crisply dressed in near-matching polo shirts and long shorts. The colors were different, but the effect was the same. Stevie’s dad was talking and gesticulating, and her mom was nodding. Nate’s father was listening, and his mother was scanning the house and the middle distance.
The endorphins fled the scene and were replaced by cold sweat. What were her parents saying? Were they talking about their views on the media? That the government was trying to control the lives of decent Americans? The myth of climate change? Or was it something more fun, like the price of bulk toilet paper? These were all favorite topics and all equal possibilities.
Stevie looked to Nate, who was staring at the door like he was watching an approaching cloud of locusts. He was also feeling the strain of parents meeting parents. Ellie was now scratching her exposed butt. (Well, not the butt-butt, but the upper-leg part where it meets the butt zone. Technically thigh, but butt for all legal intents and purposes.)
Stevie gripped the chair and braced for impact.
“Did you see a moose?” she said to Nate, in an attempt to make some kind of conversation.
“What?” he said. Which was fair enough.
All of the parents arrived at the door in a knot and trickled through into the common room.
“. . . just avoiding the toll roads.” Stevie heard her dad say. The conversation had been about the trip, most likely. That was probably very dull but safe. Then eight parental eyes turned to the exposed butt on the floor. Ellie rolled into a seated position, just a few seconds too late. Her matted, baby-socked hair stood on end for a moment.
Nate’s parents showed no outward sign, but Stevie saw her parents take it in. Her father looked away. Her mom’s mouth twisted into a small, confused grin.
“Let me show you what I did to my room,” she said, hooking one parent by each arm and hustling them down the hall.
“What in God’s name was that girl wearing?” her mother asked, a little too loudly, as Stevie shut the door of her room behind them.
“I’ve never seen anything like that getup before,” her dad added.
Stevie’s parents labored under the belief that what a person was wearing had a direct correlation to their worth as a human being. There were normal clothes (good), and there were nice clothes (very good), and there was everything else. Ellie had just reset the limits on this last category.
“Did you like the campus?” Stevie said, smiling. “Isn’t it amazing?”
That the campus was amazing was undeniable, and her parents made a clear effort not to dwell on Ellie and instead focus on this mountain paradise of mansions and fountains and art and natural beauty.
“We’re going to have to head back soon,” her dad said. “Are you . . . set?”
On that, Stevie had an entirely unexpected emotional pang. Her parents were about to leave, which was something she had known about and frankly wanted, but now in the moment, there was a hot rush of feeling. She gulped hard.
“Okay,” her mother said. “You have your pills? Let’s just put eyes on the pills.”
Stevie’s plastic bag of medications was produced and examined.
“You have a hundred and twenty Lexapro and thirty Ativan, but only take the Ativan if you need it.”
“I know.”
“But if you need it, make sure . . .”
“Mom, I know . . .”
“I know you know. And you call us every day.”
“You be good,” her dad said, hugging her hard. “You need us, you call. Doesn’t matter the time.”
Her father looked genuinely on the verge of tears. This was the worst. Bells did not cry. Bells did not show feeling. This had to stop.
“Remember,” her mother said into her ear, “you can always come home. We’ll come up and get you.”
Her mother’s final little squeeze said, This isn’t the kind of place you belong. You’ll see. You’ll be back.
5
AFTER A FEW MOMENTS OF NOT CRYING (BUT A LOT OF BLINKING) AND staring at her medications before stashing them in a drawer, Stevie emerged from her room to find that Janelle Franklin had arrived, and Nate was nowhere to be seen. Janelle was shorter than Stevie had pictured. She wore a red floral romper and her braided hair was wrapped in a scarf of yellows and golds. She wore a light, summery perfume that trailed in the air behind her as she hurried over to wrap Stevie in a hug.
“We’re here!” she said, clasping Stevie’s arms. “We’re here! Are your parents here?”
“They left a few minutes ago. Are yours . . . ?”
“No,” Janelle said. “They’re both on call today, so we did all my good-byes this week—family dinners and friends, we had a picnic . . .” Janelle happily chatted about the many events that had led up to her departure. She came from a big family in Chicago and around Illinois. She had three brothers, two in MIT and one at Stanford. Her parents were both doctors.
“Come see my room!” She grabbed Stevie by the wrist and led her next door, to a very similar room, but with everything flipped around. Their fireplaces were back to back.
“I’m probably going to need more space to build on,” Janelle said, “but I think I can use that table in the common room. Pix said I could solder out there. Can you believe we’re here?”
“I know,” Stevie said. “I feel kind of dizzy.”
“I think that might be altitude,” Janelle said. “We’re not super high. The highest point in Vermont is only forty-three hundred feet, and altitude should really become an issue at five thousand, but you may still need to compensate for the lower oxygen levels by drinking a little extra water. Here.”
She opened her bag and remov
ed a fresh bottle of water, which she pressed into Stevie’s hand.
“I think I’m just nervous,” Stevie said.
“Also possible. Water is still the answer. And deep, slow breathing. Drink.”
Stevie opened the bottle and took a long sip, as instructed. Water never hurt.
“Is Nate here?” Janelle asked.
“He was. I guess he went upstairs.”
“How is he in person?”
“Kind of like he seemed in his messages,” Stevie said.
“Well, we’re here in person now. Come on. Let’s go see him.”
Janelle had entirely changed the energy of the place. She was movement, she was action. Stevie found herself carried along in Janelle’s wake as she hurried down the hall and up the tight circular stairs. Nate was in Minerva Four, the first one along the hall. The door was shut but he could be heard moving inside.
Janelle knocked. When there was no immediate answer, she texted.
A moment later, the door opened a bit and Nate’s long face appeared. He didn’t do anything for a moment, and then, with a barely audible sigh, he opened the door enough to let them in.
“Do you do hugs?” Janelle said.
“Not really,” Nate replied, moving back.
“Then no hug it is,” Janelle said.
“How about salutes?” Stevie said.
“Those are tolerable.”
Stevie gave him a salute.
Nate’s room was more or less identical to theirs, except it was already a mess. There was a rat’s nest of cables on the floor, and a pile of books. He’d been organizing his books, just like Stevie had.
“The Wi-Fi here sucks,” he said, by means of a greeting. “Cell signal too.”
He kicked at the pile of cords with a Converse-clad foot.
“I haven’t tried yet,” Stevie said.
“Well, it sucks.”
The box nearest to Stevie looked to be full of . . . parts. Just parts of things. Chair legs. Some kind of metal disk. Janelle went over and had a look at it.
“What’s this?” she asked. “Do you build too?”
Nate swooped down on the box defensively.
“I go to . . . flea markets,” he said, waving his hand as if this was just something that needed to be dealt with. “I collect things. I like clocks. And stuff.”
He closed the box lid, and with it, any invitation for further comment.
Stevie enjoyed Janelle’s brisk, confident positivity and she also liked Nate’s grumpy demeanor. She had a little bit of both of these qualities, and she fit between them very comfortably.
“Tour’s starting!” Pix called up the stairs. “They’re waiting outside! Come on, you guys!”
Nate looked hesitant, but Janelle was not giving up.
“I think it’s mandatory,” she said.
Janelle, Nate, and Stevie made their way outside where a large group of people was milling around in wait. Hayes and Ellie, being second years, obviously did not have to go.
It looked like the group went from house to house collecting members, and Minerva may have been the last stop. Stevie looked at her fellow first years. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected—if she thought the students at Ellingham would all show up wearing lab coats, or they would all look like Ellie.
In general, they looked like any assortment of people from any high school. There were a few people with glossy, perfect hair who had already clumped together through that strange alchemy that joins all people with perfect, glossy hair. There was one girl in a bright red-and-white-check vintage dress with cat-eye glasses, winged eyeliner, a red vintage purse, and a tiny red fascinator. She was the most dressed up, and her heels sank into the grass as they walked. There was another girl with green hair and a NASA T-shirt who handled the grassy terrain in her wheelchair with deftness. There was a girl with a sharply cut black bob, pale skin, and vibrant red lipstick who looked like some kind of silent movie star dressed in a formless but somehow unmistakably fashionable gray dress and thick black belt. There was a girl in a stunning floral hijab who took a lot of pictures of the campus on her phone. There was a guy who never took off his cat-ear headphones during the entire tour.
Their tour was led by a student named Kazim Bazir, who spoke quickly and excitedly. Kaz had bright, excited eyes and the upbeat tone of a salesman who really wanted to sell you your very own deranged mountain retreat.
“Ellingham Academy was built between 1928 and 1936 by Albert Xavier Ellingham and his wife, Iris Ellingham,” Kaz said. “The right side of the campus, where our houses are, is known as wet campus, because the creek turns and borders the property. The fields and classrooms and most of the other buildings are on dry campus. Of course, it’s all a dry campus . . .”
No laughs. Tough crowd.
Ellingham was splendid in the sunshine. That was the only word for it. The light fell like rain in droplets that hung in the air. A cloud of them surrounded the fountain that gushed merrily on the green, creating its own ecosystem of rainbows. The light found every nook and crook of the bright redbrick buildings. It made the gargoyles seem to smile. It deepened the green of the trees. It made the statues—well, it didn’t do anything to the statues except reveal just how many of them there were.
“Do you think these get less creepy with time?” Nate asked as they passed yet another cluster of naked Greeks or Romans.
“I hope not,” Stevie replied.
Kaz led the group around the pathways, pointing out all the buildings and their uses. Albert Ellingham had been a massive admirer of Greek and Roman culture. This was evident from the names of the buildings: Eunomia, Genius, Jupiter, Cybele, Dionysus, Asteria, and Demeter.
As they walked through the green, Stevie looked up at the Great House. Its name was simple and accurate. The Great House was a character in this tale—the first building erected on this spot, designed to meet the whims of the family who inhabited it, while serving as the center of a seat of learning. This was the home Iris and Alice Ellingham left that morning, down this very drive. Stevie counted the windows on the second floor.
“What’s up there?” Janelle asked. “You’re looking up there really intently.”
“Right there,” Stevie said, pointing at two of the windows on the left. “Those are the ones Flora Robinson said she was looking out of the night of the kidnapping.”
“Who’s Flora Robinson?”
“A friend of the Ellinghams’. Iris Ellingham’s best friend. She was suspected for a long time because she gave a weird story that night. Her interview was really odd.”
There was no time to linger on Flora and her story. The tour was moving toward the Ellingham library, a stone structure that looked a bit like a church, with a large rose window, a spire, and a rounded set of red double doors.
“It’s designed this way on purpose,” Kaz said. “Albert Ellingham said knowledge was his religion and libraries were his church, so he built a church.”
Inside, the library was cool and still, with colored light streaming through the stained-glass windows. All of the buildings were impressive, but there was something majestic about this one. There was an overhang that filled about half the space, but once you got past this, much of the building was open, and you could see up three stories to the bookshelves that lined the structure. Elaborate spiral staircases made of wrought iron woven into patterns of twisting vines led up to the other levels. Out of all the buildings, this one should probably have been the quietest and the stillest, but this one seemed a bit . . . Stevie struggled to catch the right word. Wild? There was a loose wind spinning around and whistling near the ceiling. The iron vines seemed to genuinely crawl up the steps. The librarian, who seemed to have just run in, was out of breath. She wore a very professional-looking biking outfit, and her short black hair bore the imprint of a recent bike helmet.
“Hey!” she said, sounding a bit winded. “I’m Kyoko Obi. I’m your librarian. I also run a cycling club. We all do double duty around here. Sorry.
One second . . .”
She took a long drink from an Ellingham-branded reusable water bottle.
“We have about half a million books on site,” she said, “both here and in storage. We have access to millions more digitally. We’re partnered with most of the Ivy League libraries, so we can get you more or less anything you require. It’s my job to get you anything you need.”
Stevie turned that over in her mind for a bit. One good thing about being from Pittsburgh was that the Carnegie Library was one of the best in the country. She had been able to get loads of books and materials there. But here there might be things related to the case, things not available anywhere else. Stevie wanted to stay, but Kazim was moving them on, all the way across the campus, to a large, circular tent structure that looked semipermanent.
“This is the study yurt,” Kaz said, pushing back a heavy flap that served as the door. The floor of the inside was covered in a mix of beautiful woven rugs and piles of pillows and beanbags.
“A lot of people sleep in here,” Kaz said. “It’s for studying, but . . . it has all kinds of uses.”
The girl with the bob laughed knowingly. A girl with short silver hair, a longer chunk of which poked straight up at the forehead, was lingering nearby. She wore round glasses, white overalls, and a short tank top underneath. She had been trailing Janelle, Stevie, and Nate for several minutes. The sun came out from behind a cloud, bathing all of them in strong, burning summer light. The girl tapped on her glasses and the lenses darkened.
“Magic,” she said.
“Transition lenses,” Janelle replied with a laugh. “Photochromic plastic.”
“Vi Harper-Tomo,” the girl said to Janelle, extending a hand. “And I am magic.”
Something flashed between these two that was almost visible to the naked eye, which caused Stevie a second of panic. She had just met Janelle, Janelle was her best bet at a closest friend, and already someone else was coming into the frame.
Which was a crazy thought.
Stevie tried to push it out of her mind and focus on the prize of this tour—an inside look at the Ellingham Great House, the Ellinghams’ former residence. She had studied the photos of the house for so long. Seen the floor plans. Knew the history. But instead, Kaz walked them right past it.
Truly Devious Page 5