Truly Devious

by Maureen Johnson

  Stevie set her caddy on the windowsill and examined the frosted coating on the window to make sure it made it impossible to see inside. The shower curtain snapped back, and a dripping Ellie emerged. Technically, Ellie had a towel, but she was using it to dry her hair. The rest of Ellie was on show.

  “Oh, hey,” she said. “The water is kind of cold now. Sorry.”

  She continued walking past, leaving sopping-wet footprints along the way. As she reached the door, she looped the towel around herself, barely covering the major regions of her body, and headed out.

  That, Stevie thought, is confidence.

  Also, Ellie had bare feet. Stevie had the stupid flip-flops on. Her mother had convinced her that if she took them off for even a second, her feet would be attacked by terrible germs. The shower looked clean—but still.

  Also, the water wasn’t kind of cold. It was completely cold.

  Still, a cold shower isn’t the worst thing on a summer morning when you’re already tired. This was pure mountain spring water. (It was likely some kind of municipal water or something, but it was important to tell yourself a good story when you were standing under ice-cold water.)

  Janelle was already at the farm table, intently reading something on her tablet as she ate a bowl of cereal. Pix was settled in the hammock chair, knitting. No one else seemed to be up.

  “Morning!” Pix said. “Breakfast things are in the kitchen.”

  Stevie shuffled into the kitchen and lunged for the coffee. She had a poke around the small kitchen, examining the contents of the cereal dispensers and the refrigerator.

  Suddenly, a bowl materialized next to her, causing her to jump.

  “It’s free,” David said. “Pix doesn’t count the cereal and send you a bill.”

  Stevie wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be some kind of jab about money and lack thereof. Who said things like that? People like David, who also snuck up behind you in the morning when you were still half asleep. Did he know her family had little money?

  Did he want to play? Because she would play. No need to be nice, Stevie. Green light.

  She assessed him. He was wearing the same clothes he had been in the night before, and there were still one or two wayward feathers stuck in his hair. Either he hadn’t slept or slept in his clothes. She inhaled gently. Wine on his breath. Likely guess, he was up drinking with Ellie.

  Interesting, but not enough. Look harder. In the daylight, she could get a better impression than she’d been able to in the dark of the yurt. His nose was long and fine. As he handed her the bowl, she took note of a band of wiry muscle that ran down his arm, and a beaten up but expensive-looking watch on his wrist. The crystal face was scarred, but refused to break fully, and the leather strap, while worn, was still holding strong. She got a look at the face. Rolex.

  Now she was onto something. He had an unusual pattern of tan and burn on his arms. His one arm was bright red, the other just tan. Likewise, the one side of his face was much more red than the other. It was the kind of lopsided burn you got if you were half covered or turned the wrong way for too long.

  “So,” she said, gripping the bowl tightly. She stuck it firmly under the Froot Loops dispenser and poured herself a big bowl. “You’re from California?”

  “So I hear,” he said, getting himself a mug.

  She looked at the uneven tan again, the strips of healed sunburn, the pale patches. And his voice. It didn’t have that slow, relaxed California tone.

  “Recent?” she said.

  “Recent what?” There was just a little edge in his voice. Good.

  “You moved there recently?” she said, popping a few dry Froot Loops in her mouth.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He was smiling, but it was strained. His voice a bit crisp. The move was recent, and the circumstances weren’t pleasant. Rich boy, recent move, the topic made him a little frosty, and clearly he was acting out and needed attention.

  “Just something I picked up,” she said.

  “Do you pick things up a lot?” he asked. The smile was full now, but thin. He leaned back against the refrigerator as the coffee machine hissed. He twisted the watch a bit on his wrist.

  Stevie watched this motion for a moment. David stopped, seemed to realize what she was looking at, and put that hand in his pocket.

  Something bad about that watch.

  “Could you move?” she said. “I need the milk. I might as well get my money’s worth.”

  He smiled even more broadly and stepped away from the fridge door.

  “Of course,” he said. “The girl detective needs her breakfast.”

  Stevie smiled right back as she poured the milk and replaced it.

  “Daddy issues needs his therapist,” she said.

  He laughed out loud—a little cough of a laugh. She had found a mark. It was a wide and easy mark, but it had landed.

  That little exchange should have been enough. It would have been perfect had it simply ended there. But, of course, there was no escape. He lived here too. He took a seat at the end of the table and stared down the length of it.

  Nate joined them, creeping into the room with tousled hair. He seemed a bit more robust this morning and actually said hello to everyone.

  “So,” David said, a little too loudly. “What’s everybody got today?”

  “Adviser meetings,” Janelle said. “What are they like? I have Dr. Hinkle.”

  “Do you like hearing people tell stories about getting lost inside the Large Hadron Collider?” David asked.

  “Always,” Janelle said.

  “Then you’ll be fine. Who do you have, Nate?”

  “Dr. Quinn,” Nate said.

  “Oh.” David shook his head. “Bind your wounds. She can smell blood.”

  “What?”

  “And how about you, Stevie?” That thin smile was on her again.

  “Dr. Scott,” Stevie said.

  “Captain Enthusiasm!” David replied. Stevie caught Pix give a little grin as she knit. “He’s bouncy. Are you going to solve mysteries together?”

  “David,” Pix said.

  “Only asking,” David replied.

  “What did you mean about the blood?” Nate pressed on. “Is she hard?”

  “Just remember there’s no shame in crying,” David replied. “After, I mean. Like me after I lost my virginity.”

  “David,” Pix said again. “Don’t freak people out. Dr. Quinn is fine. You’ll be fine, Nate.”

  Stevie was hanging back on the virginity thing. Was that a joke? Had to be a joke. What did it mean? Was that one of those things where you said something really vulnerable to make yourself seem above it all? Had he said virginity louder than any of the other words in that sentence? Was he talking about her virginity?

  Oh, he was watching her now. He’d put it out there as a trip wire.

  She shoveled Froot Loops in her mouth, but didn’t savor them. The sugar scraped against her teeth.

  “Is she going to ask me a lot about my book?” Nate asked.

  “Like what?” David said. “Like, the plot? Best dragon?”

  “Like, am I done, am I working?”

  “Oh,” David said. “Yeah. Probably that. What’s your blood type, anyway? Just for reference.”

  “David.”

  David held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. He knows I’m kidding. You know I’m kidding, right, Nate?”

  Nate did not look like he knew this. And Janelle, who had watched this silently, was now ready to step in.

  “Come with me later on today, Stevie,” Janelle said. “I’m going over to check out the workshop. I need to see where they keep the welding supplies. Can’t wait to get my hands on my new blowtorch.”

  On the word blowtorch, Hayes appeared, wet from a shower. His golden hair was stuck to his head. Unlike David, he was pristinely dressed in white shorts and a blue shirt. Even in this early morning state he still looked unnaturally good. Except for his eyes. Those were completely bloods
hot.

  “What time did you get up?” David said, looking him over. “Four twenty?”

  “Didn’t sleep much last night,” Hayes said with a roguish smile.

  “No,” David said. “Will we all be invited to the wedding? Beth too?”

  Hayes shrugged and dropped into a chair.

  “So,” David said. “You’re famous or something now?”

  “Or something,” Hayes said with a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Zombie business is big business,” David said. “People love the undead.”

  “That’s my life,” Stevie said. “I work at the Monroeville Mall.”

  No reply from Hayes.

  “In Pittsburgh,” Stevie said. “The Monroeville Mall.”

  Hayes cocked his head and smiled at Stevie, but it was a smile of I have no idea what you are saying. There was a definite echo of how her parents sometimes looked at her, and it made her cheeks burn.

  Nate looked up from the milky depths of his cereal bowl, first to Hayes, then to Stevie.

  “What made you want to write about zombies?” Janelle asked in what seemed to be an attempt to keep some normal conversation going.

  Ellie stumbled into the room wearing a pair of ratty harem pants and a shirt that said ART HARDER. As a greeting, she sat down and casually put her bare foot on the table and examined it for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” Hayes replied. “I went home to Florida last year, surfed for a few days, and it just came to me. Sometimes, when you get away, get a chance to think, that’s when you have an idea.”

  “You never know where you’re going to get ideas,” Ellie said. “In Paris, we’d all sit around, have some wine, let it come naturally.”

  “I’m kind of talking to P. G. Edderton about a movie,” Hayes said.

  “P. G. Edderton?” Nate said. “Silver Moonlite Motel P. G. Edderton?”

  “We’re just talking,” Hayes said with a gentle smile. “But, yeah.”

  Even Ellie took notice of this. P. G. Edderton was the kind of director she would know. He made quirky, art house kind of movies about manic pixie everyones, movies that were turned into thousands of gifs, full of phrases everyone knew.

  “Well,” David said, “good luck with that.”

  Again, his meaning was unclear. It didn’t sound like a good wish.

  “You guys better get ready,” Pix called from the steps up to her rooms. “You have meetings to get to.”

  Real life at Ellingham was calling.

  9

  STEVIE WALKED IN THE CLEAR SUNSHINE OF THE VERMONT MORNING, along the snaking paths and under the canopy of trees, to the Great House. She rang the bell by the massive front door. In Ellingham’s day, the door would then have been answered by his butler, Montgomery. Montgomery came up a lot in books about the case. He was the head of the Ellingham staff, trained in England, had served royalty, and was stolen away from one of the finest houses in Newport to head up the Ellingham Great House. After the kidnappings, he remained in service but was broken, shaken, and died a few years after.

  No butler now. Just a gentle buzz to signal the door was open. She stepped into the cavernous space. Security Larry sat in the shadows at his desk right by the front door.

  “Dr. Scott, right?” he said.

  Stevie nodded.

  “Have a seat over there,” he said, pointing to some chairs by the massive fireplace. A few people were already there, including Germaine Batt, who was doing something very intently on her phone. “When it’s your time, go up the stairs and turn left along the corridor,” he said, pointing to the balcony directly over his head. “He’s the very last room at the front of the building.”

  “Iris Ellingham’s old bedroom,” Stevie said, looking up at the ceiling.

  “That’s right,” Larry said, leaning back. “You’re interested in the case? What’s your favorite book on it?”

  “Murder on the Mountain by Sanderson,” Stevie said without hesitation. “His style is annoying, but I think he explores the case in the most depth.”

  “That’s a good one,” Larry said, nodding. “Did you read The Ellingham Case Files?”

  “I think that jumps to a lot of conclusions,” she said.

  He nodded at that.

  The air in the Great House was cool, and there was a faint smokiness to it despite the fact that it was very unlikely that anyone had smoked in there since the 1930s. She knew so much about this building. This main hall was made of rosewood imported from India. The eight-foot-high fireplace was constructed of pink marble from the Carrara region of Italy, where Michelangelo’s marble was from. The fittings were all Austrian crystal, hand selected by one of the six architects who worked on the project. The stained glass in evidence everywhere was in the style of the Glasgow school (which meant something very fancy, Stevie wasn’t sure what), including a sunroom with a roof made of interlocking flowers and hidden birds.

  “Stevie? Stevie Bell?”

  She looked up at the sound of her name. Call Me Charles was on the floor above, at the rail, looking down. He was wearing a Green Lantern T-shirt and chinos, his hair a floppy, schoolboyish mess.

  “Come on up,” Call Me Charles said. He met her at the top of the stairs and extended his hand for a shake.

  A woman came out of a nearby door. The first thing Stevie noticed was her height, which was accentuated by a pair of black heels with a buttery, subtle sheen. As she turned, Stevie got a glimpse of the red undersides. She wasn’t a fashion expert, but she knew that heels like that were expensive, as was the finely cut pencil skirt and the large, complicated blouse sweater, mysteriously flowing and folding. Her long hair was delicately colored in an array of auburns and golds. The woman was working her phone.

  “Morning, Jenny,” Charles called.

  “Hey,” she said, not looking up. She strutted on, never missing a beat of her typing. There was no missing the dismissive attitude. Stevie had never seen anything like it at her old school. Charles smiled and covered well.

  “That’s Dr. Quinn,” Charles said. “She teaches a seminar in American history and culture to all the first years. Come on. Let’s go to my office.”

  The creaking wooden floors had carpet runners to muffle the noise. Each door on this level was made of heavy, dark wood, with sharply cut crystal doorknobs that looked like they would be painful to touch.

  The last door, Iris and Call Me Charles’s, had a corkboard attached to the front. This was entirely covered in signs, small posters, and stickers: QUESTION EVERYTHING; STAND BACK, I’M GOING TO TRY SCIENCE!; I REJECT YOUR REALITY AND SUBSTITUTE MY OWN. The biggest sign was in the middle, and looked homemade. It read: CHALLENGE ME.

  This was truly everything her parents feared, and it thrilled her as much as it repelled her.

  Inside, the room had definitely been converted. The pale silver wallpaper was probably original, but now the room was crammed with bookcases, a few chairs, a desk, and a small sofa. There were books everywhere, filling the bookcases, stacked sideways on top of other books, piled on the floor, resting on the back of the sofa, stacked along the mantel. There were six different diplomas and certificates on the wall, all heavily framed—Harvard, Yale, Cambridge. There was a picture of a rowing team, a group photo from Cambridge . . . evidence everywhere of a long academic career of importance.

  Charles waved Stevie into a chair. “So,” he said, “I have to say, Stevie, yours was one of the most interesting applications I’ve ever read.”

  Stevie sucked in her breath. “Interesting” was one of those uncertain words.

  “You’re very enthusiastic about the history of this place, and in crime and criminal procedure. You have an interest in working for the FBI?”

  Stevie nodded stiffly.

  “That’s excellent. Let’s see what we’ve got here for you.”

  He consulted his laptop, taking a moment to put on a pair of glasses.

  “So, based on your interests, this is what we came up with. You’ll be taking ana
tomy and physiology, statistics, and Spanish . . . that covers your core and aligns with your interests. All very useful. Then we have you assigned to a tutor for readings in criminal justice and American legal history. You have yoga three times a week for your physical education. Everyone takes Dr. Quinn’s literature and history seminar. Usually, students do a small project in the first year that leads into the major project in the second. Have you given any thought to this over the summer?”

  Stevie swallowed hard. She’d said it out loud the night before, but now, facing Charles, facing the actual reality of the situation, could she say it again? She pushed the words past the lump in her throat.

  “My project . . . is solving the case.”

  “Solving it?” Charles said, cocking his head. “Doing a report on it?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean . . . figuring out what happened.”

  Charles removed his glasses, folded them, and leaned back in his chair.

  “That’s a fairly tall order,” he said. “Define that for me.”

  “I’ve read all the theories,” she said, steadying herself in the chair. “I’ve read all the transcripts.”

  “There are a lot of those, I think.”

  “The main interviews are about eight thousand pages,” Stevie said. “I think the answer is here. I think someone who was in the house that day was responsible.”

  “Hang on a moment,” Charles said. He leaned back and considered her for a moment, pressing his fist against his chin. Each moment of his pause pulled Stevie down into her chair farther and farther.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Follow me.”

  He grinned the grin of a presenter on some educational show with a cartoon dog, as if to say, “Come with me if you want to learn.”

  Stevie hopped up and followed him back down the hall, to the back set of stairs. They went up a floor to a door with a polite PRIVATE sign on it and a digital access pad. Stevie liked rooms marked PRIVATE with digital access pads. Stevie watched as Charles entered the access code on the pad. He made no effort to hide the number, which led Stevie to think he wanted her to see it.