“Really?” I asked. “Wish I could say I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you want to know how he died?”
I shrugged my shoulders and he continued.
“Folks say Artie choked to death on a potato. A piece of raw potato.”
I tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a laugh. This sounded suspiciously like the latest Potato Girl yarn. Town legend in the making.
“There’s more to it than that, Kate. He was home alone. His wife was working the night shift at the shoe factory.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, rolling my eyes a little, unable to believe that Nicky had fallen for such a story.
“Just listen, will you?” He eyed me impatiently. satisfied by my silence, he leaned forward and continued, his voice low and secretive.
“There were no potatoes in the house. Not a single one. Artie hated them. Wouldn’t let his wife buy ’em. But when the coroner did the autopsy, he found a chunk of raw potato lodged in Artie’s windpipe.”
I laughed again. “And I suppose you saw the coroner’s report? Or better yet, you talked to him yourself?”
Nicky’s face reddened a little.
“Nicky, he probably had a heart attack. But that doesn’t make for good storytelling, so little by little, the tale of his death got embellished. That’s the way it is in this town. Even the craziest rumor becomes fact by the time it gets to the third set of ears.”
“No, it wasn’t a heart attack,” Nicky affirmed. “He choked to death. His wife even said so. They ruled it an accident, but a lot of folks know better. I know better. The son of a bitch was murdered.”
“Murdered by whom exactly?” I asked.
“Oh, come on, Kate. Do I have to spell it out? First Artie and the potato, now Ellie’s daughter in the woods, killed the exact same way Del was. It’s her, Kate. It’s got to be her.”
I wasn’t following. Or maybe I didn’t want to follow. Not going down that road, no sir. Not me.
“What are you talking about, Nicky? Her who?”
“Del.”
I paused a moment before saying anything. I thought about the stories I’d grown up hearing, how they got more tangled every year. Through her murder, Del took on mythic status. Three decades of kids had grown up not being able to say when New Canaan had been incorporated, or the name of the tribe of Native Americans who called the whole valley home first, but they all knew the Potato Girl stories. The jump rope rhymes. The jokes. Kids at slumber parties would sit in front of a mirror in a darkened room, chanting Potato Girl, Potato Girl until she appeared, sending them screaming for the light of day.
Del would have loved it, of course. Relished her power to inspire fear. But to propose that these stories were real? That there really was a Potato Girl—Del back from the grave—who haunted the woods, seeking revenge, actually killing people. Did they believe in the Headless Horseman, too?
It was one thing for a twelve-year-old kid like Opal to entertain such ideas, but a grown man?
The Nicky I saw before me was no longer the tall beautiful boy of my childhood, but he seemed no less sincere. It struck me how heavily his grief and guilt weighed on him. It would almost be a comfort to believe that his little sister, so sly and brave, had outwitted even death. But not me. I wasn’t going there. The only ghost I believed in was sweet little Casper, and I planned on keeping it that way.
“Nicky,” I began with my best ex–psych ward aide smile, placing my hand gently on his knee, “I think that Wild Turkey is getting to you. Halloween was a week and a half ago.”
He shook his head, frustrated.
“I know it sounds crazy, but just think for a minute. Just ask yourself, what if I’m right? If it is Del then she might come after us, too. I mean, think about it. Remember how angry she was the day before she was killed? If she’s going around picking off people she’s pissed at, we’re on the list.” He sloshed the liquor in his bottle, looked down at the splintery wood between his big work boots. “You better believe we’re on the list.”
The front door to the house opened behind us and we both turned our heads, startled. I jerked my hand away from his knee, guilty as a schoolgirl.
“Who are you?” my mother asked, leaning down to see Nicky’s face in dim evening light. She looked at me with a touch of panic. “Who is he?”
She was covered with bright smears of acrylic paint. She’d rubbed it on her clothes, her face. The bandages on her hands were like smeary rainbows. She’d told me earlier she was going to work on a painting, but I’d assumed she’d forget this idea before it went anywhere. Raven had said my mother hadn’t painted in months. And with the amount of medication I’d pumped into her that day, I was amazed she was standing, much less working on her latest masterpiece.
“I’m Nicky Griswold, ma’am.”
“You live at the bottom of the hill.” She gestured with her bandaged hands.
“I used to.”
“I’m so sorry about your sister. Poor thing. When’s the funeral?”
Nicky looked from my mother to me. Now he was the one looking panicked.
“Uh, we had it, ma’am.”
“She’s at peace then?”
“I suppose so,” Nicky mumbled.
“Good. The dead need to be at peace.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, rising to his feet. “It was nice to see both you ladies. I’ll drop by again some time soon.” We watched him get in his truck and pull away. He unrolled the window and called out, “Think about what I said, Kate. Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Who was that?” my mother asked as we watched his tail-lights go.
“A friend, Ma. Now what have you been up to in your studio?” She gave me a blank look. “Let’s go see what you’ve been working on, okay? Is it another still life?” I stood up and together we walked into the studio where my cot was. On the easel was a large three-by-four-foot canvas covered in smears of color—mostly reds, yellows, and oranges. There were a few flecks of blue and purple.
“Pretty colors,” I said, realizing it was something a mother would tell a four-year-old. My mother’s illness was giving us a serious case of role reversal.
“It’s the fire,” she told me. “The fire that gave me the stroke.”
“You didn’t have a stroke, Ma.” I let myself touch her bony shoulder, some gesture of comfort that seemed to go unnoticed. My mother stepped away from me and up to her painting.
“She’s in it.”
Jesus. That again.
“Who is?” I, too, moved closer, standing directly behind my mother’s small frame.
“Don’t you see her?”
I studied the canvas, saw only thick slashes of acrylic paint.
“No Ma, I don’t. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. It’s nearly time for dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“You’ve got to eat.”
“Where’s Magpie?” She whipped her head around, abruptly desperate. “What have you done with my Magpie?”
AFTER WE’D EATEN DINNER and I’d given my mother her nightly sedatives and put her to bed, Opal came by.
“I saw Nicky Griswold’s truck here earlier,” she said.
“He stopped in to say hello,” I told her, my voice a little too defensive. Shit, there I was feeling like I had to explain myself to a twelve-year-old. How did that happen? And why was it that lately, whenever I saw Opal, she put me on edge? I guess it was all her questions about Del, the way they were bringing me back, making me remember a whole chapter of my life that I never wanted to open again. To say nothing of the fact that sometimes, when I looked at Opal, I was sure I was seeing Del. It was almost like, through her obsession, Opal was becoming the dead girl. Crazy, I know, but that’s how it seemed.
“Hey, how’s the biplane coming?” I asked.
“Great! I’ve finished the fuselage, which is the hardest part.”
She looked around the room a minute, then, rather pensively, brought up the real reason s
he’d stopped by.
“I’ve been wondering if maybe Del’s after me because of something having to do with my grandparents. If maybe they could have been connected to her murder somehow,” she said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a nervous laugh, but a genuine one.
“Doe? She barely knew Del. And she was the biggest pacifist I ever knew. She cried when she hurt an earthworm with a spade in the garden. And your grandfather, well, you probably heard he was a suspect but was cleared.”
“Maybe they were wrong in clearing him,” she said.
“I don’t think so. He did a lot of things wrong, but he would never hurt someone like that. He had a good heart. And the so-called evidence they had linking him to her was totally faulty. It was just a big misunderstanding.”
“But how do you know?” she asked.
Because I was the cause of the misunderstanding.
“I just do. Trust me on this one.”
Opal left, dissatisfied, after asking me some pretty graphic questions about Del’s murder that I decided it was best not to answer. The kid was already having nightmares; no need to give them more fuel. She’d had enough of a horror finding her dead friend. And from her description, it sounded like exactly the same scene Nicky came upon the afternoon he found Del. But Opal didn’t need to hear that.
After she’d gone, I lay in bed and thought things over. Like it or not, it bothered me that Tori had been wearing Opal’s jacket. What if Opal was right? Not about the ghost part, but what if the killer, who I was sure was all too human, was really after her?
But who on earth would have any reason to want to hurt Opal?
LATER THAT NIGHT, I woke up and heard my mother talking. My first thought was that the cat had come back and my mother was filling her in on all that she’d missed. The truth is, I never could manage to lock my mother in her room at night. Each evening I would try, standing before the door to her bedroom, my hand on the brass padlock, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt wrong, and I realized I wasn’t capable of being my mother’s jailer. So I slept with the door to my room open, thinking I’d hear her if she got up. That I was a light enough sleeper to catch her before she got out of the house.
I padded out into the living room to find my mother talking on the telephone. The only light in the house came from the moon through the frosty windows. The fire had gone out and the cabin was cold.
“Who are you talking to, Ma?”
My mother was crying. She dropped the handset, letting it bounce on its curled wire, banging against the floor and wall. I reached down and picked it up. The plastic was warm.
“Hello?” I said, keeping an eye on my mother, who had dropped to the floor crying. “Who is this?”
“Emergency services. What’s your name, please?”
Jesus. What next?
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m Kate Cypher. That was my mother, she has Alzheimer’s. I’m so sorry.”
“She says you killed her cat.”
So this was how it was going to be. I sighed, feeling six days worth of frustration rising to the surface.
“I’m sorry. Like I said, she’s sick.”
“She says you know a girl who was murdered.”
That did it. I’m a calm and patient person. I don’t usually lose my cool, especially with authority figures, but my pleasant little facade had been developing hairline cracks since the day I’d arrived.
“Oh did she? Are you hearing me? She. Has. Alzheimer’s! She’s talking about something that happened when I was a little girl! She doesn’t know what year it is, or how to make pancakes, or who’s dead and who’s living, okay? Just forget it! Why can’t you people just let things go? Jesus!”
“Ma’am, I—”
I slammed the phone down on the quiet, sensible voice and got my mother back to bed. Then, once she was asleep, I made myself push the curved staple on the brass lock closed, listen to the click, and test it, just to be sure.
7
Late May, 1971
YOU FRIENDS WITH THE POTATO GIRL?”
I studied the girl below me on the monkey bars—Ellie Bushey. She had a freckle-covered snub nose and smelled like strawberries.
I didn’t say anything. Ellie had been following me from one spot to another all through recess, her nearly identical sidekick, Samantha, close behind. Samantha had lost patience finally and joined a game of hopscotch at the edge of the playground.
“I’m just asking because Travis said he saw you two standing there talking when the bus picked you up this morning,” Ellie continued, squinting up at me. “He’s seen you talking to her a few times now.”
My face grew hot. If Ellie knew, word would spread fast, and by the end of the day everyone would know my secret. Soon I’d have my very own rhyme.
“Just ’cause I talk to someone doesn’t mean we’re friends. You’re talking to me now, right? Does that mean you’re my friend?” I asked, looking down at Ellie, who scrunched up her pale, dotted face while she thought of an answer.
“You might be. I have lots of friends.” She studied me as she said this, like she was looking to see if I was potential friend material. Me, the freak hippie girl. I knew I didn’t have a chance, but I let myself imagine it anyway. Me and Ellie playing on the monkey bars. Sharing a table at lunch. Passing notes in class.
“I already have a best friend—Samantha—so you couldn’t be my best friend,” she continued. It was a tease. A game. She had me going for a minute, then the bottom dropped out. “But I couldn’t be friends with anyone who liked the Potato Girl. Not now, not ever.” She shook her head and turned away from me to emphasize her point.
“Maybe I don’t really like her. Maybe I’m just pretending,” I suggested, scrambling, desperate to get her to turn around. I succeeded. She spun back and narrowed her eyes at me.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To spy,” I told her, thinking fast on my feet. “To gather information.”
“What kind of information?” Ellie asked, looking at me skeptically.
“Good stuff. Secret stuff. Things about the Potato Girl that only I know.”
“Like what?”
“There’s a lot.”
“Tell me one thing.”
“Okay,” I said. “She has these pigs, right? And one of the pigs ate three of her babies, leaving just the tails. You know what happened to the tails? Del kept them. She’s got them saved in a canning jar full of alcohol in her room. She looks at them each night before bed. They’re the first thing she sees when she gets up in the morning.”
Ellie laughed. “Oh my god! Sick! Why would she do that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Who knows why she does the things she does? I’m not saying I get it, I’m just saying there’re things I know about Del. Lots of things.”
“Sam’s gotta hear this,” Ellie said. “You have more stories like that?”
“Lots.”
“All gross?”
“Some are gross. Others are just weird.”
The bell rang, signaling that recess was over.
“Tell me more tomorrow,” she said and I smiled.
Just like that, I saw how Del’s friendship might buy me the friendship of Ellie and Sam—who had their own large circle of friends that I imagined myself fitting into, like a missing link in the chain. And I told myself I wouldn’t necessarily need to betray Del. I could make up whatever I told the others. I would throw a few pieces of truth in here and there, but mostly I would tell them what I thought they really wanted to hear: the very gross and very weird details of the Potato Girl’s life.
WHEN I MET DEL in her field that day after school, Nicky was with her, shouldering his rifle. He didn’t make eye contact with me. The peas had grown and were working their way up the wire trellis, pale tendrils grabbing and clinging. The crow stank, its feathers greasy and ragged.
“Deputy Desert Rose,” Del greeted me, her face serious. “Today we’re going hunting.”
&n
bsp; I fell in beside them and we began to follow the path up the hill, listening to the birds sing around us. The dee-dee-dee of chickadee flocks, the trill of a lone hermit thrush. It was a perfect late-spring day. The combination of the afternoon sun and brisk walk had us all sweating.
“What are we hunting for?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“Tigers, squirrels, whatever we find,” Nicky answered, smiling at me at last. Del caught him and he looked away.
“Traitors,” Del hissed, but she said it so quickly that it came out as a blur. Traders, she could have said. Trailers. Trainers. Trains. Maybe we were hunting train robbers.
Again, no one spoke. Our feet crunched in the leaf litter and sticks on the path. Nicky adjusted the gun, resting the butt against his shoulder, squinting down the barrel as he searched for a target. We turned toward the cabin. Nicky took aim at a chattering red squirrel in a tree. He pulled the trigger and missed. The squirrel jumped down and scampered off, scolding us.
“Pisser!” Nicky exclaimed, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
“Good try,” I told him, knowing even as I spoke that it was a stupid thing to say. I glanced sideways at Del just in time to catch her roll her eyes. Ahead of us, the little cabin was coming into view, a strange leaning island in a sea of ferns.
It was much cooler in the cabin but the musty mouse smell made my throat tighten. Del went up the ladder first, me next, Nicky and the BB gun right behind me. Del lit three cigarettes in her mouth at once, sucking hard to get them started, then passed Nicky and me ours. Nicky laid the gun down on the bed and picked up a dirty magazine. He leafed through it quickly, flipping pages like he was looking at some boring business journal or something. I was trying to look at the pictures without seeming like I was interested, just the way he was. I was so focused on the magazine, on Nicky, that I wasn’t even noticing Del. She had Nicky’s BB gun pointed right at my forehead before I’d even realized she’d moved. She pushed the gun forward so that the metal mouth of the barrel pressed against my skull. I held my breath. Didn’t move a muscle.
The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle Page 9