by Dalya Moon
I walk up to the pawn shop and stop in front of the door. The police tape has been removed from the sidewalk area, but some remains on the door. The tattered yellow tape gives me a chill, as it's proof yesterday's murder really happened.
The door is locked, as expected, but some lights are on inside. I press my forehead against the glass, peering in. The clocks and musical instruments still hang on the walls, but plain, brown moving boxes are stacked in front of the counter and some of the smaller items from the shelves have already been boxed up. The curtain separating the back room from the front of the shop has been removed, and when I cup my hands around my face to block out the bright sun, I can see all the way in to a taped outline on the floor, where Newt's body was.
I zip up my windbreaker and rub my arms. Newt. I can't say I liked you much, and even less so after you tried to cleave me a new orifice with a battle ax. So, why me? Why did you send a message from beyond the grave asking me, of all people, to solve your murder?
Her name hits me like a crashing wave. Heidi. He must have picked me because I know about his involvement with Heidi, the witch with the stone-gray face.
Snooping around on Chesapeake Avenue or at my school is just a ridiculous time-waster, stalling me from tracking down the only solid lead I have: Heidi.
“Daniel,” someone says.
I turn around, fully knowing who it is. One person insists on pronouncing my name, Zaniel, in such a way that it sounds like Daniel. I totally understand why Shad Miller gets annoyed about people calling him Chad.
“Rudy,” I say.
Gran's fiance stands with his briefcase, wearing what he had on at breakfast this morning: high-waisted jeans with a black belt fastened with a gaudy belt buckle, plus a Western-style shirt with pearl snaps. The man has never lived in Texas, as far as I know, but that hasn't stopped him from dressing like an urban cowboy.
“I'm here doing some business across the street,” he says. “Where's your vim?”
“My what?”
“Your vim. This morning you were so quiet. Now you look like something the cat dragged in. Don't tell me you have some sort of business with this pawn shop. You didn't pawn something of your grandmother's, now, did you?”
I don't like his accusatory tone, so I turn it around. “Which of Gran's valuables do you mean, specifically?”
Rudy sticks a finger in his ear and wiggles it around, his jowls wobbling, then looks at the finger before wiping it on his high-waisted jeans. “What on God's green earth are you getting on about? What are you doing staring in this window anyways?”
I shrug. “There was a murder here yesterday. I'm trying to wrap my head around the idea.”
“Are my ears working? Did you say murder? Well! I'm sure it was just unsavory people taking each other out. Nothing for proper, law-abiding folks to be concerned about.”
“All the same, I might write something about it for the school paper.”
“Now, Danny-boy, ah, Zanny-boy, you don't want to upset your grandmother.”
“It's Zaniel.”
Rudy brightens. “Let's order pizza tonight. I was planning to stay at the old office with paperwork, but there's a place that does a rice crust—gluten-free—and I'd like to give it a shake. Give Flora a night off from cooking after she comes home from work. It's a lot of work for her to juggle her career and a teenager.”
“Pizza sounds okay,” I say, though I can't imagine Gran being excited about pizza, rice crust or otherwise.
“We could play some games. I could show you my new card trick.”
“I have a lot of homework,” I say.
Rudy lunges forward and snaps my ear, then reveals a shiny gold coin in his palm. “You don't wash behind your ears and look what's growing back there!”
“Try it again,” I say, but he won't. He likes to show off his little sleight-of-hand tricks, but he never repeats them when I'm prepared, never reveals how they're done.
Over Rudy's shoulder, I notice a small black woman in a gray suit, Detective Wrong, going into a business at the end of the block. I keep talking to Rudy, trying to look casual, as I wait for Detective Wrong to come out again. Five minutes later, she's still in there, and Rudy's telling me about his time management techniques, to help me with my studying.
“If you stick to the schedule, the schedule shoulders a lot of the work,” he says.
I agree and keep nodding. There's still no sign of Detective Wrong coming out of the business, which is the vet clinic where my neighbor Crystal works. When I stopped in there an hour ago, I only talked to the receptionist for a few minutes, and she knew nothing. I wonder if Crystal has heard anything about the murder.
Rudy says his car's nearby and he'll give me a ride home, and we can order the pizza to surprise Gran. I get in Rudy's car, making a mental note that I need to talk to Crystal.
On the short drive home, Rudy asks me question after question about school, my friends, and my personal life. Conversations with him are so awkward, because after you answer the question, he doesn't transition into a normal conversation, but moves to the next question on his list.
I wonder if he wears the cowboy outfits to make up for a lack of actual personality. At least Rudy's a good listener, and if you make a joke, you can always count on him to laugh. He'll never replace my grandfather, but I guess he could be a lot worse.
* * *
After pizza and homework, I turn off my computer and barely make it to bed before I fall into a deep sleep.
My dreams are rich in color and taste.
The night is thick with secrecy, the stars conspiring, but I hear you, my friends.
I hear you and I'm coming to you.
I place one agile foot in front of the other, drawing a dotted line from past to future.
They are calling to me, only my name doesn't sound the way anyone else pronounces it. They know my true name, a sound without letters, no end and no beginning. This name is our secret, and hearing it fills me with calm and love and rivers of peace.
Their scent message hovers in the air, as clear and obvious as a ribbon. It's irresistible.
My legs ache for rest, tiring of marking out their step-by-step pattern, but I must keep going.
I hear you.
When I reach them, I'm numb and slow from the cold. They feed me and cover me with a blanket.
The blanket tickles.
My eyes are closed, yet I see all around me, in every direction. Stars through a window. Gleaming things on the walls.
They feed me more, but finally, I must go. I make the journey back, sticking to the alleys, where the street lamps and porch lights don't reach. My eyes stay closed the whole time.
I won't remember this tomorrow, but I wish I could. I've never felt so at peace, so full, so radiant.
Chapter Six
When I wake up, I feel fantastic, and not just because of the Saturday-morning treat of thinking you've slept in, but then realizing the alarm clock didn't go off because it's the glorious weekend. No school today, my friends.
I stretch my arms and legs. A little further and I could touch every wall in the room at once! Am I taller today? I feel taller, and stronger, but weightless.
I leap out of bed and immediately do thirty push-ups, which is ten more than I've ever done. I'm not even cheating like we do in karate class, but doing full dips, straight down, nose to the ground. I stand and stretch, my fingertips brushing against the plaster and the glow-in-the-dark stars affixed to my ceiling.
Whipping off my shirt, I examine my new muscles with admiration, then drop and do another twenty push-ups before hitting the shower.
As I'm adjusting the hot water, the pattern of the tiles around the tub catch my attention. The tiles are actually circles, penny tiles as Gran calls them, and even dry as they are now, they appear to float like dewdrops against the grout. When I was little I misunderstood what she meant and thought the tiles were actual pennies, covered in white paint. One of the tiles is still scratched from where I
tried to saw into it with a steak knife, to see the penny. When my failed experiment was discovered, Gran was a little annoyed, but my grandfather thought my childish misunderstanding was hysterical.
Circles don't have sides, but penny tiles fool your eye into thinking they're six-sided tiles, hexagons. Out of the corner of your eye, they're honeycomb-shaped, until you look directly at them. How can a circle seem to have sides, just from being next to other circles? One of life's great mysteries, I suppose.
My arms are pumping with energy today, and the shower curtain bar begs me to grab hold and do chin-ups, but I must resist. Gran would not be pleased if I destroyed the bathroom drywall, so I get down on the bath mat and do some crunches while the shower gets nice and steamy.
I can do anything, I think as I co-wash my hair—a technique Julie suggested, where I skip the shampoo and use my honey-scented conditioner, since even conditioners contain some cleaning agents. This leaves my hair softer and—I like to think—irresistible to the ladies.
Proving me correct, when I come out for breakfast, Gran gives me an admiring pet me on the head. I pet Mibs on his head, completing the chain of love.
Rudy is here, having slept over last night, and I don't even care. He keeps some clothes here and today he's wearing an even bigger belt buckle than usual. “Is that a guy throwing a rope around a cow?” I ask, examining the shiny brass surface.
“The cowboy is lassoing a steer,” Rudy says.
For some reason, this gives me the giggles, and sets him off laughing as well.
As we eat breakfast, Rudy keeps refilling my glass with this new multi-citrus juice he's been bringing over. “These vitamins are restoring your vim!” he says. “You can help me prune some of the bushes in the back yard.”
“I'd love to,” I lie, “but I'm going to the lake with my friends today.”
“Weather's a bit cool for swimming,” Gran says.
“Yes,” Rudy says. “What reason do you have to make that long drive?”
I'm certainly not going to tell them about my planned stopover to question the witch, Heidi. “We can still barbecue and have a bonfire. It's still fun without swimming.”
“Sure could use some help with the hedge clippers,” Rudy says.
Gran swats Rudy playfully. “Let him have his weekend. Kids need their own time and space to figure out who they are.” She pulls the picnic basket down from over the fridge. “I'll pack you kids something healthy so you don't get scurvy.”
“I think scurvy takes longer to develop than one night,” I say.
She begins stuffing the picnic basket, asking who else is going. It's just me, James and Julie, as usual.
Gran pins her hair up so she doesn't get stray hairs in the sandwiches she's making with our gluten-free bread. When she leaves her hair down, her fluffy 'fro is impressive, though she claims to look like the Bride of Frankenstein because of the white streaks flaming from her temples.
“Why isn't your lovely girlfriend going?” she asks.
“She's got physio or something.”
Gran gives Rudy a knowing look. For months they've been dropping little hints about why things won't work out with me and Austin.
My volume rising with irritation, I say, “This is not about the age gap.”
Gran holds one of her graceful hands over her heart. “Zan, I didn't say it was. She's a lovely girl. When you get older, the age gap won't matter nearly so much.” She and Rudy exchange a sickly sweet look. I think they're about two years apart, same as us, but at their age a couple years probably seems like nothing.
Rudy pours some more pink-orange juice into my glass. “Enjoy your puppy love while it lasts. Don't get her pregnant.”
Gran nods.
I can't believe we're having this conversation. I grab the picnic basket and go out the front door to wait on the porch. Mibs winds his brown tabby body around my feet as I put on my shoes, biting my shoelaces. “I'd take you with me, but you hate car rides,” I tell him.
Did that conversation in my kitchen actually happen? Did Rudy really advise me about the perils of teen pregnancy? Little does he know, you have to actually be in the same room with your girlfriend before there's any danger of impregnation. I know all about the birds and the bees, and Austin and I have been very safe. Safe to the point of not very much fun at all.
* * *
I sit on the step for about ten minutes before James and Julie drive up in the blue Jeep they share. Julie's finally got her driver's license, so she's at the wheel. As I get in the back seat, I glance over at Crystal's house, across the street. That's odd. There's yesterday's newspaper on her front porch, as though she's out of town, but she ordinarily tells us if she's going away so Gran can keep an eye on her house.
“You look different,” Julie says, glancing back at me as she pulls the vehicle out onto the road.
“Eyes in front,” James says.
“How do I look?”
She adjusts the rear view mirror to make eye contact with me. “Your eyes are really bright. And you look bigger.”
“Stop flirting with Zan,” James says to his sister, turning to bat his dark eyelashes and blue eyes at me. “Oh, you're so dreamy! You look delicious.”
“You need a girlfriend,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Stop undressing me with your eyes. You need to see some lady tatas and bobos.”
“He does look bigger,” James says to Julie. “All the better for interrogating this witch.” He smacks his fist into his open palm.
“James, you almost looked tough there for a minute,” I say.
“Tougher than you,” he says.
“You guys, we don't have to stop at that woman's place if you're not up to it. I don't feel right dragging you both into my weird shenanigans.”
“I love shenanigans,” Julie says.
“I'm hoping to upgrade from shenanigans to a full-scale fiasco,” James says. “You'd think Newt's ghost could have told you who shot him. I mean, he was there when it happened, right? He saw who shot him, unless it was from behind.”
I'm not a complete idiot, so I had considered that already. “The person must have been wearing a mask,” I say. “It was Halloween, so a masked person wouldn't have even seemed odd to anyone.”
“The killer could have been in a gorilla suit,” Julie says.
“I think we're looking for a clown,” James says. “One of those evil birthday clowns that kidnaps children. Did you find anything online?”
“Sadly, no,” I say. “Newt Steadfast has zero online presence. He was a ghost even before he was a ghost. Besides, if it was that obvious, the cops would have solved it already. I think he asked me because I have to use my power.”
“I don't like it when you use your power,” Julie says. “A person isn't supposed to know someone else's secrets. If it's not mutual, or fair. You're taking advantage!”
“Easy, Julie. I don't do it without permission.”
She's getting awfully agitated, and I don't know why. Her voice rises as she yells, “You might ask for permission, but the girls have no idea what they're getting into!”
“Calm your road rage,” James says. “Keep it between the lines or I'll have to take over driving.”
Her voice tiny now, Julie says she'll be fine if we can leave her alone for a few minutes. James gives me a confused look, as if to say he has no idea what's going on. Julie turns on the stereo, loud.
* * *
The building where we first met Heidi is near the lake, right at the border where cell phone reception cuts out. At the front of the place is an Orange Crush sign and a fairly nondescript little gas station—the dusty type you find in the countryside anywhere in America.
The three of us walk around the side of the building together. At the back, hidden away from the road, is a cottage straight out of a fairytale, with shutters on the windows and garden gnomes in green jackets and red caps stationed around the yard with shovels and petunia-filled wheelbarrows.
James says he's
not scared at all, but he pulls out his cell phone and dials 9 and 1 just to be cautious.
I knock on the door, brave enough with my backup here. My clever plan is to tell Heidi I'm working as a consultant to Detective Wrong on the case, and if anything should happen to me, the whole police department will be on her scrawny, evil butt in a heartbeat.
A sweet little old lady opens the door. “I remember you three,” she says.
James and Julie greet her warmly, sticking out their hands for shaking. The woman, who has rosy, round apple cheeks and smooth pale skin, smiles graciously. Her shoulder-length white hair falls in gentle waves, and she has the aura of someone who captures spiders and flies with a cup and a sheet of paper, in order to free them outside. This woman isn't Heidi, and yet, she is. She says she's Heidi.
Mutely, I shake her hand.
“Well, look at that,” she says, taking out a handkerchief, then wetting it on her tongue and rubbing at the corner of my mouth. Her evil spit is touching my skin and I'm too horrified to push her away. Rubbing saliva on my face? Yup, it's Heidi.
“Explain yourself!” I say sternly. “The last time I saw you was when you kidnapped me and attempted to murder me!”
“Don't be silly,” she says lightly. “You asked us to help with your memory, and that was all we were doing. Nobody murdered you. Clearly. Here you are.”
She gestures to me with her hands, and James and Julie both laugh, all three of them making me feel ridiculous.
She and Newt did try to kill me, though, didn't they? Why else would they have tied me up?
I announce, with what I hope is the air of authority, “Never mind that. We're here to investigate the mysterious death of one Mr. Newt Steadfast.”
“Oh, dear. You heard about that? Did it make the papers? I'm still not sure exactly what happened.”
“You know DAMN WELL what happened!”
Heidi blinks and takes a step back.
“Zan!” Julie yells at me.
“Dude!” James says. “Manners much? Be a psycho psychic on your own time, but you're with me now, so you gotta be chill, okay?”
Despite my verbal attack, Heidi invites us in for tea.