“Never mind,” he says, shaking his head.
“I guess you had one of those twenty-four hour stomach bugs.”
“You have no idea,” he says, his pink-rimmed eyes darting left and right.
“Try me.”
He glances around again. James and Julie, eating their bagged lunches at a table a dozen feet away, give us a twin wave.
Shad grimaces. “Those two are megacreepy,” he says.
“No, they're not.” And furthermore, he didn't think they were megacreepy last night when he was at their house, eating all their free food and drinks. I don't say this, though, because I'm trying to keep my potential witness cooperative.
Shad scoops up the sack and bounces it off my chest, catching it on his knee. He tries the move again, but this time I'm ready and snatch the ball in mid-air.
I say, “I'll give this back if you tell me where you were yesterday.”
He laughs, showing off about a hundred big, square teeth. “Why do you care?”
“I'm a details kinda guy. I didn't care, but now that you won't tell me, my curiosity is piqued.”
“You're megacreepy,” he says, but he's still smiling, not angry.
“Sounds like you were up to something really cool, and I wanna know. I'll give you the sack back, I promise.”
“I'll think about it, man.” He walks away, leaving me holding the little blue and red hacky sack.
You think about it, Shad, while I find out about it.
Rosemary's not around today, but if Shad really does have something to hide, I bet I find out in less than a second, as soon as Rosemary pokes her finger in my belly button. Then, all will be revealed.
* * *
I keep listening for clues all afternoon at school, but nothing's jumping out at me. Spiritdell's got more residents than the kids in my high school, so I'll have to expand my observation area. I should start canvasing for witnesses around the pawn shop. Ugh, that sounds like a lot of work.
I wonder what Austin will think of all this. I've messaged her a few times today and asked about hanging out tonight, but she's claiming to be too tired. I want to push for a commitment, but she did have major surgery not long ago, and I suppose it would take time to recover. I ought to be patient. Still, being patient doesn't make me miss her any less.
I've got the necklace I bought her back at my house, but I don't mention the gift in my text messages, because I don't want to guilt her into seeing me if she's not up for it. She is going to love the necklace, though, especially because it's vintage. Austin's really into fashion and mixing all sorts of patterns and clothes from different eras, like hippie skirts from the 1970s with denim jackets, or any two colors you wouldn't think go together, like bright blue and lime green.
I thought her fashion sense might rub off on me, but the other day I wore a V-neck shirt underneath a green V-neck sweater and Julie giggled and made me change in the bathroom, turning the t-shirt around backwards. She said it was fine the colors didn't match, but you can't wear a V under a V, even though you can wear a circle-necked thing under another circle-necked thing.
How am I supposed to know about double-V-necking? Who makes these rules, and how do I get a copy?
Maybe I'll get some expert fashion advice from the shops on Chesapeake Avenue when I go there after school today for the next step in my first murder investigation.
Chapter Five
After school, instead of heading home, I take my planned detour downtown. The weather's nice for the first day of November and I unzip my windbreaker.
The sun is glinting off our tallest building, the Hotel Doccione, where Gran and Rudy will be having their wedding. The hotel is new, but they've added some Old World touches to class it up. At first, I thought Doccione was a type of coffee, but it's actually the Italian word for gargoyle. The hotel uses a drawing of a gargoyle on its signs and stationery, and they had carved stone creatures added to each corner of the building, near the roof.
I stop on the corner and squint up at the stony monsters. Are they dragons, or dogs? I can't tell from here. They aren't even real gargoyles, either, because they don't spout water. Non-functional decorations like this are technically called grotesques, but I suppose Hotel Grotesque wouldn't draw the tourists.
Continuing down the street, drawing closer to the pawn shop, my stomach pinches and the memory of the dead body in a pool of blood surges back, unwanted.
I need to stop remembering and feeling, and try using my eyes and ears and brain instead of my temperamental guts, which are telling me to turn around. I force myself to step off Dixon Street, onto Chesapeake Avenue.
The sidewalks are busier here, with people window-shopping, walking and talking in groups, or sitting on little chairs outside cafes.
If we were in England and not America, Chesapeake Avenue would be called a high street, I think, because it's one of our few shopping areas for the town that isn't a mall. Rudy calls this section the main drag, which seems rather old-fashioned, but that's Rudy for you.
The busiest part of Chesapeake Avenue are the six blocks between Dixon and Milos. In that stretch, we have four banks, a dozen clothing stores, two Starbucks locations, and two coffee places for people who don't like Starbucks. One of the independent cafes is The Bean, a tiny place with a green wooden door, where Austin works the occasional shift.
The construction here is a mix of older, brick low-rise buildings and taller, modern glass storefronts with apartments above. Some of the town's original character has been preserved, including a recently-discovered ghost sign. When the little movie theater was torn down earlier this year, the wrecking ball revealed a hand-painted advertisement for shaving cream on the side of the neighboring building. The billboard had not been seen by human eyes for at least eighty years, and people thought that meant something, so the plans for the new building were modified. Now part of the sign will remain visible forever.
I know about ghost signs and gargoyles and other things because Gran works in administration at City Hall. Gran assured me the ghost sign's been covered with an anti-graffiti coating to protect against vandalism. The sign is not unattractive as art, but mainly people adore the quaint idea of someone hand-painting an advertisement instead of it being printed and glued up. Some people feel older is always inherently better. I wonder if, in the future, when all billboards are digital, people will be restoring and preserving our tatty paste-ups for energy drinks and cell phones.
Besides the shaving cream sign, I don't notice anything else ghostly or unusual about Chesapeake Avenue today.
I walk past the jewelry store I visited yesterday. There would be no point asking in here, since the guy inside was helping me pick out a necklace at the time of the crime and probably didn't see anything across the street. I pop into the next shop, which is a place that sells shoes. Nice shoes. I pick up a pair and have to tell my face to be cool when I see the price tag. As Gran would say, I should hope they're nice for that price!
A hip-looking guy of about thirty strikes up a conversation with me about the weather. I tell him straight-up I can't afford to buy anything, and he says in a light-hearted, joking way, “That's fine, look around. I get bored, so you can ask me anything. Retail people are humans too, you know.”
“So, what you're saying is you're people? Just like teenagers?”
His eyes crinkle up behind his thick-framed, retro glasses. “You get it, man. Hey, do you know where I can score some weed?”
“No.”
“Hey, that's cool. I didn't mean anything, just all my friends are married. With kids. But I like working here, it's cool, you know. Yup. It's cool.”
I pretend to look at some random items as I edge my way closer to the exit. “So, I guess there was a shooting across the street yesterday. Crazy stuff. Did you see anything?”
He backs away from me. “You're not a cop, are you?”
“You're kidding. I'm seventeen. I go to high school.”
“I knew that,” he says.
“Heard it. I was out front cleaning the windows and I heard the shots. Thought it was kids with fireworks in the alley at first, but I had this spooky feeling. I'm quite psychic at times, you know, it runs in my family. Anyways, I came inside here and called it in.” He points through the shoe display in the window to the closed pawn shop across the street. “If I'd have known, I would have had my eye on that front door.”
“You did enough, calling it in.”
“I could be a hero,” he says. “I could be a cop, even, if I wanted. Just doing this shoe gig until I get a little cash saved up.”
He looks down and my gaze follows his, to his feet, which are clad in inexpensive-looking, scuffed shoes. I don't need psychic powers to know two things: this adult man desperately wants me to think he's cool, yet even with his staff discount, he can't afford to buy the shoes in the store where he works.
I thank him and make my way back outside, the fresh air a calming antidote to the plastic smell inside the store.
My stomach grumbles. I'd like to go home now, but I have to canvas more businesses for clues.
* * *
Two hours later, I'm at a dead end, metaphorically.
Talking to people inside the rest of the businesses along the street has gone about as well as the shoe store. Nobody even questioned why I was so curious; they all welcomed the opportunity to talk about the biggest thing to have happened on the street in years.
The man at the barber shop said he used to cut Newt's hair, but the hair grew so fast Newt had to come in once a week. The girl at the import candy store mentioned he had a taste for those little candies that smell like perfume and taste like soap. The woman at the convenience store said he went through a lot of milk. None of these people seemed affected either way by Newt's death, nor concerned the killer might be coming for them next.
I did discover one interesting fact: while the newspaper articles implied the shooting may have been a robbery gone wrong, the police confidentially assured all the members of the local business association that no cash or valuables seemed to have been taken from the premises. An unsecured cash drawer at the front counter was untouched, and all the high-value items matched the inventory.
I had figured Newt's murder wasn't a plain old robbery gone wrong, but now my suspicions have been confirmed.
Before I go home, I should take one last look at the place and see if the visual triggers any ideas. From across the street, I look at the storefront and compare it to the others on the same block. The shop is about twenty feet wide, and if the buildings are the same depth, it's got to be the same size as the big-name sportswear shop next door. On the other side is a nice-looking designer sunglasses and eyeglasses store. Newt's seedy little pawn shop really was the black sheep of the neighborhood. Perhaps the local business association had him offed for the crime of being tacky.
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 qu
estion 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.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 129