“You ARE a weird dude, Zan. I rescind my invitation to wrestling club.”
“Darn.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth as though considering. “Okay, I'll tell you at lunch.”
The bell rings for class and the halls start clearing out.
“Dude, spit it out.”
“Fine,” he says. “So, I'm dating Rosemary Stonehurt, right?”
“Sure,” I say, although I did not know that. Some detective I am.
“And she said she'd let me see her naked if she bought me this necklace she likes.”
“Jewelry for sex? There's a word for such exchanges.”
He lets out an embarrassed laugh. “No, we already had sex, like, seven times. But only in the dark and I had to keep my eyes shut. I wanted to see what was going on, you know?”
I don't need this level of detail for my investigative purposes, but I don't discourage him from going on about shapes and textures and imagined weights.
Shad's really great story is rudely interrupted by the principal yelling at us to get to class. We part, me still with the hacky sack, and the story not yet drawn to its conclusion.
The morning goes by so slowly.
Ms. Mikado reads us a poem about nectar and flowers, blushing at the end. I think some of the things in the poems may be metaphors, but I don't dare raise my hand.
James pokes me on the shoulder and asks, “Would a Zamboni clean the blood off a hockey rink or just spread it around?”
“Why is there blood on this hockey rink?”
“Broken nose. Duh.”
Normally this sort of thing would provoke a long discussion, but today I'm not interested in such debate with James. My mind is a million miles away, thinking about naked body parts, female.
Raye-Anne Donovan keeps throwing paper balls at me and giggling. I threaten to give her a spanking and she holds up a written note saying Yes, please!
Cool it, I tell myself. Raye-Anne's just a friend, practically one of the guys. She's not your girlfriend, whatsername. Austin. I smack myself on the forehead for momentarily forgetting my beloved's name. Some people she knows from when she was little call her Tina and some people call her by her full name, Austina. I call her baby sometimes, or even white chocolate.
Ms. Mikado has handed out copies of the poem for us to analyze, but every line of it says sex to me, and my eyes keep wandering over to Raye-Anne's feet in their little boots, hugging her calves. Even Julie looks good today, in a striped shirt that hugs her chest, making the stripes pull apart in two spots.
To take my mind off sex, I finally resort to imagining James on Halloween, eating those pickled duck eggs that were painted to look like eyeballs.
* * *
I eat lunch on the back steps with Shad Miller, even though it's a chilly day and nobody else wants to sit back there. The cold air will do me good, I figure.
Shad's story peaks with a glorious session of nude teen frottage, also known as dry-humping, with one tiny night-light on. “It was amazing,” he says, but his face clouds over as he relates the next part. They got carried away, something slipped, and the next day Rosemary had to see her doctor for emergency contraception. That was why she wasn't at school the day after Halloween.
“So, does the pawn shop figure into this story at all?” I ask. “You sorta hinted you saw something there.”
“This is really sick, but I pawned one of my grandmother's porcelain dolls,” he says. “I feel super bad too, because the necklace was gone when we went to buy it, so I bought Rosemary a bracelet. But then, I felt so bad about stealing from my grandmother that I got an advance on my next five allowances and went back to the pawn shop to buy the doll back, but everything's gone. All the inventory's gone and there was a construction crew there working double overtime Sunday night.”
“Tough break about the doll, but there's always eBay.”
“Good idea,” he says.
“On Halloween, was it an old man who bought the doll from you?”
“Yeah, an old guy with a funny suit. Not cool like yours.”
“Did you see anything suspicious? Was anyone else inside the pawn shop?”
“I don't know. I was distracted by this smokin' hot Cinderella princess who came in. I remember her because Rosemary was jealous of her all night. Yeah, that was great. It made her totally want me. Chicks are weird.”
I agree with him, wondering for a moment if Austin might make more time for me if I were hanging out with, say, Raye-Anne Donovan more frequently.
I toss him his hacky sack, which he catches on his knee, then drops. “Oops. Gotta practice more. Getting rusty,” he says.
My precious ring calls to me, so I slip my hand in my pocket and put it on to help me think.
So, Newt was alive when Cinderella went in there, Cinderella being my lovely neighbor Crystal. And Detective Wrong has been questioning Crystal.
Well, Newt, as much as it saddens me to think of my lovely neighbor being mixed up with all this, it seems she's a Person of Interest in this case.
* * *
After school, I go straight to Crystal's house and knock on the door. The sun is low on the horizon, starting to turn things gold. Nobody answers the door, which makes sense, since she's probably still at work at the veterinarian clinic.
Back at my house, just as I'm rummaging around for something to eat, I get a text message from Gran, reminding me we're meeting at Rudy's house for dinner tonight, which I completely forgot. I've never been to his house before, but it's up on the ridge and not very convenient to get to by bus, so she's left me some cash for a taxi.
At half-past five, the taxi I ordered by phone flashes its lights out front.
I get in the taxi and the driver compliments me on my sharp suit. I've added a black tie to the blue shirt, and I do look good.
The driver chats with me about my marks in school (not great) and what I want to do when I graduate. “Sports scholarship?” he asks.
“I tried basketball, but I've got too much rhythm. I start dancing out there, lookin' all good, and I forget about the ball.”
He laughs and drums on his steering wheel. He's got dark, nearly-black skin and a white beard, trimmed short. There are photos on the dashboard, including a snapshot of twin girls with braids. Recognition fires up a flare in the back of my brain, where faces are stored. If I'm not mistaken, those girls are Shay and Dawna, whom we met at the lake on Saturday.
“Those are my granddaughters,” the taxi driver says. “Traveling across the country now. They say they're doing it for their brother—Jesus rest his soul—but I think they're happy to be free of their mama tellin' them what to do. You got a good mama? You must, to be dressed so spiffy.”
“My mom's passed away, but my grandmother is good. I'm really lucky and I know it.” My stomach twinges with guilt at not mentioning I've met his granddaughters. Omission feels worse than a lie sometimes.
“So, what's it going to be?” he asks, clicking on the turn signal to take a left at the lights. “College? Trade school?” Red tail lights whiz past us, streaking the night.
“I'd like to be a detective.” I'm shocked to hear myself saying these words. When last prompted about my future, I surely said something about becoming a chef at a fancy hotel.
The driver lets out a low whistle. “Do some good in the world, you will. That's a good boy. Maybe I'll introduce you to my granddaughters.”
I smile to myself and tell him that would be nice.
He says, “When you're a detective, you can solve all these murders we've been having in Spiritdell.”
“Haven't there only been two this year?”
He turns and looks at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Two too many! And weird ones. My bridge club's been talking about them non-stop. They're hitting our demographic!”
“I didn't know that. Probably a coincidence.”
“Now what did old people ever do to anyone?” he asks, which I assume is a r
hetorical question. I'm sure senior citizens are like everyone—some good, some bad.
“Being a detective is a new idea I'm considering,” I say. “I'm not sure about anything.”
“I'm sure!” he says. “I'm sure we're at your address.” He pulls up to the curb.
I pay him with all the money Gran gave me, and he insists on shaking my hand. “Real nice to meet you, Zan,” he says.
As he drives away, the taxi's tail lights disappearing down the street, I realize I never said my name in the taxi. At least I don't think I did.
I look around for a moment before I go up to the door of the house. Rudy lives on the ridge, overlooking all of Spiritdell, and I can see the neon signs of Chesapeake Avenue from here. The three bridges twinkle like fairy lights over the water.
To tourists, our little winding Spirit River, running down the middle of the city, is quaint. If you believe the postcards, we're either a small town trying to look big or a big town trying to feel small.
* * *
Rudy may have a big pile of dough, but you wouldn't guess by his house. Maybe it's nicer on the inside, I think on the front step, but a moment later I discover the interior is possibly worse. I understand why he spends so much time over at our house.
I take a seat in a rickety wicker rocking chair in the front room, “the sitting room,” Gran called it, and squeak back and forth. The carpet's got an ugly geometric pattern that moves, but only out of the corner of your eye. When you look directly at the carpet, nothing happens in front of you, but off to the side, the dots and squiggles wave and undulate.
The paintings on the wall are of horses on black backgrounds. I get out of my squeaking rocking chair and get right up close to a painting and touch the surface. Smoothy, velvety. The horses are painted on actual black velvet. I've heard of such things, but never seen one in real life.
Not to be too mean about my wealthy future family member, but if he's going to get all his stuff from garage sales, he should get up early in the morning and hit them before all the good stuff is gone.
“Beans are ready!” Rudy calls from the dining room. This must be one of his odd cowboy expressions, because there are no beans in sight.
With Gran's permission, Rudy gives me a beer to have with dinner. We clink our bottles together and he says, “Thanks for saving me from drinking alone.”
Gran doesn't have a bottle because a lot of commercial beers have wheat in them, and she's super careful about her gluten-free diet these days.
“I have a bottle of your Peppermint Schnapps,” Rudy says, trying to tempt her.
“Water's fine, thanks. I'll be our designated drive,” she says to me.
Rudy clears his throat and gets all serious, like he's about to have a heart attack, then says, “I want to thank you both for saving me from having to eat alone. I am ... grateful.”
He clinks his bottle against mine once more, then against Gran's water glass, and I notice her eyes are wet.
I chug down the rest of my beer before diving into my steak, which is rare—just the way I love it. The steak is crusty on the outside with a thick layer of seasoning, also the way I love it.
Tonight's not going too badly.
Something thuds against the window, making us all jump.
“Oh dear, I hope it wasn't a songbird,” Gran says, peering into the darkness beyond the glass.
“Sounded bigger than a songbird,” Rudy says.
There's another thump, followed by a CAW!
“You guys keep eating,” I say. “I'll go out and investigate.” I stuff one more delicious chunk of steak in my mouth as I stand.
Cautiously, I slide open the back patio door. The rollers are worn out and the door squeals and groans ominously as I shove it open and then closed. Walking slowly around the outside of the house, to the darker side where the dining room window is, my pulse is racing.
The thud could have been a bird, but not two thuds. Am I not doing exactly what someone would expect me to, thus walking into a trap? I've got a bad feeling about this.
I wave to Gran through the window, but she's gone back to eating and isn't even looking this way.
It's hard to see, but something darker than the grass is lying under the window. I expect to find a stunned or dead bird on the ground, and crouch down slowly, my hand outstretched.
My fingers make contact with … a clod of dirt. That's odd.
Wings flap behind me, and something skims over me, raking a talon along the back of my head.
Chapter Fourteen
After the bird slices up my scalp, I swear loud enough to make my grandmother come to the window and threaten to ground me.
I blink up at her. “Sorry! I got dive bombed by a bird.”
“There could be a nest nearby. Though it's not the time of year for them to have babies,” she says.
Rubbing the back of my head, I say, “Injuries aside, everything's fine back here. You can go back to your steak.”
“Take a few deep breaths and cool down,” she says as she moves away from the window.
I squint in the darkness, looking for that damn bird, that crow. It had to be a crow. I didn't see it, but seriously, with my history, how could it not be a crow?
I reach down to the clod of dirt and turn it grass-side up, placing it back in the divot. A few feet to the side is another dark thing on the ground. Upon closer examination, by which I mean poking it with a stick, I see it's someone's black glove. No, sock. Not unlike the body of a dead bird, this limp lawn-sock is something I don't want to touch with my hands.
Turning around, I find a big, ugly crow on the fencepost. I've never found one of God's animals ugly before, but this one has terrible manners.
Whispering, I ask, “What do you want? You don't know this about me, but I can turn into a fox and eat you. I will eat you right up, yum yum.”
The bird opens its wings and bobs up and down.
“Oh yeah? You wanna fight?” I punch my fist a few times into my other hand. “Come on, big boy. You wanna get personal? Let's see what you've got. Why don't you come at me when I'm watching you. I'll punch your lights out and make you into Chicken McNuggets.”
The bird jumps sideways off the fencepost, to the grass, where it falls over on its back, little black legs in the air.
“Aww, I didn't mean it little dude.” I kneel down, feeling like the worst person ever. I threatened to punch a little bird. That's like kicking a juvenile meerkat or something.
The crow opens one eye and waves one leg, which is when I see the note. From my crouched position, I reach down and carefully unroll the note from the bird's leg.
“Thank-you, Hedwig,” I say, which I decide will be our little in-joke from now on.
The note, which is in Newt's signature swirly handwriting, exactly like the last one, reads: You have five days or there will be dire consequences. - Newt
The crow jumps up and takes off, smacking me in the face with a few flaps of its wings. I call the crow some very Gran-disapproved words, thus completing my and the bird's cycle of mutual abuse.
I roll back onto my butt and re-read the note using the light coming from the window above me. I read it over and over again. The note hasn't named Austin, but I have this terrible feeling she's the one who will be in danger, and it's all my fault.
Dire consequences. Is Newt's ghost just making idle threats, or can he actually reach his spooky fingers from beyond the grave and do serious damage?
I have this horrible physical sensation, like a lump under my chin.
Five days.
Dire consequences.
This whole amateur detective thing is not such a funny goof anymore.
* * *
For the rest of dinner, I stay quiet while Gran and Rudy talk about plans for the wedding on Saturday.
Dessert is fresh mangoes and rich vanilla ice cream, but the sweet food hardly tastes like anything inside my mouth.
Gran and Rudy are worried about all the catering that they only have fi
ve days to plan.
Five days.
While they're worried about butter-filled Chicken Kiev, I'm worried about solving a murder, armed only with a dysfunctional psychic power and some bees. Now, if the task was to run away from scary things and make some honey, I could maybe do that.
* * *
Gran drives the two of us home. “I'm glad my two men are seeing the good in each other,” she says.
“Where did you meet Rudy anyways,” I joke. “Was it at a dude ranch? Are you going to start dressing like a cowgirl?”
“Ha ha.”
“Can we get a horse for the back yard?”
She deadpans, “Mibs would be jealous, so no.”
When we get back home and park the car, I say my legs are a bit crampy from my previous day's run and I'm going to take a little walk.
She pats her flat stomach. “I should burn off this ice cream, but my show is on.”
“Gran, you can record your show and watch it any time.”
She dismisses this idea with a wave. “I like to watch it with everyone else, silly.”
I don't fight further, because I'm not actually going for a walk, so I don't want her company.
After she enters the house, I wait until the blue glow of the TV appears in our front window before I go to Crystal's door across the street. I knock three times, and I hear some music being turned off, but nobody comes to the door. The corner of the curtain moves. Crystal had a boyfriend who lived with her, along with his little girl, but they moved out a while back.
“Crystal, it's me, Zan,” I call out.
Finally, she opens the door a few inches. “Sorry, I don't feel well. Is Mibs okay?”
“He's great. I, uh, was wondering if you could help me with something else.”
She opens the door wider. Her usually-perfect Indian complexion isn't so perfect today. She's got a couple of pimples on her forehead and olive-colored crescents under her eyes. “Sure, why not,” she sighs, inviting me in.
I take a seat on the yellow leather chair. She slumps down in the fluffy sofa and begins cracking her knuckles, one by one. The lighting is dim, and the curtains are all drawn, adding to the room's claustrophobic feel. I don't want to be here, but Crystal's my only lead, and she might know more than she thinks she does.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 137