The Maple Murders

by Micol Ostow

  Antoinette was the first person to truly make it easier.

  “You’re not loveless,” she said. “You’re not deviant. You’re sensational.”

  Sensational.

  Small wonder I reveled in the sound of that. Still do, at every opportunity. TeeTee herself is such a marvel, I would have gobbled the words down even if they weren’t a respite from years of bottomless neglect and an apathy that bordered on malevolent.

  Naturally, it was hard at first, letting down my defenses. Over the years, they’d swollen to gargantuan proportions, deep moats of distance and unwavering resolve, an unflinching refusal to allow anyone past my candy-colored but no less impenetrable exterior. But for whatever glorious reason, Toni was willing to wait me out, to hold out for a time that I could accept myself, and with that, accept her love. Accept her.

  Well, time has come. Now I was all in.

  I knew for certain that Toni had changed me—irrevocably, for the better—this summer. Whereas in the past I’d been afraid of the world beyond Riverdale, preferring instead to stay close to home, comfortably ensconced in my own tiny kingdom, when TeeTee suggested a cross-country road trip on the back of her bike, I didn’t hesitate before agreeing to join her.

  “Call me the Thelma to your Louise,” I said, thrilled at the suggestion.

  “Uh …” She looked at me, wary. “They died at the end of that movie, Cher.”

  I shrugged. Minor details, irrelevant to us. Nothing would dampen my spirits now that we’d put this plan in motion. “We don’t have to be exactly like them, Tee,” I said. “Just imagine wanton adventure. Gorgeous, unbridled lawlessness.”

  She furrowed her brow, adorably concerned. “Will you settle for semi-wanton? Let’s aim for more Bikini Kill, less Rage Against the Machine. That’s a level of debauchery I think we can handle.”

  “My dear Antoinette,” I said, shaking my red mane over one shoulder, “one: There’s nothing the two of us can’t handle. And two: When it comes to musical influences, I’m one hundred percent Velma Kelly. You can be my Roxie Hart. Now”—I tossed her a black sequined knapsack—“let’s pack.”

  One week later, we were tearing down I-80, surrounded by verdant green and charging toward the mountain peaks rising up in the distance, wind at our faces and hearts thudding under our Serpent leather. I rode behind Toni, arms clenched around her and inhaling the jasmine smell of her soap, the ocean salt that had seeped into her skin.

  “Westward, ho!” I shouted into the vast expanse. My words were swallowed by the roar of the cars rushing by, but I couldn’t contain myself.

  When the iconic WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA sign came into our view, Toni pulled to the shoulder, kicking up clouds of dust as we came to a halt, both of us breathing heavily and surveying the tall swath of white lettering against the blue metal.

  “Ah, the myth of the American frontier,” I said. “Expansion. Domination. Exceptionalism. Manifest destiny. It’s so … aggressive. So wordy. So …” I searched for exactly the right word to express what I was feeling.

  “So dreadfully masculine, TeeTee.” I shuddered. No, thank you. “Thank goodness we’re here to bring some femme fatale flair to that tired old trope.”

  She grabbed me in a classic romance-novel clinch and kissed me like the final frame of an old Hollywood love story.

  “You do give good flair, Bombshell,” she said, eyes sparkling.

  Our first stop was obvious: The sharp yellow arrow of the In-N-Out Burger sign beckoned to us seductively. Toni revved the engine as we idled at the drive-through. “Two double-doubles with fries,” she said.

  A muffled burst of static that seemed to be confirmation of our order came back—it wasn’t thoroughly certain, but we chose hope—and we drove around to grab our food, settling at a picnic table out front to dig in.

  “Surely it won’t compare to Pop’s,” I said, plucking a French fry from the cardboard box, “but when in Rome …”

  Toni wrapped her hands around her enormous burger and took an equally Herculean bite in response. Her eyes rolled up in an ecstatic expression. “I don’t know, Cheryl,” she said after she’d swallowed. “I mean, don’t tell anyone I said so—especially not Jughead, he’d probably have my Serpent jacket for speaking heresy—but if there were anyone who could give Pop Tate a run for his money?”

  She wasn’t wrong. Quickly we came to understand how the franchise had garnered its prodigious reputation. The fries were perfectly crisp and salted, the burgers deliciously charred, and for a few minutes, we concentrated on our food in happy silence.

  It was quick enough work. Full, I turned to Toni, brushing a pink wave back from her face. “TBH, Tee, I can’t quite believe we’re actually here. This road trip was just what the proverbial doctor ordered. Your best idea yet, ma chérie.”

  Toni took a long sip of her shake. “Thanks, babe. I know some Serpents who came out to LA a while back—they’ve been saying for ages I should come visit. Here’s hoping they meant it.”

  I held up two crossed, crimson-lacquered fingers, the polish bold and bright in the midday sun. “Duly hoped.”

  I gathered up our trash and tossed it, then turned back to my literal ride-or-die. Every little glance I snuck at her made my pulse flutter. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe we were together.

  “So,” I asked, a little mischief in my voice. “What should we do first?”

  It was impossible to decide on one thing, so we did a little bit of everything instead.

  Griffith Observatory. “I feel so Rebel Without a Cause,” Toni said, stuffing her hands into her jacket pocket and doing her best James Dean disaffected middle-distance gaze.

  I whipped out my iPhone and snapped a picture. “Funny, I was thinking La La Land.”

  “Emma Stone?” Toni shrugged. “Sure, I could see it. I get where you’re going. But she’s got nothing on you.”

  Later, as we traipsed the Hollywood Walk of Fame, we paused for a selfie on Rita Hayworth’s star. “I’m a sucker for redheads,” Toni admitted. “But, you know—the one in particular.”

  In front of the Chinese Theatre, Toni Insta-storied me crouching over Marilyn Monroe’s handprints, covering them with my own. “Bombshell recognize bombshell,” I trilled at the camera. And on the terrace at Chateau Marmont, we toasted and posted with a “Say, Vixen!”

  By the end of the day we were beyond fatigued, contentedly worn-out. Toni texted her Serpent contact, who was more than happy to host us at her apartment, and we headed over for a casual take-out dinner and some catching up.

  Warwick. The type of lounge movies about LA used to taunt the rest of us with images of how impossibly sleek and trendy their city is. It was a far cry from the Whyte Wyrm, but I guessed that LA Serpents liked the occasional dash of Hollywood glamour alongside their grit.

  Delia, their clear leader and our de facto hostess, was a rail-thin spitfire with ghost-white hair and icy-gray eyes. Her LA crew was Lenny (“short for Lena but not like Lena Dunham, seriously, she’ll murder you just for implying that,” Delia said, when making initial introductions) and a suitably petite brunette with a Rosemary’s Baby pixie cut named, implausibly—albeit appropriately—“Teeny” (“short for Rochelle”).

  Inside it was all luxe velvet seating and dim lighting, gilded chandeliers and silk pillows and cocktails that sparkled brighter, more prettily than jewels. The place was table-reservation only, but Delia “knew a guy,” and that guy happened to be the manager, so lucky us. Despite the reservation policy, a line of desperate hopefuls snaked down the street past a velvet rope, which we happily stomped past.

  “Step aside, plebes,” I snapped, sidling up to the bouncer.

  Behind me, I heard Delia snicker. Teeny mumbled to Toni, “Is this girl for real?”

  “You have no idea,” Toni shot back. I grinned.

  “I kind of love it,” Teeny said.

  “You have no idea,” Toni repeated. My heart swelled.

  This time, I opened my mouth and cackled with
sheer, unadulterated delight.

  TeeTee and I wasted nary a moment racing out to the dance floor. The space was packed, the smell of pheromones and expensive cosmetics in the air. We were surrounded by models/actresses/whatevers in strappy tops and skinny jeans, but even amid all the glitz and glamour of LA, Antoinette and I stood head and shoulders above the crowd. Immediately, we gave ourselves to the music, moving with blissful abandon.

  “Paradise found!” I had to shout to be heard over the steady thrum of drum and bass, but it was a fabulous excuse to brush my lips against Toni’s earlobe.

  She grabbed my hand in response and pulled me off the dance floor, over to the bar. Her forehead glistened, and her eyes shone. It turned out Delia knew the bartender, too—these Serpents were impressively connected, it seemed—who immediately slid two elaborate drinks our way.

  We clinked and sipped. It tasted like passion fruit and bitters. Also: freedom.

  I could see from her smile that Toni agreed. “Nice to be away from Riverdale, huh?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and soaking it all in. “Oh, TeeTee,” I gushed. “I can’t tell you how freeing it is. After all those years of chasing the fantasy of my parents’ approval, to be here and just … let it go.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Toni said. She stepped toward me and cupped my face in her hands. But right as her lips touched mine, she started. “Wait, what?”

  When I pulled away, I saw her puzzled expression and followed her gaze.

  A few seats away, at the very end of the bar, Delia and Lenny were chatting up some aggressively basic club rat lout. We sidled closer, craning to hear him.

  “I mean, people say it as a joke,” he was droning, “but I really am kind of a big deal.”

  “Oh, obviously,” Lenny said, moving so close that he visibly tensed.

  Toni made a face and mimed sticking her finger down her throat, and I nodded. Who was this unfortunate swine with the weak chin, and why were our girls wasting precious life’s breath on him?

  “Um …” Toni nudged me.

  I watched. As Lenny wove a spell with her body, Delia expertly slid her fingers into his back pocket and … extracted his wallet? Did my eyes deceive me?

  I was stunned.

  “Naughty,” I said to Toni. But my voice rang with admiration. Maybe that was why the Serpents patronized this particular, particularly high-end drinkery?

  The patsy wandered off with an unsolicited promise to return with his boon companions, a dreary prospect if I’d ever heard one. Toni and I took the opportunity to ferret out the full story.

  “Delia!” Toni exclaimed, giving her a playful tap. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” Delia asked, playing dumb, but grinning slyly.

  “Come on. We saw. You lifted that guy’s wallet?”

  “Damn right we did,” Lenny said. “Jerk was straight-up screaming at the bartender. Like a preppy bully out of an eighties movie. James Spader is so over, girls. And we Serpents don’t play that way.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Delia said preemptively, even though we hadn’t said a word. “We’ll pay it forward. One of our Serpent sisters is saving for her own piercing parlor, and she could use the scratch.”

  Was it ethically murky? Absolument. I let out a tiny involuntary squeal.

  Lenny turned to me, teasing. “Are you scandalized?”

  “Au contraire,” I said, leaning forward. The tiny hairs at the back of my neck had pricked to attention. “More like intrigued.”

  This, then, was what blissful abandon felt like.

  Our wanton adventure had officially commenced.

  Thirty minutes later, we were at the mezzanine bar, perched above the dance floor now and viewing the entire scene with a slight sense of remove, detachment—of an elevated vantage point, if I’m being honest, and not only because of our literal height.

  “Survey says: target,” I’d said, homing in on another churlish oaf close-talking an unsuspecting victim in a manner that was borderline actionable. In no time, Toni had managed to smoothly wrest him from the wounded gazelle and wrap him around her slender little finger.

  “An Instagram influencer?” she said, widening her eyes in a frighteningly believable portrayal of admiration. “Tell me more.”

  Obviously, he was all too happy to do so. “It’s all about the ‘likes,’ ” he said, his voice nasal and self-satisfied. “You know”—he leaned in and put a hand on her elbow—“I could build your brand. My metrics are killer.”

  “ ‘Likes’ and ‘metrics,’ ” Toni echoed. “Got it. Killer.”

  Meanwhile, I’d slowly crept up behind him—even if he did notice me lingering in his personal space, he wasn’t about to protest his incredible so-called “luck”—and taken a page from Delia’s book. His pants were tight—hipsters in LA had a rigorous and unyielding signature style—and it took me a moment to wiggle my fingers in. I grazed the edge of his wallet, and he flinched. Had I given myself away?

  I thought quickly and flung myself into him, pressing my body against him as hard as I could. I used the moment to make an unabashed grab. Once I had the wallet, I shuffled back.

  “Apologies, gent,” I said. “Somebody pushed me, and I lost my balance.”

  He broke into a sleazy grin. “No harm no foul, doll.”

  From behind the bar, the bartender—a shaven-haired sylph with tattoo sleeves crawling up both arms—raised an eyebrow at me. I excused myself from the tête-à-tête and sidled up to the bar.

  I held up the wallet and peeled a few of the larger bills from it with great flourish, fanning them out on the bar in front of her. “For your trouble, madame.”

  “Aren’t you just a little troublemaker?” she asked, approving. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

  I blew her a kiss as Toni grabbed me by the arm.

  “Okay, Catwoman,” she said, dragging me away against my protests. “You’re good—why am I not surprised? But we shouldn’t press our luck.”

  “Counterpoint …” said a voice from behind us.

  We turned. Delia, Lenny, and Teeny were grinning like fiends, arms slung over one another’s shoulders like a trio of well-coiffed musketeers.

  “You don’t walk away from a winning hand,” Delia finished.

  Without a doubt, it was a challenge.

  Toni eyed me, wondering how I’d react.

  I squealed again, this time with total intention. I clapped my hands together.

  “This is so invigorating!”

  We were stumbling across the lot, toward Teeny’s car, when the rest of us saw it: a Jaguar F-TYPE in a Batmobile shade of obsidian. It had a vanity plate that read MR BIG DEAL. My gorge rose.

  “I bet I know whose inferiority complex this little number is,” I said, flashing a look at Toni. “Our very first mark of the evening.”

  “Hmm,” Lenny said, peering into the window. “Want to make him our last, too?”

  “Ooh,” gasped Teeny, looking into the window on the passenger side herself now. “Do I spy with my little eye a Birkin bag? That jerkwad has a girlfriend?”

  “A girlfriend with expensive taste,” Lenny said.

  “That’s just all kinds of wrong,” Toni said, looking mournful.

  “Love never does play fair. But we can do our part to even the score.” I took a turn ogling the bag. Whoever she was, she had good taste, even if it was high-end. Not in companions, mind you—her beau was strictly low-rent, all the way—but her aesthetic eye was killer. “Limited edition. Ostrich skin in cobalt. Covetable.” Mumsie had two—in varying shades of Blossom red, of course.

  “That bag would pay our rent for a year,” Teeny said, bitterness tinged with a touch of longing.

  A tingling feeling crept up my spine then, sparking an electric buzz that flooded my skin. I felt impulsive, dangerous. Even the score, I thought, feeling wild.

  Feeling powerful.

  “In that case, it’s a done deal. If you lik
e it,” I said, “let’s go get it.”

  I began to scramble along the curb looking for a sizable rock: All the better to smash your windows with, my pretty. “Find me something heavy, allies!”

  “Okay, I totally love this girl,” Teeny mused, chuckling.

  “Oh, girl. You have no idea …” Toni replied. It had become a sort of catchphrase for the evening. Her voice was far-off, floating to me from another world.

  I felt her fingers close around my wrist. She pulled me up to my feet and away from the curb. “Which is why I won’t let you be the next Riverdale vigilante to be locked away.”

  She leaned in, so close her lips almost brushed my own. “Cher, you are totally lovable … and totally impossible. Don’t do this.”

  I yelped, stunned to be pulled so abruptly out of the moment. I looked down at my palm, wrapped as it was around a sizable rock. All at once, the adrenaline rushed from my veins.

  Was I … had I just been about to … break into a car?

  The high of my loosely Robin Hood–esque merriment vanished as quickly as it had come on, leaving me humiliated. What had I become? Wanton adventure was one thing. This was serious crime.

  I wasn’t Thelma or Louise—I didn’t want to be. As Toni pointed out, they die at the end of their movie. Whereas I have so much to live for. In particular, Toni herself.

  “I’m a fool,” I groaned. “And no better than the cesspool of moral turpitude from whence I came.” My eyes welled.

  Toni draped her arm over my shoulder, running her fingers through my hair. “Wrong again, girl,” she whispered. “Not better. The best. And you don’t have to prove you’re a badass to me. I kinda had you pegged from moment one. Why do you think I was crushing so hard?”

  I turned to her, eyes still wet and teary, and heart filled with gratitude. I couldn’t remember when in my life I’d felt so appreciated, so seen. “Antoinette Topaz …” I said, my voice trembling, “what would I do without you?”