by Emmy Grace
Dang it.
“So we’re okay then? You don’t have any inexplicable urge to carry me off to your cave against my will?”
His lips twist up into a wry grin. It lands right in the lowest part of my belly. “I think I can control myself.”
“Okay.” I nod and step back slightly, trying to break the spell he’s cast over me before I do something dumb. Like throw myself at him and lick his bottom lip.
Or jump his bones.
Or declare my undying love.
Now that I think of it, the list of inadvisable things I could do right now is virtually endless.
I clear my throat and strive for my normal fluff. “Since we’re okay, that means you’ll be my Uri, right?”
With a groan, he lets his head fall back on his shoulders. “Yes. I’ll be your brainless Uri.”
“It’s okay. You won’t need your brain for this one. Just your brawn.” I squeeze his bicep for emphasis and it twitches healthfully under my fingers.
Shaaaaa-wing.
“I’m not wearing a Speedo.”
“You in a Speedo?” I crack up. I can’t help it. “We want to blend in, not lure the photographer of GQ to Salty Springs.”
“I’m going to brush up on my archery skills tonight. Maybe I can return the favor by shooting arrows at an apple on your head.”
I smile happily.
He’s joking.
At least I hope he is. “Count me in, Robin Hood.”
“You’re impossible,” he says, turning to walk away.
“Where are you going?” It just now occurs to me to look around for his truck.
“Home.”
“Where are you parked?” I ask his receding back.
“Around on the other side.”
“Why did you come this way?”
“Just keeping an eye on you,” he hollers back as he continues to stroll away.
I can’t stop the enormous grin that curves my face. I do believe Liam Dunning has a soft spot.
And I do believe I might’ve found a way to poke it.
5
I’m browsing lazily through the costumes shown on the site that Felonious made me get my Little Bo Peep costume from. They have a wide and varied selection, and I think I’ve found the perfect ones for Uri and me.
I giggle just thinking about Liam Dunning in tight, black leather pants and a matching sleeveless vest. Before I click order, I text him to get his shoe size. Even his response makes me laugh.
Liam: 12. For whatever ridiculous shoes you’re ordering.
I almost tell him they’re boots with big metal buckles, but why ruin the surprise? The look on his face when he sees them will be humor fuel for the next four to six weeks of my life.
I click the order button on all the items we’ll need. When it’s completed and promised to be here by this evening, I throw back my head and let out my most evil maniacal laugh.
“What the devil’s going on in there?” I hear from the vicinity of my front door. A few seconds later, I see my landlady’s wrinkled frowning face pop up in the big window to the left of the door. She squints, trying to get a peek into my living room. I wave my arm and smile. When she sees me, that only makes her frown deepen.
I laugh at that, too.
Today’s just a laughing day. I’m feeling much better since discovering that Liam isn’t going to become a crazed stalker. He’s still just Liam. Grouchy, grumpy, terse, reliable Liam.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Somehow, he’s managed to endear himself to me despite his dark personality. I think he grounds me. And I hope I lift him up just a little. That’s why we make a good pair. Opposites and all that.
I get up and open the door for Mrs. Stephanopoulos.
“Good morning,” I greet her brightly.
To this, she grunts. “You’re invited to my house for dinner tonight. Before all the blasted trick-or-treaters come around.”
“Trick-or-treaters? It’s a week until Halloween.”
“Salty Springs has two nights for the kiddies. The first is the Saturday before Halloween. The second is Halloween. Silliest thing I’ve ever heard of,” she harrumphs.
“Then why participate?”
Seems like a logical question to me, but the look on her face says different.
“I’m not a Nazi. I’m an upstanding member of this community.”
“I didn’t say you were a Nazi.”
“That’s what you were implying.”
“Um, I really wasn’t.”
She calms just a little. “Well, that’s what it sounded like. Same thing.”
“In that case, I apologize for calling you a Nazi.”
Evidently non-participators are Nazis.
Who knew?
“Like I said, dinner is at my house. Seven o’clock sharp. If you’re one of those loons that dress up, better be ready by then. The ruffians will start coming around about eight.” She nods once and turns to leave. I assume that means I don’t get a say in the night’s plans.
“Can I bring Regina?”
“Bring whoever you want,” she says without turning back around toward me. “There’ll be plenty.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mrs. S.” I shrug and close the door.
I text Regina before I forget.
Me: Hope you don’t have plans for tonight.
Regina: Why? What questionable activity are you dragging me into?
Me: O Ye of Little Faith.
Regina: Uh-huh.
Me: Just dinner with Mrs. S. before the trick-or-treaters.
Regina: Trick-or-treaters? It’s a week til Halloween.
Me: Evidently we’re Nazis if we don’t observe them both.
I picture Regina rolling her dark eyes.
Regina: Whatever. What time?
Me: Be here at 6. We’ll get ready together.
Regina: I don’t have a costume yet.
Me: I bet your old pal Lucky has something you can wear.
Regina: Don’t you try to justify saving every costume you’ve had for the last decade.
Me: I won’t. You’re doing a fine job all by yourself.
Regina: You make me crazy.
Me: I know. I love you, too.
I know that’s the end of the conversation, even though neither of us really says so. Regina and I are so in sync, some days I wonder if we share a brain. If we do, she definitely got the bigger half.
I drag out the huge plastic trunk I keep for just such occasions. It’s full of wigs and dresses and pants and shirts of all different kinds. We could each go as a recognizable character, or mix things up and just go as escaped mental patients. The possibilities are endless.
Now I can’t wait for six o’clock to roll around.
In the late afternoon, after lunch and a nice long nap (don’t judge), I haul an old cardboard stand-up poster of Jon Bon Jovi out of my closet and into the back yard. I set it up at the farthest point of the fence and put some rocks around the bottom to hold it up. When I turn around, Gumbo, Mr. Jingles, and Lucy-fur have all come outside to join me. My critters are as much suckers for sunshine as their momma.
Their owner, I correct silently. It creeps Regina out when I refer to myself as the mother of my animals, even though I totally feel that way.
I go back inside for the little black case I dug out from under the bed. I lay it on the picnic table and open it up to reveal the neat row of six shining throwing knives, all nestled in maroon velvet. They were a gift from Mason, the first guy I kissed and inadvertently made go the way of John Hinckley, Jr. Most people would be dubious about such a gift, but he knew of my love of both the circus and the Great Throwdini. I thought the present was thoughtful.
I take them out of their slots and heft them to get myself back into the feel of the cool, weighted metal in my hand. You know, muscle memory and all that.
I take one knife by the tip as I look around to identify the location of my pets, all three of which are nowhere near Jon (yes, we’re
on a first name basis). Then, with a smoothness that feels magical, I fling the weapon at Jon’s right shoulder. Even though it’s a small target, I hit it dead on.
Ideally, I’d be aiming at the head, but I could never damage Jon’s beautiful face. Or any of the beautiful things below that face. But since his cardboard likeness is the only thing I can use to practice on, I’m forced to sacrifice a shoulder.
I fling, fling, fling knives at my childhood rockstar soul mate until his poor shoulders are riddled with holes. Despite the wreckage of Jon’s fabulous clavicles, I’m supremely satisfied.
Lucky’s still got it!
I retrieve the knives and do it again. And again. And again. Since bragging to Liam that I could do it, I had to be sure I wasn’t rusty. My goal here is to solve a crime (and fulfill a dream of my youth along the way), not kill or otherwise maim Liam, the grouch. So practice was definitely in order.
I’m carrying Jon back into the house when I hear a knock at my front door. It’s a reasonable sound, which assures me that it’s not Liam. Before I can make it over there, it opens halfway and Regina pokes her head in.
“Lucky!” she calls.
“I’m right here,” I say from just on the other side of the door.
She startles visibly, clutching her chest with her hand. “Oh. Lord, you scared me.”
I grin. “Unintentional, but worth it.”
“Ha ha,” she says, coming on in and closing the door behind her.
“You’re early.”
“You’re on crack. It’s five minutes until six. You said six, right?”
I glance at the clock on the microwave. “Oh. So it is.”
Time is such a fickle thing.
“Let’s do this thing then.” She kicks off her tennis shoes, which are sparkling white. They look like they’ve never been worn. I happen to know that they have, but not very often. Regina much prefers heels of some sort. The only reason she dug out common folk shoes is because she was coming here to change within ten minutes. Any longer than that and her feet might burst into flames of rebellion.
I see that she’s holding two roses in one hand. I nod at them. “Did you bring your best, best, best friend in the world flowers?”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
“What are they for then?”
“Our costumes.”
“We’ll probably need more than that. Call me crazy, but nudity whilst handing out candy to trick-or-treaters might be frowned upon.”
“You’re a goober. You know that, right?”
“Yep. It’s part of my charm.”
“And you’ve got loads of that.”
We trek back to my bedroom, to the trunk that’s lying open on the mattress, surrounded by mismatched items I already pulled out. “So, two roses. Two women. What might you be thinking?” I muse as I scan the different parts of costumes. “Dancers from Dancing with the Stars?”
“Nope.”
“War of the roses?”
“Nope.”
“Sleeping Beauties?”
“Nope.”
“Two weird gardeners?”
“Definitely not.”
“Fine. I give. What will we be?”
“Day of the Dead girls.” Regina’s eyes shine brightly, and I know exactly why. “Our faces will be sugar skulls.”
“All that elaborate makeup? It’ll take us hours to get ready.”
Regina tilts her head to one side. “Do you know me at all?”
“That’s a lot, even for you.”
She pushes up her imaginary sleeves. “Hide and watch.”
We rifle through all my old costumes until we find one Spanish-style dress and one outfit that looks like a girly matador. After that, we settle down for Regina to do our faces. She does her own first, because she says it won’t take as long.
“Besides, this will be a good time for you to test that new product. The primer.”
“How did you like it?”
“Seemed to work great. My makeup didn’t budge all day.”
I hike up one shoulder. “Okay. Whatever. Slap it on me.”
By seven sharp, Regina and I are both dressed and made up, and looking quite impressive if I do say so myself. We stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of my bedroom.
“We are a handsome pair,” I praise, turning my face left and right to admire the elaborate face paint. She did all around my eyes with black, and she scalloped the edges to make them look like flowers. Around that, she put a row of small pink dots and interspersed them occasionally with some green sprigs poking out this way and that. She did the same effect around my mouth, but she added dark vines that curve up from the corners of my lips and snake their way up under my cheekbones. It’s cool and creepy and awesome.
She did her own face with whites and grays and little ovals of red along her eyebrows and cheekbones. They look like crystals hanging from a chandelier.
“I did good, didn’t I?”
“Seriously, you missed your calling. You should do makeup for a living.”
“You’d be my only client.”
“But one client with a big mouth could be worth her weight in gold. Or ice cream. However you like to pay.”
“We’d better go before your mean landlady comes to find us and accuse us of being Nazis.”
I loop my arm through hers and we set off toward the door. “Heil Marge,” I say, marching with straight legs and an uplifted arm.
“You’re so weird,” Regina mumbles.
“Words of love.”
We arrive for dinner with Snuffleupagus just a few minutes before seven. She answers the door wearing a hair net and an apron that looks like that rubber thing a butcher dons before he cuts up meat.
“Have you been slaughtering children?”
Regina sniggers and I grin, but Mrs. S. is not amused.
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
Strangely, she ignores that question. “You’re early.”
“Only by like two minutes.”
“Seven. You’re seven minutes early. It’s not ready yet.”
“Do you want us to come back?”
“No, it’s fine. You can stay.”
My landlady just turns and walks wordlessly away from the door, leaving Regina and I to follow along behind her.
She doesn’t stop in the kitchen like I would’ve expected, but keeps going toward a door that’s just off the living room. Regina and I stop, and I ask, “Are we supposed to keep following you?”
Mrs. S. glances back and nods once. She opens the door, which creaks eerily, and disappears down the steps.
That’s when I get my first chill of heebie jeebie.
I glance at Regina. She’s frowning.
“Does this seem weird to you?”
“Yeah, but she’s a weird lady. I guess we just have to go with it.”
We stick close together as we walk to the door and descend the steps. Just as we reach the bottom, a loud crack reverberates down to us as the door up top violently slams shut. I jump and a little yelp gurgles up. Regina practically climbs onto my back, her fingernails digging into my arm as she hides behind me.
I can see absolutely nothing.
It’s pitch black and there’s no sign of Mrs. Stephanopoulos.
Regina and I go perfectly still as we wait. I don’t think either of us even breathes as we listen.
A few seconds later, a light flicks on. It’s shining through thin plastic hanging in the doorway to another room in the basement. I see shadows move and shift behind it, and then someone raises an arm. The hand is clearly holding a gigantic butcher knife, and I watch, completely dumbstruck, as it comes swinging down onto something semi-solid.
Then there’s a crackling, snapping sound like breaking bone. It’s followed by a scream.
I feel every bit of blood drain away from my head and face.
When the silhouette raises her other hand, it's holding a severed limb. An arm to be exact.
“I told you if you make another sound, I’d take the other arm,” Mrs. Snuffleupagus says.
Regina and I stand, immobilized and horrified, as my landlady dismembers somebody.
I should scream. Or run. Or do something, but I’m too terrified to do much more than listen to the wild thump of my own heartbeat.
“Lucky?” Regina’s voice is small and trembling, but it’s loud enough to remind Mrs. S. that we’re here. I see the shape of her head jerk around as she drops the limb and turns toward the plastic curtain.
Toward us.
I start panting frantically. Sweet Mary, what in the world is going on? And what the heck am I supposed to do about it?
My muscles start shaking with the burst of adrenaline that’s rocketing through my blood, but they don’t spring into action. At least not yet.
And not before Mrs. S. rips back the curtain.
Her hair is a mess, she’s covered in blood, and her expression is just plain deranged. She lofts the knife over her head and lets out a battle cry that would send real live Nazis scrambling for cover.
That must be what it takes to penetrate my threshold for abject terror. I spring into action.
I open my mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream that would make the cut in any slasher film. Involuntarily, I clench every muscle fiber from my clavicle to my toes as I raise my arms and go into attack mode. Against my rational better judgment, I run forward to rush a crazed old lady who’s wielding a butcher knife. And me? I have no weapon to speak of.
But before I actually reach her, more lights flick on and Mrs. Stephanopoulos bursts into laughter.
It takes my brain a few seconds to realize what’s happening. It all clicks into place when Miss Haddy comes out from behind the curtain and Malcolm descends the stairs behind us. He must’ve been the one who slammed the door shut.
My heart is pounding approximately one million times per second, but I can’t help laughing. The merriment on the faces of these three seniors would make anyone smile. Miss Haddy’s belly is even jigging with her amusement.
“You are evil. Evil, evil people,” I tell Miss Haddy and Mrs. S.
“We had to see if it would be enough to scare the kiddies,” Mrs. S. explains.