Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  “Do you think there was something going on at home that might’ve had something to do with what happened?” I try to keep the phrasing tactful, but it takes conscious effort. I want facts, and I want them yesterday.

  Lily shakes her head. “I don’t think so. They’re as shocked as we are.”

  Victoria’s head snaps up, eyes suddenly blazing. “Well, there was obviously something, wasn’t there? People don’t just kill themselves for no reason.”

  I shoot a glance at Ravi, who’s perched back on his table, and he looks as surprised as I am. Neither of us had expected that kind of rage from Victoria.

  “I think she must’ve been keeping secrets from a lot of people, not just you,” I say. After our failed talk with the police, I don’t want the world knowing I’m looking into a possible murder, but I can’t help wondering if Victoria would feel better or worse knowing that was on the table.

  Given her outburst, I consider the wording of my next question carefully. “The sleepover Emma went to before she…disappeared. That was with you guys?”

  Neither answer at first, and I wonder if that was too close to an accusation.

  Ravi leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. “No one’s blaming anyone.” His eyes are kind and his expression solemn. Both girls gaze up at him from their chairs like he could be their savior. We hadn’t planned to do good cop-bad cop, but I’m not about to fight it.

  “I wasn’t there,” Lily says. “Xavier took me to dinner after the game, and we went back to his place. His parents were away.” She shrugs, like that explains everything.

  “The sleepover was at my house,” Victoria says. “I had no way of knowing I would be the last one to see her alive.”

  “Did she seem normal when she left?”

  Victoria shrugs but doesn’t look up. “I guess. She went running. I didn’t see her after that. She runs right by that pedo’s house though. She always does, like she doesn’t even care that he lives there. Maybe he said something to her.”

  “That made her kill herself?” Lily asks. “No one could make Emma do anything she didn’t want to do, never mind killing herself.”

  “Did something, then. I don’t know.” Victoria sounds close to tears again.

  “It’s natural to want to blame someone,” Ravi says. “Had she mentioned anything about Peter Vernon before she died?”

  Both girls shake their heads.

  “But he is a sex offender,” Victoria says. “He could’ve been watching her or something.”

  Peter is definitely on the list of suspects, but I’m not ready to share that yet, especially not with these two.

  “Then she would’ve been naked,” Lily says. “Not all dressed up like she was.”

  I seize on that. The dress was odd—no doubt about it—and any good Sherlockian knows that singularity is almost invariably a clue. “Had either of you seen that dress before?”

  “No. It wasn’t her normal style at all though,” Lily says. “It was too princessy. And it looked retro, like from the nineties, but not in a cool way. Emma usually liked dresses with more slink. You remember what she wore to prom last year.”

  I don’t, but I nod anyway. “Do you know where it came from?”

  Neither girl does.

  I think I’ve tapped them of all useful information, so I close by asking, “Is there anything else you’d like to say about Emma?”

  Lily goes first, her eyes welling. “Emma was one of my best friends. I don’t even know how to live in the world without her. I don’t want anyone else to feel the way I’m feeling right now or the way she must’ve felt at the end. I think it’s good you’re shining a light on Emma’s life so that people can remember her for who she was but also as a warning, you know? This isn’t good. Two years ago, we lost Liam, and now Emma. I don’t want a third name added to that list. Emma and Liam are enough. What Ms. Larson said in the assembly was right. We need to talk to each other. We need to be there for each other. The stupid friend groups and cool kids versus everyone else needs to stop. It’s not worth it.”

  That last part is a little rich coming from a bona fide cool kid, but the sentiment seems genuine enough that I scribble down the key phrases, knowing they would make good copy.

  “Victoria? Is there anything you want to add?”

  Victoria doesn’t look up from her lap, but tears drop onto her legs, staining her jeans dark in patches. She shakes her head. “I just want to know why.”

  Kylie Auger isn’t on the official interview list, but when she walks into The Donut Hole after school, there’s no way I’m letting her get away. If anyone has dirt, it’ll be Kylie.

  Ravi gives our favorite source a blueberries-and-cream donut and iced latte on the house and settles her in at the window counter.

  “We’re doing an end-of-year profile on Emma,” I say by way of explanation. “You know, memories, stories, and stuff.”

  Kylie bites her donut and moans. “These are amazing. I could never work here; I’d weigh a million pounds.” She sips her latte and refocuses. “Emma. Okay. What are you looking for?”

  “Anything you can tell us. You always know what’s going on.” I’m not above a little ego stroking to get what I need.

  “Oh, you mean like drama?” Kylie’s all ears now. “You know I got you covered in that department. I mean, first of all, did you hear about her and Victoria?”

  Kylie looks way too keen for this to be nothing.

  “What about them?”

  “Only that they had a massive fight the day before she died.”

  Ravi and I exchange a quick glance. This is the first either of us have heard of a fight between the two friends. “Emma and Victoria? You’re sure?”

  We have to wait for her to finish chewing before she answers, and I vow to stop feeding sources before they talk. “Yeah. Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. I only found out a couple days ago though, and I thought after the funeral, the Emma stories would be done.”

  She pauses for more coffee, and I have to fight the urge to take it away.

  “Okay, so at the game—you know, the night before she died—Emma totally fucked up. She missed some kind of important goal kick—sorry, I’m shit at sports—and Victoria said she could kill her. Right out loud.”

  I drop my pen, disgusted. “That’s the big fight? An offhand comment during a game?”

  “No,” Kylie says. “I’m not at the good bit yet. In the locker room—I heard this from Jodie, but don’t tell her I told you—Vic practically dragged Emma into a shower stall and started yelling at her—in a whisper, but still all angry, you know?—saying she was done covering for her and that she didn’t care if Emma hated her. She said she couldn’t keep doing it.”

  Okay, maybe there was something here. “Couldn’t do what?”

  Kylie shakes her head, eyes wide. “No idea. I heard she was cheating on Owen though, so my guess is it had something to do with that.”

  Victoria hadn’t mentioned any of this, but then again, why would she when we were supposed to be doing a memorial article? I’d have to circle back to Victoria—maybe talk to her alone.

  “Any idea who she was cheating with?” Ravi asks.

  “No clue,” Kylie says. “It might not even be true. You know how Emma was: all drama, all the time.”

  I consider pointing out the obvious but want to keep Kylie on my good side. Instead, I ask, “Why do you think she killed herself?”

  “Drama,” Kylie answers without hesitation. “She always had to be center of attention, and no one gets attention like pretty white dead girls.” She pops the last of the donut in her mouth. “Unless Victoria really did kill her. You never know, right?”

  “I don’t think Victoria killed her over a soccer game,” I say, but I’m already making a mental list of follow-up questions to ask Emma’s supposed best friend.

  “You never know,” Kylie says again.

  There’s a lot I don’t know, and I don’t like it. On top of having a
murder to solve, Mr. Monroe expects our initial research summaries in ten days, and I’ve barely looked at the curse notes since Emma died. I briefly considered changing the topic to something more straightforward, but I’m nothing if not good to my journalistic word. Stupid morals. I’ll just have to uncover the origins of the curse, solve a murder, and win the Emerging Excellence award all before graduation.

  No sweat.

  The biggest stumbling block with the curse is data. It’s not like I can google Maplefield High senior curse disappearance. I know; I tried.

  I flip to the curse section of my red notebook and find the list of potential interview subjects. If the information doesn’t exist on the internet, I’ll have to find it the old-fashioned way: word of mouth. Beneath Ms. Larson’s name, I list all the teachers I can think of who have been there long enough to see several graduating classes go through. Maybe Ms. Larson will at least point out who had been senior class advisors. I add a few more potential sources, including students I know that have older siblings, and by the time I close the notebook, I’m satisfied that I at least have a game plan, if not actual progress.

  I’ll use class time to pursue the curse, Directed Study to finish Ravi’s project and conduct murder interviews, and somehow keep all these balls in the air and not keel over of actual exhaustion.

  Which is exactly what’s happening when I hear a tap on the door. Cassidy wheels herself in, clad in corgi pajamas. “I think Bryce is gonna ask me out.”

  I stifle a sigh that wants to turn into a yawn. “I think you and Bryce have already been out.”

  “No, not to the barn,” she says. “Like a proper date. But Savannah likes him too, so I feel like I can’t really talk to my friends about it.” Savannah was one of Cassidy’s enthusiastic morning crew and a force to be reckoned with.

  “That’s awesome,” I say, even though the siren song of bed is making it hard to keep my eyes open.

  “I think Mom and Dad are gonna freak out and not let me go. Should I even tell them? Or should I keep it a secret and say I’m going to Janice’s?”

  “Oh, man. This is so not my division,” I say. “Okay. First, I think yay for Bryce having good taste. He’s way less of a tool than his hair would lead you to believe. Second, I think lying to the parentals will end badly for all involved, and that includes me, because I don’t want to be collateral damage of your love affair. Third, you do have some extra logistics to think about.”

  “Already figured out,” she says. “Next time you’re my barn ride, we bring Bryce and you can give him a lesson in the care and feeding of my wheels while I’m riding.”

  “You’re diabolical.”

  “I’m prepared and think ahead.” Now she turns on the puppy eyes. “Please? Please, please, please help this happen?”

  I sigh. There’s no way I’m getting out of this, and the fastest route to bed is acquiescence. “Okay, fine. I’ll give him a crash course in traveling with an extra set of wheels.” Cassidy looks ready to shriek in delight, but I hold up a hand to forestall it. “I will not, however, help you lie. If you’re old enough to date, you’re old enough to tell Mom and Dad. Or at least Mom.”

  “Deal,” Cassidy says. “Can you drive me tomorrow? We can tell Mom you need the car to do something reporterly.”

  “Diabolical,” I repeat. At this rate, I’m never going to solve Emma’s murder, but there’s something to be said for keeping my very-much-alive sister happy. “All right, fine. I’ll come up with the cover though.”

  “Oh my god, you’re the best!” Cassidy squeals. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Nothing says thank you quite like going away so I can sleep.”

  “I’m already gone! Sweetest of dreams, oh sister of immense awes—”

  “Good night,” I say, holding the door open.

  Cassidy wheels herself out with only the smallest of delighted squeaks. I doubt that she’ll sleep at all. I, on the other hand, am out before I even get the covers properly arranged, and it’s blissful.

  The cover story is simple: I’m going to drop Cassidy off at the barn so I can take The Planet to the library to do research. It’s effective simply because it’s true.

  When the final bell releases us from school, I leave Ravi to finish up a few I Am Maplefield shoots on his own and meet Cassidy and Bryce in the parking lot. I start the lesson then and there, making Bryce watch how Cassidy transfers herself from the chair to the car and demonstrating how to fold the wheelchair for storage.

  At the barn, Bryce gets a lesson in exiting a vehicle, along with assurance from both of us that Cassidy is completely capable of managing that on her own if someone fetches her chair. I hang out until Cassidy is tacked up and astride Mudd, the dark bay gelding she competes on, and then have to drag Bryce away from the fence so he can practice folding, stowing, and unfolding the chair while Cassidy isn’t waiting for it. It’s not rocket science, and he doesn’t make it harder than it has to be. He’s very matter-of-fact about it in a way that most teenage boys wouldn’t be, and I like him all the more for that.

  “Just so you know,” I say, “I’m cool with the two of you doing your thing. I think my mom will be too. I like you enough that I’ll warn you our dad can be kind of an ass, but if you’re genuinely good to Cass, things will be fine with him.”

  “I appreciate the heads-up.”

  I nod. “And I have to add—clichéd though it may be—if you hurt or humiliate her, we’re going to have a confrontation, you and I. And I can be way scarier than my father.”

  “Got it.” He flushes scarlet right to the tips of his ears.

  I burst out laughing.

  “What I mean is, I would never hurt her. I think she’s the coolest. This horse thing she does, it’s crazy. You couldn’t pay me to get on one of those things, and she does it like it’s nothing. I’ve never met someone as dedicated as she is. I know being the crazy horse girl isn’t usually cool, but she’s got this passion, and I think it’s awesome.”

  “It is,” I agree. “And she can’t really afford to be distracted right now, so keep that in mind. I’m not saying don’t take her out. I’m just saying remember everything she’s working toward. Don’t derail her.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Bryce says, and he looks so sincere that I almost believe him.

  I pick Ravi up from The Donut Hole before I go to the library and regret it once I realize his eagerness has exactly nothing to do with the project.

  “You don’t understand, Ken,” he says as we drive. “He’s like a baby Giles.”

  “So stuffy, British, and way too old for you?” I’m kidding. Mostly.

  “As in hot and smart and okay, yes, older, but sue me, I like it. It’s not like he’s old enough to be my parent or something.” Ravi’s infatuation with the new reference librarian is well established. Hot and smart pretty much sums up Ravi’s type, regardless of gender, and the latest addition to the Maplefield Public Library is the poster boy for that.

  “I don’t know how this entire day has turned into me facilitating peoples’ romances,” I say. “Our goal is to fill in the timeline of disappearances, not get you a date.”

  “No reason it can’t be a little of column A, column B.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Also, your favorite human.”

  “Not for any reason that makes a lick of sense.” I turn in to the library’s parking lot and find a space close to the entrance, deciding to take it as a good omen. “Okay, we have an hour, hour and a half, to make this happen. Can we think about using your powers of charm for good?”

  “No promises.”

  The Maplefield Library is housed in an old stone building that could double as a haunted house from the outside. Inside is a maze of narrow-aisled bookshelves and scarred wooden tables, and even though it’s cramped and out-of-date, I love it.

  We’re greeted at the main circulation desk by an older librarian, who looks up from a book to smile and nod at us.

&nbs
p; Ravi swerves to take the stairs to the second floor where the reference desk is located, but I don’t. This elderly librarian spends all her time between patrons reading crime novels. She might be just the person we need to talk to.

  “Hi,” I say before she can go back to her book. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I was wondering if you could help us with a project we’re doing for school.”

  “Oh, you’re not an interruption.” She places a bookmark into the novel. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re journalism students at Maplefield High, and we’re researching the Maplefield curse. It’s an urban legend. The way it goes is that every year, a senior disappears from school and is never seen again. We’re trying to figure out the origin of the curse and whether there’s any merit to it.”

  “How interesting,” she says, perking up. She may be gray-haired and bespectacled, but she’s as keen as any Agatha Christie detective. “What is it you think I can help you with?”

  “Well, we have a list of the disappearances we know of, but they only go back so far. We were wondering if there are any old newspapers we could look through or if there is anyone here who would remember rumors about local kids going missing. So far, most of the disappearances seem pretty mundane, but still.”

  “Well, off the top of my head there was that poor boy a couple years back who killed himself, poor thing. His mother was in here all the time—twice a week at least. Lovely lady. I can remember that boy coming to story hour as a wee little thing, and even then, he was so passionate about music.”

  Ravi nudges my foot, but I ignore him. I have no problem letting the woman reminisce about things I already know if it might lead to something I don’t.