The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Read online

  “Does he still like cats? He should go visit Vienna. My dad would sure like that. The more she can remember, the better.”

  Ms. Myrtle stared at me, her smile fading.

  “Play.”

  Silenced, I began to play random notes on the terribly out-of-tune piano. She seemed to have forgotten that she hadn’t actually taught me anything yet.

  “Ah,” she said. At first I thought she must be appreciating my natural musical ability, but she was gazing out the window that overlooked the Cutters’. I followed her eyes out toward the cornfield. Kneeling by the Blue Mistress was Gaysie. She looked like she was praying, wearing her ratty old men’s shirt, a faded pair of jeans, and a bandanna tied around her head.

  “Did you know Wilbur is gone?” I asked. “He was here one day, and the next . . .”

  Ever so slowly, Ms. Myrtle’s head began to shake back and forth.

  “Wilbur doesn’t leave Gaysie,” she said. “I’m old and sick, but I’ve been sitting here for years. Watching. I’ve seen it all. People say Wilbur wanders off, but he never has for this long.”

  “Seen it all?” I pounced. My eyes caught Micah and Jimmy coming down the street, back from bringing Bitty home. Jimmy was trying a new skate trick and holding on to the tail of his board.

  “Death attracts certain people, hovers like a rain cloud,” Ms. Myrtle said. “I’ve seen a lot, living next door to that woman. I could tell you many stories. And you like stories, don’t you? I’ve heard you tell lots of stories with your loud voice.”

  Gaysie was stomping around her backyard, her face hard to see but looking contorted with tears and frustration.

  “She knows where the man is,” Ms. Myrtle said ominously.

  “You mean Wilbur?”

  “Child,” she said, “don’t be a dope.”

  “I am most certainly not a dope.”

  “I saw you in the grave that first day,” Ms. Myrtle said.

  “My father says that she probably wasn’t trying to bury me,” I offered, shocking myself even as I said it. “It was the dog’s funeral.”

  “The whole yard is a cemetery,” Ms. Myrtle said. “I wouldn’t doubt if George Cutter, her deceased husband, ended up out there.” She looked at me and narrowed her eyes. “Did you know it’s against the law to bury what she’s buried?” Ms. Myrtle shuddered. “Gaysie knows it too. She’s been fined, even threatened with jail time! Yet she keeps on doing whatever she pleases. And what about me? Imagine having to live on a burial plot.”

  “We should tell Officer Jake,” I said excitedly.

  Ms. Myrtle breathed uneasily in and out, her eyes boring holes in me. Why didn’t she tell if she knew so much? Was she afraid of Gaysie too? Is that why she was telling me? Was this the final call to battle?

  My brain catalogued the multiplying charges against Gaysie just as I heard the sound of the dump truck braking, far down the road. It triggered a most serendipitous thought—today was dump day! Rule 20 from The Law: A to Z: T: Trash as Evidence Oh, Guinevere, I scolded. I should have found a way to confiscate Gaysie Cutter’s trash immediately after I suspected her of a crime.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late! Maybe she had held on to evidence!

  I listened as the dump truck came closer and closer, stopping at each house down the road with the sound of its heavy brakes, followed by trash being emptied, the truck crushing its weight. I hurriedly plunked out a few notes for Ms. Myrtle’s benefit. By the look on her face, I was certainly not my talented mother’s daughter. Little did she know I was also performing a complex sting operation in my head.

  After an incongruous rendition of “My Playful Pony,” she finally made her way to her chair and sat down, gasping for air. Her eyes closed, and her head rolled back and forth several times. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed the music, shoved it in my backpack, and bolted. As I opened the front door, the cat scrammed past me, danced across the yard, and leaped atop one of the trash can lids. I followed. Just as I reached the trash cans, I heard my archenemy’s voice—Gaysie! Panicking, I made my own flying leap behind the barrels. The cat meowed loudly at me.

  “Here, kitty, kitty!” I whispered.

  Gaysie grew louder and louder, swearing like Vienna on a bad day. I peeked out, saw Gaysie stomping toward me. The cat’s tail curled around my nose, and I stifled a sneeze in my shirt as Gaysie stopped to kick the side of the house, tear past-prime lilies out of the ground, and throw them aside. In her left hand she held a glass coffeepot. I knew that pot. It was the one I’d seen Wilbur pour numerous cups from.

  I stopped breathing as Gaysie continued to walk toward my hiding spot. Oh please, oh please, oh please make her stop. She did, five feet away from the trash. The cat meowed.

  “Scram!” Gaysie roared. The cat jumped over my head and ran across the street. Oh, how I wished to be a flea on him.

  My only hope was speed. I knew I could outrun Gaysie any day of the week. I readied myself in a sprinter position, not even daring to peek, all the while despising my fear. I knew if Ms. Myrtle had awoken she was watching, but she would do nothing to protect me. The rumble of garbage trucks echoed down the street, an easy place for Gaysie to throw my body.

  Something hard hit the garbage in a splintering crash. Glass shattered and showered down behind my head. The black coffeepot handle ricocheted off the ground and hit my hand, making a small cut.

  “Take it!” Gaysie screamed. “Take it . . . just take it—you’ve taken everything else!” At first I thought she was talking to me, but when her voice faltered, I quickly peeked out to see her fist to the sky. She went into the house, banging the side door behind her. I crouched like the cat, shook small shards of glass out of my hair, and peered over the garbage cans. Hurry!

  I reached down quickly, feeling the bags. Paper crunched, my hand felt something warm and squishy, and my nose wrinkled at the smell of decaying food. I glanced at Ms. Myrtle’s house, hardly believing I was practically in cahoots with the old bat.

  I grabbed the top of the plastic bag. The metal can tipped over as I pulled it out, making a loud clanging noise. I ran, the heavy white plastic hitting the back of my legs with each kickback of my foot. The farther and faster I ran, the heavier the bag became, but when I lowered it slightly, the plastic caught on the road. I continued to run, half carrying, half dragging the spilling garbage to Nana’s barn. Willowdale looked at me with interest as I approached, a long trail of trash behind me. Dropping the trash bag, I ran back to pick up a soup can, a shaver, a piece of soap, a newspaper, wrappers, and an old toothbrush. I left the hairballs, and kicked the coffee grounds to scatter just as the dump truck stopped and snorted down the road. It was making its way to Nana’s.

  Behind the barn, I heaved at the wet, rotten stench of garbage on my clothes, hands, and legs. Tearing open the bag I discovered last night’s lasagna dinner oozing like slime. There was oatmeal and school papers and hair clippings. I examined them. Micah must have had a haircut from Jimmy again, and Jimmy was going to fail English with those quiz grades. There was a milk jug smeared with peanut butter and jelly. But there was nothing close to remarkable. No bloody knife, no secret diary, no smoking gun—nothing!

  However, as I was putting things back in, I did notice something at the very bottom. There were two unopened gourmet coffee packages. I knew how much Wilbur loved his afternoon coffee with Gaysie. Why was she throwing it away?

  Once again I heard the sound of the dump truck braking.

  Shoving the trash back into the ripped bag, I rolled it up as best I could and darted to the curb. The blue-and-white dump truck stopped.

  “Nick of time, huh?” Mike, the trash collector, said. I nodded, plugging my nose, darted back behind the barn again, and collapsed. I leaned my head against the outer wall, breathing in and out, relieved to have the trash away from me. I regretted listening to the witch Myrtle. In addition, I smelled like a skunk.

  Still, a nagging tickled my brain. It was the coffee. Why would Gaysie throw away gourmet co
ffee and the coffeepot unless she knew for certain Wilbur wouldn’t be coming back to drink it?

  I sat by the barn for a long time. Clouds moved overhead, the sun began to dip. I touched my backpack that held Vienna’s old music, then rose, brushed off my clothes, and walked into the house. I hung my backpack up and left my shoes by the side door.

  “I’m home,” I called to Nana and Bitty before walking directly to the bathroom.

  I stripped off my clothes and got into a scalding shower. I washed my hair, scrubbed my hands with soap, washing between my fingers and under my short, bitten fingernails. I scrubbed all the way up my arms until they were lobster red. I dried thoroughly, using a pretty rose towel Nana had embroidered.

  When I entered the kitchen, Bitty was coloring at the kitchen table while Nana stood at the counter, chopping up squash for dinner.

  “Guinevere, did you just take a shower?” Nana asked, surprised.

  “I’ve taken a shower before.”

  “Not voluntarily. How was your first piano lesson?”

  “She gave me Vienna’s music.”

  “Vienna’s!” Nana exclaimed. “Oh, show me. Show Vienna when she comes for dinner.” She smiled and began to hum.

  “Vienna’s coming to dinner?”

  Nana smiled. “Your father thinks she’s making progress.”

  That was news to me.

  Nana paused and sniffed the air. “What’s that smell? Smells like . . . garbage!” She sniffed again.

  “P U!” Bitty exclaimed.

  I said nothing.

  “Are you all right, Gwyn?” Nana asked, stealing a look at me.

  “Ms. Myrtle got a cat.” I rubbed my nose and sneezed.

  CHAPTER 14

  ON FRIDAY MY FATHER MADE plans to take Vienna to the movies in a neighboring town. They were going with their oldest friends as a way to “help Vienna.” He hypothesized that the more Vienna became familiar with the people from her past, the more connections her mind might make with the present. I was skeptical of my father’s enthusiasm, secretly hypothesizing to Bitty he just wanted to go to the movies and eat Milk Duds without us.

  Vienna sat on the couch next to me, her eyes shiny with excitement as she hugged her Love-a-Lot Care Bear.

  “I’m going to the movies,” she said to me. “With a boy!”

  “I know.”

  I waited. Ten seconds passed. She looked at me, confused. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re going to the movies,” I said. “With a boy!”

  “I am?” She clapped her hands. “I love the movies!”

  When Officer Jake walked through the door, she shrieked and clapped her hands again—until she saw his very pregnant wife, Suzy. Vienna screamed and pointed at her stomach.

  “Suzy? What happened?!”

  Officer Jake and Suzy froze for one mortifying moment.

  I helped them out by doubling over with laughter, falling off the couch, and slapping my knee.

  “Oh, Vienna!” I said. “Suzy is old now—no offense—and she’s married to Officer Jake. They’re having a baby.”

  “Officer Jake,” she echoed, confused.

  I turned to him and Suzy. “You’re going to have to say that a million more times tonight. She doesn’t remember anything after she was thirteen, so the baby will confuse her. . . .” Suzy stared at me.

  “This is Jake and Suzy,” my father began. “Remember . . .”

  “I know!” Vienna said. “We go to school with them, duh.”

  He smiled. “Honey, Suzy and Jake have three kids and are about to have another one!”

  “Shut-up!” She couldn’t stop staring at Suzy’s stomach.

  Suzy stepped forward, red-faced, and said, “Vienna. It’s . . . so good to see you.” Liar.

  “Are we going to a movie?” Vienna asked. “I love movies, it’s like my favorite thing ever. Suze, can I borrow some lip gloss? I get to choose the treat. Oh my gosh, I’m so excited!” My father helped her out the door as Officer Jake and Suzy stood in the doorway a moment longer.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” Suzy whispered.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I butted in. “She just remembers you from before, not now. If you spend enough time with her, she’ll start recognizing you.” Of course, from personal experience, this could take a very long time. Vienna now knew my face and name, but never connected me to before.

  Suzy put her hand to her chest as if I was the most pathetic thing she’d ever come across.

  “Have fun!” I called. Officer Jake nodded, but before closing the door, I slid a note into his jacket pocket.

  “What’s this?”

  “Information I have come across,” I whispered. “You can put me in jail and torture me all you want. I’ll never reveal my source.” I’d gotten that straight out of Morgana Cross, A Sherlock Holmes Protégé.

  “Okay, then,” he said with a wink. “You all have a lovely evening.”

  Nana sighed when they left. “Poor Jake and Suzy.”

  “Yep,” I muttered, slamming the front door shut. “The psych ward takes some getting used to.”

  “Guinevere.”

  “Yes?”

  “Go play. Be home in half an hour.”

  We found Jimmy and Micah sitting out on the porch. “What are you guys doing?” I asked. Micah, who was wearing his glorious purple cape, pointed to the living room. Squinting, I saw Gaysie behind the front window. Rocking in the dark.

  “What’s going on?” Bitty whispered.

  “There’s a search party going out for Wilbur tomorrow,” Micah said. “I think it made her sad.”

  “A search party,” I breathed. My eyes narrowed at the shadow of a rocking Gaysie. “This is perfect,” I said. “ ‘Cause, guess what I brought?” Jimmy eyed the law book that I pulled from my backpack. “So, who’s in charge of the investigation?”

  “Lytle,” Jimmy said.

  “We’ve got to be in on that search party.”

  “Can’t,” Micah said, sitting down on the front porch, his long, dark purple robe splayed out dramatically.

  “Can’t,” I said, “is a four-letter-word.”

  “Yeah, Micah,” Jimmy said, throwing the rubber band ball at him. Micah swatted at it.

  “At least try and catch it!” Jimmy said, exasperated.

  “She already said we can’t go,” Micah said. “Adults only. Besides, what if we found . . . something we didn’t want to find?”

  “Like a dead body?” I asked, excitedly chewing my nails. Micah frowned.

  “A dead body?” Bitty squeaked.

  Micah’s face turned pale at the thought. Even Jimmy looked rattled.

  From inside the house Gaysie released a long, mournful noise.

  “Come on, Gwyn, let’s go,” Bitty whispered.

  “You guys want to come?” I asked.

  As we began to ride, Micah’s long purple cape flew behind him in the breeze.

  “Did you finish your story?” Bitty asked Micah.

  “Well,” Micah began. “I’m sorry to tell you, but Queen Guinevere is going to be beheaded.”

  “Beheaded!” I yelled. “What for?”

  “For betraying Arthur Pendragon.”

  “Micah! I would never . . .” But suddenly the note came to mind, the one I had handed to Officer Jake.

  “Guinevere did betray King Arthur in real life,” Micah said.

  “But, Micah, you’re the author,” I said. “You get to rewrite it!”

  Micah focused on the road. As the least athletic child I had ever known, he had at least finally learned to ride a bike.

  I pondered my renewed beheading. Did Micah suspect I was a traitor? I felt a stab of regret at my disloyal actions: my secret thoughts, stealing the trash, the note in Officer Jake’s pocket outlining all Gaysie Cutter’s suspicious behavior. Perhaps I was a traitor. Just like Queen Guinevere. But wasn’t it for all the right reasons? Wouldn’t I be vindicated in the end?

  Up ahead I saw something th
at made me forget my betrayal. The Creepers and their little Creepers-in-Training. They grudgingly nodded at Jimmy, who skated ahead of us. Their bikes were low, their knees hiked up to their chests as they rode in slow, lazy circles. I recognized the bucktoothed Travis Maynard from school. We hadn’t had a run-in with them since the first day, but now I regretted never checking out that wrestling book.

  “Go, Bitty baby,” I whispered. “Go fast.” Bitty bent her head and pedaled straight ahead. They let her by, grazing her up and down with their eyes, laughing at her concentrated gaze. My face felt hot with anger, but I kept going, head up and pedaling after her. Travis Maynard’s black, greasy hair hung in his face as he watched me ride.

  I heard Travis say in a high voice, “Hi, I’m Micah. I’m a girl.”

  “Nice cape,” Eddie the Creeper said and smirked. I slowed and glanced behind me.

  The Creepers had put their bike wheels together, blocking Micah’s path. He looked so small, his pale face anxious. I turned my bike around, fear stalling me. There were too many of them. They talked loudly and laughed. One of them tossed a rock at Micah’s tires, and a piece broke off, hitting his face. He blinked quickly, trying to look brave as he attempted to ride around. Gaysie’s face suddenly came to mind, proud and stubborn. I shook her right out of me. Gaysie Cutter was most certainly not an inspiration.

  I took a deep breath and booked it back to Micah anyway.

  “Look who it is,” a big kid with yellow hair said. “The girlfriend.”

  “Nah,” another said. “She’s too ugly to be a girlfriend.” I unwillingly saw my wild, unkempt hair and felt utterly wounded.

  “Hey, babe.” Slurping loudly, Travis Maynard took a drink of Sunkist soda, belched, and blew it in my face.

  “Hey, yourself, stink breath!”

  “Her mom’s the nutjob,” the yellow-headed Creeper said, slinging an arm over my shoulder. The air went out of me.

  Travis laughed before abruptly yelling a holy wet terror. I turned to see Micah, his face white but focused, pouring the Sunkist soda over Travis’s head.

  “What the . . . ,” Travis yelled, orange soda dripping down from his hair and onto his face and clothes.