The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Page 12

  Micah said nothing, miserably plunking down keys. An unhappy ripple moved through the crowd as Dr. Long called out.

  “We should be searching everywhere.” He tipped his head at Gaysie. I liked Dr. Long. He was always polite and kind to Vienna when he visited, even when she acted out. “With all due respect, Ms. Gaysie,” Dr. Long said, “we should leave no stone unturned. We all love Wilbur!” He spread his arms wide. “We just want to find him, the same as you.”

  She began to speak, her voice hard and superior.

  “No one shall set one foot on my property. With all due respect,” she added, nodding at Dr. Long. “I’ve searched under every rock on my property and everywhere in between. This is my cornfield, my life’s work. You’ll not ruin it by having the whole town of Crow tromping through it.” The announcement smacked the crowd with dissatisfaction, but Gaysie’s voice rose above the rest again.

  “I will say it again: YOU WILL NOT SEARCH MY HOME!” she yelled. “YOU WILL NOT SEARCH MY YARD OR ANY OF MY FIELDS unless you have a warrant, which you do not have.”

  A tall, weathered, and tough-looking man folded his arms and stepped forward, a black eye patch over one eye.

  “A pirate,” I whispered.

  “All adults are pirates,” Jimmy whispered back, his face hardening.

  “What you got to hide, Gaysie? I’m givin’ up my whole work morning, and we can’t search the place Wilbur’s always at? You gonna stand for this, Lytle?” The man’s voice was low, hard, and gravelly, like a truck moving slowly across granite rock.

  Officer Jake Lytle looked between the two of them.

  “No search warrant,” I whispered to Micah, who was typing at a furious pace. “Rookie mistake.” I shook my head pitifully.

  “Officer Jake said he’d get one if he had to,” Micah said tearfully.

  “Again!” I said. “Information you’re not sharing with me!”

  “Guys,” Jimmy said, shushing us with his hand.

  “We need your permission?” The pirate spit on the ground. Jimmy sat transfixed in the window, his hand on the zip line.

  “I already told you, Hank,” Gaysie said, her voice loud. “I’ve been over my own property. Every single inch of it.”

  “Then what do you care if we double-check?” the pirate exploded. “Who do you think you are? Don’t like it? Go ahead! Go ahead and shoot me!” I looked across the crowd. It was obvious that Gaysie was alone. I felt a small pang despite myself, thinking of what my father had said earlier. The pirate took a step forward. Gaysie raised the gun. The crowd gasped. I covered my mouth, saw the white flash of her bandaged hand.

  “Don’t you dare try to bully me, Hank Quintel.” Gaysie’s voice rose.

  “Quintel!” I whispered. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Jimmy’s dad,” Micah said, furiously typing.

  “The plot thickens,” I whispered.

  “She hates him so much, she wouldn’t spit on him if he were on fire,” Jimmy said, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. Oh, he sure was stoic standing in that windowsill, as still and strong jawed as I’d ever seen him. But I also noticed a small, nearly imperceptible tightening of his fist.

  “Jimmy,” I breathed. “You have a dad?” I had a million theories about why Jimmy mostly lived with Gaysie, but he rarely spoke about home and never included information about parents.

  “Everyone has a dad.”

  “But—”

  “Shh!”

  “You gonna shoot me?” the man yelled, raising his hands in the air.

  “She’s gonna shoot him!” I whispered loudly.

  Micah typed faster.

  “Save him!” Bitty exclaimed.

  “Ah heck,” Jimmy said. He put both hands on the zip line and pushed off with both feet. He sailed across the backyard, over the heads of a hundred people, and landed beautifully at Officer Jake’s feet. It was a most spectacular distraction. “Stop it, Dad.”

  “Boy!” the pirate barked. Jimmy trudged over and stood before him. The pirate slapped Jimmy’s face hard. Bitty and I flinched and grabbed each other.

  “You putrid piece of scum,” Gaysie said, her voice venomous. The SNAP, I thought, was coming!

  Micah was at my side, shaking his head. “You see, don’t you? Why Jimmy . . . ?”

  I clutched his arm. I looked from Micah to Jimmy, my heart in my throat. I saw.

  My father alone stepped forward and put a hand on Gaysie’s shoulder. My mouth dropped open.

  “Won’t do us any good to provoke a shooting. Come on, Hank. Let’s cooperate. Gaysie, please.” The pirate stepped back.

  Gaysie lowered the gun, chin held high in proud triumph.

  “Enough,” Officer Lytle said briskly. “There’s no evidence of a crime yet. Ms. Cutter is not a suspect, and we’ll just have to do the best we can. And, Mr. Quintel, if you strike that child again, there will be charges, and they won’t be against Ms. Cutter.” The pirate bristled but lowered his eyes.

  We watched the crowd organize into a line, spread out on either side of Gaysie’s fields, and begin to slowly walk, eyes roving from side to side. Jimmy walked back toward the house.

  Some of the searchers carried garbage bags and flashlights, even though it was the middle of the day.

  “It does make her look guilty,” I whispered, glancing at Micah and flipping through my law book. “I saw this show once, about a search party finding a dead body in the woods. It was rotten! Decomposing. But they identified it with dental records.”

  “There’s a lot of decomposing in this backyard, but not Wilbur.” Jimmy was back, standing in the doorway, a red handprint splayed across his face. We were silent as he casually walked back over to the window.

  “Jimmy,” I whispered.

  He shook me off and went back to his window.

  “They should have dogs,” I said, looking out the window. “Sniff him out.”

  Suddenly Micah flung himself on his bed, covered his face with his cape, and began to cry.

  “Micah! What’s the matter?”

  Jimmy looked at me. “Wilbur is our friend, so try not to be so happy about finding his dead body, okay?”

  I sat by the window, stung, remembering that Micah and Jimmy loved Wilbur like family, and of course they wouldn’t want to believe that he was dead, much less killed by Gaysie. It’s not that I wanted to either. Not really. I just knew it was true in my gut.

  Micah sniffed loudly as he cleaned his glasses with his cape.

  “I’m real sorry, Micah.”

  He nodded and wiped his eyes.

  I thought of Gaysie and the blood on her clothes, her finger lying beside the tractor that no one besides Wilbur ever touched. Her history of mysterious “accidents.” But when I looked at Jimmy and Micah, their faces did not recognize the same thing I felt. How could I make them see without ruining everything between us?

  I turned back toward the window and spied Officer Jake walking toward the house with my father. Straining hard to eavesdrop, I heard my father say, “foul play.”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened here, Jed,” Officer Jake said. “Most likely . . . hurt, disoriented, something . . .”

  “Have you dusted the Blue Mistress for fingerprints?” I yelled, then crouched on the floor below the window.

  “She’s practicing for a lawyer,” Bitty said.

  “We know,” said Jimmy.

  “Gwyn?” I heard a voice call up. “Guinevere!”

  Oh sugar sticks! I peeked out the window to see my father, standing next to Officer Jake, peering up at us.

  “Hi, Daddy!” I called lightly.

  “You’ve got Bitty with you?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Go home now,” he said. “Go out the front door and go home.”

  “But . . .”

  “Now.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said, smarting.

  “Hey, Sherlock,” Jimmy called as I left the house. “If they’re not gonna get the fingerprints, why d
on’t we?”

  I stopped and turned around. “Jimmy Quintel, I’m sorry I ever called you stupid!”

  I didn’t walk home. I skipped.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT WAS BRILLIANT, I ADMITTED while attempting to unearth an ancient forensics textbook at the library. The text was so old that dust covered the outer pages, and the library card showed that it hadn’t been checked out since 1983. Crow was obviously lacking in supersleuths.

  Unfortunately, the chapter on collecting fingerprints described the requirements of chemicals and a lab. Using the library computer, we searched the interlibrary database until I found just what we were looking for: Fingerprinting for Amateurs. They had a copy a few counties away. I pressed “print.”

  “Even if you get prints off the Mistress,” Jimmy whispered, “what’s it’s gonna prove?”

  “You said Wilbur didn’t let anyone touch the Mistress. So if we find two sets of fingerprints, then we’ll know something.” Gaysie, of course. It would point to Gaysie.

  Ms. Priscilla peered at us from around her desk.

  “If you touch the Mistress,” Jimmy whispered, “Wilbur will haunt you from the grave. . . .”

  “He’s not dead!” Micah wailed. Jimmy stopped laughing and slung his arm around Micah’s shoulders.

  “I was just joking, dude.”

  Ms. Priscilla’s expression turned alarmed. “Can I help you kids with anything?”

  I shoved Micah behind me and handed the Fingerprinting for Amateurs book printout to her. “Book request, please.”

  She gave it a once-over and nodded slowly. “Science experiment?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Bitty and I—we just love science!”

  “Especially when it’s going to deliver a guilty verdict!” Bitty contributed.

  I laughed nervously and patted Bitty on her head. “Precocious little thing.”

  Thankfully, Ms. Priscilla smiled. “Bless your hearts. I love to see girls interested in science. Your father must be very proud.”

  I smiled angelically.

  “I should be able to get this in within a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks?” My angelic expression turned to dismay. “Any chance it could be a rush job? I’m real anxious to get my . . . science experiment started!”

  Ms. Priscilla beamed. “I’ll do my best, Guinevere.”

  • • •

  A few days later the calendar turned its page and brought the glories of fall in earnest: pumpkin patches, hayrides, and Nana’s homemade applesauce. The cooler, dry wind seemed to nearly blow the very thought of Wilbur away for everyone but us. Winter on the plains was coming, and the town became busy with farm equipment, snowmobiles, and snowplows. There was still lots of talk in Petey’s Diner and Arnie’s Supermarket, but Wilbur didn’t turn up. Nothing had come of the search party, and I overheard my father tell Nana that there wasn’t probable cause for a search warrant. But while people shot strange, mistrustful glances Gaysie’s way, Midwesterners were also a cheery, optimistic bunch. Wilbur would show up, and we’d all have a good laugh. Only Gaysie did not express this sentiment. She gave no indication we would ever see Wilbur Truesdale again. And she did not buy another coffeepot, as if she already knew he wasn’t coming home.

  We needed to get fingerprints in a New York minute, but every day I checked in with Ms. Priscilla, the how-to book had yet to arrive. In the meantime, I read the dusty forensics book and tried to keep tabs on an investigation that had become as exciting as dry toast. Rumors said Officer Jake had sent out a missing person’s notice and was pursuing leads, but really, there were no leads. Wilbur Truesdale had simply vanished.

  There were other distractions too. Vienna wasn’t progressing as much as my father had hoped. Family dinner hours with Vienna not remembering anything longer than she ever had, led my father to lengthy and brooding silences. Then there was Nana. I had tried my best, but I was simply not the acquiescing child she had hoped for. Compromise of any sort came to a halt when Nana laid out matching flowered dresses for me and Bitty, who shocked me by prancing around the bedroom in her new frills.

  “I don’t even know who you are anymore!” I hollered at her.

  Nana did one of those bless-her-heart gestures. “I bought this one especially for you, Guinevere,” Nana said. “It has the pretty blue—your favorite color.”

  “I would rather die.”

  Her face crumpled slightly, guilting me into “just trying it on.”

  I walked into the kitchen to find Nana washing dishes by hand. Nana had an aversion to all modern conveniences. They were downright offensive! She marched up stairways instead of taking the escalator, opened doors instead of using the automatic ones, and lifted the garage door instead of pressing a button. It was actually shocking she wasn’t still cooking over a campfire in a pioneer dress.

  “Isn’t she precious as pie?” Nana said when I stood in front of my father.

  “You look very pretty, Guinevere,” he said.

  “I’m hideous,” I said, glowering that he took Nana’s side. “And I don’t know why we can’t get a dishwasher.”

  “A dishwasher,” my father said, folding his paper and raising an eyebrow.

  “I bet I’m the only person in the whole world that has to ask for a microwave for Christmas.”

  “I have a surprise for you,” my father said smoothly, ignoring my outburst.

  “I can burn the dress?”

  “No. Lolly is coming. She’ll be here for Halloween.”

  “With Moose and Tomato?”

  “No way around it.”

  “Is she coming for Vienna or me and Bitty?”

  “For all of us!”

  “Yippee!” I shouted, skipping down the front stairs with Bitty.

  “And don’t forget your piano lesson after school,” Nana called after me. I stomped to school, resenting how she purposely blackened my mood, not realizing until I was halfway there that I was still wearing the hideous flowered dress.

  • • •

  “Not one word,” I said.

  “Nice dress,” Jimmy said, taking off on his skateboard. “You should wear one more often.”

  “I should?” I looked down at myself, stunned.

  “Whatever. Watch this new trick. It’s called the Girlfriend Getter.” He took off toward his homemade ramp.

  He skated fast, his overgrown Mohawk flopping. Flying up, he grabbed the tail of his board, then came falling down to earth. This time though, he didn’t land neatly like he always did. Bitty screamed.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, squatting down beside him.

  “I didn’t know you could crash!” Bitty said.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” he said, even though he was wincing. He rolled over, his elbow bleeding through his long-sleeve T-shirt.

  “Guess you better work on the Girlfriend Getter.”

  He grimaced, his eyes narrowing. “I hate girls. Except for Bitty. I don’t hate Bitty.” Jimmy gave her a smile and pulled his boots up.

  I frowned at his preference for Bitty until I noticed his boots. “Jimmy, are those . . . Wilbur’s?”

  “I don’t know. They were by the back door at Gaysie’s. I needed ’em.”

  At the look on my face, Jimmy had the decency to look chagrined.

  “I’m comin’!” Micah yelled, coming down the front stairs while shoving his lunch box in his backpack. Today he was wearing a light blue sweater with green bunnies all over it. His jeans were tucked into an old pair of large cowboy boots.

  “Are those Wilbur’s too?” I asked darkly.

  “You like ’em?” Micah asked proudly. “They used to be my dad’s.” My sarcasm dried up.

  “Hurry up,” Jimmy said, helping himself to the last bite of Micah’s toast.

  Gaysie came out, and my heart banged along with the banging of the door behind her. Her hand was obviously getting better, as she carried a full milking pail of white cream with it. Her towering frame shadowed the entire porch.

  �
�Willowdale Princess Deon Dawn will have company next time she decides to trample all my flowers,” she said. “We have just acquired our very own milking cows, though none with such a pedigree as yours.”

  “We need money,” Micah said. “We’re gonna sell milk and have our own dairy.” I eyed Gaysie. Money was often the cause of murder.

  I also observed the pail she carried. Fingerprints everywhere. It occurred to me that if I got prints off the Mistress they would need to be matched to another set of Gaysie’s, taken from another surface.

  My eyes drifted upward to a necklace around Gaysie’s neck I hadn’t seen before: a golden cross, large and sparkling with fake diamonds.

  “My mother sent it,” Gaysie said, noticing my gaze. “It seems we’re both feeling feminine today.” She raised her eyebrows at our dresses. “Bitty, you look just like your mother did fifteen years ago.”

  I sighed loudly, wanting to wiggle out of the stupid dress again.

  She continued. “But, Guinevere”—she smiled—“you act more like her.”

  I stomped all the way to school.

  • • •

  In gym class Micah and Jimmy had a fight. It was because of that Creeper, Travis Maynard. We had avoided him like he was contagious since the night he followed us home. But today he grabbed the kickball and appointed himself captain. Our oblivious gym teacher, Mr. Zabriski, nodded his head like this was a good idea.

  While waiting to get picked last for kickball, Micah carefully tied his bunny sweater around his waist.

  “We don’t want you, we’ll play down one,” Travis said, dismissing Micah with a look. Ever since the orange soda incident Travis had found any reason at all to push Micah in the hall, flick his ear, or growl at him like a rabid dog—always without a teacher to witness. “Let’s go.” The two kickball teams broke up, Travis’s team kicking first.

  “You can be on my team,” I whispered to Micah.

  “No,” Travis said roughly. “He can’t play. Roll the ball,” he said, turning to Jimmy, who was pitching for us.

  I stood still. Micah’s eyes met mine. Then he looked at Travis’s huge shoulders and strong, curled hands.

  “I didn’t want to play anyway,” Micah said with a shrug. He sat down against the wall and pushed up his glasses. He looked like a lost bird.