The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Page 17

  “Ah, the old crab apple,” Jimmy said, stretching his arms out. “She’s always hated Gaysie, even though Gaysie is the only one who took care of her.”

  “Took care of her?”

  “Sure. Who do you think mowed her lawn? Usually me—Gaysie made me! Or took her trash to the curb or went grocery shopping or moved her mailbox so she could reach her mail? And all Myrtle did was crab crab crab.”

  “Oh.”

  “Gaysie tells us to remember she’s bitter from grief, never got over what happened.” Jimmy shrugged.

  “Because Myron drowned?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it is suspicious, isn’t it? Gaysie lives, Myron dies. Why’s that? And before she died, Ms. Myrtle said to tell Gaysie she forgave her. I haven’t told her that yet. I’m not sure she deserves forgiving.”

  Jimmy looked at me. “What happened wasn’t Gaysie’s fault, you know.”

  “Says Gaysie.”

  “No, Myrtle was just mad Gaysie survived and he didn’t. Myrtle never forgave Gaysie, and Gaysie says Myrtle likely hated us for living too. That’s why she was so mean. It’s Ms. Myrtle who should have said sorry. I never saw Gaysie be anything but good to her—better than anyone else was!”

  My mind was taking this in, imagining four kids on a sled, two of them going under the ice. One of them surviving. Gaysie taking care of Ms. Myrtle, while Ms. Myrtle did nothing but hate her for it.

  “Before,” I said. “When you said Gaysie took care of it? What did you mean?”

  Jimmy exhaled impatiently. “Like she checked on Myrtle every night, and last night she was dead, just sitting in her chair. Gaysie called the police just like she was supposed to.”

  “Does she do other things she’s not supposed to?”

  He actually had the gall to laugh at me.

  “This was her son’s room,” I said. “She had my book in here.”

  “Old Ms. Myrtle brought lots of things in here she thought he’d like. Sometimes, when I was over, she would make me sit and listen to her read, like I was Myron or something. It’s actually a real good book. I like that Huck Finn.” Jimmy had a mischievous look about him.

  “Jimmy, why are you even over here?”

  He shrugged. “Gaysie made me check on her all the time. She wasn’t that bad once you got to know her. Anyway, I figure that now she’s dead, someone’s got to eat the food in the fridge.”

  “Jimmy!”

  “What?”

  I dropped it, given I was there to steal music. “Where’s Micah?”

  “Gone. They went to pick up Candy.”

  “Yum.”

  “No, Candy is Micah’s grandma,” he said, making a face. “Like you’ve never seen a grandma before.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “She can’t stand the sight of me, and the feeling’s mutual!”

  “Well,” I said, back to business. “My piano music is gone.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe the Creepers stole it.”

  “The Creepers!”

  He rolled his eyes. “Nah. Why would the Creepers want your old music? Maybe Gaysie has it.”

  “Gaysie Cutter!” I stomped my foot on the floor.

  “To give to you,” Jimmy said. “Why you gotta hate her so much?”

  I gazed out the window at the large clementine house next door, feeling pulled in two different directions. I wanted to run home, but I wanted something more than I thought I had: Vienna’s piano music. Was it in Gaysie’s house? I had a great, curious longing to see what else I might find. Specifically, in Gaysie Cutter’s bedroom, the one place in the house I’d never seen.

  My father often spoke about the body’s response to stress: fight or flight. It’s a physiological reaction to a perceived attack or threat. Like encountering a large, black bear in the woods or Gaysie Cutter finding me rummaging through her drawers. But I took a cue from Jed St. Clair: fight.

  We walked out the front door, down the snowy front steps, but I impulsively turned back and grabbed the piano bench.

  “What are you doing?” Jimmy asked.

  “Taking it home,” I said, poofs of warm air coming from my mouth as I lugged the bench to my bike and set it down. “But first,” I said, looking at Gaysie’s house, “I’m going to go get my music.” Jimmy smiled and punched me in the shoulder.

  “Always knew you were my kind of girl.”

  “Ow.”

  “Now we’re even.”

  I rubbed my shoulder as Jimmy leaned against a tree. Above him hung a sign that read, IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU’RE IN RANGE. If Gaysie caught me, she’d probably shoot me on sight, no questions asked.

  “That’s not all you’re looking for, is it?” Jimmy said.

  “Nope. Let’s go.”

  “Not me. I’ve been in that house plenty. Go through the side door and up the stairs.”

  “I can’t go alone!” I protested.

  “You need a lookout man. I’ll keep watch for you, but you gotta be fast. They’ve already been gone a long time.”

  “Don’t let me down, Jimmy Quintel.”

  A funny look crossed his face, like he was either touched or embarrassed.

  “Go on.”

  I ran across the snowy yard and into the kitchen, dismayed at my wet footprints streaking across the floor. Scrambling up the stairs to the second floor, my heart pounded as I ran down the dark hallway, past Micah’s room, where his purple cape was tossed on his bed instead of around his shoulders.

  I slowed outside Gaysie’s room.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t what I saw. Gaysie’s bedroom was Fairy Land. The walls were painted a pale lavender, sprinkled with a light smattering of glitter. The curtains were a breezy, white feminine, held back with fairy clips. The bed was on the left, a girly canopy, with the same breezy, white cascading curtains. The closet was open, two hangers swinging slowly back and forth. She had several pictures on her dresser. One was a picture of her with a man I assumed was her husband, a baby Micah on her lap. Gaysie looked so much younger and happier, like she hadn’t yet spent ten years of her life working too hard on a farm.

  I picked up a picture of four children around my age, realizing that two of them were my parents. There was another girl and a boy in the frame. I could tell the girl was Gaysie, before she had a long purple scar down her face. She had a wide, open smile like she’d been laughing. And the boy? It had to be Myron Myrtle, with the same red hair as his mother.

  I held it, studying it too long, before picking up a framed picture of Wilbur on the Blue Mistress. “Wilbur Truesdale,” I whispered. “Where are you?”

  I went down on my knees when I saw a piece of white paper under the bed: sheet music. And there was more than had even been at Ms. Myrtle’s—sheets and sheets of music. I opened a Brahms book filled with chords and notes, where Vienna’s name was written in her flowery, adolescent cursive. I startled when Jimmy made a rooster call: Gaysie was home!

  I scrambled to go, but stopped when I spied a worn navy suitcase under the bed. I crawled under and touched it, feeling something hard and then something crackly inside. Did I dare? I’d come this far, hadn’t I? Holding my breath, I unzipped it.

  Reaching in, my hand touched cold metal. Slowly, I pulled out an old metal pocketknife and examined it. It was engraved with three small initials. I gasped and dropped it quickly, realizing I was leaving my fingerprints behind.

  I reached into the suitcase again, pulling out small, folded pieces of paper that looked like notes you’d pass back and forth in class. They were obviously old, with faded handwriting on the outside, soft from wear, and in a myriad of colors.

  “Gwyn!” Jimmy whisper-yelled from outside.

  Frantically, I unfolded a piece of paper. The handwriting was familiar, and I realized why: Vienna. The note was silly, about what she had eaten for lunch that day. I quickly folded it and opened another one, again from Vienna. This one was more personal, with drawings of hearts and the inscription J.
S. + V.E. = Love.

  Jed St. Clair and Vienna Eyre.

  “Gwyn!” Jimmy yelled.

  Panicking, I shoved the notes into the suitcase and zipped it halfway.

  Suddenly, there was a small creak, like the sound of a chair shifting under weight. Creak. I stilled.

  A car door slammed outside, female voices floated in through the window. My left hand steadied my shaking right one, which grasped for the pocketknife once again.

  Creak.

  “Who’s there?” I whispered.

  I glanced up from under the bed. The hangers were still slightly swinging. If I had been more Sherlockian, I would have realized sooner that swinging hangers likely meant someone had recently touched the hangers; and it hadn’t been me.

  A scream rose in my throat as I looked around me from under the bed. I saw no shoes, no sign of an intruder. The thought crossed my mind that maybe it was Wilbur—kept prisoner in Gaysie’s room! Or maybe it was a Creeper, come to exact revenge!

  “Jimmy!” I heard Micah yell.

  I had to escape, and it wasn’t going to be through the front door.

  The zip line. I had to get to the zip line. A cold sweat of panic flushed over me. I hated heights.

  Suitcases banged on the pavement. A high-pitched and unfamiliar female voice rose through the air.

  Go!

  I rolled out from under the bed, still holding the knife. It was old and looked hard to open, but maybe it would scare away whoever was there.

  Creak.

  Someone was behind the door. I could hardly breathe as I reached forward. Behind the door was a wooden rocking chair, slightly rocking. Creak.

  Sitting in the chair was not Wilbur nor a Creeper. It was Mr. Thompson’s cat. At the mere sight, I sneezed, then slapped my hand over my mouth—sneezing spittle contained DNA!

  The cat raised its eyes at me, steady and unblinking.

  “If only you could talk, cat!”

  Wind blew in from a cracked window, making the hangers swing ever so slightly once again. The wind, not an intruder, not Wilbur.

  “Come on!” I said to the cat. “Gaysie’s home!”

  He went back to licking his fur. Creak.

  “Fine!” I hissed. “Save yourself!”

  I ran to Micah’s room and looked out the window to where Jimmy was hanging in the tree, waiting for me.

  I lifted the window, cold air blasting right through me.

  “Took you long enough,” he said, holding the zip line handle out to me. “Go!”

  I looked down. “I can’t do it.”

  “Jimmy?” Micah called from downstairs.

  “My floor is wet!” Gaysie roared.

  I fell through the window, grabbed onto the zip line handle, clamped my mouth and eyes shut, and flew like a crow, all the way across the backyard. It was the coldest and most exhilarating ride of my life. Unfortunately, the knife slipped from my waistline, slithered down my pant leg, and fell out onto the white snow. The line swung low and fast, and I landed in a heap.

  But Jimmy was running toward me, the knife in his hand.

  “Come on,” he said. We ran until we found a barn and hid behind it.

  I put my face in my hands. I’d mishandled evidence and hadn’t even gotten Vienna’s music. Plus Gaysie would likely find out I’d been there.

  “Stop your cryin’, will ya? I’ll take care of it.” Jimmy rubbed his head uncomfortably.

  I stood and looked out into the cold, barren field. Then I grabbed the knife from him with my shirt, took a step, and threw it as far as I could.

  “What are you doing?” Jimmy yelled, standing up. “I just got that back for you!”

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t know! We can’t carry it around—it could be the murder weapon!” Even as I said it, I was kicking myself. If it was the murder weapon, there was likely still some evidence on it—and I was throwing it into a cornfield.

  “I’m not thinking straight,” I said.

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  We turned at the sound of Micah calling Jimmy’s name again.

  “I gotta go,” Jimmy said, glancing out into the field. “Go home, Gwyn.” He took off running toward Gaysie’s.

  “Thank you, Jimmy!” I called. “Are you gonna get in trouble?”

  He turned all the way, running backward, his long Mohawk flopping in the wind, grinning.

  “Did you forget or something? I was born lucky!”

  I let him go, feeling sick at heart, still seeing the initials J.S.C. on the knife.

  • • •

  I went to bed preoccupied. I thought of all the mistakes I had made that day, all the evidence I’d abandoned. I’d left behind my bike, the piano bench, Vienna’s music, a knife. Nana was not happy I’d come home empty-handed. What a debacle. I comforted myself with my father’s mindset talk: My failures would make me better the next time—and there would be a next time! Also: Vienna’s notes were old, that knife with the initials was too. My father probably didn’t have anything to do with that knife or Wilbur’s disappearance! Then again, I had thrown the evidence in a cow patty in some field down the road, so how could I be sure?

  In the morning, it was Christmas.

  When Bitty and I went outside to look for reindeer tracks, my bike was leaned up against the porch. Next to it was the piano bench filled with Vienna’s music inside, a red ribbon tied around the middle. On top was a note: To Guinevere St. Clair. Your Friend, Gaysie.

  “How sweet,” Nana said, taken aback.

  Sweet, I thought. Sure, Gaysie was all sweetness.

  CHAPTER 26

  IN NEW YORK WE CELEBRATED Christmas, but it was always at Vienna’s care center with Lolly, nurses, other patients, and take-out Chinese. Christmas at Nana’s was vastly different. We had a spectacular, real tree with decades’ worth of homemade ornaments. There were cutout snowflakes on every window, and gingerbread houses made of real dough. Pies were in freezers with handpicked cranberries; apple-sausage stuffing recipes were tested multiple times while bread rose on the counter. Aromatic soups filled the air, and two giant turkeys thawed in the sink.

  Nana bossed and fretted even when the food was ready, the bathrooms and bedrooms sparkled, and our hair was brushed until our scalps hurt so much we hid the brush. I intuitively knew that, above all, Bitty and I were Nana’s most important showpiece, having been rescued from complete savagery.

  I was still smarting about my mistakes at Gaysie’s house, but since no one came to arrest me after I broke in, stole a knife, and threw it away, I tried my best to enjoy Christmas. The morning was filled with squealing from Bitty, Vienna, and me as we ransacked our stockings, found goodies Nana rarely let us eat, and tore open carefully wrapped presents. Nana’s face lit up as we fussed over our new baby dolls and buggies, even though I secretly thought I was too old for such gifts. She even smiled when we opened our father’s gift: a chemistry set. I plotted making an elixir to hypnotize Gaysie for a confession.

  When the doorbell rang, I raced to the door, yelling for my favorite auntie, Macy. This was a big moment for our family, my father said. After so many years, how would Vienna react to her siblings all together in the same house?

  But Aunt Macy was not at the door. My face froze to see Officer Jake standing on the front porch. His hands were behind his back. I knew it—I was going to jail on Christmas morning.

  “Cold out here,” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

  I remained a statue. Nana came around the corner.

  “Jake!” she exclaimed. “Land sakes, Gwyn, let him in!” She hustled over, practically pushed me aside, and grabbed his arm. “I know you’re here for the bread pudding,” she said, wagging her finger, “but it isn’t ready yet.”

  Officer Jake smiled. “You know me well, but actually, I came as a police officer.” He glanced at me.

  “Go in the other room, honey,” Nana said. I stumbled around the corner but waited.

  I heard whispering and Nana gasping.

  “Foun
d in the field down the road,” Officer Jake said.

  I squeezed my hands into tight, little balls and held my breath.

  “Jimmy Quintel—you know that kid? Hangs out with your little girl and Gaysie’s boy?”

  Jimmy! That rat!

  Jake’s voice was low. “Here I was, driving down the road, about to go home this morning when I see him walking down the road with no coat, no gloves, just holding a knife. He tried to hide it behind his back. Wouldn’t say a word.”

  Jimmy! That saint.

  “Nancy, it’s probably nothing, but it struck me as a little odd.”

  “Why’s that?” Nana asked. Behind the wall I shook my head. Honestly, Nana was no kind of supersleuth.

  “Well, it was Jed’s knife. Why would he be walking down the road with it? And I just can’t shake this feeling. . . . Nancy, we’ve got a missing man.”

  “What are you saying . . . Wilbur?” Nana said. “You think this knife . . . ? Oh my goodness!”

  He calmed us both down (me behind the wall, hyperventilating) by saying, “No, no, no . . .” Officer Jake lowered his voice, but I did hear a name: “Gaysie Cutter.”

  Finally!

  I slid down the wall and held my hands over my mouth. A shadow appeared over me. I looked up to see Vienna. She crouched awkwardly in front of me.

  “Are you in deep doo-doo?” she whispered.

  “Your granddaughter,” I heard Officer Jake ask casually. “Was she with Jimmy Quintel yesterday?”

  • • •

  Oh, Nana. She was in a state!

  I was neither handcuffed nor arrested, but I was briefly questioned by Officer Jake. I admitted to zip-lining out of Gaysie Cutter’s house on Christmas Eve, but I gave up no other information. Prosecuting attorney Georgia Piehl would have been impressed at my resolve.

  I pleaded the Fifth when asked about the knife.

  “Guinevere!” Nana scolded.

  “It’s my constitutional right,” I said, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

  “If you know anything,” Officer Jake said, “it’s also your obligation to tell me.”

  I considered this. “Our agencies would benefit from more collaboration.”

  “Go on.”

  “I found the knife at Gaysie’s . . . then lost it in the cornfield.”