The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Read online

  “Yup,” Jimmy said. “And then I grabbed a tree branch that was hanging over the water like this . . .” Jimmy jumped back onto the porch railing and then jumped up to hang from the roof.

  “Probably the smartest thing you’ve ever done in your life,” Gaysie said. Jimmy beamed, looking like he’d just won first prize at a rodeo. “He’s had more accidents than you can shake a stick at,” Gaysie said, drumming her fingers. “But I always said, Jimmy Quintel was born lucky.”

  Jimmy let go of the roof, splaying himself onto the grass, letting the sun shine on his face.

  “Please don’t ever die again,” Micah said.

  I heard the sound of trucks pulling into Ms. Myrtle’s driveway.

  It was a cleanup, clean-out moving business. Someone had bought the property and was tearing down the whole house to build a bigger one. Workmen had come all week, throwing away all the innards, sparing nothing. Carpet, curtains, pots and pans, the goose cage, Myron Myrtle’s old toys—all of it thrown right into a giant maroon Dumpster parked on the new spring grass. But when they started taking the piano down the front stairs I let out a yell.

  “Wait! That’s my piano.” I sprinted across the grass.

  “You gonna have a bonfire?” a bald, sweaty man asked.

  “This is not firewood! It’s a musical instrument,” I said. “It was my . . . it’s mine!”

  “Be my guest,” Baldy said, wiping the sweat off his brow. “But you gotta get it out of our way.” He walked back inside as Jimmy, Micah, and Bitty came over to help me push and pull the little spinet over wet grass, the wheels sinking into soft earth. All four of us were panting by the time we were finally back in Micah’s driveway.

  “I’ll go get Willowdale,” I said. “She can pull it home.”

  “What are you going to do with another piano?” Jimmy asked.

  “Play it, of course. I’ll give it to Nana for an early birthday present. It was the piano Vienna learned on—she’ll love it.”

  “Or you could have the Blue Mistress pull it home,” Gaysie said.

  How peacefully she sat, rocking back and forth, looking out across the field. “Didn’t he just love plowing, seeding, and haying those fields. And I loved working alongside him.” She sighed. “I miss him every day.”

  “Me too,” Micah said, hugging his knees to his chest.

  I finally asked the question that’d been burning in me since the beginning.

  “Did you do it?”

  With a quick flick of my eyes, Bitty came to my side. If we had to, we would run, and we would run fast. My hands and feet twitched in anticipation. Instincts. Sherlock said it was one of the first rules in detective work.

  Gaysie eyed me, stopped rocking her chair. “There is a very fine line between good and evil. One small misalignment and you are all at once very far off the path.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  Gaysie studied me. “You would like for me to have done it, wouldn’t you? You would like to know you’d been right all this time. Yes, I know what you are thinking. That’s what’s going to make you one heck of a lawyer someday, Guinevere. You’re the hound dog. But as wonderful as your imagination is, there is also the true story.”

  “Tell her,” Jimmy said. “Then Gwyn can talk about something else for once.”

  “So you’ve known all along!” I demanded.

  “Nah, not exactly, but I know Gaysie.”

  “Tell me, Guinevere, what is your theory?”

  “Your behavior indicates guilt.”

  “Such as?”

  “You stabbed Micah’s floatie to bits.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “A regrettable moment. Move along.”

  “You wouldn’t let anyone search your property. You threw away the coffeepot and all of Wilbur’s coffee. You had his boots! The fingerprints on the Blue Mistress were yours!” I was lying, taking a gamble. I didn’t mention my father. I had one more card to play—the most incriminating of them all. “And,” I said, delivering my closing argument, “we found his hat in your coffin, in your backyard!”

  Micah bit his lip, squeezed his eyes tightly together, and crossed all of his fingers, as if he were willing a not-guilty verdict. Even Jimmy looked rattled.

  Gaysie considered the evidence.

  “My, my, aren’t you observant. Fingerprints,” Gaysie said.

  “We had them tested,” Micah said slowly. “On Halloween night, when we got caught outside.”

  She stared at us.

  “We are also pleading the Fifth,” I stated.

  “She’s practicing to be a lawyer,” Bitty said solemnly.

  “You’ve told us like a million times,” Jimmy said.

  “My goodness.” Gaysie folded her hands together. “Well, since I’m on the witness stand, I’ll tell you right now. I didn’t kill Wilbur, may God rest his soul.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Thank goodness,” Micah said, exhaling.

  “But I did take care of his body. Hence the hat. And the boots.”

  Micah came back to attention.

  “Wilbur was an old man. He died of old age, doing what he loved, up there on that tractor. One day I saw him out there, his hat pulled down like he was taking a nap. That’s how I found him. The good Lord had taken him home. I like to think Myron was waiting. Fitting, don’t you think, to go like that?”

  “Didn’t you—call someone?” I burst out.

  “I most certainly did.”

  I had a sudden and horrible revelation. I knew exactly who she would have called.

  “My father?” I asked weakly.

  “Yes, but he didn’t pick up.”

  “Phew,” Bitty exhaled.

  “There was blood,” I said.

  Gaysie looked at me.

  “On your clothes that day.”

  “Yes,” she said. Slowly, she held up her hand with the missing finger. “I felt very strongly that I would take care of it myself, but it was a bit tricky getting him off the tractor. He fell and was trapped underneath the wheel. I lifted the Mistress myself!” She sat up and shook like a ruffled rooster. “But my finger got caught on the undercarriage—cut it right off!”

  Gaysie’s eyebrows sharply came together. “I was crazy, like a madwoman! What a scene that was, me bleeding all over creation, near death from the shock of it all, holdin’ on to Wilbur. Ms. Myrtle saw me, of course. Didn’t lift a hand to help, but she had every right to think I’d done the unthinkable.”

  “What unthinkable?” Micah asked.

  “Murder.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell what happened?” I asked. “Why not tell Officer Jake?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because that’s what you do!”

  “Well, it’s not what I do.”

  “You were hiding evidence.”

  “No. I never imagined what a scuffle Wilbur’s disappearance would make. He wanted to be buried close to me so I could keep talking to him, not in one those overpriced fancy-shmancy formal cemeteries no one visits.”

  I scowled.

  “But you’re correct, I miscalculated. I never thought it would matter. And when it did, it was too late. I am sorry, Guinevere. Judge me if you must. I have so many faults. I have a terrible temper. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but in this case I did exactly what Wilbur would have wanted me to do. I dug a hole, took off his boots, and put him in my very own coffin! If that’s not love I don’t know what love is. I buried him in the field he loved best, in the earth he had plowed his whole life. We had an agreement worked out a long time ago, he and I, but the town would never have allowed it. The parked tractor was in lieu of a headstone. I believe he’d have been mighty pleased with that.”

  “Then how did he get in the water?” I shuddered at the memory of being under the cold, frigid creek, seeing his hands and arms.

  “Obviously, his burial was a tad too close to the river,” Gaysie said. “Again, a miscalculation on my part. Wouldn�
�t you know it? We had more rain than we’ve seen in twenty years—just my luck! When it began to rain, the whole river rose and the banks washed in.” She raised her shoulders. “And so did Wilbur. Right into the river. I knew that coffin should have had a sturdier top.”

  “Where will he be buried now?”

  “The town cemetery.” Gaysie rocked back and forth. “Not quite as nice as my backyard.”

  I remained standing, feeling both a sharp relief and a disappointment. My father was not involved in a murder—that was the relief part. But I had been wrong—that was the disappointment. And somehow it felt all mixed up with Vienna, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how. I wanted there to be a reason for everything that had happened, but maybe, like so many things, there wasn’t any.

  “Guinevere,” Gaysie said.

  I looked at her.

  “I sometimes wondered if your obsession with Wilbur’s disappearance wasn’t about Wilbur at all. You’re a child who needs to have answers, so let me tell you. I knew your mother. Vienna couldn’t possibly have known what was going to happen to her, but I do know this: She loved Jed St. Clair from the moment she met him. You are part of the greatest love story I have ever witnessed—then and now. That story is not over. And you take after her; you’re both fighters.”

  I considered this.

  Gaysie nodded, the matter settled. “But now it’s time to rest awhile. Rest, rest. Soon it’ll be time to get up and fight some more.”

  Jimmy punched the air like he was already thinking of more ways to annoy me.

  Was this, I wondered, what it felt like to close a case?

  • • •

  Bitty and I started for home.

  “I wonder if an insanity plea would get her off for improper burial,” I mused.

  Bitty kicked a rock down the road with the toe of her mud boot. We watched it hit a bigger rock and stop dead in the road. Bitty reached up and took my hand.

  “Maybe just this once I can let it go. Lawyers have to make deals all the time, you know.”

  “It’s a good deal,” Bitty said.

  “I guess I won’t tell on her, even though she tried to bury me that one time.”

  We turned around, the clementine house almost completely lost from sight. My eyes found Micah and Jimmy on the porch. They waved wildly, like they’d been watching for us to turn the whole time. Jimmy gave a rooster call. Micah jumped up and down, his newest accessory—an old cowboy hat—lifting off his head, while the orange sun set large and bright behind them both.

  “Which one should I marry?”

  “Mmmm . . . I can’t decide,” Bitty said. “I like them both. Race ya there.”

  Bitty and I turned toward home again and began to skip large, jumping skips. My little sister’s face, so much like our mother’s, broke into laughter.

  We skipped until cows came to the fence to see what we were doing.

  “Moooo,” said Bitty, sounding like a real nice Holstein. “Run, Gwyn! Run with the cows!”

  We began a full-out run down Lanark Lane, the wind carrying us both as it blew our hair and buoyed us off the ground. There was Nana, up ahead, hands on her hips, waiting for us on the porch. Boy, I couldn’t wait to see her face when Willowdale pulled her new piano home.

  Vienna was visiting, her profile a shadow in the window, as if she was waiting, anticipating our arrival. Our father stood, smoothed her hair, and pulled back the living room curtain. Watching him I realized we hadn’t moved to Crow just for Vienna. We had come back for me and Bitty and Nana. Maybe even for Gaysie, Micah, and Jimmy. We had come for my father, too, so that every time he passed the school or a field or sat at the kitchen table, he could remember the girl he would always love.

  Vienna sat up straight in her wheelchair and clapped her hands, seeing us.

  Lolly was right.

  Not everyone comes home.

  But sometimes, they do.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My most heartfelt thanks:

  To my parents: Mary Cope Nelson, our family storyteller, who showed me that lying in bed with a good book (and chocolate) is a daily essential. Steven Nelson, who taught me all things cows and who loved the real Willowdale Princess Deon Dawn as a boy in Idaho. Thank you both for raising the fab five to love words, God, and family, and for teaching us to believe we are capable of choosing our own destiny.

  To my other parents: Heather Makechnie, another storytelling tour de force, a woman who championed us her whole life, and who, along with Arthur, gave me that all-too-real burial scene. To the entire Makechnie family, who has very little patience for sub-par word choices and grammatical errors; you’re tough but I love you.

  To my first and last readers: Andrea McDonald, Mary Nelson, Allison Nelson, Jill Makechnie, Kate Johnston, Sarah Will, and Shauna Turnbull. All excellent writers, strong women, and nurturing mothers. Thank you for reading my messy drafts and helping me find the narrative arc every time. I’m so appreciative.

  To my brothers: Patrick Nelson, for reading and always checking in. Eric Nelson, for sharing insight on the law, and to Peter Nelson, for all things dentistry. Jed St. Clair came as the result of knowing amazing fathers who shoulder heavy loads.

  To Jessica Lawson, for answering all of my questions ALL OF THE TIME, and to Tina Wexler of ICM. You both led me to Zoe. I’m indebted forever.

  To Julia Tomiak, the #wordnerd, for her encouraging Monday check-in. Every writer needs an accountability buddy!

  To Kit and Chris, for the Blue Mistress.

  To Norman Doidge and “The Brain That Changes Itself.”

  To James Anderson especially, for your honest and powerful love story, medical knowledge, and for guiding me to further research—both scientifically and spiritually. And also to Laura. Thank you.

  To my wonderful literary agent, the kind and insightful Zoe Sandler. Thank you for taking a chance on me! I am so so grateful.

  To my editor Alexa Pastor, for knowing just the right balance of push and praise—you are SO good. To jacket illustrator Abigail Dela Cruz and cover designer Michael McCartney—it’s beautiful. To Justin Chanda and the entire team at Simon & Schuster. Thank you for bringing good books for children into the world.

  And finally, to Gregor, and our greatest creations: Cope, Nelson, Brynne, and Paige. Thanks for always coming home.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Amy Makechnie grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, where she once tried to sail to the Mississippi River on a large piece of Styrofoam (she didn’t make it). She has written for many online and East Coast publications, but The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair is her first novel. Amy nurtures her fascination with the brain and human body by teaching anatomy and physiology to high school students in a small New England town, where they dissect hearts and memorize long anatomical words. She is the mother to a wily flock of children, all of whom provide daily inspiration for writing. You can find her blogging about them at maisymak.com.

  Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids

  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Amy-Makechnie

  Atheneum Books for Young Readers

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  ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Amy Makechnie

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Abigail Dela Cruz

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  Jacket design by Michael McCartney

  Interior design by Hilary Zarycky

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Abigail Dela Cruz

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Makechnie, Amy, author.

  Title: The unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair / Amy Makechnie.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Atheneum Books for Young Readers, [2018] | Summary: As ten-year-old Gwyn searches for a missing neighbor in her new town in Iowa, she learns much about her mother, who grew up there but has suffered from memory loss since Gwyn was four.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017053924 (print) | LCCN 2018000443 (eBook)

  ISBN 9781534414488 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534414464 (hardcover)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Missing persons—Fiction. | Memory—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Moving, Household—Fiction. | Farm life—Iowa—Fiction. | Iowa—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Parents. | JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M34685 (eBook) | LCC PZ7.1.M34685 Unf 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017053924

  ISBN 978-1-5344-1448-8 (ebook)