The May Queen Murders Page 4

  Use the oil, girl, Mamie had told me when I was no older than five or six. She’d brought me to her room with the promise of making a Victorian-style silhouette, but instead, she thrust me in her rocking chair and knelt on the floor with her kerosene lamp in pieces on the desktop. Can’t go runnin’ ’round these parts with no oil on your strings. That Mexican mama you got keeps them evil eyes off you, and while her ways are fair enough, you gots to have the oil to slick off the bad spirits and bad intentions. May no violent or poisoned death come your way when you’re oiled well enough.

  Now she tied the soaked string on my wrist. “Mamie,” I said, “is there something else?”

  She crisscrossed her hands as she waved me off, ushering me out of her room to the steps.

  “Mamie, please?” I begged.

  Her gaze held mine. A flex in her lips, twitch of her eyelid.

  Nothing. She didn’t—couldn’t—speak.

  As I carried her barely touched dinner plate down the stairs, oil leaked from my wrist to drip off my little finger. At the base of the steps, I heard the click of Mamie’s door as it shut.

  Outside, the rain eased. Heather bounced on her toes in the kitchen and checked the window in the back door. She tugged her own red thread bracelet and moved with an impatience so palpable I could’ve grabbed it.

  “You’re wound up,” I said.

  “Waitin’ for the rain to stop,” she explained. She cocked her head. “You upset about the May Queen thing?”

  Yes, I was jealous, though it was hard to admit. “Maybe a little.”

  “It’s stupid, to have it based on who your parents are. It’s gonna be a popularity contest,” she scoffed. “Look, I’ll tell my mama that I refuse to be nominated if you can’t be.”

  “Don’t do that. You deserve to be on the ballot,” I said.

  “So do you! You love the Glen, Ivy. If anyone should be May Queen, it’s you, and that you can’t—No, I don’t want it. Give it to some other girl. Maybe Violet.”

  The gesture was thoughtful and lifted the corners of my mouth. Heather hugged me and kissed my cheek before she took a hooded shawl from the wall hooks near the door.

  “Wh-where are you goin’?” I asked.

  She slipped the shawl over her shoulders and drew the hood to hide her curls. “I gotta go. Cover for me?”

  Heather, come on. You can tell me what you’re up to. You tell me everything ’cause you’re almost my sister. I didn’t say that.

  “They’ll notice you’re gone.”

  “They’re drunk on honey wine, and Mama has baby brain. It’s all she thinks about.” She giggled. Her face was soft, but her voice needy. “Do this for me, Ivy.”

  “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “So many questions. Now, I’ve gotta go, so please? I’ll tell you about it later.”

  I should’ve pressed harder. Instead, I sighed in tacit agreement. “What do you want me to tell them? If Marsh notices—”

  “He’ll what?” Heather snorted. “You’re assuming he remembers I exist.”

  She frowned, and I rubbed her arm. She was her daddy’s girl, no surprise since she was named for Uncle Heath, but that Aunt Rue remarried so soon after burying him was tender yet. It didn’t matter much that Marsh was all but family for years, being close to my father and all. On good days, Marsh and Heather were cordial at best. On most days, they didn’t speak to each other.

  “If that man realizes I slipped out, say I’m checking the horses.”

  “Heather, with the animals gettin’ killed, I’m worried.”

  “All the more reason for someone to check the horses, don’t you think?”

  “No!” I winced at the loudness of my voice, and Heather went to the doorway to make sure our parents were still occupied while I trailed behind her, whispering, “Let Marsh do it, or my daddy, if you’re so worried.” She glared over her shoulder, and I realized she wasn’t concerned about the horses at all. “It’s night, and isn’t safe.”

  Her lips perked in a coy smile. “Sometimes you gotta face danger to find what you’re looking for.”

  That was where we differed. Heather wasn’t afraid. I was terrified.

  I closed my eyes with a sigh. She gave me a swift kiss, and then disappeared out the back door without a sound.

  I should’ve tried harder to keep her.

  The rain hitting the windows paused, but the sound of water draining off the tin roof and trickling over the gutters remained. It was too dark to make out Heather’s shape once she climbed the horse fence separating her garden from the neighbors’. I found a broom in a closet and swept all traces of crumbs and dust into a neat pile before brushing it out the door.

  In a way, it wasn’t fair that Heather could run off and be Heather. She might end up being scolded for gallivanting through stormy fields when someone was murdering animals, but her punishment never lasted. It was impossible to stay angry with her. She’d kiss and swear she meant no harm—and she didn’t. She wasn’t cruel. What Heather wanted, Heather did. She wasn’t uncaring. I suspected she simply didn’t notice what impact she had on me, on others. How freeing to be so unaffected.

  Suddenly, a flare outside the kitchen glowed like the negative of a photograph. The deafening boom made me jump while the pendant light above the sink blinked out. From the dining room, my parents and Heather’s shuffled in search of candles. I fumbled along the cabinets until I came to one holding extra candles and matches. Between the mill and solar panels, the Glen had electricity, but the houses’ wiring was rudimentary. Blackouts weren’t uncommon, even in good weather. Most of us still used kerosene lamps for that reason.

  I scratched a match. The rotten-egg smell of sulfur was fleeting as I lit a candle. Mama appeared in the doorway. “You buena, Ivy?”

  “Sí.”

  Thump.

  The noise came from the window. I glanced at Mama. “What was that?”

  “The wind, probably,” she answered.

  Thump.

  Thump. Thump.

  That wasn’t wind. My pulse quickened. I cupped the candle and stood on my tiptoes, holding the flame to the window.

  THUMP.

  I jumped back from the jolted windowsill. In the living room, Marsh called to check on Mama and me. By now she was beside me, candle in hand, as we tried to see what was outside.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  My heart rode into my throat. It didn’t sound like hail. The bangs against the glass were too sporadic, frenzied.

  “Luz?” Papa yelled. “What the hell’s that?”

  Against a faraway gleam of lighting, a black mass reeled from the window as if taking a breath before soaring straight for the glass again.

  THUMP! THUMP!

  I couldn’t move. The dark thing outside whisked from side to side. It pulled back and—

  CRASH!

  With a yelp, I ducked the flying glass. Mama rushed over to the wet, black thing flopping on the floor and, crying out in Spanish, backed away. The glow of the candles revealed a blackbird. It wasn’t dead, but from the way it flailed and twitched, it would be soon. My scream stunned into silence, all I could do was watch the bird in its death throes. Its crooked wings strained to lift, but its bones were shattered.

  Papa reached the kitchen, saw the dying bird, and recoiled. “Stay back,” he ordered Mama and me.

  I didn’t want to look, but the chaos of the bird desperate to remain alive in spite of its gnarled body was impossible to ignore. Papa knelt, his face a mixture of revulsion and pity, and took the bird into gentle hands. His thumb stroked the tiny creature’s wing.

  Then he wrung the bird’s neck, its bones crunching.

  For a minute, the only movement was the waver of the candle’s flame pulling and pushing the shadows. Papa’s eyes closed, and I was quite sure he said a prayer. Maybe to spirit away the bird. Maybe to ask forgiveness for what he’d done. To bring death sometimes was a kindness. He opened his hands.

  “Oh, God,” I whisp
ered.

  The bird wasn’t one but two, a bird with a conjoined twin. One body with two beaks, a single head with four beady eyes. Two birds so close they were one, and one’s death killed the other.

  I went after Heather.

  Marsh ordered me to find her, too occupied with repairing the kitchen window to chase her down himself. I was glad to leave. I couldn’t stay knowing that thing had shattered the window and died at my feet. The danger outside didn’t feel as real as the danger of where my thoughts would go if I stayed in.

  Where Heather went was a mystery. The storm moved northeast, though the clouds still dashed white then dark. I hugged myself as I forged down the muddy road. The Glen’s electricity was out, the candles by windows ember-like in their dimness. Sheriff’s men relit the torches along the fences. Nothing felt right, nothing safe. Something close flapped in a gust of wind. A figure loomed over me, taller than anyone I knew.

  “Wh-who’s there?” I called, wishing I didn’t sound so meek.

  A shriek tore out across the sky, a high-pitched cackle from deep within the woods.

  I rammed into the crossbeam of the scarecrow. Its body was mounted on a pole with its arms outstretched, its shirt weathered. A puppet to frighten off birds from scrounging the Thomsons’ strawberries. Each family had its own way of crafting scarecrows—a few with pumpkins or old leather sacks for heads, some bodies stuffed with wheatgrasses, whereas others were filled with dried corn stalks. The birds came in plague-like numbers once the berries ripened, but during the dead months when nothing was harvested, one gazed to the fields to view scarecrow after scarecrow guarding the barren land like impaled corpses left to rot.

  This scarecrow’s head was a bag of dried beans. Desiccated sprouts from last summer poked through the burlap only to curl back inside. Soggy with rain, the bean sprouts beaded water, the head sack slumped, one button eye lost and marked only by an X in black thread. Its mouth was crooked, sloppy paint, most of which had flaked away, giving the scarecrow a gray expression.

  A second whooping cry sprang from the woods, raising every hair on my neck and arms. I whipped around and surveyed the distance. A horse neighed. Whimsy. Heather told me to say she’d gone to check on the horses. There might be some truth in that. I peeled away from the scarecrow’s path, cut through the mess of mud to the pasture where my horse lived with a small herd. While most of the herd was likely dozing, one spooked horse could infect the others and cause an accident.

  At the pasture, the six steeds at this end of the Glen were quiet, their long necks drooped forward to lower their faces while they nibbled grass. They should’ve been in their stalls with buckets of oats, safe from the storm, yet light leaked out from the barn.

  I climbed the fence and pushed closer to the stable. The air was heavy with the aroma of wet horses and sweet-pungent manure. A chestnut gelding gave me a curious glance, and I nodded, hoping he wasn’t apt to startle.

  Whimsy’s black coat camouflaged her, but her habit of kicking the water trough gave away her location. She lifted her head, and her ears perked, large eyes reflecting the light slivers coming from the stable. The mare ambled behind me, her breath hot and constant, puffing from her velveteen muzzle.

  From inside the stable, a laugh rang out, a girlish chime.

  Heather.

  I edged around to the front, to the closed door, where I leaned against the wood, my face pressed to a knothole. Inside was a glowing lantern. Heather’s skirt was all shadow as she twirled, her back to me shining pale and naked. She stretched out her arms and spun again, her necklace of found things rising and falling between her bare breasts. Beyond her, out of the lantern’s gleam, someone shifted. The scuffed toe of a boot and nothing more.

  My heart plummeted, a gasp in my throat.

  Heather jerked her head. Her lips pursed. Her hair parted and covered her breasts while each step she took toward the door was deliberate.

  “I know you’re out there,” she snapped.

  “Wh-what are you doin’?” I whispered. “Who’s with you?”

  She lowered her face and fixed her eye on mine. “Go home, Ivy.”

  “I need you. It’s not safe out here.”

  “Then leave.”

  More shifting behind her. I tried to see past her, but she filled my sight. Heather was everywhere I looked.

  “Ivy . . . please.” A note of desperation crept into her voice.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “You tell me everything.”

  “No, I don’t. Now, stop. You need to go. You didn’t see me.”

  How was I supposed to act like I hadn’t?

  “Heather, come on. Something terrible happened, and I don’t wanna be alone.”

  Her eye disappeared from the knothole. A moment later, the stable door creaked and she came out, arms crossed. “Are you okay?”

  “Th-there was a bird. And the w-w-window.” Putting together the horror of the bird was harder than my throat would allow. “It was bad.”

  Heather peeked inside the stable as if waiting for her lover to emerge. Her fingernails tapped against the bare arm covering her chest. “I’ll be home soon.”

  “You ain’t coming now?” I heard my whine and cringed. I didn’t want to be that girl, the tagalong who didn’t realize when her friends had outgrown her. Was that what had happened? Not long ago, it would’ve been me she snuck out with.

  Her and me. Cousins. Nearly sisters.

  Forever.

  She reached out and touched my hand. “I’ll be home. Soon.”

  My throat was thick while I trudged back from the stable. Whimsy’s hooves padded the earth as she moved closer to me. I stroked the side of my horse’s face and tucked my hand into my sleeve to wipe away the hot streak of tears. Heather stayed behind. How could she pick another over her family when we needed her? Over me?

  I hurried through the pasture to the wet road. When I turned and looked over my shoulder to the stable, the light was out.

  Chapter Four

  The flies always buzzed ’round Birch ’cause flies always come when death’s close.

  I awakened to tapping on my window. When I peered through the gauze of twisted wing and double beak dreams, Heather’s hand pressed to the glass, the red thread knotted around her wrist. The rest of her ghosted pale from the dewy film on the pane. Behind her, starlight brushed the sky, the sun unready to rise.

  “Ivy . . . Ivy, girl, c’mon.” Her voice was a songbird’s melody. “Open the window.”

  Never open the window when it’s dark, Mamie used to say. Even to someone you know. Wickedness takes the shape of what you love.

  I pushed back the quilt Mamie made when I was born and flipped my braid down my back. That I was drowsy gave me time to linger and remember the previous night—the bird, the ache of being sent away. Now Heather had returned.

  “Ivy,” she sang through the glass.

  My feet hit the cold floor. My blue nightdress skimmed my ankles, and I bunched the fabric in my fists. I was angry yet relieved she’d come—ready to choke her yet yearning to hug her and make her promise she’d never shut me out again. Her fingertips squeaked on the wet glass as her hand dropped. Through the spots left behind, I watched her chew her lip. I flicked the metal lock and opened the window.

  “Oh, thank you,” she cheered and reached through the opening to clutch my hands. Her skin was warm, despite the morning chill. She smelled like Aunt Rue’s homemade lavender soap. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t talk to you last night.”

  All at once, I became a dull piece of ash compared to the glow of Heather’s embers. She had fire and heat, and I was cold and so flimsy the wind could whisk me away without remembering it ever carried me.

  “Heather, what time did you get home? It was after we left,” I said.

  “I know. Did you tell them I was taking care of the horses?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  “They have no reason not
to.”

  We stared hard at each other. Heather averted her eyes first. She hesitated before a flush bled pink into her freckled cheeks. “Thank you. Can we talk?”

  “Is it about what I saw in the stable?” I asked.

  She went redder yet. “I want you to be happy for me. If it were you, I’d be so happy.”

  Whoever was with her last night had left her breathless.

  Heather was in love.

  I didn’t know what that felt like.

  But she did, and I could only guess from the way she behaved that the feeling was a kind of magic. It must be wonderful. A dream. A wish. A promise shared. She was blessed if the one she loved felt the same, which, of course, her mystery suitor must. Heather was easy to love.

  “Wh-who did you see last night?” I asked.

  She twisted her fingers through a tendril of my hair. “Come outside. I don’t want anyone to overhear.”

  I shut my window and changed into a brown skirt that I matched with a gray shawl Mamie didn’t wear anymore. Unease squirmed through my stomach, a worm wriggling through damp earth. Heather avoided my question, like she had last night. Was it on purpose? Was she worried how I’d react? If it were the latter, who could she love that’d upset me—

  A boot with a scuffed toe. I’d drawn that boot.

  Rook.

  Cold started behind my skull and spread along my neck. August had seen them going off together. I wanted Rook to notice me. Anytime I saw him, Heather was around too. I was an idiot, fooling myself into thinking maybe he’d noticed me as well.

  But even if Rook didn’t know how I felt, Heather did. How could she do this to me?

  I didn’t want him to pick Heather over me. I loved my cousin, but right then, I was a fragile stem yanked from the earth, roots stripped and separated.

  My hair slipped from its braid, and I combed the black waves. Nothing fussy, but it was time enough to steel my face.

  “You okay?” Heather squeezed my shoulder as I met her on the porch. She wore a handwoven duster so big only the tips of her red sneakers stuck out, and her hair was pinned up. “You look like you’ve got the sicks.”