Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls (16 page)

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. I was in your wedding, remember?”

“Yeah,” he growls. “Not something I’ll forget.”

I decide to ignore his obvious dig at how I’d messed up his wedding day, and just dive in. “Well, as you know, Heather’s got it in for me so I’m sure she’s stirring up rumors, which for once are probably the truth. Anyway, there’s something else I’ve got to talk to you about.”

“Talk away.”

So I take a deep breath, then start firing off everything that happened on Halloween. From cutting through the graveyard to running into Shovel Man and El Zarape and the Vampire, to Billy dumping the skulls out on Hudson’s floor and all of that. And when all those chambers are empty and I’m reloading my brain with what came next, he says, “Go on …”

So I take another deep breath and ratta-tat-tat through the part about getting tailed by Shovel Man and the Vampire in the Deli-Mustard Mobile and hiding behind the brochure rack at the Heavenly and all of
that
.

“Go on,” he says again.

So I tell him about ditching it out the back door of
the Heavenly and climbing the fence, and I’m in the middle of telling him about us going up the Pup Parlor stairs with a broom and a toilet plunger when he cuts in with, “Sammy, is this all really germane?”

“Huh?”

“Does the toilet plunger matter?”

“Well—”

“Was he there, or not?”

“No …”

“So can you
please
get to the point?”

I think a minute, then say, “Well, okay, the
point
happened the next day when El Zarape pulled a knife on Billy.”

“What?”

“See? If I don’t tell you the whole story, then the story doesn’t make sense.”

“But I don’t need a whole chapter on toilet plungers if they don’t matter!”

“It wasn’t a chapter! It wasn’t even a paragraph!”

“It was a very long run-on sentence,” he mutters.

“It was not! And even if it was, that’s how I think, okay?”

“In run-on sentences?”

“Yes!” Then I snap, “What are you, an English teacher or a cop?”

He sighs and says, “Go on. Tell me your story.”

But now I don’t feel like telling him. Now I feel stupid. Like a little kid wasting his time. So I just stand there saying nothing.

“Come on, Sammy. Just pick up where you left off.”

Finally I take a deep breath and start up again, but I try
to make it like a police report instead of a story with toilet plungers. And maybe that’s why when I’m finally all done he’s quiet so long that I have to say, “Are you there?”

“Yes, Sammy. I’m here.”

“So … ?”

“Let me get this straight. You think the two ‘skulls’ are the heads of two of the people who have gone missing.”

Now, in the first place, he said
skulls
like he didn’t believe they actually
were
skulls. And in the second place he said it like he was trying real hard not to let on that he thought it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, which was worse than if he’d come right out and laughed at me.

So I huff, “Fine. Don’t believe me.”

“Who said I didn’t believe you?”

“Your tone of voice?”

He sighs. “Look, Sammy, I’m sorry. Normally I’d be more receptive to this, but come on. It was Halloween. You got spooked.”

“The guy pulled a knife on Billy! And it he did it on All Saints’ Day, not Halloween!”

He ignores that and says, “We are talking about Billy Pratt, right?”

Well, the way he said that totally ticked me off. I mean, yeah, he knew Billy from a couple of incidents at school, and, yeah, Billy has the reputation of being a goofball, but to blow off what I was saying because it involved Billy?

“He wasn’t making it up, if that’s what you’re implying. He’s all scraped up from where he dived into a rosebush to get away from the guy.”

He snorts. “A rosebush. Good choice.”

“Officer Borsch! You’re acting like … you’re acting like the
old
Officer Borsch.”

He hesitates, then says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, back when you were the Bruiser in a Cruiser, the Crisco Kid, the—”

“Whoa, whoa. The Crisco Kid?!”

A little part of me goes, Oops, but the part of me that’s ticked off is way bigger. “Yeah. You know, back when you thought I was a juvenile delinquent? Back when you didn’t
listen
?”

His voice goes up a notch. “You call what I’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes not listening?”

“Well, okay. Back when you didn’t
believe
me.”

“Sammy …”

I wait and wait, but that’s all he says. It’s like he’s biting his tongue so hard that it’s never gonna get free to talk again.

“Forget it,” I tell him. “You’ve got people disappearing all over the place, but if you don’t want my help, fine.”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want your help, it’s that it’s … illogical.”

“Fine. It’s illogical.”

“Sammy, please.”

“You don’t even think the skulls were real, do you?”

“Sammy, come on. Why two skulls in a sack? Where’s the rest of the bodies?”

I didn’t care about the rest of the bodies. Or that it was maybe a little illogical. I was just hurt that he wasn’t even considering that what I’d told him might be valuable.

So I wag my head like he’s the stupidest guy on the planet and say, “Obviously the bodies didn’t fit in the sack!”

“Sammy!”

“Never mind,” I tell him. “Just never mind.” Then I mutter, “Two random heads pop out of a sack and nobody cares. Whoa, where’s the rest of the body? Not here? Oh, well, can’t be important. Who cares that somebody pulled a knife to get them back? Who cares that two bodies are missing their heads? Who cares that two people were missing the night that two heads rolled out of the sack?”

Officer Borsch sighs. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay. I’ll do a little digging. See what I can find out.”

And before I can say anything, he grumbles, “Crisco Kid,” and hangs up the phone.

After I got off the phone, I went into Maynard’s to get my Double Dynamo and, just my luck, Maynard’s loser son TJ was working. “Oh, great,” he groans when he sees me walk through the door. “Like my headache wasn’t bad enough?”

I eye him. “Right back atcha, Teej.” And then, because an Elvis impersonator works the counter some nights, I tell him, “I was hopin’ for Elvis but instead I get the Grinch.”

“Yeah? Well, what you can get is out.”

“See? No heart,” I tell him, and leave.

It would have been a waste of a Double Dynamo anyway because I was still upset about Officer Borsch not taking me seriously and I would’ve chomped through it without even tasting it.

I did think about checking in with Holly, but I was feeling really snappy, so I just went home.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I switched from being miffed at the Borschman to worrying about how things would go with Casey at the graveyard.

“You’re baking brownies?” Grams asks when she sees me stirring the mix.

“I’m doing a picnic lunch for me and Casey,” I tell her
like it’s a matter-of-fact, everyday thing. And before she can say, Oh, really, I ask, “What do you think—tuna or chicken salad sandwiches?”

“Chicken salad, definitely.”

And just like that she’s on board, helping me cut up leftover chicken, dicing celery, grinding in pepper, and just hanging out with me in the kitchen.

When we think it’s done, we both take a taste of the chicken salad and it
is
delicious, but remembering the way Casey mixes weird combinations of food—like mac ’n’ cheese and salsa—I start worrying that maybe it’s kind of, you know, ordinary.

So I look in the fridge and ask Grams, “How would grapes taste in it?”

“Grapes?”

I peek out at her and can tell she’s definitely not liking the idea.

“Maybe raisins?” she says. “I’ve had chicken salad with raisins before.”

“Raisins?”

“They’re just dried grapes.”

“They’re disgusting mummy fruit is what they are.”

“
Mummy
fruit?”

“Yeah—shriveled, dry, and ugly.” I dive back into the refrigerator. “There’s no way my chicken salad is gonna become a sarcophagus.”

Grams watches as I head for the sink with the grapes, and even though she’s trying not to say anything, she just can’t help herself. “What’s wrong with it the way it is?”

“Nothing. I just want it to be a little … different.”

So I quarter some grapes and put them in the chicken salad, then I make the sandwiches and gather paper plates and napkins and other picnic stuff. And after the brownies are cooked and cooled and cut up, I put everything in my backpack.

“Have fun,” Grams says when it’s finally time to leave.

Now, I know she’s been trying super hard to trust me and not worry about me going on a picnic alone with a boy, so when she finally breaks down at the last minute and asks, “What park are you going to?” I grin at her and tell her the truth. “The bone park.”

“The … ?”

“It’s All Souls’ Day, remember?”

Her eyes bug out at me through her glasses. “You’re picnicking at the
graveyard
?”

“Hudson says it’s a tradition in other cultures. I thought it would be interesting to check it out.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Lots of chaperones, don’t worry.”

Then I swing on my picnic pack and sneak out of there.

Casey’s already waiting at the main gate when I get to the cemetery. “Hey,” I tell him, giving him a hug. He’s wearing a backpack, too, so there’s a little interference, but it’s still nice.

I pull away and smile. “You ready?”

He laughs. “For what, I’m not sure, but yeah. Lead on.”

The gate’s wide open, so I grab his hand and pull him through it. “You know what All Souls’ Day is?”

“Uh … I’ve heard of All
Saints’
Day. I don’t really know anything about it except that it’s the day after Halloween.”

“Yeah, well, All Souls’ Day is the day
after
the day after Halloween.” I give him a bit of an evil grin. “It’s also called Day of the Dead.”

He grins back at me. “Is this payback for me dragging you into that corpse cooler?”

I shiver. “Don’t remind me.”

I lead him to an area in the new section where there are groups of people with colorful blankets and portable lawn chairs. And as we get closer, Casey says, “What
is
this? It looks like there’s a party going on.”

Now, even though Hudson had told me about it, it seems strange to me, too.

Very un-graveyard-like.

As we get closer we see that families are playing cards and dice games and listening to music and eating food. And every grave marker where a family is gathered has flowers and pictures around it, and a plate of food right in front of it. No one’s touching the food. It’s just there.

On a plate.

At the grave marker.

Waiting.

A kid runs by us with an old-fashioned pinwheel twirling and Casey whispers, “This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Weirder than someone pumping a corpse full of chemicals?”

He eyes me. “Good point.”

“And this is
good
weird, don’t you think?” Because I’m really liking the way all the colors and people and music make the graveyard feel. “It’s so different than Halloween.”

“Except for maybe the skulls,” Casey says, looking at a blanket with food on it.

“What skulls?” But then I see the white, golf-ball-sized skulls on a plate on the blanket.

I guess I was staring because one of the women in the group waves hello to me. And before I even know what I’m doing, I’m moving closer to her, asking, “What
are
those?”

“Sugar skulls,” she says with a smile. “You want one?”

I just blink at her. I mean, I’m a fan of sugar, but in the shape of a skull?

At a graveyard?

“You never had one?” she asks as she hands one over.

I shake my head and take it.

“Here,” she says, holding one out for Casey.

So there we are, holding these candy skulls, and I’m sorry, sugar or not, there’s something a little creepy about eating a head in a cemetery. But the whole family’s watching, waiting for us to try them, so finally Casey and I look at each other, give a little shrug, and take a bite.

“Mmm,” I say with a closed smile. “Thank you.” And when my mouth is cleared a bit, I ask, “So who are you, um … celebrating today?”

“Guadalupe,” everyone says, and then one at a time they add something. “She was my sister.” “My aunt.” “My cousin.” “My mother.” “My friend.”

Then the lady who’d given us the skulls says, “She
loved sunflowers and Ricky Martin and pineapple tamales.” And the others chime in with, “Don’t forget chocolate!” “And mangoes!” “And pecan pie!” “And Kahlúa!”

And that’s when I notice what’s on the plate and around the grave marker:

Tamales and pie and chocolate.

And next to the plate is a vase of sunflowers.

And a bottle of Kahlúa.

I don’t know why, but it kind of chokes me up. I mean, how nice is that to bring the things she liked to her gravesite? It’s not like Guadalupe can have them or anything, but for all these people to get together and remember her like this?