Wabanaki Blues (14 page)

“Don't you want to find Mia's killer?”

“There's no point in continuing this conversation.” Mom coils up in a ball and leans on her car door.

A sick feeling surges through me at the thought that my mom may know something about Mia's murder that she won't reveal. The car goes silent for a few minutes.

Dad finally speaks. “I suppose you rode in that multicolored jalopy your grandfather calls a truck.”

“Actually, Grumps taught me how to drive it. Thanks to him, I'm ready to take my driver's test as soon as we get home.”

Mom eyes Dad in an unnaturally alarmed way.

Dad rolls up his tattered oxford shirtsleeve. “I almost forgot, Mona. Wait till you see this.” He flashes a freshly inked tattoo on his wrist. It's an interlocking braid that probably signals his membership in some secret Russian tribal group. I refuse to like it and wish I could stop eyeing it. I never asked my parents if I could get a tattoo, and now that he has one, tattoos suck.

Mom swats Dad's still-swollen wrist. “He just got it to impress his graduate students, Mona.”

Dad starts the car and kneads the steering wheel. I hope there are no more cliffs around.

I try out a joke. “Principal Dibble has an opinion of where you go in the afterlife with a tattoo.” I point my thumb straight down.

Dad explodes. “That woman has no sense of humor.” He eyes Mom. “Thank goodness you're done with her, Mona.”

Continuing the playground one-upmanship, Mom rolls up her sleeves and flexes her toned biceps, “Would you believe I dug up twice as many artifacts as the rest of your dad's graduate students, combined?”

I'm not in the mood to hear how many bear bones she scooped out of the dirt. So I insert a conversation-stopper. “This summer, I fed bananas to a blond bear named Marilynn, and I met my fortune-telling great aunt, Black Racer Woman, whom some folks call a witch.”

Mom rolls her sleeves down over her bulging biceps. Dad turns the dial to National Public Radio and cranks it up despite the spotty signal. I relax and let my eyes follow the Connecticut River. It's the lifeline between where I'm going and where I've been.

Dad is the first to speak again, two hours later. “We're out of the mountains, Lila. You should have decent phone reception now.”

They gaze at one another with crinkled brows. I can see they're desperate for hopeful employment news. My professor parents have spent every September of their lives inside a classroom. They won't know where else to go when the leaves start to turn.

Mom checks her emails and giggles. Dad and I simultaneously draw our heads back in shock at hearing girlish sounds coming from Lila Elmwood's mouth. Mom presses the numbers on her phone frantically and then shifts to her haughty professor voice, stretching out each word as if it has an extra syllable known only to smart people.

After five minutes of this phony prattle, she hangs up and screams. “Twain College wants me back! You'll never believe what else, Bryer? They want me to head up their new Native American Studies Department!”

“Isn't that fine, Lila.”

His flat tone tells me he wonders how Twain College can support a whole program based on the boring Natives of this continent when his research on the fascinating indigenous rituals of Russia remains so poorly funded. He hasn't caught on to the fact that American Indians are the least understood, most important people on the planet—according to Mom, anyway.

On the crowded I-91 highway between Springfield, Massachusetts, and Hartford, Connecticut, we hit super gridlock. It's nearly a hundred degrees, and our air-conditioning is busted. We're stuck in a noxious cloud of gas fumes that my parents don't seem to notice. I can see the churning waters of the Connecticut River out my window and feel comforted, knowing they come from the lakes of Indian Stream.

Dad reads emails on his phone while Mom makes a zillion work calls.

“Go ahead and text your friend, Lizzy,” Mom offers. “We can afford an unlimited plan now!”

I had almost forgotten I own a phone. I connect my long dead phone to the car charger. The battery slowly revives, and I text Lizzy. “Listen. Do you want to know a secret?” I hope she hasn't forgotten our Beatles code. I want to tell her about running into Beetle at the powwow.

She writes back, “Honey, don't.”

Lizzy has somehow read my mind all the way from Toronto. But she shouldn't worry about me falling back into depression. I accept the fact that my summer encounter with Beetle was a onetime thing. He will never be my boyfriend, and neither will my summer fling, Del Pyne. Yet I'm entitled to my dreams. It's head-in-the-clouds moments like these that keep young women like me from crowding the edges of the roof at City Place. I text Lizzy again to tell her that I'm trying to “take a sad song and make it better.” I know she loves the lyrics to “Hey Jude.”

She writes back, “That'll Be the Day.”

Ha! I want to tell her she's an idiot because Buddy Holly wrote “That'll Be the Day,” not the Beatles. While the Fab Four recorded it, they did it before they were even called the Beatles. Her text technically breaks our rules.

I force myself to push away my mental nonsense and take her words to heart: Lizzy wants me to lower my sights, to realize there's no reason to suppose this year will be different than any other. I'm still Mona Lisa LaPierre, the girl with the last face on earth that anyone would want to paint—who never, ever, smiles. I have tree bark hair, mudwood eyes, and dresser drawers stuffed with black band tee shirts.

The traffic is moving but we aren't. Dad doesn't press the pedal. Mom and I exchange irritated looks. He's reading his phone and patting it, like a good dog, while chuckling like the mad scientist that we know he is. Horns beep madly all around us. He ignores them.

Mom shakes Dad harshly, “Bryer, what's the matter with you?”

He unsteadily hands her his phone.

She speaks in a shrill tone as she reads his email aloud, ‘“We at Twain University Press would like to offer you a ten thousand-dollar advance for your book on Russian bear sacrifice.' Bryer, this is wonderful news!”

I recognize fake glee when I hear it. Apparently, Dad's archeological dig was more successful than Mom let on. This news will surely compel her to shoot for a bigger advance on her next book. Dr. Lila Elmwood doesn't like anyone to beat her at anything. Sadly, she's in for bitter disappointment. Her current research—on the bitten birch bark designs of Eastern Woodland Indians—won't do it for her.

“Mona, I almost forgot.” She pulls a mottled green envelope from her purse and slaps it in my hand. “You got something from Swamp Toad Records.”

I read the letter, written on bumpy toad-green stationary. “
Congratulations! I'm pleased to inform you
…”

I can't believe this. I won their songwriting contest. I pull out a check for five thousand dollars. FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. We've been driving FOUR hours and only now does Mom mention this letter. There's no point in getting angry. It's more sensible to imagine that I'm an orphan who has no parents with whom to share my success.

I write a cryptic text to Lizzy, “From this moment on I know, exactly where my life will go.” I realize this lyric will confuse her. I delete it before sending because it comes from a John Lennon song that was reworked by the three surviving Beatles in the 1990s after he died. It's considered the very last Beatles song, and you have to be a serious Beatles fan to know about it. Lizzy isn't serious about anything. I change my text to “Maybe I'm Amazed” along with a picture of the check. She'll get that.

Lizzy texts back immediately. “Money don't get everything it's true. What it don't get, I can't use.”

Wow! Lizzy's rich new stepdad has certainly changed her worldview. But am I any better? All I can think about is my check from the recording company.

I pull up eBay on my phone and look for the rare Beatles tee shirt I drooled over in June. It's still there. I already have five hundred dollars from my cut of Grumps' antler sales, but it costs twice that to “Buy It Now.” If I make an auction bid I know I can stall the seller for payment for a couple days while the Swamp Toad check clears at Beetle's dad's bank.

I hold back a moment. This is not the kind of shirt most teenage girls would want, never mind a shirt that any guy wants to see a girl wearing. It features the Beatles dressed as butchers holding raw meat and dismembered baby dolls. Only those in-the-know understand the historic value of this slightly sick bit of memorabilia. Normally, I wouldn't go for a slaughterhouse motif, considering my apartment building. But this shirt is a rare and exotic treasure. Almost all the original shirts were yanked from the shelves before anyone could buy them. Wearing it is a blow against censorship, a blow against narrow-minded people like Principal Millicent Dibble.

I offer a thousand bucks. Successful musicians need hot clothes. Unfortunately, I realize I also need to tell my parents about my big songwriting win. Otherwise, if they see me wearing the tee shirt, they'll think I stole it.

I spill the news. “I just won five thousand dollars in a songwriting contest.”

Mom reacts with unprecedented cheers. I'm guessing she thinks this check will make me forget my suspicions about Will Pyne. I maintain a stern expression to assure her that it won't. The traffic picks up enthusiastically as if not wishing to hamper our car full of winners on our stampede toward success.

“Can we hear the prize-winning tune before you leave us and take it on the road?” Dad asks, showing uncharacteristic interest. Mom manages a pretty grin, probably thinking this boost to my musical career will make it easier for her to get rid of me.

I play the bluesy chorus to “You Are My Lightning.” It isn't too long before Mom is snapping her fingers and bobbing her head. Dad car-dances, and he really does have good rhythm. I breathe into the music, keeping my eyes on Rosalita's vibrating strings. They are the only truly magical thing in this universe because they can take me wherever I want to go.

Part II

Ten

Stale Sole

I receive a strange text that day after I return home.

I wrote a song for you. - Beetle

I laugh at this text, knowing it's a prank, most likely from Brick Rodman. I won't give him the satisfaction of a response.

A second text beeps.

Can you come over for dinner? - Beetle

No way
.
I won't fall for this. Brick's reign as the High Priest of Humiliation ended on his last day of high school.

I hear my ringtone sound. It's Bonnie Raitt's “Right Down the Line.” I swear the music stops my heart. I fumble to turn on the phone. The caller has the same number as the texts. I choke out a hello.

“Hey, Mona,” says a golden voice that can only belong to Beetle.

I allow myself a brief celebratory fist-squeeze. Then a mental image of the City Place rooftop forces me to calm down and exercise caution. Beetle said he wrote a song
for
me, not necessarily
about
me. There's a big difference. It's probably about the glamorous girls of Lake Winnipesaukee. I need to remain aloof, which is easy, as I haven't spoken.

“Did you get my texts?” he asks.

“I've been busy working on a song,” I reply, because this is one lie that is always half-true. “It's called ‘Lost in the Woods.'”

“Sounds like you had quite the summer. I'll bet your song is amazing. I'd love to hear it. I have something to play for you that I wrote on vacation. Can you come over my house for dinner?”

***

Beetle's house comes up first on Google images when you type in “world's hottest houses.” The silver trim on its green glass siding reminds me of newly minted quarters. Most Colt High students live in cheap renovated apartment buildings that used to be something industrial, like mine. This house should belong to somebody from Loomis Chaffee, Suffield Academy, Westminster, or some other overpriced Connecticut boarding school. My personal, professional, and paranormal lives have merged into one outrageous burst of late summer sunshine. Going to Beetle's house represents not only hope for romance and musical collaboration, but also a chance to find clues to Mia's murder, all in a single location. Plus, meeting Beetle's parents may clear up the mystery of why Barrington Dill was slumming it at Colt High for the last four years.

Mrs. Dill and Beetle greet me at their green glass front door. Her blinding blue eyes gaze right through me, as though she needs to look past the person who is ruining her otherwise pristine entryway. This blank staring woman is famine thin with California hair that shines brighter than the sun. Beetle introduces me, and she pushes a stray blond hair behind her ear then fiddles with her hemline—which is shorter than moms usually wear—without uttering a word of greeting, like she's trying to impersonate a teenager.

Beetle introduces me a second time, and her intense eyes snap to attention, widening at first sight of my butchered baby-dolls Beatles tee shirt. She obviously doesn't know it's an expensive collector's item.

Her eyes remain stuck on my chest as she speaks, “Nice to meet you, Mona. Our Beetle has been going on about how talented you are. I was once a musician. I played French horn in the Colt High band. Mr. Dill was a linebacker on the football team, when we were seniors back in 1994. Beetle takes after me with his preference for music. Of course, I never considered it as a potential career.” She heaves her chest and breaks eye contact with my shirt. “Worthy and I have such fond memories of Colt High. We are sorry to hear it will be torn down soon. It's such a wonderful place. We are planning to host a Farewell Dance there for all the alumni, including all you recent grads, before the demolition. We think Colt High is the best school in Connecticut.”

I inhale and hold it. There is no appropriate response to this. Mrs. Dill is either kidding or crazy. Colt High ranks 148th out of 150 high schools in the state. When my parents sent me there, they insisted it was a school on the rise. So much for their judgment. The truth is they couldn't afford private school and—unlike other professors' kids—I wasn't academic scholarship material. I'm hoping Mrs. Dill is joking about her adoration for our school because otherwise she's nuts, and Will Pyne has filled my wacky parent quotient for a lifetime.

She flips her hair, adolescently, “Please come in.”

I smell stale fish.

“Where will you be attending college in the fall, Mona?” she asks.

The rising fish stench makes it impossible not to gag. After making a harsh hacking sound, I recover. “I was accepted at Berklee College of Music but I've decided not to go.” I picture the framed acceptance letter that Mom hung on our living room wall.

“Not attending college? With two Ph.D. parents, no less? Perhaps the fact that your parents are professors makes it difficult for you to realize that attending college is a privilege—a privilege that Beetle's father and I did not enjoy.”

So she's Googled my family and me. I wonder if Mrs. Dill does this sort of snooping on all of Beetle's friends. Meanwhile, I can't believe the Dills never went to college. This stuns me more than her nosiness. I don't know much about Mrs. Dill's background. But I assumed Worthy's family was Old Hartford Money, the kind of money that automatically buys a ticket to a decent liberal arts college. Honestly, what uneducated person names their kid Barrington Dill? It's beyond curious that Worthington Dill never went to college. I feel guilty over the idea that he might be a self-made man when all this time I thought he was just another spoiled rich asshole.

Mrs. Dill continues. “I'm sure you feel it's acceptable to skip college because you're an artist and one of your songs just sold for a tidy sum. But music is not a stable way to make a living, dear. I keep trying to explain that to Beetle.” Her blinding eyes blaze a deeper blue. “But he's determined to skip college to pursue a musical path, just like you.”

Thank God I don't ever smile, or I'd turn into Alice's Cheshire Cat, right now. This is the best news I've had since finding out that Marilynn the Bear was not going to eat me. I nudge Rosalita warmly, the way you do a friend when you hear something awesome.

“We're almost ready to eat. I suppose you can bring your instrument into the dining room,” she says, curling her lip at my guitar.

The fishy smell follows us, like the ghost of an ancient fisherman is tagging along.

Beetle rubs his nose uncomfortably. “Mom, what's for dinner?”

“Poached gray sole and steamed white rice.”

Beetle and I share a worried glance. That explains the smell. This fish is nothing like the fresh lake trout Grumps fried outdoors, and I only eat brown rice. But it doesn't matter. I'm at Beetle's house. Monkey brains would be fine.

He waves me into the dining room. “Check this out, Mona.” Beetle opens a guitar case that's sitting in a corner as though it's being punished. From it, he pulls out a fireglo red Rickenbacker, its strap etched with a series of Wabanaki stars. This strap was for sale at the Winnipesaukee powwow. He probably bought it to make him look cool, and it does.

Beetle introduces our instruments to one another. “Rosalita, may I present Dark Horse.” He lowers his dark eyes flirtatiously. “I named him in honor of George Harrison's old album.”

“Dark Horse,” I repeat
.
What an ironic name for anything associated with someone as popular as Beetle. That name would be perfect for Will Pyne's guitar, if he had one. My thoughts shift to envisaging the battle between Will Pyne and Worthy Dill for Mia Delaney's affections. Worthy, the handsome prince. Will, the dark horse. There's no way Will won fairly. I need to tell the Hartford Police what I know about him. Maybe the Dills will tell me something that sheds more light on this cold case.

My fingers slide across the rosewood fret board and maple body of Beetle's new axe. “It reminds me of George Harrison's twelve-string.”

“I know, right?” says Beetle, trying out a lick on his tight new guitar. He plays rigidly, as if he's mimicking a session from YouTube that he's practiced a thousand times. A dinner bell interrupts him, and he huffs, frustrated. I want to laugh at the sound of that bell. If my parents heard a bell like that at our apartment, they'd think the place was on fire.

“I'll play your song after we eat,” he smirks.

So now it's
my song
. I force myself to imagine the deadly view from the top of City Place but all I can get is an image of Beetle dancing with me on that rooftop, like we're in some dipshit Broadway musical.

A dozen yellow roses fill a cut crystal vase at the center of a gleaming glass dinner table with Worthy Dill seated at its head. I recognized Worthy right away from his magnificent portrait at the bank. He could pass for Beetle's slightly overweight older brother: butterscotch bangs, licorice eyes, fabulous smirk, drop-dead shoulders, and all. It's easy to imagine what Mia Delaney and Mrs. Dill saw in him when he was young. He's not bad-looking now. Maybe I'm not so different from Mia.

Worthy rises to kiss my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Mona.”

Hastening toward the stereo, he puts on the Beatles song, “Can't Buy Me Love.” If only Lizzy could see this. Beetle and the Beatles together, in the same heavenly space. Seriously, the ambiance really
is
heavenly. The Dills' dining room is the color of whipped cream. Daddy Dill and Beetle are wearing butter-colored polos. Mommy Dill places a snowy platter of steaming food beside gold-plated serving dishes and flatware. In their pale clothes, lit by the golden crystal teardrop chandelier over the dining room table, the Dills shine like three glorious suns. I represent the proverbial sunspot, in my ripped black jeans, beat-up Chuck Taylors, and butchered baby dolls tee shirt.

Two huge wedding portraits hang on the wall behind Mrs. Dill's head. The faces of the bride and groom rest in separate oval gold frames that resemble halos. A brass plaque under the groom's photo says “Worthington ‘Worthy' Dill.” The bride's photo plaque includes her maiden name, saying “Carrie Arquette ‘Cricket' Dill.” So Carrie Arquette was mashed together to form “Cricket.” What odd nicknames they manufacture in this family. It explains how they got “Beetle” out of Barrington Dill.

“Mona is quite the musician,” Mrs. Dill informs her husband, curling her lip over every syllable of that last word.

I keep my head down. “I work hard at my music but I never expected to make money from it.”

“Certainly not!” Mrs. Dill eyes Beetle harshly. “That's very sensible. We keep telling Beetle that he should rethink his plan to take a year off from college to pursue his musical interests.”

Beetle stares at my hands. “If anyone deserves to get rich from playing the guitar, it's Mona. She is amazing. I don't think she would speak to me if I didn't play an instrument.”

Worthy's brow spasms like he's going to be sick. He groans softly and then lunges forward to remove a yellow rose from the centerpiece. He presents it to me on two open palms, as if to atone for his poorly timed outburst. “Thank you for supporting Beetle's little hobby.”

“My pleasure,” I say, accepting the rose, and trying to put aside his condescending remark. “Lovely wedding photos.” I sit straighter, shooting for a semblance of upper-class propriety.

Mrs. Dill crinkles her pencil-thin mouth, in what I suppose is a refined version of a thank you. “You'll have to excuse this informal dinner,” she says, absurdly. “I had to throw it together because we only returned from Lake Winnipesaukee this afternoon. Mr. Dill and I have gone there for a month every summer since we were in high school. Our parents were good friends. In fact, we just brought this gray sole back from our favorite fishmonger by the lake.” Telling this tale brings a warm glow to her cheeks.

Meanwhile, I turn green and instinctively cover my mouth. No wonder the fish smells off. It takes over three hours to get from Lake Winnipesaukee to Hartford. There is an awkward silence as the fish is passed.

“Mona, did you vacation anywhere after school got out?” asks Mr. Dill.

I put the yellow rose to my nose to alleviate the fish smell. “I also visited New Hampshire,” I say. My grandfather has a cabin way up north, near Canada.”

“Oh! My poor child, it must have been terrible, staying in a border town.” Mrs. Dill shudders.

This is my chance. I shake the rose at her and a petal falls off. “Funny who you meet in border towns. I ran into the son of Mr. Dill's old girlfriend, Mia Delaney.” I lean back in my chair, expecting the Dills to get into it over Worthy's old high school girlfriend, the way my parents fight over dad's flirtations with his graduate students.

Mrs. Dill's face sags and crinkles, as if the sands of time have rushed in all at once. She throws her napkin at me and stomps out. Mr. Dill rubs his chest, grumbling out the words, “Excuse me,” and strides out of the room after her.

I expected a petty argument, not a full-on exodus. I can't believe I've just blown my chance to question Mr. Dill about Mia's death.

Beetle's head flops on the table and the fringe of his bangs pokes through his fingers. “Oh, man, I should have warned you. You couldn't know how sensitive my parents are on the subject of Mia Delaney. Everyone at school thinks of her as some tragic character in a distant old story. It's personal with my parents. She was their classmate. Dad kicks himself for going away on vacation to Winnipesaukee instead of searching for Mia after she disappeared, even though people said she left him for another guy. Now you tell him she also left a child behind which must make his guilt worse.”

I'm shocked to hear Worthington Dill ever pined over anybody. I realize that I'm unfairly prejudiced, assuming Worthy only cares about money, when I really know nothing about him. The fact is, Worthy has been nice enough to me.