Murder of crows, p.2
Murder of Crows, page 2
Wyn barked out a laugh. “Yeah, it still feels kind of gross sitting in this room and remembering Oly being here with us.”
I had been trying not to think about Oly, but hearing Wyn say his name made a shiver go up my spine.
“Ugh, and speaking of he-who-must-not-be-named,” Ella snapped. “We have to come up with some kind of social game plan for dealing with all the questions and weird looks. I’m sure the gossip mill is already winding up to go full tilt as soon as the first bell rings. People don’t just brush off a bunch of deaths, a serial-killer teacher getting arrested, and his student protégé still on the loose like it’s no big deal. And the four of us are ground zero when it comes to juicy details.”
“Exactly, and besides all that,” Max continued pointedly, “we need a happy, positive, front-page story for the Talon to draw some more people to join the paper when school starts. We can’t make things weird for them just because our last newspaper adviser loved to murder and we’re all ‘traumatized.’ ” He put heavy finger quotes around the word. But you could tell from the tone of his voice that, deep down, he absolutely meant it. “It’s going to be fun trying to get newbies to join a paper that was run by a serial killer. Even if Mr. Levinson is in jail now.”
“Speaking of terrible advisers,” Ella said, holding up her phone. “I just got an email from the new one. She was supposed to come to this meeting to kick things off and hand out assignments for the first issue, but she broke her arm or something. So she just emailed us some topics, and I guess we have to figure it out from there.”
Ella sighed in exasperation. She opened her mail app and turned up her brightness so we could see the message better.
“We have to write a piece on Founder’s Day?” Wyn scoffed with a grimace as she read. “God, that’s so boring.”
Even Max groaned and rubbed his eyes.
I must have been making a face because Ella shrugged.
“You came a little after the beginning of the school year last year, so you missed the last one,” she said.
Max took his hands off his face and sighed loudly. “Basically, every September, the whole town does a treasure hunt to celebrate the founding of Hollow Falls. The mayor hides some little gold-painted treasure chest somewhere in town and makes up some riddles to help people find it. Whoever gets to it first gets a check for a hundred dollars and one of those gift baskets full of fruit or whatever,” he explained.
“Everybody knows about Founder’s Day already. This is like having to write a piece on the Fourth of July.”
“Hmm,” Ella said.
“What?” Wyn griped. “Don’t tell me you’re actually interested in this puff piece?”
Ella shrugged. “There’s a little bit more to its history than most people know. I overheard my dad talking about it with his weird Murder of Crows friends when I was a kid. They never thought I was listening, but I always was.”
“Well? We’re waiting. Spill,” Max said impatiently.
“Fine, fine,” Ella said with a grin. “How much do you know about The Hunt?”
Max, Wyn, and I looked at one another blankly, then waited for Ella to continue.
Ella preened, clearly pleased with the attention, and settled in to tell the story. “Apparently, after the town founder died under mysterious circumstances, he was buried in secret by his closest confidants, and they buried a treasure along with him. They decided to put together a puzzle that could only be solved by the exact sort of person who deserved the treasure. Someone inquisitive, careful, mindful, and well read. The people who made it their mission to find the founder and his treasure dubbed it The Hunt. And no one has found it in a hundred and seventy years.”
“Huh,” Max said, crossing his arms, curious.
“That’s cool and all, but what does it have to do with Founder’s Day?” I asked.
“Oh, duh. Anyway, people were getting so thirsty for The Hunt that people started getting killed. So they created some family-friendly scavenger hunt in the 1970s, rebranded it as Founder’s Day, and hoped everyone would lose interest in the real treasure.”
“What kind of puzzle is it?” I asked.
Ella sighed. “It’s just more stupid riddles. Apparently the historical ones we have in the library right now are just the first two, but there were originally six. The remaining riddles were destroyed and all references to them were removed from the town records to prevent people from finding them.”
She sighed again. “I hate riddles; they’re the most boring kind of puzzle.”
“Let’s agree to disagree,” I replied dryly. I looked down at my hands and realized I was still holding the book the old man had given me at the bus stop: Hollow Falls: A History.
“Speaking of our town’s weird origins,” I said, waving the book at my friends. “Some spooky old man accosted me in the street on my way here and told me there’s some mystery I need to get to the bottom of.”
“Way to bury the lede!” Wyn interrupted. “What kind of spooky was he? Regular spooky or Hollow Falls spooky?”
“Definitely Hollow Falls spooky,” I said, clutching the book and letter a bit tighter. “I was waiting for the bus forever, and I was about ready to bail and just walk. But before I lost my patience completely, this old man wanders up and starts talking at me. And I am not kidding when I mean at me. He says he thinks he can guess who I am and is being really suspicious—”
“Like dangerous suspicious?” Wyn interjected again.
“Not exactly. He seemed too old to be dangerous,” I explained. “He was the kind of old where if I knocked into him accidentally, I’m pretty sure he would just fall over and shatter. He was like 1970s Willy Wonka spooky—like the kind of guy who would own a lot of taxidermy.”
“Gross,” Ella said with a shudder. I could only imagine she was remembering the dead animal collection we’d found in Levinson’s murder cabin.
“What happened next?” Max asked, leaning forward, eager for me to continue.
“So, he walks around me a bunch and then starts rattling off weirdo observations about my hair and clothes. Then, just when the bus drove up, the old man announces that he had been looking for me specifically, and he shoved this book with a letter inside into my hands.”
I placed them both on the desk.
“What did the letter say?” Max asked, picking it up.
“I don’t know, I haven’t opened it yet.”
Before I was even finished talking, Wyn tore open the envelope and shook the paper out. A key dropped out with it and bounced on the linoleum with a clang.
“Oh, wow …” Wyn said, reading. “This is … wow.”
“Would you please actually read it out loud?” Max said, snatching the key off the ground.
“Hold your horses, Maximillian,” Wyn huffed.
Dearest Miss Torres,
We would like to extend a formal invitation to this month’s meeting of the Murder of Crows, a venerable society dedicated to the preservation and analysis of Hollow Falls’s history and mystery. We were very impressed with your work concerning the Lit Killer and would love to hear all about the dashing derring-do, if you were so inclined to share. As you know, our membership was very affected by the situation, and we would like to share in the tale as a form of closure. In return, we would love to extend to you our own knowledge and the fellowship of mystery within our town.
For a sleuth like yourself, our treasure trove of a library may turn out to be an indispensable resource. One well deserved for a person who saved us from the killer in our midst.
We will be meeting tonight, Friday the 17th, at 8:00 p.m. sharp. In this envelope, you will find a key to the door of the building in which we’ll be meeting and a map to our location. You are allowed to bring only one guest.
Best of luck, and we hope to see you and hear about your wonderful work in person.
Yours,
Alan Mortimer Wyatt
“Cool that there’s a secret library. But it smells like he sprayed it with old-man perfume,” Wyn continued. She handed me back the letter, and I turned it over to find an unlabeled map, with a crow marking the spot. A little on the nose, but I respected their commitment.
“Mysterious,” Max said. “I figured the Murder of Crows had disbanded after the whole Lit Killer thing was over. Why on earth would they want to keep hanging out when one of their own turned out to be a wackadoodle, killing their members left and right? If I loved murder but didn’t want to be murdered, I would just go home, put on some Forensic Files, and call it a day.”
“I don’t know why they’re still meeting, Max, but I’d like to find out,” I said firmly. I thought about the last time we’d encountered the Murder of Crows. Their obstruction of justice in the Lit Killer case still left a bad taste in my mouth, but I guess I couldn’t blame them for not expecting the call to be coming from inside the house, so to speak. Maybe this was some kind of apology.
“So … you guys in? Are we going to do this?” I asked, holding out my hand to take the key back from Max.
Wyn shrugged. “We have two weeks before school starts. What else do we have going on? And who knows? Maybe we could even ask around at the meeting and dig up some dirt on The Hunt to make this Founder’s Day article a little more interesting.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“I’m out.” Ella shook her head. “My dad used to take me along to those meetings all the time when I was a kid. I’ve had enough of Old Man Wyatt’s giant dumb house for a lifetime.”
Ella paused and then shot me a sickly sweet smile. “You’ll probably have a great time, though, Tig. It’s right up your alley.”
I didn’t dignify her with a response.
“I’m going to sit the meeting out, too,” Max chimed in. “I’m trying a new thing called being careful. You guys can be on the front line for this one. We need another couple stories just to bulk up the paper anyway. So while you guys handle your own dark twist on the Founder’s Day assignment, I’m going to cover the reopening of the Montague Hotel. I’m sure at least some of the students will want to know if the renovations are going to be completed before prom night.”
“And I’ll do the actual fluff work and fill in a gossip column or something,” Ella said with a shrug. “That’s basically already my job here anyway.”
“Well, I’m game for tagging along to the meeting,” Wyn said. “It looks like we have a date, Torres.”
My cheeks heated against my control. “Thanks, Wyn,” I said, my voice absolutely not cracking. “Even though this Mr. Wyatt guy seems weirdly fixated on me specifically, we worked together to solve the Lit Killer case. Like hell I’m going to soak up all the credit for solving that case alone.”
“You better not, you nerd,” Wyn teased with a grin, gently hip-checking me to the side. “Now we just have to figure out this map.”
“Oh, it’s that creeptastic house up at the north end of Minute Street. It has a bunch of crows on it; you’ll know it when you see it,” Ella said casually, sliding off the desk. “Work smart, not hard.
“And since our adviser isn’t here to tell me no, I’m heading out early. I’ll see you guys later. Have fun hanging out with my dad and his old folks’ Goth retirement club.”
Ella swung her purse over her shoulder and flounced out the door.
Now that we had the location, this all seemed a bit more real. I wondered whether the Murder of Crows was expecting a whole detailed presentation or if it would be more like a Q&A. I’d never really presented a case before, and the thought was a bit nerve-racking.
“What are you planning to wear?” Wyn asked casually. “Business casual? Cocktail? Black tie?”
“I was planning to wear this,” I said, looking down at my T-shirt and jeans.
Wyn pursed her lips. “It’s a presentation, and a mysterious one. Might be a good idea to leave some kind of impression. Especially if we’re attending as representatives of the Talon.”
I scoffed. “Well, I’ll wear a dress if you wear a dress,” I shot back, ending that line of conversation.
Wyn looked me up and down with a peculiar look in her eye and smirked.
“Annnnnd Wyn’s chosen the dress,” Max said with a huff. “You have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into, Tig.”
“Hmm.” Wyn picked her bag up from the floor. “Someone has a speech to write, so we should probably get out of here. I’ll see you at seven fifty.” Wyn pulled open the door, blew us a kiss (which was somehow both sarcastic and very, very cute), and then disappeared into the hallway.
“You should wear something nice, or she’s going to outshine you,” Max said dryly. He handed Hollow Falls: A History back to me and picked his own backpack up off the ground.
“Wyn?” I said incredulously, thinking about her normal cool grunge gear.
“I’ve known her for a long time.” Max tightened the strap on his pack with jerky finality. “Wear something nice.”
I fidgeted in my ill-fitting black dress pants, pulling them down to cover more of my ankles. I wasn’t in the habit of collecting business-casual clothing, so half of last year’s Christmas church outfit would have to do. The pants had gotten way too short, but like hell was Wyn going to cave and wear a dress, so neither would I. I almost bailed on the fancy clothes completely, but after some thought, I realized that Wyn was definitely right about it being important to make a good impression. Regardless of their intentions or hobbies, some of the most influential adults in the whole town had at some point been members of the Murder of Crows. There was nothing more irritating than being treated like a child in adult spaces, and not dressing like one usually helped a bit.
When the bus pulled up to the Minute Street stop, I adjusted my bag on my shoulder—stuffed with the articles and presentation supplies I had brought—and made my way down the stairs and toward the Murder of Crows headquarters.
The crow-covered house at 3141 N. Minute Street had a large, ivy-covered wrought-iron gate with the club’s symbol right in the center—ostentatious and not secretive at all. There was a long, sprawling path up to the front door. I could see the white blonde of Wyn’s hair through the thick foliage, which made me feel a lot better about pushing the gate open. She was sitting a bit behind one of the pillars on the porch. I recognized the cuffs and bracelets around her wrist as she played with her phone, but the heels were new. Completely out-of-character new. Double-take, then triple-take new. I tugged my pants down yet again and cursed, thinking about Max’s words earlier.
“Glad to see you made it,” Wyn called from behind the pillar. “I was about to consider taking a long walk up the street to find you.”
I huffed as I jogged along the path and up the front stairs, clutching my bag in front of me. “We have three more minutes until the meeting starts,” I began. “They should be glad we made it on time at all! Whoa, what? Whoa!”
I stared; I couldn’t help it. Wyn stood and smoothed her hand down the side of her dress slowly. It was a devastatingly simple black pencil dress, elegantly cut like nothing I had ever seen anyone in this town approximate, even on their very best days. Sleeves down to her elbows, subtle boning in the bodice, hem two inches below her knee so that the fabric stretched between her hips. Her messy, fluffy blonde hair was brushed back into a slick French twist, as severe as it was sophisticated. The chipped black nail polish on her hands had been replaced with a delicate dusty rose that had to have been borrowed from someone else in her house. It was such an alien color to see on Wyn that it took a full ten seconds to tear my eyes away from it.
“It’s my mom’s,” Wyn explained. She raised an eyebrow at my expression and leaned one hip against the wood pillar. “She used to walk runway for Thierry Mugler in the ’90s and has a lot of this shit lying around the basement. I usually trot it out once a year to hurt people. Mostly Ella if I’m being honest.”
“Yeah, I … uh … I see how this would make Ella sweat a bit,” I said, semi-hysterically. “Should I have worn something fancier?”
Wyn laughed, and the illusion was shattered with the familiar crinkling of her nose. “Not at all, bro. You just said, ‘I’ll wear a dress if you wear a dress,’ like you didn’t think I could. And I just figured I should let you know that I can.”
Wyn tilted her head and looked down at me through her eyelashes. “If I’m going to be honest, the shoes hurt like a bitch and my hair is too tight. But it was worth it to see the look on your face.” Her gaze softened a bit.
“We all contain multitudes, Tig. You should see how Max cleans up when he’s really given a moment and place to shine. Gay Excellence, that one.”
And with that, Wyn stepped across the porch and grabbed the large brass knocker. The noise was so startling that I almost dropped my bag.
“You look really good—even if you bailed on the dress,” Wyn said gently. “Just take a deep breath and be yourself.”
So, I took a deep breath, and the door opened. An older woman with a sharp, asymmetrical gray haircut opened the door. She looked both of us up and down, with an arch expression. “Huh. I’m surprised you showed up. Welcome to the Murder of Crows, Tig Torres,” she said dryly, her voice deep and resonant. She met my eyes and examined me with a look I couldn’t quite figure out—it was almost resentful, but also kind of sad. I looked away quickly. If the rest of the Murder of Crows gave off the same vibes, we were in for a long evening.
“The auditorium is at the end of this hall and to the right,” she continued. “No recording equipment can be used on the premises.” The woman turned around, the drapey fringed shawl she wore across her shoulders sweeping in a wide arc behind her. “I can’t wait to hear what you have to say.” She smirked and sauntered down the hall.
I raised my eyebrows at Wyn as we stepped into the foyer. “Odd choice for the welcoming committee,” I muttered. Wyn chuckled as she closed the door behind her, and then we both gasped when we finally turned around and got a load of the house. The space sprawled before us like a museum. The floors were dark wood with an intricate mosaic that matched the symbols and whorls of the wrought-iron fence from outside. The walls were densely decorated with framed oil paintings, technical diagrams, and painstakingly preserved newspaper clippings. There was a long black carpet that stretched from the front door all the way to the end of the hallway, where the woman who had opened the door for us had disappeared.
