Murder of crows, p.4
Murder of Crows, page 4
“Your speech was beautifully delivered,” Mr. Wyatt continued. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us remove the jackal from within our midst. We are a gaggle of oddities to be sure, but there is a line between enthusiasm and method acting, if you know what I mean.”
“Thank you for having us,” I replied graciously. “Your home and library are both incredible.”
“Yes, thank you,” Wyn echoed.
Mr. Wyatt glowed with pleasure but waved his big hand in dismissal. “Oh, you flatterer. It’s not all my work. The best things are a group effort.”
He was different from what I’d expected based on his letter and what I knew about the Murder of Crows. I’d built him up in my head as a mysterious benefactor, but he mostly just felt like someone’s grandpa. But I still got the sense he—and his club—were hiding something. That he had invited me here tonight for more than just a public speaking engagement. Why else would he invite us up here against Mr. Green’s explicit instructions to remain on the first floor?
I decided to test the waters on my theory. “So why didn’t you come down and join the group—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t get down all these stairs that much these days,” he explained quietly. “When you’re my age, you choose a room you like best and you stay in it.” He chuckled softly and held up a pair of delicate opera glasses.
“Those are so cool!” Wyn said.
“If you think those are ‘cool,’ I have something else that might interest you both,” Mr. Wyatt said, arranging his mobility aids and shooing us toward the door. “It wouldn’t do to leave a party without souvenirs.”
We followed him out into the library. Once we were back in the shelf-lined room, Mr. Wyatt looked at us both seriously. “I must admit, I did have a bit of an ulterior motive, asking you here tonight, Tig.”
I couldn’t stop a smile from crawling across my face. I knew it.
“I know it’s a bit bold of me to come to you for anything after you’ve already provided such an exemplary service to our community,” he continued, leaning heavily on his walker. “However, it is precisely because you have proven yourself in this way that I believe you would be an incredible asset to the task I must ask of you.”
He pulled a book from one of the shelves, then walked slowly over to the large table.
“Now, I’m sure Mr. Green asked you if you would like to join the Murder of Crows and it’s my best guess that you said no?” he asked.
“Yeah … I mean no offense—” I started, but Mr. Wyatt put up a gentle hand.
“None taken. The old bat had to try. You don’t seem like the club-joining type to me. You’ve got independence in your eyes.”
To my surprise, Wyn piped up. “She works with me, Max, and sometimes Ella,” she said to Mr. Wyatt, then turned to me, as if for confirmation.
Mr. Wyatt nodded and reached up to pluck a book off the shelf behind the desk.
“Smaller teams get more done, I agree.” He wiped the book he was holding down with a small cloth, then handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said politely, unclear what yet another old book had to do with this mysterious task he had for me. Would it kill these old guys to just come out with it already?
“Open it, open it!” he urged gently.
The title of the book was The History and Mystery of Hollow Falls. The cover of the book was brown and worn, but its pages were edged with gold. When I peeled back the first few sheets, I was surprised to find that the book had been hollowed out. Inside was a beautiful antique spyglass. I lifted it up to the light, then brought one end to my eye.
“This is too much, Mr. Wyatt,” I said haltingly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—it’s very cool. But you don’t have to give me a gift for solving the Lit Killer case. It was sort of my life’s mission after all.” I suddenly felt awkward. I didn’t mean to get so real with this old dude I just met.
Mr. Wyatt crossed his arms and leaned back against the table. “My dear, you saved our lives. This token is simply the least I can do,” he said, soft and honest. “When you came to visit us the first time and managed to unravel our own dangerous mystery, I knew I had to arrange for you to come and receive this in person as a symbol of my gratitude.”
Mr. Wyatt smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he seemed a bit sad. “This,” he continued, “is a gift, but it’s also an opportunity. A spyglass is a tool that helps to reveal what cannot be seen with the eyes alone. I’m sure when the time is right you’ll find it to be absolutely invaluable.” His words were laced with meaning I didn’t quite understand.
“Can I see?” Wyn asked.
I handed the spyglass to her.
“Keep it close and protect it,” Mr. Wyatt said urgently. “This is a gift for you and your band of sleuths and no one else. Keep it from getting into the wrong hands. I didn’t put it in a hollowed-out book for nothing.”
Wyn handed the spyglass back, and I tucked it gently inside its literary safe house. Wyn looked at the book’s cover closely. “Mr. Wyatt,” she said slowly. “We’re working on a story for the paper about Founder’s Day, and we heard that the Murder of Crows has a history with the event.” She paused. “And with something called The Hunt.”
Mr. Wyatt looked startled, and he leaned heavily against the table. “Well, you young people are even more intuitive than I gave you credit for. The Hunt is precisely why I asked you to come here today.”
Wyn and I both gasped, and Wyn took a large step backward.
“Yes, the Murder of Crows was integral to the Founder’s Day celebration you all know so well. Back in the 1970s, we worked together with the mayor to shut The Hunt down. It was a bloodbath.”
“Oh my god.” I fumbled my recorder out of my pocket and turned it on, house rules be damned. “Can you talk to us about it?”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Mr. Wyatt sighed. It seemed like by confiding in us, he was crossing his own personal Rubicon. I was dying to know why this old-timey scavenger hunt had people so riled up.
After a pause that felt like eons, Mr. Wyatt continued, “Transforming The Hunt into a holiday wasn’t a particularly hard decision, although it didn’t go over well with everyone. Things had gotten very out of hand at that point, and the mayor at the time practically jumped at our idea for Founder’s Day. It only took a generation for most people in town to forget about The Hunt or to grow too old to keep looking,” he said, gazing off into the distance.
“Before it came to that, I was a young hotshot with something to prove, and Mr. Green was my right-hand man. We were so terribly deep into The Hunt that neither of us even went to university until after everything had been settled. Everyone was invested in finding the founder’s body and the treasure that was rumored to come with it. There was urbane criminal activity, hooligans were digging up graves and destroying public property, and people were getting hurt—and killed. When the scent of incredible fortune is waved at the noses of bloodhounds, they do what they were bred to do. The day The Hunt became more about avoiding death than the thrill of the search, the exchange was no longer worth it. One day, I woke up and I’d just had enough. Sofia will tell you.”
“Sofia—like my abuela Sofia?” I questioned.
Mr. Wyatt looked surprised. “Of course. Doesn’t she know you’re here?”
“No …” I admitted begrudgingly. “I took the bus. She’ll be sorry she missed you. If I’d known you two knew each other, I would have asked her to tag along.”
Mr. Wyatt smiled sadly. “I haven’t seen Sofia for quite some time. Since … Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? The past is the past.”
“But what hap—”
“One story at a time,” Mr. Wyatt interrupted. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts before starting again.
“Despite the Founder’s Day tradition, there are still factions of people who have kept The Hunt alive all these years, in whispers and dark corners. Many of them are members of this very club. Not all of them are friends, and all of them have their own motives, as I once did.
“I have spent my life in search of the founder’s body and its treasure. The Hunt is a part of my legacy. I couldn’t bear to see it fall into the hands of people who don’t understand its worth.”
I noticed that he was leaning heavily on the table, so I pushed a nearby chair behind him and he settled into it gratefully.
“Thank you, dear.” He took a deep breath. “This is where you and your friends come in, Tig Torres. I’m sure The Hunt was intended for good purposes, but this whole situation has brought so much strife and pain to the community. The holiday is just a Band-Aid on a broken arm.
“I’m an old man, and I would like to see this whole matter put to rest before I’m gone. I’d like you to help me find the founder’s body and have the treasure—whatever it may be—either distributed among the townspeople or preserved in the library or museum.”
Mr. Wyatt sounded worried, but his words filled me with a thrill. A real treasure hunt with a dark history! Mystery players with secret motives and a generation of elders with adventurous pasts to hide.
Wyn caught my eye over Mr. Wyatt’s shoulder and raised her eyebrows excitedly.
“So … where do we start?” I asked.
“First, we—” Mr. Wyatt began, but before he could finish, the door to the library burst open with a crash.
My head whipped toward the door at the opposite end of the library. Standing in its shadow, looking suspiciously back at us, was a stocky man in a very nice suit. He was in his early fifties, his wavy hair combed down and pomaded to a bright shine.
“What are you talking about?” he asked rudely.
Mr. Wyatt closed his eyes for a second, then gestured to the man.
“Franklin Baker, Tig and Wyn. Tig and Wyn, Franklin Baker,” Mr. Wyatt said.
Franklin pinched his lips into a thin line, his eyes raking us up and down fiercely.
“What are they doing in here?” he demanded. His hand on the doorknob tightened until his knuckles were white.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Mr. Wyatt replied archly. “This is my home after all. But if you must know, I was thanking Tig for her speech this evening. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Baker?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” he said smarmily. “Mr. Green got a cake.” He jerked his head at me dismissively. “He was looking for them. They need to come downstairs immediately.”
“Why?” I said placidly. It wasn’t really a question. I don’t take orders from strange men.
Franklin Baker spluttered furiously, as if no one had ever defied him before.
Mr. Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Don’t go for his sake, but I’d love to have a slice of that cake if you girls don’t mind. Bring me up a piece when you’re done?”
“No problem,” Wyn said with a shrug.
“Just for you. Not for him,” I said, locking eyes with Mr. Baker so he knew exactly how I felt.
“Oh! And before you go …” Mr. Wyatt picked up one of the folded maps Wyn had discovered earlier, then he scooted his chair across the floor to reach a nearby file cabinet. He pulled out a manila folder and gently placed the folded map inside. “I gave Tig a souvenir, and you should get to have one, too.”
He winked at Wyn warmly, then theater-whispered loudly enough for the whole room to hear. “Just in case Mr. Baker doesn’t let you back upstairs.” I slipped the folder and the hollowed-out book into my backpack and zipped it tight.
Mr. Baker huffed in irritation and looked at his watch. “Quickly, girls, some of us have other things to do,” he snapped.
Wyn and I strode across the room and out the library door. Mr. Baker shut the door crisply behind us, then immediately began loping down the stairs at a swift pace.
“I don’t know what he told you, but forget about it. There are some things that simply don’t concern you. Things that should be left to the adults. Those who respect the history of this town,” Mr. Baker snapped over his shoulder. “Doddering old fool. Never satisfied, even after all the meddling he’s done.”
He quickly outpaced us and disappeared around the corner of a hallway, leaving Wyn and me to more leisurely make our way back to the auditorium.
“God, that guy is the worst!” I said loudly, hoping he’d hear.
“ ‘Things that should be left to the adults,’ ” Wyn said mockingly. “Whatever. He certainly didn’t complain when we rescued him and his friends from getting picked off like fish in a barrel.”
“That’s for sure,” I agreed. “And what was all that about Mr. Wyatt meddling? Do you think that was about The Hunt?”
“I mean, maybe?” Wyn said. “I honestly thought he was exaggerating about all the drama and deaths and whatever, but maybe some of the Murder of Crows people actually care about this treasure hunt. I vote we grab some cake, hear the rest of what Mr. Wyatt has to tell us, and then get the hell out of here.”
“Agreed.”
We rounded the corner of the last stairwell and headed back down into the foyer by the door.
Roughly half the guests had returned to the auditorium for cake, and right near the front of the line was the woman with the severe haircut who had met us at the door.
When we first saw her, she had been pinched with disapproval, and she had a similar expression now. (Who’s mad when they’re eating cake?) When she caught sight of us, the woman looked over our shoulders, toward the staircase, and her eyes seemed to darken in realization.
We watched as she grabbed three tiny plates of cake from the table and made her way toward us.
“Excuse me, I don’t believe we’ve had the honor of meeting. I’m Noel.” She inclined her head toward us, a handshake currently out of the question.
Noel handed me and Wyn the small paper plates. It was obvious she’d just grabbed the extra cake to use as a conversation starter. I decided not to call her out on it.
“Tig, I was wondering if I might have a moment alone. Perhaps your friend could take a piece of cake up to Mr. Wyatt while we chat.” Noel phrased the question more like a command, and she handed the third piece of cake to Wyn without waiting for an answer.
“I was already planning to do that,” Wyn scoffed, taking the plate. “I’ll be back, Tig.”
Noel watched as Wyn sashayed from the room, then turned to me and placed her own slice of cake onto the table behind her.
“Your speech was very good. I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate the work you did on the Lit Killer case. I knew Harry Levinson personally—as we all did—and it was such a disappointment to learn how pathetic he actually was. For how smart he thought he was, it never once occurred to him to appropriately manage his dysfunctions with therapy. What a messy and selfish way to deal with his problems.”
“You could put it that way, I guess,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone was listening to our conversation.
“I can, and I did,” Noel said with a small smirk. “I heard from Mr. Green that you turned down the membership offer. That’s disappointing, since it is your birthright, you know,” she said mysteriously. “Although perhaps Mr. Wyatt filled you in?”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. This conversation sure wasn’t going the way I expected it to.
To my surprise, she threw her head back and laughed with glee. “And there’s the famous Torres grit!” Noel said, snapping her finger sharply. “You’re so much like your aunt. But even more like your grandmother, I think. Now she was a sharpshooter with attitude. Strong women—gotta love them.”
“You knew Abuela and my aunt?” I perked up.
Noel waved her hand in a so-so motion and shrugged. “Your aunt only in passing around town. She tended to steer clear of me on Sofia’s orders. For all I adored her, your grandmother can hold a grudge longer than a fish can hold its breath.”
That was too confusing to merit a real response. “Okay,” I replied blandly. “Can we go back to the birthright part?”
But Noel was no longer looking at me. Over my shoulder, she was watching Wyn make her way from the stairs back toward the auditorium, the plate still in her hands. Noel could tell her time with me was dwindling to a close.
“I’d recommend asking your grandmother about that—see what she has to say,” she said quickly. Noel reached into her purse and removed her wallet and a pen. She took out a business card, scribbled something on the back, and then handed it to me.
“If you’re free, I would love to invite you and Sofia over for tea one day. Anytime will do. She’ll … Well. She’ll tell you that we had some difficulties in the past, but please let her know that I’d love to catch up. I miss her. Dearly.”
I reached out to accept the card, and just as my fingertips touched the paper, there was a shrill scream from the back of the room. I turned around just in time to see Mr. Wyatt sailing down from his cutout window headfirst. His body was unmoving and stiff, his limbs stuck out this way and that, not doing anything to stop the pull of gravity on his frail form. For a second, my mind flashed back to Tony Del Canto falling from the library tower, and I fought a wave of nausea.
Mr. Wyatt finally landed, quite unfortunately, directly on top of the cake with a monstrous crash. Icing mixed with blood flew in all directions, slapping wetly against the walls, furniture, and guests, a thick smear coating the side of my face. There was a moment of silence; then the screaming began. Some of the members immediately ran for the door, but Noel, Mr. Green, Mayor Highsmith, and I darted forward toward the body.
“Alan!” Mr. Green cried. He knelt by the body and felt for a pulse.
“Well, if the fall didn’t kill him, something certainly did. He fell like a brick,” Mayor Highsmith said bluntly.
I reached out to check his pulse myself. There was nothing there, and his skin was strangely heated and clammy. I rubbed my hand on the side of my pants.
“TIG!” Wyn pushed her way through the pandemonium. “What happened? I heard a scream.”
But she immediately slipped on the icing as she got closer to the body—still in her stocking feet—and with a screech, she careened into Noel from behind. The plate of cake still in Wyn’s hand slipped from her grip in the collision and slammed against the wall behind them.
