CHAPTER 4
The kettle let loose with a piercing whistle and I jumped in my seat, nearly knocking Ray’s manuscript off the table. For pity’s sake, it’s only water on the boil. I turned off the stove, fixed myself a cup of spearmint tea, and sat down again, all while trying to talk myself into getting a grip. On top of losing Michael, now I’d lost Ray, one of the sweetest, strongest, kindest men I’d ever known. He’d been an anchor in my life after Michael died, though I’d never told him that.
I took a sip of tea and, trying to calm myself, turned my attention to the terracotta pots on the table. For the first time I noticed a green film covering the bottom of the top pot and the rims of the other pots. Was it algae? Moss? I leaned a little closer. Whatever the green stuff was, it smelled. And if it was mold, the pots needed to go straight back outside. I refused to have that stink in my house.
And now that I looked, the pot I’d set on top of the stack had a big crack in it too, extending from the rim to almost the middle of the pot. A hole near the top of a pot was one thing, but a long fracture meant the pot would soon break in two. Still, I could shatter the pots to pieces and use the shards to cover holes in other pots. “That’s it, then, I’m throwing these pots out,” I said, loudly, forcefully, as if declaring, out of sheer habit, my intentions to Michael. I stood and took hold of the stack.
Instantly, I heard a distinct flutter—like wings against a pot—and let go of the stack, horrified that a small creature was trapped inside one of them, fighting to get out. A sparrow? A baby sparrow?
A mouse?
“Not in here!” I cried. “I hate mice!” I grabbed the stack again, but as I lifted it, my palms slipped on the green slime.
The pots fell to the table and rolled to the floor, cracking open like giant clay eggs and releasing a creature with beating wings into the kitchen.
My hands flew to my face and I staggered backward, sending my chair toppling.
With my back pressed hard to the wall, I slowly spread my fingers, searching the kitchen. Birds in trees were lovely, but one trapped inside your house was a nightmare. Those flapping wings. Those droppings. Worse, a bird might die before it made it outside again.
A tiny squeak from the hutch caused me to reassess the nature of the creature. Mice didn’t fly, but then again, generally speaking, birds didn’t squeak like mice. So what did I have here? A baby, perhaps. A baby bird just learning to fly.
I dropped my hands. “You poor, sweet thing,” I said, inching forward. “Are you a baby?”
“No.”
I halted, my eyes now riveted to the hutch. I did not hear that, I told myself. Wild birds don’t talk. Simple fact. Anyway, I couldn’t see a bird among the china in my hutch, and even a baby bird would be visible there. My hyperactive nerves were once again playing tricks on my mind. Take a deep breath.
“I said I’m not a baby.”
“No!” I screamed and flung myself back against the wall, my heart pounding in my chest, panic flooding my senses. Training my eyes on the hutch, I sidestepped to the counter, wrenched open a drawer, and pulled out the first knife I laid my hands on.
Instantly I heard another squeak—this one different from the last and so pitiable that I dropped the knife on the counter. “I won’t hurt you,” I whispered.
A moment later, two tiny hands rose from inside a Wedgwood cup and grasped the rim.
I sucked in my breath. Had I lost my mind? I gathered up what remained of my courage and edged toward the hutch. The hands I saw weren’t much larger than split peas, but they were undeniably hands—with four fingers and a thumb the color of pale human flesh.
When I was three feet from the cup, the creature raised its head above the rim.
I gasped and froze in place. “Oh, Lord, Lord.”
“I won’t hurt you,” the creature said, its voice high-pitched but soft as honey. As two wings unfurled behind its head, it rose slowly in the cup. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Oh, please no.”
The creature’s wings were rose-petal pink, fading to an ivory blush closer to its body, and like butterfly wings, each of its wings was in two parts, with a more angular top and a separate, rounder bottom. Its hair was short, wavy, and a shimmering light brown, and it wore . . . what? Something pink and yellow. Soft looking, like its wings, and crinkled where it was gathered at the creature’s waist. A top and . . . shorts?
“This is madness,” I said. My courage deserting me, I stumbled back from the hutch. “I’m not seeing this. I am not seeing this.”
“I’ve watched you,” the creature said.
I let out a strangled laugh. “Oh, great. That’s great,” I said, turning away from the creature. I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to ten, and turned back. It was still there. This thing inside a teacup. “This is insane.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Oh, Lord, I didn’t mean what I said to Ray about not wanting things to be ordinary.” Again I shut my eyes. “Give me ordinary, please. I don’t want to lose my mind. I can’t lose my mind. Give me ordinary.”
Slowly I opened my left eye.
“I won’t hurt you, Kate,” the creature repeated.
It called me Kate. The hair at the back of my neck stood on end. “You know my name?”
I raced from the kitchen and made straight for the front door. I grabbed the doorknob, but my hand, still slimy from the pots, slipped, so I grabbed again—this time with both hands—and yanked open the door. In one swift movement, I strode across the threshold, shot a glance over my shoulder, and pulled the door shut behind me.
Outside, my heart still thumping, I forced myself to take deep, calming breaths. Either that thing in my house was real or I was losing it, and at that moment, I wasn’t sure which of the two possibilities was worse.
A fine rain was falling, but I resisted the impulse to go back inside and instead took deep, cleansing breaths. It wasn’t until I saw a dark SUV pass slowly along Birch, as if scrutinizing the homes on my side of the street, that I thought better of standing in the rain and possibly putting myself in harm’s way. Though I was relieved when the SUV continued west on Birch, the vehicle was a reminder that Bouchard aside, there was a killer in Smithwell and I needed to act like it.
I went back inside, closed my front door, and stood silently in the foyer, listening. There were no squeaks, no flutter of wings. I moved cautiously toward the kitchen, my eyes alert. At the kitchen table, I steeled myself and turned back to face the hutch. “It can’t be!”
The creature was sitting next to a teacup, its wings spread wide, its legs dangling over the shelf edge. My muscles went weak and I dropped to a chair.
“Why are you afraid? I’m the little one.”
The creature was indeed little. About four inches high, I guessed, if you didn’t include the tips of her wings. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t exist.”
“But you’re talking to me.”
“That’s the problem. Michael always said I let my imagination run wild sometimes, and now I’ve really lost my grip.”
“I’ve watched you.”
“You said that before, and believe me, it doesn’t sound any better the second time around.”
“Why?”
Maybe I wasn’t losing my grip on reality. This thing was talking to me, wasn’t it? Forming sentences, asking questions. Sure, I was skittish these days. I talked to myself too much and jumped at loud sounds, but I’d never gone over the edge. Never even got close to it. I was, on the whole, a sensible person. “What are you?”
The creature’s lips curved into a sweet smile. “It’s about time you asked. I’m a fairy.”
I flopped back in my chair. So Ray Landry’s tales about Smithwell’s fairyland woods weren’t tales after all. Or were they? Had he made up stories to distract me after Michael died? “A friend of mine once told me that fairies existed, but he was joking.”
“Ray of the Forest.”
I stared. “Yes, Ray.”
“I know,” I managed to say. “He was my friend. He was a good man.”
“He treated the ladybugs and crickets with kindness. Like you do.”
The fairy stood to her bare feet, her wings bending backward as she moved. They appeared to act as counterbalances, keeping her on the shelf even as she leaned over the edge.
An instant later her butterfly wings flapped forward and she took horizontally to the air, speeding in my direction.
Stunned, I threw myself back in my seat and covered my face with my hands.
“I’m on the table now,” the fairy said a second later. “I won’t move again.”
I peeked through my fingers to make certain the creature wasn’t moving and then let my hands fall. “Next time say something when you’re going to do that.”
“Yes, Kate.”
“How do you know Ray?”
“I met him in the forest. I talked to him, and he kept me secret and safe when it was cold. I’ll miss him.”
“When did you meet him?”
“The last time of falling leaves. One year ago.”
“You speak English well.”
“Of course I do. I live here.”
“How silly of me.” I watched as the fairy sat down cross-legged a mere two feet from my face. For the first time I noticed her luminous green eyes, so piercing it was as though they were lit from behind. “Do you have a name?” I asked.
“Minette.”
“That’s very pretty. Do you have a last name?”
“I’m Minette Plummery of the Smithwell Forest.”
“Okay. Sure.” Pressing my palms to the table, I rose to my feet. Feeling a little wobbly, I stood in place, letting the strength return to my legs.
“You’re still afraid of me.”
“No, I’m afraid of myself. You’re not supposed to exist, and I’m sure not supposed to be talking to you.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth than you dream of, Kate.”
“You’re quoting Shakespeare?”
“God gave him those words.”
“You know that for a fact, do you?”
“You don’t believe in God?”
“Of course I do.”
Minette scrunched up her face. “God created me. Just because you never saw me before doesn’t mean I don’t exist. There are all kinds of things you don’t see.”
I opened a cabinet under the sink and began to rummage through it. I’m arguing with a fairy. Earlier today they didn’t exist, and now I’m arguing with one. “I have things to do, Minette. My friend died today, and I don’t believe he died of a heart attack. Even if the coroner says so, I won’t believe it.”
“Are you getting a knife?”
“I’m getting a flashlight. I’m going to Ray’s house. He gave me a key to his back door.”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“There it is.” I set the flashlight on the counter, shut the cabinet, and looked back at Minette. “What do you know about Ray’s death?”
“Only that he died, and that it’s not good for neighbors to see a flashlight in Ray’s house at night. They’ll call the police and put you in trouble.”
“Put me in trouble?” I almost smiled. “You may have a point.”
“Go when it’s daytime,” Minette instructed. “Go tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you don’t know something about his death?”
“I wasn’t in his house when he died. I followed him when he walked to your house, and I went into your flower pot to stay out of the rain.”
“He didn’t have a heart attack, did he?”
“Never, Kate.”
CHAPTER 5
Though I was still too antsy to go to bed, I wondered how I was going to sleep that night, knowing that Minette was in the house. Even if I showed her the door, I thought, she could slip back in through an unpatched hole or some weak point where the house met the foundation or . . . who knew? If mice could get in, so could fairies.
But I was determined to ignore her until she went away. That was my brilliant plan. My return to sanity. She lived in the Smithwell woods, didn’t she? She probably needed to go back to her home in a tree or a log, maybe nibble on a little autumn cress or whatever fairies ate. If I ignored her, if I set my thoughts on Ray’s death and Alana William’s unsolved murder, Minette would leave, and eventually my pulse would return to normal.
I dumped the broken pots in my kitchen trash bin and took my now-lukewarm tea and Ray’s memoirs to the living room—I didn’t feel safe going to bed, even with a closed and locked bedroom door—and settled into my armchair by the fireplace, right across from Michael’s chair. It had been his favorite place to read and talk, especially as October nights grew colder. After re-reading Ray’s note on the first page, I flipped through the pages until I found chapter 14, the one on Alana.
Much of what Ray had written wasn’t news to me and didn’t seem noteworthy in any way that would explain who had killed Alana. She’d been a twenty-four-year-old teacher in her first year at Smithwell Middle School when, six weeks into the school year, she was found dead in the woods, two miles from her school and about a mile from Ray’s house. He had been foraging for acorns and chokeberries when he found her—just hours after she’d been killed. Alana hadn’t shown up for classes after her lunch break, but no one had raised an alarm.
“I was grateful I had found her and not kids playing hooky in the woods,” Ray wrote. “Her body looked peaceful, but her face did not. A knife with a short handle was still lodged in the right side of her neck. She was wearing a blue dress and a long, hooded jacket. The jacket was unbuttoned but almost closed, as if the killer had neatened it out of respect. Alana was wearing a green and brown plaid scarf, which was blown back away from her neck, and a silver-colored heart-shaped necklace. I wasn’t sure on first look what had happened to her because there was almost no blood. I remember looking around me. I was suddenly fearful and sensed that the madman who had killed her might be near. But my father, as I’ve said, had been a policeman, so that part of my upbringing took over, and I studied the scene before leaving Alana there and calling the Smithwell Police Department from the closest house.”
I heard a low rustle and raised my chin as Minette swayed like a lazy butterfly toward the couch to my left.
“I’m moving slowly and slowly,” she said. “See?”
My throat suddenly dry, I nodded and said nothing.
She dropped to the top of the couch, scooted forward, and then, her wings vibrating, drifted gently downward until she landed on the seat cushion. “I heard the policeman talk about Ray of the Forest,” she said, sitting cross-legged. “He was my friend.”
I took a quick sip of tea so my dry lips wouldn’t stick to my dry gums. “I’m sorry, Minette. He was my friend too. Why do you call him Ray of the Forest?”
“That’s where I met him.”
“He foraged.”
“I showed him where to pick berries and leeks and mushrooms.”
“You did?” I shivered a little at the thought. Mushrooms?
“Kate, why are you still afraid of me?”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“But I am here. And because I am, I’m supposed to be.”
It was hard to fight the logic of that. But what did I really know about this creature? She had wings, liked ladybugs, had a voice like honey, and could fly like a supersonic jet when she wanted to. That was about the extent of it. This thing, undoubtedly capable of sneaking in and out of my house, was in my living room, and I had no idea what she really was. For all I knew, she’d suggested that Ray pick the mushrooms he had for his last meal. They’re safe, Ray of the Forest. Eat them.
I held up Ray’s memoirs. “Ray wrote this.”
“I watched him write it.”
“I’m hoping it will help me discover a few things.”
“You must help, Kate. I can ask no one else.”
/> Minette’s eyes glistened, and then she blinked and a tear slid down each cheek. It broke my heart a little. It was such a human expression of grief, but then, her face was entirely human. Sweeter and with an innocent beauty, but a human face in miniature.
Maybe I was getting paranoid as well as delusional. Minette seemed genuinely sad at Ray’s passing, and she hadn’t tried to hurt me. Still, a creature everyone thought to be mythical—including me—was sitting on my couch, telling me I had to help her. I needed to talk to someone, but there was no one for me to turn to. Michael and Ray were gone, and Emily would think I was mad if I told her about Minette.
“I’m trying to help,” I said. “If Ray was murdered, I promise I’ll try to find who did it.”
Minette wiped away her tears. “And I’ll help you too.”
I leaned forward, hugging the memoirs to my chest. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him? Did someone angry come to the house? Did he have an angry conversation on the phone?”
“He was never angry. He was sad sometimes, though.”
“And you never saw or heard anyone angry with him?”
“No.”
“What about yesterday, when he came back from the supermarket? Did he seem different?”
A look of intense concentration came over Minette’s face. Her tiny hands closed into fists, and as she brought them up under her chin, her eyes narrowed. “Yes, he was different.” She tilted back her head, seemingly trying to recall Ray, and as she did, her wings lay back, flattening like a dog’s ears. “He said, ‘My dad was a policeman, and I know what I saw. What were they doing there, Minette? I don’t trust them They both looked like chased rabbits, and the guilty chased rabbits flee when no man pursues.’”
That’s so Ray, I thought, leaning back, resting the memoirs on my lap. “You have a very good memory.”
Minette smiled and unclenched her fists. “He was talking to me, and I always listened to him. He talked to himself, too, like you do.”
“Ray committed Alana’s murder scene to memory, and he was good at that sort of thing.”
Dying to Remember Page 3
