A Town Bewitched

by Suzanne de Montigny

  “What happened?” I ask, breathless.

  “Somebody vandalized the Medical Dental Building,” says a woman wearing a jean jacket.

  “What did they do?” I ask.

  “Take a look.” She steps aside.

  I gasp. The glass of the front door has been smashed like someone took a baseball bat to it. Shards are scattered everywhere. Worse yet, beside the door, is the single word ‘REVENGE’ scrawled in bright orange letters. But what gives me chills is the sprawled body of a raven, its intestines spilled onto the glass fragments like it’s been butchered.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I say, slipping my hand over my mouth.

  “Another one!” says Charlotte. We exchange horrified looks.

  Constable Douglas and Constable Fortier’s feet crunch on the broken glass on their way out of the building, followed by the young doctor who took over Dad’s practice.

  “Seems whoever it was, was after narcotics,” says Constable Douglas.

  “But I don’t keep narcotics in the office,” Dr. Marchand says, rubbing his chin. “I think whoever did this, did it for revenge.”

  “I guess that explains the word on the wall,” says Constable Douglas.

  I notice the Fisheries and Wildlife truck parked on the side of the road. The same two men dressed in grey shirts that we saw at the school walk up to the cops with clipboards in hand, speaking in low voices and pausing to take notes. Then, like before, they begin packing up the carcass of the bird. Taking shovels, they sweep up the intestines to add to the bag.

  “That’s the second dead bird in this town,” the bald guy says to the police, gripping the bag. “I suspect there’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

  “Could be someone psychotic,” says Dr. Marchand.

  “Or a copy-cat criminal,” Constable Douglas adds.

  “Maybe, but the bird’s had its main organs removed just like the last one,” says the bald guy. “And did you notice – the piece of liver they left looks like it has human teeth marks in it.”

  I shiver at his words.

  “I think we should put out a request to the public for tips,” says Constable Fortier. “There may be other crimes like this that we don’t know about.”

  Charlotte jiggles my shoulder. “What about your dad’s grave? Maybe it’s related. I mean, the letters on his tombstone were written in the same bright orange paint too. And remember that bird we buried on the first day of school?”

  “I don’t know.” I frown.

  “Why don’t you say something?” She gives me a small shove forward.

  Unsure, I step toward Constable Douglas and tap his arm.

  He gives me a brief glance. “Not now, Kira. We have important work to do here.”

  Embarrassed, I persist anyway. After all, I may be a teenager, but I have eyes and ears in my head, and this is important.

  “But I think I may have a tip,” I say, gathering up my courage.

  Constable Douglas lets out an impatient sigh.

  “Aw, come on. Hear her out, Jeff.” Constable Fortier says. “She’s a pretty responsible kid.”

  “Well, okay.” Constable Douglas finishes scribbling on his notepad, then flips a page. “But you do understand that it’s against the law to accuse someone of a crime unless you’ve witnessed it, right?”

  I nod.

  He draws Charlotte and me further away from the crowd. “Alright, then. What do you know?”

  Charlotte and I start at the beginning, describing the sparrow we buried and the scene of Dad’s grave on Thanksgiving Day. The two constables nod, listening with sober expressions.

  Then Constable Douglas raises a brow. “Were there any dead birds near the tombstone?”

  I frown in thought. “Not that we saw.”

  He shifts his weight. “You sure?”

  “We didn’t really look,” I say, glancing left and right to see if anyone is listening.

  “And how long do you think it had been since it was spray-painted?” asks Constable Fortier.

  “It was fresh. Mr. Bachinsky wiped it off.”

  “Oh?” He looks up with interest. “Did you see anyone else in the graveyard?”

  I think carefully. “Well … I may have seen Kate McDonough, but I’m not sure.”

  The two constables break into huge smiles at the mention of the red-haired fiddler’s name.

  “She’s something else, isn’t she?” says Constable Fortier.

  “You’re not kidding,” says Constable Douglas.

  I press my lips together, hard.

  “And no one else?” asks Constable Douglas.

  “I don’t know. I was too wrapped up in what was happening. I mean, it was pretty emotional and all. Everyone was crying.”

  Constable Douglas’ expression softens. “Understandable.” He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “So how’s everything else going? Your mom’s okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, wishing I could tell him about the IGs and school, but I know they won’t listen. Policemen have better things to do with their time than sort out problems between teenagers.

  “Thanks, Kira.” Constable Douglas pats my back. “This is good to know. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When we get to Charlotte’s house, Uncle Jack is laying the carefully wrapped lamps in the last available spot in the truck.

  “Well, she won’t be wanting for anything,” he says.

  “Except for a life?” I whisper to Charlotte.

  Herb and Sandra meet us at the front door, their arms crossed over their chests.

  “So let’s talk,” says Herb, blocking the stairs.

  Charlotte stands mute for a moment, and then melts into tears. We tell the story about Travis and the IGs and how it came to be that we ended up in the pub last night.

  “So what did you drink then? Beer?” Herb’s fierce eyes search Charlotte’s face.

  “A virgin Shirley Temple,” whispers Charlotte, her fingers covering her mouth.

  “A virgin Shirley Temple?” Herb lets out a relieved laugh. “But Shirley Temples are virgin.”

  “Well, I didn’t know,” says Charlotte, throwing out her hands. “I’ve never had one before.”

  Herb grabs his stomach; he’s laughing so hard.

  “I’d say you were lucky it happened to be Uncle Jack’s pub and that no one called the police,” Sandra says, “but had you done that anywhere else, you could have been in big trouble.”

  “We already know, Mom. Pierrette told us last night.” Charlotte hangs her head.

  “But how did Kate McDonough know it was us?” I ask. “I mean, we were both really super disguised with makeup, and glasses, and …”

  “A fake nose and mustache,” adds Charlotte.

  “It was Kira she recognized,” Sandra says

  “But how? She barely knows who I am. And even if she did, how would she see through my costume?”

  “I don’t know,” says Herb. “She just did, and she was most concerned for you two.”

  I shake my head. This is too weird. Why is Kate McDonough so interested in me? I mean, it’s not like I’m taking lessons from her. And there’s no way she could possibly know I was wearing a clown costume. I frown. I’m getting seriously creeped out.

  “So how are we going to solve all this?” Sandra asks.

  “I don’t know.” Charlotte sighs.

  “Let’s sit down and figure it out,” says Sandra.

  We move to the living room and make a plan while we nibble on candy.

  “And as for you, Charlotte,” says Sandra after we finish our talk, “it’s time we met with our adoption group. We haven’t been for a while. You need to know you’re not the only one out there in your shoes. We’re going to Vancouver next week.”

  “Okay …” says Charlotte, her voice rising as though she’s asking a question.

  “What adoption group?” I ask.

  “It’s an organization for families who have adopted childr
en from China. They meet regularly. We haven’t been for a long time because it’s so far. But in view of what’s been going on, I think it’s high time we joined them again,” says Sandra.

  “Yes,” says Herb. “Charlotte needs to meet other girls – like herself.”

  I cringe at his words. There’s something I don’t like about the way he said ‘herself’.

  Chapter 18

  The Solution

  The following Monday, our steps weigh heavy as we make our way to school. The day looms ahead, and we dread the reaction of the IGs when all will be reported back to Mr. Watkins.

  A soft ray of sunshine lights up my day for a moment when Peter meets us at the door, a shy smile touching his lips. He looks a little uncertain at first, but after I grin back, he bursts out with his news.

  “Did you hear about what happened to the Medical Dental Building?” he asks, walking with us at a safe distance.

  “We did,” I say, trying to calm my fluttering heart. How can I ever feel normal around Peter again after that amazing dance?

  “I think it’s Travis,” Charlotte says in a low voice, glancing around.

  Peter’s forehead creases. “Why Travis? I mean, I know he’s kind of a jerk, but –”

  “Well, think about it,” says Charlotte. “The first time they found the dead eagle, it was the day after Travis was suspended. Then, the next weekend, we found the tombstone spray-painted with the word ‘LIAR’ on it. And on Friday, he got in trouble at the dance. Remember? They were forced to leave? And now they’ve found a dead raven and the word ‘REVENGE’ painted on the Medical Dental building like he wanted to get back at everyone.”

  “I wonder ...” I touch my lip with a finger.

  The bell hums, and we throw our coats in our locker.

  We have band first. Charlotte already has her flute and folder with her since she brought it from home, but mine still lies on the dusty storage shelves of the music room as usual.

  Tumbling into class, we take our seats just in time to hear Mr. Waring make an announcement.

  “Quiz today,” he says really casual like he’s saying good morning.

  Groans meet his words.

  “But the good news is it’ll be on three selected lines in the Celtic Medley.”

  Relieved murmurs travel across the room.

  A ripple of fear runs up my body. Never did I think Mr. Waring would throw a pop quiz on the Celtic Medley. After all, marches are his thing, and if there’s one thing I’m good at faking, it’s a march.

  “What am I going to do?” I whisper to Charlotte.

  “Just sight-read it,” she whispers back. “What else can you do?”

  My head spins. Maybe I can slip out and go to the washroom, or pretend I’m sick, or tell Mr. Waring I forgot something in my locker and never come back. I eye the door of the band room, ready to escape, but before I can do anything, he calls on me.

  “Let’s start with Kira.” He shoots me an expectant gaze like he knows it’ll be perfect. “Can you play line twelve in the strathspey?”

  I break into a sweat. “Ah, sure,” I mumble, sitting up straight.

  My fingers trembling, I skim the passage full of complicated, dotted rhythms, but I can’t remember quite how the tune goes since I never really listened to it. Is the rhythm long, short-short-long, long-short-long, or is it short-long, long-short, short-long-long? I’m not sure. Raising my flute, I dive into the first few notes, hopeful I can fake it, but by the third measure I’m all muddled up. Stumbling my way through anyway, I crash-land at the end, and peer up at Mr. Waring, an unspoken apology on my lips.

  Mr. Waring stares at me with one eyebrow raised.

  Students’ hands fly to their mouths.

  “And now, can you please play me measures seventeen to thirty-three in the reel?” he asks.

  “Uh, okay.” My hands shake harder.

  I shuffle through my music trying to find the right passage, my face getting hotter by the second. When I find it, I begin again. This passage is easier, so at least I make it to the end with only a couple of mistakes. Taking a quick sweep of the class, I notice the other students still sit in shocked silence.

  “That was better,” Mr. Waring says. “And now, could you please play me the third line of Danny Boy?”

  Danny Boy? Did he say Danny Boy?

  By this time, my ears are red-hot and burning. I try to come up with some sort of excuse, but only a squeak comes out. I’m completely paralysed.

  Mr. Waring stares at me in disbelief. Students snicker, yet I still can’t move. Mr. Waring and I sit like statues, our eyes locked for what seems minutes.

  Finally, he shakes his head and turns to Charlotte. “How about you?”

  Charlotte smiles and jumps right into the most perfect performance imaginable. I had no idea she could play that well. Then Mr. Waring asks her to play the other excerpts, all equally perfect.

  “Thank you, Charlotte,” he says, glancing back at me, his brows furrowed. “That’s a definite ten out of ten. Now, how about Sydney?”

  Strangely, Sydney does a great test too. I can’t believe it! And not just her, but most of the others too. What’s with everyone? These guys never get more than a seven or eight.

  Humiliated, I suffer through the rest of class, and then gather up my things while Charlotte skips to the front of the class to talk to Mr. Waring. After a few minutes, she bounces back to me.

  “Congratulations on your perfect score,” I say, my voice dull.

  “Thanks,” she says, absolutely beaming. “I checked your grade too while I was there.”

  “What did I get?” I gulp despite trying to act like I don’t care.

  “You got a B. But that’s okay. You’ve been through a lot, right?”

  More like I got caught red-handed. First the pub trick and now this. What will Mom say?

  For the rest of the day, I go through the motions of school, dreading the moment when Mr. Watkins calls us to the office to talk about the bullying. It finally happens in the middle of last period.

  “Would Kira Montgomery and Charlotte Morin please come to the office,” the secretary announces to the whole world. And then to really make matters worse, she repeats it again.

  Several kids howl.

  I sink down low in my seat.

  Charlotte and I hurry out of class and down the hall. The secretary escorts us into Mrs. Richter, the counsellor’s room. Mr. Watkins and the Morins are already there.

  “Have a seat,” says Mrs. Richter, a plump and pleasant person whose hair colour changes every month. Today it’s auburn. She’s middle-aged, but nice, and I can’t help but like her.

  We sit down on hard, plastic chairs, trying to get comfortable for a long meeting.

  “Now.” Mrs. Richter looks directly into Charlotte’s eyes over her glasses, “Tell me what’s been going on?”

  Charlotte takes a deep breath and begins. Together, we tell the whole story. Mrs. Richter keeps a straight face, the frown lines between her eyes occasionally growing deeper. Mr. Watkins, on the other hand, looks as though I’m describing the holocaust. Charlotte’s mom listens with her hand over her mouth, and from time to time wipes her eyes and blows her nose. Her dad keeps shaking his head as though he can’t understand the situation. It almost looks as though it hurts Charlotte’s parents far worse than it hurts her.

  “Why did you never tell us about all this before Saturday?” Herb asks when we finish.

  Charlotte squirms. “Because you said you wouldn’t take me on our next trip if there were any more problems.”

  Herb rakes his fingers through his wild hair. “But that had to do with the violence.”

  “It didn’t mean you had to put up with racism,” Sandra says, still dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex.

  “Charlotte, you can come to us with any problem,” Herb says.

  “Yes, Charlotte.” Sandra nods. “We’re here for you. We didn’t get you all the way from China to torment you.” She gives a sad laugh.
>
  “No,” says Herb. “We’re your parents. We love you.”

  Charlotte stares down at the ground.

  Mr. Watkins taps a pencil for a while, and then finally speaks. “It seems to me the solution would be to get the other kids together and find out why they’re doing this. Quite likely it’s jealousy.”

  “Jealousy?” I raise my brows.

  “Yes,” says Mr. Watkins. “Intelligent kids are often bullied in this town, and I imagine having parents who are teachers would make it even worse. As for Travis …” He sighs. “He’s a pretty troubled individual. He has a lot of problems at home, and he really struggles with school. We’ll see if we can get him some help. Unfortunately, his problems run pretty deep.”

  Charlotte gives me an uncertain look. I know what she’s thinking. Should we tell them our suspicions about Travis and the connection with the dead birds? I shake my head. I still remember Constable Douglas’ words about how it’s against the law to accuse someone of a crime.

  Mr. Watkins gets up, thanks our parents, and sets us free. Now all we have to do is wait and see how the IGs will react.

  Chapter 19

  Vancouver

  The next day, Charlotte and I live in fear knowing the office will be calling the IGs and the guys. Every time the speakers hanging over the blackboards come to life, I hold my breath, thinking all eyes in the class will turn to me, accusing, but the names never come up.

  “Did they forget?” I ask Charlotte, flipping back and forth through the pages of my notebook, unable to find the right one since my nerves are so rattled.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Mom told me that sometimes they try to keep these things private, and that’s why they don’t announce it.”

  “Well they sure announced us.” I shudder at the memory of yesterday.

  “I know.”

  We survive the day, jumping at the slightest crackle from the speakers and flinching at the least of looks from the other kids until the last bell rings. Sighing with relief, we pack our bags to go home. We’re walking down the main hall when something makes me stop.