by Amy Brashear
Kenyon was on the Longhorn basketball team. This season Asher was supposed to finally make tryouts, to be his best friend’s teammate. Sunday afternoon, Kenyon was supposed to give Asher some pointers on what the coaches are looking for this year.
“I don’t think I’ll make the team now,” Asher says.
I nod.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says, placing his empty glass in the sink and leaving the kitchen.
“Asher—”
“Forget I mentioned it,” he yells, slamming his bedroom door shut.
I pound my head gently on the counter.
CHAPTER SIX
Math equations look even less appealing now. Who really cares what x plus y equals? My mind’s not in it at all.
Dad walks into the house from the garage. He tries to hide it but I can tell he’s upset.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I know he’s lying. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red like mine.
“Dad, do they have a suspect yet?”
His lips form a b sound and I stop him.
“Bobby didn’t do it.”
He gives me that look. He tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow while twisting his bottom lip with his front teeth, as if he’s biting away the words to tell me that I’m wrong.
“It’s pure laziness to think that the Garden City Police Department would go after him like this,” I add.
Dad sighs. “Carly, he was taken into custody this afternoon.”
“What?” I pound my fist on the kitchen table. “But I just saw him—”
“Carly, don’t do this.”
I’m breathing hard. Dad’s face softens. He stands behind me, leaning over, trying to give me a hug.
“Dad, do you think he did it?” I ask.
He kisses me on the top of my head and leaves the kitchen without answering my question.
Yesterday, after church, Dad went with a few of the men who knew the Clutter family over to the farmhouse. When he came home, he sat in the rose-colored wingback chair in the living room and didn’t say a word for the rest of the night. Mom asked. Asher asked. And I asked, too. But Dad wouldn’t tell us what it was like, what he saw. We had to read it in the newspaper the next morning.
clutter family slayings shock, mystify area
After dinner, I sit on the sofa reading Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the last book that Aunt Trudy sent me. Her call reminded me that I’d started it and forgotten about it. I also forgot I’d used her note as a bookmark, on page 55.
Dearest Darling—I was the inspiration for Holly, or at least people tell me. The author is an eccentric man but I do call him an “acquaintance.” Be well.
Love, Trudy
Instead of reading, I’m really trying to eavesdrop on my parents in the kitchen. Dad is adamant that whoever murdered the Clutters had to know them.
“It was personal. Herb’s throat was cut. That’s personal,” he whispers.
Mom pokes her head into the living room, probably to make sure I’m not listening. She’s on her third martini of the night. My eyes dart away from her and back to the page.
Most people in town have already convicted Bobby for the murders, all because he was the last person to see them alive. It says so in every news article out there: He had been visiting the home, and left around 10:30 p.m. To me, that just means that he was there and then he left. He didn’t kill them.
He couldn’t have.
“Those poor children,” Mother says. “Thank goodness Eveanna and Beverly don’t live at home anymore.”
Eveanna lives with her husband and child in Illinois and Beverly attends college in Kansas City. She wants to be a nurse. She’s engaged to be married the week of Christmas.
“I cannot imagine,” Mom adds.
I’m not looking at her, but I know she is clutching her pearls. I hold the book so tight that the pages start to crumple. There’s a shadow behind me. I can feel Dad staring at me from the kitchen, too. But I’m not going to look at him or my mom. I’m just going to keep on staring at this passage on page 55.
I have a memory of spending many hither and yonning days with Holly; and it’s true, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, the memory is false.
Then, at the appropriate time, I’m going to turn the page.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning at school, I hear a commotion as soon as I walk in the door. A Garden City police officer is causing a scene in the hall, taking all of Bobby’s things out of his locker, shoving everything in evidence bags. Including his tennis shoes.
I spot Paul, a son of one of the Clutters’ handymen at the River Valley Farm. He’s lived in Holcomb his entire life. His face is blank and ashen, like everyone else’s. He’s in overalls, chewing something, shaking his head. Of course, while it’s true that his father worked for the Clutters, it wasn’t as if Paul knew Nancy or Kenyon—not socially, anyway.
“Why are they doing this?” I ask Paul.
“I have no idea,” he says, not making eye contact.
“What do they think he did? Write his plot to kill the Clutters in between math and science?”
“So you think he did it, too?” he asks, his gaze still fixed on the police officer and the locker inspection.
I feel the same surge of anger I felt last night. “He loves Nancy; he wouldn’t kill them,” I hiss. “Let alone her—”
“Why not?” Paul interrupts in a lazy drawl. “He was the last one to see them alive.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? You know I was in that house.”
I step back, clutching my books against me. “The Clutter home? When?”
“Sunday morning, before Nan and Sue found them,” he says so matter-of-factly, it’s like I should know this already. He turns to me. “Our dad sent me and my brother to the farm to milk the cows. We put the milk in the creamer in the utility room and the rest in Mr. Clutter’s icebox. I walked right by the basement door. Who would have thought that Kenyon and Mr. Clutter were dead down there?”
“Paul—”
“We were in a hurry. We were going pheasant hunting. We were doing our job, that’s all,” he says, looking me right in the eye. “I guess that makes me a suspect, too.”
“Paul—”
But he’s already making his way down the hall.
“Carly,” Mary Claire says, running up to me with today’s newspaper in hand.
“I want to see it.”
police ask citizens for help in solving the murders
HOLCOMB—What was termed “the goriest murder in Kansas” appeared no closer to a solution Monday night.
Finney County Attorney Duane West said he had no further announcement concerning the members of the Herb Clutter family Saturday night.
“Can I have this?” I ask.
She shrugs. “If you want it.”
Careful as I can, I rip the article out, fold it, and stuff it between the pages of my English composition notebook.
Seth approaches as the police officer passes him in the opposite direction. “I heard the police drove up to the Rupp farm and put Bobby in the backseat of a patrol car,” Seth whispers, glancing over his shoulder. “Bobby even took a lie-detector test.”
“He’s your friend.”
He turns back to me with a scowl. “Yeah, I know he’s my friend.”
“Well, you aren’t acting like it,” I say under my breath.
“They say they’re going to drag the river to find the murder weapon.”
“That’s stupid,” Mary Claire says, shaking her head.
“Why?” Seth asks.
“The killer didn’t throw the murder weapon in the Arkansas River.”
“And how do you know that?” he presses. I want to slap tha
t leering excitement off his face.
Mary Claire frowns at him. “It’s common sense. A true marksman would never throw their gun away in a body of water, especially a dirty river.”
I almost smile. I’m no marksman—I’ve never even held a rifle for longer than a minute—but I can tell Seth believes her, too. He chooses to ignore Mary Claire. “Carly, do you want to come watch the police drag the river?” he asks.
I shake my head no.
“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be out by the truck after school.” He takes his books out of his locker, kisses me on the cheek, and heads down the hall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m slumped over in Mr. Hendricks’s English class when there’s a knock at the door. He doesn’t even get a chance to answer it because a man wearing a dark blue suit and striped tie takes it upon himself to come on in. He holds a folder in his right hand. I can make out a C and most definitely an F.
“May I speak with Carly Fleming?” he asks.
“Aw, Carly, what did you do now?” Alex Baker asks in a stage whisper.
A few kids giggle. I shoot Alex a glare, resisting the temptation to ask him if he ever changes his clothes or bathes. He’s worn the same plaid button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbow, since the school year started. His hair is smashed thanks to his cowboy hat, which he keeps in his locker. He’s worn the same condescending smirk, too. And the same sweaty odor.
“Carly, this man would like to speak to you,” Mr. Hendricks says, as if I didn’t hear the man at the door say my name.
I stand, grab my bag, and walk up the aisle slowly, slapping Alex on the back of the head as I go by. His black-rimmed glasses fall to his desktop. The same kids who giggled now giggle again but fall silent when Alex shoots them a menacing glare.
“Carly’s in trouble now,” Karen Westwood says out loud. She trips me a little as I pass, crossing her legs, playing with the end of her long brown braid.
“No, I’m not,” I snap at her, knowing full well that I might be. I hurry into the hall.
“Sir, this won’t take long,” the man says to Mr. Hendricks. He shuts the door.
I stare at the folder. It has my name on it. What did I do to constitute a folder? “Who are you?” I ask him.
“Agent Church with the KBI,” he says. “Nothing to worry about. This is just routine.”
The Kansas Bureau of Investigation—the state version of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI—showed up yesterday to lend the local law enforcement a hand. I guess today, the KBI is using the principal’s office to conduct their “routine” interviews. Routine? As if any of this is routine.
“What do you want with me?”
“Agent Dewey would like to have a word with you,” he says, ushering me down the hall toward the principal’s office.
“What does Agent Dewey want with me?”
He doesn’t answer. The secretary sits at one of those waiting-room chairs and Principal Williams sits at the secretary’s desk. He looks at me, smiles, and nods as I walk past him and into what used to be his office.
Agent Church stands outside the door, like a guard dog, his hands in his pockets. I can feel his eyes on me. I’m about to jump to my feet and confess for the fear of it all. Behind me a man coughs and places a hand on my shoulder, startling me. Sitting up straight, I cross my legs at the heel, like a lady would do, and get ready to say yes sir or no sir, at rapid speed, even if the question doesn’t really need an answer.
Agent Dewey straightens his black tie and lays it flat on his crisp white shirt. He pulls his coat sleeves down, looks at me, and nods. “Carly, I’m not here to interrogate you,” he says, placing a file in front of him and sitting in Principal Williams’s chair.
“Then why am I here and why do you have that with my name on it?” I ask, pointing to the folder in front of him.
He doesn’t answer my question; instead he asks one of his own. “You were friends with Nancy, weren’t you?”
“I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation.”
He smiles. “Not an interrogation. I just want to understand your relationship with Nancy Clutter.”
I cross my arms. “We were friendly,” I tell him. “Very friendly.” But even as the words come out of my mouth, I think of the passage from the book Aunt Trudy sent me.
It’s true, we did at odd moments see a great deal of each other; but on the whole, the memory is false.
CHAPTER NINE
It had been two weeks since I’d moved here, and we’d just got back our geometry tests. Mr. Bailey said I could take the test and see where we were at with my knowledge of geometry. When I got it back with A+ and a smiley face written at the top, along with See me after class, I was kind of surprised and also kind of frightened. Did students who got A+ grades have to see the teachers after class a lot?
So I waited until all the students left—well, not all. Nancy was waiting at the front of the room. She looked sick. Her test was balled up, and it looked like she had been crying.
“Nancy Clutter, do you know our new student?” Mr. Bailey asked her gently.
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, I was thinking you two might want to get better acquainted.” He smiled at me. “I have an idea.”
Nancy sniffled. “This is unlike me, Mr. Bailey. I’m a good student.”
“I’m sure it is for your other classes. But Nancy . . . this is becoming a problem. This is your fourth D in a row. I think you need a tutor.”
Her eyes shot up. “A tutor?”
Mr. Bailey nodded.
“I don’t need a tutor,” she said. She wasn’t crying anymore.
“Yes, I think it would help.”
“I think Carly—Carly, right?”
“Yes, it’s Carly,” I said.
“Well, I think Carly would be an excellent tutor for you.”
Nancy stood there, frozen. Then she started crying again. Her face was wet. Tears were streaming from her eyes. But it was like watching June Allyson act. The waterworks were on full blast. Like they were on cue. The tears were real, but she was most definitely acting. And while Mr. Bailey comforted her, I stood off to the side, awkwardly holding my A+ test.
I coughed as if to say, I’m still here. They looked at me. Nancy shrugged, took a deep breath, and sighed.
“What do you think about helping me out with geometry?” she asked, even though it wasn’t her idea. “But it’ll be our little secret.”
“Okay,” I said, probably a little too eager for the new girl.
And that’s how we became best friends. From that moment on, we were inseparable. We were attached at the hip. At lunch, at 4-H club, every school event, double dates, sleepovers, I was popular by association.
I wish.
I started tutoring her the next day. I’d go over to her house once a week and then twice a week when there was a scheduled quiz or test.
Finals were rough. I was over at her house until really late one night, when she asked, “Why don’t you sleep over so we can do more studying in the morning?”
I said yes, too quickly as always, even before we got permission from our parents. I knew her parents were nice. Sure, kind of strict, but whose parents weren’t?
My parents were thrilled when I called to ask them. This was the first time I slept over at a friend’s house, at least here in Holcomb. I didn’t have many friends here. Mary Claire was the only one who initiated any sort of friend relationship. My family was “city folk” and Nancy’s family was “country folk”; at least that’s how she described it. She didn’t exactly know how to act at my house, and I didn’t know how to act at hers. Eventually it got easier, but at the beginning—whew.
That night, I hoped things might change. Once I got my parents’ permission, I tried to keep my excitement in check.
“We don’t need to tell anyone that you stayed over, though,” Nancy said the moment I hung up.
“Oh, okay,” I said, trying not to rock the boat.
“Good.” She nodded. She went to her sister’s room and found an old pair of pajamas. “My sister doesn’t wear these anymore. They might be a little small.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.”
I changed quickly and we were back to studying. No gossiping. Or making cookies. Or anything you normally do at a sleepover. But that was okay. Even if she was adamant about keeping our friendship a secret, she was talking to me. Even if no one else knew. I was her tutor, not her friend. She was afraid of not being seen as the perfect girl, and me having to tutor her in math certainly did not make her perfect. But maybe this was the first step to becoming her friend and not just her tutor.
We stayed up past midnight. Mr. Clutter woke us up with the smell of pancakes.
“So, New York City,” he said at breakfast, pouring a cup of coffee for his wife. He didn’t drink the stuff.
“Yes, sir,” I said. I tried to keep smiling as I cut a piece of butter.
“What brought your family out here? Does your family farm?” Mrs. Clutter asked.
I shook my head as Nancy passed me the syrup. “My dad’s a lawyer.”
“A good one?” Mr. Clutter said with a smile.
“He’s a defense attorney, so . . . it can go either way.”
He laughed.
“Why did you choose Kansas?” Nancy asked.
“What’s wrong with Kansas, dear?” her father asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Nothing.” She sounded bored, or maybe just tired. “It’s far away from where she came from, that’s all.”
“My dad spent a lot of summers visiting his great-aunt Lucille and uncle Olin out here. They lived near the Colorado border,” I said.
“Well, that’s nice,” Mrs. Clutter said.
“When a case went bad, he decided he didn’t want to deal with capital murder cases anymore,” I said, pouring syrup all over my pancakes.
