After we’d delivered the cake to the fire hall at the edge of town, I asked Morgan to drive slowly through the commercial section so I could check out the Laundromat.
“There’s nothing of note to see. Still waiting for new machines so they can open,” Morgan said, pausing at one of the two stoplights in Still Creek. I could tell he didn’t want to have anything to do with the Laundromat, but I was curious.
“Stop here. Please?” I gave him my best eyelash-batting. It wasn’t something I did often, but I’ve found it to be effective on him.
“Aye. Only for a second, lass.” His hint of a Scottish brogue lilted through his words, basically the equivalent of my eye-batting. I swooned a little. Smiling at the effect on me, Morgan pulled Maggie’s Volvo into a parking spot along the road.
“Huh,” I said, not impressed by the small brick building.
Green, pink, and blue painted bubbles decorated the large windows. A sign proclaimed Scrub-Your-Duds was opening soon. The lights were on inside the building, but I didn’t see any movement behind the colorful bubbles.
“What’s with that name? And where are they getting the money to do this?” I murmured.
Morgan turned the car off. “Ezra’s been alive for a really long time. If he was a full-grown man in the 1870s, at least 150 years. Over time, he might’ve amassed a war chest—legally or otherwise.”
The lights clicked off inside the Laundromat, startling me. I yelped and Morgan turned the key, starting up Maggie’s Volvo. Neither of us wanted to be there, gawking at the place if Ezra was coming out.
As Morgan put the car in reverse to back out, Nathaniel Smith’s car pulled up behind us, blocking us in. Nathaniel, taller, lankier than his father, stepped out of the blue Honda. Morgan glared at him in the rearview mirror.
“Crap,” I muttered.
Meanwhile, the front door of the Laundromat opened and Ezra’s other son, Jonah, emerged—tall, dark, and angry. He turned from locking the door with his good hand. His other arm had a cast on it from a fight a few weeks ago. A sneer formed on his thick lips as he caught sight of us.
Morgan shut off the engine and got out of the car. He didn’t bother telling me to stay inside—I was already following him out. There was no chance I’d let Morgan deal with this alone. Not when it’d been my idea to scope out the new laundry business.
“Evening, gents,” Morgan said, jingling the car keys in his hand.
Nathaniel joined his brother on the sidewalk. I could smell the cooking smells from his kitchen at the bowling alley, the sauteed onions, bacon, frying chicken lingering on his clothes.
“What’re you doing here?” Jonah growled. The fingers of his good hand bunched into a fist.
“Just checking out the new place,” I said, gesturing toward the building as I moved to Morgan’s side of the car. “Can’t we do that?”
Jonah ignored my comment. “I owe you a broken arm, McAllister,” he said, his glare hot on Morgan. “Should be easier now without your sire standing guard.”
Alongside me, Morgan stood a little straighter. “That thrashing was incidental. We were recovering our family property.”
“Recovering.” Nathaniel let out a grunt. “We can force surrender of lupine stones, too.”
“You better not come near my family for those stones,” I said.
Nathaniel stood his ground, his breathing heavy, his nostrils flaring.
“Stones or not,” Jonah said, “I’m more interested in kicking this wolf’s ass.”
“Highly unlikely,” Morgan said.
I reached out for his hand, trying to reduce the growing tension. “Guys, can we get over the fighting stuff? Cooper’s right that we need to strike a truce. Hunters have the real historical records that the Norths were guarding. Ezra’s name is in there.”
Jonah smirked and said, “You think we’re not skilled at covering our tracks? Ezra’s been doing that for decades. You’re the ones who need to watch it.”
“Maybe they will come for us first. But you’ll be next,” I said, my voice shaking. Morgan squeezed my fingers, seeming to signal me not to say more.
“You and your pa are the wolves the hunters saw the night Mr. Gray was killed,” Jonah said. “You think we’re the first targets they’d take out?”
“You don’t know that,” I snarled.
“Yeah, we do. We were there,” Nathan bragged. “We saw it all.”
“What? You were watching…and you didn’t do a thing to help us?” I said, my pulse kicking up a notch. “You watched as they attacked us? As Mr. Gray was murdered?”
“We had no interest in saving you. We only protect wolves in our pack,” Jonah said. “You’ve made it clear you won’t join us, so…” His eyebrows dipped together, his lip curled in another sneer.
“Sounds like an awesome pack,” I said, crossing my arms. “You do nothing to save other wolves? You wanna know the truth? You should be thanking us for handling the hunters!”
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared. “Thanking you? You almost got us all killed.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Our plan might have worked if you hadn’t taken Alex Bowman as a bargaining chip.”
“That wouldn’t have saved Rick. His fate was sealed,” Jonah said, his dark eyes narrowing. “We both know that.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. Okay, so they did have a point. There hadn’t been a way to save Rick Bowman that night. And he’d deserved it, as awful as that sounds.
“Enough. We’re leaving.” Morgan gestured toward the car.
Jonah lifted his chin, baring his teeth a little. “That’s right. Run away.”
Morgan stepped forward, going chest-to-chest with him. “You’re injured. What honor is there in fighting such a weak opponent?”
Jonah sneered again.
“Come on, we’re not fighting,” Nathaniel said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Jonah jerked free from Nathaniel’s grasp. “Don’t side with this coward,” he said, then let out a bitter laugh. “You think Ezra lasted this long without making some valuable connections? We’ve got outside muscle, too. Muscle with staying power. Those hunters’ days are numbered and so are yours, McAllister.”
A muscle in Morgan’s jaw twitched. “Is that a threat, mate?”
“Jonah! Lock up the shop,” Nathan said to his brother. “I gotta get back to the kitchen and you need to relieve Gladys at the shoe rental counter.” He threw a nod Morgan’s way. “We’ll deal with this punk later.”
“Idiots,” Morgan muttered, pulling me toward the car.
I got in and slammed the door, then jammed my seatbelt into the buckle. Nathaniel slid behind the wheel of his Honda, then backed out with a squeal of tires, freeing us from the blockade. Jonah flipped us off as we pulled away.
I gritted my teeth as Morgan drove off down the highway. I hadn’t made anything better by satisfying my curiosity about the Laundromat, and it was clear Ezra’s pack was planning for the long haul. They didn’t seem concerned about the remaining hunters or finding the missing town records. I shouldn’t have said anything about that, I realized, but maybe they’d think twice about causing more trouble with us or Morgan. Or maybe they wouldn’t and we were all in deeper trouble.
The only thing predictable about Ezra’s pack was that they only cared about their own interests. They didn’t care what or who they put at risk in the process.
Or who they hurt.
Chapter Three
Our journalism class had only published one edition of our school paper so far that year, so it seemed a little premature for us to be having a staff party. Still, it seemed Ms. Wilson was trying to get us to bond. So later that Saturday night, my closest friend Alicia Jones and I hurried toward the house once owned by Millicent Cardew, murder victim.
“Hey, give me a minute,” Alicia said, stopping near the mostly darkened shops to rebalance her load of matching reusable totes. Her raincoat was printed with a cute all over kitten pattern and her black hair was swi
rled into a perfect ballerina bun.
Seriously, if Alicia’s law school plans didn’t work out, she had a future as a stylist. I always admired her collection of fashionable things—some she found at trendy stores in Seattle, other things she bought from indie vendors online.
She’d offered to style me several times, but it wasn’t my thing. Tonight I was in jeans and a sweater with a thick fluffy scarf. My lips slicked with gloss and my eyelashes with a swipe of mascara. I kept it simple.
My wolfy sense of smell was on point as Alicia repacked her stuff. I could smell the containers of deviled eggs and spinach dip, along with the habanero-dusted potato chips, through the packaging. My stomach growled and I checked my phone again for the time. We were already ten minutes late.
I noticed we’d stopped alongside Pioneer Pawn. With Mrs. Gillingham awaiting trial for Mr. Gray’s murder, the shop window still showed its Harvest Festival display of crudely made ghost figures, sheet lengths strung on wires like forgotten laundry, holes cut for eyes. Other shops’ displays were more autumnal—scarecrows, pumpkins, and corn stalks. Spooky things, witches, black cats had all been taken down. Main Street was in a holding pattern, waiting for the kickoff to Christmas, which would come in a couple weeks. From what Maggie’d told me, the chamber of commerce had a whole winter tourism thing planned, with a “Season of Lights” slogan. All the business owners were going to swap out decor on the day after Thanksgiving.
Soft caws sounded above us. I looked up as five ravens landed on the roofline of the pawnshop. We started walking again, my boxes of cupcakes light in my arms, the scent of buttercream frosting making my nose twitch in a good way.
“Pretty dark for birds,” Alicia said. “They’re out almost as late as we are.”
“Yeah.” I shivered, the night air biting through my jacket, trying to pretend that it was totally normal to have flying stalkers. The birds followed us as we progressed toward Town Square, landing on lampposts and awnings every once in a while.
As we reached the elaborate wrought-iron fence that led to the white Craftsman, the door swung open. Ms. Wilson stepped out onto the porch, long skirt touching her shiny red boots, her chunky sweater cinched at her waist with a belt. Her dark hair was knotted at the back of her head and spiked with a pearl-studded pick. She beckoned us to hurry up the walk.
“Sorry we’re late,” I said.
“Here, let me help you with those,” she said, taking one of Alicia’s bags. “We were about to start without you.” She paused, frowning. It wasn’t like her to be annoyed at us for running late. Admittedly, I’d had a few warnings about sliding into my desk after the bell, but she was pretty understanding, especially at the start of school when Dad had been missing for a couple weeks. The frown stayed in place on Ms. Wilson’s face. Maybe it wasn’t for us.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the unkindness of ravens—perching in a maple tree near the iron fence. They let out a caw and then took off together. They’d delivered me, I thought, with growing unease. They were off to nest for the night because their job was done.
When I swiveled back around, Ms. Wilson’s smile was tight. “Ravens,” she said.
“Yeah, hanging around town a lot lately,” I said. “I thought you liked them.”
“Why would you think that?”
“That day in the cemetery. Your bird funeral.” That’d been the same day I’d had the vision in the woods. I wondered if maybe Ms. Wilson honoring the dead bird she’d found had put something in motion. Maybe she’d awakened something. Or pissed them off.
Ms. Wilson blinked at me. “Oh, right,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten you were there.” Then, she motioned us to come inside.
Kids from our class swarmed around the massive dining room table, filling their paper plates. Alicia and I backed away from the hungry crowd and moved into the living room.
The decor was eclectic, a mix of antique and modern, made cozy by the warm colors of paint and the cheerful fire. It suited Ms. Wilson, I thought. An iron and beveled glass coffee table stood in front of a tan and white striped sofa. Burgundy drapes edged the windows, which were covered in wood-slat blinds. Carvings of flowers and vines curved up the sides of a long mantle above the fireplace. A landscape painting, of mountains and the river valley, was mounted in the center of the wall above it. Bookshelves flanking the fireplace held curious objects, from pieces of fossilized brain coral to small porcelain urns to black lacquered boxes decorated with gold-painted designs. Thick reference books with titles like Mysteries of the Ancient World and Goddesses and Heroines filled the lower shelves.
Near the fireplace mantel, Ms. Wilson waved her hands to get our attention. “Thank you all for coming tonight. This isn’t just for fun, because I have a big announcement to share with you.”
Everyone stopped talking. Even the folks at the buffet line paused in loading their plates with snacks. Alicia nudged me, her eyebrows raised. I nudged her back, and widened my eyes to say, I have no idea.
Ms. Wilson smiled. “After many excellent suggestions, I’ve received approval from the principal for our paper’s new title. Our fantastic publication will now be called The Pioneer Post.”
Murmurs rose in the room. I’d thought we’d be having some kind of a vote to decide the name, but apparently Ms. Wilson had made the final choice. Personally, I’d liked the Pioneer Gazette, the idea Alicia had submitted, but maybe Ms. Wilson been going for alliteration.
“We’ll publish as the Pioneer Post starting our next issue. See me with any questions. Now, enjoy yourselves,” she said.
The crowd went back to mingling and eating. Ms. Wilson settled into a large velvet armchair, talking to a few students. Her corgi, Butch, weaved between passing legs as he searched the floor for food scraps.
I took a seat on the couch, near the warmth of the fire. I didn’t have any questions about the naming of the paper. I did have questions about the process, because Ms. Wilson seemed way more dictatorial than our last advisor, but lately, bigger things than the high school paper were troubling me.
“Line’s dying down. You want something to eat?” Alicia said.
“Yeah, I’ll be up there in a second.” First though, I decided to use the bathroom. I followed signs leading to the wainscoted hallway off the living room. The bathroom was quaint, with black and white tiles, a pedestal sink, and a clawfoot tub. Ivory towels and a shower curtain made everything seem very clean and designer. The scent of honeysuckle soap hung in the air.
After I finished up, I stepped back out into the hallway to find another door cracked open. Inside, I saw Tom Lindstrom, our paper’s newly appointed editor. A single lamp provided a pool of light on the desk. I guessed it was where Ms. Wilson graded papers.
“Hey,” I whispered, pushing the door open wider and stepping inside. “Busted!”
He turned, wearing an embarrassed smile. “I was bored. Just call this investigative work.”
“Or snooping. There’s snooping,” I suggested. “Looking for her grade book?”
“Nope.” Tom shoved a hand into the pocket of his fleece vest and took a seat on the edge of the desk, pointing at the opposite wall.
I turned to see three corkboards, with images of ravens, some old newspaper clippings, and a print map of Pioneer Falls. On one board, string connected some kind of a timeline, with push pins to mark events.
“What is she doing?” I murmured.
“Doesn’t look school related. Holy crap—you think she’s a conspiracy theory fanatic?”
“Maybe.” I stepped toward the board mainly filled with raven stuff. There were articles about behavior, including one on the corvid funeral research. So why had she seemed to want me to forget about that a few minutes ago?
“What’s this about a murder?” Tom said, pointing at the second board. “From 1957? Why would she care about that?”
I glanced over and saw the yellowed clippings, a couple photographs. Millicent. Charlie. The murder victims from the woods. I sucked in a b
reath, feeling a mix of déjà vu and dread. “Millicent Cardew lived in this house.”
“Creepy,” Tom said as he reached toward one of the pictures and took it down. “The dead girl was pretty, like Ms. Wilson-pretty.”
Millicent, in a studio portrait in black and white, wore a light-colored dress, her blond hair piled up in a big do on top of her head. It was definitely her, the woman I’d seen in my vision in the woods, though there, she’d been wearing a costume from the Harvest Festival.
“Yeah, she is. I mean, was.”
Tom pinned the picture back up. I caught the scent of a light cologne, a smell of fabric softener on his flannel shirt, the gel in his light brown hair that swooped up in front. “Maybe she was just digging into the history of her house?”
“Exactly.” Ms. Wilson stood in the doorway, fury in her gaze as it swept over Tom and me. She flipped on the overhead light.
“I was just…” Tom started to say.
“Why don’t you rejoin the party.” Ms. Wilson’s tone was chilly.
Tom lowered his head and rushed out, still murmuring apologies.
“Lily, really?” Ms. Wilson said, coming to take a seat on the desk. “I figured you, of all people, would respect the need for personal privacy.”
I felt my cheeks color, but I wasn’t moving toward the door. “This is the murder you told me to leave alone that day in the cemetery. There’s no way you could forget I was there that day. You said some secrets should stay buried.”
She nodded, her dark curls falling across her face. “That’s precisely why this door was closed. I’m not interested in dredging up Millicent’s past,” she said, crossing her arms.
“But you have been,” I said gesturing at her bulletin boards.
Ms. Wilson’s smile returned. “This is a hobby. It’s nothing to worry about.”
I shrugged and said, “Yeah. I pretty much never believe anyone who says that.”
A Light So Cruel (Pioneer Falls Book 3) Page 3
