“Crazy like a fox!” Henry shouts back.
I lean into the closet. “What does that even mean? Henry, I really think we should—”
“Um, guys?”
It’s Finn, and there’s a tone in his voice I haven’t heard before. He’s wandered over to a corner of the room with an old-timey armoire. He has one of the drawers open and is staring at whatever is inside.
Henry peeks out of the closet and makes a beeline to the mahogany armoire.
He gazes in and gasps. Then he looks up at me, his face pale and flushed.
He reaches into the drawer. Takes hold of something. Then he is presenting me with it, offering it up.
I look down and see, there in his hands, a miniature wooden chest with a flourish on the lid.
“What? Henry, I don’t get it.”
“Look, Eva. The design.”
Then it hits me, this petite wooden box.
Has the same design on it as the key. The key from the boathouse. The old-fashioned, intricate, vintage-looking key.
Henry fishes the key from his pocket. There is no doubt. The patterns are identical.
I walk forward, staring down at the key and the lock. The antique key now in the lock of the tiny wooden box. Henry stands there, his chest moving up and down, out of breath. The small-scale wooden box held up in his hands like the slabs of the Ten Commandments. The hair at his temples slightly damp from sweat. He looks up at me.
“It was Claude. He’s the one. He killed our parents.”
1
FOR NO APPARENT reason, I keep thinking about the encounter with the humpback whale. Whatever that was, that moment in the ocean, what it felt like . . . was a blessing. There was something about the whale, his expression, the purposefulness of it all, of how he rolled sideways and peered directly at us, that felt meant for only the two of us. Maybe to the whale, there was something soft about the two little forms on the white floating object. The smaller ones. Tender. The way we’d see a deer and his two yearlings. The way we’d want to take care of, want to protect the two baby deer. That’s what it felt like. As if the whale wanted to protect us.
And yes, I may be imagining it. But Henry? Henry doesn’t really just make stuff up out of the blue. It’s not his style. He’s very proud of his use of the scientific method and it shows with all his tinkering, experimenting, and inventions. Everything is trial and error. Surmise and experiment. Hypothesize and test.
Back here, in the safe Sioux embrace of Henry’s teepee, there is room for contemplation. Room to take a breath.
“I feel like that whale came up to our boat for a reason. Like he was drawn to us,” I suggest.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Henry replies, unmoved.
“Didn’t it feel like that to you? Like the whale wanted to protect us?”
“Potentially.”
“I’m not crazy, right? You felt something weird, didn’t you?” I’m not sure why this matters to me quite so much, in the general context of our recent discovery. It’s almost like I’m trying to trick myself. To steer the subject away from the obvious. To stall.
“It’s a possibility. But there’s also the possibility that we’re projecting our anthropomorphic ideals onto a marine mammal.”
I look into the light of the buckskin lamp, the shadows waving up, dancing.
“Maybe.”
Uncle Finn is somewhere downstairs, probably rummaging through the kitchen cupboards for something to eat. It’s strange that Marisol isn’t back yet. But everything is abnormal these days. Just add it to the weird pile.
“We should focus on the matter at hand.” Henry steers me back.
“You mean . . . Uncle Claude?”
“I don’t think we should call him that.”
“How about he-who-shall-remain-nameless?”
“Yes, that’ll do.”
Henry hunches over, the two of us under our respective plain hand-loomed striped blankets. “The question is . . . now that we know. What do we do?”
“But . . . do we know, Henry? I mean, do we really know?”
“Eva, you saw what was in that box.”
Now that is true. Other than the absurd fact that the antique key we found in the boathouse fit that small wooden box, what was in the box was even more incriminating. Devastating, even.
“You have to admit, the evidence is overwhelming.”
Again, true. The evidence from the wooden box does not look good for Uncle Claude. Here is what we found: a topographical map of our property, a copy of the deed to our house, a copy of our grandparents’ will, and a map of the Monterey marina with the location of our mother’s boat circled . . . there was also, indeed most devastatingly, a list of ingredients one would need to cause a not-insignificant explosion, along with a step-by-step guide to create said explosion. The kind of explosion that would, for instance, sink a small boat.
“But why would he keep all of this? That’s what I want to know. Why would anyone keep such damning evidence around?” I ask.
“Maybe as a kind of a trophy. Or . . . maybe he wanted to reuse it. Maybe he wasn’t done.”
We let that sink in. Ominous. What would it mean for Uncle Claude not to be done? What else would there be to do? To destroy?
“Wait. Are we in danger?” I whisper.
“I think it’s safe to assume everything isn’t one hundred percent fine in our current situation,” Henry replies.
“But what would be the point? I mean, of doing anything to . . . us?”
Henry shrugs. “Who knows? But one does have to assume that if a person is capable of . . . such things . . . then they are also capable of repeating the act.”
He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to say “capable of killing.” Those words can’t be spoken out loud.
“Marisol is here!” I bleat. “Marisol would never let anything happen to us!”
Henry nods. “True, but Eva? Eva, we have to do something. The time for contemplation is over.”
“What do you mean? Like do what?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.” He thinks. “Should we seek revenge?”
I contemplate the flickering amber coming up through the buckskin lamp.
“You mean, like . . . an eye for an eye? No way.”
“Eva Millicent Billings, our parents are dead. Because of him. Because of Uncle . . . he-who-shall-remain-nameless.”
“Henry Alexander Billings, I’m aware of that. I couldn’t be more aware of that. But revenge? Mom and Dad would definitely never, ever, ever, never want that. Not in a million years.”
We each stare ahead, imagining what our parents would want.
My dad wouldn’t even kill a spider. I’m serious. Mom would be screaming her head off because there would be a brown recluse or a black widow or a brown widow in the bathtub. Dad would just go to the kitchen, grab a glass, go trap the spider, slide a plate under the glass, and walk said terrifying spider calmly to the backyard, where he’d set it free. And every time, like clockwork, Mom would say, “You’d better wash that glass like a hundred times. And the plate, too.” He’d nod and go back to his office, winking at us on his way.
“I think it’s safe to assume that if Dad wouldn’t even kill a spider, he wouldn’t want us to kill his brother.” Henry reads my thoughts.
“Not to mention the fact that we’d go to jail. Jail, Henry. Do you think either of us would do very well in jail?”
“Technically, we’d go to juvenile detention,” he notes.
“Technically, we’d get our butts kicked every single day. And you know it. Although, you might have an out by doing the warden’s taxes, like in The Shawshank Redemption,” I reason.
“That doesn’t sound very appealing.”
We adjust our respective blankets.
“Well, we have to do something. Don’t you think?” Henry asks.
“Yes, but the question is . . . what is that something? We’re basically encountering pure evil for the first time in our lives, so, excuse me if I’m not b
rimming with ideas.”
“I wonder if it is pure evil? Perhaps it’s just overwhelming greed. Without Dad around, we will inherit the house and, more important, the land. But Claude is our legal guardian; that puts him in the proverbial driver’s seat.”
I gasp. “Henry! The model in his office!”
“The condos!” Henry almost laughs. “He can build his hideous condos, sell them for a fortune, and laugh all the way to the bank.”
“Clearly, all he cares about is money. We’ve seen that since he got here.” I swallow the sour taste in the back of my throat. “Uncle Finn was right. He is a capitalist vulture. But we can’t kill him! We’re just kids! And if there is a hell, I do not want to go there.”
“Well, maybe you just sleep. You die, you sleep. End of story.” Henry shrugs.
“Or . . . maybe you wake up in an unspeakable place that we can’t even imagine but it’s eternal and full of monsters that bite you all day. With fangs,” I add.
“‘Ay, there’s the rub,’” Henry quotes. “‘For in that sleep of death what dreams will come?’”
“‘Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.’” I can quote Hamlet, too.
Are we cowards?
We look at each other, a moment of contemplating vengeance.
Henry exhales. “You’re right. Our parents wouldn’t want us to seek revenge. They wouldn’t. They’ve always taught us to turn the other cheek.”
“Exactly. Remember Mom used to say, ‘Forgiveness is a gift to the giver.’”
“Yes. Although I’m still not sure I understand what she meant.” He thinks. “All right, so revenge is out. But how about justice?”
“Justice. Like jail, right? Like we prove he’s guilty and then let the courts decide. Or the jury. Or the judge. Or whatever,” I ramble.
“Precisely. Due process. Truth. Justice. That’s the right thing to do. The noble thing,” Henry says, more to himself.
“Maybe that was what the whale was for.”
“What?”
I ponder this. “Maybe the whale was, like, coming to tell us that the universe is an amazing place and we shouldn’t do bad things, out of respect for the beauty of the world.”
“An interesting hypothesis, Eva. It could also be that we just saw a whale.”
Downstairs the front door slams shut and Terri’s laughter echoes up through the stairwell.
Henry and I lock eyes.
“What do we do?” I whisper.
“We have to pretend we don’t know anything. Play dumb.”
But their footsteps are getting louder and louder, through the entry, up the stairs, down the hall. Toward us.
We sit frozen in the teepee, eyes locked.
Marisol will be back soon, I tell myself, repeating it like a mantra. Marisol will be back soon. Marisol will be back soon!
The door to the room opens and now the footsteps are coming closer, across the floor and over to us.
The looming shadow of Uncle Claude hovers above the teepee, menacing.
“Kids?”
He opens the front, now framed in a tall triangle outside our teepee.
“I want you to know. I just dropped Marisol at the train station. She won’t be coming back for a while.”
2
TERRI THE TERRIBLE lurks at the heels of Claude. Behind them, as now the two of them are framed in the teepee like Union invaders from the East, Uncle Finn’s footsteps echo across the room.
“Hey, dudes. What’s up?”
Henry and I both chime in, simultaneously, “They kicked out Marisol!”
Uncle Claude bumbles to the side. “Now hold on there, kids, no one said anything about kicking out. She got an email. Her mother was sick!”
“Sure she was.” Henry rolls his eyes.
“No, really.” Terri steps up next to Claude, defending him. “She told us her mother down in Guatemala was sick and she had to go be with her. Just in case. You know . . .”
Terri gives us a meaningful tilt of the head.
“Just in case her mother died,” Claude blurts out. Always subtle. “I know this is a terrible shock, and awful timing. I’m so sorry, but—”
Uncle Finn weaves through them next to us, into the inner sanctum of the teepee. “Sorry, brother. Marisol would have said something to these guys before she left. She loves them like their own mother.”
Henry and I share a glance; truer words have never been spoken.
Now Uncle Claude and Terri step into the teepee, which seems like a violation. “Look! I don’t care what you think!”
Henry stops them. “Please do not enter my teepee. It’s sacred space.”
“Yes, it’s sacred space. Given to Henry by Tahoma ‘Blue Earth’ Mankoto of the Lakota tribe of Hunkpapa, as a gift due to our father’s environmental work in Standing Rock. You are not welcome here. You are not allowed. You have to be invited,” I inform them.
Uncle Claude stops, schooled. Terri bumps into him. The two of them turn to leave, embarrassed.
“Go back and get Marisol! These kids need her!” Uncle Finn adds, emboldened by this tiny victory.
Uncle Claude turns back to him, red in the face. “I have a better idea! Why don’t you pack your bags and get out of here! Right now! Tonight!”
It’s more of a roar than a voice. The floorboards underneath shake and there is an abrupt silence. Even the rafters are listening.
“Is that a threat?” Uncle Finn says under his breath.
“You bet it’s a threat! Get out of here, Finn! Run off to Bangladesh! Or Tahiti! Or Cairo! Go climb the pyramids! Sing with the fishes or whatever it is you people do!” Claude bellows.
“You people?” Finn seethes with anger. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Claude exhales through his nostrils, like a bull about to charge. “Our brother did not want you here. I do not want you here. So get. Out.”
Henry and I both look up at Uncle Finn, praying he won’t actually leave us. If he leaves, with Marisol gone, it’s just the two of us kids stuck here with Terri the Terrible and Uncle Claude the . . . the murderer.
Terri pulls out her phone. “Should I call the police and inform them we have a trespasser?”
“I guess I can’t force you to let me stay.” Uncle Finn sighs.
Henry and I look up at Uncle Finn, helpless.
“Uncle Finn, you can’t go. Please don’t go,” I plead.
“Please.” Henry steps forward.
“Aw, little dudes. I sure wish I could stay, but sometimes a total jerk-face is just a total jerk-face, and that is all they are and all they will ever be no matter how much money they have or what kind of capitalist swine they turn out to be!” His face turns red at the end of that sentiment, and there’s a stunned silence all around.
Uncle Claude clears his throat.
“I’m so sorry.” Finn forces a smile. “I wish there was something else I could do . . .”
But he’s right. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing we can do.
“There’s a little inn down the way. Pretty good breakfast. It’s, like, a ten-minute walk. That’s where I’ll be . . . if you need me.” He says that last bit locking gazes with first me, then Henry.
Then Uncle Finn bows his head and slinks out. Just like that, our last remaining ally slips past us, past Uncle Claude and Terri the Terrible, out of the room and, tonight, out of our lives.
Uncle Claude can’t resist a final insult. “Barnacle!”
The door slams behind Uncle Finn.
Now we are alone.
3
THE HOUSE SEEMS like the emptiest place in the world now that both Marisol and Uncle Finn are gone. And the coldest. It really seems like the actual temperature of the house has gone down ten degrees since their departure.
It’s half past ten and we should be asleep. But how can Henry and I sleep at a time like this, stuck in a house with a killer?
I had first thought that Terri and Claude were simply annoying and that Terri shopped too muc
h. That wasn’t the kindest notion, and I had vowed to myself to try to keep an open mind, to try to see them with an open heart.
I could laugh at myself now, or cry, for my naïveté. What a simpleton! What a fool!
“We have to do something.” Henry’s voice breaks the silence, the two of us in our respective beds, staring up at the ceiling, the moon cutting across the rafters.
“I know. But what? I mean . . . no one is going to believe us. They’ll think we are paranoid imbeciles.”
“Dumb kids who have watched too many movies,” he adds.
As we ponder in silence, there’s a slow wafting through the room. First a sense, then a movement, ever so slight, then a wave of dusty blue. The wave starts to take shape, languidly, in time. And now Henry and I stare at the forms of our ancestor ghosts, coalescing across the room. Little by little they arise from the dusky smoke.
“What do ya think? This was Maxine’s idea. Of course. This soupy one.” Plum gestures to the slate-blue fog. “It gives you plenty of . . . warning, if that’s the right word. You like it?”
“Wait. You mean like the wafting blue smoke thing?” I ask.
“Yup. That’s right. What do ya think?” Beaumont leans in. “If you ask me it’s just plain boring. No pizzazz!”
“Oh please, not everything has to be subtle as a hammer,” Maxine defends herself. “I thought the children, being rather sophisticated, would appreciate a little artifice.”
“Quite right, quite right.” August and Sturdevant nod in approval.
“Welp, how’s the mystery going, kiddos? You solve it yet?” Plum asks brightly.
Henry and I share a glance. “Oh, we solved it. It’s just that we kind of don’t know what to do. No one is gonna believe us, basically,” I admit.
“Hamlet,” Maxine purrs from the corner.
We all turn to her.
“Ham-what?” That’s Beaumont, of course.
“Ah, the Dane!” August and Sturdevant chirp.
“See here! I don’t see nothing here to do with dogs!” Again, Beaumont.
“A play within a play.” Maxine grins, the cat that ate the canary. “‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King . . .’”
Henry & Eva and the Castle on the Cliff Page 13
