Spiritdell Book 2

by Dalya Moon

  “It's not prom,” I say.

  James asks, “Is it customary for the people who discovered the body to go to the funeral?”

  “I thought I might meet some people who knew the guy, get some clues.”

  “Ooh, detective work,” Julie says. “Undercover work.”

  James sighs. “Fine, I'll go too.”

  * * *

  When we pull into town late afternoon, we stop by the twins' house for them to get changed into more formal attire, then my house. I have some other dress pants and long-sleeved shirts, but I decide to try on the suit from my Charlie Chaplin costume. It looks good with my dark purple shirt, the one I bought with one of the gift cards Gran gave me last Christmas. Without the bowler hat and mustache, I'm not Charlie Chaplin, but a regular smart-looking guy. Dapper.

  Julie whistles when I come back out to the Jeep.

  James looks closely at my face. “Dude, are you blushing? I can't tell.”

  “Shut up and drive, jamtart,” I say.

  James runs a few yellow lights, and we arrive at the funeral home just in time.

  At the funeral itself, we figured we'd blend in with the crowd, but there aren't a lot of people here, and less than a handful of them have hair that isn't white. The three of us take a seat near the back row for the service. At the front of the room, the simple-looking coffin rests on an elevated platform, and Julie squeezes my hand as if to say there's that body again. I don't know how this setup compares to typical funerals, as I've only been to one, and that was a long time ago.

  A white-gloved finger taps me on my shoulder, and I turn to find Heidi, which makes sense, as she is—was—Newt's sister.

  “He would have been touched by your concern,” Heidi says. “You do believe me that he didn't mean you any harm that night, don't you?”

  I turn and whisper, “Sure, why not.”

  “Newt was a little squirrelly the last few years. Senility, we think. We only needed a bit of your blood for the ceremony.”

  I look around at the other people here, all unaware of our odd conversation. To them, Heidi and I are probably talking about what a great guy Newt was, and how peaceful he looks now. I sneak another glimpse at the body. What they do to the face during embalming is a mystery to me, but the man doesn't look at peace to me. He looks terrified.

  “That's all in the past now,” Heidi says, patting me on the shoulder. “My family means you no harm.”

  “Okay,” I say, though there's nothing that triggers my threat warning quite like someone trying to assure me I'm not in danger.

  “He was a mixed-up person,” she says. “I hope his soul finds some closure before we meet on the other side.”

  A small woman in a dark blue suit walks in the door: Detective Wrong. She takes a seat across the aisle from us, pats down her hair with one hand, and narrows her dark brown eyes at me. Is it customary for police to go to the victims' funerals, or is she here for the same reason I am—to get clues?

  Whispering, I say to Heidi, “I'll do what I can for him, since he asked me to. Killing people is wrong, no matter who it is.”

  “Of course,” she says with such sweetness my teeth ache. She stands and takes her place at the front of the room for the service.

  Julie, sitting between me and James, grabs both of our hands when the music begins.

  Some people get up and talk about Newt's life, and about how much the world has changed since he and Heidi were born on a farm in the Midwest. Their mother went into labor prematurely, after slipping on some ice while carrying milk buckets from a barn. In those days, there wasn't much in the way of care for premature babies, especially ones as small as the twins, Heidi and Newt. All those incubators you see in hospitals today weren't in use yet.

  The nurses took turns holding the tiny twins through the night, though the care was more like last rites than medical care. The nurses blessed their souls and urged the twins to “go on” and be with the angels rather than suffer, gasping for every breath.

  To everyone's surprise, the babies lived through the first night, and then the next. They gained strength, survived, even as their mother died from her injuries. The twins would live, but they had no mother, and their father, a struggling farmer, wasn't able to care for them, nor did he want them.

  When the twins were big enough to leave the hospital, they went to separate orphanages. This is another part of Newt's story that shows how much times have changed, because healthy babies born today in our country are usually placed in adoptive homes. There are still orphanages in other countries, of course—at least two of the girls at my school are from Chinese orphanages. The world is changing so fast.

  The story of Newt's life is way more interesting than a typical history class in school, and I wonder if it's because he was a real person, someone I knew.

  The woman on stage talking about Newt's life says there are photos for the next part, and she pulls down a projection screen.

  Heidi, an adorable little bug-eyed baby in the scratchy brown and white photo, was adopted within a year by a kind family. Newt, who looked sullen and strange even as an infant, stayed at the orphanage and was taken in only once he was eight, and by people who were not as kind. His adoptive family wanted another hand to help on their farm, and he worked that farm every day of his life until he ran away at seventeen.

  Seventeen is how old I am. I fold my hands on my lap and say a silent prayer of gratitude for everything I have.

  I look to my right, catching Julie wiping a tear from her eye. I wonder if she's feeling as grateful as I am.

  The rest of Newt's life seemed more fun than his early years. He worked as a dish washer and later as a cook, and though he never married, he did have a son out of wedlock, and two granddaughters.

  The presentation ends, and the woman at the front asks for his granddaughters to stand.

  When they do, James has a coughing fit. We know those girls. Newt's descendants are none other than Missy and Facepuncher, the two girls we met at the lake back during the summer.

  Julie whispers in my ear, “Do you know them?”

  I whisper back, “The original lake skanks. The dark-haired one is Facepuncher.”

  Julie's mouth drops open.

  Chapter Ten

  As James tries to get control over his breathing, I stare at Newt's granddaughters.

  We met the girls while we were out at the cabin, the weekend after the school year ended. James and I built a bonfire, as usual, and they wandered over and joined us. One after the other, they both poked my belly button, and I saw a future version of Missy robbing jewelry stores. The other girl, whose name I don't remember, hooked up with James later that night, and at the height of their passion, she punched him in the face, giving him a black eye. Hence the moniker, Facepuncher.

  Julie didn't meet them, just heard about them. “Aren't they bad girls?” she says in my ear. “They totally killed Newt.”

  I haven't jumped to that conclusion quite as quickly as Julie, but I do have my suspicions. If those two girls are related to Newt, they might be somehow involved in his death. Wow. They probably inherit his entire fortune. How is this not an open and shut case?

  I turn, searching for Detective Wrong's face. Surely she's brought handcuffs to arrest the girls after the service.

  James slinks down further on the wooden bench, trying to make himself invisible, but his attempts are having the opposite effect. By the looks on their faces, both of the girls have seen us.

  James is now wheezing while crouching on the floor next to me.

  “Serves you right,” Julie hisses at him.

  One thing's bothering me: when I saw visions of their secrets, I didn't see either of the girls killing an old man. Maybe their fates have shifted in the months since I met them, but I would think something like murder would pop up ahead of things such as snooping in someone else's diary.

  Unless, of course, my visions aren't that helpful or useful after all.

  * * *

&nbs
p; After the service, everyone convenes in a room next door, away from the coffin and Newt's body. I don't know about Julie, but I'm relieved to put some space between me and the corpse. I kept expecting him to sit up and say something to me, like why haven't you solved my murder yet?

  James is so distracted by the presence of the girl who punched him, he doesn't even realize he's eating regular meat sandwiches.

  I put my hands in my pockets, gleefully awaiting the girls' arrest by Detective Wrong. I visit the buffet spread, but before I finish my egg salad sandwich, the police presence is completely gone. Detective Wrong walked out the door without even questioning a single suspect.

  Facepuncher appears in front of me. “Zan!” she says, hugging me as though we're old pals.

  “Hey,” says Missy, munching on some tiny dessert squares.

  “Missy,” I reply, pointing at her. I have no problem remembering Missy's name, because she has a short nose and yellow curly hair, not unlike famous superstar muppet, Miss Piggy. “And, uh ...” I hold my hand out cautiously to Facepuncher.

  “Fionnula,” she says.

  “Fionnula,” I repeat, though there's no way that name is sticking. “Hey, can you do me a solid and not punch my friend James? Long story, but it messes up his weird dietary regiment.”

  Fionnula-Facepuncher looks hungrily at James, as though her eyes are a hundred hands, pulling off his formal attire. “Funerals make you want to appreciate life while you're alive, don't they?” she says to him.

  “Yes.” He nods quickly.

  She grabs a handful of grapes off his plate and stuffs them in her mouth. Unlike her sister, Facepuncher has dark hair, probably dyed by the looks of her light roots. Her face is all angles, not unappealing, but attractive in an unconventional way. With the right lighting, she'd photograph well. She's tall, taller than I remember, and the longer I look at her, admiring her angles, I think she could probably be a model.

  Beside me, Missy introduces herself to Julie, and I turn and apologize for not doing the job myself, then when I turn back, James and Facepuncher are gone. Just like that, gone.

  “Deja vu,” Missy says. “Do funerals make you guys horny too?”

  Julie and I nod, then make eye contact and switch to shaking our heads, no.

  I stuff two more squares of egg salad sandwich in my mouth.

  Julie says to Missy, “I'm so sorry your grandfather passed away. James and I lost one of our grandparents recently and it was a sad time.”

  Missy looks right at Julie and asks her, “How exactly did you know my grandfather? Was he paying you for services?”

  Julie takes a step back. “GOD NO!” The conversation in the room stops for a moment as everyone turns to stare. “We shopped at the pawn shop a few times,” she says. The white-haired people go back to their conversations.

  “I hear some kids found the body,” Missy says. “What kind of sick shit is that? Those poor kids are probably screwed in the head for life. Trauma like that scars you. Makes you a serial killer or something.”

  “Do you have an interest in … serial killers?” I ask.

  “No more than anyone else,” she says.

  Julie says, “Hey, do you want Zan to tell your fortune again?”

  I start to give Julie a stern look, but then again, maybe the direct approach isn't the worst idea.

  “I'm in college like you suggested,” Missy says. “You don't have to worry about me, I'm on a good path, I swear.”

  “What about your sister?” I ask. “Do you think she'd want her fortune told again?”

  Missy says, “Your do-good work is done. She stopped honking the car horn all the time, okay?”

  “Zan hates that,” Julie says, shaking her head. “Car honking in non-emergency situations. Terrible.”

  “Tell me again,” Missy says, her mouth full of cream-colored globs of lemon square. “Why exactly are you here at my grandfather's funeral?”

  “Just paying our respects,” I say, backing away. My nerves about being here uninvited swell up in my body, tensing my legs.

  Julie's must have the same party's-over feeling because she's already a few steps ahead of me, and we have a walking-race to see who can get out the door sooner.

  Outside, we both gasp and laugh, then stop. “It's not funny,” Julie says, shaking her head.

  “I know.”

  We circle around the funeral home to the Jeep. James has the keys, but the doors are unlocked. We usually leave the doors unlocked so would-be thieves don't damage the soft top trying to get in. Julie and I climb in to wait for James.

  “Now what?” Julie asks me. “Do you call that cop lady and see if she'll help you or if you can help her? Did Newt say something bad would happen if you didn't figure out who killed him?”

  “He didn't threaten me, no. You saw the note. It was pretty straight-forward.”

  “Do you think there'll be a reward?” she asks.

  “If there is, I'll share it with you guys.”

  “You don't have to, but that's nice of you to offer. I feel good doing this detective stuff, don't you?”

  “I guess.”

  “It's like charity,” she says. “It feels right. I wish I had some superpowers so I could really kick ass, though.”

  “No, you don't.”

  “If you put some of your blood on me, would it give me a power?”

  “What? Julie, don't be twisted.”

  She crosses her arms and looks out the window. “I was just kidding. Whatever.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. I reach in my pocket again, thumbing the round metal thing, so warm and comforting. What is that, a button? I was touching it earlier, during the service, too. I pull the object out to discover it's a ring, albeit very tiny. The only finger it fits is my baby finger. I look closely at the design—a swirly shape, kind of abstract, possibly a tiny little bee.

  This ring was at the crime scene, but it's my ring now. Mine.

  I don't want Julie to know, so I put the little gold ring back in my pocket. Touching it makes me feel better. The ring is my secret. They don't have to know all my secrets. My precious. I snicker quietly to myself. My precious, indeed. Something tells me this ring is not the legendary Isildur's Bane, and it doesn't control the armies of the Middle Earth, but it's still precious to me.

  Serial killers take souvenirs from their victims, not unlike me, taking one from a crime scene. I should feel guilty about the theft, but I don't. I'll have that memory of Newt's bloodied body in my head forever, so a little ring is the least I should get in exchange.

  Julie's breathing changes as she drifts off to sleep. The early November weather is cool but sunny, and the inside of the Jeep is toasty.

  I'm watching the side of the building for James when Heidi comes walking out to the parking lot alone. Her dress seemed black when we were inside, but now I see it's dark green. She looks old and frail, standing on the steps by herself.

  I jump out of the Jeep and run up to her. “Could I be your apprentice or something?” I ask. “You could help me master my powers. I could pay you, like for lessons.”

  “I'd sooner teach you piano,” she says.

  “Do you teach piano?”

  “No.”

  “How am I supposed to learn about my magic? I tried something with the bees and I almost killed myself.”

  “There you go, then. You're learning. You don't need me.”

  “Come on, Heidi, you're the only witch I know.”

  She quickly looks both ways, then grabs me by the lapels of my suit jacket and whips me in close to her. “Zzzzan,” she hisses. “If you speak my name or that word again, to anyone, I'll have your eyes removed along with your tongue.”

  Her cold, white face is close to mine, her eyes piercing me, freezing me with hate. I'm slipping under the water. So cold. I put my hand into my pocket.

  Behind me, the wind rises up as though being whipped by a thousand wings.

  I slip the ring on my finger, and a heat blazes t
hrough me. “Back off!” I yell.

  The old woman releases me with force, and I fly backward through the air, landing on the hood of a car. Birds fly overhead, but they do not swoop down or involve themselves.

  As I ease myself off the hood of the car, my elbows ache from the impact, but I'm electric with my own power.

  “Oh, you want some?” I say.

  Heidi's no longer in front of me, but behind me, and she grabs me by the neck and the top of my head. All my imagined fury and power drains away.

  “Do the job you've been asked to do,” she says icily. “Find who killed my brother and avenge his death.”

  I'm flying through the air again, landing on the hood of a different car, where I leave a sizable dent with my body.

  “Avenge?” I sputter, still feeling the cold grip of her hand on my throat. “I was thinking I'd call in an anonymous tip on his granddaughters there. Those weird girls are the ones with something to gain.”

  Heidi seems confused, momentarily looking like a regular little old lady who's lost her kitty-cat. “It wasn't them, you idiot,” she says.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “Well, a little help would certainly be appreciated. You could give me a list of suspects rather than terrorizing me and doing property damage with my body.”

  She slaps me across the face.

  I turn to look for Julie, to figure out why she isn't coming out to help. Julie's still sitting in the Jeep, no longer asleep, but staring straight ahead. Is the music she's listening to so good she doesn't notice I'm being tossed about by a witchcraft-practicing octogenarian?

  Heidi slaps me again. “That was for punching me, Zan. You cracked a filling.” She's referring to that time in the summer, when she drugged me and kidnapped me. How dare she slap me for that? The woman totally had it coming. I'd like to punch her again right now, but I'm a gentleman.

  I step away from her as some people leaving the funeral home enter the parking lot.

  “REAL nice seeing you again,” I say to Heidi angrily. The other white-haired people give me dirty looks for my angry tone—understandably, since we were all just at a funeral. I bow my head contritely. “I'm sorry about your brother, Ma'am,” I say for their benefit before turning on my heel and walking away.