I look around at her stuff—a lifetime in a room. A small coffee table, all covered with framed family photos; the quilt on the wall (did she make it?); the painting of a farm (was it hers?); and the old knit lamb doll on her pillow.
Mrs. Murphy squints at me like she’s trying to remember who I said I was and why I’m here, but is embarrassed to ask.
“So, yeah,” I say, helping her out. “I’m here to say hi for Cody.”
“Cody. That’s nice. He’s a very special boy, isn’t he? My little Cody.”
“I like that picture you have of Cody in the hall. I’ll bet he’s in some of these other family pictures too.”
“Oh, yes, I have lots of pictures of Cody.”
“Can I see at a few?”
She nods, and I check the frames up close, pretending to see Cody while searching for the face I saw in my dream, the face of her cousin Matthew Fraser. He could be in one of those grainy, washed-out color shots from the early sixties or in a black-and-white photo from when he was a kid, maybe in a group of kids and cousins at a family picnic. Either way, it’ll be hard to spot him.
“Those are great pictures,” I say, sitting down again. “I really like the ones of you and your parents, kids, and grandkids.” I have no idea if those shots are there, but it’s a pretty safe bet. Also a safe bet that she won’t disagree in case I’m right.
“So many children.” Mrs. Murphy nods happily. “So many children.”
“With all those children, you must have had a lot of cousins.”
“Oh yes.”
“Can you point them out to me?”
She thinks a bit. “I’m afraid my eyes aren’t so good anymore.”
I have another way to fish. “I have a favorite cousin,” I say casually. “Did you have a favorite cousin?”
“I expect so.”
“My favorite cousin is Aaron. Can you tell me yours?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Mrs. Murphy pauses. “Oh, you know.” She winks as if she’s told me a joke and looks at me like it’s my turn to say something. Why doesn’t she say Matthew’s name? Maybe she can’t remember and doesn’t want to let on.
I throw her a clue: “I hear you had a really great cousin called Matthew.”
“Matthew.” Her eyes cloud over.
“Yes, Matthew Fraser.”
Mrs. Murphy puts her finger to her lips. “Reg says I’m coming home next week. I mustn’t talk about Matthew.”
Reg. The name of her husband in the Bugle. But I’m pretty sure he’s dead. Does Mrs. Murphy think she’s in the county sanatorium?
“Reg is right. We shouldn’t talk about Matthew.” I nod seriously. “But I’m pretty sure it’s okay to say what he looked like.”
“Well, Matthew looked like Matthew.”
“I know. But could you describe him?”
Mrs. Murphy stiffens. “Why?”
“No reason.” Time for a happy thought. “I know your great-grandson Cody. Your farm is just a bit farther from town than ours.”
“You’re on a farm near ours?”
“Yes. The one beside the Sinclairs.”
“The McTavish farm!” Mrs. Murphy bangs her cane on the floor. “Frank McTavish killed Matthew!”
“Shhh. Please, Mrs. Murphy. Shh!”
She lurches to her feet and raises the cane. “Don’t tell me to shush!” she yells. “I know what I know!”
I jump up and raise my hands. “It’s okay, Mrs. Murphy. I know.”
“Don’t lie to me! Do you think I’ve lost my wits? I’m not crazy!”
“Mrs. Murphy, please!”
“Who are you anyway?” She takes a step toward me. “You’re not a doctor!”
I back up. “I’m a friend of your great-grandson Cody.”
“Liar!” She swings her cane. “Cody’s a baby!”
“Mrs. Murphy, please. I’m just a kid who lives on the farm.”
“Jacky’s the only boy on that farm! He’s dead! They’re all dead!” She swings again. Her cane knocks the framed photos off her tea cart. They crash to the floor, and glass shatters. “Who are you? Who sent you?”
“Nobody!”
Mrs. Murphy charges toward me. I race into the corridor. To my right, Benjie is staring out of his grandpa’s room, mouth wide open. Nurses and workers run down the hall from behind him. Others run up from my left. They pour past me into Mrs. Murphy’s room.
The last one grabs my arm. “What were you doing in there?”
“Nothing!”
I shake free, and she falls as I bolt to the social room, cross it, and dash down the hall to the front doors by the reception desk.
“Don’t forget to sign out,” Brenda says cheerily.
No time. The nurse who fell is back on her feet and barreling toward me. I see the code by the door, tap the keypad, and escape as she bursts into the foyer.
“Stop. Come back.”
Are you kidding?
30
I make it to Ken’s office in no time.
“What are you doing here?” Mom asks.
“Didn’t want to take the school bus. Thought I’d come by to say hi to Ken.”
The idea I’d want to see Ken makes Mom so happy she forgets to ask why I’m sweating. “He’s out showing a property, but he should be back soon.” She thinks a sec, like she’s wondering if the moment is right, then goes for it. “What would you say if we asked Ken for dinner? Nothing special. I could pick up some KFC and take a pie out of the freezer.”
“Sure. Great.”
It is too. If anyone calls about what just happened, Mom won’t yell at me till Ken’s gone. By then, she’ll have had time to settle and I can give her a good story. Like, I went to visit Benjie’s grandpa to be nice and ended up in Mrs. Murphy’s room by mistake.
Stop freaking. No one’s calling. Our landline is unlisted on account of Dad, and anyway, the way I scribbled my name, who could read it? Even if Benjie rats to the home, by tomorrow things will have blown over.
All the same, my stomach keeps churning. I try to forget what happened by pretending it was just a bad dream.
Ken’s back at five to close up. As for dinner? “That’d be great,” he says, like he’s been waiting for this since forever. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”
We sit down to eat at six thirty. Soon it’s seven thirty. Then seven thirty becomes eight. The more time passes, the more I relax. Okay, I shouldn’t have been in Mrs. Murphy’s room, but what did I do? Nothing. Just talked to her. Since when is talking to someone a crime? I mean, I’m not the one who smashed up her room.
I start to enjoy Ken’s stories. He’s not talking big or acting cool like he was at the beginning. He’s more like when we were looking at that photo of his kids.
He tells a story about camping with his kids a few years back. It was his first time in a tent since Scout camp—he’s not really into outdoor stuff—but he thought they’d like it. Anyway, he couldn’t get the campfire going, so they ate a few cold hot dogs and marshmallows and went to bed. Only he forgot to put away the leftovers, not to mention the hamburger meat, and in the middle of the night some coyotes dropped by for a meal. So there he is, terrified they’re going to come into the tent and eat his kids, and all he has to bash them with is his daughter’s teddy bear.
“So how scared were you?” I grin.
“Let’s just say it was a good thing I brought along an extra pair of underwear,” Ken jokes. “I can’t believe I was such an idiot. Not just to leave food out, but to worry about a few coyotes. Like I said before, coyotes are scared of people. I’ve been in the area fifteen years and only seen one a few times. But boy, that night I kept imagining the headline in the Bugle: ‘Local family swallowed by coyotes.’”
We roar with laughter. I think, You know, Mom could do worse.
<
br /> Out of nowhere, a car drives up to the house. Its lights are low.
“Expecting someone?” Ken asks.
Mom goes pale. She shakes her head. “Maybe it’s Mr. Sinclair.” But I know what she’s thinking. Dad.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Let me answer it,” Ken says. His fist tightens, not much but enough in case there’s trouble.
Mom nods. Ken opens the door. Two cops are standing outside. One’s chunky, the other thin. Ken knows them. “Brian, George, what’s up?”
“May we come in?”
“Of course,” Mom says, scared and confused. “I’m Katherine Weaver.” She shakes their hands. “Is this about my ex-husband? Is it about Mike?”
“No,” says the heavy cop. “I’m afraid it’s about your son.”
I want to throw up.
“Cameron? Cameron, what did you do?”
“Nothing. I can explain.”
“What do you mean, you can explain?”
“Perhaps if we could sit down?” the other cop asks.
Mom shows us into the living room. She sits between me and Ken on the couch. He squeezes her hand. The cops sit opposite us on the leather armchairs. The heavier one does the talking.
“We understand your son was suspended from school last week because of a fight with Cody Murphy,” he says to Mom.
“I wasn’t fighting. He was beating me up.”
“Cameron!” Mom’s glare shuts me up.
“This afternoon, Cameron went to the Wolf Hollow Haven nursing home. He was seen leaving the room of Mrs. Hannah Murphy, Cody’s great-grandmother. Mrs. Murphy was visibly upset and needed restraint, in the course of which she received some bruises. Several of her framed photographs were smashed. When a nurse tried to detain Cameron, he knocked her to the ground. She twisted her ankle.”
“Cameron?” Mom’s eyes are wide in horror.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“Does Cameron need a lawyer?” Ken interrupts.
“That’s for you to decide,” the thin cop says. “This is simply a warning visit. At this point, we don’t believe there will be charges.”
“Look,” I say, “I was at the nursing home with my friend Benjie to see his grandfather. On my way out, I ended up in Mrs. Murphy’s room by mistake. She went nuts on me, swinging her cane and knocking over her pictures. When the nurse grabbed me, I panicked and ran. I didn’t mean for her to fall.”
Silence.
The heavy cop looks right through me. “According to Benjie, you went to the home to check it out as a place for your grandfather.”
“What?” Mom says. “Dad’s in perfect shape.”
“Benjie says you left him and his grandfather five or ten minutes before the incident,” the cop continues. “That’s an awfully long time to be in someone else’s room by mistake. It’s also a strange coincidence that it was the room of Cody Murphy’s great-grandmother—Cody Murphy, the boy with whom you had the fight. We understand it started when you taunted him about his family.”
“No. That’s not how it happened.”
The heavy cop turns to Mom. “It’s no secret in town that Cody’s had a rough go since his father died. The past few years, he’s lived with his paternal grandparents and great-grandmother. He’s very close to her. Last year she went to the nursing home. He’s taken it hard.”
“The poor boy,” Mom says.
“Cody? Poor boy?” I exclaim. “He bullies everybody, and we’re supposed to feel sorry for him? It’s not fair!”
“The police aren’t here because of anything Cody did,” Mom snaps. “They’re here because of you.”
The thin cop takes out a notepad and points at me with his pen. “The nurse who twisted her ankle could have charged you with assault. Cody’s family could have you charged on any number of counts. You could end up in juvenile detention. Luckily for you, none of them wants that. What they want is the truth. What were you doing in that room?”
What do I say? When I open my mouth this strange sound comes out, all gasping and choking at the same time. “I wanted to find out what her cousin looked like—Matthew Fraser. The man she said was murdered by Mr. McTavish, the owner of this farm in the sixties.”
“Oh no,” Mom says quietly. “Is this about your history project?” She turns to the cops. “He’s been researching a history project about the farm.”
“In the Bugle,” I say. “It’s all in the Weekly Bugle. Except Matthew Fraser’s picture.”
The cops exchange glances. “It’s an old story,” the thin cop tells Mom. “Back in the day, Mrs. Murphy claimed Frank McTavish killed his wife, his son, and Mrs. Murphy’s cousin here on the farm. It turned out to be nothing more than a wife who ran off with her son and boyfriend.”
“That’s not true,” I blurt out. “Mrs. Murphy was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. McTavish killed them. Their bodies are in the attic.”
31
Everyone’s jaw drops.
“I’m sorry,” Mom apologizes to the cops. “Cameron’s always had an imagination. But this…this—”
“This is real, Mom. The bodies are taped in plastic, hanging from a rafter.”
“You can’t possibly know that,” Mom says. “The trapdoor to the attic was sealed when we moved here.”
“Check it out if you don’t believe me.”
“Cameron’s right,” Ken says. “I think we should go to the attic.”
Yes! I could give Ken a hug.
“You’re encouraging this?” Mom gasps.
“No. I’m saying Cameron believes what he’s told us. Until he sees for himself that it’s nothing, it’ll be on his mind.”
“But the door’s nailed shut,” Mom says, “and the nails are covered with so many coats of paint that we’ll need a hammer and crowbar to break in. Think of the damage.”
“I am,” Ken says, with a nod in my direction.
Gee, thanks, Ken. Guess I was wrong about you being my friend.
Ken pulls out his phone and dials. He holds up a hand for us all to shut up. “Art, it’s Ken Armstrong. I’m next door with Brian and George from the station. Look, I know this sounds strange, but we need to get into your attic. Katherine’s afraid there’ll be damage opening the trapdoor. I’ll pay for repairs, but I wanted your okay.” He holds the receiver away from his ear; I’m guessing it’s not okay. “Art, I’m sorry, I can’t say why on the phone. But it’s important, trust me… Thanks.” He hangs up. “Art will be right over.”
Mr. Sinclair drives up in his pickup, a stepladder and toolbox in the back.
“I’m afraid Cameron’s let that research paper go to his head,” Mom tells him. “He thinks Frank McTavish killed his wife, their son, and her friend and locked their bodies in your attic.”
Mr. Sinclair gives me a look. “So, you’re a guesser.”
“No, sir, I’m a knower.” The only thing I don’t know is what you know.
Mr. Sinclair snorts and heads upstairs with his stuff. We follow into the big room and watch him set up under the trapdoor. I’m kind of scared, but at least for now nobody’s talking about Mrs. Murphy.
Ken volunteers to do the grunt work, but Mr. Sinclair won’t hear of it. He scoots up the ladder, pries out the nails with a chisel and hammer, and bashes open the hatch with a crowbar. I knew he was tough, but wow!
Mr. Sinclair comes down. “If this is a crime scene, you boys better go in first,” he tells the cops, wiping sweat from his forehead.
The cops turn on their flashlights and go up. The beams scan the darkness. Silence. Mom puts an arm around me. Ken holds her hand. None of us breathes. They come down, all serious, and whisper with Mom, Ken, and Mr. Sinclair. Right, as if I couldn’t handle what I just told them.
I stare up into the pitch blac
k. Sorry, Jacky, your hiding place isn’t secret anymore. But I had to tell. I had to.
The whispering stops. Mom steps forward. “Cameron,” she says, like she’s at a funeral, “would you like to come up with us?”
I nod. Heart pounding, I climb the ladder after the cops. Mom, Ken, and Mr. Sinclair follow.
“Have a good look,” the heavy cop says when we’re all in the attic. He shines his flashlight in all directions.
The attic is empty.
“No. It’s impossible.”
Mom grips my shoulders. “You see, Cameron? You see? It was all in your head.”
“It wasn’t!” I pull away. “The bodies, they were here. Somebody moved them.”
The heavy cop has had enough crap. “Who? When? Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Wait. In the barn Jacky said Arty knew he didn’t leave the farm with his mother. In the cemetery he said Arty knew the secret place where he was hidden.
I whirl on Mr. Sinclair. “But you know. You know Jacky was here too.”
Mom’s jaw drops. “Jacky?” Ken steadies her. “Who? What?”
“Jacky was the McTavish boy,” Mr. Sinclair says. “I showed Cameron pictures of us playing when we were kids. He left with his mother. Never saw him again.”
“That’s not true.”
“How would you know?” the skinny cop asks.
“I just do. Mr. McTavish must’ve figured he couldn’t keep the bodies up here for long. He had to get rid of them.”
“If you’re so smart, tell us how,” the heavy cop says. “No human remains have shown up around here as long as I’ve been alive.”
“I know. He didn’t bury them.”
“What did he do then, Mr. Kid Detective?”
This is the most horrible thought I’ve ever had in my life, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. I turn to Mr. Sinclair. “Your father was Mr. McTavish’s best friend. He had a grinder. It would’ve been so simple. You know. Tell them.”
“Oh my God, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sorry.” Mom’s breathing so fast I think she’ll faint. She cries out to anyone who’ll listen. “Cameron’s father, he tried to kill me, and we’ve been on the run. Cameron’s had dreams, he’s mixed up in his head, he needs help, he’s not well, he’s—”
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