Strangled by Simile, page 16
“We know Charlie and his crew did all sorts of fundraising for the football team,” Leslie said. “But everyone knew about that. That was clearly advertised at school, with the Good Will fundraiser and such. Hunter, did the sports boosters do anything else to raise money?”
“Not to my knowledge, at least nothing to do with galas or parties. Sometimes they sell those discount cards.”
“Or candy bars!” Edward said. “I think I bought a candy bar from the football team at some point. Or maybe that was the band.” He sighed. “I can’t keep all the groups straight.” The needle he was using had developed a bend. “Oh, dear, I think I ruined my shot.” He waved the accordion-shaped needle at the urgent care nurse. “Nurse, may I please have another? At any rate, Leslie and I have been working at TJ High for years and years, and no one’s ever had a gala.”
“Let’s call William,” Leslie said. “I’m sure he’d know about secret party galas, even if they’re held in Delta at his ex-wife’s house.” She continued happily stabbing the orange in her lap. “I think it works better if you’re decisive with it—like boom and the needle goes in tut-tut, no problemo. You’ll barely even know it was there.”
Emma watched her friend take joy in a future of poking needles into various parts of her body. Hunter wasn’t taking joy, exactly, but he was concentrating on getting the needle angled just right so it would go into her skin in a way that would hurt the least. Edward simply stared at the new syringe and the orange like they were separate Martians from planets he couldn’t fathom. Emma was pretty sure he would be unable to give her shots, ever. She was in the same boat, though—unsure if she would be able to give herself shots, even in the limited spots she could reach. All three of them were there for her, though, in whatever way they could be, and Emma was so grateful for them all.
“Hey, all y’all.”
“Yeah, sweetie?” Hunter said. “Whaddya say—want to spend the next few nights at my place?”
“No, you can stay with me because I have to take care of the animals. I just wanted to say, thank you, everyone. This MS thing completely sucks, and here we are learning to give me shots, but I’ve barely thought about it in the fatalistic doldrums I thought I’d be mired in for the next few months. That’s because of you three.”
“And Billy!” Edward chimed in. “Don’t forget that ray of sunshine I dropped at your door this morning.” He set the needle carefully on the small hospital table next to him and started peeling the orange. “He seems happy all the time, at least the times he’s not sad about his brother. I mean, he doesn’t seem to get sad about all the regular, silly, mundane things that bother the rest of us.”
“Well, and not saying you shouldn’t think about MS as something crucial to deal with, but other things are happening that you need to think about, Grasshoppah—like maybe the dual threats you’ve received in the past two days,” Leslie said. “Seriously, let’s figure this out. Girl or guy on the phone? I tell ya, I love this town so much, but I wish we had a police presence that would help us, you know, solve an actual crime at some point. ‘Who is so gross that cannot see this palpable device?’ That’s the scrivener in Richard III. He means ‘stupid’ when he says gross, but I’m telling ya—Carl Niome is gross in our good ol’ modern vernacular too.”
Emma sighed. “I really don’t know, Leslie. Logically, I’d say guy—the person on the phone really had the gangster vocals down. But an actor can do that, too, impressions or whatever. Most likely, though, I still think it’s a guy. So let’s spell out all the people in our vicinity who could have heard us talk about investigating and who had easy access to my car at school. There’re teachers there, and office staff—Abigail and Rachel—the kitchen staff, custodians. Although I haven’t seen any custodians around during recent days.”
“All the coaches were at the funeral, too, right?” asked Edward. “Andy Marston, Norm Gilder, Mike Resnik, Hunter.”
“I’d really love to be a suspect again. Wasn’t I a suspect in Melvin’s murder?” Hunter shook his head. “Frank and Sawyer Hammond were at the funeral, right?”
“Yes, they were there, and like I said before, Sawyer was back at school yesterday,” Emma said. “But I really can’t believe he’s the killer or someone who is so sophisticated with phone call voice disguise. I just can’t see it.”
“Frank could’ve left the note on your car, though, right?” Leslie asked. “Just because we didn’t see him at the school doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”
“Well, and like you said before, Les, just because we’re not advertising any part in the investigation doesn’t mean people will assume we’re not investigatin’. Maybe the killer is assuming we are—without knowing for sure.”
“And you know what happens when people assume,” Leslie chortled but didn’t repeat the joke. “Okay, I’ll call William to find out about mysterious galas, and Hunter will stay at your place, and—”
The IV made a strident beeping noise.
The nurse came in. “All done for the day! Would you like to leave the port in for tomorrow’s infusion?”
“I guess I’d better,” Emma said. “I really only have that one fat vein.”
“No problem, dearie.” The nurse pulled the needle from the port in Emma’s arm, taped it down, then wrapped it in gauze like a miniature mummy.
Leslie took her phone out to the lobby, presumably to call the superintendent, maybe Shawn too.
I hope I’ll be able to sleep. Oh, right, the steroids are keeping me up anyway. And death threats. Those’ll prop your peepers open, won’t they? “Thanks so much. We, or at least I and someone else around here, will see you tomorrow.” Emma shook the nurse’s hand, feeling like she wanted to hug her but not doing it. Then she thought about Billy and gave the nurse a big thank-you hug.
Leslie came back in. “William wants to talk to us. Let’s stop there on the way home.”
WILLIAM FOREMAN’S HOUSE sat at the top of a hill overlooking the whole town. Emma had never seen it, but she knew, as they drove up the long, curvy driveway, that someday that was the kind of house she would want. Unlike the Hammonds’ stuffy and pretentious I-run-the-world façade, William Foreman’s house looked big but homey and cheerful. Bright-red shutters set off slate-blue paint, and as the four friends navigated the long front walk, they noted a profusion of flowers and plants up its sides and exploding from the window boxes.
“If I couldn’t have a Mediterranean wonder like yours,” Emma said to Leslie, “this is the kinda house I’d choose.”
“Yeah, those red shutters are cuter’n a puppy in a poke, aren’t they?” Leslie bonked Emma’s hip then caught her before she toppled. “Almost the same red as my fantastic
Louboutin soles.”
Hunter and Edward laughed, though Hunter choked his laughter short when he saw Emma’s look.
“That’s a pig in a poke, Leslie. A poke is a bag full of stuff you don’t get to inspect before you purchase. Whatever would a puppy do in a poke? Sir Toby would hate a poke. I guarantee it. Well, I guess a pig would hate one, too, if it was supposed to be literal to begin with. But it’s not.” Emma kept mumbling about people needing to learn the lingo correctly if they wanted to use it as she pulled on the brass knocker adorning the front door. The brass hit the wood with a resounding clang that echoed through the house.
The door was opened by a shockingly suitless William. “Thank you so much for coming. It just seems like everyone should have all the pertinent information if we’re going to find Charlie’s killer.” In his gray sweatpants and a Pinewood School District T-shirt, Superintendent Foreman looked very different from the way the teachers usually saw him. “If you can understand why, I mean, the reasons we all miss him so much. I know he had a terrible reputation at school, and I did as well for looking the other way. Please, follow me to the den. Billy’s excited to see you, but I told him to play a video game upstairs so we could talk.”
The four followed the superintendent down a hall to a large library with books covering three of the four walls and puffy leather chairs throughout. See? Like this! What a wonderful library! I can envision myself with Hunter in a place like this.
“He was your son, Mr. Foreman,” Emma said. “Of course you’re very invested in finding out who killed him.”
William gestured to a long, puffy leather couch along the back wall, at which the four lined up and plopped down, side by side. “Please, don’t forget to call me William. I’m so glad you’re all here, and if I can ask for your assistance, I feel we should be on a first-name basis.”
Leslie adjusted her dress so she could lean forward. “Okay, William. I know Charlie was so much bluster and bluff, really, but he pushed it sometimes—he said inappropriate things to colleagues and behaved unprofessionally. For sure. Why did you let it go?”
William crossed the floor to a bookshelf. He ran his fingers along a row of books and sighed deeply. “Charlie and Billy are twins. Did you guess that?”
“Twins?” Leslie asked. “We didn’t even know Charlie had a brother until the other day. Why didn’t we know that? Billy’s a great guy—woulda made Charlie look lots better if he were in the picture. ‘But we in it shall be remembered—we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’ That’s really a soldier’s speech, not a literal brother’s speech, but my point is, Billy’s great. We’re all great when we get to hang out with him. Why’d Charlie keep him a secret?”
Plopping down in the puffy chair nearest him, William covered his head with his hands and forearms, like he was trying to make himself disappear. “Charlie thought Billy was his fault.”
“What do you mean, his fault?” Emma asked.
“His fault Billy had to be so nice to offset Charlie’s general douchiness?” Leslie asked. “I totally get that.”
Edward laughed, and even William chuckled.
“When my ex-wife was in labor with those boys,” William said, “Charlie came out first. Then Billy... didn’t. They couldn’t get him out in time, and when they finally did, the umbilical cord was all wrapped around his neck. He wasn’t breathing for almost eleven minutes. He had severe brain damage.” William’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Charlie always blamed himself.”
“That’s crazy,” Hunter said. “He was just a baby. Why would he blame himself, or anyone else, for that matter? It sounds like a terrible accident. That’s all.”
“You’re right, of course, but Charlie never saw it that way. He’s always been this strange combination of protector for Billy and hider of Billy, then so prickly about everyone else,” William said. “Nobody’s ever understood it. It was hard on everyone, my wife especially. She seemed to deal with the whole situation better by leaving it, by taking Billy to Delta and separating them from Pinewood. It took a long time for Billy to understand why Charlie and he lived separately, but Charlie did such a great job showing Billy how much he loved his brother. He went to Delta every Sunday and spent the whole day playing with Billy.”
Emma pushed herself up from the puffy couch and threw her arms around William. “So much loss. I’m so, so sorry you’ve had to endure all that. It’s more than anyone should have to.”
He squeezed her in return and gestured to the ceiling, presumably to where Billy was playing video games. “Thank you. Thank you all. And to help me endure it, I’d love your help in finding Charlie’s killer.”
“Yes, on that note—do you know someone who’d have a reason?” Leslie asked. “Beyond his regular prickliness, I mean.”
William sighed and shrugged, a combined movement that made him look like he’d given up completely. But what he said next belied the gesture. “I’ve racked my brain and come up with nothing, but that’s why you’re here. Charlie has held a fundraising gala for two organizations—the Research for TBI Coalition and the Living with TBI Alliance for Traumatic Brain Injury—for the past ten years. This year’s fundraiser is coming up, although I’ve turned it into a combination fundraiser and a memorial for Charlie. Everyone we know will be there, and I think all of you should join us.”
’Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind,
That man might ne’er be wretched for his mind.
– Timon of Athens, I.2.160–1
Chapter 22
Thursday, October 26
Thursday morning dawned clear and cold. Emma opened her eyes and noted two things. Three, actually. One, she was wrapped up in her bed and blankets like a burrito. Two, Hunter was wrapped up with her, and she’d felt deliciously warm and safe all night, and three, she could see. The wooden fan overhead rotated slowly—counterclockwise to circulate the heat—and Emma saw the pattern in the wood blades.
Turning enough to see Hunter’s head thrown back and his mouth open, she smiled at her sweetheart. Before he started drooling or snoring, she nudged him. “Hey, guess what?”
He snorted himself awake. “Hna. Wha? Smarf.” He rubbed his nose and lips. “Sorry. G’mornin’, sweetie. Whadja say?” He itched his head.
She giggled. Men are such little boys when they’ve been sleeping. Or sick. Or... maybe all the time. “Something’s happening. I’m grinning like a possum eating fire ants.”’
“What?”
“I can see better! Look at the fan. There’s a very distinct black walnut grain with a warp and weight equivalent to other hardwoods of its kind. Perfect for decorating a 1928 craft-style home.” She giggled again. “Do I sound like an HGTV host? One who can see?” She slid from being wrapped like fast food and headed for the shower. “I’m so glad you stayed last night. I slept like the dead, and I’m ready to get up and at ’em!” She turned on the shower and jiggled her fingers in the water. “My Composition 11 class is going to choose poems to memorize today, and that assignment has to be ready. ‘Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice—’” she intoned. “That’s one of my favorite Robert Frost poems—‘Fire and Ice.’ I think I’ll start with that one.” Making sure the water was hot enough, she stepped into the shower.
Hunter’s voice wafted through the shower curtain and the wall of steam. “I like Robert Frost, although I’d rather think about which path to take in diverging woods than how the world’s gonna end. Sheesh. Didn’t you say this was Comp. 11? Isn’t that an essay class? Like, they have to write papers? Why’re you torturing those poor juniors with poetry memorization?”
“Torturing? Says the guy who introduced himself to me above the loud library gate beeps because he was stealing philosophy books inside his sports magazines? Heehee, does that ring any bells?” Emma stuck her shampoo-fuzzed head around the curtain. “Their big essay at the end of the semester is a literary analysis. That’s a whole complicated process, many steps, building up to, well, you know.” Her soapy head reentered the shower. She rinsed and shut off the faucet, climbed out, and pulled a fluffy pink towel from a hook. “At the end of all the buildup assignments, I give them my absolute favorite Robert Frost poem, ‘Mending Wall.’ Do ya know that one? ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that wants it down.’” Emma dried her hair with the towel then wrapped it around herself to sashay into her little closet and find an outfit for school. “Haha—I think maybe Billy Foreman is who doesn’t like walls. His sunny disposition is busting ’em down all over the place.”
“Well, I think we’re wall busters, too, don’t you?” Hunter asked.
Emma yanked a pink sweater from its hanger, grabbed some floral palazzo pants—can’t wear these with stilettos like Leslie, but they’re cute enough with flats, I think—and sat on the bed next to Hunter.
He was just stepping into his shoes to head home. “Maybe Friday night, when we go to Billy’s fundraiser, we can figure out who killed Charlie and break open some walls that way. We should really try to ask some pertinent questions to any coaches or parents we see there, especially as everyone gets to drinking.”
“You’re right! Nobody was drinking at Charlie’s funeral. Loose lips sink ships, you know.”
“That doesn’t sound too Shakespearean, Miss Lovett. More Captain Blackbeard. Hey, I’ve been practicing my needle skills with an orange. I think I’m ready to give you a shot.”
Emma sighed. “I guess I’m ready to get one. The new box is in the fridge. Tomorrow, okay? We can start the Monday-Wednesday-Friday thing, then I won’t have to take any shots over the weekend. I think I might find a whole new reason to love weekends.”
Hunter squeezed her and kissed her forehead. “You’re gonna get through this, okay? We’re here to help you, ya know. Have you talked to your mom yet?”
“Argh. No. I don’t want to tell her. She’s gonna get all kerfluffled and want me to come home, immediately. Or she’ll want to move here, or... I just don’t want to tell her yet. Okay? I’m ignoring her calls, kinda. I’ve just been sending these cheery and noncommittal text messages. Give me a week to get used to the shots, and I’ll be like, ‘See? I’m gettin’ along just fine!’” Emma picked up Sir Toby, who’d been chuffing at them for breakfast since they woke up. “She wanted to fly here and help me read essays when my vision problems first started. Did I tell you that?” She hauled Trinky up to her other shoulder and took them both to the kitchen. “It seems like she just went home after the last injury I got. And Trinky was injured then, too, don’t forget.” Emma sniffed. “Wow, I guess that was clear on to last year, wasn’t it? I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to her yet.”
FOR HER ACTING CLASS, Emma reveled in the Shakespeare scenes, the clear picture of Gino Ramirez dramatically struck down by partner Marie Schakel, her sword wobbling from his chest—stuck between his arm and his chest actually, but looking very realistic and bloody—and Sawyer Hammond and April Lai engaging in a loud and frantic fencing exercise.
