A Tale Magnolious, page 13
“ ‘And so the cavernous gateway to enigmas opens,’ ” Nitty whispered. It was a quote from The Cursed Treasure of Captain Blackbeard, one she thought most fitting for the occasion.
There was nearly a collision of heads as Nitty, Bernice, and Twitch bent over for a look inside. The chest brimmed with musty items: books, a moth-eaten quilt, a yellowed pair of delicate crocheted gloves. There was a smattering of tatty photos, most of people Nitty didn’t recognize. She was the first to dare reach a hand into the chest, but soon Twitch and Bernice were sifting through its contents, too.
Nitty spotted a photo that struck her as familiar somehow, and she held it up to a shaft of sunlight. Three figures stared out from it: two young men with a petite fair-haired lady seated between them. The lady Nitty recognized as Clara, but a younger Clara than the one from the photo in Windle’s kitchen. Nitty peered closer at the taller of the two men, then sucked in her breath. There was Windle—a younger Windle, as spindly as ever but with a shock of dark hair and merry eyes—his hand resting on Clara’s shoulder. And on the other side of Clara…Could it be?
“Neezer!” she blurted. He was younger and scrawnier, no sign of his brawn about him yet. Twitch and Bernice crowded around the photo, staring.
“Neezer looks different. Not like the puffed-up peacock he usually does.” Bernice tilted the photo in the light, studying it from different angles.
“He’s smiling.” Twitch shook his head in confusion. “Almost an honest smile, too.”
“All three of them look happy.” Nitty slid the photo back into the chest. “What happened that ruined it all?”
“Keep digging” was Twitch’s response. “We’re hot on the trail. I feel it.”
“What about this?” Bernice pulled a ragged leather-bound notebook from the chest’s depths. “It’s full of notes and drawings….” She flipped through the dog-eared pages.
“A…Refracting Rain-Catcher?” Nitty read the handwriting from over Bernice’s shoulder. “And…the Speedy Seed-Spitter? Here’s another one…a Fantastic Farm-O-Matic. The oddest contraptions, by the looks of them. It’s a journal, I think.”
“May I?” Twitch held out his hand for the notebook, his tone suddenly the epitome of an investigative professional. He opened the cover to the first page. “The dates are from long before any of us were born.” His eyes widened. “ ‘An account of the inspired ideas and inventions of Neezer Snollygost,’ ” he read from the first page, “ ‘as written by the creator himself.’ ”
Bernice snorted as Twitch skimmed the pages. “So he never was one for humbleness, then. Even before he was mayor.”
Twitch froze, staring, then turned an open page toward Nitty. “He calls it the Wind Whiffler, but what does that look like to you?”
Nitty scrutinized Neezer’s sketch, and as she did, her blood surged. “That’s the brass contraption that nearly balded me in the Snollygost broom closet!”
“Indubitably.” Twitch nodded an affirmation. “But what is its purpose?”
“I’ll tell you what it is!” Nitty exclaimed, the unpleasantness of the incident in the closet returning to her full force. “It’s to cause all manner of scalp suffering to unsuspecting girls!”
Twitch was too consumed with the journal to respond, and a moment later he shouted, “Rats and darnation!” He jabbed his finger at the page. “There’s a drawing in here titled ‘Whirlybog.’ ”
The sketch was of the strangest machine Nitty had ever seen. Dozens of blades resembling windmills jutted from the top of the machine, and at its center was an enormous, clear canister labeled HOLDING TANK. None of those peculiar features, though, caught Nitty’s attention. What did was a large dial in the middle of the machine’s control panel, labeled DUSTOMETER, with lines spreading from its star-shaped center.
“Bernice.” Nitty pointed to the dial. “What does that Dustometer remind you of?”
Bernice stared, eyes widening. “It’s the compass lines Pa baked in the bread.”
Nitty nodded. “Your pa was baking a copy of that dial, which means—”
“He’s seen it before,” Bernice finished. “When he broke into the Snollygost Institute.” She sat back on her heels, relieved and exultant. “The Whirlybog that Papa talked about actually exists.”
“But Neezer’s admitted as much,” Nitty said. “He’s already told everyone himself that he’s building something that will save the town from dusters.”
Bernice scrutinized the sketch in the notebook. “He hasn’t written anything here about what the Whirlybog does. But with a Dustometer, it’s got to involve dust in some way or other.”
Twitch coughed, then sputtered, “There’s a shadiness to it. Make no mistake. We have to see this Whirlybog. The real one. For ourselves.”
While each of them thought on this, Mag snuffled her trunk past the chest and into the deepest reaches of the shadowy corner of the barn. She rummaged with such enthusiasm that the old rocking horse and scythes toppled, and Nitty and Bernice were unceremoniously pushed to the side.
“Mag,” Nitty scolded, “if you want to share in the snooping, use better manners.”
But Twitch, seeing an opportunity for further investigating, crawled between Mag’s forelegs and into the corner to inspect some newly unearthed objects, while Bernice kept paging through Neezer’s journal.
Nitty, thinking that maybe Twitch was onto another flummoxing discovery, followed him. She scooted under Mag’s chin and through the narrow space to find Twitch, his back to her, kneeling before a small wooden trough.
“What did you fi—”
Twitch turned to her, and his look stopped her cold. It made her think of Grimsgate, of the looks on the orphans’ faces whenever they weren’t chosen for adoption. It was a look she’d seen so often before. On Windle’s face, on Crispin’s, on Ferdinand Klempt’s.
It was a look of loss. But what had Twitch lost, and why had he never told her?
It made an ache start inside Nitty’s chest, and she pressed her Gleam Jar closer. Blue, yellow, red, green. Ribbon, button, marble, seed. It should’ve made her feel better, but this time it didn’t.
Mag’s trunk swung worriedly back and forth from Nitty to Twitch, touching her shoulder, then his. It was as if she sensed a darkening mood, but wasn’t sure whom to comfort first.
Nitty started to ask Twitch what was wrong, but he leaped up before she could get the words out. “I’m going outside.”
Nitty sank onto her heels, entirely stumped. Then she saw, and her heart wilted in dismay. What Twitch had found wasn’t a trough after all. It was a little wooden cradle.
“Twitch, wait!” Nitty jumped up to follow him, her chest wrenching, but Windle caught her by the arms. He stood before her, a fence post of rigidity.
“What have you done?” His voice was thunderous as he looked from her to the open chest before him, its contents strewn on the floor. Bernice stood behind him, her face the very portrait of entrapment and misery. “You had no business opening this. No business at all.”
Nitty could scarce meet his eyes, so icy with anger were their depths. Still, she needed him to know it hadn’t been entirely her fault. Or Twitch’s and Bernice’s either. “We found the key by accident,” she explained quietly. “Under the porch.”
“Confound it.” Windle scratched the freckle behind his right ear. “I lost it years ago and was none too sorry for the loss.”
“But there are photographs in there of Clara. Of you. Why would you lock those away?” It seemed incomprehensible to her to have something of a real family and want to be rid of it. Clara’s fingers must’ve touched that quilt. Lillah must’ve worn those gloves. The chest was better than any Gleam Jar. Much, much better. Why didn’t Windle understand that?
He glowered. “It should’ve been left alone. All of it. Some things are better off locked away. Do you understand?”
Bernice started at his words, and Nitty watched as the flintiness returned to her eyes. Bernice spun and ran from the barn, and as she did, Mag swung her trunk toward Windle, trumpeted one short but definitively cross Brrrt! and lumbered after Bernice and Twitch. Windle’s anger wilted into regret.
Nitty glanced down at the photographs and the notebook. There were stories that needed telling here, secrets that needed sharing. She locked eyes with Windle. “I don’t like saying so, because I’ve taken a liking to you, crabbiness and all. But…you’re wrong.”
With that, she straightened her shoulders, set her jaw, and marched from the barn.
The ride back to the Homes farm from the Sighs’ shop was a quiet one.
Ever since Windle had stomped from the barn declaring that it was time for the Sighs to be on their way home, the collective mood of the entire group was nothing short of wretched. Windle insisted on driving Bernice and the other Sighs back to town, saying he’d return Crispin’s Tin Lizzie to the bakery later, but Nitty wasn’t about to let Bernice endure Windle’s brooding without her. After all, Bernice could hardly be blamed for anything except the gumption to drive a motorcar. Twitch must’ve shared Nitty’s sentiment, because, though he said not a word, he piled into Windle’s truck for the ride, too.
But even after Bernice had offered him a bracing shoulder nudge and a whispered “Don’t quit the case, whatever you do” as her encouraging goodbye, Twitch remained mute.
Now he sat beside Nitty in the truck’s bed, staring straight ahead, producing a tired, leaky balloon of wheezing from underneath his cheesecloth mask. Even the pages of his Detective Comics couldn’t entice him. Nitty hugged her Gleam Jar tightly as the truck rumbled, thinking about Windle’s ire and worrying over Twitch, although her Gleam Jar wasn’t a balm this time.
She tried to be patient with Twitch. She spent approximately four minutes trying. For the first minute, she counted the number of times Windle harrumphed (five). For the second minute, she counted the number of times Twitch’s muddy lungs squeaked (twelve). For the third and fourth minutes, she decided counting was an entirely futile distraction that did nothing except create impatience. After this revelation, she gave up trying altogether.
“Well?” she blurted to Twitch. “If you’re sore at me, I wish you’d come out and say it!”
Twitch’s shoulders scrunched in surprise. “I’m not sore at you.” His voice sounded far away with sadness.
Nitty swallowed, knowing she’d have to bring up the topic sooner or later, but dreading what might come of it. “Was it…was it something to do with the cradle in the barn?”
For the first time since she’d met him, Twitch went entirely still. Not a single muscle moved. “That cradle…it belonged to our baby.” His voice turned so quiet now that Nitty had to stop her own breath to hear proper. “Windle carved it for my sister. Anna.”
“You had a sister?” Nitty’s insides were suddenly slick and nervous. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more. But if Twitch had the courage to tell it, then she’d have to have the courage to listen.
Twitch slid his mask and goggles from his face. His mouth crumpled at its edges. “She was born in the middle of a duster.” He cupped his hands together. “She was no bigger than a teacup. Seemed like her lungs were muddier than mine before she even took her first breath. She only lived a day.”
There it was again. The look of loss.
“That’s why Ma frets over me. And why Pa didn’t stay. He loves Fortune’s Bluff, or the way it used to be, anyway. Before the dusters. He was set on keeping us here. Sure things would get better. But then last year, Anna…” He sighed. “That was when Pa left to look for work out west. I believe he just couldn’t bear the melancholy. I suppose he could come back once he forgets.” Twitch looked at Nitty. “Only…I don’t think he’ll forget.”
“It’s the worst kind of funny, isn’t it? If I had any memories of my family, I’d give anything to keep them. But your pa…he has his memories and wants to lose them.”
“Anna was beautiful,” Twitch said. “I would never want to forget that.”
Nitty couldn’t think of a single thing to say to this. She took Twitch’s hand.
“The worst villains are the ones you can’t see,” Twitch whispered then. “ ‘Ten Ways to Be a Villain, number ten: Strike silently, swiftly, and ruthlessly.’ ”
Together they watched ocher clouds mushrooming along the horizon. Windle frowned as he looked through the windshield. A duster was coming.
When the truck at last reached the lush green stalks of Nitty’s crop, Nitty nearly cried with gratefulness at the sight of Mag lumbering from the barn to greet them. If ever there was a time when she needed the comforting warmth of Mag’s trunk resting on her shoulder, it was now.
Then a movement at the edge of the field caught Nitty’s eye. At first Nitty mistook it for a walking tumbleweed. But, suddenly, the tumbleweed jumped. “An elephant!” it yelped.
“Miz Turngiddy,” declared Nitty.
“Miz Turngiddy,” lamented Windle.
“Spy,” said Twitch. The sadness in his voice was replaced with sudden keenness, and he nodded toward the spot where Miz Turngiddy had parked her automobile, nearly out of sight among the field’s forest of stalks. “An intriguing development in our case.”
Nitty jumped from the bed of the now-stopped truck, moving to stand between Mag and Mayor Snollygost’s rapidly approaching secretary.
Mag’s ears lifted into stiff flags. Her heart became a cannon, booming in her chest. This human’s scent was sickly sweet with nervousness, but Mag didn’t understand why. The woman wasn’t afraid of her. But she was afraid of someone. And that made Mag cautious and put her on alert for danger. She was ready to protect her girl. Her girl, though, seemed to want to protect her.
“It’s all right.” Nitty patted the underside of Mag’s trunk. “She can’t do a thing to you.” Nitty hoped she was right about that.
“Afternoon, Miz Turngiddy,” Windle said slowly, looking even broodier than he had minutes before (if that was possible). “What brings you from town?”
Miz Turngiddy stopped some distance away from Nitty and Mag, gripping her notepad in both hands. Her eyes darted from the field to Mag and back again. “I was making rounds on Mayor Snollygost’s behalf. Paying friendly calls to neighbors and their lands.”
“Demanding people’s money.” Twitch coughed. Loudly. It wasn’t his muddy cough, but a scornful one.
Miz Turngiddy looked momentarily injured by Twitch’s words, but her expression quickly transformed into a frown. “Young man, I am merely doing what my job requires of me. And Mayor Snollygost does not demand that debts be repaid today, or even tomorrow. Only that we work toward community progress, fulfillment, and the betterment of all.” She leaned over Twitch, her eyes looking more beseeching than threatening, as if she were about to give him a test she hoped he’d pass. “You do know the Fortune’s Bluff motto, don’t you?”
“Nefarious deeds are afoot.” Twitch was stiff as a soldier, staring at Miz Turngiddy. “And you know that dusters are disappearing everywhere but here, don’t you? Tell me. Do you know why?”
Nitty felt a rush of pride. Horsefeathers, her friend was brave! Possibly foolish, too, if the disappointment on Miz Turngiddy’s scarlet face was any indication, but definitely brave.
Miz Turngiddy’s mouth fell open, but no sound came from it. Finally she blustered, “I don’t know what you’re implying, but—”
“Miz Turngiddy.” Windle placed himself between Miz Turngiddy and Twitch, diverting all her attention to him. “I’m afraid we’ve only just returned from an outing to town. I wasn’t expecting you to pay a call—”
“Of course not!” Miz Turngiddy seemed to recover herself, and redirected her focus to the field. She touched one of the field’s green stalks, as if to test its sturdiness. “I was only passing by your farm, and your field stopped me short. Why, nothing’s grown in Fortune’s Bluff in a decade! It’s simply fascinating. And now this.” Her weasel eyes squinted up at Mag’s approaching form. “Mr. Homes! You are in possession of an elephant!”
“So it would seem.”
Miz Turngiddy’s nose twitched. She scribbled furiously in her notebook. “What is the purpose of this elephant?”
“I would think the answer to that would be obvious.” Windle glanced at Nitty, and to her astonishment and relief, she saw his broodiness weakening. There was the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. A genuine twinkle! Nitty’s heart lifted. “Farming.”
“I thought as much.”
There was something feverish in the way Miz Turngiddy eyed the field and Mag, her pinprick eyes glinting zealously. It made Nitty’s palms gummy with sweat.
“How very unconventional,” Miz Turngiddy continued. “Ingenious, really. And your crop. Its root system must be unusually sturdy to withstand the dusters. It will be of great interest to the mayor.” Miz Turngiddy cupped one of the bulbous pink buds in her hand. “I’m not familiar with this particular…” Her voice faltered. “What is it, exactly?”
Windle glanced at Nitty again. “I couldn’t rightly say.”
“Well.” Miz Turngiddy scribbled. “Well.” She scribbled some more. “I’d love to obtain a sample, if I might—”
“You might not.” Windle glanced toward the dust clouds building to their east. “Miz Turngiddy, there’s a duster coming, and our elephant is in need of watering.”
“Of course, of course.” Her hand still cupped the fuchsia bud, but now tightened, as if it could barely stand letting the bud drop. “I will stay abreast of this. Such an anomaly for a crop to survive duster after duster,” she mumbled to herself. “Such a streak of luck. I’d calculate the odds of it continuing to be one in a thousand. Time will tell.”
As Miz Turngiddy’s automobile rattled back toward Fortune’s Bluff, spitting dust in its wake, Mag trumpeted. Rather indignantly, Nitty thought.
