Wabanaki Blues (21 page)

The realization of the finality of Grumps' death and Del's marriage makes me babble. “Now that Grumps' mystical woods and magical bears are safe once again, thanks to Del, we can all go home.” I salute everyone stiffly.

Scales whispers something to Del that clearly agitates him, then turns back to Mom and me. “Mona, Dr. Elmwood, we want you to come to our engagement party on Sunday. I know you both have busy careers and that this has been an awful week, but we would be honored if you'd come. Vegetarian chili for all!”

I turn to Del with raised eyebrows. “You really want me to come to your party?”

“I would like both you and your mother to attend.” His words are clipped. We lock eyes for an instant too long and the fire ants start marching. I try to think of Beetle, my pretty baby with the sweet soulful voice that makes women swoon and wonder why there has never been a single burning fire ant between us.

Mom comes back to life. “I would love to attend your engagement party. You know how fond I am of you and your father. But I have to head back home tomorrow for my volunteer service at the Hartford Animal Shelter. They're terribly short-staffed.” She elbows me hard enough to leave a bruise. “But surely Mona can stay. She has her own truck now.”

I'd love to,” I burst out, surprising myself with my affirmative answer. “I can take a few days off to let Beetle's voice heal. Orpheus has already cancelled our Manchester concert. He only booked it so Grumps could attend.”

Scales screeches in her shrill soprano voice. “Of course you can come. You're a rock star and rock stars can do whatever they want!” She hiccup-giggles uncontrollably. Del squeezes her arm to make her stop.

“Thanks, Scales. I appreciate that. But I play blues, not rock, and even the best blues singers wind up somewhere south of stardom. In fact, I think your term ‘blues star' is an oxymoron.” I take a seat on the plaid couch.

She whispers in Del's ear, asking him if I just called her a moron. I wish I could laugh, but I'm picturing Del and me at the Farewell Dance, enjoying those unforgettable moments. The only moron here is me.

Seventeen

Young and Stupid

The Pyne house reeks of wedding cake. Four tasting samplers cut in matchbook-sized pieces lay on a white tablecloth covered in pale pink tissue-paper rose petals. An artfully painted sign invites guests to vote on their favorite cake for the big event. There's a Blond Bear cake with lemon frosting and a chili chocolate center, an Indian Stream cake topped with a blue Skittles stream with a gooey maple fudge frosting, a Winter Woods cake made from white fondant covered with gummy pine trees, and a Mad Guitar cake with red licorice strings, black licorice tuners, a peanut butter pick guard and a banana pudding center. I'm sure I'd pick that one if I could choke down a bite of anything. But I've lost my appetite because Scales is pressing herself so tightly against Del that it looks like she is frosting him.

Will Pyne stumbles by wearing his usual whiskey cologne. I hoped he'd be rotting in jail, thanks to the police finding that yearbook in his secret room. I head in the opposite direction, pushing my way through a crowd of weather-burned faces topped with baseball caps advertising lumber companies, real maple syrup, and organic microbrews. I have a hard time getting past Scales' Boston Conservatory friends, crowded by the bathroom. I hate to admit it but Will's out-of-town artist buddies are the most interesting people in the crowd, with their silk-screened scarves and rainbow dreadlocks that remind me of Celine. I reach the kitchen and search the corkboard for Mia's photo but find it gone.

I lift my head skyward, seeking guidance from Bilki and find the ceiling covered with cupcake-pink balloons. They make me wonder if Del and Scales are expecting a baby girl. The center of the room features a life-sized cardboard stand-up of the happy couple, surrounded by a cupcake-pink cloud. I feel melancholy as I recall wearing my cupcake-pink Dead Kittens tee shirt on my last day of high school. Getting in trouble over that cupcake-pink shirt is what led me here, to Indian Stream, in the first place. Now it appears that cupcake-pink will usher me out of here—for good.

My eyes follow the sound of Bear's booming voice. A western Indian girl wearing turquoise bling and a red leather skirt accompanies him. Her crow-colored hair swooshes back and forth, like freshly trimmed leather fringe. I figure she knows how to bead her own regalia and make the world's best frybread. She is probably working on a cure for cancer in her spare time. I turn away, but it's too late.

Miss Arizona points at my face and shouts, “Mona from Bonepile! Axe woman extraordinaire! I love your band! I have a ticket for your upcoming concert in Boston. Don't you dare cancel that one.”

“I'll see you there, in two weeks.

Bear throws a tree trunk-sized arm around my head. “Hey, Tribal Sista. I'm coming too.”

I want to tell him how close I came to actually being his sister but now is not the time.

“This is Nomi,” he says introducing his companion. “She's a musician.” Bear nudges me. “She's also pre-med.”

Naturally.

Before I can reply, she says, “I wouldn't be at college if I had your chops, Mona.” She strums an air guitar. “Seriously, your fingers are amazing. I'm Guitar Hero garbage compared to you.”

Her worn fingertips tell me that's bunk. I may have exaggerated her beadwork and frybread-making skills, but I'm willing to bet this woman can play a mean guitar. And look at her! This may be East-West Injun envy on my part, but if I were Orpheus, I'd hire Nomi to perform all my songs and lock me up in the janitor's closet.

She grabs my hand. “I loved your songs on YouTube. I play ‘You are my Lightning.' all the time. Or try to anyway.” She hugs Bear affectionately, “Don't I, Bear?”

“She does,” he sighs.

I hug her, because “You are my Lighting” is the one song that's all mine, written without help from the living or the dead.

A squealing microphone interferes with our bonding.

Will Pyne stands unsteadily on a milk crate and shouts, “Welcome to our Wang Dang Doodle!”

Scales gasps and shrinks. Her lemony head looks like it's been squeezed. I believe she thinks Will said something obscene. I snort, bemused by his use of that old blues' expression for a party. Bear and Nomi respond to Will's remark by sneaking into a corner for a passionate make-out session, as if his words were somehow romantic.

Will raises a magnum bottle of champagne. “Let's toast the happy couple.” His monster gumball eyes appear almost kind today. “To Del and Scales.” He signals us to lift our glasses. His head sinks down, as if he's passed out for a second, and then revives to speak forcefully. “On behalf of Del's late mom and myself, I wish you two a magical life together.”

His words trigger a skull-splitting headache that forces my eyes shut. I hold my forehead, and feel an arm fall over my shoulder. I know it's Mia. I keep my eyes closed and think of all the things that I should have been doing to help her, things to make sure that Will went to jail, things for which she should rightly chastise me. I deserve whatever punishment Mia Delaney's ghost has in store for me. I open my eyes and discover the fingernails attached to the hand on the arm aren't blue. But things are still bad because the arm on my shoulder is covered with paint splatter.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't Little Lila, still stalking the big bad murderer man.” Will wipes his palms together, as if making a clean break from something. “Would you like a drink?”

In lieu of the champagne he gave everyone else, he offers me a hit of whiskey from his pocket flask. “No thanks, Will.”

He tosses a gulp of whiskey down his throat and shakes the flask at me. “Excuse me for being friendly. I thought you might be looking for a strong beverage today—considering your predicament.” He winks in Del and Scales' direction.

Scales watches us. Will pours whiskey from his flask over his head, trickling it directly down his throat like a leaky faucet. His eyeballs redden as he gargles and swallows hard. “I suppose you can't help the fact that you are young and stupid, Little Lila. I was young and stupid once. Look where it got me.”

Will cups a hand around my ear, to prevent Del and Scales from lip-reading his words as he whispers, “By the way, you're wrong about me being a murderer. No matter how much pressure the cops get from your boyfriend's big daddy, they won't sentence me for Mia's death because I didn't do it.” He points at Del and Scales. “Yet, you're about to sentence the love of your life to a fate worse than death just because you don't like me.”

He's drawing my focus away from the murder, which isn't difficult right now, as Scales floats through the crowd like cotton candy in a ridiculous soft pink sundress.

“Any feelings I have for your son are irrelevant,” I tell Will. “My upcoming tour is my priority.”

“You'll be missing the big wedding then?”

I'm about to reply when Del storms into us.

“I know you two aren't having a social chat. This has to stop now. Mona, it's time for the three us to talk. C'mon.” He leads his dad and me to the Mustang couch and sits Will between us, so we can prop him upright, not to mention keep the fire ants at bay.

“Dad, tell her your version of what happened between you and Mom. Start when you were a nineteen-year-old Yale sophomore, and Mom was a sixteen-year-old junior at Colt High.”

Will's torso lilts my way. I push him back.

His words flow fast, like a dammed-up river, bursting, “After I met Mia at a Rush concert in Hartford, I was hooked. We talked about starting a band that would rival her father's band, the Hoodoo Chickens. But that plan fizzled when Mia got pregnant during her junior year. Babies are band killers.”

I recall Mom saying this same thing. Now I believe it.

Will continues, “She wasn't due till late August and she hardly showed until summer, so nobody at school knew about the pregnancy. We moved up here the summer before her senior year to have Del in secret. It was a good plan because her father often went on tour during the summer and she could do as she pleased.”

“After Del was born, I dropped out of college to care for my baby boy so Mia could finish high school. On the last day of Mia's senior year, I was supposed to pick her up and bring her back here to live with us for good. I painted her something that was going to blow her away. Something that would make her forget about all the other guys that were after her.” He grumbles, “But then you already know about that special painted room, as does the entire Hartford Police force.”

I mutter an apology.

Will digs a dog-eared photo from his wallet that shows a cluster of 1990s-era teenagers standing in front of Colt High sporting high-waisted jeans and gelled hair. Every guy is leaning toward Mia.

He points to her. “Beautiful, wasn't she? I took this photo on the morning of her last day of school. She didn't know I was there.” He rubs the well-worn photo.

I now believe what Del said about Will sleeping with his mom's picture, every night.

“What happened on Mia's last day of school? “ I ask.

“The students gathered in the parking lot. I overheard a group of girls mention Mia's name and pulled my bike beside them. One of them claimed Mia had fallen in love with Worthy Dill. This hit me hard. I knew who Worthy was. I'd heard Mia talk about him, far too much. When I heard this gossip, I lost it. One of them started talking about how nervous Mia was about telling her old boyfriend she was dumping him for Worthy. I waited a little while, hoping that girl was wrong. But she and her friends all turned and laughed at me. I knew Mia had played me and gloated about it to her friends. I figured if Del's momma wanted a happily-ever-after with Richie Rich, then baby Del and me were better off without her.”

“When you found out about her death, later on, why didn't you come forward and tell the police this story?”

He shakes his flask at me. “By the end of that summer, I'd replaced Mia with whiskey as my new love. Your grandparents were doing most of the diaper-changing and bottle-feeding. Imagine how freaked I was when I got a call from your mom at the end of the summer, telling me that the police were looking for me in connection with Mia's death.

“I thought she was nuts. I couldn't process the fact that Mia had died at Colt High. Lila said she had a hard time believing it, too. She'd assumed she hadn't heard from me because Mia and I had ridden off happily into the sunset with baby Del.”

Will doubles over onto my arm. “The truth is, Little Lila, I wanted to die when I found out Mia had been murdered. But your grandmother encouraged me to paint my way through the darkness.” He points to the paintings overhead, obscured by cupcake-pink balloons. “That's when I began to draw these doors with swirling portals, to help Mia escape from her basement closet prison. I tried to repaint the past. Even though, deep down, I knew it didn't matter because she'd already moved on from our relationship, when she died. I figure that Worthy guy was in bad shape, like me. So I left him alone.”

I feel like I'm holding an unpinned grenade. I had no idea Will thought Mia loved Worthy when she died. I gently remove the flask from Will's hand, so he can't throw it at me. “Will, Mia never loved Worthy. She didn't even like him. He told me that himself.”

“He must be lying!” Will's bloodshot eyes bulge like a dissected frog. He slides off the couch onto the floor.

“Why would Worthy lie about that?” I kneel beside him. “It makes him sound suspect.”

“Maybe he
is
suspect,” says Del. “Or maybe there was somebody else. Dad and I have spent our lives hiding. It's time we faced this thing head on and uncovered the truth. I'm going to ask some hard questions around Hartford, regardless of how important this Dill guy is.”

My heart pounds at the thought of Del coming to Hartford.

“Del, if anyone finds out you're Will Pyne's son, they'll clam up.”

“Then you can ask the questions and I'll help you anonymously.” His smile is harsh, sizing me up for trustworthiness. “Do you believe Dad now? Are you willing to help us find Mom's real killer?”

“Yes.”

Will's face changes as he processes the emancipating revelation that Mia has never betrayed him. The wrinkles around his eyes run deeper, yet the eyes, themselves, soften, and he chuckles grimly.

Scales rushes toward us and snatches Del's hand, as if he's a stray toddler. “What's going on, guys?” Her lemonhead looks terribly squeezed.

Del pulls her away where I can't overhear. She holds her hands over her ears, clearly displeased with whatever he is saying. I'm guessing nobody told her that Del's mom was murdered.

I overhear her squeal. “Murdered! Why investigate the murder now? Why does Beetle have to do it with Mona? Can't this wait until after our wedding?”

Del shouts back, “I need to do this before Mona Lisa goes on tour.”

“I'm not sticking around while you take a trip with another woman. I'm heading back to the Cape.”

“I'll be back for our wedding, Scales. I promised you we'd get married on Halloween and I'll keep that promise.”

Will speaks to me, confidentially. “That ain't real love between those two. We both know it. Make your move now, Little Lila. Save my boy from himself. Save yourself, too. Go where your true feelings lie. You can stop being young and stupid any time you want. Now would be good.”

“Will, Del is engaged. I'm going to help you both find out who killed Mia. But I plan to remain young and stupid when it comes to my relationship with Del.”

“That's a damn shame for all of us, and for the universe. You may be a nuisance but so am I. That's because we've got depth. As it stands, I'm getting a daughter-in-law who wades in the shallow water.” He offers me a glass of champagne—not more whiskey or a plastic cup like he gave everybody else—a real crystal glass of champagne, and I accept. He dumps the remaining contents of his flask down the sink, and fills a matching champagne glass for himself.