Wax (12 page)

“Mmm-hmm. So, what, he's a Hollow One?”

“You say that like, ‘oh, so he's left-handed?' It's a
fire
inside his
body,
Jill. It must be how he's able to, like, be alive. Why am I the only one freaking out about this?”

“Because I'm still having a difficult time believing this kid is made of wax. Or that anything fishy is going on down at the candle factory, other than insurance fraud.” Then, because Jill couldn't take anything seriously for more than five seconds, she grabbed a menu and forgot all about the prospect of a live wax person sitting across the table from her. “Now,” she said, perusing the appetizers. “On to the chicken.”

“What is ‘chicken'?” asked Dud.

Jill's face took a devious turn. “It means ‘scared.'”

“What is ‘scared'?” Dud asked, looking scared.

Poppy kicked Jill under the table. “What are you doing?”

“Teaching him English! Dud, English is the language we speak. England is a country, but not the one we live in.”

“Jill.”

“‘Fries' is short for ‘french fries,' but we're not in France. ‘Fry' is also the way you cook fries. ‘Fry' and ‘fry' are homonyms.”

“What's a homonym?”

“A boy who loves a boy, or a girl who loves a girl.”

“Jill,
stop​—”

“What do you think, sir?” Greg had materialized at their table, ready to dive headfirst into some serious app discussion. He pointed at the menu Dud was holding. “How are we feeling about those nachos?”

“Erroneous!”

Poppy was beginning to realize that the longer they stayed, the more opportunity for disaster to strike. “We're just here for dessert,” she told Greg.

“You
got
it! Be right back with those ice cream menus!”

Poppy recounted the rest of the evening's exploits to Jill, who listened with either rapt attention or bored indifference. It was always hard to tell with Jill. Dud, meanwhile, removed the paper wrapper from one of his crayons, and by the time Greg returned, he had begun whittling it with a butter knife.

“Here you go!” Greg chirped, sliding ice cream menus into their hands.

Dud's eyes went wide at the colorful array of sprinkles and candies. “Ooh.”

Poppy took the menu from him before he could start gnawing on the plastic. “We'll split a banana split,” she told Greg.

“Ha
ha!
” he crowed. “Good one! And for you, ma'am?”

Jill set her jaw, stared straight ahead, and said in a calculated, even voice, “Three scoops of Forbidden Chocolate.”

“Ohh,” Greg groaned. “Oh, no.”

Jill steeled herself for the impending wisecrackery. “What.”

“I'm so sorry, but . . .”

“But what.”

“It's​—​it's forbidden!”

“Oh drat.”

There was a painfully long pause.

“. . . Just kidding!” Greg chirped. “Be right back!”

Jill mimed stabbing herself in the eye with a fork. “If you hate that joke so much,” Poppy said, “why do you keep ordering it?”

“It's a disease. Establish a Forbidden Chocolate Anonymous, and then we'll talk.”

Poppy's phone chirped. “Ooh,” she said, tapping the screen. “It's an alert from Channel Six.”

Jill frowned. “Don't tell me you signed up for that dumb YouNews thing.”

“Um,
yeah,
I did. Gotta keep tabs on any impending disgraces.” She navigated through the menu, looking for the link. “Maybe they found out who set the fire. Or should I say maybe they
proved
that
Blake
set the fire.”

Jill was reluctant to agree. “I don't know. Blake's a dick and a half​—​maybe even two dicks​—​okay, Blake is a triple dick, just astoundingly anatomically impossible, but I don't think he's an arsonist.”

“How can you be so sure? With all the crap he's pulled, who knows what Blake Bursaw is capable of? He's practically a criminal, he thinks he can get away with anything,
and
he has a recent connection to the factory, since that's where he got the sculpture of me!”

“Do we know that for sure?”

“No, but​—​no.” Irritated at this sound logic, Poppy tapped her spoon on the table while the video loaded. “Fine,” she said, glaring at Jill. “Then who do
you
think did it?”

Jill shrugged. “A jilted, heartsick Vermonty with revenge on the brain.”

“Come on. Seriously.”

“Seriously? I don't think anyone did it. But by all means, let us watch the news. You will be proven wrong, and I will get to do my I-told-you-so dance.”

Poppy grunted. This would not be the first time Jill had performed such a dance. It usually involved way too many fist pumps. “We'll see,” she said, tilting the phone so that Jill could watch.

The anchors lit up the screen, their faces arranged into approximate expressions of tragedy. “The news at the top of the hour is the
savage
fire that
raged
through the world-famous Grosholtz Candle Factory. We now go to lead reporter Colt Lamberty, live at the scene. Colt?”

Cut to Colt's exquisite face. “Thanks, Veronica. As you can see behind me, plenty of fire trucks and police cars are still here, but as of about eight thirty this evening, the fire was officially extinguished. No fatalities have been reported so far, and the owners of the factory, Anita and Preston Chandler, say that the store was evacuated in an orderly​—​and, more important,
safe
—​manner.”

They cut to a clip of Anita, who looked far more composed than someone who'd just faced a tragedy should look. “The fire alarm went off,” she huffed into the microphone, sounding peeved, “and everyone remained calm. I'd like to thank my staff for keeping their wits about them and for getting our guests out of the building so quickly.”

Preston butted his face into the shot. “And not to worry​—​all the candles are safe.”

There was a millisecond of Anita rolling her eyes before the camera cut back to Colt. “No injuries were reported among the shoppers or retail staff, but three men in the back of the building​—​two factory workers and one accountant​—​were taken to the hospital with minor injuries, mostly smoke inhalation. This has led investigators to believe that the fire originated in the rear of the factory, where the structure is older and not as well ventilated. The advanced age of the building may have been a factor as well, and while investigators are looking into faulty wiring and a few other possibilities, some evidence does point to the possibility of arson. However, investigators urge our viewers to remember that those findings are preliminary, and to wait for the official report.”

“See?” Poppy said to Jill. “
Arson.
Sorry, folks, but tonight's performance of Miss Cho's I-told-you-so dance is canceled. No refunds!”

“Poppy, investigators are
urging
panicky teenage girls to remember that those findings are
preliminary
—”

“Oh, come on. This has got Blake written all over it!”

“Sorry, Pops,” Jill said with an infuriating smirk, “but you can't prove a thing.”

Poppy clenched her jaw shut. She couldn't prove anything, it was true. But something was up. Something wasn't right.

And if they hadn't found any bodies, and if all the injured were men, then what had happened to Madame Grosholtz? Where was she now?

“I think the bigger question is what the hell is up with this?” Jill asked, pointing at the crayon Dud had mutilated.

But he hadn't mutilated it. He'd
sculpted
it. Into a tiny human figure. With rippling muscles, a powerful stance​—​

“What is that?” Jill asked.

Poppy was almost too stunned to answer. “Um. That would be a Viking.”

“Here we go!” Greg seemed to be going for a personal best this evening, delivering their ice cream in record time. “Enjoy!” he said, dropping a handful of long-handled spoons and the check in his wake.

Dud unceremoniously dropped the Viking and started to devour the banana split. “Mmm,” he said, smacking it around his mouth. “Mushy.”

“So he's an art prodigy too?” said Jill.

“Apparently? I guess . . . some of Madame Grosholtz's sculpting talent rubbed off?”

“And why is he eating? Since when does wax need sustenance?”

“I don't know,
Jill,
I've never done this before. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Jill had already dispatched one of her three scoops by the time Poppy spooned a bite of banana off the split. Dud had paused his gorging to pick the cherry off the top and sniff it.

“It's a cherry,” Jill said between bites.

“It's red
,”
Dud said.

“‘Red' also means ‘communist.'”

“Jill,” Poppy said, “so help me God, I will drag you into the kitchen and drown you in a vat of caramel​—”

“He's here,”
a deep voice chanted,
“the Phaaaantom of the Oooperaaaa . . .”

Poppy whipped around in her seat. She'd been so focused on the problems at hand that she hadn't noticed that Connor and the rest of the Giddy Committee had entered the restaurant and been seated in an adjacent booth.

She blinked manically at them. “What are you guys doing here?”

“I organized a cast bonding night!” Connor said proudly.

Louisa gave Poppy a sour look. “That's right. An opportunity for us to blow off some steam without the oppressive, ever-watchful eyes of the production team lording over us.”

“That was not the wording in my invitation,” Connor assured Poppy.

“Want to join us?” Banks scooted over, crushing Louisa's pencil-thin frame into the wall. “Plenty of room.”

“Oh, thanks, but no,” Poppy said, trying to be breezy. They hadn't noticed Dud yet, as he was hunched over, snarfing his banana split. “We're pretty much done eating, and you're right​—​you guys should have some fun without us. It's fine, I'm not insulted.”

“I am,” said Jill.

“Okay, well, Jill is insulted. Hope you can live with that.”

“All right all right all
riiiight!
” Jesus noisily burst through the entrance of the restaurant and clomped between the tables, shooting finger guns at the Giddy Committee as he approached. “Time to get our hot fudge on! What up, Madame Director?” He leaned in to Connor. “I thought she wasn't gonna be here.”

“We
aren't
here,” Poppy said, pulling herself out of the booth. “We're leaving.”

“Hold on! Who's your friend?”

Dud popped his head up like a meerkat. He met every pair of Giddy Committee eyes looking at him and, of course, waved. “Hi.”

“He's . . . my cousin,” said Poppy, tossing a handful of cash onto the table. “From overseas. And he's jet-lagged, so we're going home now.”

She yanked both Dud and Jill out of their seats and across the restaurant, depriving Greg of the chance to flash them his customary goodbye grin. They had just reached Clementine when Poppy's phone chirped again. “Hang on,” she said, stopping to check it. “Another news update.”

“Look, Poppy!” Dud said, pointing at two squirrels chasing each other up a nearby tree. “Monsters!”

“Shh.”

Dud watched the tree monsters, rapt, while Poppy and Jill crowded around her phone. The new video was of Colt, still standing in front of the crime scene. “I'd like to remind our viewers that the investigation is still in a preliminary stage, but we've just received word that police
have
established a person of interest. Security footage from inside the Grosholtz Candle Factory shows an unidentified individual in the restricted area of the building, a person
not
believed to be an employee. The footage is blurry, as the individual was running at the time, but they did appear to be fleeing the area in which the investigators believe the fire started; therefore, analysis of the video has become a top priority. For more updates, stay tuned to Channel Six News.”

Poppy's knees had gone weak, the phone shaking in her hand. “
I'm
an individual who was in the restricted area of the building,” she said numbly. “Am
I
the person of interest?”

Jill shrugged. “Told you it wasn't Blake.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Yes, Poppy was excruciatingly close to being identified as the prime suspect in an arson investigation. Yes, the
real
crazed arsonist was still on the loose. But all paled in comparison with the problem Poppy faced when she got home with Dud in tow: sleeping arrangements.

Poppy's parents understandably did not approve of a boy shacking up in their teenage daughter's room, but somewhere around the twelve-minute mark of Poppy's lecture about how Tristan da Cunha inhabitants traditionally sleep eight to a room and to make him bunk alone for the night would cause him to start losing touch with his African roots, they gave in.

“But he stays on the floor,” her mother said as she smoothed out the sleeping bag. “And leave the door open.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Her father was clapping a firm hand on Dud's shoulder and delivering a series of veiled threats. “I don't own a shotgun,” he was saying, “as I am a peace-loving man, but that's my only daughter, and if anyone hurts her, I won't hesitate to do what needs to be done. Understand, Dud?”

“No.”

“
Welp,
we're bushed,” Poppy said, busting out with a loud yawn. “ 'Night, you guys.”

“I thought shotgun was the front seat of a car,” Dud said as they left.

“It is,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Stay here. I'm going to brush my teeth.”