Wabanaki Blues (15 page)

Beetle continues, “I should never have asked you over here, today. I wasn't thinking. My parents always act wacky when they return from Lake Winnipesaukee. It's some kind of flashback PTSD or something. Coming home always reminds them of when they returned to hear about Mia's murder.”

“I understand. I can imagine the chaos and horror when Mia's body was discovered. It must have been awful—but still nothing compared to what Mia suffered.”

I try to stay focused on finding out more information that can help her.

“I need to excuse myself to clear the dishes,” says Beetle.

I frankly expected a housekeeper to appear. “Can I help you?' I ask.

“No thanks. I got this. Just listen to the music and relax. I'll be done in a few minutes.”

The stereo blares the Beatles' song “I Should Have Known Better.”
I reexamine Cricket and Worthy Dill's headshot-only wedding photos. The date on the plaque says “September 30, 1994.” A baby picture of Beetle on the opposite dining room wall has a plaque that reads, “Baby Barry, Our Blessing. March 14, 1995.” He's older than me, graduating at eighteen, like most seniors. The dates on his parents' plaques tell the story of his birth.

Cricket graduated in the summer of 1994, so if Beetle was born in March of the following year, that means she got pregnant during her family summer vacation with the Dills, right after graduation. That's why she and Worthy were married that autumn. That's why they never went to college. I reexamine their wedding pictures. Her face appears swollen, and something about Worthy's eyes reminds me of a trapped and wounded animal. I'm probably imagining these things because of what I now know about their teen pregnancy. I can't believe the Dills were my age when they got married and had a kid, or that Mia was only a junior when she gave birth to Del.

Beetle returns, wagging a sponge. “There's something else you should know about Mia Delaney. When she disappeared at the end of her senior year, it wasn't the first time. That's why the authorities didn't search for her right away. She also went missing after her junior year. They say she liked to spend her summers with musicians. Who knows what groupie bus tour she crashed that got her killed?”

“We don't know for sure that she was a groupie,” I snap, knowing that was the summer she had Del.

He takes a few steps back. “Fine. Maybe she wasn't a groupie. Let's just say she was attracted to musicians. That's why nobody hunted her down once they heard she'd taken off with some lowlife on a Harley. Her own father didn't bother to search for her.” He removes the cut crystal water glasses from the table and curls his lip exactly like his mom does when she's disgusted. “Of course her family came from sketchy Manburn Street.”

Ouch. I bite the rose between my teeth and snap it while playing a few bars on Rosalita. What he's said is insulting but also correct. My street
is
sketchy. I don't belong in this expensive glass house. I live in a former cattle slaughterhouse, next door to a former funeral parlor and a former orphanage. No designer mom waits on me, carrying platters of steamed food into a formal dining area where we eat with gold utensils. Our plates and glasses are a mishmash of whatever the dollar stores have on sale. I usually scarf down pancakes, or peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwiches in front of the computer, while Mom and Dad meet with their students, and research endless boring documents.

I want to put aside what Beetle said about my street, if only for Mia's sake. But my heart is shattered. I picture his glass house exploding into a million tiny shards. I don't want to hear the crappy song he wrote for me. I need to move, to get away, and to think. I lay what's left of my yellow rose atop Cricket's wedding picture and move Rosalita away from Dark Horse, into the living room. The delicate chandelier in here is made of interwoven gold circles, like tangled wedding bands. I sit on a powder blue velvet sofa beside a glass coffee table with a flowery letter D etched in the center. The rug beneath depicts pastel cherubs. A winsome porcelain teddy bear with a lavender ribbon circling its chubby neck sits atop the coffee table. Everything here is faint and fragile. Who lives like this?

From where I sit, I'm able to view Beetle's ashen face when he emerges from doing the dishes and finds I'm not where he left me. His eyes search frantically until he sees I've moved to the living room. He hurries to sit beside me. I bristle at his touch.

“What do you know about Mia's family?” I ask, determined to find out everything he knows.

“Mia's dad was some kind of down-and-out blues musician,” he says. “He went by the name of Sugardaddy or something.”

My fingers react first, strumming Rosalita fiercely, forcing out notes that make me double over and groan. “His name is not Sugardaddy.”

He's talking about Shankdaddy. I'm stunned to hear he's Mia's father, although that connection explains why I saw her hanging around him. It also explains where Del gets his buttery voice. My fingers slip into a real nasty E bar chord. It's bad enough that he insults my neighborhood, now he's insulting a musician I idolize. I want to tell him he should stay away from me because I prefer the artful, murky side of this city, that my life is not so different from Mia's, that my dad is also careless and neglectful. In fact, he's in Russia again, offering Mom no timetable for his return. Mom is just as bad: she doesn't care about me or worry about her aging father, living alone in the middle of the New Hampshire woods. Neither of my parents would search for me if I got locked in the janitor's closet. They might not even notice I was gone. I want to tell Beetle that he's lucky to have a dad who cares about him. I reserve judgment on his mom. I shudder at the thought of what she'd say about Shankdaddy if she met him. I worry about what Beetle would say, as well. Mia and Shankdaddy Delaney are real people, like me. People with messy lives, not fake perfect ones. Beetle is in no position to judge Mia or Shankdaddy.

But I don't say anything. The riot inside my head pours out my fingers instead of my lips. I slam into the raucous melody of Orianthi's “According to You.” I'm hoping Beetle will sense he's making assumptions I don't like. For some reason I can't be straightforward and launch a protest through words. It's easier to express myself through music. That's what it's for, isn't it?

He puts a heavy hand on mine, and I lose it. That poorly timed gesture gives me the courage to say what I feel.

“I've met Shankdaddy and he's not sketchy,” I explode. “He's a music legend in my part of town. And Mia wasn't a slut.” I don't know that last bit for sure, but I feel compelled to defend a dead friend's honor, the way you do with all your friends—slutty, chaste, living, or dead.

He removes his hand, shakily. “Fine, maybe Shankdaddy isn't sketchy. But his name still sounds dangerous.”

From where I sit, slumped in this wispy blue room, I have a direct line of sight to the golden halo frames surrounding Cricket Dill's puffer fish bridal picture and Worthy's deer-in-the-headlights groom photo. Neither of them deserves their halos any more than Shankdaddy and Mia deserve to be demonized.

On the stereo, George Harrison's twelve-string lets loose the impressive opening chord to “A Hard Day's Night.” Beetle will never play a single chord with heart like that. But Shankdaddy can easily do it, and I'm getting there. Who cares if Shankdaddy and George Harrison were neglectful or irresponsible in their personal lives? They're virtuosos. Beetle will never achieve that status. He is in no position to judge someone like Shankdaddy.

I sit tall. “Shankdaddy is a genius. I met him two years ago. His grandson—Mia's son—is quite charming. We jammed together this summer.”

Beetle kicks the glass table beside me. The porcelain teddy bear with the lavender satin ribbon topples over and chips his ear. I'm glad. I've been dying to see something around here break. Beetle's too preoccupied to notice the bear's damage or care about it. He's pulling his bangs, trying to piece things together.

“Are you telling me that Mia's kid was that gimpy dude who was hanging around your vendor booth at the powwow? I knew there was something I didn't like about that guy.”

Uh-oh. This I did not expect. A more naive girl might interpret this remark as a show of affection or possessiveness or worse. But the thought of the City Place roof keeps me grounded.

Beetle starts pulling his bangs, again. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I've seen Mia's senior yearbook. That hottie didn't look pregnant to me.”

I don't bother to explain that she gave birth to Del at the end of the summer after her junior year, well before her yearbook photo was taken. That information would give away that I know more than I'm letting on. Besides, we're both picturing Mia in divergent ways. He imagines a sexy slut from a bad part of town who's broken his dad's heart. I picture a beautiful young woman from a talented musical family whose life was unfairly cut short. My Mia isn't part of a distant bygone tragedy. Her friends' and family's suffering lingers in my present. I recall the angel on Del's guitar that represents his mother, the deep sorrow I heard in Shankdaddy's voice when he sang the blues. I can still see Mom frozen in agony at the doorway to the janitor's closet where Mia's dead body was found. To Beetle, Mia Delaney is a tawdry player in a twisted, trashy, timeworn tale. To me and those who loved her, she is a real human being with a complicated life and afterlife, who is deeply mourned.

Now for some ugly honesty: despite how angry Beetle makes me feel or how much he insults the Delaney family's lifestyle, a part of me enjoys being a guest in the world's hottest house, and I hate myself for it. I'm not rich or beautiful but I have information about Mia Delaney's murder that may matter to Beetle's dad. If I share what I know, might the Dills think better of me? I want them to like me. If I make a connection with them that also helps Mia; is that wrong?

I test the waters. “Beetle, I know who killed Mia Delaney. I need your dad's help to nail her killer.” After saying this, I immediately need some air and step out the green glass French doors. But instead of relief, the searing August heat sucks my breath away.

“What are you talking about, Mona?” he asks.

I force out the words. “I met a man this summer with a photo of an old Harley with green flames, like the one they say belonged to Mia's killer.”

“You sure had a busy summer,” mutters Beetle, tugging on his bangs, still trying to stimulate his brain. “I don't know if that bike means anything. They must have made hundreds of those stupid flame-painted motorcycles, back in the 1990s. Right?”

I'm already outside. I could run to Del in New Haven, or run to St. Louis to jumpstart my blues career and escape what I know about this murder case, or run home to the sketchy street where I belong and hang out with musicians I already know. Instead I step back inside, shut the green glass door, return to the cool and comfortable central air-conditioning, and betray the Pyne family.

“I've seen Mia's photo in a 1994 Colt High yearbook at this motorcycle guy's house. It had your dad's face scratched out.”

“What!”

I realize too late that I've said more than I should have. Mentioning the yearbook in Will's secret room could get Del in trouble. Not to mention that I can't tell Beetle what I was doing in that secret room made of flowers, or that I recognized Mia's picture because I'd seen her. I can't say any of this because I'm from Manburn Street, a place that Beetle has already dubbed the home of lunatics and losers.

He grabs my hand again, only this time, he kisses my fingers. His palm is sweaty. He's jealous and…desperate? I'm willing to overlook this sweat and his heartless snooty view of the world if he genuinely cares for me. My defenses tumble. I'm prepared to drop the subject of Mia Delaney until the end of time if he keeps holding my hand. An untimely wave of nausea rolls over me. I pray it's only a lingering effect of the fishy-smelling sole. I shut my eyes tight, afraid that if I open them I'll see the shadow of a hoop earring or a cascade of dark curls. I let go of his hand and drop my head between my knees.

“What's wrong, Mona? Do you have a migraine or something? My mom gets a lot of those.” He rubs my back, tenderly. “How about a glass of water?”

I finally let it register in my brain that Beetle likes me as more than a friend. I try not to focus on how much I want to throw up. I concentrate on breathing slowly. Man, do I hate fishy-smelling sole. I'm not crazy about soggy white rice either. Beetle's mom is as bad a cook as mine.

“I'll be fine in a minute,” I say, waving him away, while still keeping my head down.

He grabs my hand again, which seems overly clingy—a problem I never imagined having with Barrington Dill. At least his hand is no longer sweaty.

“Maybe this glass of water will help,” he calls from the kitchen.

I stop breathing. Beetle is no longer in this room but someone is holding my hand. I open my eyes gradually and see the fingernails lying in my palm are painted electric blue. The powder blue couch dissolves around them. I am floating in the pure deep darkness of outer space. The lights have blinked out in the entire Milky Way galaxy; nothing cuts the void but those electric blue fingertips, glowing like stellar blue stars. I'm hovering between the living and the dead, between the earth and sky. I lift my head and spy the glint of a hoop earring engraved with the word “LOVE” poking out from a head of dark curls. I want those curls to fade away, those blue-tipped fingers to leave my hand. I can't hear the Beatles' music on the stereo anymore. I can't hear anything. I'm light-years away, adrift in the in-betweens of this world and the next. I want to hear something that is earthly, for Ringo to bang out a wanton drum solo, or George to strum an exotic eastern chord, or Paul to croon my heart away, or John to waken my political soul.