I Dream of Twila Page 4

  “I can actually only think of one S-word, too,” Aunt Tillie admitted. “What is the S-word, Twila?”

  Uh-oh. Now I was caught. “Oh, well, it’s something that people – obnoxious people, mind you – call Hispanic individuals.”

  It took Aunt Tillie a moment to realize what I meant. “Oh. Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

  “I still don’t know what the S-word is,” Thistle complained.

  Aunt Tillie waved off Thistle’s dour mood. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “You will not,” I snapped, moving my hands to Bay’s cheeks even as she struggled against my efforts. “The longer the girls go without hearing words like that, the better.”

  “She’s probably already heard it,” Aunt Tillie argued. “She simply doesn’t realize it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.” I pulled my hands from Bay’s face and stared down at her. “You don’t have a fever.”

  “That’s because I’m not sick.” Bay made small shooing motions with her hands to get me to back up. “Stop being a kvetch.”

  Aunt Tillie beamed at Bay. “You used that word correctly. You slapped her back without being overtly rude. Good job.” She rewarded Bay with an extra slice of bacon from her plate. That seemed unusual – Aunt Tillie isn’t known as much of a sharer – until I realized Aunt Tillie was as worried about Bay as I was.

  “Anyway, what was I talking about?”

  “How we shouldn’t use the word ‘gypsy’ because it’s a slur,” Clove answered. “What other words are slurs? Besides the N-word and S-word, I mean.”

  “The I-word for Native Americans but not people from India,” Bay answered, showing off her big brain and making me smile. The girl looked weary and worn, but she still had her sense of humor.

  “That’s a very good one, Bay.” I took a step toward my chair. “You’re very smart and didn’t offend anyone. Good job.” I figured if Aunt Tillie could reward the girls for lying and covering up their misdeeds I could fight some of her efforts and praise the girls for saying the right things. I would beat Aunt Tillie at her own game.

  “The C-word is definitely a slur, though,” Bay added, catching me off guard.

  “The C-word?” My eyebrows flew toward my hairline. “How do you know the C-word?”

  “I hear Mom use it all the time,” Bay replied without hesitation. “She called Aunt Marnie the C-word yesterday before they left, and she called you the C-word when you didn’t bake the bread like you promised last weekend.”

  Anger churned through my stomach. “So she called me the C-word?” This was the first I’d heard about that. “I can’t believe she taught you that word. That is the worst word in the English language.”

  “It’s not really a slur,” Aunt Tillie noted. “I guess it is when you’re talking about women.”

  “I thought it was a slur for witches,” Bay argued.

  I stilled, legitimately confused. “What C-word are you talking about, Bay?”

  “Crone.”

  “Oh.” Relief washed over me. “That C-word. Yeah, you shouldn’t use that word when talking about witches. That’s definitely true.”

  Bay scratched her cheek, her expression unchanged. “What C-word did you think I was talking about?”

  “I … um … that’s the C-word I thought you were talking about.”

  “No, you acted like I was talking about a really bad word and then seemed relieved when I said I meant crone. That means you thought I was thinking of another C-word.”

  Aunt Tillie grinned like a sugar addict in a lollipop factory as she bobbed her head and cut up her pancakes. Otherwise she remained silent.

  “Are you going to help me?” I prodded, my frustration bubbling over.

  “I think you’re doing a fine job on your own.”

  I felt the exact opposite. “Aunt Tillie, I think you should help me. That only seems fair because I cooked breakfast.” What? That’s a totally even tradeoff.

  “Fine.” Aunt Tillie blew out a sigh and leaned over, whispering something to Bay and causing the teenager to giggle. When she turned back to me, her eyes were dark and challenging. “There. I told her. Are you happy?”

  “Not even close,” I seethed. “I didn’t want you to tell her what the other C-word was. I simply wanted you to distract her.”

  “Oh.” Aunt Tillie didn’t appear bothered by the screw-up. “Well, you should’ve been more specific.” She patted Bay’s wrist as I scowled and stalked toward my chair. My breakfast was surely cold by now. My family was even colder.

  “I just … hate this family,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Join the club,” Thistle said, smiling serenely as I shot her a dirty look. “No, seriously, we’ve started a club. It’s usually us against you guys, but if you’re willing to pay a year’s worth of dues in advance we might let you in.”

  “Eat your breakfast, Thistle,” I snapped, using my fork to cut into my pancakes so hard it screeched against the plate. “So, what is everyone doing today?”

  “I have day camp,” Thistle reminded me.

  “I know.”

  “I have to type up some calendar stuff for Mr. Kelly,” Bay said. “He said I could do it here and email it in.”

  “Oh, well, that sounds productive.” I couldn’t help but be impressed. “You’re typing up things that will actually be printed in the newspaper?”

  “Just calendar stuff.”

  “Still, that’s a big deal, Bay. Good for you. Do you still want to be a reporter when you grow up?”

  Bay nodded, although the sadness was back and lurking around her eyes. “If I ever grow up and don’t hurt other people, I mean.”

  Her words confused me. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s moping about what that woman said to her last night,” Thistle explained, grabbing her glass of juice and slurping half of it down before speaking again. “She thinks she’s going to kill us all.”

  I knit my eyebrows, trying to remember exactly what Cherry said to Bay. I don’t have the best memory. I find dwelling on the past counterproductive, so I don’t put a lot of effort into remembering things. Clearly Bay was exactly the opposite. I already knew that about her, of course. She held on to things longer than she should – just like her mother. It was annoying and a great way to bring down a good day. I opened my mouth to tell her just that, but Aunt Tillie took over the conversation before I could.

  “Don’t worry about that woman, Bay,” Aunt Tillie ordered, taking me by surprise with her vehemence. “She has no idea what she’s talking about, and there’s no reason to get worked up about it. She’s a fake and a fraud, so you don’t need to do anything but ignore her.”

  “Well, that’s taking it to an unnecessary level,” I said. “You don’t know that she’s a fake.”

  “I do, too.” Aunt Tillie was adamant. “She told Bay a bunch of nonsense last night and got her all worked up. She didn’t see anything in Bay’s palm. People’s futures aren’t written on their palms.”

  “They’re not?” Bay looked almost hopeful as she pinned Aunt Tillie with a weighted stare. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” Aunt Tillie replied. “Bay, the line on your palm is set at birth, but your path changes with each decision you make. Each fork in the road is not set years before you reach it. It’s up to you to decide where you’ll end up. What that woman said to you … well, it’s a crock of crap, and someone needs to smack that woman upside the head to teach her a lesson.”

  “Aunt Tillie!” I shot her a warning look. “Violence isn’t the answer when you disagree with someone.”

  “Since when?” Aunt Tillie sniffed. “If I didn’t have violence and magic to settle scores, then I’d have nothing to use as a weapon.”

  “You have a gun,” Thistle pointed out.

  “And a whistle,” Clove added.

  “And they’re fun to use when I’m bored,” Aunt Tillie said. “That doesn’t mean other types of violence aren’t fun, too.”


  “Stop telling them that,” I hissed, leaning forward. “You’re making matters worse.”

  “No, you’re making matters worse,” Aunt Tillie snapped. “Bay is clearly upset because of what that woman told her. She doesn’t look as if she got any sleep last night. She has more lines around her eyes than you do … and that’s saying something.”

  Hey!” My fingers inadvertently flew to the corners of my eyes. “I still get carded at the bar. I look young.”

  “Oh, puh-leez.” Aunt Tillie let loose a theatrical sigh. “The only reason that guy at the bar in Gaylord carded you is because he knew he’d get a big tip out of it. You almost passed out you were so excited, and then you gave that kid a sixty-dollar tip on a twenty-dollar tab. He probably uses that line on every middle-aged woman he meets because he knows it works.”

  Well, that had to be the meanest – and patently untrue – statement I’d ever heard. “You’re dead to me.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll try to refrain from crying because I don’t want to add to the lines at the corners of my eyes,” Aunt Tillie drawled, shaking her head. “That’s hardly our biggest problem today.”

  Problem? How did we get from the fact that Aunt Tillie was making up lies about me having crow’s feet to a problem? That hardly seems possible. “What problem do we have?” I challenged, my temper getting the better of me. “As far as I can tell, everything is great. Thistle is going to camp. Bay is working. Clove is … doing whatever Clove is supposed to do. I forget.”

  “I’m wandering around town to see if I can find Alex Fitzgerald, and then I’m going to figure out a way to make him buy me an ice cream cone,” Clove supplied.

  “See, Clove has her day planned.”

  “Yes, Clove is spending the day stalking a boy,” Aunt Tillie shook her head. “That seems a fine way to waste time.”

  “I’m not stalking him,” Clove whined. “That’s a mean thing to say. I’m just … hoping to run into him.”

  “That’s stalking.” Aunt Tillie held up her hand to cut off Clove when the girl looked ready to mount another argument. “I’m done talking to you right now.”

  “Fine.” Clove got to her feet and shuffled away from the table. “I’m going to grab the newspaper from the porch so I can see if anything is going on today downtown. But when I get back we’re going to have a long talk about what is and what is not stalking.”

  “I believe you’ve shared that conversation with your mother several times,” I pointed out. “Shouldn’t you know what stalking is by now?”

  “Which is exactly why I know I’m not guilty of it.”

  That seemed unlikely given the fact that I knew she spent four straight hours hiding in bushes to watch Alex Fitzgerald play basketball shirtless in the high school parking lot earlier in the week. “I don’t have time for this argument.”

  “None of us do,” Aunt Tillie said, ignoring Clove as she flounced out of the room. “We have to focus on those con artists you allowed to stay on our property. They’re our biggest problem.”

  “How are they a problem?” I argued. “They seem like nice people and they’re staying, like, two nights. How is that an issue? It’s not as if they’re threatening us.”

  “Take a look at Bay’s face,” Aunt Tillie snapped. “Tell me she doesn’t look threatened. The poor girl is freaking out.”

  “I’m not freaking out,” Bay argued. “I’m fine.”

  “See, she’s fine.”

  “She’s not fine.” Aunt Tillie rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m talking to a particularly dull wall.”

  “Join the club,” Thistle intoned.

  “Thistle, don’t add to this madness,” I snapped, wagging a finger. “That little troupe isn’t hurting anyone. They’re simply passing through. They’re no threat to us.”

  “They told Bay she was going to make a choice that resulted in members of her family getting killed,” Aunt Tillie exploded. “How is that not a threat?”

  “I … well, that was weird,” I conceded. “It’s probably part of the show they put on, though. No one wants to hear boring things about themselves. I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset Bay.”

  “Then you’re even dumber than you look,” Aunt Tillie huffed. “The woman is a grifter. I could tell the moment I laid eyes on her. She tells people what they don’t want to hear and then conveniently comes up with a way to make sure the bad thing doesn’t happen – perhaps she can lift curses or tell Bay which path is the right one to choose – but only if we give her money.”

  “She didn’t ask for any money,” I pointed out.

  “Yet. She didn’t ask for any money yet. That doesn’t mean it’s not coming.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s coming either,” I argued. “Bay is a child. She doesn’t have any money.”

  “No, but she’s sensitive in her own way and that’s why Cherry Brucker – that’s an absolutely stupid name, by the way – targeted her,” Aunt Tillie said. “She took one look at Bay and knew she could manipulate her. And look. It worked. Bay didn’t sleep and looks like death warmed over.”

  “Thanks,” Bay said dryly. “I feel so loved.”

  Aunt Tillie ignored her. “That woman is a con artist, Twila. You never should’ve allowed her to stay on our property.”

  “Oh, you’re so overdramatic.” I sighed. “She’s not doing anything, and she’ll be gone within a day or two at the most. What could possibly happen?”

  As if on cue, Clove picked that moment to wander back into the dining room. She had an odd look on her face. “So, I don’t want to panic anyone, but the back door is open.”

  “Open?” I furrowed my brow. “Like … unlocked?”

  “Like someone left it completely open and I think there’s probably a killer in the house,” Clove replied, her eyes solemn.

  Oh, well, good. That will keep everyone calm. The idea of a killer in the house won’t panic anyone. Wait … I live with four people prone to dramatic fits. Everyone will panic.

  Five

  “ T here’s probably someone hiding in the pantry with a knife.” Thistle’s eyes sparkled with excitement rather than dread. “He’s waiting in there to pick us off one by one, and he’ll probably start with Mom because she’s in charge. We’ll be easy pickings after that … and we’ll die quickly. Well, except for me, because I’m the strongest. I’ll be the lone survivor.”

  Bay slid a haughty look in Thistle’s direction. “I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that you’ll be one of the first to die when the guy jumps out of the pantry and starts hacking. Do you want to know why?”

  “Probably because you convince yourself of things that aren’t even remotely true,” Thistle fired back.

  “No, because cocky people always die in horror movies. Masked killers don’t like them.” Bay looked blasé, but I didn’t miss the gleam in her eyes.

  “She’s not wrong,” Aunt Tillie said. “But I doubt very much that anyone is hiding in our pantry. It makes no sense.”

  I couldn’t help being relieved. “Thank you for being the voice of reason, Aunt Tillie.” There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say. Whew. Things were looking up this weekend. Aunt Tillie and I were actually on the same side.

  “That pantry is far too small for a full-grown man,” Aunt Tillie said. “He wouldn’t be comfortable in there long enough to wait us out. He’s probably in the front closet. There’s room to sit down there.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

  “Ooh, you should go check, Aunt Tillie,” Thistle said, her excitement growing. “Do it right now, otherwise Clove will cry.”

  “I’m not going to cry.” Clove was defensive, but I didn’t miss the way her eyes watered. She was definitely the girl most likely to freak out under this roof. Bay is sensitive, too, but in a different way. If someone was really hiding in the front closet, Bay and Thistle would beat him to death with a baseball bat, Aunt Tillie cheering them on the entire time, while Clove hid under a table and crie
d. That’s simply the way they were built.

  Aunt Tillie ignored Clove’s potential meltdown and planted her hands on her hips as she faced off with Thistle. “Why do I have to check the front closet?”

  “Because you’re the bravest of us all,” Thistle replied solemnly.

  “That wasn’t even remotely believable,” Aunt Tillie argued. “You just lost some ground there, mouth.”

  Thistle stuck out her tongue and frowned. “Fine. I think you should go first because you’re the oldest and you’ve already lived a full life. While the guy is stabbing you we’ll have plenty of time to get away.”

  “Ooh, I like that plan,” Clove enthused.

  “You’re both on my list,” Aunt Tillie snapped.

  “There’s no one in the closet,” I said, moving to the doorway that led from the dining room to the back porch so I could look for myself. The door in question was closed. “Are you sure it was open?”

  “Wide open,” Clove confirmed. “It was cold out there, too, which makes me think the door was open for a long time.”

  I pursed my lips and glanced between the door and the dining room table. “Where’s the dog?”

  Sugar, the girls’ Christmas gift from several years ago, was a regular fixture around the house. He slept with the girls every night – taking turns hopping from bed to bed even though he was strictly forbidden from sleeping on the furniture. He followed them around when they played outside. He slept in front of the fireplace during the winter. He was a good dog.

  He was also a dog I hadn’t seen all day. He generally hung around my feet when I cooked, hoping to catch scraps or errant ear rubs. Sugar could smell bacon from an entire acre away. So … where was he?

  As if reading my mind and not liking what I was thinking, the girls moved together and glanced around, their eyes busy as they searched for signs of their canine friend.

  “When was the last time anyone saw him?” I asked, hoping I sounded calmer than I felt. “I think I saw him last night when you girls were going up to bed.”

  “He slept with Bay,” Thistle said, her face dark and serious. “He knew she was upset, and he slept with her.”