The May Queen Murders (7 page)

She might end up being scolded for gallivanting through stormy

fields when someone was murdering animals, but her punishment

never lasted. It was impossible to stay angry with her. She’d kiss and

swear she meant no harm — and she didn’t. She wasn’t cruel. What

Heather wanted, Heather did. She wasn’t uncaring. I suspected she

simply didn’t notice what impact she had on me, on others. How

freeing to be so unaffected.

A flare outside the kitchen glowed like the negative of a photo-

graph. The deafening boom made me jump while the pendant light

above the sink blinked out. From the dining room, my parents and

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Heather’s shuffled in search of candles. I fumbled along the cabinets

until I came to one holding extra candles and matches. Between the

mill and solar panels, the Glen had electricity, but the houses’ wir-

ing was rudimentary. Blackouts weren’t uncommon, even in good

weather. Most of us still used kerosene lamps for that reason.

I scratched a match. The rotten egg smell of sulfur was fleeting as

I lit a candle. Mama appeared in the doorway. “You
buena,
Ivy?”

“Sí.”

Thump.

The noise came from the window. I glanced at Mama. “What was

that?”

“The wind, probably,” she answered.

Thump.

Thump. Thump.

That wasn’t wind. My pulse quickened. I cupped the candle and

stood on my tiptoes, holding the flame to the window.

thump.

I jumped back from the jolted windowsil . In the living room,

Marsh called to check on Mama and me. By now she was beside me,

candle in hand, as we tried to see what was outside.

thump! thump! thump!

My heart rode into my throat. It didn’t sound like hail. The bangs

against the glass were too sporadic, frenzied.

“Luz?” Papa yelled. “What the hel ’s that?”

Against a faraway gleam of lighting, a black mass reeled from the

window as if taking a breath before soaring straight for the glass again.

thump! thump!

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I couldn’t move. The dark thing outside whisked from side to side.

It pulled back and —

crash!

With a yelp, I ducked the flying glass. Mama rushed over to the

wet, black thing flopping on the floor and, crying out in Spanish,

backed away. The glow of the candles revealed a blackbird. It wasn’t

dead, but from the way it flailed and twitched, it would be soon. My

scream stunned into silence, all I could do was watch the bird in its

death throes. Its crooked wings strained to lift, but its bones were

shattered.

Papa reached the kitchen, saw the dying bird, and recoiled. “Stay

back,” he ordered Mama and me.

I didn’t want to look, but the chaos of the bird desperate to remain

alive in spite of its gnarled body was impossible to ignore. Papa knelt,

his face a mixture of revulsion and pity, and took the bird into gentle

hands. His thumb stroked the tiny creature’s head.

Then he wrung the bird’s neck, its bones crunching.

For a minute, the only movement was the waver of the candle’s

flame pulling and pushing the shadows. Papa’s eyes closed, and I was

quite sure he said a prayer. Maybe to spirit away the bird. Maybe to

ask forgiveness for what he’d done. To bring death sometimes was

a kindness. He opened his hands; the bird had merciful y ceased

thrashing.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

The bird in my father’s hands wasn’t one but two, a bird with a

conjoined twin. One body with two beaks, a single head with four

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beady eyes. Two birds so close they were one, and one’s death killed

the other.

"

I went after Heather.

Marsh ordered me to find her, too occupied with repairing the

kitchen window to chase her down himself. I was glad to leave. I

couldn’t stay knowing that
thing
had shattered the window and died

at my feet. The danger outside didn’t feel as real as the danger of

where my thoughts would go if I stayed in.

Where Heather went was a mystery. The storm moved northeast,

though the clouds still dashed white then dark. I hugged myself as

I forged down the muddy road. The Glen’s electricity was out, the

candles by windows ember-like in their dimness. Sheriff’s men relit

the torches along the fences. Nothing felt right, nothing safe. Some-

thing close flapped in a gust of wind. A figure loomed over me, taller

than anyone I knew.

“Wh-who’s there?” I called, wishing I didn’t sound so meek.

A shriek tore out across the sky, a high-pitched cackle from deep

within the woods.

I rammed into the crossbeam of the scarecrow. Its body was

mounted on a pole with its arms outstretched, its shirt weathered. A

puppet to frighten off birds from scrounging the Thomsons’ straw-

berries. Each family had its own way of crafting scarecrows — a few

with pumpkins or old leather sacks for heads, some bodies stuffed

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with wheatgrasses, whereas others were filled with dried corn stalks.

The birds came plague-like in their numbers once the berries rip-

ened, but during the dead months when there was nothing to har-

vest, one gazed to the fields to view scarecrow after scarecrow guard-

ing the barren land like impaled corpses left to rot.

This scarecrow’s head was a bag of dried beans. Desiccated

sprouts from last summer poked through the burlap only to curl

back inside. Soggy with rain, the bean sprouts beaded water, the

head sack slumped, one button eye lost and marked only by an X

in black thread. Its mouth was crooked, sloppy paint, most of which

had flaked away, giving the scarecrow a gray expression.

A second whooping cry sprang from the woods, raising every hair

on my neck and arms. I whipped around and surveyed the distance.

A horse neighed.
Whimsy.
Heather told me to say she’d gone to check

on the horses. There might be some truth in that. I peeled away from

the scarecrow’s path, cut through the mess of mud to the pasture

where my horse lived with a small herd. While most of the herd was

likely dozing, one spooked horse could infect the others and cause

an accident.

At the pasture, the six steeds at this end of the Glen were quiet,

their long necks drooped forward to lower their faces while they nib-

bled grass. They should’ve been in their stal s with buckets of oats,

safe from the storm, yet light leaked out from the barn.

I climbed the fence and pushed closer to the stable. The air was

heavy with the aroma of wet horses and sweet-pungent manure. A

chestnut gelding gave me a curious glance, and I nodded, hoping he

wasn’t apt to startle.

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Whimsy’s black coat camouflaged her, but her habit of kicking

the water trough gave away her location. She lifted her head, and her

ears perked, large eyes reflecting the light slivers coming from the

stable. The mare ambled behind me, her breath hot and constant,

puffing from her velveteen muzzle.

From inside the stable, a laugh rang out, a girlish chime.

Heather.

I edged around to the front, to the closed door, where I leaned

against the wood, my face pressed to a knothole. Inside was a can-

dlelit lantern. Heather’s skirt was all shadow as she twirled, her back

to me shining pale and naked. She stretched out her arms and spun

again, her necklace of found things rising and falling between her

bare breasts. Beyond her, out of the lantern’s gleam, someone shifted.

The scuffed toe of a boot and nothing more.

My heart plummeted, a gasp in my throat.

Heather jerked her head. Her lips pressed together. Her hair part-

ed and covered her breasts while each step she took toward the door

was deliberate.

“I know you’re out there,” she snapped.

“Wh-what are you doin’?” I whispered. “Who’s with you?”

She lowered her face and fixed her eye on mine. “Go home, Ivy.”

“I need you. It’s not safe out here.”

“Then leave.”

More shifting behind her. I tried to see past her, but she filled my

sight. Heather was everywhere I looked.

“Ivy . . . please.” A note of desperation crept into her voice.

“What’s happening?” I asked. “You tell me everything.”

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“No, I don’t. Now stop. You need to go. You didn’t see me.”

How was I supposed to act like I hadn’t?

“Heather, come on. Something terrible happened, and I don’t

wanna be alone.”

Her eye disappeared from the knothole. A moment later, the sta-

ble door creaked and she came out, arms crossed over her chest. “Are

you okay?”

“Th-there was a bird. And the w-w-window.” Putting together the

horror of the bird was harder than my throat would allow. “It was

bad.”

Heather peeked inside the stable as if waiting for her lover to

emerge. Her fingernails tapped against the bare arm covering her

chest. “I’ll be home soon.”

“You ain’t coming now?” I heard my whine and cringed. I didn’t

want to be that girl, the tagalong who didn’t realize when her friends

had outgrown her. Was that what had happened? Not long ago, it

would’ve been me she snuck out with.

Her and me. Cousins. Nearly sisters.

Forever.

She reached out and touched my hand. “I’ll be home. Soon.”

My throat was thick while I trudged back from the stable. Whim-

sy’s hooves padded the earth as she moved closer to me. I stroked the

side of my horse’s face and tucked my hand into my sleeve to wipe

away the hot streak of tears. Heather stayed behind. How could she

pick another over her family when we needed her? Over me?

I hurried through the pasture to the wet road. When I turned and

looked over my shoulder to the stable, the light was out.

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Chapter Four

The flies always buzzed ’round Birch ’cause flies always

come when death’s close.

I awakened to tapping on my window. When I peered through the

gauze of twisted wing and double beak dreams, Heather’s hand

pressed to the glass, the red thread knotted around her wrist. The

rest of her ghosted pale from the dewy film on the pane. Behind her,

starlight brushed the sky, the sun unready to rise.

“Ivy . . . Ivy, girl, c’mon.” Her voice was a songbird’s melody. “Open

the window.”

Never open the window when it’s dark,
Mamie used to say.
Even to

someone you know. Wickedness takes the shape of what you love.

I pushed back the quilt Mamie made when I was born and flipped

my braid down my back. That I was drowsy gave me time to linger

and remember the previous night — the bird, the ache of being sent

away. Now Heather had returned.

“Ivy,” she sang through the glass.

My feet hit the cold floor. My blue nightdress skimmed my ankles,

and I bunched the fabric in my fists. I was angry yet relieved she’d

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come — ready to choke her yet yearning to hug her and make her

promise she’d never shut me out again. Her fingertips squeaked on

the wet glass as her hand dropped. Through the spots left behind, I

watched her chew her lip. I flicked the metal lock and opened the

window.

“Oh, thank you,” she cheered and reached through the opening

to clutch my hands. Her skin was warm, despite the morning chil .

She smelled like Aunt Rue’s homemade lavender soap. “I’m
so
sorry

I couldn’t talk to you last night.”

All at once, I became a dull piece of ash compared to the glow of

Heather’s embers. She had fire and heat, and I was cold and so flimsy

the wind could whisk me away without remembering it ever carried

me.

“Heather, what time did you get home? It was after we left,” I said.

“I know. Did you tell them I was taking care of the horses?”

“Yes. I didn’t know what else to say.”

“Did they believe you?”

“They have no reason not to.”

We stared hard at each other. Heather averted her eyes first. She

hesitated before a flush bled pink into her freckled cheeks. “Thank

you. Can we talk?”

“Is it about what I saw in the stable?” I asked.

She went redder yet. “I want you to be happy for me. If it were you,