Feral Curse (15 page)

Jackpot. I’m their hero. The customer who bought the piece is happy with me, too. Lula introduces me to her grateful sister, Eleanor, as I help them slip the mirror-frame corners into cardboard sleeves and wrap it up in thick brown paper.

“Kayla told me about Ben and what happened at the carousel,” I say once we’ve got the package loaded onto the buyer’s flatbed and secured with rope in an alley behind the store. “Tragic,” I’m quick to add.

“Yes, tragic,” Lula echoes.

“Poor Kayla,” Eleanor adds. “Her first love, and they were precious together.”

Precious. “You bought the carousel figures?” I say.

“No, no,” Lula assures me, holding open the back door.

As the wind blows in behind us, I cough, nearly choking on the ladies’ floral perfume.

Eleanor comes back inside, too, offering Coca-Cola in chilled Mexican glass bottles to a couple of women wearing T-shirts that read
TIME TO WINE
. Then she explains, “We agreed to handle the sales as a favor to Constance Bloom, Ben’s mother, and the city council. A shame they decided to break up the ride. It added so much to the town’s character.” She studies her manicured nails. “Anyway, the money is being used to offset the expense of the memorial installation in the park — cost a fortune. I told Mayor Morgan not to hire those pretentious artsy people from Dallas.”

“Were the animal figures hard to unload?” I ask. “What with the economy and all . . .”

“You weren’t friends with Ben?” Lula asks. “Just Kayla?”

“Just Kayla,” I say, hoping they hadn’t been inseparable for so long that Lula wonders how that’s possible. “I thought maybe my grams could take a few of the carousel figures off your hands.”

Brightening at the prospect, Lula leads me up a steep, narrow staircase, decorated on either side with silk holiday wreaths, each dolled up with a fake, sparkly bird and big red velvet bow. They’re tacky and a noticeable quality point beneath the rest of the goods on display. “Local artist,” she whispers in a confiding tone. “Minister’s wife. Personal favor.”

Ah. There’s a sign on the attic door that reads
PRIVATE
, but it isn’t locked. There must not be much crime here in Pine Ridge, or it could be that people are that trusting.

I follow Lula into the attic, and there they are: one deer, one snake, a bear, a wolf, and both hares, buffaloes, elk, hogs, raccoons, and armadillos. We’re golden!

No, wait, the other cat is still missing.

Which means it’s already sold, and any associated web listing has probably been already taken down. Not good. I’m pretty sure we need the whole set. “Austinites will go gaga over these babies,” I say, weaving between the massive elk and stout dillos. “The whole Old West carnival theme has great regional appeal, and they’ve got that spooky vibe, to boot. Top-notch conversation pieces.” I make a show of bending to more closely examine the merchandise. “Some wear here and there . . .” I’d normally work harder to bargain her down, but it’s not my family’s money I’ll be spending, and Pine Ridge could use the cash infusion. “On the knees, ears, chins, and tails, but that adds to the rustic appeal.”

“Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Lula agrees with a clap of her hands.

“Did you unload any of them to locals?” I almost swing up to sit on a buffalo before remembering that I’m supposed to be acting professional. “I get where that might be awkward, what with what happened, but these are unique, fairly irresistible to the right buyers.”

“Locals?” Lula echoes. “Nope, like you say, awkward.”

She smells like she’s lying. “Kayla mentioned something about Ben bringing her photo with him the night he died. She seemed upset about it, but it’s only natural he’d carry a pic of his girlfriend in his wallet. I wish I understood what went down so I could help her through it better.” Could’ve been smoother, but that’s my best shot.

I give it a moment. Two. No dice.

At least I tried. “Well, I can’t speak for Grams, but I’ll tell her —”

“Kayla’s photo was taped to one of the carousel cats,” Lula blurts. She moves to shut the attic door. “Eleanor and I were the ones who found his body, you know.”

“No!” I say, pretend-shocked. “I had no idea. How awful for you both.”

She nods. “We think something horrible and satanic was going on.”

Finally. Thank you. “Was Ben the horrible and satanic type?” Because I could seriously use some intel that didn’t come from his button-down and grieving ex-girlfriend.

“No, no,” Lula assures me, pulling white drop cloths off a few other stored pieces for me to peruse. Freestanding brass lamps and coat hangers, a rocking chair, antique Victorian porcelain knickknacks. “Ben and Kayla both . . . wonderful kids, the crème de la crème of Pine Ridge. Churchgoing, good grades, athletic, and they had the sweetest young love. Everyone knew it. Never mind that he was white and she was black. Nobody said ‘boo’ about that.”

Nobody? Lula just mentioned it herself.

Humans can be petty and baffling. When your body can shift into animal form, I guarantee that obsessing over little things like the color it is in human form seems awfully ridiculous. Then again, there are age-old feuds among shifters, too. Cats and Wolves, for example. Orcas and Tusked Dolphins.

She goes on, “Constance — Ben’s mama — she had him buried in the necklace that Kayla had given him for Valentine’s Day. It had a gemstone on it, a gold cat’s-eye gemstone.”

“Valentine’s Day?” I echo, pretending to examine some uneven paint (a bad patch job) on the ear of one of the hare figures.

“He died the very next night,” Lula reminds me. “Broke that darling girl’s heart.”

That darling girl. I haven’t gotten that off Kayla, that kind of sorrow. She could be blocking it. Shifters are better at that than humans. It’s tied up in what Grams so poetically calls “the inheritance of the wild,” a gift of our animal forms.

In the battle for survival, you don’t have time to indulge every emotion, which in no way means that sooner or later, whatever you’re pushing down won’t explode.

I’VE COMPLIMENTED AT LEAST
two dozen people on their outfits (lace and ruffles are all the rage with the older ladies) or their children (several of whom have had their faces painted — a couple to look like cats), asked every passerby carrying a bag what they bought (printer’s-drawer miniatures are popular), and taken a thorough survey of public opinion on the festival cuisine. An Austin-based winery offering free tastings is moving product by the case, and the Davis Family barbecue pork ribs are to die for.

I’d have already snagged a rack for myself, but I don’t want to abandon my post. While making small talk and waiting for Yoshi, I’ve been scanning to no avail for the werecoyote.

Wait. Is that . . . ? Yes, I catch a glimpse of reddish hair, Peter’s wiry frame, and his long face. He’s barefoot but wearing Dylan Schmidt’s stolen San Antonio Spurs jersey and jeans. The Coyote’s intense gaze locks onto mine, and there’s something too intimate about it.

I catch my breath for a moment, frozen in place. He shakes loose of the connection before I can, ducking behind a group of boisterous Bubbas in matching patch-covered leather vests and jeans.

I’m up like a shot, but they’re big men, a half dozen of them, belly laughing at who-knows-what. A couple of new moms pushing baby carriages block me to one side, and a great-grandma shuffling along with the aid of a walker cuts me off on the other.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say, my manners so well programmed that I feel guilty for being rude and weaving between them, even though Peter is . . . nowhere to be found.

Where did he go? I turn all the way around, studying the crowd. He’s not at the booth selling Native American and cowboy art or the booth selling handmade pottery or the craft tent for kids or standing in line to use a port-o-john. He couldn’t have gotten far.

I cross the street to scale the back side of a bald cypress. I make every effort not to be spotted in the branches, but the crowd is already distracted by the historical society board members parading down the sidewalk in head-to-toe steampunk, complete with parasols, bustle skirts, aviator goggles, and leather vests and bustiers. I’m very sure Pine Ridge’s actual founders never looked so magnificently coiffed. It’s all quite the spectacle.

Dad was hoping to top last year’s record of 3,500 in attendance, and I bet we’re way past that. But there’s no Peter to be found.

Dejected, I return to wait for Yoshi as he finally emerges outside the antiques shop. Lula gives him a grandmotherly peck good-bye, licks her thumb to clean her signature rose-plum lipstick off his cheek, and then scoots the parrot cage inside to lock up for the day.

Thank God. That bird’s incessant chatter was getting on my very last nerve.

Pretending like I don’t
notice
-notice Yoshi is making me all itchy.

He slides on the bench, stretching his muscled arm behind me. Not resting on my shoulders, but the body language is possessive. A few passing sophomore girls, volleyball players, pause to stare and whisper. Or maybe they’re just marveling at his radiating sexiness.

He has good news — all of the carousel figures, except one, are accounted for. “I’ll ask the sisters about the cat figure when I come back to purchase the others.”

With Aimee’s buckets of money. I report my brief Peter sighting — at least I think it was him. “I have no idea where he could’ve skulked off to,” I conclude.

“Hmm, Coyotes are skittish by nature, but . . .” Yoshi’s hand falls on my shoulder, and my skin tingles beneath his touch. “Where would you normally be this weekend?”

It’s a rhetorical question. I stand, leading Yoshi deeper into Founders’ Day.

At the booth with hand-dipped candles, Bitsy Metula is collecting signatures for a petition to forbid werepeople from working in private or public day-care facilities. You know, like the one shifter in this whole town — that would be me — even wants to be a professional babysitter. Talk about pointless posturing. I don’t stop to see which locals signed the sheet. I don’t want to know.

After polishing off two racks of pork ribs respectively, Yoshi and I split an Almond Joy pie and wash it all down with lemonades. It’s refreshing not to have to pick at my food like I normally do at school or did with Ben. Yoshi doesn’t think twice about my appetite.

The Cat takes my empty plate from me and tosses it — a small thing, but Ben would’ve expected me to clean up after him. Not that I should be comparing them. So I’ll stop. Now.

“Let’s take the festival systematically,” Yoshi suggests, “street by street, table by table, booth by booth, and ask around.” He pivots toward the dunking booth. “Hopefully, somebody’s seen Peter. Talked to him.”

He’s insane. “I can’t just walk around town asking about some strange boy with . . . some other strange boy.” I hate the way it sounds, like I care too much what people think. But I can tell Yoshi doesn’t get it. He’s not the First Daughter of Pine Ridge.

“I’m not that strange, and you’ve already been seen with me.” Yoshi pulls Peter’s wallet from his back pocket. “We’ll say we found this.” He opens it up, showing me the driver’s license in the clear sleeve. “Look, photo and everything.”

Despite his whole man-of-action attitude toward Operation Carousel, Yoshi lingers at Jim Doyle’s display of artifacts found over the decades along the river. The old buttons and bullet shells, a gold pocket watch. Yoshi may be the last to admit it, but I suspect he secretly enjoys working at his grandmother’s antiques mall. I suspect he’s great at it. Maybe he’ll never win any academic awards or graduate from a fancy college. But he’s in no way stupid, and he’s better with people than I’ll ever be. No wonder he’s so good at sweet-talking women.

We don’t have any luck until the Adopt-a-Friend booth. “I remember this boy,” Lisa says, stroking a whining mutt puppy. “He came by yesterday after you took off for dinner. He asked about Floppy, said he’d always wanted a pet rabbit. But there was something about his eyes I didn’t like.”

I’m glad Lisa listened to her instincts. I’ve felt the call of the hunt in animal form, but I’d never . . . “Did he mention where he was staying in town?” I ask.

Lisa sets down the panting dog. “You might turn that wallet in to Sheriff Bigheart.”

We pushed too hard. “Great idea,” Yoshi agrees. “Kayla, let’s go find the sheriff.”

It’s getting late. The streetlights and festival lights on the music stage have been turned on. “Let’s take a break,” Yoshi says, gesturing to the miniature train.

We choose the “caboose” bench, three back from the next nearest passengers. The O’Donnell quadruplets (forty-something parents, fertility drugs), they’re in second grade now and making a huge racket. But that means Yoshi and I can talk without being overheard.

“If we’re going to reverse the spell,” he begins, “we’ll need
something
that belonged to Ben. Do you have any ideas at all?”

I’ve been thinking about it. “Coach Reiss retired Ben’s football jersey. It’s hanging in the school hallway, alongside the trophy case.” It’s been sheer hell, having to pass by it every day on the way to gym class. I can close my eyes and almost see him, owning the field.