Jude crossed to the cage and gently took the paper from the front of it.
“It’s a poem,” he reported. He glanced up at the group and although it wasn’t the right timing for this sort of observation, Plum couldn’t help but think how very male-modelish he looked, with his perfect hair swoop, chin lowered, and vibrant eyes glancing out at them.
Plum realized that woolgathering about the relative attractiveness of other possible victims or killers in this scenario was just as bad as an unhinged laugh, so she forced herself to focus. “What’s it say?” Shelley asked.
Jude cleared his throat.
He traveled the world, he went round and then some,
just him and his girls, the chickens, a sixsome.
Listen up, dummies, it’s not about the birds,
just that this guy was the biggest of turds.
You all are found guilty. Your sentence is death,
and when you lie lifeless, only then will I rest.
Was the influence worth it? Do you regret it one bit?
Or are you, like Sean, a complete piece of
human waste?
Nah, I won’t rest. I’ll keep killing some more.
It’s just so fun, keeping the score.
“Huh,” Jude said. His lips moved silently as he reread the lines to himself. “I think he meant shit—there. In the middle.”
“Um, duh,” Dude said, but his tone was tired more than harsh.
“Can I say he’s a serial killer now? Huh? Can I?” Jalen nearly shouted. Behind his glasses, his eyes were bright with the edge of panic. “We did everything right, and still another one of us got picked off—WHAM!” He clapped his hands together percussively.
“How did it happen, anyway?” Shelley timidly asked. She was still clutching her arm where a piece of flying rock or metal had cut her.
“Hey, let’s help you with that,” Sofia offered first.
For a few moments, the survivors were mostly absorbed with making a bandage from one of Shelley’s fluttering scarves, mentioning the necessity of actually finding that first aid kit, and splashing seltzer water across the shallow cut.
Cici helped Shelley tie the bandage. There was a slight smudge of grime on one cheek, like the makeup YouTuber was on the set of an action movie and had been artfully “mussed up” while still needing to look essentially perfect.
Plum shook herself to stop the distracting, frankly unhelpful observations.
“This doesn’t make any sense.” Jalen paced in front of the birdcage. “It’s a bad reason to kill a person!” His voice rose to a shout. “Nothing about this makes sense!”
“That’s because it doesn’t make sense!” Warix shouted back.
Jalen stopped abruptly, almost like Warix’s shout had slapped him. “Right,” he said. “Right, right. Serial killers aren’t normal people. Right.”
“What caused it to fall? Do you know?” Cici asked.
“I don’t know. It happened right after the second set of explosions,” Shelley replied.
Plum rocked back on her heels. “Oh,” she said in sudden understanding.
The others glanced back at her for an explanation.
“Just that’s how it fell,” Plum explained. She pointed to the now-empty plinth in the center of the conservatory. “Those pops were some kind of dynamite or squibs or whatever you call it.”
Warix leaped up onto the raised edge of the planter and plowed through the dead plants until he reached the column.
“Be careful!” Sofia called. “What if one of them didn’t go off?”
Warix shook his head. “Then our killer will have to work fast to post another poem,” he said.
“Speaking of that, how could that poem have been put on the cage?” Plum asked.
“Who was closest to it?” Cici asked.
“We were,” Marlowe said calmly. “Us and Jude.”
“We didn’t do this!” Plum gestured at herself and her friends.
“I didn’t either!” Jude said emphatically, shaking his head, then giving it that practiced toss that tousled his pompadour just right.
Plum wanted to believe him. The thing was, she wanted to believe every other person as they stated their denials that they hadn’t done it, either.
“But anyone could have done it,” Jalen announced.
Warix held up a small wired box. One edge of the plastic was deformed, blasted outward.
“Remote-controlled,” Warix announced, holding out the tape-wrapped wires. “Under the globe, so we couldn’t see it or the explosives, and ringed all around the bottom of the edge. Plus, I bet the bolts were cut or loosened.”
Marlowe nodded and moved into the center of the room, next to Jalen. In her pencil skirt and pin-tucked blouse, she looked like an old-timey detective or girl Friday, there to wisecrack about the crime. “Anyone could have set it off,” she agreed. “Our killer is smart. They would have ditched the remote immediately.”
“They probably set it off when they put up the poem,” Shelley offered. “There was so much chaos, and it was dark and smoky—any one of us had enough time to do it unobserved.”
“Our killer planned for all this,” Marlowe said.
“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.” Plum’s head was swimming. Maybe it was the lingering scent of gunpowder. Maybe it was the sight of her gorgeous best friend standing casually where moments before an actual explosion had gone off. Maybe it was the franks and beans backing up on her. But Plum felt like she was going to be sick.
“Call who what?” Marlowe asked solicitously, frowning at Plum in concern.
Plum closed her eyes, concentrated on her breathing. “Call them ‘our killer,’” she said. “You make it sound like we’re all next.”