IF YOU’RE reading this, I’m already dead. Rose is right. I am obsessed.
The box is open on my bed. Once again I’m staring at Girl Detective’s handwriting, rereading the cryptic clue.
Who was Ruthie Delgado? How did she die? And who was Girl Detective? She must have had a name and a reason for burying the box and writing the clue.
Gazing at the Nancy Drew mysteries on my shelf, I wonder if Nancy ever had to solve two murders.
Rose, Ally, and I were at the pool all morning before I came back home to eat some lunch and pick up Zora. I was supposed to be on Zora duty for the afternoon and was planning to work on her swim strokes. I’m a very good swimmer—was on the swim team for three years—but Zora is not a duck who takes to water. She’s timid in the pool and I want to help her be brave.
On my way home, I passed Mrs. Hale’s house. I stopped and listened to the breeze whispering through her creepy trees. Mrs. Hale was nowhere to be seen but I gave her a little wave anyway. She’s in that big house so covered with ivy it might eat her alive. I imagine her waving back at me from behind her curtains.
As I cut through our next door neighbors’ Japanese gardens, I saw Mom’s car parked in our driveway. Something was up. She was supposed to be at work.
Mom is a research scientist at the CDC. That’s the Center for Disease Control. She studies weird diseases and stuff like that. Science-y stuff. Stuff I don’t really care about and stuff that scares me sometimes.
“Mom!” I yelled as I came in.
“In the kitchen, Birdie.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, stopping cold when I saw the multiple jars of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, jam, olives, horseradish, and other assorted hundred-year-old condiments laid out on our kitchen table.
“I live here,” she said.
“Very funny.”
She twisted off the lid of a mayo jar, took a sniff, and pulled a sour face. “Oh, that has got to go,” she said, placing the jar on the counter before looking back at me. “Hey, baby.”
“What are you doing, Mom?”
“Zora doesn’t feel well and she wanted me to come home.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“My professional opinion?” She lowered her voice. “I think she needs some mama love … and your dad could use a day to himself.”
“So why are you cleaning out the refrigerator?”
“Because I’ve discovered it’s not so much a refrigerator as a petri dish. You can’t imagine some of the bacteria that’s been growing in there.”
With Mom it always comes back to science. “Comforting to know,” I said, plopping down at the table. “Dad usually makes us lunch about now.”
“I can make lunch. Look at these olives,” she said with horrified delight as she held out the jar to me. I practically puked. “It’s fascinating what’s at the back of the fridge.”
“That’s so gross.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective. What kind of sandwich would you like? I was thinking—”
“No peanut butter and banana,” I said firmly.
“Oh,” she said, puzzled. “Then what?” She looked inside the open refrigerator door and pulled out a plastic bag of meat. “Turkey looks good.”
“Yes, please!”
As Mom stood at the counter making the sandwiches, I grouped the jars and bottles as neatly as possible to the far side of table.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked while dealing turkey slices onto three pieces of bread.
“A penny isn’t much.”
“Guess it hasn’t been adjusted for inflation since your nana used to say it to me. What should it be?”
“Ten dollars?” I said, hopefully.
“Dream on, kid. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“When were you born? What year, I mean?”
“Way back in 1975.”
“What was it like back then?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I was a baby.”
“I bet Aunt Lisa knows.”
“Yes, because Aunt Lisa is much older than me and she remembers everything.” She brought two plates of turkey sandwiches, potato chips, and pickles and placed one in front of me.
I examined the pickle. “Is this safe to eat?”
“I’m a scientist. You can trust me.” She took a huge bite out of her pickle.
I felt a sudden urge to tell her everything. About the box. About the ticket. About the Allman Brothers Band. But instead I asked, “Could you and Dad have been married if we lived back then?”
“When?”
“The 1970s.”
Mom paused. Whenever I bring up race stuff, she always gets really thoughtful. Unlike Dad, who will say practically anything.
“Not impossible. But I think it would have been hard. Especially someplace like here.” She meant Atlanta. The South. My mom grew up in Atlanta but my dad’s from Chicago.
“Is it hard now?”
“No. Mostly. But there are moments,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve seen how it can be sometimes.”
I thought back to that time in the grocery store when an older white lady complimented Mom on her beautiful daughter, Ally. When my mom corrected her and told her that I was the daughter, the woman huffed and walked away.
“But it doesn’t happen often,” Mom said. “Thankfully, the world is always changing.”
I nodded and took a bite of my sandwich.
“You’ve never asked me that before,” she said with a smile. “My girl is getting all grown up.”
“Birdie?”
I turned to see Zora standing at the door to the kitchen, thumb in mouth, and holding a miniature rocket in her other hand. Her knees were peeking through the holes of her Doc McStuffins pajamas and her soft ’fro was in tangles.
“Zora, we’ve gotta do your hair,” I said.
“I did her hair,” Mom said as Zora curled up in her lap like a three-year-old.
I smiled at my blond-haired, blue-eyed mom. She tries, but she’s terrible at black hair. I remember walking around in a matted mess until my dad’s mom taught me how to do it right. Then I finally got my braids and life became so much easier.
“Zora needs braids, Mom,” I said, partly because I’m tired of doing it and partly because Zora needs all the help she can get. “Professional ones.”
“Can we wait until she’s eight to talk about that? Can’t I keep one of my girls little for at least one more summer?”
“Do I have fever, Mommy?” Zora asked pitifully.
Mom felt her forehead. “No, sweetheart. No fever.” She kissed Zora on the cheek. “I know. Why don’t we play a game?”
“Mom, they’re waiting for me at the pool!” If Zora was sick, I could just hang out with my friends. We could even sneak away to the island for the afternoon.
“It’s just one day, Birdie,” Mom said. “Why don’t you stay home with us?”
I stared at them, Mom and Zora, and thought: What do you do when your mom’s home from work and your sister’s sick and your friends are at the pool and the great mystery of your life’s waiting for you in a box under your bed?
You play Candy Land.
For a dumb kid’s board game, it took longer than you’d think. Especially because we played it twice. After that, we baked chocolate chip cookies and sang to Zora’s favorite music. Finally, I texted Rose from Mom’s phone that I wouldn’t be back for the day, blaming it on sick Zora.
Once Zora curled up in front of a movie, I slipped upstairs and pulled the clue box out from under my bed. The bright day had turned ominous gray. I studied the clouds through the window. Cumulus coming in from the west (thanks, Science Mom). A gong of thunder threatened in the distance and rolled in like a surfer on a wave.
Cross-legged on my bed, I read the words again. For the hundredth time, I put on my Nancy Drew hat and concentrate on the clue, line by line.
If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. Okay, that’s pretty clear. Girl Detective buried the box before she was … dead. But who was supposed to be reading this?
Not me. We found it by accident. It must have been meant for somebody else. Somebody in 1973. Maybe an official somebody. But who? And why didn’t they find it back then?
R.D. is not alone anymore. That’s easy. R.D. is Ruthie Delgado. R.D. must have died. Or was murdered. But how? And what does the ticket have to do with it? And what about the mood ring that Ally thinks is haunted?
Because now I’m a dead girl, too. Even though this happened long ago, it’s hard to read this. Especially by myself, alone in my room. Girl Detective buried the box and left the clues. She once wore the ring and held the ticket in her hand. Why does she have to be dead, too?
I could have mailed this (I could have!) but … Well, that would have made it a lot easier, for sure. And much more efficient for whoever was supposed to read this in 1973.
I’m not going to make it easy for you this time. Couldn’t be less easy, but I can’t shake this feeling that she did tell someone. She solved the crime of Ruthie Delgado, told an adult (maybe the police), and they didn’t believe her. After all, she wrote the words I TOLD YOU SO. And what happens on every TV show when nobody believes you? You go after the killer yourself!
You know her address. Whose address? Ruthie’s? I’ve looked for it online—I’m guessing she lived in the neighborhood, maybe?—but there’s no trace of her or her family. It’s like all the Delgados simply vanished.
Where feathers are hard. I still have no idea what that means. Little help, G.D.?
Keep following the clues! Okay, but we only have two. A ring and a ticket. But where are they taking us?
Because he’s still out there. Even though this clue was written in 1973, and he might not be out there anymore, I feel a shiver run through my body. Who is he? Who was he? And what did he do to Ruth Delgado?
I turn over the yellowed notepaper and stare at the words I TOLD YOU SO again. Yeah, she must have told somebody and they didn’t believe her. And our Girl Detective was mad, I just know it. Really angry that nobody listened. I’m a little angry for her now.
I’m about to flip the piece of paper back over when I see it. On the bottom right-hand corner of the page. Little ink marks. I’ve noticed them before but they were so small, I didn’t think anything of them. Just some inky scratches. But …
Hopping off the bed, I reach into my desk drawer and extract my magnifying glass. I hold it steady over the corner of the page. Squinting through the glass, I pull the image into focus.
It’s a tiny stick figure. Crudely drawn but unmistakable. A drawing of a little bird.