2 #2
It was all there for her to see: a low-key happy birthday from Janelle.
Vi would never have forgotten—Janelle would have mentioned it too often.
Nate’s obliviousness this morning, and Janelle’s slightly overdone staged correction.
Even Mudge had said “Oh yeah” when she mentioned her birthday yesterday, then seemed not to know about it a second later.
It could not have been more obvious. She was slipping.
The common room had been decorated in crime scene tape. The moose head was wearing a party hat. There was a sheet cake on
the table, with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVIE painted on in icing in the style of cutout ransom letters. There was an assemblage
of a dozen people: Janelle, Vi, Nate, of course. Pix. Germaine Batt, the school’s resident reporter, with her increasingly
massive glasses. Maris, Ellingham’s resident theater kid, sat on the sofa with three people who Stevie only vaguely knew from
yoga class. Mudge was there, holding up a black-manicured hand in greeting. Even Larry, the head of security, was in attendance.
Larry and Stevie had developed a strong bond over the last year, and she was glad that he was there, though nothing says you’re
nailing it, socially, like having the sixty-five-year-old head of security at your birthday party.
“Your face this morning,” Janelle said, laughing. “When you thought I just gave you a blank book for your birthday. Oh my
God.”
Stevie flushed in shame as Janelle turned her toward the small pile of gifts sitting on the end of the table. Not only had
Janelle done all this, she had done it between exams, like a ballerina, taking massive, delicate leaps from point to point.
Vi got her hair bleach and dye to do Stevie’s roots and tweak the color to something more white blond.
Pix gave her a book on forensics. Maris gave her a deep red lip stain that seemed to be the same color she wore.
Larry presented Stevie with an ID card with her photo on it that read: STEPHANIE BELL, HEAD OF DETECTION, ELLINGHAM ACADEMY.
“Don’t try to swipe it anywhere,” he said. “It does nothing.”
Janelle presented her with a squishy package. Inside was a cobalt-blue sweater with an intricate yoke pattern at the top,
done in cream and golden yellow. Stevie recognized it at once—it was the sweater from season three of Dark Lodge, her favorite Nordic Noir mystery series, when the main detective had set aside the cream-colored fisherman’s sweater she
had worn for the first two seasons and gotten this one instead.
“It’s an Icelandic pattern,” Janelle said. “Called a Lopapeysa. I’ve been working on it since the summer.”
Stevie peeled off her hoodie. The sweater had the pleasant itch of good wool. It hung low on the shoulders and seemed to merge
with Stevie’s body, giving her a soft, fuzzy skin. A protective layer to keep the world out.
Janelle fussed over Stevie as the cake was served, then cuddled in a beanbag with Vi. Maris was holding court with the yoga
people on the sofa, talking loudly about her upcoming audition for the NYU drama department.
“I was going to send a video,” she said, “but I wanted to show how my voice could fill the space . . .”
The words rang off the low ceiling and hit the moose.
Stevie took a seat by the fire next to Nate, who was intently looking at his phone.
Her own phone was buzzing away in her pocket.
She would answer it soon, once she drank in a bit more of this peace.
The little pilot light of her soul was ticking and coughing up small blue sparks, almost coming to life.
The room was warm and full and right now, in this moment, everything was okay.
There was a knock on the door and Pix went to answer it.
“Here,” Nate said, pulling something from between the cushion and the side of his chair. “I didn’t put it with the other gifts
because I didn’t wrap it.”
He handed over a slim blue book with a threadbare spine. The black printed title stamped on the front read Finger Prints, Secret Service, Crime Detection.
“It’s from 1932,” he said. “Open to the front. There are fingerprints in it.”
Sure enough, there were blocky rolled fingerprints, where the original reader must have tested out their craft.
“There are fingerprints all over the book,” Nate said, tapping at the fireplace bricks. “And 1932, which is like, Ellingham
time. It seemed like it was meant for you.”
“It’s published by the Finger Print Publishing Association,” Stevie said, reading from the bottom of the title page. “These
people knew what they wanted to do.”
He gave her what passed in Nate terms for a smile, which disappeared as Germaine came over to join them.
“Hey,” she said, dropping down onto a floor cushion. “You feeling better? I heard you’ve been all weird.”
There were few secrets on the mountain, and fewer still when it came to Germaine, who kept tabs on everyone.
“I heard you blew your oral the other day,” she added.
“Had to be a better way of saying that,” Nate said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Aside from not at all.”
It was a sign of how well Stevie was feeling for a moment that she could almost laugh.
“You’re going to New York for the break?” Germaine asked Nate. “Do you have to meet with your editors or something? Is this
because you’re late with your book? Do they sit with you and help you plot it?”
“Oh my God,” Nate replied. “What are you doing?”
“What?” Germaine said.
“You could just save time and punch us both in the face,” Nate said.
“What?”
“Package for Stevie,” Pix said, mercifully interrupting this conversation by handing over a box.
Whatever it was had been sent by UPS and had a return address from a name she didn’t recognize somewhere in Pennsylvania.
She dug her fingers into the packing tape seam to pop it open. Inside, she could feel tissue paper and something soft.
“What is it?” Janelle said, coming over and batting a balloon away from the fire.
Stevie was frozen in place, her fingers on the heavy fabric of the object inside the box. She knew what it was from the feel
and a glance at the black wool.
She was holding David’s coat.