Chapter Twelve

The Riddled Tongue

Ten dollars will buy you a one-hour tour of the Sugar Hill Plantation if you're dumb enough to fork over the cash. Which I was. It's the easiest way I could figure to sneak up to the mansion's elusive third floor and talk to Gabby Newsome, especially since I am enemy number one in this house now that two Rutledges are dead.

Luckily, none of the family's vehicles are in sight. Not Lorelei's gold Firebird Trans Am, Mrs. Rutledge's white convertible, or Stone's red Corvette. The murder weapon that killed Adaire. It seems horrifically unfair that they're still sporting around town in that thing, like a hunting trophy proudly on display.

I shake off my angry thoughts and focus on what I came here to do, though I might have sprinkled a handful of walnut dust and graveyard dirt along the front stoop as I entered, inviting whatever darkness wanted inside for a visit.

A young girl in cheap period-specific antebellum attire has started the last tour of the day.

"William Tobias Rutledge purchased the land that eventually became Sugar Hill Plantation after an inspired visit to the Caribbean." She details a general list of what we will see today.

I wrench the brochure in my hands—the only souvenir my ten dollars got me—and I keep an eye out for the second hallway on the left that Becky said would lead to the family's private stairs.

The tour guide drops her regal flair and opts for a more somber tone. Now she's telling of the sinful past that rots the South's history, and the whole room quiets. She's brutally honesty in her description of the horrible conditions here. The whole antebellum South sickens me and heavies my heart. She waits a poignant quiet moment, letting us digest that hideous truth before continuing on about what type of candies were created using the Sugar Hill crop.

She airs a hand toward the main hallway for the tourists to follow. I drop back until I'm at the tail end of the pack and jump the velvet rope at the second hallway. A long corridor leads me to a set of unmarked stairs I disappear up.

This mansion is regal as hell: detailed woodwork, refined antiques, ornate decor. Jesus, I'd be a spoiled brat if I grew up here.

Once I arrive at the top level, I use the master key Becky was able to get a copy of—took her more than a week to get it—and unlock the door to their private floor. Stepping through the entrance, my mind travels back to when Aunt Violet brought me out here to talk the death out of Mrs. Rutledge's father, Mr. Godfrey Newsome.

She should have never dragged me there to save that rotting man.

In elementary school, a lot of kids thought Lorelei and Ellis Rutledge were ghosts. There were stories about two children who haunted the third floor of the Sugar Hill mansion.

I can still recall seeing them in the window as we pulled up. Side by side they stood, Ellis next to Lorelei, a dish next to a spoon. The boy was bloated like a balloon. Puffed so full he was ready to pop. The girl no less unforgettable. Gaunt eyes and skeletal thin, with a sour expression marring her face. Pitiful-looking kids who were unloved and uncared for despite their wealth.

When I was younger, I didn't know they still had all-boys and all-girls boarding schools that parents shipped off their children to. That was only something you read about in V. C. Andrews books. But the Rutledge twins come from old money. People like that can't be bothered with raising children.

Inside, the formal receiving room was a vast soulless space—even with its many antiques and oil paintings. There we sat at a play table, finer than any kitchen table I'd ever seen but small enough for children.

Not a word between us three kids as I waited to be called.

Red velvet plushed over the chairs. A miniature sterling silver tea set graced the table. Fifth grade felt a little too old for teatime, but they were a year or two younger than me, so I guess it was fine. Their manners were intact, but their personalities devoid of emotion. Aunt Violet gushed about how wonderful it was to have a tea party on real china.

"Isn't this a delight?" she asked.

Adults don't hide their nerves from children as well as they think. It was the way she glanced over at Stone Rutledge, still as a statue, waiting for her to finish placating me, that gave her away.

Aunt Violet had brought me there to do the death-talking—without grandmother's permission. But Aunt Violet's taste for whiskey outweighed her fear of her mother.

Then we were alone.

We three kids.

With our fine china, petite cakes, and sugary hot tea. Tiny sterling forks scraped quietly. Teacups clinked delicately.

The crinkle of Ellis's curls fought against the slick, glossy gel trying to tame them down. His plaid button-up shirt, freshly starched, made me a little embarrassed my cotton dress wasn't ironed. He inhaled the sweets and gulped the tea eagerly, shooting me smiles from that rounded face of his. He seemed nice. Friendly, even, like maybe we could play again sometime if they were allowed.

I don't think they would have been.

The girl's blue floral dress with puffy sleeves was made of a fine polished cotton. Something fancy enough to wear to church on Easter Sunday, but here she wore it in the middle of the week on summer break. She didn't offer any smiles. I would have thought her sad, had it not been for her grim stare. Maybe she didn't want to share her twin brother with me. Or maybe she didn't want someone of such a low caliber playing with her fancy tea set. I couldn't help but feel like Lorelei Rutledge hated me, even though we'd never formally met before that day.

She picked at her icy cubed cakes—petits fours, I believe they were—never eating them. Just decimating them into crumbs with the illusion of being consumed. I remember wanting her cakes if she wasn't going to finish them, my stomach rumbling all the while.

And death was there, too, slipping underneath the doorway from their grandfather's room. It clung to the air, thick as molasses. Smelled like a horse's stall that was sorely in need of a cleaning. The old man's soul-song a scattered sound of piano keys twinkling with no rhyme or reason; the disjointed tune set my teeth on edge.

Then Aunt Violet called, and I walked into the room past Stone. He was unable to look at me. Shame was there, tucked in the corner of his eyes. That and sorrow, like maybe he felt bad for me and what I was about to do. I wanted to touch his hand and tell him I'd be alright; it wasn't the first time I'd been called upon.

Velvet curtains stretched all the way to the ceiling, letting in a sliver of light. It was hard to make out the details in the dim, dusty room, but my eyes found Godfrey Newsome's as he struggled to cling to life.

The bed was a majestic beast, with its tall brooding wood balusters and bloodred bedding. Mrs. Rebecca Rutledge sat on the opposite of her father's bedside, eyes desperate and scared. It was a high bed, up to my chest. A stern, firm piece that looked uncomfortable to sleep on. I stood next to it, held out an open palm for old man Newsome to clasp. Cold and bony, his grasp was frail. He smelled of cigars and urine. I bent over to whisper the secret scriptures into his palm, and then I talked the death out of him.

Death curled itself in my belly like the gnarled roots of an old oak tree. It twisted inside me, a skeletal creature stretching to be born. It went on like that for more minutes than I wanted to endure. When it was done, a wad of death-ooze hung in my throat. With a garbled hawk, I spit it free in the fine teacup Aunt Violet held out for me. The black sludge slivered down and settled in the bottom.

Aunt Violet scuttled me out into the sitting room. My knees trembled like a fawn, weak and dizzy from the sickness that was coming. As I was ushered out, I saw a door on the other side of the room that was cracked open. It closed abruptly, the hem of a dress fluttering in its wake. We were sent on our way with a fistful of cash and not so much as a thank-you from the family.

Something made me turn around as we drove off. The tall dark figure of Stone Rutledge loomed in the upper window. It was impossible to know what he was thinking as he watched us go. Whatever it was made me feel sad and lonely. Forgotten.

Details of the sitting room haven't changed much all these years later. An oriental red carpet, just as fancy as I remember, covers the floor and matching velvet curtains hang alongside the windows. Stuck in the center, a round table with a large bouquet of fresh flowers just like before. Across the room, double doors lead to the tearoom, where I once sat with the Rutledge twins.

I smooth a nervous hand over my thin cotton dress, reciting in my head the script I plan to use. That I found this old picture of my mom and Gabby... How well did they know each other? I'd work my way into asking about the button tin, and if she knew it's importance for my mom. Doubtful, but Adaire didn't leave me with much else to go on.

Then, before my nerves give out, I'll ask her about the droplet of rain.

Not that great of a script.

Two light knocks on the door and a woman's voice on the other side gives me permission to enter.

Thirteen years it's been since I sat in this room that now houses an adult-sized table and tea set. Yellow balloons bunch around in various spots. Fresh flowers decorate a party table. A tiered cake, the center of attention, is beautiful enough for a wedding. A smattering of gifts are set in the corner. Fear hops in my chest. They're getting ready for a party—and parties typically mean people. Holy hell, if I get busted for being here, I'll be in a heap of trouble.

A woman samples one of the pastel mints from the silver candy dish and pops it into her mouth before she turns my way. I freeze for a half-second, not sure if this is Gabby.

"You're early for my party," the woman says, but then her brow dips in confusion as she realizes I'm not who she expected. It takes me a minute, but I slowly start to place her.

Her curly brown hair is riddled with wiry gray sprigs. The bags under her eyes too dark, like she's lived a heavy life. Her dress a cheery blue, with a refined lace looks like something straight out of Southern Living magazine.

"I..." I start, but all those practiced words just slip out of my head. "Happy Birthday, Gabby?" is what rolls out of my mouth. I hold my breath and hope I'm right. Then I waggle my plastic sack with the old tin as if I've brought a gift and that makes my presence here legitimate.

Her face lights up. "Don't you mean congratulations, silly?" She eagerly fans a hand for me to join her at the table already set for tea.

"Yes, sorry, I meant congratulations." I sigh with relief. Though I'm unsure what I'm congratulating her for.

"You must be one of Lorelei's friends from college." Gabby pours steaming hot tea into our cups, eyeing me with an eager curiosity. Across the table, slouching in his seat, a giant teddy bear with a gift bow tied around his head. A dainty teacup of his own sits in front of him.

"We know each other" is how I leave it.

"Sugar?" Pinched between a pair of dainty sterling silver tongs, she holds an anticipatory white cube, awaiting its fate.

They don't match her tea set. The tongs. They don't have the fine dotted trim of the silver creamer and sugar bowl. Of course, the tray doesn't belong to the set, either, as it is scalloped while none of the other pieces are. Like the antique dining table we're seated at, similar to the chairs, but not the same, though they try to be. A bunch of one-off pieces. It's like the family doesn't trust her with the good stuff, and she hasn't noticed they're knockoffs.

"Yes please." I hold out my cup for her to drop the cube into but she doesn't.

"Whores don't get sugar."

I fumble my teacup and saucer. What did she say?

She politely drops the cube into her own cup.

"I saw you through the window." She inclines her head toward the one she's referring to, then takes a delicate sip of her hot tea.

The window she's talking about looks down on the rear of Clementine's. I clear my throat. Heat flushes up my neck, warming the back of my ears. I might have fooled around with Ricky once or twice behind the restaurant. Had no clue we could be seen from up here.

I sip my sugarless tea.

There are a few quiet seconds of spoons stirring and cups clinking against saucers until I finally speak up.

"The truth is, Gabby," I start, "I didn't come here for the party. I came here to—"

"Apologize for the whoring?" she asks, her voice upturned again. My eyes bulge.

Now, if this would have been any other person, I might have chewed them an earful about being such an asshole, but with the shock of it all—and the fact I'm here to get information—I grit my teeth.

"Uh, no. I didn't realize... That was just... What I was trying to say—"

"Shh." Gabby gently presses a finger to her lips, then glances over to the corner.

I follow her gaze to the two brand-new cribs with giant gift bows attached to them. A chill slithers up my spine. My eyes jump around the room to the rattle on the cake, the stork on some of the balloons, and the ABC blocks that spell Congrats.

Is she pregnant? Becky said they kept Gabby under lock and key. Maybe that's why they sent her abroad, to hide a pregnancy the family would have a hard time explaining? So if this is a baby shower, the family must be throwing it.

Which means Lorelei and Mrs. Rutledge and whoever else will be joining us any minute. Wary, I look at the clock and wonder how long I have before they arrive. It's hard to believe they'd still press on with a party after what happened to Ellis—to Stone.

"You know," Gabby starts. She tilts her head, curious. "What I don't understand is who gave you permission to play with my dolls?" She genuinely looks perplexed. My eyes dart to the teddy bear, frowning at us from across the table.

"I didn't. I don't think I understand—"

"Now, now, don't you tell a fib." She wags a finger at me. "Of course you did. I saw you. It was very naughty of you to make them go night-night. Naughty! Naughty!" Her voice shrieks.

What is she going on about?

"It's interesting, if you think about it." She pours a bit of cream in her tea, takes her time to stir it with her dainty spoon. "You are a made thing, birthed and all, but you're not..." Gabby pauses to find the word "...normal." Her voice drops as she says it. Her head dips, and a wicked look blooms in her eyes. "But that's why they say you're the Devil's kin, isn't it? You're simply a tool, and he puppets your strings. Dancey, dancey." She bounces her hands and wiggles her fingers as if she's operating a marionette. "Die, doll, die," she sings. A wild expression cartoons her face. "Close your little eyes. When you sleep, the death you keep. Die, doll, die." Gabby claps her hands, thrilled by her little performance.

"Gabby, I'm not sure who you think I am—we've never met before, I think you might be confused—"

"Confused?" She huffs a laugh. "Why, you're the baby murderer, aren't you?"

Her words slip into my gut, flipping it upside down.

Slowly, the memory comes into focus. The old farmhouse and its ugly floral wallpaper, and Gabby in the back bedroom, screaming.

Her eyes gleam, as if this is the fun part of the game she's been playing in her head. She can see the realization spread across my face.

My teacup trembles against the saucer as I set it down. "Gabby, I was a child who didn't understand the power I had or how it could be used. I didn't know what it was being used for, who it was given to," I say with the utmost regret. My hands smooth out the wrinkles in my dress. "I should have apologized to you a long time ago. I just didn't know who you were. I am sorry, though, for what happened to you."

"It was your fault, you know. I knew it the second I saw what you did to Daddy." A memory flashes: the crack of the door and the swish of the skirt. It was her, watching from the other room. She saw me talk the death out of her father, saw the mucus that came up after.

"I was trying to save your father. Your sister, she called my aunt and asked for the Sin Eater Oil for you."

Suddenly, she straightens up. "You're not here for the party. So, what did you really come for?" she asks, folding her hands in her lap.

I swallow hard, not sure where to start.

From my purse, I pull out the photo of her and my mother. "You knew my mother once." I slide the picture across the table.

Gabby picks it up delicately. Fondness for the memory softens her features as she admires it. A light smile edges out, as if she's slipping back in time.

"Do you remember her? Darbee Wilder?" She's still studying the photo, lost in that day long ago. "She had this old button tin." I pull it out of the bag to show her. "Do you recognize it? Do you know what she kept in it?"

Gabby rears back as if I laid a snake in front of her. "Lies!" she hisses and pushes back from the table. "That's what was in it! Sin and lies," she says through snarled teeth. Abruptly, she stands and paces in tiny circles. Picking at her nails. Her eyes dart to the tin box and away.

"You should go," she whispers, as if she doesn't want anyone to hear. "Go, go, go." She quietly shoos me with her fingers.

"But Gabby—"

"No." She shakes her hands frantically in the air, batting away the memories I've unearthed. "Go." She points a rattled finger toward the door, wearing a hole in the floor with her back and forth.

The swing of her moods is jarring. It's obvious this woman isn't of sound mind and pushing her further probably won't get me very far. Reluctantly, I take the picture of my mother and the tin and shove it back into the plastic Walmart bag. I stand, about to leave, but the thought of walking out that door feels too final. And it will be. Once this household—or the sheriff—learns I snuck in here, I won't get back in. And I'll probably never see Gabby Newsome again.

This opportunity is now or never.

"Tell me about the droplet of rain."

Gabby's head jerks sharply my way; she freezes in her tizzy. Eyes dart to the door, to the balcony, to the windows, as though looking for someone secretly lingering.

"You know about the deer?" she whispers. There's a guarded, yet eager hesitation, but it's clear she's hoping for a yes.

I pretend to be concerned there are ears nearby as well. I give her a small nod. The tension in her body slackens as a huge grin grows on her face.

Gabby curls her hands to prance. "Bumpety, bumpety. Hop, hop." She jumps forward twice. "Out came the deer and nobody stopped." She shakes her head with an exaggerated no. "From its pocket, fell a blue drop of rain." Her hands cup together as if she's holding the droplet. "She whispered the recipe to see again." Gabby stood tall and proud as if she just recited the Pledge of Allegiance in front of the entire class.

She shushes me. "No one is supposed to know."

"Know what?"

"About the deer." Gabby fidgets with her fingers again, warily eyeing the door. "But I kept it." A childlike mischievous grin fans across her face.

"The deer?" Now I have images of a deer stowed away in the closet or locked out on that balcony.

"No, silly. The blue droplet of rain. But don't tell, or she'll get so mad. Lorelei's always mad." Gabby nervously straightens the napkins on the food table. Tweaks and turns the nuts bowl and the mints tray, eyes always flitting to the door.

A coil of unease settles itself in my belly. This is exactly what Adaire was telling me. Her riddled tongue can guide you to see, I remind myself.

"Can I see it?" I flash an eager grin and match Gabby's secretiveness as I slowly rise out of my chair. "Can I see the droplet of rain?"

Gabby steps back, guarded and unsure. She drums her fingers across her bottom lip, considering.

"I won't tell." I stand tall and hold high my three-finger Girl Scouts promise.

The edge of her mouth lightly curls upward. That's a promise she's willing to trust.

"Yes, yes, you can see." She bounces over to a desk in the corner and picks up a pink flowered box. When the lid opens, up pops a tiny plastic ballerina. I had a similar jewelry box when I was younger.

Her fingers scrounge around the trinkets and other treasures she keeps in there until... "Here!" She plucks a single item and holds it out for me. I open a palm to receive it. The tiny blue glass hits my hand like a weighted stone.

A cobalt blue bottle stopper.

The very one that matches the perfume bottle that holds my Sin Eater Oil, that sits next to Grandmama's recipe box.

The whooshing in my chest muffles my hearing. The earth waves under my feet. My thoughts trip over themselves, trying to calculate two and two and coming up with orange. A cold chill races up my spine. The mystery of this deer story feels imperative to unravel.

"Where did you say you met this deer?"

"Near the woods." She holds her hand out for me to return it to her. Instead, I pull back. This dwindles the joy lighting her face.

"This deer had a pocket?" My words a little firmer.

"Mmm, huh." She murmurs and nods eagerly, but she catches onto my wariness. "But don't worry about the deer." She misreads my concern "It's just sleeping."

"Sleeping?" I step closer. She steps back, bumping into her baby's crib.

"Yes." She turns nervously and fingers the white lace layered around the edge. Then she lovingly looks inside the small crib. "Sleeping like an angel," she whispers lightly and with a soft push, the cradle rocks. She hums a rhythmic cadence.

"Bumpety, bumpety. Hop, hop," she sings. "Out came the deer and nobody stopped." She shakes her head to the other crib. "From its pocket, fell a blue drop of rain." She playfully twinkles her fingers downward. "She whispered the recipe to see again. Sleeping!" Gabby twists around to me, eyes bright with joy. "A long forever nap. Like Stone. Like Ellis."

A wave of unease crashes over me.

"Like my babies!"

Slowly, I turn my attention to the two cradles. A faint dirty handprint stains the frilly lace on one. The realization of what she's saying dawns on me.

I peer over the edge, praying to sweet Jesus I'll see two beautiful baby dolls.

It's my fears that are answered and not my prayers.

Two dirty swaddles lie in each crib. The same meager blankets Grandmama wrapped those twins up in all those years ago. Threadbare and stained brown from rot. I stumble back, almost tumbling over the settee.

A haunting sneer spreads across that thin bony face of hers. Gabby tilts her head, almost gloating at the stark fear she senses in my reaction. She walks over and reaches into the crib, running a delicate touch over the foul empty blankets.

"Precious, aren't they?" She sighs a blissful motherly sigh. "My family gets mad when I sneak out, but you won't tell, will you? It'll be our little secret." Then she straightens and turns to me. "You didn't even ask me what the deer was going to cook." She seems affronted, and it takes my brain a chugging minute to catch up.

"A recipe to see?" I pluck the words from her little rhyme.

"Yes!" She rushes over to me before I can back away. "A recipe to see!" She thrusts herself right up in my face, then grabs my wrists, and we start to spin. "A recipe to see. A recipe to see!" she sings. "Devil's Seed Child. Devil's Seed Child, a recipe to see!"

We dance in a circle.

A wave of sickness flushes over me. My mind can't let go of this sleeping deer. This dead deer with a pocket. A pocket that carried the blue stopper that belongs to a perfume bottle that's been in my family for generations. No clue how long that stopper has been missing, I've only ever known the mismatched one that we have now. My gut knows what she's telling me, but my head doesn't want to think who this dead deer is.

What if Adaire found the stopper at the farmhouse, among my mother's things?

Gabby stops abruptly, her face realizing something. "You won't tell, will you?" And before I can promise my silence, a dark malevolence shadows her face. For a split second, her eyes eclipse to black orbs, then the orbs are gone in a blink. So fast, maybe I'm wrong.

Or worse, maybe Gabby Newsome isn't running herself anymore.

She grips my wrists tighter. "You better not tell!" she screams into my face. Specks of spit flying from her mouth.

"Let go!" I twist my wrists and wrench myself free, frantically distancing myself from her.

"You'll burn in hell if you tell!" She charges toward me, angry fists shaking above her head. I trip, knocking against the table of food. Mints scatter across the floor. Scrambling to get away, I twist and turn and race out the door. "Burn in hell!" These are the last words I hear screamed at my back as I fly down the family's private stairs.

I thrust through the kitchen, past the surprised staff, and rush out the back door. I'm not a half step outside when I'm tossed back by the sight of Stone Rutledge's pristine red Corvette parked right in front of me.

Lorelei casually pulls her shopping bags from the back seat of her father's car. "Oh, perfect, can you help us with these—" She freezes at the sight of me. Her face twists to rage.

It's not until I hear the bags hit the ground that I see her fist flying through the air. It cracks against my cheek with a wicked crunch.

Stars spark.

Darkness drops over my sight.

Gravel from the driveway digs into my elbows.

"Stay the hell away from our home, you freaking psycho!" Lorelei screams over me. I press my palm to my throbbing cheek. My head a clogged, dizzy mess. Rebecca Rutledge has stepped out of the car now and is just standing there, glaring down at me with a smug look. Perfectly happy to watch her daughter assault me.

The back door swings open, and Gabby flies out. "Devil's Seed Child!" she screams joyfully at the top of her lungs.

"My brother's dead because of you!" Lorelei kicks me in the shins, and I curl to block her. "And you show up at my house!" She kicks me again.

"You are a naughty, naughty girl!" Gabby stomps her foot on the stoop with every word.

My hands tremble from rattled nerves. The pristine front grill of Stone's car a menacing smile as they both scream at me.

Lorelei bends over, grabs me by the shirt, and pulls my face to hers. "You think you can come here and do what? Beg for forgiveness?" she asks, but I don't answer; I can't find any words. Her necklace swings violently at her throat. "You come around here again and I'll—"

My hand snakes out, and I capture the gold coin dangling from her ribbon necklace. "The scales of justice," I whisper as I see the image. A tiny constellation of stars diamond around the image of a woman holding the scales.

Lorelei steps back, confusion edging across her face. She tucks the ribbon inside her shirt protectively.

Find the scales of justice. She holds the truth.These were Adaire's words just days before she died. Lorelei shrinks back, fear spiking in her eyes. I push myself up to stand.

One of the cooking staff bursts through the kitchen door. "What's going on out here?" A few others bustle out the door behind him. He assesses the situation; his eyes jump with recognition when they land on me.

"Call the cops, you nitwits!" Rebecca barks at them.

But I've already turned to leave, headed down the hill toward Clementine's, where I parked Adaire's car.