Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

“Owen, hello! What—what brings—?”

“Sorry to bust in on you like this but I couldn’t find a phone number.”

“Well, that might be because I haven’t a phone!” she said jovially. With flustered concern she asked, “Is something wrong? Is Adelaide all right?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “And forgive me again, but it’s a little urgent and I wasn’t sure when I’d see you.”

She was mindful that Willow was on his way but it was still early enough. “Come in!”

The SRO building was ramshackle but he noted the elegance she’d brought to the tiny, immaculate room. A lovely kilim carpet spanned most of the floor. Atop a low table was a dark stone vase of white roses.

“I don’t have a sitting room,” she said humbly. “Though I should say all I have is a sitting room—as you can see.”

“The reason I’m here is to ask about Renée Devonshire.”

Annie looked at him quizzically. “Who is that?”

“A student at Mount Clemens High. She killed a boy there on Thursday. You may have heard what happened.”

“Oh Lord. I didn’t—I haven’t. I’m afraid I’m not much of a newshound. But how awful, how terribly awful.”

“I came because we learned that Renée dropped in on some sort of meeting, in Detroit. At the Divine Child Parish on Lafayette Circle. Do you know it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Your name is listed as the person who rents that space for an AA meeting at the hour Renée visited.”

“I did rent that space, but had to give it up.”

Annie already knew what she’d tell him. She had rehearsed the probability of such an encounter in her head for years. “It’s not AA, Owen. That must be some sort of clerical error. It’s where I teach—or taught—my class.”

“What sort of class, Annie? Do you mind me asking?”

“Not at all! You see—I’ve never even told Adelaide this—I teach creative writing. It’s a bit embarrassing,” she said, charmingly contrite. “But, well, I always wanted to write. And I did write—tried to, anyway . I think it’s safe to say that, over time, I became painfully aware that the public, not to mention the publishers, weren’t beating a pathway to my door. In fact, they were beating a pathway away from it! If it said ‘by Annie Ballendine,’ well, people just seemed to become… allergic. And I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t have the talent. But I found that I might have the talent to teach.”

“I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher.”

“I’m not licensed, Owen. I don’t even have a degree, so I hope you’re not here to arrest me.”

He knew she was kidding but still wanted to allay any concern. “Of course not. What kind of writing is it, Annie?” he asked, more curious now than interrogatory.

“Oh, all sorts. Mostly poems and short stories but my kids have been doing a lot of memoir work, which is still very much in vogue. It’s actually a wonderful tool for self-discovery. But I encourage my students in whatever they feel drawn toward. They do write a disproportionate amount of stuff about childhood… People don’t seem to want to grow up!”

“Sounds pretty great. And as far as I know, you can hang up a shingle without legal repercussions.” He winked. “Oh: the girl Renée was also known as Honeychile. Does that ring a bell?”

“‘Honeychile,’ yes!” She made a split-second decision to be candid, or as candid as she could, because she didn’t want to get tripped up if Owen had something else up his sleeve. “I do remember, it was such a cute and unusual name. She came—when was it, a few weeks ago?—and I’m afraid it didn’t turn out very well.” Her nose wrinkled when she said the last, as if hinting at bad behavior. “She’s quite young, no?”

“Fourteen.”

“Well, I have no idea how she found my little workshop. I’m prone to bursts of enthusiasm—I go around town putting up flyers and they wind up being read by all sorts of people…”

“Do you remember if she came alone?”

“I don’t believe she did,” said Annie, cocking her head in recollection. “I’m pretty sure she came with a friend.”

“And what happened?”

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“I thought she was… unstable . You know, I’m a pretty good, quick read on folks, especially children—though I never had any of my own. And this girl wanted to just barge in . Since the class was already in session—well, I thought it would be disruptive, and unfair to the others. And … she didn’t have the tuition.” An anxious look mottled her features. “I only charge ten dollars, Owen, I hope that’s all right?”

“That’s fine,” he said, smiling.

“It’s really just to cover rent at the church and pay for cookies and lemonade. And coffee!” she amended, to make things sound more adult.

“You should raise your prices! The sheriff gives you full authority.”

“I hate turning away anyone who wants to write.” She literally wrung her hands. “I felt sorry for that child… but from what you told me, I’m rather glad I didn’t let her in. God knows what might have happened.”

“Well, thank you, Annie. And sorry again to bust in on you.”

“Don’t be silly. And please give my love to your better half.”

“One more thing,” he said, fishing something from his pocket. “We found this in Renée’s room. Have you seen it before?”

She took it from his hands and blanched. It was the Guide .

“She doodled on it—your name’s right there, see? ‘Annie Ballendine.’ And another name—there. It says ‘Dabba Doo.’ Maybe she’s a Flintstones fan.”

“Might it be her diary?” she said, playing the naïf.

“I don’t think so. As you can see, it’s printed out. Which would be unusual for a diary.”

“Well, it is a puzzle, isn’t it… Maybe it’s some writing that she was planning to share at my class? A fantasy story or something? Oh dear. Now I feel worse for not letting her in.”

“What’s strange is that she wrote ‘Winston’ on the cover. Though it seems to be in a different handwriting…”

“Winston?”

“The name of a boy who was murdered a few weeks ago.” There was, of course, no reason for him to discuss Honeychile’s connection to the discovery of Winston’s body.

“Another murder? Lord, Owen! What’s happening to the world? You’re not saying she had anything to do with—”

“I’m not saying that at all. But she did kill a boy at school. There’s no question about that.”

She looked at the Guide and read “Winston” out loud. “It is odd. It is very , very odd.”

“Thank you for your time, Annie. And good luck with your students.”

Zelda, not Honeychile, was mostly responsible for Annie’s decision to change venues—it never bode well for an outsider to know the location of a Meeting. And in the end, she’d been correct; it was Zelda who made it possible for the sheriff to connect the dots that led him to the Porter. If he had actually shown up while a Meeting was in session, the consequences could have been catastrophic.

Ten minutes after Owen departed, at seven on the dot, Willow Wylde knocked on the door. Because he was in law enforcement, she assumed that he knew the sheriff, but had no idea of their long history and close ties. She was going to tell him about the unexpected visit, then thought better of it when she saw his face.

She’d been telling him that the Meeting would be a “great adventure”—but he looked scared to death.