The Mystery of the Radcliffe Riddle

CHAPTER 1

Eudora Klinch died. I lowered myself onto the warped boards of the dock, next to Thad, and set The Gifton Gazette between us.

My feet dangled above the water for an instant, then I thought better of it and removed my sneakers. I’d found them in the church donation box last week, and while they were in decent enough shape, the fit was a bit loose, and I didn’t care to lose one or both to Chapman’s Pond.

The murky water didn’t seem to bother Ophelia much. The squirrel-chasing mutt who belonged to no one in Gifton, but was looked after by nearly everyone, barreled down the dock and leapt into the pond.

Why are you reading the obituaries, Grady? Thad asked. It’s creepy.

I’ve got nothing else to read. I swung my feet back and forth. It’s Sunday. The library’s closed and I’ve read everything I checked out last week. And it wasn’t like I could buy books when I ran out of something to read.

Ophelia swam to shore and disappeared into the woods chas- ing a squirrel.

Thad yanked a narrow bag of shelled sunflower seeds from his back pocket and poured a few into his hand. Want some?

No thanks. I pushed my hair away from my eyes. I needed a haircut, but they cost money, and I wasn’t about to trust Thad with a pair of scissors.

He flipped open his sketchbook and began another floor plan. If Thad wasn’t drawing houses, he was reading about them, or about architects. It was all part of his plan to become a world-famous architect himself. I wonder if Kooky’s ghost is digging up flowers for her heavenly mansion.

Eudora Klinch had earned her nickname—Kooky—due to the fact she had hauled a shovel with her wherever she went, and she’d dug more holes around town than a gopher on caffeine. Rumor had it, ages ago her ancestors buried something valuable somewhere in Gifton, but no one had ever found any treasure, not even Kooky Klinch.

Every so often she’d dig up some poor soul’s graveside flowers, claiming to have finally found the long-lost treasure, and then take them back to her house for replanting. Deputy Oringderff had long since given up talking to her about it. Said she saw no point in upsetting her, since it was obvious Miss Eudora’s corn bread wasn’t quite cooked all the way through.

Thankfully, she’d never taken the flowers from Mama’s grave. Dad would’ve had a fit. Me too.

At least that’s one thing we’d have agreed on.

Without Mama in between us, it had become so obvious Dad and I were on opposite sides in almost everything. If hope was a thing with feathers—like that Emily Dickinson poem that had been Mama’s favorite—mine had a broken wing. Or maybe I just had the wrong kind of bird. I figured Emily was saying hope was like a bird in her chest that sang no matter what. It sounded like maybe she had a sweet canary or something cheerful inside her.

But not me.

I had an annoying mockingbird, poking fun at my attempt to get along with Dad.

And I was pretty sure he had a vulture.

What I really wanted was Emily Dickinson’s canary.

What are y’all doing? Clemmie’s voice called from behind.

Thad jumped and accidentally sideswiped the package of sunflower seeds right into the pond. Frank Lloyd Wright! Why are you scaring me like that?

Thad’s idea of swearing was to spew architects’ names. At least I’d heard of this one. Clemmie wasn’t allowed to swear, but she usually didn’t let that stop her.

I glanced over my right shoulder, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun. Clemmie, in a brown tank a shade lighter than her skin, sauntered down the dock toward us with a swagger that radiated self-confidence. You’re going to turn into a boiled lobster. Her voice dragged its way through the soupy air and made its way to my ears.

I knew she wasn’t talking to me. Along with inheriting Mama’s Welsh green eyes and dark hair, I also had her olive skin, and it took a lot for me to be mistaken for a boiled lobster.

Like you never burn? Thad said.

I don’t, doofus. I just get darker. She flipped a handful of braids over her shoulder. And before you ask, yes, Black people can also get freckles.

No fair, he muttered. Thad was so white he could blend in with potato salad. Redheads are pale, but he took it to a whole new level. And you made me drop my snack. He stared mournfully at his floating bag of sunflower seeds. He reached down and pulled it out before it could sink to the bottom. Thad was drawn to food the same way moths are drawn to light. His stomach and love of architecture were his two main purposes for waking up. And despite the fact he ate all the time, a strong wind could probably blow him over.

Guess what? Clemmie said, wiggling in between us and bringing the scent of coconut lotion with her. She smelled loads better than Thad or me. I won our ever-so-official Battle of the Battles.

A couple weeks back before school ended, our history teacher, Mrs. Maragos, had crammed in a last-minute lesson about a bit of a kerfuffle during Georgia’s colonial history, the War of Jenkins’s Ear. Some British guy got his ear cut off by some Spanish guy and eight years of war followed. Even though a good chunk of the fighting happened in the Caribbean, parts of it took place near Gifton—stuff like militia raids and skirmishes.

After that history lesson, Clemmie, Thad, and I tried to see who could find the dumbest reason to start a war. All we’d discovered so far were that noble causes like freedom and liberty were few and far between, but dumb reasons were as common as mosquitoes on a summer night.

"What makes you think you’re the winner?" Thad asked.

Clementine Powell and Thaddeus Carlton were as different as cherries and cheese, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a closer pair of friends. Somehow, they made it work.

Unlike Dad and me.

Clemmie poked him in the chest. "I don’t think. I know. Ever hear about the War of the Golden Stool?"

Thad scowled. The what?

I didn’t think so. Clemmie grinned and glanced down at his sketchbook. Nice house, by the way.

Can’t it wait? I wiped away a bead of sweat. I was about to tell him about Eudora Klinch.

She’s not going anywhere. Hold on.

But—

Clemmie erased my protest with a wave of her hand. Later, Grady.

I groaned. Arguing with her was useless. She was the shortest of the three of us, but tough as a pine knot when she had her mind set on something.

Look here. She leaned toward me and pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. "Some British diplomat back in 1900—and why does it always seem to be the British?—demanded to sit on a stool that was considered sacred to the Ashanti people—they’re in Africa—and bam, war broke out. She thrusted the paper toward Thad. Read it. People died."

Thad folded the sheet in half and fanned his face.

Speaking of people who died, I said, let’s get back to Eudora Klinch.

Clemmie rested back on her hands and crossed her ankles. Is it true she was rich?

Thad stopped fanning. And cats! Didn’t she have a million of them? I remember one bit Ernie’s big toe last year. Held on tight too, until Ernie fed it one of his chicken nuggets.

Hard to blame the cat. Ernie Dixon was practically feral himself and smelled like chicken nuggets because that’s all he ever ate. His folks weren’t around much, and, according to him, his pet turtle Shelldon didn’t mind the smell and would even eat an occasional chunk of chicken himself.

I rolled my eyes. The obituary doesn’t mention money or cats. It’d be in bad taste. I swiped the fan from Thad and handed him the newspaper. Here, look.

He flapped it open and read aloud.

The rather eccentric Eudora Klinch surely went on to receive her heavenly reward last Thursday at the overripe age of 98. She lived in Gifton her whole life. She was an only child and never married. Miss Klench often won Yard of the Month for the beautiful flowers in her front lawn.

Clemmie shook her head. The mayor can’t even get her name right.

Mayor Shore ran The Gifton Gazette. He was reporter, editor in chief, and obit writer. The good man hadn’t developed a habit of proofreading any better than he developed photographs. The weekly newspaper was simply Deputy Oringderff’s police report sprinkled with blurry pictures, expired coupons, opinions, and typos.

Thad turned his attention back to the paper.

A graveside service will be held this Tuesday at four o’clock. Y’all know where. Feel free to bring flowers from Eudora’s front lawn—they were most likely yours to begin with anyway. Come if you have nothing else going on. Charlie Waddell, do not bring a date this time.

I swatted away a mosquito. I think we should go.

Thad pulled the Gazette down. Why?

Keep reading.

Reception provided by Gifton Cooking Society to follow immediately after. Please RSVP to Miss Ida Rose Cloyd who will be heading up the somber affair.

If anything good or bad happened in town, Ida Rose was guaranteed to be present and handing out food.

"On second thought, we should pay our respects." Thad handed back the newspaper.

Clemmie smacked her lips. I hope she brings cake.

I want her fried chicken, Thad said.

Are you serious? I’m definitely not eating her fried chicken, Clemmie said. If she eats that on a regular basis, her funeral will probably be next.

Ida Rose turned out fried chicken so greasy the undertaker probably could’ve tossed a couple pieces into Eudora Klinch’s coffin ahead of time and just let her glide through the Pearly Gates.

But the following week we learned that Clemmie, for all her many talents, was no fortune teller. Ida Rose was not the next Gifton resident to kick the bucket.

CHAPTER 2

On Thursday, two days after the late, unlamented Miss Eudora Klinch was laid to rest, Dad and I sat in our usual spot at Charlie’s Diner, the booth closest to the front door. Dad and Charlie Waddell had struck a bargain a couple years back: carpentry work for hotcakes. No one knew if the deal had an end date, but either Charlie liked having a handyman on retainer—ready to fix his broken tables or build flower boxes for the front walk or do whatever else needed doing—or he enjoyed sharing his hotcakes. Whichever way, I didn’t mind one bit because otherwise Dad and I would never eat out.

And I like eating out. I like being in the diner and feeling like a normal guy, like everyone else in town. The only difference was everyone else in town chitchatted at their table. Not Dad and me. We ate in near silence, answering the occasional question with one- or two-word responses, or even a grunt. Pretty much like we’d done for the last couple years.

I looked around. All the regulars were there. In the far corner, Roland Spears sat visiting with Ida Rose. Charlie stood behind the long counter pouring coffee into Badger Paulin’s cup for the fourth time. If drinking coffee was a crime, Badger was a repeat offender. But despite his love of caffeine and being named after a surly animal, Badger Paulin was as calm as a southern breeze…unless he was driving in the Tipton County Lawn Mower Derby, and then all bets were off. A few stools down, Badger’s older sister, Winifred, sat head-to-head with Arlene McGinter at the counter.

Miss Arlene’s tight silver coils barely moved as her head bobbed in agreement with whatever Winifred had just said. Since there were hardly any wrinkles on Miss Arlene’s dark skin, her silver hair and walking cane were the only things that hinted at the fact she was in her eighties.

Arliss, her husband, sat next to her and fiddled with his hearing aid, which hadn’t worked properly for quite some time. A year ago, he’d simply taken to shouting at everyone, which was a bit backward since the rest of us could all hear fine.

Next to him was the mayor’s wife, Muggie, whose real name no one remembered. She ran the Gifton Museum on the second floor of the courthouse library. She considered gossip a valid historical source. She leaned past Arliss, listening to Winifred and Arlene, all the while fiddling with her necklace. You’d have a better chance seeing Muggie without shoes on her feet than without her fake pearls.

Muggie came from old money, but her uncle Harold had stolen most of it ages ago and then ran off to the Marshall Islands to avoid being caught by the police. Supposedly any remaining real jewelry was sold and replaced with knockoffs. I guess Muggie’s family hoped their secret would be safe, but they didn’t take Winifred Paulin into account. Secrets poured out of her like water from a fountain.

She came by her gift of gab honestly though, with well over three hundred years of talkative genetics pumping through her system. Dad blamed it on the fact she hailed from a long line of preachers, starting with the Reverend Joseph Stone way back when Gifton was founded. It was no small wonder Winifred could talk the ears off an elephant.

Clemmie said Winifred would no more lay a bit of gossip to rest than would let her curls turn gray. She was the only seventy-year-old I knew with maroon hair.

Charlie spoke and made me forget about Winifred’s maroon hair. "Well now, he certainly ain’t your typical day-tripper." He stood by the front door holding an empty pot of coffee after wandering around and giving refills.

The room fell silent as we all turned toward the diner’s large front windows.

But the silence only lasted for an instant.

Then the scraping of chairs and the stampeding of feet filled the air. Plates abandoned, people sitting at the counter and the far tables scurried to booths near the windows and squeezed in with those of us already seated. Badger slipped in next to me and tried to press his face against the glass. Muggie wedged herself next to Badger. Good thing they built the foundation of Charlie’s Diner on a concrete slab, because if his restaurant rested on cinder blocks like our mobile home, the whole place would’ve tipped over on its side.

I elbowed Badger. You’re squishing me.

A man with a unibrow that looked like a big ol’ hairy caterpillar was crawling across his face stood on the other side of Maple Street. He scowled as he glanced back and forth from a paper in his hand to the diner. His fancy suit-and-tie getup separated him from the average Joe who occasionally came to Gifton for boring antique shopping.

He’s headed this way! Muggie called. Act natural!

A mad scramble back to seats and stools ensued, and by the time the man walked through the door, everyone was talking like it was just another normal day. Jessie Mae Stevens swished around the tables topping off coffee cups, and the clinking of silverware against plates filled the air.

Morning, Charlie said loudly, wiping down the counter. Can I help you?

The man cleared his throat. I’m Myron Burns of Burns, Burns, & Burns.

Badger swiveled on his stool. What is that? A boy band? What kind of music do y’all sing?

Some people, like Arliss, are hard of hearing. Not Badger. People say he’s hard of thinking, and chances are, they’re right.

Mr. Burns grimaced. It’s a law firm. I’m an attorney.

Well, I’ll be. Badger swiped some crumbs off the stool next to him and gestured toward it. Have a seat.

Mr. Burns shifted the briefcase to his other hand and eyed the crowded diner. I’m not here to eat.

This is an odd place to be if you’re not wanting to eat. Badger held his mug out to Charlie for another refill.

I’m looking for a Mr. Kevin Judd, the man said, turning and scanning the room once more. A boy near his house told me I’d find him here.

A quiet curse escaped Dad’s lips. He set his fork down.

I wondered if one of the people Dad