Ashes to Ashes

I CAN’T GET MARY OUT OF MY HEAD.

So Monday morning, I cut first period and go looking for Ms. Chirazo. Maybe she can tell me something about where Mary went. Just because Mary isn’t locked up in the attic with her freaky aunt doesn’t mean I have the best feeling about what could have happened to her. The guidance secretary doesn’t see me come in, she’s on the phone, so I just walk straight into Ms. Chirazo’s office.

She’s not there.

I wait for a few minutes, feeling stupid. I’m not sure what Ms. Chirazo is going to be able to tell me. I bet there are privacy laws and shit that she won’t be able to go against, even if she is cool with me. There aren’t even any student files on her desk. Everything’s on her computer. I lift my ass off the chair and peer at the screen. It’s open and on, no password required.

Fuck it. I jump into her chair. If I can look up Mary’s student records, maybe there will be some contact information. Either for Aunt Bette or for her parents. Mary might have gone home to them for the holidays and decided not to come back. If that’s the case, I’ll call her or write her a letter. Better yet, Lillia and I can take a road trip to visit her.

I open an icon that says “Student Transcripts,” and I type in “Mary Zane” and then hit enter. An hourglass pops up as the computer searches the records. It takes forever because this computer is as old as shit.

Nothing.

I try it again with “Zane, Mary.” And then just “Zane,” in case maybe “Mary” is short for some weird name I don’t know. No dice. Weird. I plug in her address and search again. But each time, nothing comes up.

There’s no record of her at all.

What the hell?

I hear a pair of sensible shoes outside the door, and I have just about half a second to get out of Ms. Chirazo’s chair and back into the one on the other side of her desk.

“Kat?”

“Hey.” I feel like Ms. Chirazo knows I was up to something, because she gives me this weird, distrusting look. I’ve gotten that look hundreds of times, but never from her. “I wanted to stop by and make sure that whole smoking thing from last week was taken care of.” I clear my throat. “I should probably get to class.”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Good idea, Kat.”

After school I meander over to the Preservation Society office in White Haven. It’s my first day back since the holidays. The decorations have already been taken down—the wreaths, the electric candles flickering in each of the windows, the balsam greenery they had me wrap around the banisters and the door frame.

If I had driven straight over, I would have been on time, but I sort of cruised around the island for a bit with my windows down, because, well, I don’t know. I guess I hoped that the fresh air would clear my head. Except it didn’t. I’m as much of a mess as the piles of dirty slushy snow along the road.

I trudge up the stairs, reeking of cigarettes, my boots soaked clear through, and my nose running snot like crazy. Hopefully they’ll take one look at me and send me home, but as soon as I’m through the door, Danner Longforth jumps out of her office and points at the clock on the wall with a bony, manicured finger.

Danner Longforth is one of the youngest women working at the Preservation Society. I bet she’s not even thirty. She’s married to a super-old rich guy who lives near the Chos. I doubt she’s ever had a real job. She gets way too excited about office supplies—paper clips and shit.

“Katherine.” Her voice is as thin as her body, and she holds the n sound of my name until she’s standing directly in front of me. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

It catches me off guard. Danner isn’t my superior or my boss. In fact, I didn’t even think she knew my name. “I—”

“I know you don’t think so, but we do important work here.” She waves at the wall next to us, where a bunch of framed proclamations with fancy calligraphy and gold foil seals are hung up. “Our efforts have been recognized by the governor for the last six years running. And if you want to remain in the privileged position of volunteering here, if you want to receive the kind of recommendation letter that will make your college application shine, you’ll need to earn it. And the very least of your obligations here is to arrive on time.” She folds her arms and purses her lips.

I stare at her and, in as flat a voice as I can manage, say, “There was a prayer service after school today. For Rennie Holtz, the girl who died over New Year’s.”

It’s a lie, but whatever. Bitch needs to check herself.

“Oh,” Danner says quietly, and fiddles with one of the many rings on her fingers. “Well, why didn’t you just say that?”

“When? You were too busy reaming me out.”

I instantly worry that I’ve gone too far, that Danner will fire me on the spot. But she doesn’t. She has this fuzzy camel-colored sweater-wrap thing on, and she pulls it tight around herself. “You were that poor girl’s friend?”

I feel my lip curl. Who is she to ask me that? “Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth. “Yeah. I was.” And it’s true. At the very end I was Rennie’s friend.

“I see,” she says, and then lowers her eyes. “Well, I’d like to apologize to you, Katherine. I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It’s a crazy time of year for us here, and I already feel like I’m behind on everything.” She sighs. “Please take today off if you need . . . but if you could manage to give me an hour or two, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“I’ll stay for a bit,” I say, and then turn to head down to the basement. That’s where I scan the old documents and deeds and newspaper clippings for the Preservation Society archives. But Danner touches my shoulder and keeps me from walking away.

“Actually, the archival project is on the back burner for now. Our focus will be on the annual benefit happening this March. I don’t know if your parents have ever attended one”—I watch her look me over, realizing there’s no way—“but this will be an excellent experience for you. I’ll make sure I put it in your recommendation letter. Admissions boards really respond to charity projects.”

I want to laugh. Charity projects are working at a soup kitchen or volunteering at a battered-women’s shelter. Not running errands for a bunch of rich ladies pretending like they have jobs.

But I do need a stellar recommendation to get me accepted to Oberlin. That’s the one bright spot I’ve got to hold on to. A future away from this island, from the hurt and the pain and all the bad memories.

When I think about it that way, I can’t blame Mary for wanting to leave.

“What’s this benefit for?”

“To raise money for this year’s preservation efforts. It’s a huge formal dinner dance at the old city hall building, plus a silent auction. Last year we received almost half a million dollars, which we put toward the purchase and renovation of Jar Island landmarks.”

A prom for rich people. Jeez.

Danner trots back to her office and then returns with several pieces of paper. “Okay, Katherine. I need you to double-check these invitation addresses against the ones in our Rolodex. Evelyn worked on them this morning, so there shouldn’t be too many left for you. We need to make sure each one is correct before we send the final list off to the calligrapher. He charges per envelope, and we can’t afford to waste money on preventable errors.”

I’m about to tell Danner that they could save money by, um, not spending money on dumb shit like that. I mean, this is supposed to be a fund-raiser, right? But Danner’s already headed into the glass-walled conference room, where a table full of ladies are heatedly discussing something. Probably arguing about waiter outfits.

I lock eyes with Evelyn, who’s the oldest lady by far at the office. I doubt they’d let her work here if she weren’t filthy rich, and I bet they hope she’ll throw some money to the Preservation Society when she kicks off. Evelyn’s working at a computer, her hand tentatively going for the mouse like it might come to life and bite her wrinkly fingers.

I take a seat at an empty desk and flip through the list. I only have three pages to check before I get to the end of the alphabet . . .

Erica Zane?

Mary’s last name. Could this be her mom?

There’s no address listed. Just a phone number.

I’m so excited, I can barely dial. What if Mary picks up the phone? What will I say?

I don’t have to worry long. As soon as I punch the last number, I hear three chimes and a recording that this number is no longer in service.

Where have these Zanes gone to?

I check the rest of the addresses and wait for Danner to be done in the conference room. As soon as she is, I’m on top of her, pointing at Erica Zane’s name.

“I couldn’t find an address for her in the Rolodex. And this phone number is out of service. What should I do?”

Danner’s lip curls. She takes a black pen and scratches out the name. “Don’t worry about that one. She shouldn’t be on the invite list.”

Well, damn. My only lead is a bust.