Who saw Cock Robin die?
I, said the Fly,
with my little eye,
I saw him die.
—
Heather Duke leaned forward, excitement in her eyes. "What were you doing on Saturday morning, Veronica?"
"J.D.," Veronica said. She hoped she'd kept her face still. She knew very well how to fluster Duke, which was easy, and she got a disgusted grimace back, right on cue.
Duke picked up her pack of tarot cards, like they were a safety blanket for her. She shuffled them neatly.
"On Monday, Heather let you off early to do some pathetic French assignment," Duke recounted. "Then Heather did her usual ghost-possession mumbo-jumbo. She's such a fake. But, at the end of it, she said something to Heather. Something about death and something about you. I didn't hear it. Nobody else heard it. Heather still says she doesn't remember what she said. And then I predicted Heather was going to die."
Duke spun off her Death card from the top of the pack, on purpose. "The cards don't lie, Veronica. My powers are real." She said it as if she had doubted it herself, not that she'd admit it.
"I've seen the luminous paint in Heather's locker," Veronica said frostily. "I read your book of card tricks. You tell people vague bullshit until you hit on something that's significant to them, congratulations. This whole supernatural trend is a fun silly game, but I think it's time we tried something new."
"Was the Remington party not as fun as you expected it to be?" Duke said. "Did you have to lock yourself in an upstairs bathroom with a copy of Vanity Fair - novel, not magazine - to get away from boozy frat boys? Did you fight? Did you say something so earth-shatteringly bitchy that you made Heather off herself by the power of suggestion?"
Veronica glared at her, unable to speak for a moment. Duke was guessing wildly. She hoped like hell she wouldn't come anything close to the truth, the truth that she picked up the wrong mug and murdered Heather Chandler.
"Let me do another reading. For free, just for you," Duke said. She shuffled the cards then held them out with her eyes closed. "Pick three. Don't want to do it? I'll do it." Her acid-green fingernails flipped over a row of cards, left to right. She opened her eyes. "The Hanged Man is your past. A murderer receives their appropriate punishment. Isn't that interesting. The Hermit Over The Sea is your present. A quest for a strange being that no one has laid eyes upon. And the Red Queen is coming in your future. The Queen of Blood, the power of steel and swords and conquest. There will be a new Queen in Westerburg before this ends." Duke raised her head and flashed Veronica a look of challenge. "If you don't want me to spread uncomfortable rumors about you, I suggest you help me, Veronica. Or at least, don't get in my way."
Heather reshuffled the cards for herself, and drew a new one. "The Rising Star," she said. "That's one for me. Are you leaving, Veronica? Have fun."
Veronica walked past lockers festooned with wet red paint, half angry and half afraid. There was no reason for her to be afraid; Duke was faking and had no proof, only making things up. Technically, Veronica did not kill Heather Chandler. Accidents happen. Some accidents are lethal accidents. Veronica glared at the graffiti, which was still melodramatically dripping like it was sending an open invite to anyone to compare it to fresh blood. Well, Veronica wasn't one to give in to such invitations. The fresher the graffiti, the better for the janitor to clean it up quickly.
REMEMBER MARTHA DUNNSTOCK? someone had written, and followed it up with HEATHER WAS ONLY THE SECOND.
There was only one other person in the locker rooms at the moment, ahead and almost disappearing through the next door. Veronica rushed to catch up to Heather McNamara. Heather hummed a tune under her breath, not a pop song but an old melody. The words came unbidden to Veronica's mind: Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow ... A half-full tin of red paint with the brush still in it hung from Heather's right hand. Looked like Heather had expanded her repertoire from the luminous variety. "Don't they kick you off the cheerleading team for vandalism, Heather?" she said. "Better clean that spot of red off your nose. It looks like it's catching."
"Oh, shit, have I got a pimple?" Heather reached for her compact. "Thanks, Veronica. You're a true friend."
"And what about Martha anyway?" Veronica said.
Heather McNamara stared at the graffiti as if she were seeing it for the first time, and acted as if it took her a long while to puzzle out what it said. "Maybe it's because Heather killed Martha," she said.