by N. C. Lewis
"Well, sir…it’s the singer Mary Birdsong--she’s dead. Forensics are on the way…but from the marks on her neck, I’d guess she was strangled."
"Oh dear! That’s not good, that’s not good at all, tomorrow’s our annual…" The wail of an off-road ambulance drowned out the sheriff’s words.
Emergency response vehicles, including several off-road trucks littered the area. Even off-duty Deputy Patty Freeman, out for a run wearing shorts and T-shirt, showed up. As I watched, men and women crime scene techs suited up. They looked like ghosts shimmering beneath the shade of the trees.
I tugged at my cell phone again, fingers searching contacts for the right number. Millie answered on the first ring.
"Ollie," she said, "I’m covering the opening of the new day nursery over on Mercer Street. Looks like a big turnout, over fifty kids and almost a hundred parents, and I’m still counting. I’m sure the owner of the newspaper is gonna love my article. Might even make me full time with this one. Anyway, what’s up with you?"
"Mary Birdsong," I said, "she’s dead."
As I spoke, the paramedics appeared from the cordoned-off area carrying a stretcher. I stared at the black body bag on top as I switched off my cell phone. In it the remains of Mary Birdsong, the once-famous singer. It seemed almost empty.
Chapter 10
Word spread quickly. From deputies and paramedics out to the townsfolk of Medlin Creek, and from there throughout the Hill Country and beyond. It wasn’t yet nine thirty a.m. when the first onlookers arrived. They snapped photos with their cell phones of the police yellow tape, and posed in the shade of the trees posting their pictures on Facebook, and they tweeted about the scene and setting which formed the backdrop to Mary’s last hours.
Suddenly, it seemed, the little narrow overgrown trail which led to the area of trees filled with tourists and townsfolk. Each more excited than the other, eager to see Mary Birdsong’s final resting place.
"Stop by the sheriff’s office later to give a statement." Deputy Dingsplat threw the words over his shoulder. He jumped on his mountain bike and set off along the trail back into town.
"Yes, sir!" I said in a mock military voice. I looked at my cell phone clock, I’d missed my first and only appointment of the day. "Oh crap!" I said aloud as Deputy Dingsplat disappeared.
"Come on Bodie. Let’s go home." He appeared to understand, tugging on his leash in the direction of Ealing Homestead. I was ready to follow.
"Ollie, over here."
I swiveled around to where the sound came from. It was Millie.
She sighed, "Oh my gosh! Why do you get all the action Ollie?" Then she looked me up and down. "You look like hell."
I ran a hand over my face in sudden fatigue. "Need coffee, and to get away from here, been a long morning."
Millie reached into her handbag. Out came Professor Purple, eyes wide open--his mouth aghast.
"Coffee would be good, but first tell Millie what you know."
Even in my tired state I enjoyed talking to the puppets. Not quite sure why. Perhaps a psychological trick taught to reporters in journalism school to extract information? I’d seen her use the puppets on the owner of the newspaper with great effect, especially when she was given an assignment she didn’t want to do.
I gave Professor Purple details on the strange object under the oak trees. Millie's left hand stretched wide, as the puppet’s mouth fell open.
"Such powers of observation you have Ollie. Millie would have walked right past it, maybe for years without noticing a thing." The professor turned to Millie, she nodded in agreement.
"Merely observation, my dear Watson," I said, affecting a terrible English accent, then explained the discovery of the tarp with its gruesome content. Madame Bleu emerged tutting, "Ooh la la! How many murders can there be in a small town? Please, can we go back to arguing over whose chocolate cake should’ve won the Chamber of Commerce Bake Off? C'est incroyable".
"Yes," I agreed, "this whole thing is incredible."
Chapter 11
It was almost noon by the time I returned to Ealing Homestead. The summer sun high in a blue sky, although for once the humidity was low. The work crew had already taken down the reception tents, stage area, and the railings which surrounded the outskirts of the property.
Theodora Simon scuttled around organizing teams of temporary workers for litter pickup. "Ollie, I hope you enjoyed your walk. This place will be back to normal by three p.m." She scurried off, waving her hand, before I could reply.
The pounding of my heart returned to normal, but I couldn’t shift the sick feeling inside my stomach nor the confusion in my mind. I needed time to process events. Mary Birdsong’s death wasn’t an accident, someone killed her and tried to hide the body. Who? Did they bury her under the oak trees knowing that part of the trail was rarely used during the summer months? My mind wanted to put the pieces together, solve the puzzle and catch the killers. Coffee first, then time to think.
At the familiar sight of the mailbox and the little iron gate, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in. I released Bodie from the leash. Off the dog bounded past the mailbox, along the dusty trail to the front door, where he sat waiting: eyes eager, tongue hanging out, panting lightly. I grabbed the newspaper from the mailbox and headed after him. "Too hot to be outside, need coffee to stabilize my nerves," I muttered.
I pushed open the front door, the whoosh of chilly air gave instantaneous relief. Bodie headed to the kitchen and curled up in his dog bed. To the office to put the newspaper on the desk, then back to the kitchen; coffee my top priority.
Absentmindedly, I turned the cell phone on. It buzzed for voice mail. Two messages. The first from Millie:
Oh, I almost forgot, make sure you read my write-up on the events at your place yesterday. The owner’s very pleased. Talked about promotion to full time. Anyway, I’m headed back to the office to write up Mary Birdsong’s death. Should be first page in tomorrow’s sheet.
Inwardly I smiled. The owner of the newspaper was a mystery, I’d never met the individual. Though Millie’s vivid descriptions suggested a tyrannical person more ogre than human. Millie had written some great articles. She deserved a break. I wondered if her story would be enough to propel her into a full-time job with the newspaper. Somehow, given declining circulation, I doubted it. But Millie’s second name is "optimistic". I admire that in her.
The second message was from a Mr. Frederick Johnson, an event planner for Big Speech Industries, the multinational electronics firm headquartered in Austin.
Dr. Stratford, sorry I missed you earlier today. As scheduled I arrived at Ealing Homestead, but was informed by Theodora Simon you had left for a stroll into town. She didn’t know when you would be back. Our chief executive officer, Pam Hager traveled with me. She likes to surprise her employees. Anyway, I called several times on this number, but no one picked up. I liked what I saw of your place but Pam was annoyed at your absence. She insists I strike your organization from our list of event centers. I’m afraid when Pam Hagar makes up her mind there is no changing it. Sorry to disappoint you. Quick question, can you text a list of alternative event centers in and around Medlin Creek? I’d be very grateful. Thanks.
My fingers moved quickly across the cell phone to find Mr. Johnson's number. If I speak with him, apologize, explain what happened, he’ll understand. I dialed and waited.
Ring, ring, ring.
"Mr. Johnson, event coordinator for Big Speech Industries where digital products brighten your day. How may I help you?" The corporate spiel tumbled out of his mouth as if it was a roadblock to more important work.
A big fat smile. That’s what I planted on my face before I spoke. Mr. Maxwell, the teacher of Get Paid for Your Event Center by Next Week, had said on his Maximum Dollars--Minimum Stress coaching call had said, "The smile transmits positivity down the telephone wires. The recipient’s unconscious mind picks up this positivity making it more prone to buy what you are selling. It is an irr
esistible law of nature. I’ve never known the technique to fail in the hands of a competent user."
"Ollie Stratford here," I said, the artificial smile distorting my voice into a high-pitched jubilant squeal. "Sorry I missed you and your chief executive officer earlier today…"
Mr. Johnson snorted, and before I could say another word, spat, "Wasted a morning traveling to your place. Have you any idea what the traffic is like between Austin and Medlin Creek? To make matters worse, the chief executive officer shows up while you’re strolling through the countryside. Well, I hope you had a wonderful walk."
More positivity needed. I stretched my grin wider, the corners of the mouth touching my ears, teeth filling half of my face. "Mr. Johnson, I can explain everything. There has been a terrible misunderstanding, if you'll only give me a moment..."
His voice bristled, "Misunderstanding-- misunderstanding? I’d say so. I don’t like the tone of your voice young lady, this is no laughing matter. Made me look like a damn fool you did, and in front of the gal who runs the entire organization."
Click.
I sank down into the office chair and sighed. For a while I just sat. This was supposed to be a peaceful morning. How did it get twisted into this?
What was it my late husband John used to say? "There is always a silver lining, Ollie, all you have to do is look for it." I tried to find it, but couldn’t. The events of the day had turned my mood sour.
A sharp pang pierced my heart. I thought back to our marriage. It had been wonderful. Why had John taken that overseas assignment? Why hadn’t I resisted? Questions I asked myself a thousand times. The truth was I felt guilty for staying behind. Perhaps it would have been better if we had both died together. No, no, John would have never wanted that, nor the kids. My eyes pinched, tears rolled down my cheeks, for John, for Mary Birdsong, for my floundering business.
Chapter 12
It wasn’t until the clock on the mantle chimed the top of the hour that I got up, stretched and headed to the kitchen to make a coffee. Today, a Sumatra single origin fair trade dark roast from Moozoos, Medlin Creek’s independent coffee shop. The rich earthy aroma infused with herbal overtones delighted my nostrils.
Sipping the steaming hot beverage, I flipped through the newspaper. Not much happening on the national front. I skipped over an article about the low price of crude oil and tension in the Middle East. Finally, the article I was looking for, a write-up by Millie on yesterday evening at Ealing Homestead. It began:
Ealing Homestead, a premier event center in the Hill Country of Texas hosted Hollywood stars and movie makers yesterday evening...
A smile lit my face, my eyes danced across the page:
…a crowd of over three hundred eager fans and locals welcomed stars such as Dorothy Sadler from the long-running serial Big Homestead on the Little Prairie. Carlos Castillo (director) will be…
A sharp knock on the front door curtailed my reading. It was Theodora. I waved her into the kitchen. Bodie raised his head, looked around and went back to sleep.
Theodora’s nose twitched at the aroma of coffee which wafted up from the pot.
"Mmm that smells good," she said as she sat at the kitchen table.
"There you go, it’s from Moozoos," I said as I poured her a cup.
"Ollie, I wanted to let you know the crew did an excellent job, the place is cleaned up, ready for your next event. The last truck left two minutes ago."
She took a sip of coffee, her lips tugged into a smile.
"Mmm this is really good. Moozoos you say?"
It was obvious she didn’t know about Mary Birdsong, yet. I wasn’t going to break the news either. Medlin Creek is a small town, I didn’t want a reputation as a gossip. Theodora would find out soon enough.
"Theodora, I’d love to get more events at Ealing Homestead with you as the event planner," I said wistfully.
"Well, this morning," she said, her eyes growing wide, "a large corporation asked me to organize their executive retreat. It’s scheduled for next week. I accepted, but to tell you the truth it will be a struggle to find a decent location at such short notice. Ealing Homestead would be perfect. Let’s work together again on this."
Like a magical potion the words cleansed the remnants of the sour morning from my mind. We discussed the idea for several minutes, then Theodora pulled up further details on her tablet. We agreed the date and finances. In less than an hour we signed contracts electronically, and my bank account was several thousand corporate dollars healthier.
"I’ll see you next week Ollie," said Theodora as she strolled along the dirt path through the little iron gate toward her car.
A final wave to Theodora and a long gulp of coffee had me suitably caffeinated. I tipped my head back and let out a big laugh. "Ealing Homestead is on the corporate map!"
Chapter 13
I let Bodie out. Off he bounded down the dirt track through the little iron gate toward the outbuildings. Alone in the office, I busied myself with administrative tasks. Finally, bills paid and electronic documents organized I began preparation of my teaching notes. This semester I’d be teaching statistics 101 to three incoming classes at the Medlin Creek community college. I reviewed the curricula, removed the final unit on statistical hypothesis testing, which would give more time for practical business illustrations.
The clock that sat high on the mantle chimed the top of the hour. Instinctively, I got up and stretched. Then, satisfied with the progress of my administrative duties I headed to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee.
As I sipped, the events of the day continued to whirl around my mind, although the volume much diminished from earlier. Who would benefit from Mary Birdsong’s death? Perhaps a jealous understudy? Actors inhabit a dog-eat-dog world. Would a desperate actor kill and bury the body of a rival to get ahead? The whole thing seemed a little far-fetched, like a plot from a movie.
"Wish I could figure this out," I said aloud. "Maybe I should dig around a little, I won’t interfere with the sheriff’s investigation. Just a little digging can’t do any harm."
I grabbed my handbag, scurried along the dirt path through the little iron gate, and pointed the Tahoe truck toward the sheriff’s department. Deputy Dingsplat would still be on duty, I’d give my statement to him.
The sheriff’s office was in the same complex as the town hall. The parking lot was eerily empty, only a handful of sheriff department vehicles. Inside, magnolia paint covered the walls of the small reception area, and four threadbare wooden chairs stood on a bare concrete floor in front of a high counter upon which sat a little metal bell, I pressed and waited.
The receptionist appeared from a room behind the counter. A short dumpy woman with freckled cheeks, long red hair tied into two ponytails and a friendly smile.
"Are you here to report a crime or do you have a prearranged appointment?"
"Neither, my name is Ollie Stratford. I discovered Mary Birdsong’s body earlier this morning. Deputy Dingsplat asked me to stop by to give a statement. Is he available?"
The receptionist's eyes grew wide.
"So, you’re Dr. Stratford, I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Patricia Hampton, sometimes receptionist, sometimes dispatch operator--you name it, I do it around here. Let me check to see who might be available to speak with you."
Settled in a threadbare chair, I settled down with my E-reader and prepared for a long wait. There was no hurry as I was in the middle of James Herriot’s "All Creatures Great and Small."
"Dr. Stratford."
I jumped. I’d only been reading for five minutes.
"Sheriff Hays? I wasn’t expecting to speak with you."
"Well, Deputy Dingsplat is out on official business, and I wanted to chat with you personally."
The sheriff walked me through the station, glancing around and waving at uniformed officers and civilian workers. "Not quite as nice as the town hall," Sheriff Hays said, referring to the polished, gray concrete floor and peeling magnolia paint on the w
alls. "The mayor’s released funds for an update, but that won’t begin until the fall. This will be the first refresh in living memory. Millie Watkins has written an article for the Medlin Creek Times, I think she said the paper will publish it as a feature next Friday."
Several uniformed individuals sat on wooden desks peering into computer screens. Sheriff Hays stopped at the desk of Deputy Joanna Zilpah, and waved his hands in a cryptic fashion. The deputy struggled to her feet.
Off we went again. An almost overpowering scent of Chanel number five drifted along with the deputy. Did the woman fill the bathtub with the scent and bathe in it at night? I picked up my pace, opening and closing my mouth like a beached fish, gasping for unperfumed air.
Through heavy doors that clanged, and along a narrow corridor we scuttled. Finally, we entered a tiny room deep in the bowels of the building. The sheriff flicked on the lights and waved us in ahead of him, he didn’t come in, but from the door said, "Thanks to your eagle eyes, the body of Mary Birdsong was speedily recovered. It’s impossible to police without civilian help, and you have played your part Dr. Stratford."
"Thank you, Sheriff," I gushed, an eager smile tugging across my lips.
"Now," continued the sheriff placing both hands on his hips, "I want you to promise to keep yourself safe."
I knew what he meant, my smile vanished. "If you’re asking that I just let this whole thing drop, the answer is no. Mary Birdsong was at my place yesterday, and today she’s dead. No offense Sheriff, but I can’t let that drop." My throat was suddenly dry, I opened my handbag and without looking down, fished around for a stick of gum.
The sheriff studied me carefully. "Give Deputy Zilpah your statement, and the Medlin Creek sheriff’s department we’ll take it from here. Can we agree on that?"
I kept eye contact with him, hand searching my handbag for a stick of gum.
"Well," I said, "I intend to continue digging to see what else I can uncover, might help your investigation."