Creek Crisis

by N. C. Lewis

  Emma had Benji with her, a sandy-colored purebred pug. I waved her over and we walked in silence for several minutes. A lizard scuttled out of a tuft of dry grass, a pair of turkey vultures circled overhead. The breeze whistled through the cedar trees as Hill Country oaks extended their branches forming a canopy of shade.

  Then I spoke up.

  "How’s it going with your plans to open a Mexican restaurant?"

  "Well, George has finished the renovations. The next step is to get the proper business permits from the town hall. Mayor Felton came out last week, she seemed keen."

  "If you need any help on the permit side, I’ve been there, done that," I said.

  We came to a fork on the trail. One track snaked upwards into town, the other downward toward Medlin Creek.

  "Want to take Creek Pass? It circles back around, and it’s cooler by the water," said Emma. I was grateful she didn’t ask questions about Mary Birdsong. Emma was one of the few people in Medlin Creek who kept her own counsel. She could be trusted to keep private conversations confidential. Not only was she a great neighbor, she never brought up issues which might be sensitive, unless asked for her opinion. And today I didn’t feel like asking.

  We let the dogs off, turned onto Creek Pass trail and continued walking in silence. The trail ran along a limestone ravine. A narrow stream snaked its way along the bottom. After heavy rain, it transformed into a raging torrent which filled the creek, making the trail impassable.

  Upstream we walked enjoying the pungent scent of the limestone, and the whoosh of water as it splashed over pebbles and rocks. The dogs lingered behind us sniffing bushes and tree stumps then chasing each other.

  A sudden movement in the distance caught my attention. A deer? No. There it is again. A sour feeling flooded my stomach as my heart sped up.

  "Look!" I whispered pointing in the direction of the movement.

  A figure dressed in white appeared from behind the bushes with a crate under their arm. With slow, measured steps, back ramrod straight, the individual stopped at the edge of the water and tossed the box into the river, it sunk. As Emma followed the direction of my gaze, the individual disappeared into the trees.

  "Ollie, I don’t see anything," she said.

  "A man threw something into the creek--look."

  A small wooden crate bobbed to the surface, it rotated several times before the river pushed it in our direction. An undercurrent forced it toward the river bank where it swirled around coming to a stop trapped by a large rock in a shallow pool of water. The dogs spotted the foreign object and bounded after it, tails high in the air. We followed.

  The sound of water splashing against the rocks grew louder. Lush vegetation grew around the jagged rocks, and offered a natural barrier to the pool’s edge. The air filled with the scent of algae. Several large boulders created a natural path to the pool. They were slippery and we took care as we clambered across.

  Bodie and Benji sat looking across the pool, noses in the air sniffing, tails wagging, unable to get to the crate. We stood for several minutes watching it bob up and down.

  "I’ll wade across and get it," I said taking off my sneakers.

  The water was clear, several small fish darted in random directions as my feet entered the water. It was cold and the bedrock slippery. I made my way cautiously toward the crate, curiosity driving me forward. A sudden ripple shoved it hard. It clattered against a rock.

  "Meow"

  At the sound, Emma clambered along the side of the pool a long stick in her hand. She poked and prodded at the box, pushing it in my direction. It bobbed and swirled into my grasp.

  Back on the river bank, Emma opened the crate as I squeezed wet feet into trainers.

  "Kittens!" She gasped, "Live kittens."

  Three soggy kittens, each with huge dark fearful eyes peered out. The smallest, almost half the size of its siblings, trembling, had ginger and white ears.

  "Struggles!" I said, "Your name is Struggles and you belong to Mary Birdsong."

  The kittens meowed pitifully.

  We lapsed into silence as we trudged back along the trail. The kittens let out an occasional whiny meow. Bodie and Benji, now on the leash, tugged to get back to the comforts of domestic life. I carried the small crate under my left arm as my mind tried to connect the dots.

  Back on the lane that led to our properties Emma stopped. Her face reddened as she swallowed hard and spat, "Such a cruel and merciless act from a cold and heartless individual." I felt a burning in my throat as I nodded in agreement. She continued, "Augustine can look after the kittens."

  "Augustine?"

  "Yes, Augustine Granger, the founder of the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter. She specializes in kittens who have suffered trauma. Takes them into her home and works with them."

  I handed Emma the crate and we parted company.

  Another shower to wash away the slime and odor of algae. A quick change of clothes and into the Tahoe truck to meet Millie at Moozoos for nine a.m.

  It wasn’t until I was on the road that it struck me. The slow measured steps, back ramrod straight, the figure in white was Leon Rademaker!

  Chapter 17

  The scent of freshly brewed coffee, vanilla, cinnamon, and freshly baked pastries filled the air. Late-running office workers jostled with easygoing tourists as the barista and his assistant worked with speed. Coffee grinders whirred, frothing machines hissed, the ding of the cash register added a constant tempo to the occasional tinkle of change in the tip jar.

  The seating area was empty, only a few tables taken, mainly by day-trippers and Hill Country tourists. I ordered a large cappuccino with a donut and sat at a table by the window. I wondered if Millie had found anything new about the Mary Birdsong case. I also wanted to discuss what she knew about Leon Rademaker, and why he would throw Mary Birdsong’s kittens into the creek.

  Millie arrived a few moments later, her eyes reddened when she saw me, and she moved in slow ponderous steps across the Café. She shuffled into a seat with an extra-large cappuccino in hand. We sat in silence for several minutes.

  "You want to talk about it?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yep."

  Millie reached into her handbag. Out popped Madame Bleu, eyes wide open with a deep crinkle furrowed into her sock puppet forehead.

  "That good-for-nothing newspaper owner," said Madame Bleu in a lilting French accent, "does a, how you say, ‘nasty’ on Millie, and then takes off to the Grandview Hotel Hawaii for a two-week vacation. It is…il est repugnant."

  Millie reached into her handbag again. "Let’s not be uncivilized about this." It was Professor Purple. He continued. "Madame Bleu please stick to the facts."

  "C'est impossible. Life is about emotion not facts." cried Madame Bleu as she disappeared back into Millie’s handbag.

  Professor Purple nodded sagely, turned to look at me, huge eyes filled with sadness. "Then it falls on me to continue."

  Millie’s face reddened, a sheen of sweat forming on her cheeks, chin and forehead as the sock puppet professor continued in a somber voice.

  "Millie’s article on the death of Mary Birdsong was deemed by the owner of the newspaper to be unacceptable in its submitted form."

  "You mean the owner didn’t like what you wrote?" I said looking at Millie.

  Professor Purple shook his head.

  "No, not quite. Millie submitted a full-length article hoping it would feature on the front page of today’s newspaper. It didn’t. The one thousand five hundred word feature article was transformed by the owner of the newspaper into five words."

  "Five words," I gasped, sitting rigid in the chair.

  "Yes, five words, they appear in the Other News section of the newspaper Mary Birdsong, Austin Singer Dead."

  Millie chimed in, "The owner of the newspaper said there was insufficient interest in Mary Birdsong’s death for it to be the headline. Today’s paper leads with the fire at the Medlin Creek Community Coll
ege fraternity club fish fry."

  For an instant, a thought flashed into my mind. Could Millie be responsible for the death of Mary Birdsong? Part-time reporter kills ex-celebrity to secure full-time position at Medlin Creek Times. It made a great social media headline. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed.

  "I thought," said Millie, a bitter smile forming on her lips, "Mary Birdsong’s death would be my gravy train to a full-time position at the newspaper. Now, I’m right back where I started. I need to try a different strategy, but what?"

  Millie became silent.

  The melodic rhythms of a salsa singer over the speakers, murmur of customer conversation, and the ding of the cash register, filled the void.

  "Life coach."

  A stout little man with a bushel of gray hair, a huge Adam’s apple, and a mouth full of pearly white teeth pulled up a chair at the table. He looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place him.

  "What you need young lady is a life coach." He grinned and took a sip of his coffee eyeing us both with twinkling eyes. "Mmm, this is good."

  Then he continued, "You remember me, don’t you Ollie? You took my course a couple months ago--Get Paid for Your Event Center by Next Week. It’s me, Jacob Maxwell. We’ve got our Maximum Dollars--Minimum Stress coaching call in a few weeks." His teeth glistened and sparkled even in the dim light of the coffee house.

  "If it wasn’t for my life coach," Mr. Maxwell continued, "I would’ve never got out of the event center business."

  His shoulders sank, a long, low gurgle came from his throat. "The final straw," he continued, "came when a mother of a bride-to-be wanted her daughter pulled by miniature donkeys atop a chariot. She even asked if I would be so kind as to throw in a couple of Oompa Loompas at no extra charge."

  He touched his fingers together forming a steeple, a satisfied grin etched on his face.

  "Inked the sale of my property two days ago. Digital assets--that’s the way to go. Just created an online version of the course. I’m making a killing, much more lucrative than renting out physical property, and a lot less hassle too. Got another profitable venture which I’ll share exclusively with my coaching-call clients. Ollie, as a member of my elite private group I’ll have the details in your hot little hands in a day or so. It’s all still very hush-hush."

  He put his index finger to his lips and narrowed his eyes, which for the entire time he spoke, focused on Millie.

  Millie leaned forward, nose wrinkled and a slow smile crept across her face. "Hi," she said extending her hand, "I’m Millie Watkins, Ollie’s friend. I’m a part-time reporter at the Medlin Creek Times. Do you think a life coach could help me get a full-time position?"

  He touched Millie's arm, gazing intently into her eager eyes. "Absolutely yes. I can personally recommend Dr. Thomas Crosby, I believe he trained at Harvard. Dr. Crosby will show you all the basic strategies and techniques. For more advanced methods you might consider joining my Maximum Dollars--Minimum Stress coaching calls."

  He reached into his pocket slipping Dr. Crosby’s business card into Millie’s palm. Her hand grasped the card as if it was the last bottle of oxygen at a hotel on the moon.

  "Did I hear someone say Dr. Thomas Crosby?"

  The voice boomed from the counter where the barista and assistant busied themselves serving customers. Johnny Spinner the host at the local radio station MCR 101.1 FM peered through the gloom toward our table.

  A customer who recognized him screamed in delight. Johnny twirled around yelling, "boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya". His head tipped back, a loud roar of laughter exploded from his abdomen. Then he did a robotic dance toward our table. The customers clapped and cheered.

  At the table, he wrapped his arms around Millie. She floated to her feet squealing with delight. The assistant raised the volume on the speakers, "Pantera Mambo-La 33" boomed out. Millie and Johnny salsa danced between the tables as the patrons clapped to the beat.

  After two circuits of the tiny Café the couple returned to the table by the window. The assistant turned down the volume on the speaker system as the barista came out of the storeroom to see what was going on.

  "I visited with Dr. Crosby last week," said Johnny pulling up a chair, "been seeing the guy for years." He turned to stare at Millie, "Ever since we were on the journalism school salsa team together."

  Millie smiled, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. Mr. Maxwell folded his arms and scowled. Johnny wrapped a hand around his cup--thick meaty fingers drumming on the outside--then squeezing the cardboard container until liquid spilled out.

  "If it wasn’t for Dr. Crosby," Johnny said, "I doubt if I would’ve gotten my new position."

  "New position?" asked Millie--a sullen look suddenly descending on her face.

  "Yep, the owner of the Medlin Creek Times offered a full-time job as a media and social affairs columnist. I accepted. Fits in nicely with my radio work. Two paychecks are better than one." He winked at Millie, jumped to his feet and twirled around, "boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya", then with large strides, back ramrod straight, left the Café.

  "Creep!" screamed Millie, her eyes bugging. "Johnny Spinner I never liked you at journalism school, you freak." Her voice cracked and she slumped into the chair.

  A flurry of dark clouds suddenly appeared blocking the sun and casting eerie shadows into the Café. Mr. Maxwell touched Millie’s elbow, pearly white teeth at odds with his wolf-like features. "Why don’t you give Dr. Crosby a try?"

  Millie’s jaw tightened as she jerked her arm out of his oily reach.

  The last gray cloud floated past. Summer light flooded the Café piercing the temporary gloom. Suddenly, Mr. Maxwell let out a startled gasp; his Adam’s apple dancing with fright. "What the…"

  I followed his gaze. Professor Purple, face contorted into an ugly snarl and lips quivering, stared with evil intent at Mr. Maxwell. The sock puppet's face was so deformed, his stare so malignant, that even I let out a little gasp.

  Mr. Maxwell pushed his chair back in short, panicked movements. The metal scraped against the Café floor as he stumbled to his feet walking backward keeping his eyes fixed on Professor Purple.

  "You’re nuts." The words were thrown over his shoulder as he galloped at full stride out of the Café. Professor Purple tipped his head back and let out a creepy mad scientist cackle. Mr. Maxwell might be right, I secretly thought.

  Hands on hips, the barista’s lopsided eyes stared at our table as his carrot-shaped chin twitched. I gave a friendly wave, he nodded and scurried across the Café, where he made a pretense of tidying up the table area.

  "How are you ladies doing?"

  Millie pouted, thrusting Dr. Crosby’s business card in his face. He peered intensely at the object then rubbed his carrot of a chin.

  "Life coach."

  He pronounced the words slowly, rolling them around his mouth as if tasting a fine coffee.

  "If you are talking about self-help," the barista began, "I can tell you what to do. Frankie Simmons, the barber, wanted to be a stand-up comic, had terribly low self-esteem on account that he was voted the least funny person in high school." Millie’s eyebrows raised as the barista went on, "Applied for a ticket to that TV show, Celebrity Guru, and would you believe he got one. Had to travel out to California. Then another stroke of luck, he was selected to meet Leon Rademaker."

  Millie’s eyes opened wide, "What happened next?"

  "Leon cured him right there on national TV. Only took five minutes."

  Millie’s voice filled with wonder, "How?"

  The barista blinked then nodded slowly. "It was several years ago, I can’t remember the details. Something to do with pyramids and crystals. Or was it mantras and incense? Anyway, they made Frankie stand up and do a few lines of his set. The man had the audience in stitches."

  I couldn’t contain my skepticism, "Is Frankie a stand-up comedian today?"

  "Yes, he headlines at the Institution Theater’s Comedy On Fire show in Austin. Think it runs every Fri
day through the summer. Sell’s out every time."

  "I’ve seen the show," Millie said, tipping her head back laughing, "it’s very funny." She turned to look at me. "Ollie, you’re a professor of statistics, what is the probability I’ll get a ticket for the Celebrity Guru show?"

  None. But before any words came out of my mouth the barista spoke. "No need, Leon Rademaker is taking personal audiences right here in Medlin Creek, provided you cross his palm with a thousand dollars, that is."

  "That’s a bit expensive," I scoffed.

  "Instant returns," responded the barista.

  At exactly that moment, Millie's mouth began to open, in a sort of wonder, and her eyes gleamed. "I’m going. Where do I book?"

  "Millie," I said, "there is something you need to know about Leon…"

  She was too busy looking up the Celebrity Guru website to listen. There was no stopping Millie now.

  "Well," I sighed, "if you’re going, let me come along with you."

  Chapter 18

  The clock high on the mantle chimed midday as I opened the front door at Ealing Homestead. Bodie danced around my feet, he was hungry. I refreshed his water bowl and opened the last can of dog food. Need to stop by Gregg’s to pick up another case.

  Satisfied, and full of Gregg’s finest canned dog food, I let Bodie out. Off the dog bounded along the dirt path through the little iron gate toward the outbuildings.

  At my desk, I wondered where to begin. When I worked as a chief data scientist back in my corporate days there were many difficult challenges. Whenever I took on a new project, I gathered data, analyzed, assessed, formulated and tested theories, reviewed the literature, and followed my gut. Maybe all that training would help, but, the more I thought about Mary Birdsong’s death, the less I understood.

  If I couldn’t figure out the puzzle yet I might as well make progress with my upcoming classes. With a sigh, I reached for my lecture notes and started reviewing lesson plans. The chancellor of Medlin Creek Community College had pulled out a few extra classes, and the least I could do was prepare a presentation for his professor’s monthly roundtable, to thank him. It meant more work but I would practice at the Speaker Circle, a weekly public speaking club which met at the Medlin Creek library.