The Plucker: A Beastly Crimes Book

by Anna Starobinets

  “Aye aye,” said Chief Badger. “The assignment is clear.”

  “Then go to Warbler at once. And, by the way, you need to shape up. You look tired, and your belly is sagging. Understood?”

  “Negative,” Chief Badger yawned.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “What should I do first? Go to Warbler or shape up?”

  “Shape up!” screeched Super Bat. “Then go to Warbler!”

  CHAPTER 2: IN WHICH ANIMALS ARE INSULTED

  Chief Badger figured that, at this early hour, the best way for him to shape up was to go to the Tree Knot Tavern for a light breakfast of a Bump on a Log, a cup of aromatic pine-needle tea, and a small Mothito—purely to help with digestion. None of this would contribute to his excess Badger fat and would definitely invigorate him.

  “May I interest you in today’s breakfast specials?” the new waitress, Barbara, asked cheerfully. “We have wormy mushroom stem rolls on a bed of weeds and a refreshing slug aspic.”

  “Is the slug aspic very filling? As Chief Badger of the Far Woods Police, I have to stay in beastly shape.”

  “Not at all! The aspic is a very light snack. I would never offer a police badger a dish that would cause him to gain weight. Being a badger myself, I know how hard it is to get rid of excess badger fat.”

  Barbara had almost no fat on her body, just the thinnest layer on her back and belly. Her fur gleamed like the glaze on a doughnut. She was very young.

  “Your coat is very smooth,” admired Badger.

  “Are you complimenting me?” Barbara perked up. “Was I accidently flirting with you? I’m strictly forbidden to flirt with customers. Coyote Yote said I would lose my job. But I really need this job until the end of summer. Otherwise, I won’t have enough cones to travel to the Woodland Cosmodrome.”

  “No, no, you weren’t. Don’t worry. I’m old enough to be your father!”

  “Do you have any children my age?” asked Barbara hopefully.

  “I had an adopted son,” said Badger becoming sullen.

  “Had? What happened? Did you abandon him?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Badger sighed heavily. “He broke the law, and I suspended him from the Far Woods Police.”

  “Are you talking about Badgercat?” Barbara’s eyes grew wide. “Badgercat is your son? Whom they talk about every day on the root-tube? Whom everyone thinks is the Plucker? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s talk about something else. Do you have a daughter?”

  “No,” Chief Badger tried to smile. “But if I did, she’d look something like you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you remind me of a honey badger I once loved. But since then, I’ve grown old, fat, short of breath—”

  “What happened to the honey badger? Did she grow old and fat, too, so you abandoned her? I hate it when badgers abandon their families.”

  “No, she didn’t grow old. And I didn’t abandon her. She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Barbara frowning. “That was very indelicate of me.”

  “I forgive you,” said Badger managing a smile. “I’d like the aspic. . . No, wait! Can I ask you something first? Curiosity always makes me lose my appetite.”

  “Of course. You want to know why I want to go to the Woodland Cosmodrome?”

  “How did you know I wanted to ask that?”

  “Easy. Everyone asks me about it. I’m going to the Woodland Cosmodrome because I want to be an astronaut. Like my father.”

  “Your father is an astronaut?”

  “Yes. First badger on the moon. Badger Bullet. Have you not heard of him?”

  “No, I haven’t. Forgive me. I had no idea they sent badgers into space. Or to the moon, for that matter.”

  “It’s so unfair!” squealed Barbara. “Every animal in the world knows about those two strays Belka and Strelka. And all they did was fly into space and come back. They didn’t even leave the spaceship!”

  “And your father left the spaceship and went into open space?” Badger was astonished.

  “My father stepped on the moon!”

  “You must be very proud of him.”

  “Yes, very.”

  “He must be retired by now.”

  “He . . .” Barbara lowered her eyes. “No. He isn’t retired. He died up there, on the moon. My father is a hero. He died for the sake of science. Thanks to his heroism, we now know that badgers cannot survive on the moon. And I”—her eyes flashed—“I want to finish what he started. I’m going to go to the moon and—”

  “But why? Your father showed that badgers can’t survive on the moon.”

  “I’ll be wearing a supermodern space suit.”

  “So a badger can survive in a supermodern space suit?”

  “That’s what I’m going to test.”

  “You’re a very brave badger,” said Badger, his voice doubtful.

  “I wouldn’t call it bravery” came a melancholy voice from under a table in the corner. “Dear lady, you wouldn’t happen to have any lemmings in your family?”

  “What’s a lemming?” asked Barbara.

  “Lemmings are rodents. Kind of like hamsters. Sometimes they throw themselves off of cliffs. One will jump off a cliff, and the others follow suit. I’ve traveled all over the world and seen many things. Lemmings are fascinating little creatures.”

  “Are you calling my father, the heroic badger Bullet, a hamster? A ‘fascinating little creature’? And who, may I ask, are you? And why are you hiding under a table instead of ordering something?”

  “Apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you. That was a poorly timed joke. And I’m not hiding. I’m just very tired from my trip and decided to take a quick nap. Allow me to introduce myself.” A big, rumpled, teardrop-shaped creature with a black head and a white belly emerged from under the table. “My name is Mr. King Ping.”

  “Oh my, what is that?” Barbara frightfully backed away from King Ping.

  “As far as I can tell, what stands before us is a king penguin,” answered Chief Badger. “They aren’t usually found at our latitudes, but I’ve seen an image of this bird in the Beastly Encyclopedia.”

  “He’s a bird?” Barbara was shocked. “He can fly? How do his pitiful little rag-wings keep his fat body up in the air?”

  “Fat? Rag-wings? How insulting!” complained King Ping.

  “Apologies. That was a poorly timed joke. So how do you fly?”

  “Thanks to my streamline form, I don’t fly through the air but underwater,” explained King Ping proudly.

  “So you’re a fish?”

  “Outrageous! Insulting!” King Ping headed for the door, waddling laboriously and shuffling his flippers. “I’m leaving. I was told the Tree Knot Tavern was cozy and quiet, a good place to rest after a long trip. But it turns out it’s a place where animals are insulted!”

  “Please excuse my young friend Barbara,” Badger spoke up. “She’s just never before seen such a fascinating bird as yourself. She doesn’t know that your, as she distastefully put it, ‘rag-wings’ work like propellers underwater.”

  King Ping stopped, nodded proudly, and then continued shuffling toward the exit.

  “Please stay,” continued Badger. “Barbara is very sorry she accidently insulted you. Right, Barbara?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Barbara. “I can take your order right away, Mr. Ping Pong.”

  “Fine, I’ll stay for a bit.” The penguin waddled back into the tavern. “Only it isn’t Ping Pong, it’s King Ping. And, unfortunately, I can’t order anything.”

  “Why not? Are you on a diet? Or do you not have any cones?” asked Barbara.

  “It’s just . . . I can’t seem to remember the PIN to my ’guin card. I’ve been known to be a bit scatterbrained. All my cones are on my ’guin card, which has been blocked. Yesterday, when I wanted to use it in the Near Woods, I tried so many different PINs that I got blocked out.”

  “Oh my! I’ll bring you something on the hou
se.”

  “Thank you. Now I see that the Tree Knot Tavern really is a good place to rest after a long trip. If it isn’t too much trouble, I would love some steamed crustaceans.”

  “We don’t have any crustaceans,” apologized Barbara. “Is there something else you’d like?”

  “Then I’ll have some fish. Preferably herring.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have fish on our menu either. First, fish don’t live in the Far Woods. And, second, even if they did, it would be illegal to eat them. We don’t eat one another.”

  “Mother of pearl!” King Ping threw up his wings. “Then what do you eat?”

  “Plants and insects. That is the law here in the Far Woods,” said Chief Badger sternly. “Please bring Mr. King Ping some salted snails. Snails are like herring—only they taste better. And I’ll have the aspic . . . Actually, no. I’ll have a Bump on a Log. Medium-well rotten. And a small mothito . . . to help with digestion.”

  “Will do,” said Barbara smiling brightly and heading toward the kitchen.

  “If I may, what is your name?” asked the penguin, coming up to Chief Badger’s table.

  “I am Chief Badger of the Far Woods Police.”

  “So it’s you!” For some reason the penguin was so excited he even did a little jump, but he couldn’t keep his balance on the landing and smacked down on the floor on his blubbery backside.

  “Me who?” Badger didn’t understand.

  “Chief Badger of the Far Woods Police. They recommended you.”

  “Who recommended me?”

  “Er . . . let’s just say . . . a local animal.”

  “Whose name is . . . ?”

  “I don’t remember,” said King Ping quickly. “I don’t remember the animal’s name . . . or their species, subspecies, breed, or coloring. You see, I’m quite absentminded. I’ll be speaking with an animal for some time and then later I won’t be able to remember what animal it was. Was it big? Little? Black? White? No idea.”

  “And why have you come to the Far Woods?” asked Chief Badger, narrowing his eyes. “I take it you can remember that?”

  “What is this? An interrogation?”

  “No, I’m just curious. It has to do with my job. You see, there’s a maniac loose in our woods. He plucks birds. Then burns their feathers.”

  “Do I look like a maniac to you?”

  “Not really.” Chief Badger carefully surveyed the penguin. “But you don’t really look like a bird either, even though you are one. Anyway, what brings you to the Far Woods?”

  “I guess the need for adventure. It has to do with my job.”

  “Oh, really? What do you do?”

  “I’m a professional shark baiter. Sharks are dangerous and ruthless beasts. Aren’t they?”

  “As far as I know,” said Badger.

  “Which is why I love working with them. I love danger and adventure.”

  “And how do you work with them, exactly?” Badger doubtfully looked at the teardrop-shaped King Ping, who had much more excess fat than he did.

  Barbara set a medium-well rotten Bump on a Log, a plate of salted snails, and a small carafe of mothito on their table.

  “I lure them away. Whenever sharks swim too close to the shore of some sea or ocean and begin feasting on innocent vacationing animals, they call me. To a shark, I seem like very easy prey. They look at me with the same contempt you did just now.”

  “No, I—”

  “You did. Don’t deny it. Like, ‘How could this dumb, blubbery bird be a match for a professional killer?’ But that’s simply appearances. And only on land. In the water, I’m extremely agile and fast. That’s how I lure away the sharks. I appear to be stupid, awkward, and very filling. They head in my direction. I allow them to get quite close and then I swiftly swim away. They give chase. And just like that, foot by foot, mile by mile, I lead them away from the shore.”

  “Incredible!”

  “Thank you.” King Ping lowered his gaze modestly.

  “Oh, I was talking about the Bump on a Log. The larvae are especially juicy and delicious today. How are your snails?”

  “If I’m honest,” King Ping chomped and crunched with his long black beak, “I like herring much better.”

  “You don’t like our snails?” asked Barbara, surprised. “Maybe it’s because you’re eating them along with their shells, Mr. King Kong.”

  “King Ping!”

  “You’re supposed to pick them out of their shells, and you’ll experience the most subtle, delicate taste. Of course, it isn’t enjoyable to eat shells.”

  “I eat herring with their bones and crustaceans with their pincers, and it’s very enjoyable.”

  “Well, we don’t have herring here. Or crustaceans. Or even sharks,” said Chief Badger, digging a big appetizing larvae out of the log and popping it in his mouth. “This is quite an unsuitable environment for an animal of your ways and your profession.”

  “Very true,” the penguin said, crunching on another snail. “I’ll have to change my ways. And find a new profession. Any chance the police have a job for me? Something dangerous and full of adventure?”

  “No, we don’t have anything like that,” said Badger snickering into his whiskers.

  “Another attack!” Magpie flew into the tavern and began circling above the tables, chirping frantically, her eyes bulging. “Another bird! Plucked! Warbler was plucked!”

  “What did you say?” Chief Badger leaped up, knocking over his unfinished mothito.

  “Warbler was plucked! The barber! I have his feather on my tail!” She dropped a warbler feather down on to the bar. Chief Badger sniffed the feather and then carefully licked it. Freshly plucked.

  He left a pile of cones on the table and slouched off toward the door. So that’s the way the log crumbled. While he was taking it easy, instead of going straight to Warbler’s, while he was talking to that overweight klutz and stuffing his face with juicy larvae, Warbler was attacked. What would Super Bat think of him? What would she report to the top?

  She would report that he had lost his beastly instincts, that he was beastly out of shape, and that he was a beastly embarrassment. And she would be right.

  CHAPTER 3: IN WHICH A CONFESSION IS MADE UNDER DURESS

  “Tweet! Tweet! I didn’t touch a soul! Then he! He!” Barber Warbler was hysterical. Doc Hawk was persistently stuffing calming hawthorn berries down his beak to no effect. “He put! He put his sharp . . . tweet . . . sharp . . . tweet! Sharp claw to my temple!”

  “Who ‘he’? Who put his claw to your temple?” asked Chief Badger. His intuition told him whose name he’d hear in response, but Badger was still hopeful. Lots of animals in the Far Woods had claws. Why, every other one did. In fact, it would be strange if the maniac didn’t have claws.

  “Badgercat!” trilled Warbler. “That psycho Badgercat put his claw . . . tweet . . . claw . . . tweet!”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’m a coherent bird! I know the difference between one animal and another! It was him. The Plucker! Badgercat!”

  “Until Badgercat is proven guilty, you should not refer to him as the Plucker,” said Chief Badger.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of defending a maniac? I knew there was something wrong with your partner ever since he seized me at the opening of the Far Woods Fine Art Exhibit. He flattened my crest! And he wasn’t even held accountable! But he won’t be so lucky this time because he showed . . . tweet! Tweet tweet! . . .”

  “Try to calm down,” suggested Hawk. “Take some deep breaths. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in . . .”

  “He showed his beastly face! He attacked me from behind! He plucked my feathers! That nasty, predatory Plucker wanted to pluck me bare and burn my feathers! He was rambling like a lunatic about Lady Cuckoo. And then about Arctic Fox!”

  “What was he saying about Lady Cuckoo?” asked Badger.

  “Why does it matter what the psychopath was saying? It was nonsense!”

  “As Chief
Badger of the Far Woods Police, I am required to take your witness testimony. And you are required to tell me what happened in detail.”

  “Witness? I’m a victim! I’ve been plucked!”

  “From what I can see, you’ve lost two tail feathers. I would not call this ‘plucked.’ Let’s leave it at, as you claim, you were assaulted.”

  “What do you mean, ‘as I claim’?”

  “I mean that no one but you can confirm that Badgercat attacked you with the intention of plucking you.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m lying? If I were you, I would be very wary . . .tweet tweet . . . wary of such suggestions! I will file a complaint! I’ll start by speaking with Super Bat!”

  “Of course, it is within your rights to file any complaints. But, first, you’ll speak with me. In the name of the Law of the Far Woods, I demand that you tell me what happened between you and Badgercat in detail. And what exactly was said about Cuckoo and Arctic. You wouldn’t want to break the law, now would you?”

  “As I already told you, the Plucker ruthlessly attacked me from behind,” began Warbler, exasperated.

  “Badgercat.”

  “What?”

  “Badgercat attacked you.”

  “That’s right. Badgercat the Plucker attacked me. I was in my Warblershop, enjoying my lunch break. I was pecking at some pine nuts and trimming the shrubbery around my workplace. That’s when Badgercat put his sharp claw up to my temple and whispered in my ear, ‘Gotcha, birdie! I’ve been hunting for you for a long time. Don’t tweet or I’ll claw you.’ I shut my eyes and braced myself for the worst. All my best haircuts flashed before my eyes. That’s when he plucked the first feather from my tail and said, ‘That’s for Lady Cuckoo.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means your favorite psychopath was suggesting that I, not him, was the one who groomed, I mean, plucked, the cuckoo. Because I wanted to get back at her for the fact that my parents left her half of all their cones as an inheritance. It’s true. I was deeply upset that my parents left her anything. She isn’t a warbler! No, she isn’t! And she has no right to our cones! But I don’t pluck birds!”