A Bobwhite Killing

by Jan Dunlap

  “What did you say?” I asked the sobbing Shana. I lifted her chin off my chest and looked her in the eyes. “You didn’t kill Jack. You told us he left early to find the Cuckoo, and you’ve been with the rest of us since coffee at the hotel. Whoever did this—whoever shot Jack—was here at the camp with Jack not that long ago. This isn’t your fault, Shana.”

  Before she could answer me, three uniformed officers rounded the corner of the wagon and started barking orders at us.

  “Step away from the body, please,” said the woman wearing the sheriff’s jacket.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” the deputy instructed us. “We’ll need statements.”

  “I need an ambulance,” the third officer said into his walkie-talkie.

  I helped Shana to stand up, and we moved away to give the officers room.

  “I already checked for a pulse,” I told the sheriff as she bent to drop her hand on Jack’s neck. “He’s dead.”

  “And you are?”

  “Bob White. I’m one of the birding group that Jack’s … that Jack was going to be leading today.” I tilted my head to indicate Shana, who stood next to me, her arms wrapped around her expansive stomach. “This is Shana O’Keefe. The dead man is her husband, Jack O’Keefe.”

  The sheriff gave us both a quick once-over with her hard eyes. “And you were comforting the widow, I take it?”

  I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, though my rusty beard probably hid it from the sheriff.

  “They’re both old friends,” I said, bristling at her innuendo. “Actually, I was trying to keep Shana away.”

  “Didn’t look like you were being very successful, Mr. White.” She tapped her shoulder patch. “I’m Sheriff Paulsen. This is my county. And it looks to me like we’re going to need to talk. The three of us.”

  Oh, boy. I was really excited about that idea. Especially since the sheriff seemed to be spinning her own version of what had happened.

  “You got to talk to me, too!”

  We all turned to see Bernie poking her head around the corner of the wagon. She’d obviously made a full recovery from her faint and managed to escape Tom’s supervision. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was clearly eager to be included in our upcoming chat with the sheriff.

  “They’ve been with me all morning,” Bernie offered. “Me and the other birders. We had coffee at the hotel about 6:00 a.m.. Then we split up into three cars to come over here, but we stopped at the sewage ponds to see if we could spot any ducks, but all we saw were some turtles. Believe me, it’s a slow day for birdwatching when you got a bunch of birders standing on the side of the road talking about turtles.”

  “Bernie,” I said, trying to catch her attention. Judging from the deepening frown on Sheriff Paulsen’s face, I was pretty sure Bernie wasn’t scoring any points with her morning play-by-play. Turtles were obviously not high on the sheriff’s list of suspects at the moment. But Bernie was on a roll.

  “Anyway, then we drove over here, and after we parked, Bob and Tom took off in this direction, and Shana and I were still up the hill when Tom came to tell us about Jack.” She paused to take a breath. “Besides, everyone knows that Bob wouldn’t kill anyone. He’s the sweetest man I’ve ever met. He just seems to find bodies a lot.”

  Thanks, Bernie. Not exactly what I would have shared at that particular moment, but hey—what are friends for, right?

  Sheriff Paulsen’s dark eyes locked back on mine. “Is that right?”

  I started to shake my head and put my hand out in a qualifying kind of gesture.

  “Absolutely!” Bernie gushed. “The first two times he found bodies, they were already dead, and the last time, he was right there when a man was shot. Right there! I know because I was right there, too. And then when that sweet little girl student of his got shot—“

  “Bernie!” Geez Louise, she was making me sound like a walking death trap. I’d be lucky if I didn’t get handcuffs slapped on me right then and there and hauled off to jail without even getting my Miranda rights read to me. In my peripheral vision, I could have sworn that I saw the two deputies getting ready to pull their guns.

  Bob White, sensitive high school counselor and closet homicidal maniac. Thank you again, Bernie.

  “Sounds like we’ve got even more to talk about,” Sheriff Paulsen said, as the ambulance crew finally made it down the slope and hunkered down around Jack’s body. Right behind them were the other six people who’d signed up for a weekend of birding with leader Jack O’Keefe. Standing just beyond the old wagon in a tight clump, they could almost have passed for a small brood of abandoned chicks, their faces ashen and lined with strain.

  “You know, I’d kill for a cup of coffee right about now,” Bernie announced. Then she pointed up at a bird in a tree behind the covered wagon. “Yellow-billed Cuckoo.”

  All of us, including the sheriff looked up.

  “Ow,” Shana moaned.

  “What is it?” I almost grabbed one of the paramedics away from Jack’s body. If Shana was going into labor, there was no way I was going to coach her through it.

  “My back hurt when I looked at the Cuckoo,” she complained, rubbing her knuckles against the small of her back. “Although, to be completely honest, it hurts when I do anything these days.”

  Great. Just what I wanted to hear. The pregnant lady was in constant pain. “I think you should go with the paramedics, Shana. Get checked out. Make sure you—and the baby—are okay.”

  “I’m fine, Bob,” she assured me, even while tears continued to track silently down her face. “And I’m not having a baby.”

  I looked at her in complete disbelief, and she smiled, her eyes regaining some of their sparkle.

  “I’m having twins.”

  Okay, so I was right. She did have a whole pod in there.

  Holy shit.

  Chapter Four

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and four of us were trying to eat a late lunch at the old-fashioned A&W drive-in across the street from the Inn & Suites in Spring Valley. Despite my considerable apprehension about her delicate condition, Shana hadn’t gone into any kind of premature labor or distress during our visit with the sheriff, and while she still looked a little pale around the gills, I could see her old stubbornness kicking in.

  “I’m going to find out what happened,” she vowed over her mostly untouched burger basket. Her gorgeous eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “My children are not going to grow up with their father’s murder unsolved. I swear it.”

  “I’m sure the sheriff isn’t about to let this slide, Shana,” Tom assured her. “She had everyone in the county down there at the station running around. I bet you she’s already got leads to follow, and by tonight, she’ll have a suspect in custody.”

  “I hope you’re right, Tom.” She gave him a watery but grateful smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Ah, about the children,” I tentatively began.

  Three pairs of eyes swung to mine.

  I swallowed. “How pregnant are you, Shana?”

  Her green eyes lightened. “Well, let me see,” she looked down at her imposing belly and patted the top of its mound. “I’d say I’m definitely pregnant.”

  I rolled my eyes, while Bernie chuckled. “Could you make this any harder for me?” I asked Shana, feeling the heat in my cheeks.

  “I’m due in two months, Bob,” she relented. “Is that what you want to know?”

  I nodded. “That would be exactly what I wanted to know. And you’re not at risk here, or anything like that?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not going to pop them out any second, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s exactly what I was worried about.” I looked at the ceiling of the diner. “Thank you, God.”

  “So now what?” Tom asked, tossing his napkin into his empty basket.

  “I know,” Bernie said. “Let’s go to Lanesboro. It’s just down the road. The sheriff said she wants us to stic
k close for a day or two, but she didn’t say we had to stay here in Spring Valley.” She polished off her last French fry after swiping it through a puddle of catsup in her basket. “I know the others went on out to bird some more, but I just don’t think I have the energy to hike another mile or two. Besides, Lanesboro has all those cute little shops. They even have a hat emporium.” She pushed her chair back from the table. “And a winery. Something for everybody.”

  She looked apologetically at Shana. “No wine for you, though.”

  “Actually, I think I want to lie down for a while,” Shana said. “I have some more calls to make … arrangements.”

  “Well, of course, honey!” Bernie reached across the table to pat Shana’s hand where it lay on the plastic red-checkered tablecloth, clutching a damp tissue. “Come on. I’ll walk back with you and sit with you while you lie down. You boys just entertain yourselves for the rest of the afternoon. We can talk again at dinner.”

  Tom and I watched the two women walk out the door, Shana obviously waddling now, with Bernie virtually clucking at her like a mother hen.

  “Do you think she’s going to sit on Shana and stuff her under her feathers?” Tom asked.

  “I doubt it,” I replied. “Even if she wanted to, there’s no way Bernie could stuff that much Shana under anything. It’s hard to believe she’s only got twins in there.”

  “Twins that aren’t going to meet their father,” Tom added sadly. “Shana’s quite a trooper, isn’t she?”

  I took a final gulp of water from my glass and tried not to think about Shana’s babies growing up without a dad. “Yes, Tom, she is.” And then I decided I couldn’t think about Shana, her babies, or Jack anymore right now. “So, how shall we spend our afternoon, birding buddy of mine?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “We look for that Bobwhite, Bob White. And I know just where to start.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was pretty sure that, despite his confidence, Tom didn’t have a clue where to start, because he was driving east from Spring Valley instead of south. Back in 2003, the last confirmed sighting of a wild Northern Bobwhite in Minnesota had occurred in Beaver Creek Wildlife Management Area, less than three miles from the Iowa border. When we’d stuffed ourselves into Tom’s ancient Honda, I’d assumed that was where we were heading.

  “Okay, I give up,” I said. “Where are we going?”

  We passed a mileage sign to Lanesboro.

  “It’s the hat emporium, isn’t it? Darn that Bernie, she hit your hot button, Tom.”

  Tom laughed as he took a left, and we headed north on County Road 80 to the little burg of Wykoff. The scenery was pleasant—the rolling hills and scattered tree groves of Fillmore County. More than 150 years ago, the area just past Wykoff had a big swath of upland deciduous forest, filled with four types of oak tree, elm, basswood, ash, maple, hornbeam, aspen, and birch. Nowadays, farms have appropriated much of that space, but some pretty pockets of the old forest still remain and can be seen along some of the lesser-traveled back roads.

  Like we were doing now.

  My head hit the roof of the car as Tom’s Honda sailed up out of a surprise pothole.

  “Sorry. My shocks aren’t as good as they used to be,” he apologized.

  “Tom, your shocks haven’t been good since I’ve known you, which is about a decade.”

  He patted the dashboard lovingly. “Yeah, but this is the birdmobile. Nothing stops this baby when I’m on the chase.”

  “And exactly what are we chasing again?”

  Tom pulled a crumpled note from his shirt pocket and handed it to me, all the while keeping his eyes on the road to avoid another pothole. “I heard Jack giving directions to the Bobwhites yesterday afternoon when I was checking into the Inn & Suites. He was on his cell phone in the lobby with a Frank somebody, and I jotted down what I heard him saying.”

  I looked at the directions on the paper. Wykoff to Fountain, then to County Road 11. There was a turn at Mahoney Creek into some brush prairie.

  It was possible, I conceded. Northern Bobwhites liked grasslands with scattered trees. Maybe there was a small enclave of the birds in north-central Fillmore. It would be a surprise, but possible.

  And wasn’t that one of the reasons I loved birding? A person took all the cues, all the clues, about the bird sought, then figure out where it might be—kind of like being a detective, in a way. Sure, it’s always nice when the hunt turns out to be easy, and the bird’s right where I expected, but on the other hand, it’s a thrill when a bird is found where I DON’T expect it.

  Tom pulled off the road into a turn-out that seemed to be well-used.

  But not by birders.

  Instead, there were four cars parked, each one with a small trailer attached. In the distance, I could hear the unmistakable roar of the gunning engine of an ATV—All Terrain Vehicle.

  We got out of the car and looked across the prairie that rolled up to a wooded area. Dirt trails snaked through the open expanses and disappeared into the trees. While we watched, two ATVs came tearing up over a rise and launched themselves into the air, the riders practically standing upright on their machines as they soared about fifty feet until they hit the ground again. Then, earth spewing up around them, the vehicles spun through a short gully and tore into the woods.

  “Are you sure you heard Jack correctly, Tom? This is ATV country, not a happy haunt of a timid little quail.”

  Tom looked as confused as I felt. “I’m sure I got it right. I even asked him when he finished his call. He said it was Bobwhite property.”

  I drummed my fingers on the hood of the Honda and surveyed the wasted land gouged by the wheels of innumerable ATVs.

  “Not anymore,” I concluded. “I’d say it looks more like a three-ring circus. Those riders were flying through the air like trapeze artists. Find them a couple of big jungle cats to roar at a lion-tamer with a chair, and they’ll be open for business.” I shook my head in disappointment. “No, I’m afraid what we’ve got ourselves here is nothing but a wild goose chase.”

  I took another look across the prairie. About a hundred years ago, maybe even fifty years ago, Bobolinks, Meadowlarks, and Bobwhites probably covered the area. Once homesteaders began to shape the land to their needs, though, the native flora and fauna were gradually displaced, yielding to cultivated acres of farmland. Then, as family farming operations died out, much of the land was left neglected, victim to the ravages of disrupted ecological cycles and careless human abuse. Now, where lush grasses used to grow, thrill-seeking ATV operators spun their wheels in the dust that had become their unsanctioned playground. Without a doubt, Bobwhites had lost their right-of-way.

  Not that I have a problem, per se, with folks who ride ATVs. I understand how much you can enjoy a hobby—I’m a serious birder, for crying out loud. What I have a problem with, though, is when some of those hobbyists enjoy their hobby to the point of going off the designated trails, and in doing so, damage wild land, not to mention natural habitat and entire ecological systems. There’s more than a quarter of a million ATVs registered in Minnesota, and it seems that a lot of those vehicles are regularly violating state laws that protect our natural resources. I’ve still got a few pals who work for the Department of Natural Resources, and they say that enforcing trail regulations for ATVs is the biggest headache they’ve got. Up at Spider Lake Recreation Area in the north-central part of the state, the DNR has poured almost half a million dollars into trying to repair and restore the wetlands, lakeshores and hillsides that have been ruined by trespassing ATVs. What really burns me, though, is when I see riders ripping through agricultural ditches during nesting season because I know it’s destroying prime pheasant nursery spots.

  Which was what I was seeing happening right here. I wasn’t sure if these lands were public or private, but either way, serious damage was being done.

  I turned back to Tom. “Let’s head south. We can make a run through Forestville/Mystery Cave State Park and still make it back to the Inn & Suites
in time for dinner. I saw a posting yesterday in my email about some Acadian and Willow Flycatchers down there. At least then we’d have something to show for today.”

  Something besides an ATV track, a murdered trip leader, and his grieving pregnant wife.

  For some reason, Shana’s odd confession to me right before the sheriff had shown up this morning suddenly popped into my head. She said she’d killed Jack, but that was impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Five

  Tom put the car in gear, and we started back towards the tiny town of Fountain.

  Out my side window, I spotted a Red-shouldered Hawk gliding over the rolling plains and hills covered in a profusion of June’s green growth. No ATVs here rutting the slopes or trashing the wetlands. The scene was good enough for a postcard. “Gliding along in Fillmore County,” it could read. “Wish you were here.”

  For a moment or two, I could almost forget I’d started the day with discovering Jack’s body. But I couldn’t stay distracted very long.

  “Do you know anything about Shana and Jack?” I casually asked Tom. “Before yesterday I didn’t even know they’d gotten married. It’s been years since I’ve seen either of them.”

  “You mean besides the political stuff that Jack’s involved in?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom rolled his window down and a wave of fresh air blew through the car.

  “Not much. It seems like Shana stays out of the spotlight—you never see her in pictures in the papers or on television with Jack. I guess they keep their relationship pretty private. And I expect, with her being pregnant, they liked keeping it that way.” He threw me a glance. “I remember when they got married, though. A bunch of the nurses at work were sure that Shana was a gold-digger. I think they had a problem with the twenty-year difference in Shana and Jack’s ages. Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Lots of men marry younger women. Lots of women marry older men. I mean, geez, Jack had been a widower a long time, and if he and Shana could be happy together, why not?”