by Joan Hess
“Will you release it soon?” I asked.
“No, I am sorry to say. He has a damaged wing that will be keeping him from flying ever again. When he is healthy, officers from the park service will take him to schools to teach the children. It is sad that he must remain in captivity, is it not?”
I could almost feel talons digging into my skin, but I nodded sympathetically and allowed myself to be shown a gold-and-brown owl that obligingly rotated its heart-shaped face to stare at me. We moved on to a straw-lined box filled with hairless creatures that Anders assured me were baby rabbits. After I’d declined to examine the recuperating rattlesnake, I agreed to a glass of vodka before returning to Dunling Lodge, telling myself I was doing so only in order to ask him about Becca’s accident. His wonderfully exotic accent played no factor in my decision, nor did his shorts.
The living room of the trailer was clean and minimally furnished with a sofa, a rickety maple chair, and several well-stocked bookcases. On the walls hung photographs of birds and a large surveyor’s map of Turnstone Lake. The windows lacked curtains, but it was hardly the neighborhood to worry about voyeurs. Through a doorway I caught a glimpse of an unmade bed. A voice in the darkest corner of my mind mentioned that it was king-sized and the sheets appeared to be satin. Sternly reminding myself of my virtuous motive, I refused to listen further.
I sat on the edge of the sofa and accepted a small glass filled with a clear liquid. “Skoal,” I said as I took a cautious sip. Midmorning was a bit early for undiluted alcohol, but I was a sleuth, not a sissy.
“Skoal,” Anders said, downing his in a gulp. “So, why are you driving down here this morning, Claire?”
The truth seemed silly, so I opted for evasion. “Agatha Anne told me about your facility. You were living here before the Dunlings bought the lodge?”
“For twenty-one years. I like people well enough, but I am more happy with the company of birds and animals. They are more trustworthy.” He refilled his glass and sat down at the far end of the sofa, crossing his very long legs and giving me a beguiling smile that sent fine lines radiating from the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I am from Malmö, a big city with too much pollution, too many people, too much traffic, too expensive. Turnstone Lake is quiet, with not so many people. Here I can do as I wish, which is to doctor animals during the day and drink vodka and party with my friends in the evening.”
“Did you come to the United States on a student visa?”
“A long time ago, yes. Now you should be telling me about your investigation, Claire. What have you discovered?”
I noticed his smile was forced despite the determined twinkle in his eyes, which was likely to be reflexive from all those years of squinting into the midnight sun. “Mostly that Captain Gannet is a jerk,” I said lightly. “I gather that everyone else out here is friendly. Did you know Becca well?”
“She was breathtakingly beautiful, vivacious, as eager as a schoolgirl to learn. Many days she came here to help me feed the animals and clean the cages. At first she was afraid to go near the big birds, but she became less nervous after a time and more admiring of them. One afternoon I found her crying because one of the eagles had died. She had a tender heart.”
We were back to the increasingly stale theme of her perfection, I thought somewhat testily, waiting for him to describe her halo and wings. “Had she been here the day of the accident?” I asked.
“She may have come by that morning; about that I am not sure. At noon I drove into town to pick up supplies, and when I returned, Agatha Anne and Georgiana were here. When they realized it was getting late, they left together. An hour later, Agatha Anne returned to tell me the terrible news about the explosion.” He paused to stare at the floor, his blond hair flopping into his eyes as he shook his head. “I felt very bad, of course. Becca was an angel.”
I winced only slightly. “So I’ve been told. Were you at the party when she threw the quiche?”
He went to the kitchenette and refilled his glass. His back to me, he said, “Yes, we were all at Dunling Lodge when she and Dick had a small argument. It meant nothing. Everyone had been drinking steadily, as happens when the weather is cold and we are inside too much.” He returned and sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine, his expression intensely earnest. Anticipating a bombshell, I was disappointed when he tossed out an insignificant firecracker. “They were in a corner, whispering to each other. Dick’s face was red, and Becca looked as if she might be soon crying. Abruptly he walked away. She lost her composure and…”
“Nailed him,” I said. “Then you don’t know the cause of the argument, Anders? She never gave you any hint that there were marital problems?”
“Dick worshiped her, as all of us did.” He rose unsteadily and picked up my empty glass. “Can we now be going to Dunling Lodge? I have no telephone, and I need to call the veterinary supplier about a drug shipment that has not yet arrived. It is not so long a walk, but I would prefer to ride with a beautiful woman such as yourself.”
I managed not to simper, although I may have come dangerously close to it. Some men emit an undercurrent of sensuality, but Anders was an electrical storm. Ozone filled the cramped confines of the trailer. I doubted I was the only woman who’d felt the urge to fling herself into his arms and allow sweet Swedish nothings to be whispered in her ear. Out of what was surely misguided loyalty to a certain cop, I restrained myself and tried to think how to approach a possible variation on that scenario with delicacy, if not diplomacy.
“So Becca came here often?” I said as we went to my car. “In the mornings or afternoons?”
“Whenever she could.” Anders held my elbow as we stepped over the ditch at the edge of the road, then released me and folded himself into the car. “She was very interested in the birds.”
And perhaps the bees, I added to myself. I turned around (one of my principal activities at the lake) and we headed for Dunling Lodge. “Do you have any ideas why Captain Gannet continues to investigate the accident?” I asked casually, watching him as best I could as we bounced from rock to rut.
“Well, as I was telling you, we found no eagle on the island. Captain Gannet questioned me many times about that, but all I could tell him was that it was not there when his deputy and I searched for it. It may have recovered, or it may have been attacked by a larger predator. The raptors have no aversion to cannibalism. Also, everyone who was known to have been on the lake that afternoon was questioned by Captain Gannet himself, but no one admitted to calling the office. It is rare that we receive anonymous calls of this nature. Most people are aware of the law and are indignant when it is broken. The bald eagle is your national symbol, is it not? Even hunters can be patriots when they think they may receive a reward.”
“But Agatha Anne had a message from Becca on her answering machine. That’s why she went to the dock, isn’t it?”
“This is what Agatha Anne has told Captain Gannet many times.” He then inadvertently risked our lives by putting his hand on my leg and murmuring, “Will you be staying at Dick’s house tonight? I could not visit last night, but if you are there, we will drink vodka and watch the stars appear. You can see many more stars here than in town.”
I gripped the steering wheel and ignored certain shrill biological imperatives. “No, I’m going back to Farberville at noon. My daughter and her friend are training to be facilitators, and I promised them I’d wait until they returned from a bird walk. They’re…not sure they want to continue.”
I parked beside the Jaguar, which was pristine despite the dusty roads. It did not look as if it ever tolerated a single mote of dust, much less mud splatters or avian offerings from above. My car looked as if it needed to be sand-blasted. Anders and I went around the side of the house, passing by the garden behind formidable fortifications, and onto the patio. Neither Dunling was there, although the bird feeders were doing a brisk business and the lake was buzzing with boats.
Anders put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “Ar
e you sure you cannot stay tonight, Claire? I can take you on an owl prowl. We will take only a small flashlight and a blanket, and walk far into the woods, where it is very private and the moon shines through the trees with a silvery light. If we do not at first see an owl—well, we will find ways to amuse ourselves while we wait.”
“I have to go back,” I said resolutely. “Now I’d better find out if the girls have returned from their hike. Don’t you need to make a telephone call?”
The back door opened and Caron strolled onto the patio, a pair of binoculars dangling from a strap around her neck. Her nose was sunburned and her bare legs covered with scratches, but she looked surprisingly cheerful.
“We got back an hour ago,” she announced, critically eyeing Anders and then me to make sure we were not on the verge of engaging in unseemly behavior (as defined by Mr. Lawrence). “We saw like fifty different birds, or at least Agatha Anne did. She kept pointing and whispering about four o’clock in the oak and three in the pine. Inez and I squealed a lot and pretended we were looking at something more fascinating than foliage.”
Inez eased out behind her. “There weren’t any snakes, Mrs. Malloy. Caron screamed once, but it was just a lizard in some dry leaves.”
“And you didn’t leap onto my back?” Caron retorted without mercy. “I felt like Quasimodo’s twin sister.”
I introduced them to Anders. They responded politely, but I could see they were more interested in scanning the lake for barges than in making polite conversation with a venerable Viking. Anders excused himself and went inside to use the telephone.
“You seem in good spirits,” I began with due circumspection.
Caron was much too engrossed in a methodical sweep of the lake to lower the binoculars. “We’re done with the dumb stuff. After lunch, we get to learn to drive the barge. Next weekend we have to wear dorky official shirts and caps, but today we can wear our bathing suits. Tomorrow we’re supposed to familiarize ourselves with the office procedures and do really, really challenging things like answer the telephone and put out brochures, and if our handwriting is deemed acceptable, address invitations to some fund-raiser—” She broke off with a gasp and began to fiddle with the focusing knob.
Inez made a futile try for the binoculars, shrugged, and sat down on the bench. “So we agreed to stay,” she said.
“Then I’m off,” I said to her and to Caron’s back, refusing to allow myself to speculate about an owl prowl. Peter and I had an understanding, even if neither of us understood it very well—and it was more a source of migraines than moonlight. Until it was resolved, I could not with a clear conscience embark into the woods or anyplace else with a flashlight and a blanket. Anders had invited me to nothing more emotionally significant than a dalliance. Well, an exceedingly romantic dalliance. Twenty years ago I would have been packing a picnic basket with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, but I was now an adult with mature and carefully cultivated expectations from relationships. I just wasn’t sure what they were.
“Why are you still standing there?” Caron asked, albeit with minimal interest. “I thought you said you were off. I’d like to think you weren’t referring to your rocker, but from the way you were panting after that hairy old guy…”
“I’ll see you two tomorrow,” I said. I went into Dunling Lodge and down the hall to the office to tell Agatha Anne that I was leaving. If Anders was still there, I would smile warmly in order to ease the disappointment that I was certain would engulf him with the intensity of Bubo’s miasma. I was so caught up in my compassion that I ignored a flurry of giggles and opened the door. And stopped in the doorway.
Agatha Anne’s face was rosy as she wiggled out of Anders’s arms. “Claire, what a surprise. I thought you’d already gone back to town.”
“I’m leaving now,” I said, admittedly disgruntled to discover how fickle his affections were. “The girls seem eager to finish their training, and I have a bookstore to run. Luanne will bring them home tomorrow when you’re done with them.”
“They’re fast learners,” she said, still flustered, still rosy, still looking at me as if she wished she had an automatic weapon in her designer pocket. “About what you saw, Claire…Anders and I were talking about poor Becca, and I was overcome with sadness. He was comforting me.”
Anders nodded obediently. “It is hard on Agatha Anne when she remembers the tragedy.”
Laughing ruefully, she moved behind the desk and began to rearrange pieces of paper and manila folders. “Thank you so much for bringing the girls, Claire. Do you need directions back to the highway?”
I shook my head and left the office. Obviously Anders took care of more than birds and bunnies, I thought as I went across the living room to the front door. I reached for the knob, then stopped as a gunshot resounded like a clap of thunder. After the echoes faded, I opened the door guardedly. Birds were flapping away in all directions, their squawks more annoyed than alarmed.
Wharton Dunling stood at the corner of the house, his face shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat. Smoke curled from a cigar clenched between his teeth as he studied the edge of the woods adjoining the garden. “I got you this time, you miserable hairball!” he chortled, the cigar bobbling with each word. Negligently swinging the shotgun in one hand, he went to the first line of defense and beamed at the rows of leafy green.
“Hello,” I called as I approached him. He was as intimidating as a swarthy bandito, and the last thing I wanted to do was startle him. If he felt remorse for his recent kill, he was disguising it well. “I’m Claire Malloy, Caron’s mother.”
“What those girls need,” he said without looking at me, “is a dose of boot camp. Six weeks in a sweltering wasteland would stop all their whining and complaining. They’d be damn grateful for a glass of tomato juice.” On that charitable note, he walked around the edge of the concertina wire, muttering under his breath, and continued to the edge of the woods. He squatted next to a hole near a log, found a stick, and began to jab at the opening. “Crawled off to die, did you?”
I could think of no reason to prolong the encounter, and was about to get into my car when he stood up and said, “You’re the woman who’s investigating the boat accident, aren’t you?”
“I brought Caron and Inez up here yesterday,” I said, “and I’m on my way home right now. I apologize if they’ve failed to express their gratitude for your hospitality. It’s a symptom of their age, I’m afraid.” I reached once again for the car door handle.
“Wait,” he commanded in a voice that must have unnerved many a boot camp trainee. He threw down the stick and strode across the parking lot, his face still shadowed by the hat and his eyes nearly invisible. Cigar ashes wafted behind him like light snow. “I heard you were asking questions down at the marina earlier this morning. Did that scum Limpkin tell you anything?”
“He refused to discuss the accident. He told me to scram, but that’s about all.”
Wharton halted on the opposite side of my car. “What about Gannet? What’d he have to say?”
“Pretty much the same thing,” I said. “Is there something one of them should have told me?”
He cackled unpleasantly. “I suppose Bubo could have told you that the accident was caused by his negligence, but he’s not the type to accept responsibility. As for Gannet, he reminds me of a sergeant I knew over in Korea. I was a lieutenant fresh out of OTC, and he was a grizzled twenty-year man who’d finally figured out that he wasn’t going to make general before he retired. He took it hard.”
“And?” I murmured, wondering if I was to hear something significant.
“And he went for a walk in a minefield.” He cackled more loudly. Flecks of spittle sizzled on the roof of my car. “Gannet needs to watch his step. The Dunling Foundation means everything to my wife. Ten years ago she inherited a lot of money from some uncle out in California. Neither of us cares about fancy possessions, and we sure as hell had our fill of travel, courtesy of the United States Army. Instead of saving it s
o it could go to distant cousins, Livia decided to fund a foundation that will have a lasting impact on the environment. Anyone who attacks its reputation is going to deal with me first.”
“Gannet seems to think this was the finale of a marital dispute. Nobody’s implied that the Dunling Foundation’s reputation is involved.”
“The boat belonged to the foundation, and some sleazy lawyer might take it into his head to persuade one of the gal’s relatives to file a lawsuit. Dick’s a good man, and he’s assured me he won’t, but lawyers can smell a potential suit like a hyena can a hunk of rotting flesh. We carry some liability insurance because of the barge excursions. It’s not enough to cover a million-dollar judgment against us.” He fitted a shell into the shotgun and pointed it at the groundhog’s burrow. “Considering how fond Gannet is of poking around, it’s a damn shame he can’t poke out his head.”
I decided it was time to leave before he realized that I’d been invited to prove the accident was the fault of none other than the Dunling Foundation. As Agatha Anne had said, it would not be wise to wiggle my nose and whistle at the moment. She’d been joking, but Wharton Dunling was hardly smiling.
I glanced in the rearview mirror as I started up the driveway. Livia Wharton stood in the doorway, watching me. She looked no more congenial than her husband, and there was no vagueness in her frown.
After I’d consulted the map and memorized the necessary turns, I headed for the highway, doing my best to concentrate on the immediate goal of making it back to Farberville without further delays. And went slower and slower, and finally pulled to the side of the road and stopped to consider what I’d heard from various people. There were incongruities and inconsistencies. The only point of convergence seemed to be Becca’s perfection, and I was beginning to wonder about that.