Rant of Ravens

by Goff, Christine

  “The key is in making people feel like once they’ve attended Henderson’s seminar, they can do whatever they dream of doing,” explained Rachel, passing out colored examples of her idea. “So we go ahead and put Kevin on the cover. We show him kayaking a river, caving in New Mexico, lounging on a beach in Puerto Vallarta. We present to the world a person whose troubles are over.”

  “This is why I put up with you,” Jack exclaimed, clapping her on the shoulder once the meeting was over. “You, Ms. Stanhope, have a tendency toward moments of brilliance.”

  Rachel grimaced. “Does this mean I can call my Aunt Miriam back?”

  “Whatever you want,” Jack said as she strode away. “Just don’t forget, there’s a five-minute limit on all personal calls.”

  Nearing the door to her office, Rachel smelled the scent of cranberry wafting from the potpourri on her bookcase. She sensed the ghost of a shadow imprinted on the room, and peered anxiously inside, half expecting to find someone there. The office was empty, unchanged, except for a manila envelope that lay in the center of her desk. Her name was scrawled across it.

  She recognized the handwriting and broke the seal with her fingernail, then gingerly extracted the contents—court documents listing her as Respondent in a Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

  Rachel closed her eyes and cupped a hand over her mouth, afraid of the stinging tears and the sobs threatening to well up from deep in her gut. Anguish was replaced with fleeting denial, then anger. Roger had beaten her to the punch.

  She buzzed the receptionist. “Was my husband in the office earlier today?”

  The receptionist rushed to explain. “I am so sorry, Rachel. I buzzed the conference room, but Mr. Jaffery yelled at me for interrupting. Your husband said it was okay. He said you weren’t expecting him. That maybe it was better this way.”

  “I’ll bet. Thanks.” Rachel clicked off, and drew a ragged breath. As Respondent, she’d have to respond. As a woman, she just wanted to make sense of the situation. To find the pattern, the order. Had she devoted herself to her job to escape a crumbling relationship, or had her desire to succeed eroded the foundations of her marriage? Were they both to blame for creating irreconcilable differences, or had she driven him away?

  Kevin Henderson’s face grinned up from the dummied brochure on her desk. The caption “Take Back Your Life” blared from the page in neon green. Maybe Kevin wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

  Her thoughts leaped toward Bird Haven and Aunt Miriam’s offer. God knew she could use the time away. Plus Aunt Miriam had always been there for her. Spending the summer there might be just the ticket. Or, as the saying went, a way to kill two birds with one stone.

  CHAPTER 2

  The bird came out of nowhere. A white blur that chirped, then dived, hurtling toward Rachel’s head like a B-52 coming in for a hot landing.

  She ducked. Dropping her suitcase, she raised her arms, swatting at the air above her head. “Get away!”

  The bird swerved, then dived again, lighting on the polished mahogany bannister of the entryway. Milk-white and small, it had gray-brown spots forming what looked like a collar around its neck. Its wings and tail feathers were patterned in gray-brown and white; its nose was a slash of blue above a yellow beak. The bird cocked its head to one side and eyed her.

  “Why, you’re some sort of parakeet!” Her words echoed, bouncing off a high ceiling crisscrossed with thick beams. Slatted mahogany shutters flanked tall windows, and a staircase that looked transported from a Big Valley rerun led to the second floor.

  On the left of the stairs, two doorways opened to the interior of the house, but there was no sign of human life anywhere.

  “Aunt Miriam?”

  No answer. Where the heck was she?

  The bird fluttered, spreading its wings from its perch on the bannister. Rachel stared. This was like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. The note taped to the front door had read Come in, dear. ‘Beware of Bird’ would have been more germane.

  Maybe she should try to catch the dumb thing. Rachel’s gaze moved toward her suitcase and the handle of the tennis racket protruding from the zipper compartment. Or kill it.

  The parakeet stirred.

  “Don’t even think about it, bird, unless you want to play some modified badminton.”

  As if in defiance, the parakeet took to the air and settled into a holding pattern above her head. Rachel considered taking the overhead shot, then envisioned Aunt Miriam’s reaction. This was a bird sanctuary, after all. Scratch the badminton idea.

  “Aunt Miriam? Are you here?”

  Still no answer. So much for the cars she’d seen parked out front. Rachel weighed her options. She could wait outside for Aunt Miriam to show up, walk around to the back of the house, or brave the bird.

  Rachel sidled toward the front door and the warm rays slanting through the windows. June or not, gooseflesh pimpled her arms. The entryway felt cold. Or maybe she was just in shock.

  The parakeet loomed into view like a small bird of prey circling for the kill, and Rachel sucked in a deep breath. She wasn’t normally afraid of animals, but she was tired after traveling all day. And, she had to admit, the dive-bombing parakeet unnerved her. “Stay away from me, bird.”

  Perky.

  Rachel’s gaze followed the parakeet. “Did you say something?”

  Perky.

  There was no question the bird had spoken, its voice soft and clear. Maybe she could reason with it.

  “Is that your name?” she asked.

  The parakeet didn’t answer.

  “All right, Perky, just stay back. I’m not in the mood to play.”

  No problem, chicky baby.

  What a strange bird—and a tenacious one at that. She dodged as Perky swooped past her face. Well, she’d be damned if a nine-inch parakeet was going to stop her from kicking off her shoes and getting comfortable. “Where’s Aunt Miriam?”

  Miriam, Perky said, buzzing Rachel’s head. Her arm arced through the air. Perky slammed against her hand and dropped to the floor.

  Rachel stared down at the lifeless bird. He lay on the Navajo rug, wings outspread, feet stiff in the air. My God, she’d killed him. She dropped to her knees and scooped the parakeet into her hands. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She’d just wanted him to leave her alone.

  A door creaked at the back of the house, and Rachel’s heart pounded. Aunt Miriam? A few moments ago, Rachel could hardly wait to see her, but now… What was she going to say? “Hi, Aunt Miriam. I killed your bird”?

  The parakeet shuddered in Rachel’s hands.

  Maybe he wasn’t dead after all.

  She lifted him close to her cheek, willing a whisper of air to pass through his tiny nostrils. She considered giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, then dismissed the idea.

  But what about CPR? She’d taken a Red Cross first aid class at the office. She must have gleaned something that would apply here.

  She brushed a finger over Perky’s breast, ruffling his white feathers. The parakeet was about one-twentieth the size of a newborn baby, but where was she supposed to press? If she applied too much pressure, she could crack his chest. Scratch the CPR idea.

  Perky jerked.

  Was he having a seizure?

  The bird twitched, flipped onto his belly, then flew at her face without warning. Sharp claws dug into her scalp. He pecked her head. She felt a sharp tug. Then he flew, landing on a painting high on the wall, an auburn strand of hair dangling from his beak.

  “Why, you little beast!”

  Perky wants a hair.

  “Get somebody else’s.” Rachel rubbed her head. “Dumb bird.”

  Stuff it, Perky said. Then he flew away.

  Rachel didn’t know much about birds, but already she disliked this one. Picking up her suitcase, she leaned her tennis racket against the wall. It was definitely time to find Aunt Miriam.

  The house was just as Rachel remembered it. The coat closet, the size of her New York Ci
ty apartment bedroom and perfect for hiding in during a game of hide-and-seek. The den with its massive desk that looked like Uncle Will had been working there just this morning. The circular bar with its soda fountain. The library with its stacks of books.

  In every room, wood and rock walls, antler chandeliers, and fur rugs mingled with overstuffed leather couches, iron tables, and the occasional William Matthews water-color. Each room boasted a fireplace, burned black over time, now converted to gas. The house smelled of old smoke, burnished wood, new leather—and bird.

  At the thought of Perky, Rachel glanced nervously around. Where had the parakeet gone? She was beginning to regret not having had Aunt Miriam meet her at the airport. Instead, she had rented a car, planning for Aunt Miriam to drop it off in two weeks when she left for Cairo.

  But Rachel had forgotten how treacherous mountain driving could be. Heading toward the snow-capped mountains on the straight ribbon of highway had been a piece of cake. But just outside of Loveland, the road made a sharp uphill turn, threading its way through a deep canyon. Steep cliffs of granite rose on either side, boxing in the road and the Big Thompson River. The river was so swollen with runoff that it had spread beyond its banks in places, spewing sand and gravel across the blacktop. The highway had climbed from a mile above sea level to over seventy-five hundred feet as Rachel’s fingers clenched the wheel in a death grip.

  And now, she was alone in the house with a psycho bird. “Aunt Miriam? Where are you?”

  This time someone answered. “She’s outside.”

  Rachel tracked the voice to the kitchen, half afraid she’d find another talking bird. Instead, a woman about her own age stood at the counter, arranging cheese and meat slices on an oversized platter. Appliances gleamed from granite countertops, and a stainless steel oven in the corner filled the room with warm, stuffy air.

  “I was beginning to think there was no one home except for the parakeet,” Rachel said. “What’s with that pesky bird, anyway?”

  “Rachel Wilder!” the woman exclaimed, setting down a turkey slice. Wiping her palms on her jeans, she extended her hand. Her yellow hair was in a thick braid, and she wore a brightly colored flannel shirt that sparked roses in her cheeks. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Rachel glanced at the turkey, thought of salmonella, then shook the woman’s hand. “Stanhope,” she corrected. “My name is Rachel Stanhope. And you are…?”

  The woman studied her for a moment, then refocused her attention on the platter. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Rachel shook her head. She hadn’t been in Elk Park in over four years, and didn’t know anyone here except Aunt Miriam and Gertie. And Rachel refused to believe that her stepcousin—a plump, short, dark-haired woman—had grown into this tall, thin blond. “Should I?”

  “I’m Lark.”

  It took a moment for the information to register. “Lark Drummond?”

  The woman nodded.

  “I don’t believe it!” Rachel hugged her. Lark had been one of Rachel’s childhood playmates. Every summer she had stayed with her family at the Drummond Hotel on the north edge of town. A local landmark, the hotel had been built in the early 1900s by one of their ancestors, James Drummond. Rumor was he’d sold the hotel in the 1920s for so much money that none of his family ever had to work again.

  Lark tilted her head. “You’ve gotten taller. Still, the family resemblance between you and Miriam’s amazing.”

  Rachel fingered her hair. “It’s the curse of the Wilder women.”

  “That’s probably why Perky was bugging you,” Lark said, offering Rachel a cheese slice. “He loves red hair. He used to drive Miriam crazy. Since her hair’s faded some, he leaves her alone.”

  “I take it he’s her bird?”

  “Actually, he belonged to William. Or, rather, belonged to a friend of William’s. The guy moved out of town, and the day he left, he showed up with the bird. Dropped him off in a wire cage, and took off.”

  “I can’t say that I blame him.”

  Lark laughed, and shoved the platter toward Rachel. “Help yourself. And don’t mind me. I’m just helping Miriam get things set up for later this afternoon.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Rachel asked, hoping nothing had been planned in honor of her arrival. All she really wanted to do right now was flake out on a couch somewhere and relax.

  “Miriam hosts the weekly EPOCH meeting.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  EPOCH, an acronym for the Elk Park Ornithological Chapter, was the local birdwatchers’ club. Miriam had mentioned their Monday meetings when Rachel had called her back about staying at Bird Haven.

  The two of them had spent nearly an hour hammering out the terms of the arrangement. Rachel would live at the ranch for the summer, keep an eye on things, and host the weekly EPOCH meetings in Miriam’s absence. It was a free ride all around. It got Rachel out of New York City and bought her some much-needed time to figure out what to do about her mess of a life. And how much trouble could a group of blue-haired birdwatchers be?

  In return, Miriam got a reliable house sitter and an EPOCH baby-sitter.

  Rachel’s biggest problem had been convincing Jack to let her telecommute from Colorado. He had balked at the idea of having his best designer holed up in some Podunk mountain resort town, and acquiesced only after she’d pointed out that ninety percent of her job involved computer and graphic production work, something she could do by modem. Plus, she’d had to agree to fly to New York City anytime the ten percent of the job involving client contact required her presence.

  Lark reached for the plastic wrap.

  “What time does the EPOCH meeting start?” asked Rachel, plucking one last piece of cheese from the platter.

  “Four-thirty-ish. The others should start showing up anytime.”

  “You mean no one else is here yet?”

  Lark shook her head.

  “Then who belongs to all the vehicles outside? There have to be at least eight cars out front.”

  “Most of them belong to hikers.”

  Did Rachel detect a note of annoyance in Lark’s voice? “I take it that’s a problem?”

  Lark shoved the tray onto the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. “Only because Miriam’s property rests up against Rocky Mountain National Park. Two of the park’s trailheads start from here.”

  “But the park doesn’t have public access through Aunt Miriam’s land, does it?”

  “Not yet. Hikers are supposed to park in the outlying lots, then take the paths skirting the ranch boundaries. Most don’t bother. The bottom line is, Miriam needs to install an electronic gate at the end of the driveway, pronto, and start having the cars towed.”

  “Just for a few extra parking spaces?” Rachel didn’t think it was worth the hassle.

  “That’s not the point,” Lark said. “Bird Haven’s allowed free access for better than sixteen years. One more year and the road becomes a permanent public access by Colorado law.”

  Which would create a change in land status. It was definitely not in Aunt Miriam’s best interests to ignore the situation.

  Rachel studied Lark and wondered if she knew about the stipulations of Uncle Will’s trust, or if she was just looking out for Miriam.

  Rachel decided to change the subject until she could discuss the situation with Miriam. “So what brings you back to Elk Park? Just here on vacation?”

  “Nope, I’m a full-time resident now,” Lark said, busying herself with the coffeemaker. “About three years ago the Drummond came up for sale. I’d always dreamed of owning it, bringing it back into the family, so to speak. All it took was the flick of a pen and… voilà!” Lark spread her arms wide. “I went from trust-funder to working stiff. You are looking at the current proprietor of the Drummond Hotel and Convention Center.”

  “Congratulations.” Talk about “taking back your life”! Rachel stood up and kneaded the muscle tension in her lower back. “I think I could use a walk after t
he trip up here. Did you say Aunt Miriam was outside?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you think I have time to find her before the meeting starts?”

  “I don’t see why not. She starts the meeting.” Lark gestured toward the back door. “She’s showing some reporter the rehab center.”

  The Raptor House was visible from the back patio. Headquartered in a green barn shoved into a clump of Douglas firs, it stood some 300 yards from the house. She crossed the yard, where sprigs of Indian paintbrush and fuzzy pasque flowers poked through the grass. Birds twittered from the treetops.

  Rachel breathed in the pine-spiced air and thought back to the last time she’d seen her aunt. Miriam had flown to New York, stayed two days, and left. Uncle Will had died three weeks later.

  Rachel felt the familiar stab of guilt, the kind time doesn’t erase. The kind time never lets you forget. Focused on her career, she hadn’t attended Uncle Will’s funeral, leaving Aunt Miriam to grieve alone. What was it Grandma Wilder always said? “You can’t mend torn underwear.” Well, she might be right about that, but Rachel intended to try.

  The doors of the barn stood partially open. Rachel heard angry voices and stopped at the threshold.

  “You can’t really believe William had anything to do with what happened to those falcons.”

  Rachel recognized the voice as Miriam’s.

  “Why shouldn’t I believe that, Mrs. Tanager? Everything I’ve uncovered points to his guilt. Now that he’s dead, I’d hoped you’d be willing to share what you know. Or maybe you’re hiding something, too.”

  “I’ve listened to enough of your prattle. I want you to leave.”

  “Why? Because I’ve uncovered a scheme you don’t want your bird friends knowing about? One way or another, it’s all coming out.”

  Rachel stepped from the sunlight into a large barn lined with cages. A one-winged bald eagle perched on an aspen stand, tethered to a stake anchored in the center of the earthen floor. Agitated, it opened and snapped its beak shut several times.