A Murder of Crows

by Jan Dunlap

  “You were in here for lunch on Saturday,” Red announced. “I never forget a face. And you weren’t alone, either. There was somebody with you who got really upset when I was talking to Sonny about his windmills.”

  She turned towards Prudence. “Where is Sonny, anyway? I got that loose leaf tea he likes so much already brewing.”

  Red focused her attention back on Boo. “So what’ll it be this morning? Do you guys need a few minutes to look over the menu?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stood at the side of the county road, my binoculars to my eyes, trying to make out the field identification marks of the grayish bird slowly making its way along the far side of the shallow wetlands. Mixed in with a small flock of Sanderlings, the bird in my binos was grayish overall with a white belly, along with orange-yellow coloring at the base of its thin bill. Since it was also in approximately the same location north of Appleton in Swift County where the Purple Sandpiper had been reported earlier in the week, I was fairly confident that’s what I was seeing.

  The wind had picked up considerably since Boo and I left Millie’s, and my car thermometer was showing a rapid drop in temperature as well. Despite signs of incoming inclement weather, though, I figured the twenty-minute detour from our more direct route to Morris would be worth it if I found the sandpiper. More typically found on the East Coast of the United States, the Purple Sandpiper nested farther north than most shorebirds. The only time it’d been found in Minnesota was during migration. Even then, those sightings were all in the northeastern quadrant of the state. To find a Purple Sandpiper this far south was unusual, to say the least, which is one reason the MOU list serve had been buzzing with it earlier in the week.

  While Boo stayed in the car, I watched the bird for another minute, enjoying its intense scrutiny of the wetland as it searched for food. I almost envied the sandpiper’s simple lifestyle: seek and eat, fly and sleep. No delinquents to counsel, no murders to solve. Birds even knew who their natural enemies were and where to expect danger, which was more than I could say for humans at the moment.

  Especially the humans I knew. Sonny had taken poisoned tea from someone he trusted. Rick had sprained an ankle in a freak court collision. Red had tripped down the stairs she climbed every day. My tires had been someone’s target, and now I wondered exactly what the man beside me in my SUV might be capable of, besides herding chickens and wrestling steers.

  For the last two hours, I’d had that same “down-the-rabbit-hole” sensation I’d previously experienced in the course of being involved in a murder investigation: just when you think you know exactly what’s going to happen, something totally different occurs, and you’re so disoriented that, for a while, nothing makes sense at all. You don’t know who to trust. You don’t know what to believe. You’re not sure which end is up.

  I looked at the Sanderlings around the Purple Sandpiper. Several tipped their heads down into the water to snatch a snack from the wetland, their bills completely submerged.

  No mistaking which end is up with shorebirds, that was for sure. Ducks and geese were even easier—they stuck their rear ends clear up above the water line when they feed. Too bad people weren’t as transparent. Interpreting human behavior would be a breeze then, although it might be a little awkward …

  Whoa! See that guy bending over? He’s clearly being an a…

  Anyway, head over heels and vice-versa was kind of the way I’d been feeling since Red insisted that Boo had been a customer on Saturday. I’d been one hundred percent certain she was going to say he was the Bonecrusher. Instead, she said he’d been at Millie’s at the same time as Sonny.

  Which meant that Boo Metternick knew exactly who Sonny was, along with the fact that my old birding pal had been in town for the sustainable sources conference at the Arboretum. And given that Boo Metternick had known—and loved?—Gina since they were teens, Boo also had to know about the scandal that had resulted in Gina leaving her job in Henderson, which I was sure hadn’t endeared Sonny to Boo … any more than Sonny’s lies about his father’s land had put Sonny on Boo’s list of favorite people.

  The big question was: how really un-favorite did Sonny rank with Boo?

  Enough to get himself killed by the Crusher?

  I lowered the binos to my chest, but almost immediately raised them back up. One of the Sanderlings swimming in the increasingly choppy water that lined the wetlands didn’t look quite right to me. I focused in on the bird, and realized I wasn’t looking at another Sanderling, but a Red Phalarope already in its winter plumage. As I watched, it swam into deeper water and began its distinctive spinning motion which helped stir up invertebrates to the surface for feeding.

  If it was rare to see a Purple Sandpiper in Minnesota, it was slightly less rare to find a Red Phalarope. Both birds were summer natives to the arctic regions of northern Canada. Had the weather brought them inland?

  I hustled back to the car through a stand of drying weeds and grasses, and sent a quick text message to a few birders I knew in the area, letting them know I’d seen a Red Phalarope. With any luck, the bird would still be there when they arrived, and they could confirm my sighting, along with adding it to their own life lists. For my part, I had no doubt I’d seen both a Purple Sandpiper and a Red Phalarope in the wetlands. In any community of birders, though, it never hurt to have a rarity spotted—and identified—by more than one person.

  “So these other birders would just drop what they’re doing and drive out to see this bird?” Boo asked after I explained to him what I was texting.

  “You bet,” I told him. “This bird is a real find. And because it’s so unusual to see it here, there will inevitably be people who doubt what I saw. Heck, if I’d seen a Red Phalarope sighting posted on the list serve, I’d probably question it myself. If I could, I’d sure try to get out to see it.”

  “Would a photo help with documentation?”

  I tucked my cellphone back into my pocket. “Absolutely, but unfortunately, my camera equipment is back in my townhouse in the front closet. I was so ticked about my car tires last night, I totally forgot to grab it this morning.”

  I turned in the seat to face him. “You don’t happen to have a camera in your backpack, do you, Boo?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, you’re out of luck.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I know what I saw, even if it was totally not what I’d expected.”

  “You’ve got to keep an open mind to be a birder, huh?” Boo asked.

  I put the key back in the ignition and glanced at my passenger. “Yeah, you do. And since we’re on the subject of open minds, would you care to tell my open mind how it happened that you were having lunch at Millie’s deli on Saturday at exactly the same time that the late Sonny Delite was having a conversation with Red about windmills outside Morris?”

  Boo shrugged. “Total coincidence, I guess. I met an old friend for lunch, and since he was working at the Arboretum, Millie’s was close enough for him to get away for his lunch break.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “I never met Sonny Delite, Bob. I’d heard the name, but I never met the man. Just as well, I guess. Based on what I knew about him because of Gina, I can’t imagine I would have wanted to be buddies. He just seemed to cause trouble wherever he went.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “What about my dad?”

  “Isn’t—I mean, wasn’t—Sonny the consultant who was ruining your dad’s chances to get the contract with the wind energy company?”

  Boo blew out a long sigh.

  “Yes, he was.”

  A few snowflakes landed on the windshield in front of me. The storm front was getting closer.

  Boo’s voice dropped to an ominous whisper in the car. “Are you trying to come up with a motive for me to be Sonny Delite’s killer? That would make two motives, then, wouldn’t it—my feelings for Gina and my concern for my dad? What would you say if I told you I was at the Arboretum early Sunday morning, Bob? Would
that clinch it for you?”

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck lifted.

  What kind of an idiot was I?

  Here I was in a remote spot, alone with a huge guy who could probably crush my throat with one squeeze, and I was baiting him to confess to a murder?

  Yep, I’d say that was all kinds of idiot, actually. Especially since I didn’t even try to get out of the car or whip my car keys in front of me in a futile defense. The truth was, I was operating on pure instinct: I just couldn’t see Boo Metternick killing anyone. He seemed to have iron self-control, and … well … I really liked him, gosh darn it.

  So instead of panicking and imagining that I was going to be dead in the next few seconds, I asked him one last question.

  “Can you tell me what kind of plant that is?” I said, pointing to the tall stalk just beyond his passenger door. Snowflakes were already frosting its withered leaves.

  Boo turned his head and studied the plant.

  “I don’t know. Is it ragweed? Yarrow? It’s tall and sort of feathery, but I’ve never been any good at identifying plants.” He looked back at me. “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t have been any good at killing Sonny Delite, either, then,” I told him, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the roadside. “That wasn’t yarrow, Boo. It was hemlock.”

  “And?”

  I momentarily debated telling him about Sonny’s hemlock tea, but since that detail hadn’t been released to the media, I decided that the less Boo Metternick knew about Sonny Delite’s death, the better. Based on his inability to identify hemlock, I felt moderately assured that Savage High School’s new physics instructor hadn’t brewed any poison for the deceased.

  I did, however, still have a few questions for him.

  “Since you brought it up, why were you at the Arb on Sunday morning, Boo? And no, I don’t think you killed Sonny Delite. You’re … too nice.” I turned on my windshield wipers to brush away the snow that was beginning to accumulate.

  “Really? Too nice? I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I thought maybe I had you going there for a minute,” he confessed. “Life as a physics teacher can get pretty dull, I’m finding. I’ve been thinking I need to give my image an edge—be the big scary guy, you know?”

  “Is that why you don’t talk much? To other people, I mean?” I added, realizing that since we’d chased the chickens, Boo had been a regular Chatty Charlie with me. “You’re trying to give yourself a make-over?”

  Boo peered through the snow piling up on the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it.

  “No,” he answered. “I don’t talk a lot because I usually feel uncomfortable around new people. I always get the feeling that people are intimidated by my size, and I don’t know how to make them get over it, so I just listen and watch most of the time.”

  Which, I knew from my conversations with other faculty members, made them even more uncomfortable. Before I’d gotten to know Boo, I’d thought he was a little creepy that way too. I mean, who likes to see a giant staring at them every time they catch his eye?

  “I could always talk to Gina,” Boo continued, “but she was the exception. I don’t know why it’s so easy for me to talk to you, but it is.”

  I knew why—it’s because I have this invisible sign on my forehead that lights up and makes people tell me their life stories, whether I want to hear it or not. It’s a gift. I guess. Or maybe it’s a curse. I haven’t decided yet. As a counselor, it helps a lot when I’m working with students; when I’m standing in the checkout line at the grocery store and the ice cream is melting in the cart, not so much.

  “It’s really coming down,” Boo commented. “Remember I told you that storms can really blow up suddenly out in this part of the state?”

  I slowed the car down to a crawl as visibility approached zero.

  “Yeah, I remember,” I said, my eyes glued on the white wall in front of the car. “For some reason, I got the feeling you were trying to dissuade me from coming up here today.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Beats me. Because you’re a closet competitive birder, and you didn’t want me to see a Ferruginous Hawk?” I shook my head slightly, still focused on keeping the car on the road. “I don’t think so. Because you know Sonny was a friend of mine, and I’d probably snoop around in Morris and dig up some dirt on your father? Maybe.”

  I felt the SUV’s wheels slide, and the slippery ice icon flashed on my dashboard. I slowed even more until I felt the tires grip the road again.

  “And then your tires got slashed,” Boo commented. “With a license plate like yours, you can’t imagine it was random.”

  “The possibility has been presented to me.”

  The wall of white receded and the heavy curtain of snow lifted a little.

  “But since you didn’t call me last night to confirm ‘one more time’ if we were still going this morning,” I explained, “I figured you didn’t have anything to do with the slashing. I didn’t realize Rick would have tipped you off to the tire replacement, though, so maybe you still should be on my slashing suspect list.”

  “It’s letting up,” Boo noted, nodding at the windshield. “I hate these surprise snowstorms. When you grow up out here, you learn how to deal with them, but you never learn to like them.”

  I sensed him turning toward me in the passenger seat.

  “Rick didn’t tell me about your tires,” he corrected me. “Gina did. I was feeling kind of bad about our little collision during basketball, so I called her to ask how Rick was doing, and she told me about your car. By the way, why do you keep thinking that Rick Cook and I are such great pals? He’s dating Gina, you know. I can’t say that’s making him my favorite school police officer at the moment.”

  “I figured you two were tight because he knows all about you,” I said. “You know—the big secret?”

  Boo was silent.

  “And it’s not that he told me, either,” I made sure to add.

  Rick was already in enough hot water with the Crusher by dating Gina that I didn’t want to add another reason for Boo to be angry with Rick.

  A couple of seconds passed by before Boo responded.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” he said.

  “You! Your former career and secret identity.” I glanced at Boo. “I know you’re the Bonecrusher.”

  I only had the chance to register his surprise for a second before I heard the whump and the car began a fast spin on what had quickly become a sheet of ice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Crap!” I hissed as I struggled with the steering wheel, trying to stop our slide into the road’s snowy shoulder and beyond it, a steep incline down to an ice-crusted ditch.

  The car’s spin accelerated. Trees on both sides of the road flashed past.

  I thought about Luce.

  I thought about Baby Lou.

  I thought about the money I’d just shelled out for four new tires.

  Four new tires that couldn’t find a bite of traction on a suddenly icy road.

  Last time I go to the Tire Shoppe, I promised myself, then immediately tacked on for tires. It’s the last time for tires.

  Even under duress, I like to be accurate.

  Especially when an icy ditch and certain death might be waiting for me.

  I turned in the direction of the skid.

  Really, I’d like to go to the Tire Shoppe again.

  A lot.

  Frequently, even.

  The speed of our spin decreased.

  Yes! I’ll even get a customer loyalty card!

  “You got it, Bob,” Boo congratulated me as the car straightened itself out and came to rest in the opposite direction of the lane I’d been driving. “Nice driving, buddy.”

  “I try,” I said, letting out a long breath I’d been holding as I’d battled the skid. I looked down the road we’d already traveled. “I hit something. I heard the collision, but I don’t see anything on the road back th
ere.”

  “Deer,” Boo informed me. “I caught a glimpse of it clipping the front of the car just as it happened.” He gazed down the road, too. “Bambi is long gone, it looks like. He’ll live to scare the pants off another motorist, I’m sure. It’s a common driving hazard in this part of the state: deer dodging.”

  “It happens everywhere in Minnesota,” I told him. “I lost a headlight to a deer a few years ago just driving home from the high school. It’s a good thing you can’t hunt deer within city limits, or it wouldn’t be safe to step outside my townhouse during hunting season. I swear I’ve got a herd that regularly walks through my backyard. And that doesn’t even include all the road kill you see.”

  I climbed out of the car to take a look at the front end of the car. Snow was still swirling a little in short gusts, but the intense dumping action had stopped. I found a clump of brown deer fur wedged along the fender and the hood of the car, but no blood. The headlights were still working. Boo was right; Bambi would live to terrorize drivers for another day. I got back in the car.

  “We’re good to go,” I said. “Any more weather warnings or driving hazards I should know about between here and Morris?”

  “None that I can think of,” Boo said. He pointed beyond the windshield. “What’s that?”

  I followed his line of sight and saw a Merlin perched on the top of a utility pole.

  “Good eye,” I told Boo. “It’s a Merlin, and it’s uncommon throughout the state. I won’t say it was worth a collision with a deer in order to see it, but it’ll go on my list for birds in this county. I hadn’t seen one here before.”

  I gave Boo a suspicious look. “You sure you’re not a birder in disguise?”

  Boo laughed. “Scout’s honor. And I’m not the Bonecrusher, either, by the way.”