by Ellen Riggs
“I don’t cause crime, merely end up embroiled in it.” I took the exit to the waterfowl sanctuary. “How’s Asher doing, anyway?”
“Pining, actually. I think Jilly’s put him on ice.”
His voice was cautious, no doubt because the territory between my brother and my best friend was potentially hazardous for both of us.
“This thing with her gran sent her into a spiral of doubt and regret,” I said. “Asher got caught up in it, but I bet everything turns around when we fix the swan issue. And the murder issue, insofar as they overlap. That murky pond holds secrets.”
“Then I guess I’d better see what I can do to help on my end. We don’t want an irate swan and a dead body coming between a once-happy couple.”
“There’s my romantic,” I said.
“It’s self-interest too,” he said. “Asher is a better cop with Jilly in his life. More focused and determined. He wants to be worthy of her.”
“So how about we get them married off in my orchard this fall? I keep picturing a wedding among red apples and orange leaves.”
“Sounds very pretty,” he said. “Maybe you’ll catch the bouquet.”
My face ignited and I almost steered off the road. “I’d try my best, but I do have three single sisters who aren’t pushovers.” I waited a beat. “Didn’t my mom suggest you go for one of her nicer daughters?”
He laughed. “None of your sisters is all sugar and spice. Dahlia made sure you could hold your own in the world. But I have no doubt whatsoever that I snagged the best Galloway girl—the tallest, smartest and kindest of a fine quintet.”
“All right then. If you’re quite sure, I’ll pummel my own sisters to get that bouquet. Keats and the rest of the ark will help. It’ll be the wedding they talk about for a hundred years in hill country.”
His laugh rang out in the truck and chased away a lot of my anxiety and homesickness.
“Let’s see if we can pull this thing off,” he said. “Solving murders might be easier than matchmaking. Come home soon, Ivy.”
“I can’t wait,” I said, driving under a huge sign shaped like a duck with lettering that read, Stillson Waterfowl Sanctuary. “This vacation stuff is for the birds.”
Chapter Fifteen
A flock of Canada geese surrounded the truck. In the passenger seat, Keats was so excited he stood on his hind legs and hopped in a full circle. I couldn’t remember seeing his circus dog act since the day I rescued him. He’d performed many other stunts, but the tricks he learned before my time were mostly beneath him now.
Unless there was a flock of geese beneath him. Then all bets were off.
“Keats, may I have a word? I know how much you enjoy herding our feathered friends, but it won’t fly here.”
He didn’t even roll his eyes at the pun. His sheepdog heart was tripping over itself and both paws tried to work the latch. It was a relief that he hadn’t already figured out how to come and go as he liked. Maybe he had and was just too worked up to execute.
Finally he whined in frustration and I crossed my arms. “Buddy, we go nowhere till we’ve had this talk.”
He hopped back around and stayed up, front paws hanging. I tried to hold back a grin and failed.
“Do not try to charm me, Keats. I’m being serious. This is a no-herd zone. There will be injured and sick birds that need to be treated with kid gloves. I won’t have us kicked out before we get the information we need to help Zeus. So… do I have your agreement? Or would you prefer to wait in the truck?”
The truck wasn’t really an option, however. It was a warm day and I couldn’t leave him for more than a few minutes, even in the shade.
He gave a resigned whimper. It would take a lot of willpower, but he’d restrain himself.
“Just close your eyes and think about homicide,” I said. “There are more important things at stake today than geese. But if you’re very good I may get you some geese to herd at home. For your new pond.”
His lip lifted in a rare sneer at the word pond.
“Don’t show me those teeth, or you’ll find yourself in a lifejacket,” I said, getting out of the truck. “There’s one in the back.”
I made broad sweeping gestures to shoo the geese before releasing the dog. The birds took one look at him and waddled off.
“One problem down, one to go,” I said, as we walked to the weather-beaten wood hut that looked like an office.
A white-haired man in coveralls came out at the first knock. I introduced myself and Keats, who sat politely at my side with his ears not only up but forward. He aimed to please, and after a long moment of evaluating the dog, the man smiled.
“Are you going to be able to hold yourself back?” he asked Keats, in a charming English accent. “This place is feathery temptation for any dog.”
Before I could answer, Keats mumbled his own assurances, and the man laughed. “No one else would believe you, but I will.”
Keats raised one white paw and offered to shake. I hadn’t seen him do that in a long time, either.
The man knelt and solemnly took the paw. They had some sort of silent communion and then he nodded. “All right then, my tuxedoed friend. I have your word as a gentleman and I’ll trust you. My name is Amos, by the way.”
He stood and offered me the same hand. “And you, young lady… can I trust you not to cause mayhem?”
I gave him a big smile. “Of course. Why?”
“Because old men use Google, too,” he said. “I check out anyone who comes to visit and while your heart’s obviously in the right place, you sure do get into trouble.”
“That I do, Amos. Like I mentioned, I’m on a special mission to solve a swan situation at a gated community.”
“Why don’t I come over and grab him for you?” he said. “It wouldn’t be my first swan rescue.”
“Grab him? Grab him how? He’s ferocious.”
He led me along a gravel path. “Just a typical cob. That’s a male swan, by the way. The female is a pen. Both tend to be crusty at this time of year. It’s breeding season.”
“He’s a lonely bachelor, it seems.”
His snowy head tilted. “More likely a widower, I’m afraid. Singles tend to flock up until they meet the one, at which point they basically mate for life.” He gave me a sad smile. “If they lose a mate, they’ll grieve for quite some time—maybe forever. Your cob’s behavior sounds consistent with that.”
“How tragic.” My hand moved over my heart. “Do you think that’s it?”
“Happens often enough, unfortunately. Some stop eating and literally pine to death. But if we could convince him to pair up with a new pen, he’d come around. I’ve seen worse challenges. Most swans here have been snagged in fishing tackle or hit by a boat.”
“That’s terrible. A big white bird should be easy to miss.”
“You’d think. Although to be fair I’ve seen swans take on boaters by choice. They don’t know their limitations. One of our cobs lost his foot to a small motor. I call him Sid Vicious, and his wife is Nancy. He manages fine in our pond, but he can’t live in the wild anymore.”
Amos stopped beside the first of several ponds I could see ahead. The water was calm and blue, despite being full of more species of birds than I’d ever seen.
“No swans here?” I asked.
“They rejected this one,” he said. “Swans need the right conditions during nesting season and they’ll defend their territory to the death.”
“And yet you volunteered to come over and grab our troublemaker? Just like that?”
“Sure. The trick is to hug them close until they stop fighting. Protect your eyes and expect a few bruises.”
Keats whimpered and I touched his ears. “I was hoping for peaceful negotiation rather than eviction. I just need to understand what he wants. There must be a reason he landed in the little pond at the Briars all alone.”
“That pond’s not so little,” he said. “It’s dammed up where you are but there’s over thirty miles
of wetland beyond.”
Keats shuddered. This sounded too much like Huckleberry Swamp back home for his liking.
“Maybe his mate is out there in trouble,” I said.
“Unlikely,” Amos said, walking on. “They bond so fiercely that he’d choose to die beside her no matter what happened.”
“This is sounding like a love story gone terribly wrong,” I said.
We rounded a bend and I gasped. Swimming toward us at warp speed were two stunning swans with wings raised.
“Walk the dog back,” Amos said. “They’re used to me and wouldn’t mind you. The dog is the threat in their eyes.”
Now I saw why. Behind them trailed eight fluffy grey cygnets that didn’t look long out of the egg. Turning, I dropped Keats’ leash and said, “Fall back, please.” He hesitated to leave me in the company of dangerous warriors, so I added, “Neither of us wants to end up in the drink today. I’ll be fine.”
That was enough to sway him and he literally backed up, with his muzzle swiveling between me and the swans. When the birds slowed their roll, he sat on his haunches, still on high alert.
“He’s a good one,” said Amos. “Listens well.”
“Very protective, though, so this is hard for him.”
“It’s okay. The cob’s stood down and the pen’s circling back.”
The regal bird was hardly at ease, however. He came close to the shoreline and stared at me. I lowered my eyes and then offered a little bow. “Thank you,” I said. “For not killing my dog.”
Raising my eyes, I saw his feathers fold, like a Victorian lady snapping her fan shut for dramatic effect.
“Nice touch,” Amos said. “He trusts you as much as a protective papa can.” He gave a little laugh. “Don’t turn your back though. They like a sneak attack.”
“I’ve learned that the hard way with animals at my hobby farm,” I said. “My tailbone has barely recovered from a goat assault two weeks ago.”
“Have you thought about taking in rescue swans? I’m connected with sanctuaries all over the country.”
Keats answered for me with an assertive mumble that carried.
“That’s a no from the sheepdog,” I said. “I don’t have a pond, yet.”
“If you’re considering hosting swans, they need a hundred yards of water for a running takeoff and prefer it shallow for optimal grazing.”
“Wouldn’t they just fly away then? And for that matter, why hasn’t the one at the Briars done just that?”
“I’m assuming he can’t,” Amos said. “Maybe he’s injured, but more likely he’s been deliberately grounded by humans.”
“Grounded how?”
He gestured to the swan couple in front of us. “I’ve clipped their guard feathers to keep them here because they wouldn’t survive in the real wild.”
“Does it hurt them?” I asked.
“Done right, no. I cut five primary flight feathers out of one wing. That’s enough to keep them from liftoff until their next molt. Rinse and repeat annually.”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the photos. “How do I know if he’s been clipped?”
He accepted the phone I offered and then shrugged. “You’ll need to get a full wingspread to see. Done correctly, it’ll look like a comb with teeth missing.”
“I see. So it’s not inhumane?”
“Clipping can be in the best interests of the bird. I’m not a big fan of pinioning, however.”
“I’ve never heard that word.”
“People who raise swans for sale remove a joint in the wing so that they never even learn to fly. They twirl around until they give up. Their pond is all they know.”
“What a shame that some swans never experience flight at all.”
“Obviously, as a rescuer, I prefer to let swans be swans. I ground injured birds till they recover and send them on their way.” A smile lit up his face. “Some come back in spring to nest here. Best of both worlds, as they can raise their young safely. We’ve done a lot to support the swan population.”
“Are they all mute swans?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said, motioning for me to walk on.
I did the same with Keats, keeping a wary eye on the family until we were well past.
Over the next two hours we strolled past pond after pond, each big enough to offer a breeding pair sufficient territory to call home. It seemed that they were content to share with other waterfowl, just not their white-feathered brethren.
Most of the ponds contained mute swans, but there were two pairs of larger trumpeter swans with black beaks, and a striking pair of black swans.
“I’ve never seen black swans,” I said. “Now I want two ponds so I can have black and white.” I grinned at Keats. “A perfect match for my dog.”
“Black swans prefer a warmer climate so they wouldn’t love your winters,” he said. “Doesn’t mean you can’t do it. Just takes more work.”
“I’m no stranger to work, but I’ve also learned that so many creatures just arrive that there’s no need to go out of my way to find more.”
Amos crossed his arms. “So, what are you going to do about your swan predicament at the retirement community?”
My smile faded. “Well, first I need to figure out his flight information. If he can fly, why is he staying? If he can’t fly, how did he get there? He couldn’t have strolled in.”
“Don’t be so sure. There are dams and water beyond. Many a swan has portaged a mile to get where it wants to go. They’re very determined.”
I stared at the pair of black swans contentedly dipping their heads to pull reeds. “Do they ever become, well, tame?”
He shook his head. “Not particularly, but I don’t encourage it, either. Our birds aren’t pond ornaments. Personally, I’d never fully trust a cob. He’s just doing what his genes tell him to do, and I can’t fault him for that. One of my rescuer friends let his guard down and got a broken nose as a reminder.”
“Duly noted,” I said, as Keats shivered beside me. “I’ll study the Briars’ feathered guest and figure out what’s bothering him. Seeing your swans proves he’s either unwell or unhappy. He doesn’t have the ease and confidence of your birds. He swims back and forth constantly when I’m there and apparently hides in the bush when I’m not.”
“Send me more footage and I’ll help interpret,” he said. “First thing to do is figure out if he’s injured or bound in some way by fishing tackle. If all else fails, I’ll extract him and see how he fares here. I can find him a new lady if that’s what ails him.”
My heart lifted as we walked back to the parking area. “I love second chance love stories. I hope it’s as simple as that.”
“It’s rarely as simple as that with swans, but stay positive.”
I laughed. “Optimism is in my genes, apparently. It gets clipped often and grows back, like flight feathers.”
“That’s a wonderful trait to have,” Amos said. “Your cob is in good hands.”
I let Keats into the truck and turned. “I hope so. If he’s chosen to come to the Briars, there must be a good reason. He’s a beautiful puzzle to be solved.”
Amos offered his hand to help me climb into the truck and I accepted it. I might be a fiercely independent farmer, but gallantry from the right source was always welcome.
“There’s a job here for you if you decide to become a snowbird,” he said.
Rolling down the window, I shook my head. “I’m no fan of our winters but chances are good I’ll go down with my ark someday.”
“Ivy,” he said, sounding more serious now. “Get yourself a good lifejacket. I sense you’re going to need it.”
“Brought one with me,” I said, putting the truck in reverse. Once we were on the road I added, “We’d better stock up on flotation devices for Edna’s bunker. Do zombies swim, buddy?”
His mumble told me in no uncertain terms that if the apocalypse featured swimming zombies, I was on my own.
Chapter Sixteen
“We’ve got our work cut out for us, too,” I told Keats as we got out of the truck. “I want to know how these folks use their day pass. They have money to burn and the town has apparently grown on the strength of the Briars and other communities like it.” I looked around. “There’s security staff on every street corner. Bizarre.”
Texting Jilly, I headed for the tall monument in the center of town where we’d agreed to meet. On the way, however, I noticed Vaughan Mills leaving a store called Haute Baubles with a bag in his hand. He pulled out what appeared to be a small blue velvet case, slipped it into his pocket, and then ditched the bag in a trash can.
Keats gave me a look and I nodded. “I’m curious about that, too, buddy. Shall we shop for jewels?”
A bell tinkled over the door as we walked into the small store. There was only one long glass display case, and as I peered inside, a woman came out of the back room. It was a bit of a shock to see black curls after spending so much time among silver locks.
She took her time scanning my overalls and then grimaced. Flying waterfowl had used me for target practice at the sanctuary and I probably didn’t smell too fresh, either. Luckily, I’d worn a baseball cap, which I removed now and shook out my hair.
“Welcome to Clarington,” the salesclerk said. Her smile didn’t meet her eyes, which were as black as the onyx brooch in the case at my fingertips. “I believe you’re new in town.” She leaned over the case to stare at Keats. “Dogs aren’t permitted in the store. Perhaps you missed the sign.”