Authors: Joan Hess
“And how are you earning this?” I asked, worried that I was to hear about her “fabulous job” as a stripper.
Caron paused to savor the drama of the moment, then said, “I’ve been hired as a facilitator.”
“A facilitator? What are you going to facilitate?”
“Oh, things,” she said as she disappeared behind the science fiction rack. “Where are the bird books?”
“In the corner by the how-to’s,” I said, although we both knew she was as familiar with the layout as I. I was going to grill Inez, but she’d wandered out of sight. I waited impatiently until Caron reappeared with a book and an insufferably smug expression. “I didn’t realize you had a secret ambition to become a bird fancier, dear. It’s a wonderful hobby, but expensive. You need binoculars, along with bug repellent and heavy shoes in case you step on a snake. The pith helmet is optional.”
“I’m going to be an official facilitator for some organization that frets about its feathered friends. On weekends, they used to do these programs where people pay money to goggle at birds, but this year they weren’t going to hire anybody. They changed their minds yesterday, because they saw an adult eagle in a ‘feeding posture,’ whatever that is, way at the end of one of the creeks. It’s the first successful nesting attempt on Turnstone Lake in modern times, so it’s a big deal. Some guy paddled
down there and saw the aerie, which is supposedly the size of our bathroom. Now they’ve blocked access to the creek, and the only way to look at the eagles and eaglets is to go on a tour with an official facilitator. Luanne isn’t sure about my duties, but it’s likely that I’ll drive a barge and give lectures to the passengers. Therefore, I don’t have to worry about bugs or snakes—just boring old farts in polyester shorts.”
Inez peered around a rack. “I’m going to be one, too, Mrs. Malloy. Mrs. Bradshaw says we’ll make ten dollars an hour once we’ve been trained.”
I was not amused. “Just how did this happen? Was Luanne standing at the curb passing out applications to everybody who came by, or did the unemployment agency sign you up?”
“We were walking by her store on the way to the unemployment office,” Caron said as she studied a menacing photograph of an eagle. “I went in to ask her if she needed a clerk, and she mentioned this facilitator thing. She acted like you knew all about it. We have to stay at some lodge this weekend so a lady named Agatha Christie can do this two-day training session. You’re supposed to come, too, but Luanne says you can stay at her friend’s house if you want. We start getting paid the very next weekend. Eight hours a day for two days and we can quit right then, but we may do another weekend so I won’t have to wear rags when I’m driving around with Louis.” She flipped
to a page with an equally menacing photograph of a great horned owl. “Yikes!”
To think I’d sipped beer and shared nachos with such a treacherous woman. I had no doubt Luanne and her new friend Agatha Anne had cooked up the scheme over a bottle of champagne and dollops of caviar on trimmed triangles of toast. “I fear I must decline Luanne’s hospitality,” I said. “I promised myself to update the inventory list this weekend. Inez, why don’t you see if one of your parents can drive you to the lake?”
“They’re going to a library conference in Santa Fe,” she said. “Caron was supposed to ask you if I can stay with her this weekend.”
“It’s only Monday,” Caron said without looking up. “I hope we’re not going to have to get personal with the birds. It’s one thing to talk about them, but I’d just as soon eat mouse guts as touch one.”
Inez ventured to the counter. “My aunt had a parakeet once. It was kind of cute and liked to perch on the mantel and watch everybody. One afternoon the cat ate it. My aunt almost fainted when she came home and found little blue feathers all over the room.”
“Big deal,” Caron said crossly, turning the page. “Peregrine falcons can plunge at an estimated rate of one hundred and eighty miles an hour to snatch a duck out of the air. They could probably get your aunt’s cat if they wanted to.”
“She accidentally backed over it in the garage.”
Caron flipped to another page. “Then she should have set it out for the turkey vultures. They locate carrion by smell. Black vultures, on the other hand, rely on their vision. Did it smell worse than it looked?”
I went to the office, slammed the door, and dialed the number of Secondhand Rose. “That was underhanded,” I said when Luanne answered. “I refuse to be manipulated like this. You can be the transportation facilitator and drive the girls to the lake for the weekend. I’m staying right here in a bird-free environment.”
“Captain Gannet showed up again Saturday, this time while we were having dinner with Agatha Anne and Sid. Dick had to go to the sheriff’s office for an hour, but no one felt like eating when he got back. He barely said a word yesterday, and just dropped me off on the sidewalk when we got back to Farberville.”
“A little petulant on his part.”
“It’s not petulance, Claire. It’s been three months since Dick’s felt as if he could finish a meal or sleep through the night without Gannet pounding on the door. Won’t you please come this weekend and just talk to people? Someone may remember a scrap of information that’ll prove the explosion was an accident. Then you can sail away in triumph and I can resume a serious study of the microwave manual.”
I hung up but remained in the office, not sure if the dietary habits of vultures were an
improvement over petunias of passion and lilies of lust. A vision of a moonlit deck drifted into my mind. A starry sky, the distant sound of music, the salty breeze, the tinkle of silver and crystal. And Peter Rosen doing his best to convince me to choose a date to book a justice of the peace. His nose is a bit beakish, and his gaze can be as piercing as that of an eagle or a hawk. His hands are manicured but as strong as talons.
I realized I was beginning to feel like the heroine in Hitchcock’s
The Birds.
I remained steadfast for the ensuing forty-eight hours, during which Luanne called approximately forty-eight times to beseech me to change my mind. She solemnly swore that the Dunling Foundation hired high school and college students every summer to serve as facilitators, and although this year they’d intended to cut back on staff, the discovery of the aerie would bring in bird-watchers from across the state. Agatha Anne was desperate.
It was no champagne-and-caviar conspiracy, Luanne insisted. She made blunt remarks about the high cost of driver’s ed and the moral irresponsibility of allowing an unschooled driver onto the streets. Friendship and fidelity were topics explored more than once. More appeals were made than the Supreme Court receives in a term.
I resisted forty-seven times, then finally agreed to take the girls to the lake on Friday and spend
the night at Dick’s house, although I was determined to return to Farberville the following morning and sell books for the remainder of the weekend. That I could do so without periodic eruptions from my daughter had as much influence on my capitulation as Luanne’s banalities.
We arrived at Turnstone Lake shortly after six o’clock. Caron and Inez each had a bulging duffel bag and an assortment of overnight cases with their precious hair equipment and makeup. They’d become increasingly apprehensive as we drove down the narrow roads, and their conversation shifted from their anticipated wealth to the possibility that they might be coerced into the woods, where they would be at the mercy of poisonous snakes and ravenous bears.
“That’s the driveway to Dick Cissel’s house,” I said as we drove by the gate and continued toward Dunling Lodge. “It’s just across the cove from where you’ll be staying. You could get there in less than five minutes if you walked along the edge of the water.”
“And managed not to step on a water moccasin,” Caron said, her lower lip quivering with despair. From under a much-crinkled brow, she scowled at her surroundings. “I thought there’d be more houses and stores and less of this forest stuff. How can people stand to stay out here? What do they do all day—gather nuts and berries?”
“They enjoy nature, I suppose,” I said as I
braked to allow a squirrel to dart across the road. “Considering your opinion of things that scuttle, scamper, or fly, you might have thought a little harder before you accepted the job.”
“Scuttle?” Inez said from the backseat.
I declined to define my terms and drove down a steep road to Dunling Lodge. A weathered sign proclaimed it to be the headquarters of the Dunling Foundation Bird and Wildlife Sanctuary, founded 1984. Smaller letters acknowledged that escorted tours were available from July through March, but hikers were always welcome and information could be procured in the lodge. Donations were appreciated, but not required. Alcoholic beverages were expressly forbidden, as was littering.
There were several cars and trucks in the rocky parking area. As I rolled to a stop, a quartet of sturdy people emerged from a path into the woods and began to unload gear into a station wagon. Gender was not obvious, but all had sunburned faces, binoculars, bird guides, and bulging backpacks. When a second group emerged, there was good-natured repartee about such curious topics as wigeons and gallinules.
The lodge may have been a romantic honeymoon destination at one time, but from this closer perspective I could see the broken windows in the upper two floors, the bare mortar where rocks had fallen, the obvious tilt of the porch roof above a massive wooden door. Glass sparkled in the
ground-floor windows, however, and trellises were thick with honeysuckle on either end of the porch. The yard was untamed, the weeds high, the trees and shrubs allowed to sprawl according to the dictates of nature. Poles of varying heights held aloft bird houses, and at the farthest one, attempted trespassing was being thwarted by squawks and a great deal of fervent flapping.
I was debating whether to mention the bat colony when Caron said, “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get a job washing dishes at the Mexican restaurant. It pays minimum wage, but I can work twelve hours a day. Maybe they’ll let me make tacos after I’ve been there for a while. Making tacos can be very fulfilling, I hear.”
“Mrs. Verdin wants a baby-sitter on Thursday mornings so she can play bridge,” Inez added. “She doesn’t even pay minimum, though. You’d be baby-sitting for the twins until they leave for college.”
“Forget it,” I said sharply, although I was inwardly aglow with petty pleasure at their distress. “You agreed to this training session, and you’re not going to back out just because you’re not staying at the Hilton. The first floor has been remodeled. You’ll be perfectly comfortable.”
With a screech, Caron slithered onto the floorboard and covered her head with her arms. It seemed an overly melodramatic response to my dictum, and I was about to say as much when I spotted a man near the corner of the house. He
was cradling a shotgun, the barrel of which was pointed in our general direction.
“Don’t worry about Wharton Dunling,” I said with a great deal more assurance than I inwardly felt. “He has a problem with a groundhog that’s been ravaging his garden. He won’t shoot us unless we go after his zucchini.”
I waved at him to convince myself, if not the girls, that he was harmless. He was tall and bony, with cadaverous cheeks, protruding ears, and a tight mouth. He was nearly bald, and what hair remained on the sides of his head quivered like white pinfeathers. His days of wearing a crisply starched uniform had passed, obviously. He wore baggy plaid shorts, a stained T-shirt, and moccasins. His legs were hairy and white, his bare ankles gnarly.
In response to my gesture, he stepped out of view.
Caron peeked over the edge of the dashboard. “He must feel right at home in this place,” she muttered as she resumed her seat and twisted the rearview mirror to make sure she hadn’t sustained damage. “He probably was killed in the Crimean War. I can hardly wait to be kept awake all night by rattling chains and guttural groans. There’s not much point in worrying about driver’s ed, is there? In the morning I’ll be found at the foot of the stairs.” She sprawled across the seat, clutched her throat, and widened her eyes in fabricated terror. “Tell my mother”—gurgle,
gurgle—“that I forgive her. It wasn’t Entirely Her Fault.” Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands dropped limply to the seat.
“Maybe we should have asked Mrs. Bradshaw more questions,” said a small voice.
I opened the car door. “Get your luggage. Let’s hope Mrs. Dunling is here. Perhaps she has cookies and milk waiting for you in her cozy kitchen.”
Livia Dunling was hovering in the doorway when we extracted the luggage and staggered to the porch. She was wearing the same skirt and sweatshirt, and apparently had been wearing her hat earlier in the day, since her hair stuck out at odd angles. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” she said as she waved us inside. She sounded pleased to have guests, if a trifle puzzled about the identity of same.
“I’m Claire Malloy,” I said. “We met last weekend when I was lost and you were on the trail of a woodpecker.”
“Do you recall if I spotted him?”
“I don’t think so. When I drove up, he flew away.”
Livia absently scratched a welt on her neck. “I shall consult my list to see if I checked him off. Come along to the patio and we can all have a nice glass of lemonade. I don’t know where Wharton is at the present, but I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
We left the luggage by the door and followed her through a cavernous room with a few pieces
of worn furniture in front of a rock fireplace. What had once served as a reception desk was now the repository for racks of pamphlets and postcards.
A separate rack held applications for membership in the Dunling Foundation, with its motto: “An Eagle Freed Needs a Friend Indeed.” What said eagle truly needed, I thought, was a less poetic PR firm. Through a doorway I caught a glimpse of a dining-room table that was an insignificant island in a vast sea of mahogany paneling.
The patio was less daunting. Caron and Inez seemed heartened by the proximity of the lake and huddled together to assess the possibility of escape by motorboat. As Livia poured lemonade from a pitcher, I sat down on a redwood bench and let the breeze ruffle my hair. “You have a lovely view,” I said.
“It’s so kind of you to mention it. Wharton was in the army for thirty years, so we were constantly on the move, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots. This is the first time I’ve been able to dedicate myself to a garden. Everything is chosen for its appeal to various birds and butterflies. The milkweed is for the monarchs, of course, so they can lay their eggs. The snapdragons and trumpet vine are for the dear little hummingbirds. The buckeyes are as mad for the daisies as the painted ladies are for the butterfly bush and bee balm.”
I smiled politely before I glanced toward the
deck of Dick’s house in hopes Luanne would come to the rescue. Lemonade has its place in the good ol’ summertime, but I’d been in the car with the girls for well over an hour. That which appealed to this bookseller was a shot of scotch. The deck appeared to be uninhabited.
“Try these.” Livia handed me a pair of binoculars. “I always do. Only last week I watched Jillian trying on a bathing suit. She looked like a puffed-up goshawk glaring at itself in the mirror. She is a very unhappy child, or perhaps I should say nestling.”
I studied the house across the cove. There were two wineglasses on the rail, a jacket draped on the back of a chair, and a cordless telephone on a table. There were no visible bloodstains. The sliding glass doors were closed, and I could see no movement within the living room. Feeling a bit guilty but having great fun, I aimed the binoculars at the windows along the side of the house. The interiors were too dim to provide a proper inspection, but I could make out beds, a dresser here and there, the backs of chairs—and nary a body dangling from a noose.
“Who’re you spying on?” Caron asked in a disapproving voice.
“Luanne, I hope,” I said as I aimed the binoculars at the final window. Neatly centered in the rectangle was a silhouetted figure regarding me through binoculars. I hastily set Livia’s down on the table and took a deep drink of lemonade.
“The nestling” had just as much right as I did to spy on the neighbors, I told myself as I struggled to swallow, and there was no reason to feel as if I’d been caught filching pennies from the collection plate.
“When do we get trained?” Inez asked Livia, who was nodding benevolently at a cardinal on a nearby feeder.
“After breakfast, I should think. Wharton and I eat out here when the weather permits. It’s very peaceful without the motorboats, and the feeders are at their busiest. Only yesterday we had a visit from a flock of goldfinches. They do so love the sunflowers, as do the rufuous-sided towhees. It’s such a joy to watch them.”
Caron rolled her eyes at me as she picked up the binoculars. I held my breath until she directed them at a party barge overflowing with bronzed young men. She hissed at Inez, who yanked off her glasses and cleaned the lenses on her shirttail.
I had no desire to sit on the veranda and sip lemonade, but I was not enthusiastic about the prospect of arriving at Dick’s house to be admitted by Jillian. It occurred to me that I could simply drive home, make myself a drink, and read the newspaper in solitude. Luanne would be furious, but I’d have until Monday to come up with a plausible excuse for my cowardliness.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” said Agatha Anne as she came out the back door, this time wearing the brand of jeans advertised in magazines I
couldn’t afford to read. Her T-shirt was emblazoned with the Dunling Foundation motto. She introduced herself to the girls, adding, “It’s always heartening to meet young people who take an interest in the environment. Neither of my children did. Trey spent his summers playing in golf tournaments all over the state, and Melissa had such a crush on the tennis pro that she practically lived at the country club for three years.”
“Did they take driver’s ed?” Caron asked, giving me a sullen look meant to remind me of my responsibility for the current situation, which she no doubt found somewhere between dire and disastrous.
“Not that I recall,” said Agatha Anne. “Why don’t you come along with me and I’ll show you our office here at the lodge and get you started on your study material. Normally I mail it several months in advance, but it wasn’t possible this time and you may have to read well into the night. We are incredibly excited about the eagles at the far end of Blackburn Creek. If we can make them feel welcome, the three offspring may return and eventually we may have a thriving community of breeders. At the same time, we’ll have a wonderful opportunity to educate the public about the vital role of raptors in the ecological complex.”
Caron stiffened. “We thought we might go for a swim before it gets dark.”
“There’s no time to waste,” Agatha Anna said sweetly. “Claire, would you like to see the office?
It’s in a state of chaos as usual, but you might enjoy looking over our pamphlets and brochures. We just got in some splendid new material about the migratory pattern of the golden eagle.”
“Did you?” said Livia, struggling to her feet. As she headed for the door, her limp was barely noticeable. “I must have a look.”
Agatha Anne herded us through the living room and down a hallway to a door with a discreet brass plaque that proclaimed it to be the administrative residence of the Dunling Foundation, Inc. The office consisted of a large room, most likely a lounge in the hotel’s heyday, with three cluttered desks, several tables piled high with boxes and folders, a row of file cabinets, and a bookshelf crammed with colorful brochures. Agatha Anne scooped up a foot-high stack of folders and thrust it into Caron’s arms. Inez received a similar burden. I was honored with a glossy brochure, as was Livia, who immediately sat down behind the nearest desk and opened hers.
“I don’t expect you to memorize all of this before tomorrow,” Agatha Anne said to the girls as she noted their expressions. “We’ll review it together, and then you can work on it again tomorrow night after dinner. There are two hundred and eighty known species of raptors, after all.”