An Owl Too Many (5 page)

Viola Buddley was receptionist, secretary, and general assistant, which could mean anything from dusting the exhibits to picking the flowers for Winifred’s chamomile tea. The name Viola suggested somebody willowy and wistful; Peter thought Ms. Buddley’s parents would have done better to call her Heliantha. This strapping young woman reminded him of jolly round red Mr. Sun in the Thornton Burgess stories his third-grade teacher used to read to the class when they’d been good, as children had often been in his day.

Since the bulk of her duties were in fact secretarial, Viola had no practical reason that Peter could see to show up for work in hiking boots and khaki shorts. He personally thought a tight green T-shirt with “Have you hugged a tree today?” sprawled across the bosom was carrying Viola’s enthusiasm for environmental concerns a step too far, but if Miss Binks didn’t mind what she wore around the office, he supposed he shouldn’t, either. For the rest, Viola had a great many blotchy tan freckles, strawberry-blond hair frizzed out into a bush, and a radiant smile that had just now been wiped from her face by the news about Emory Emmerick.

“The state police are checking to see whether he had a criminal record,” Peter explained. “If they don’t come up with an identification, I expect they’ll send photographs out to the newspapers and television stations. Just asking around won’t help, I don’t suppose. We don’t know where he came from, and his name might not have been Emmerick.”

“Emory told me he came from New Jersey,” said Viola.

“When was this?”

“Thursday night. He took me out to the Bursting Bubble. You know it?”

“M’yes, in a manner of speaking.” Earlier in the year, Peter had watched Lumpkin Upper Mills’s sole apology for a nightclub burn down, along with the historic Lumpkin Soap Works. “I understand the Bubble’s reopened in that former bowling alley out on the Clavaton Road.”

“Yes, and they’ve done a really nice job with it. There’s a three-piece combo, and they’ve opened two lanes as a dance floor. It’s great fun, as long as you don’t mind dancing back and forth in a straight line. Emory and I had a marvelous time. I sort of thought it might be the start of something beautiful, but after what you said, I don’t know whether to feel bereft or relieved.”

“He wasn’t worthy of you!”

This burst of pent-up emotion came from the lips of the station’s research fellow, Knapweed Calthrop, who was at Balaclava on a teaching fellowship. Knapweed was doing his fellowship dissertation on the bedstraw or madder family, which he himself always referred to as the Rubiaceae. Like the bedstraws, he could be rough and bristly, but never with Viola.

These two were more or less of an age, Peter thought, although you never could tell with women. Emmerick must have been well into his thirties, perhaps even older; why wouldn’t Viola have preferred a younger chap? Knapweed wasn’t bad- looking in his unassuming way, and he was fairly sound on the Rubiaceae.

But was that enough? On reflection, Peter could see why the picaresque temperament that must have underlain Emmerick’s having the face to present himself here under false colors, and the breezy enthusiasm he’d displayed for jumping in with both feet when he had no idea where he was going might have had more appeal for the flamboyant Viola than her co-worker’s penchant for sitting on rotten stumps brooding over wisps of bedstraw. There was something basically uncharismatic about the Rubiaceae by and large, Peter had to admit, though the bluet offered its shy appeal and the wild madder at least had more pizzazz than the sleepy catchfly.

Well, such was the way of the world. Peter supposed he ought to get back to college, though he couldn’t think why. This wasn’t a week for tutorials, Svenson hadn’t called a faculty meeting. Still, he had a nagging hunch that there was something he’d meant to do and hadn’t done. Had he promised to take Helen somewhere today? No, that couldn’t be it. Both a librarian and a respected writer, Helen had planned to work on her latest article for Wilson’s Library Bulletin while Peter slept off the fatigues of the owl count, then spent whatever might remain of the day grading papers.

The field-station lobby had big picture windows on both sides. Peter could see Winifred Binks emerging from her log cabin, looking much more the professor than the pioneer in neatly pressed gray flannel slacks and a sky-blue jersey. As she entered the station, she asked, “Would you care to join me in a cup of coffee, Peter?”

Coffee was in this case a misnomer; Winifred made her brew from dried chicory and dandelion roots ground by hand between a rock and a hard place. Peter thought he might as well accept, maybe the healthful brew would jog his memory. He was sipping from a slightly wopsical hand-thrown pottery mug and listening to Viola’s mournful reminiscence about what a swell dancer Emory had been when a red 1976 Dodge sport coupe with white stripes around the sides and
BALACLAVA COUNTY FANE AND PENNON
painted on the door whizzed into the parking area.

“Ah,” said Winifred. “Our friend Mr. Swope, in his new staff car. I’ve been wondering why we hadn’t heard from him.”

“Good Lord, that’s whom I meant to call,” said Peter. “Swope didn’t get in on what happened to us last night because he was covering the owl count up behind Valhalla.”

Cronkite Swope, star reporter for the
Balaclava County Fane and Pennon,
had never been one to let a night’s sleep stand in the way of a good story. It was a burning shame that he’d elected to go out with a group of students that included two of Dr. Svenson’s seven beautiful daughters, instead of sticking with the president’s team and getting first-hand coverage of Emmerick’s bizarre demise. He must be ready to cut his own throat.

But no, Cronkite was chipper as a bee. “Wow, what a night! I got this terrific shot of Gudrun Svenson in profile, looking up just as this great horned owl flew smack-dab across the face of the full moon with a bunch of wispy little clouds streaking along behind. The chief’s going to put her on the front page.”

“M’well, perhaps you may want to phone your chief and tell him to hold the presses.” Peter felt like a rat for not having alerted Swope sooner, after all they’d been through together. “I gather you haven’t heard what happened to Emory Emmerick last night.”

“Emmerick? You mean your site engineer?”

“We thought he was, but it seems he wasn’t.”

“Huh? How come?”

“According to Mr. Gyles of the Meadowsweet Construction Company, Emmerick not only didn’t work for them but they’d never even heard of him. The reason I’m speaking of Emmerick in the past tense is that he got netted last night.”

“Netted?”

“Exactly. Have you something to write with?”

Peter need not have asked, Cronkite Swope was a summa cum laude graduate of the Great Journalists’ Correspondence School. “Shoot, Professor!”

Peter shot. He’d barely dropped Emmerick out of the tree before Swope was on the phone to his paper, howling for a rewrite man.

“Here, Professor.” He thrust the telephone into Peter’s hand. “You tell ‘em. I’ve got to whiz over to the state-police barracks and see if I can con them out of a photograph. Darn it to heck, why didn’t I go with you instead of Gudrun?”

“You couldn’t be everywhere, Cronkite,” Winifred Binks consoled him. “Here.” She fished in her tote bag and brought out a small camera. “As it happens, I took a few snaps myself, some of Mr. Emmerick in the net and some of the police working around his body. There should be one or two of them carrying him away on a stretcher, too. The police had battery lanterns and I was using extra-sensitive film because I’d hoped to get some photos of owls by moonlight, so the chances are that at least some of my exposures will be usable.”

“Miss Binks, I love you!” Swope grabbed the roll of film she’d taken out of her camera, gave her a kiss that all but shattered the windows, and galloped back to his car.

“Wow!” Viola Buddley had watched the embrace with unconcealed envy. “How come you got kissed instead of me, Prof?”

Miss Binks bridled a bit and fluffed her short gray hair. “Some women just can’t keep them off, my dear, though goodness knows I make every effort. More coffee, Peter?”

“Thanks, but I’d better get moving. I feel like a skunk for not having alerted Swope earlier, now I’m having qualms about Fred Ottermole.”

“Oh gracious, yes, Chief Ottermole should certainly know. But perhaps the state police have already got in touch with him.”

“His wife may not have let them.”

Edna Mae Ottermole had a tendency to be over-protective of her husband, whom she appeared to regard as a cross between Sir Launcelot and Eliot Ness. If Fred had stuck with his owling until after daybreak, as he most likely had unless he’d somehow got wind of what was happening on the president’s territory, he’d still be asleep and Edna Mae would be guarding his slumbers. Peter decided he’d better call before going. He did and she was.

“I hate to wake Fred unless it’s desperately urgent, Professor.”

“It’s desperate but not urgent. I’ll be along in a while; let him sleep till I get there.”

“I gather Ottermole hasn’t yet heard about Emmerick,” Peter remarked to Miss Binks as he put down the receiver.

“Lucky man. I suppose you do have to wake him.”

“According to protocol, he should have been the one to call in the state police.”

“But we couldn’t wait to find him,” Winifred protested.

“I know that. What we did was the right thing. Anyway, he wouldn’t have had the facilities to cope. But he’s got to be told. The only way we’ll get any information about Emmerick from the state police is to approach them through Ottermole. At least he looks like a cop.”

“Indeed he does, with his uniform always so beautifully pressed, and that black leather jacket with all the zippers. Though it might be a trifle warm for his jacket today. There’s that gentle feeling in the air and that soft haze over the sky which means the Great Spirit is smoking his peace pipe. I do hope it’s the Great Spirit, and not the power plant at Clavaton acting up again. Now who’s this man driving in? Oh dear, and there’s that wretched squirrel caught inside the bird feeder again. Come, Viola. Talk to him, Peter. The man, I mean.”

Winifred rushed out, with Viola and Knapweed at her heels. Peter went to the door. “Yes, sir,” he said, “what can I do for you?” Here was somebody who thought he was somebody; tanned and groomed like a three-year-old on Derby Day, although he was assuredly no colt. Nearer fifty than forty and on his way to play golf at some country club, was Peter’s guess.

The visitor returned Peter’s appraising glance with a Dale Carnegie smile. “I’m looking for my site engineer. Is Emory Emmerick around?”

He glanced over to the windows that made up the entire back of the reception area, and caught sight of the squirrel-rescue party, rushing toward the back of the clearing with Winifred well in the lead. “Oh, I see him. What’s he running away for? Would you mind stepping out and telling him Mr. Fanshaw is here?”

Peter was mildly interested to note that Mr. Fanshaw had been taken in by Winifred’s superficial back-view resemblance to the late Emmerick. “They’re after a squirrel,” he said noncommittally, picking up a length of rope that was going to be used for something or other when somebody got around to it, and idly rigging a noose in one end. “Mr. Fanshaw from where?”

“From Meadowsweet Construction, of course. You do work here, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.” Peter tested his noose and found it good.

“Look, I have some things to check out with Emmerick and I’m rather short of time. Can’t you just open the window and give him a yell?”

“Sorry, Mr. Fanshaw. It wouldn’t work.”

“Why not? Has he gone deaf all of a sudden?”

“M’yes, in a manner of speaking. You’re under arrest, Mr. Fanshaw.”

“I’m what?”

Taken wholly off-guard, Fanshaw stood there goggling an instant too long. Peter had time to flip the noose over his head, pinion his arms to his body, and trip his feet out from under him.

Fanshaw kicked, he butted, he even tried to bite Peter on the nose. That was a sad mistake; whatever dental adhesive he might have been wearing failed to hold. Peter was a man of the turnip fields; by the time Miss Binks returned saying she’d left the others to cope, he had Fanshaw neatly trussed and hobbled. He’d even retrieved the dentures and restored them to Fanshaw’s denuded gums, but got only a curse for his efforts.

A lady of the old school is never surprised by anything. Winifred Binks didn’t even raise an eyebrow when she discovered a trussed-up prisoner on the station floor.

“Oh dear, Cronkite appears to have missed out on another scoop. Just a moment, Peter, I know I have another roll of film. Ah yes, here we are. If you’ll prop the outer door open and switch on the overhead light, I believe we can get the proper exposure. Do you suppose a light tap behind the ear would quiet the gentleman down enough to keep him in focus?”

Fanshaw started to yell, “You can’t do this!” However, an appraising look from Peter, and the fact that Miss Binks was handing her colleague a fancy brass-bound gavel that some kind soul had donated to the field station, for no reason that any of its members had yet fathomed, had a marvelously quieting effect. He did keep trying to turn his face away while Miss Binks was snapping his picture, but she was using fast film again and refused to be disconcerted.

“There,” she said at last, “these should make Cronkite happy. Now what do you propose to do with your bird, Peter?”

“I thought I might as well take him along to Ottermole, since I’m going there anyway. Too bad you missed the fun, he breezed in here and introduced himself as Mr. Fanshaw from the Meadowsweet Construction Company. He wanted to check some things out with Emory Emmerick.”

“How very interesting,” Winifred replied. “And what was it you wanted to check, Mr. Fanshaw?”

“Can’t you just go and get Emmerick?” The man was pleading now, all the fight gone out of him.

“No, I’m afraid we can’t. I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Emmerick is dead. Furthermore, he does not appear to have been connected with the Meadowsweet Construction Company. So our logical assumption is that you’re not, either, which I presume is why Professor Shandy has tied you up. Am I not right, Peter?”