Still Life With Crows (11 page)

Smit Ludwig wondered just what the reaction would be.

With his free hand, he nervously fingered his bow tie. He’d covered the Baked Turkey Sociable for every one of its thirty-three years, but never had he approached it with such trepidation. It was times like this that he most missed his wife, Sarah. It would have been easier with her on his arm.

Buck up, Smitty,
he told himself, pushing open the doors.

The Fellowship Hall of the church was jammed. Practically the entire town was there. Some were already seated, eating, while others had formed long lines to load up on mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. Some were even eating the turkey, although Smitty noticed, as usual, that the Gro-Bain plant workers were nowhere to be seen in the turkey lines. It was one of those things that nobody ever mentioned: how little turkey was actually consumed at the Turkey Sociable.

A huge plastic banner on one wall thanked Gro-Bain and its general manager, Art Ridder, for their generosity in providing the turkeys. Another banner on the opposite wall thanked Buswell Agricon for their ongoing donations for the upkeep of the church. And yet another banner, the biggest of all, trumpeted the arrival of Stanton Chauncy, the year’s guest of honor. Ludwig looked around. Familiar faces all. One of the joys of living in small-town America.

From across the room, Art Ridder caught his eye. Ridder was wearing a maroon-and-white polyester suit, and the usual smile was plastered on his unnaturally smooth face. His body was as solid as a chunk of suet, and he moved through the crowd slowly, without deviating from his path. People moved for Art Ridder, thought Ludwig, not the other way around. Maybe it was the faint smell of slaughtered turkey that seemed to hang around him, despite heavy doses of Old Spice; or maybe it was that he was the town’s richest man. Ridder had sold the turkey plant to Gro-Bain Agricultural Products and had stayed on as its manager, though they’d written him a nice fat check. He said he “liked the work.” Ludwig thought it was more probable Ridder liked the Town Father status that being plant boss conveyed.

Ridder was still approaching, eye on the reporter, the smile stamped on his face. Of all people, he was probably the least likely to appreciate yesterday’s article on the murder. Ludwig braced himself.

Out of nowhere, salvation—Mrs. Bender Lang darted up, whispered something in Ridder’s ear. Abruptly, the two veered off.
This fellow Chauncy must be about to arrive,
Ludwig thought. Nothing else would have made Ridder move that fast.

In all thirty-three years of the Sociable’s history, this was the first year that the guest of honor had not been selected from among the town’s own. That in itself demonstrated the importance that Medicine Creek placed in impressing Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University. It was Chauncy who’d decide, by next Monday, whether or not Medicine Creek would become the test site for several acres of genetically modified corn, or . . .

A high, shrill voice intruded on his thoughts. “Smit Ludwig, how dare you!” He turned to find Klick Rasmussen at his elbow, her beehive hairdo bobbing at about the level of his shoulder. “How
could
it be one of us?”

He turned to face her. “Now, Klick, I didn’t say I believed—”

“If you didn’t believe it,” cried Klick Rasmussen, “then why did you
print
it?”

“Because it’s my duty to report all the theories—”

“What happened to all the
nice
articles you used to print? The
Courier
used to be such a
lovely
paper.”

“Not all news is nice, Klick—”

But Klick wouldn’t let him finish. “If you want to write trash, why don’t you write about that FBI agent wandering about town, asking questions, poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, filling your head with darn-fool ideas? Let’s see how
he
likes it. And on top of that, raising the whole business of the Ghost Warriors, the curse of the Forty-Fives—”

“There wasn’t anything in the paper about that.”

“Not exactly in so many
words,
but with that business about the old Indian arrows, what
else
are people going to think? That’s all we need, a resurrection of that old story.”

“Please, let’s be reasonable—” Ludwig took a step back. In the distance, he could see Swede Cahill’s wife, Gladys, approaching them, preparing to wade in. This was worse than he’d imagined.

Suddenly Maisie appeared from nowhere, her bulk covered by a white apron. “Klick, leave Smitty alone,” she said. “We’re lucky to have him. Most counties our size don’t even have a newspaper, let alone a daily.”

Klick took a step backward. Ludwig felt doubly grateful to Maisie, because of the awkwardness he knew existed between the two women. Maisie was perhaps the only person in the room who could have called Klick Rasmussen off so quickly. Klick shot one dark glance at Ludwig, then turned toward the approaching Gladys Cahill, and the two drifted off toward the turkey tables, talking in low voices.

Ludwig turned to Maisie. “Thanks a lot. You saved me.”

“I always take care of you, Smit.” She winked and went back toward the carving station.

As Ludwig turned to follow, he noticed that a hush was falling over the room. All eyes had swiveled in the direction of the door. Instinctively, Ludwig followed suit. There, framed against the golden sky, was a figure in black.

Pendergast.

There was something distinctly creepy in the way the FBI agent paused in the doorway, the bright sunlight silhouetting his severe form, like some gunslinger entering a saloon. Then he strode coolly forward, eyes roving the crowd before locking on Ludwig himself. Pendergast changed course immediately, gliding through the crowd toward him.

“I’m relieved to see you, Mr. Ludwig,” he said. “I know no one here but you and the sheriff, and I can’t very well expect the busy sheriff to take time for introductions. Come, lead the way, if you please.”

“Lead the way?” Ludwig echoed.

“I need introductions, Mr. Ludwig. Where I come from, it’s a social error to introduce oneself rather than have a proper introduction from a third party. And as publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the
Cry County Courier,
you know everyone in town.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Excellent. Shall we begin with Mrs. Melton Rasmussen? I understand she is one of the leading ladies.”

Ludwig paused in mid-breath. Klick Rasmussen, of all people, who he’d just gotten free of. A profound sinking feeling settled on Ludwig as he looked around the room. There was Klick at one of the turkey tables, holding forth with Gladys Cahill and the rest of the usual gang.

“Over there,” he said, leading the way with a heavy tread.

As they approached, the gaggle of ladies fell silent. Ludwig saw Klick glance at Pendergast, her features pinching with displeasure.

“I’d like to introduce—” began Ludwig.

“I know
very well
who this man is. I have only one thing to say—”

She stopped abruptly as Pendergast bowed, took her hand, and lifted it to within an inch of his lips, in the French manner. “A great pleasure, Mrs. Rasmussen. My name is Pendergast.”

“My,” said Klick. Her hand went limp within his.

“I understand, Mrs. Rasmussen, that you are responsible for the decorations.”

Ludwig wondered where Pendergast had learned this little tidbit. The man’s southern accent seemed to have deepened to the consistency of molasses as he gazed at Klick intently with his strange eyes. To Ludwig’s private amusement, Klick Rasmussen blushed. “Yes, I am,” she said.

“They are enchanting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pendergast.”

Pendergast bowed again, still holding her hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and now I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Klick blushed again, even more deeply. As she did so, Melton Rasmussen, having seen the exchange from afar, abruptly arrived. “Well, well,” he said heartily, sticking his hand out and interposing himself between his plump, blushing wife and Pendergast, “welcome to Medicine Creek. I’m Mel. Melton Rasmussen. I realize the circumstances could be a little happier, but I think you’ll find the Kansas hospitality of Medicine Creek to be just as warm as it always was.”

“I have already found it so, Mr. Rasmussen,” said Pendergast, shaking his hand.

“Where’re you from, Pendergast? Can’t quite place the accent.”

“New Orleans.”

“Ah, the great city of New Orleans. Is it true they eat alligator? I hear it tastes like chicken.”

“In my view the taste is more like iguana or snake than chicken.”

“Right. Well, I’ll stick to turkey,” said Rasmussen with a laugh. “You come by my store sometime and have a look-see. You’re welcome anytime.”

“You’re very kind.”

“So,” said Rasmussen, moving a little closer, “what’s the news? Any more leads?”

“Justice never sleeps, Mr. Rasmussen.”

“Well, I’ve got a theory of my own. Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“It’s that fellow camped down by the creek. Gasparilla. He’s worth looking into. He’s a strange one, always has been.”

“Now, Mel,” scolded Klick. “You know he’s been coming around for years and he’s never been in any kind of trouble.”

“You never know when somebody’s gonna go queer on you. Why does he camp way out there on the creek? Isn’t the town good enough for him?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Klick was staring past her husband, her mouth forming a small, perfect O. Ludwig heard a hushed murmur ripple through the assembly. There was a brief clapping of hands. He turned to see Art Ridder and the sheriff escorting a man he didn’t recognize through the crowd. The man was small and thin, with a closely trimmed beard, and he wore a light blue seersucker suit. In his wake came Mrs. Bender Lang and a few of the town’s other leading ladies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Medicine Creek!” Art Ridder boomed to the assembly. “It is my great privilege to introduce this year’s guest of honor, Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University!”

This was followed by thunderous applause and a few piercing whistles. The man named Chauncy stood, nodded once at the crowd, then turned his back on them and began to converse with Ridder. Slowly, the applause faltered into silence.

“Mr. Ludwig,” Pendergast said. “There’s a group of gentlemen in the far corner—?”

Ludwig looked in the indicated direction. Four or five men in bib overalls were drinking lemonade and talking amongst themselves in low voices. Rather than joining in the applause, they were looking in the direction of Chauncy with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, that’s Dale Estrem and the rest of the Farmer’s Co-operative,” Ludwig replied. “The last of the die-hard holdouts. They’re the only ones who haven’t sold out to the big farming conglomerates. Still own their own farms around Medicine Creek.”

“And why don’t they share in the town’s good feeling?”

“The Farmer’s Co-op holds no truck with genetically modified corn. They fear it’ll cross-pollinate and ruin their own crops.”

Ridder was now introducing the man from Kansas State to select knots of people.

“There are several other introductions I’d like you to make, if you would,” Pendergast said. “The minister, for example.”

“Of course.” Ludwig scanned the crowd for Pastor Wilbur, finally spotting him standing alone, in line for turkey. “This way.”

“Tell me about him first, if you please.”

Ludwig hesitated, not wishing to speak ill of anybody. “Pastor Wilbur’s been here for forty years, at least. He means well. It’s just that . . .” He faltered.

“Yes?” said Pendergast. Ludwig found the man’s gray eyes focused on him in a most unsettling way.

“I guess you’d have to say he’s a little set in his ways. He’s not really in touch with what’s happening, or
not
happening, in Medicine Creek these days.” He struggled a moment. “There are some who feel a younger, more vibrant ministry would help revive the town, keep the youngsters from leaving. Fill the spiritual void that’s opened up here.”

“I see.”

The minister raised his head as they approached. As usual, a pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose, whether or not he was reading anything. Ludwig figured he did it to look scholarly. “Pastor Wilbur?” Ludwig said. “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

Wilbur took the proffered hand.

“I envy you, Pastor,” Pendergast said. “Ministering to the souls of a community such as Medicine Creek.”

Wilbur gazed benevolently at Pendergast. “It is at times a fearsome responsibility, being entrusted with so many hundreds, Mr. Pendergast. But I flatter myself that I’ve shepherded them well.”

“It seems a good life here,” Pendergast went on. “For a man of God such as yourself, I mean.”

“God has seen fit to both bless me and bring me trials. We all share equally in the curse of Adam, but perhaps a man of the cloth shares more than most.” Wilbur’s face had assumed a saintly, almost martyred demeanor.

Ludwig recognized that look: Wilbur was about to spout one of his prized little scraps of poetry.

“Alas,”
Wilbur began,
“what boots it with uncessant care, to tend the homely, slighted shepherd’s trade?”
He looked through his reading glasses at Pendergast with evident satisfaction. “Milton. Naturally.”

“Naturally.
Lycidas.
”

Wilbur was slightly taken aback. “Ah, I believe that’s correct, yes.”

“Another line from that elegy comes to mind:
The hungry sheep look up and are not fed.
”

There was a brief silence. Ludwig looked back and forth between the two men, uncertain what, if anything, had just passed between them.

Wilbur blinked. “I—”

“I look forward to greeting you again in church on Sunday,” Pendergast interjected smoothly, grasping Wilbur’s hand once more.

“Ah, yes, yes, so do I,” Wilbur said, the note of surprise still detectable in his voice.

“Excuse me!” The booming voice of Art Ridder, amplified, again cut through the babble of overlapping conversations. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would all be so kind, our guest of honor would like to say a few words. Dr. Stanton Chauncy!”