Stuffed (11 page)

Chapter 12

T
he next morning Angie visited a local specialty jewelry tool manufacturer, and I took time out to make some calls.

Yes, about my predicament . . . but since I’m self-employed and don’t get any paid time off, I have to keep the training wheels of capitalism turning back at my industrial hub. So I called my office manager.

“Otto?”

“Yes, of course, Garv! Vere you are, Garv?”

“We’re in Vermont. We’ve had some trouble and have to stay, maybe a week at most. Can you stay at our place for a few days, keep an eye on things? Take the mail, deliveries, you know . . .”

“Oh my Got! Trouble? Yangie, how Yangie is?”

“We’re okay, Otto. Angie is fine, and I’ll tell you all about it when we get home. But we need you to help us.”

“Garv, I very happy.” I heard him inflate his chest. “Otto is friend and make all looking. All very nice. I tell my vife, Luba, that Garv and Yangie need Otto.”

While I was sure his hulking and by all accounts disapproving wife, Luba, could use a break from winging plates and shouting at him, the thought of leaving him in charge of our apartment was daunting. But I had little choice on such short notice. Some other friends who were a tad more reliable, like Dudley the bird taxidermist, I couldn’t reach.

“I’ll call every day to make sure . . . Otto? Otto?”

He’d hung up. Russian phone etiquette. You never knew when he might think the conversation was over.

I checked my messages and found I had a call from the Freezy Cone people and from the Network Theater about Jilly. Nothing from the Elks.

I was relieved to find that my squad was unharmed and that the Freezy Cone shoot was a wrap. The same could not be said for the wrangler’s live squad. One of the little guys, Reggie by name, had swallowed an errant felt-tip pen and met an untimely end. The wrangler wanted to know if I’d like to have Reggie, more or less compensation for the last time when I lost Sneezy. After expressing my sorrow for Reggie’s passing, I said
yes indeedy.
Put him on ice. (Sorry, but I don’t think there’s any way of asking someone to freeze a dead penguin that doesn’t sound somewhat flip. At least I didn’t follow that up with
He would have wanted it that way.)
I told them I’d have Otto come get him and my squad in the next day or so. I have a chest freezer in my basement for just such mortuary moments. I’m sure my birdman Dudley would love to take a crack at mounting a penguin.

I called about Jilly but the party wasn’t in. But I knew what the call was about. Since she wasn’t on the program the last two nights, they wanted to extend the rental. Fine. The Elks and the elk head could wait.

Now down to the important stuff: no, not accepting the job. And not
not
accepting the job. I couldn’t even add that problem to the mix. My brain was like a pinball machine that releases ten balls at once.

I called my public defender, Phil. Found out from his coworker that they still had no word from the DA’s office on my status. I said I was going to be out all morning but that I’d call again that afternoon. In the following half hour, I worked my connections looking for leads on the white crow. Spoke with three message machines, two dealers, and an auctioneer to put out feelers.

Then Angie returned. She was shaking her hands in the air like they were wet, but I knew it was because she was excited.

“Garth, guess what?”

I thought about it a second. I like to try to guess.

“Van Putin?”

She clapped her hands.

“I checked my messages from a pay phone. He called, wants me to bring in some of my work to show him.”

She got a thumbs-up from me. “Way to go. Foot solidly in the door. Wanna go for a drive?”

“Now, let me guess. To Remington, to check on that white crow?”

So we drove through Brattleboro, which, if it weren’t for my predicament, would have seemed a much more pleasant burg. It’s perched on the side of a hill overlooking the Connecticut River, the main drag cutting diagonally through a quaint red-brick shopping district dotted with restaurants, too many of which were still fixated on pitas and sprouts. At the bottom of the hill is a trestled bridge, which took Angie and me to New Hampshire and about forty minutes later due southeast to the town of Remington. Yeah, I know we weren’t supposed to leave the state, but I don’t think anybody really differentiates between Vermont and New Hampshire. Let’s just say we were prepared to play dumb.

Not much to Remington, just four corners really, one of which had a brief strip mall. All but the tattoo parlor dealt in junk. One shop was an auction house, and the sign on the door said
SORRY! WE
’
RE CLOSED!
I always wondered why those signs had exclamation marks. Were they shouting at me? Or were they just cheerful that they weren’t open?

But a man in a sweater and bifocals was mucking about inside, and I motioned him over. He started speaking even before the door was open.

“(blah blah blah) . . . until Wednesday night, like it says on the door. You show up an hour early to preview. Now—”

“We were looking for some information on a white raven in a bell jar you auctioned in March,” Angie said cheerfully.

The man checked his pocket watch like an unhappy train conductor.

“Why? Why are you looking for some white raven in a bell jar we auctioned in March? If you wanted the white raven, you should have come—”

“We only just got the flier, from a friend. Do you remember it?” Angie prodded, holding forth the crumpled paper.

“No. Yes, well, I can’t remember everything that we—”

“Was it under glass?” I said.

“Glass? No. Well, I don’t know. Look . . .” He started playing with his pocket watch again.

“Did you know that ravens are a protected species under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which, although it allows the hunting of ravens, prohibits the sale of ravens? Any idea how much U.S. Fish and Wildlife would fine you for selling that raven?” I smiled, just on the inside.

His unshaven jaw dropped and his bifocals slipped to the end of his nose, the pocket watch dangling from his hand, unmolested for a change.

I tried again. “We are very interested in finding that raven and whoever you sold it to. Otherwise I’ll fax this flier to U.S. Fish and Wildlife, they’ll come down and look at your ledgers, and maybe find that you’ve sold a few ducks, maybe a blue jay, which are also illegal to sell. So how about you save us all some fuss and go look in your roster and find who bought the white raven?”

Could I bust the chops of guys like this 9 to 5 for U.S. Fish and Wildlife?

He pushed up his bifocals and favored me with a dyspeptic sneer, then drifted back into his cluttered office, where I heard him rummaging about and muttering to himself before he emerged a few minutes later. He handed us a slip of torn notebook paper. Forcing a coffee-stained smile and without so much as a fare-thee-well, he closed the door in our faces.

“What’s it say?” Angie pulled at my arm.

I shrugged and handed it to her.
Item: White crow in bell jar on rock. Buyer: Guy Partridge, dealer, Mallard Island, Maine.

“On a rock?” Angie frowned. “Not on a stick?”

“What it says.” I shrugged again. Rock, stick—whatever. How many white crows are out there, anyway? Darn few. This was probably the same crow. So how did it make it from Guy Partridge to Slim and his gang? We needed to know more. Or a lot less. I was getting sucked into this thing and knew it. But like a cat at a fishbowl, I wouldn’t be satisfied until the carpet was littered with broken glass, stinky water, and flopping guppies.

We climbed back in the Lincoln and roared along the rocky Ashuelot River back to Brattleboro. I don’t know how to pronounce
Ashuelot,
but I’ve been told it’s best to try while sneezing.

“Ever hear of a dealer named Guy Partridge?” Angie queried.

I wagged my head. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but no.”

Angie sulked a moment, stray blond locks lashing her face.

“Where the hell is Mallard Island?” She started fussing with the maps in the glove compartment, unfolded one, and let the wind rip it a bit. After a few moments, she bit her lip the way she does when she gets a crossword clue. “Mallard Island, just south of Kennebunk,” she said in mild wonder. “That’s a ways from here.”

“We’ll call first. Going a few miles down the road to Remington is one thing. Heading for the coast is another. I don’t want to blow my release deal with the judge. He likes fish.”

“I could go. I’ll rent a car.”

“You don’t even know if it’s the same bird.”

“What are the chances? I mean, how many other white crows have you seen in your travels?”

“Exactly? One, I guess. In a taxidermy museum, in northern Vermont. A white crow, wings out, not folded like this one. Doesn’t mean there aren’t others.”

Before long we were back in Brattleboro, and I slid the Lincoln in at a hydrant. While Angie waited in the car, I ran up to see if Defender Phil was at the courthouse. I found him outside a courtroom next to a sneering, scruffy-looking teen.

“Garth!” He spat little yellow flecks of pencil paint. “I only have a minute. Bobby, stay there, don’t move, okay?” The kid eyed the bailiff. “C’mon, Garth.” Phil led me into a vending-machine alcove.

“Here’s the scoop,” he said around a pencil in his teeth. “They found the truck. Someone tried to drive it into a lake, but it bogged down in the mud. Then they tried to torch it, but only burned the cab. There’s a dent in the front grille, just like you said, and a couple of Fletcher’s teeth and a button from his shirt inside the bumper. They look like his, anyway. A full autopsy, dental check, and all may take a while. This isn’t New York, if you know what I mean.”

“So, can I leave town or what?”

“Don’t. There’s more. Fletcher was officially unemployed, though his mother told the police he’d been out west working a carnival, probably off the books.”

“Think he was with one of these carnivals when Mrs. Fletcher gave his feathery prize to Gunderson?” Must be where he picked up the word
dang.

“Looking into that, but it would have been winter, not carnival season. He also used to work with some outfits here on the East Coast during the summers.” Phil glanced back to see if his wayward youth had run out on him. “Graduated college out in Portland two years ago, worked odd jobs since. Had a record, petty stuff, drug possession, DWI. Hanging out with carnies, so what do you expect? Police are trying to track down where he was out west and who he’s been seen with recently. Still nothing on the two men you saw him with. You sure you can’t tell us more about them?”

I laughed. “I think I gave the cops a hell of a description. The hat, the toothpick, the red hair, heights, approximate weights, builds—what more do they want? A cowboy and a Scotsman. I don’t think it could be more descriptive.”

Phil winced. “That description doesn’t sound good. Let’s say the guy with the hat and the guy with red hair.”

“Fine. Doesn’t the barmaid remember them? Don’t the other patrons who were there that night?”

“She’s local and on Bret’s side, sorta a hostile witness. Can you draw? Can your wife draw?”

“Draw,” I said dryly.

“Yes.” Phil edged out the door. “Drawings of these two suspects would help.”

“My drawing of Binky from a matchbook couldn’t get me into correspondence art school when I was eight, so I seriously doubt my spazoid stick figures would help much. Don’t the police usually have some kind of artist that—”

“Sure, when they believe it’s relevant. This isn’t one of those times. They don’t believe you.”

“Hey, I know I’m from out of town and all, but I’ve got a clean record and—”

He cleared his throat. “Technically you have a clean record.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My eyes narrowed.

“Seems they spoke to a detective in New York. Wilkens? Watson? He wasn’t helpful to us.”

I gritted my teeth. “Walker!”

“Yup, that’s the guy.” He started drifting back down the hall toward the courtroom. “See if you can draw that picture. I gotta get back into court now.”

Hands on hips, I frowned as I watched him disappear into the throngs of court reporters, witnesses, police, and court functionaries.

Walker. My pestiferous nemesis wouldn’t rest until he caught me red-handed, and even if he didn’t, he was going to enjoy being a hard-ass and making my life difficult. Stupid flatfoot was hanging his hopes for detective sergeant on me, of all people. Okay, so I change a sign now and then. But Machine Gun Kelly I’m not. And he was certainly no Melvin Purvis.

I was fuming as I went down the stairs. Now he had these cops against me too. I’d be damned if I’d let that numskull ruin my life.

Betcha anything there’s a matchbook correspondence school for becoming a detective overnight, but I was still bitter about my failure to accurately depict Binky. Perhaps Walker and the Brattleboro cops didn’t realize it, but letting me know they were more or less working against me meant I had little choice but to at least put myself to work trying to clear me. If nothing else to show Walker he couldn’t bully me.