The Birds (2 page)

Mary pondered the question, her fingers drumming the countertop. Spinning her chair around, she flipped through a file on the desk behind her. She lifted out a card, read it, and handed it to me.

“The last delivery made to the Royal Residence was five days ago,” she said, pointing to a date on the card. “A blueberry pie. Two of them actually.”

I ran a quick calculation. Five days ago would have been Thursday. The “bird” pie was delivered on Friday.

“It seems to me,” I said, “that someone is using one of your trucks for unsavory practices.”

Mary stiffened. “Are you certain?”

“Well,” I replied. “I know for certain that a UPS truck delivered a pie to the palace on Friday. If your records are correct, then someone is impersonating your company. Do you have any idea who might do such a thing?”

Mary pursed her lips. “No,” she said finally. “Who would want to do such a thing?”

“My question exactly,” I replied. “Someone out there wanted to do the royal family a mischief. But who? Why?” I thought out loud.

Mary shook her head. “I have no idea.”

I thanked her and left. Driving back to town I tried to come up with a motive for the attack. The royal family was well liked in town, as far as I knew. Of course, everyone has their enemies. But as a rule, nothing sinister ever happens. In this case, nothing of any consequence happened to the king or queen. The only casualty that I knew of was the maid. Maybe I was looking in the wrong place. Perhaps it was someone other than the royal family that was the target. Like the maid.

Of course, that presented a problem. As I said earlier, how does one control a bunch of birds? There was no way to predict what they would do when they were let out of the pie.

Or was there? In this upside-down, nonsensical town anything was possible. But even here there were rules, odd as they may be. If I could figure out the rule, I would be able, perhaps, to solve this crazy case.

That brought me back to the pie. It was a clever way to smuggle the birds into the castle. But why were they baked? That seemed a drastic thing to do to the poor creatures. To my way of thinking it should have killed them, or injured them so badly they would not be capable of attacking anyone. And here is where the odd rules of Nurseryland apply.

In the real world, the birds would have died. But here they were as healthy as ever, perhaps more so. And one of them attacked the maid. What about the others? As far as I knew, the only attack was the one in the garden. By a single bird.

Ornithology is not a popular profession here in town. But Sir Fenester J. Doolittle, distant cousin of Doctor Doolittle, lived here, and was an expert on birds. There is not much demand for an ornithologist in this part of the world, so he supplemented his income by operating a pet store. He sold many exotic creatures: singing owls, love-struck pussycats, laughing dogs and the like. But he specialized in birds.

He looked at me expectantly as I came through the door, hoping, no doubt, for a paying customer. I hated to disappoint him, but I wasn’t there to buy a pet. At one time I owned a chihuahua, but he ventured into the road at the same time a truck was passing by. There was nothing left for me to bury. The experience left me scarred for life, and I never had a desire to own another pet.

I introduced myself to Sir Doolittle and briefly explained the reason for my visit. He brightened noticeably when I mentioned birds, and his eyes widened as I posed the question.

“What is the purpose of baking a bird?”

“Ahh,” he said, a smile crossing his face. “I have written a treatise on that very subject. You will find it in my book,
Little Known Facts About Well-Known Birds
.”

I waited for him to go on. He gazed out of the window thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with excitement unwarranted by the event. Finally, with a sigh, he turned his attention back to me.

“I conducted an experiment several years ago. I took several species of birds and baked them for various times and at various temperatures. I discovered that this resulted in behavioral changes of certain birds.”

I wasn’t surprised. Speaking for myself I would think that “behavioral changes” would be a mild way to put it.

“Bluejays were especially affected. The male bluejay became aggressive, attacking the last person he saw before being baked.” Doolittle smiled ruefully. “In this case, the last person he saw was me.”

I had a multitude of questions, not the least of which was, “what possessed him to bake the birds in the first place?” Knowing in advance that his explanation would be an outrageous statement that would only make sense to a devoted Nurseryland inhabitant, I refrained.

“The male bluejay?” I asked instead. “What about the female?”

“The female became agitated. But she did not attack. She twittered and flew about. But she did not become aggressive.”

Twittered. “The birds began to sing.” Maybe the king’s ear was more musical than Montague had given him credit for.

“You say the bluejay attacked the last person he saw,” I went on. An idea was beginning to form. “If I were to show the bird a picture just before baking him, would he attack the person or persons in that picture?”

“Without question,” Doolittle said.

“Where can I buy a copy of your book?” I asked.

Doolittle sat up straight, a broad grin crossing his lips. “I have one that you can purchase,” he said. “There have only been twelve copies sold, and I bought eleven of them.”

Aha!
I thought. If I could find out who bought the twelfth one, I would probably find the culprit. I kept this thought to myself. I shelled out ten bucks for the book, an outrageous sum considering the subject matter and Doolittle’s writing style. With the book tucked under my arm, I thanked him for his time and left.

Back at my office I checked my e-mail, or more correctly, my spam. No, I wasn’t interested in heightened orgasms. At my age the thought was frightening. No urgent messages. I turned my attention to the book. Finding the book publisher on the Internet, I called up the website and typed in the name of Doolittle’s book. It was now out of print, having printed a first edition of one hundred copies, eighty-eight of which were still in inventory. I made a note not to buy stock in the publishing house, turned the computer off and reached for my hat.

The Nurseryland Bookstore, cleverly calling itself “Nurseryland Book Store,” was a small shop wedged between a bakery (“Hot Cross Buns”) and a hardware store. The little bell tinkled as I opened the door. I supposed it was intended to remind one of Tinker Bell, but perhaps my imagination was working overtime.

The store was empty except for a bored looking young man behind the counter. I walked over to him and handed him my business card. He read it, a frown appearing on his otherwise unlined face, and handed it back to me.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“I am trying to find out who bought a book.”

The young man’s frown deepened. “What are you talking about? We sell books. But we don’t keep records of who bought them.”

“I realize that,” I said. “But since only one copy of this book was sold, I was hoping that you might remember who bought it.” I went on to tell him about the book and my visit with Sir Doolittle.

His frown disappeared at the mention of the book. He smiled brightly. “I bought that book,” he said. “I know Sir Doolittle and bought it more or less as a favor to him. I felt sorry for him, I guess.”

“Oh,” I said, my hopes rising. “Did you read it?”

He shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I gave it away. I was in desperate need of a birthday present for a friend of mine, so I gave her the book.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t much of a present, but she seemed pleased with it.”

“And who is this friend?” I asked.

“Jill.”

“Jill? Jill who?”

“Jill Marchant. You know. She’s Jack’s girlfriend.”

“Jack?” I asked. Then, remembering the incident with the pail of water, I added, “You mean Jack and Jill? The kids who had the accident when they went up the hill to get some water?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I asked for her address, thanked the man and left.

Jill lived only a few blocks from the bookstore. Having made a resolution to engage in healthful activities, I elected to walk. It didn’t do much for my waistline, but made me feel noble. With the price of gas approaching three dollars a gallon, I found the walk particularly invigorating.

The young lady who answered my knock wore a smock and a cap, and was holding a broom. I apologized for interrupting her housecleaning and introduced myself.

“What do you want?” she asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.”

“May I come in?”

“The house is a mess.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “It’s important that we talk.”

She hesitated, looking me up and down as though I were an escapee from a UFO. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she stepped aside.

“OK. But only for a minute. I’m very busy.”

“I’ll be brief,” I said.

She had been right about the house. It was in a state of disarray, with furniture pushed against the walls, rugs rolled up and chairs piled on top of the table. I found an upright chair by the door.

“May I?” I asked, pointing to the chair.

She nodded, pulled a chair from the table and sat down.

“What’s this all about, Mr. Osgood?” she said. “I have never spoken to a detective before.”

I decided to use the direct approach, perhaps catch her off guard and make it easier for both of us.

“Where did you get the birds?” I asked.

She blanched at the question, and I knew that she was the guilty party.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“I think you do,” I said. “You had better come clean. It will go a lot easier on you. One of the servants was badly hurt by this, and you could be in big trouble. Level with me and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

She searched my face pleadingly, then looked at the floor.

“How can you help?” she asked.

“For starters,” I said, “the royal family doesn’t want a lot of negative publicity. I think they would be willing to overlook a lot of this if you cooperate. You seem like a decent sort. I don’t think you are a bad person—just someone who made a mistake.”

Jill considered this for a minute. Rubbing a tear from her eye, she looked at me and smiled sadly.

“I guess you’re right,” she said. “I was mad and I did a bad thing. I’ve been sorry ever since—and scared.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

Jill’s lips curled into a plaintive smile. “I wanted to get rid of the maid,” she said. She looked at me pleadingly. “You know the day Jack and I went up the hill? Everyone thought it was an accident.” Her eyes narrowed. “Well, it wasn’t. Jack told me that he was in love with the maid. ‘Head over heels in love,’ as he put it.”

I waited for her to go on.

“Head over heels? I was so mad I couldn’t help myself. ‘I’ll show you head over heels,’ I told him. That’s when I pushed him down the hill. He went tumbling down the hill head over heels. I was laughing so hard that I lost my balance and rolled down after him.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t get hurt, though. But he was a mess.” She glowered. “Served him right.”

I studied the innocent-looking little girl sitting in front of me. She seemed incapable of doing anything mean to anyone. But, as the saying goes, “a woman scorned…”

“So you decided to get your revenge,” I said. “You knew about Doolittle’s experiment.”

“Yeah,” Jill said. “I read about it in a book. I collected a bunch of bluejays. Twenty-three females and one male. I showed the maid’s picture to the male, then baked them all in a pie.” She straightened her smock. “Jack Horner sort of borrowed a UPS truck. His sister works for UPS, you know.”

I nodded.

“So he delivered the pie to the castle. When the pie was opened the male headed straight for the maid, or so I heard. I wasn’t there, of course.”

“That was a mean thing to do, Jill,” I admonished. “The maid wasn’t to blame for your problems with Jack.”

Jill shrugged. “I know. I didn’t expect her to get hurt as bad as she did. I just wanted to scare her, I guess. Or Jack. I really don’t know what I was thinking.” She frowned. “Besides, I broke up with Jack. He’s a jerk. She can have him.” She looked at me hopefully. “Do you think the maid will be alright?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “A good plastic surgeon could probably fix her up pretty good. And the royal family can certainly afford the best.” I hoped, for the maid’s sake, that the palace had a reputable medical plan.

“Am I in trouble?” Jill asked.

“Probably,” I said. “I’ll have to tell the king who did this thing. It’s up to him.”

I stood up and headed for the door. Pausing, I turned to Jill. “Perhaps if you go to the palace and personally apologize, it would help.”

She thought a minute, then nodded. “OK,” she said. She paused, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. “Maybe I could take them a pie.”

I shuddered at the thought of it. But when I looked at Jill, there was a twinkle in her eyes.

I shook my head. “How about a layer cake?” I said.

“How do you bake a bird in a cake?” she said.

“350 degrees for an hour,” I replied.

It made sense to me.