A Murder of Crows (2 page)

“That’s what I read on the map we got at the Arboretum gatehouse,” she replied. “I guess they must have decided to stick a few extra ones in near the trails.”

I studied the scarecrow from a safe distance.

“I hate scarecrows,” I said.

“I know,” Luce assured me. “At least it’s not a clown one.”

It definitely was not, but it still gave me the bejeebers. Even from my vantage point on the trail, the proportions of the scarecrow’s body held an eerie resemblance to human form. The way the arms hung down from the shoulders looked too real, like there were the weights of a real man’s hands in those gloves and not just straw stuffing. The denim-clad legs looked too solid to be packed with old newspapers. I looked up at the head, but the battered old hat hid the scarecrow’s face. And then I realized that where there should have been straw sticking out above the collar of the shirt, there wasn’t any.

In fact, now that I thought about it, I couldn’t see any straw anywhere on this scarecrow.

What scarecrow doesn’t have straw?

I moved a foot closer in its direction, and the crows responded with a few harsh calls as they took flight from the tree branches.

I was right.

No straw anywhere.

I lifted a limp Baby Lou out of the carrier on my chest and handed her to Luce.

“Stay here,” I told her.

“Arf,” she responded.

“Funny,” I said, even though “funny” was not the feeling I was getting at the moment.

Try “icy finger on my spine and I’m going to regret it, but I have to do this” feeling, because there was something definitely not good about that scarecrow.

I moved off the trail and stepped through the thick carpet of fallen leaves that littered the forest floor. When I got within four feet of the scarecrow, a startled squirrel leapt from a nearby branch, knocking off the figure’s old hat, revealing a thick head of hair.

Human hair.

No wonder the scarecrow looked so life-like.

Because it was.

Or, it had been.

“Oh, crap,” I whispered, dropping beside the body and searching for a pulse in its exposed neck.

The skin was cold.

“Double crap,” I breathed.

“Bobby, what is it?” Luce called from the path.

“Not what, who,” I called back to her. “Call 911, Luce. I think we found a dead man.”

I took another look at the corpse’s face and felt a wave of nausea rush into my throat.

Triple crap.

This wasn’t just any old dead man scarecrow.

This was someone I knew, someone I’d first met eight years ago while looking for a Louisiana Waterthrush in a mosquito-breeding bog outside Minneapolis. Since then, I’d crossed paths with Sonny Delite, one of the state’s best known birders, more times than I could count.

I swallowed the bile in my throat and looked in the dead man’s face.

“Hey, Sonny,” I whispered shakily. “Bad day for birding, huh?”

Chapter Two

“And I’d been doing so good,” I complained to my best friend and brother-in-law Alan Thunderhawk. “It’s been sixteen months since I last found a body.”

Baby Lou sat cradled in her dad’s big arms as we waited for lunch at our regular table at Millie’s Deli in Chanhassen. After calling the police on her cell phone from the trail where we found Sonny, Luce had called Alan to come get Louise, since we figured we’d be stuck at the scene for a while and didn’t want our niece involved in a murder investigation at the ripe old age of four months. Once he’d arrived, though, Alan had insisted on waiting for us to finish with the police, and then he’d insisted we go to Millie’s for lunch and tell him everything.

“Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the woods, huh?” Alan tipped up the end of the bottle of formula as Baby Lou sucked it noisily dry. “So when did you last see Sonny? Alive,” he added, as if I really needed a reminder that the man I’d found was dead.

“Hey, Bob, you better watch out or Chef Tom’s going to talk that wife of yours into coming to cook for him,” Red, our waitress, informed me as she slid a hot Reuben sandwich onto the table in front of me. “Luce is back in the kitchen trading recipes with him again.”

I shot a glance at the plate that Red left at Luce’s place. “Tell her that her Cajun omelet won’t wait for her if she doesn’t get out here,” I said. “I’m hungry enough to eat both of our meals.”

“Birds pretty rough on you this morning?”

“Bob’s going to be back in the news, again, Red,” Alan told her. “He found another body.”

“No kidding?” Red grinned. “Man, you birdwatchers have all the fun around here. I’m going to have to give it a try—birding, not body-finding.”

“Don’t go with Bob, then,” Alan warned her. “Those two activities are just about synonymous with him.”

I gave him a dirty look as I bit into my grilled sandwich.

“You know, I bet I’d be pretty good at birding,” Red continued. “Back in one of my previous lives, I did some tracking when I was in the army.”

I swallowed my bite of Reuben. “I didn’t know you were a veteran.”

Red gave me a sharp salute. “Twenty years, United States Army. That’s why I like working here,” she added, winking. “Chef Tom’s a regular drill sergeant. Makes me feel right at home. Except that the food’s a whole lot better here than it was when I was in the service.”

Beside me, Luce slid into her chair. “Tom needs you in the kitchen,” she told Red. “He says just because you got in late this morning, it doesn’t mean you get out of food prep.”

“See, what did I tell you?” Red grinned, leaving us to our meals. “Duty calls.”

I caught Alan’s eye across the table.

“Two or three years,” I finally answered him. “The last time I saw Sonny, it was at the public hearing for the proposed power line across the Le Sueur/Henderson Recovery Zone. Sonny spoke rather eloquently on behalf of the eagles and the herons on the Minnesota River Flyway there that would be most negatively impacted by the construction.”

“I’d say he spoke very eloquently—and persuasively—since the pro-birding party won that battle,” Alan noted. “But we all know that whenever there are winners, that typically means that there are also losers, and sometimes, losers have long memories.”

He removed the bottle from Lou’s slack mouth and set it on the table next to his plate of old-fashioned meatloaf. My niece’s tiny lips pursed in sleep as her dad dug into his lunch with his free hand.

“I also recall that the utilities company that was involved with that project took a pretty public thrashing for its attempt to slide the project into implementation without due process in the surrounding communities first,” Alan said. “The company tried to bypass public forums and informational sessions, hoping to avoid the confrontation they knew would result. By the time the conservation advocates rallied their supporters, the press was all over it, and the utilities people took a beating. I don’t think that Sonny’s group exactly endeared itself to their adversaries, if you catch my drift.”

“You mean they made enemies,” Luce clarified.

Alan nodded while he took a gulp from his mug of coffee.

“You think Sonny’s death has something to do with the Henderson power lines?” Luce asked.

I shook my head in disbelief. “That was years ago, Alan. You’re suggesting that someone was not only angry enough with Sonny because of his stance about conservation and his role in stopping the project, but that the same someone would wait three years to get revenge. To kill Sonny. I don’t think so.”

I popped a French fry into my mouth. Lou threw out a little fist as she stretched in her sleep, and Alan shifted in his chair to keep his daughter’s tiny moccasins away from his meatloaf.

“Besides, you’re jumping to a big conclusion, here. We don’t know that Sonny’s death was the result of foul play,” I reminded him. “I didn’t see any gunshot wounds or blood. Maybe he died from natural causes. A bad heart. Lung disease.”

“And so he dressed himself as a scarecrow and conveniently lay down to die off a back path at the Arboretum,” Luce observed. “I don’t know if you can get any more natural than that, Bobby.”

I threw her my evil eye. “Finish your omelet,” I told her. “Good wives should be seen, not heard.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Go, Tarzan.”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Alan said, loading his fork with more meatloaf. “I’m just saying that events have consequences, and sometimes people do crazy things for crazy reasons. I’m a history teacher, and history is about sequences of events that unfold over time, and some of those sequences begin with the most unlikely scenarios. Not to mention that the economy’s bad, and when people lose jobs, which they do when a big construction—make that utility—project gets dumped, tempers flare, and people can get desperate. They look for someone to blame. It’s human nature, Bob.”

“Yeah, but I don’t decide to kill a person if I think he’s to blame for something,” I pointed out. “I’m a counselor—I believe in negotiation and compromise, resolving issues and moving forward. But even if I didn’t, I sure wouldn’t have the patience to wait three years to get revenge.”

Alan swallowed the last bite of his lunch and washed it down with a slug of coffee. Baby Lou pursed her lips, her eyes still shut. For all she cared about our conversation, Alan might as well have been cradling a sack of potatoes in his arms.

Except that my niece was a whole lot cuter.

And smarter.

Plus, she already had a life list of four birds: Canada Goose, Wild Turkey, Green Heron, and American Crow.

Not bad for a four-month-old.

“Now, see, that’s one of the big differences between you and your sister,” Alan noted. “If Lily ever decides I’m to blame for something, I’m immediately going into a witness protection program and getting a complete identity change, because she’d kill me in a minute if she thought something was my fault.” He smiled broadly. “And that’s why I’m perfect. To keep my wife happy, I never make a mistake.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

I turned to my own wife beside me who was suddenly choking on her American fries.

“That’s not what I hear from Lily,” she laughed between coughing jags.

I looked back at Alan. “Busted, buddy.”

He fluttered his dark eyelashes at me. “I feel so … fragile.”

I snorted.

“You and the Bonecrusher,” I said. “Luce thinks the reason that Mr. Lenzen isn’t spilling the beans about our mystery man’s true identity is because he’s guarding the big guy’s privacy or helping him hide old baggage. I think Mr. Lenzen just likes that ‘I know something you don’t know’ feeling.”

“Wow, is that mature,” Luce commented.

“We’re talking about a high school assistant principal here,” I reminded her. “I think it’s in the job description: ‘Lofty attitude preferred. Must enjoy taunting colleagues.’”

“I thought that was your job description, Bob,” Alan said. “Lenzen’s job is to curb enthusiasm and reprimand smart-aleck counselors.”

“How’s brunch?” Red asked, suddenly appearing at our table with a coffeepot in her hand. “Anybody need a refill? Bob? Alan?”

“I’m good,” Alan said. “The meatloaf was great.”

Red leaned towards me, her eyes wide. “We just heard a report on the radio in the kitchen,” she said, her voice pitched low. “It’s about the body you found. You didn’t tell me it was Sonny Delite.”

I looked at Red in surprise. “You know him?”

She nodded, her eyes still wide. “He and his wife were regulars whenever he was in town. I can’t believe it was him you found.”

The bell over the deli’s front door jingled as another customer walked in, and Red automatically turned her head to smile at the newcomer.

“Oh, my gosh,” she breathed, her smile frozen in place as she visibly blanched. “What the heck is she doing here?”

Luce, Alan, and I all turned to see who Red was talking about. A trim blonde woman, probably mid-fifties, stood just inside the door, her face red and blotchy.

“Who is it?” I asked.

Red turned back to me, her eyes wider than ever.

“Prudence,” she said. “Mrs. Sonny Delite.”

Chapter Three

Red walked over to Sonny’s wife—widow, I mean—but as soon as she got close to the woman, Mrs. Delite swung her hand back and slapped Red hard across the cheek.

I was on my feet in the next instant, heading to Red’s defense.

I couldn’t believe it. I was going to have to break up a girl fight, and I wasn’t even at work.

“Hey!” I shouted at Mrs. Delite. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She took another swing at Red, but this time, our waitress was ready. Red backed away from the punch and caught Mrs. Delite’s hand as it swept through the empty air where Red’s chin had been. Without missing a beat, Red spun the woman around and leaned her against the wall, her arm twisted behind her back.

“Think about what you’re doing,” I heard Red hiss into Mrs. Delite’s ear. “Put a lid on it, Pru.”

Prudence apparently did think about it and decided to comply, because I watched the woman suddenly sag against the wall, all the fight drained out of her.

Wow. I’d always assumed that waitresses knew how to manage surly customers, but this was an eye-opener. I wondered what it would take to get Red to join me on the cafeteria lunch monitor shift at Shakopee. She’d be dynamite to have covering my back during a food fight.

“You need any help, Red?” I asked, even though it was clear she didn’t. In fact, judging from the spontaneous demo I’d just witnessed, Red was no shrinking violet when it came to defensive maneuvering, nor was she a slouch in the hand-to-hand combat department, either. My guess was that her stint with Uncle Sam had taught her more than how to track a few bunny rabbits in the woods.

Memo to me for future reference: don’t ever complain about service at Millie’s when Red was working.

“She’ll be fine, Bob. Thanks,” Red replied. “She’s just distraught. I happen to know that she doesn’t deal with stress very well. Obviously,” she added with her trademark grin.

She turned her attention back to Mrs. Delite.