Nobody Knows Your Secret (15 page)

Declan looked up. His smile could light up Broadway.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any red-tailed hawk feathers lying around on a shelf somewhere, would you Ruth?” Declan said. “Without tail feathers this bird won’t be able to steer, to brake, or to control her flight. We’ll need to replace them, so this bird can be returned to the wild without having to wait around here for normal molting to restore her feathers.”

“As a matter of fact,” Ruth said, “I do. One of our volunteers at the shelter is an old falconer who has kept a feather bank for his own use for years. He donated it to the center, and he looks after any raptors who come here for care.”

“That’s incredible,” said Declan. “Can you get in touch with him?”

Ruth called her old friend, Chester Glenn. Chester said he could be at the center in a few minutes. The security buzzer sounded about 10 minutes later.

Chester was a grizzled, old codger who had a magical way with fowl. Ruth had seen him work wonders with injured birds many times before. He seemed to have an unlimited reservoir of patience for them and had nurtured many back to health during the course of their friendship.

“Howdy,” Chester said to Declan. “Hey, Ruth. Let’s see what we got us here.”

Chester looked over the damage to the hawk’s tail.

“We should be able to imp these broken feathers and fix her up so she can fly again, right nice like,” he told the doctors. “Yes, my pretty little vixen. Don’t fret. We’ll have you soaring again in no time.”

Imping was short for implantation.

Imping feathers was a practice that falconers had been using for a thousand years. Like hair extensions or fake fingernails on humans, the replacement feathers eventually molted in the spring or summer, and natural feathers took their place.

The imping process allows a bird to return to the wild, rather than being held in captivity during the time it took for the annual molting process of a broken feather to occur. Donor feathers were collected from birds that had already gone through the annual process of molting, losing old feathers. Or they were harvested from deceased birds.

How the feathers had been collected and the feather placement was carefully recorded for future use. In this way, Chester created his feather bank.

Chester carefully selected the necessary feathers from his labeled stock. Imping was an intricate procedure, and Chester needed to match the damaged feathers in size, type, placement, and angling, as well as feather position.

Damaged feathers with good shafts were cut, leaving the short, original shaft in place. The new replacements had to be aligned correctly so that the new feathers would not rotate and prevent successful flight.

Donated feathers were cut, spliced, correctly fitted, and super-glued into the healthy shafts. After Chester finished, the red-tailed hawk had a new strong tail that would allow for control in flight.

“Tomorrow we will fly her on a creance. I’ve got the perfect lightweight cord I use in training my falcons,” Chester said. “I’m sure it’ll work fine. We’ll let her rest, and I’ll come back in the morning to check her out.”

Declan made sure the recovering bird was comfortable.

“Would you mind if I stayed the night and kept an eye on our patient?” Declan said.

“Not at all,” Ruth said. “There is a cot in the back room I use when I have patients that need overnight observation. It’s pretty rough accommodations back there. I’m afraid there’s no TV, but the linens are clean. Actually, the cot is surprisingly comfortable. I should know: I’ve spent many a night on it.”

Ruth and Declan spent the rest of their time caring for the other animals at the center. Working side by side, she couldn’t help casting an occasional glance his way. She savored the smell of his aftershave. Its scent wafted in the air when he walked past her.

Lord, have mercy, she thought. I think I’m falling head over heels.

B
ill was about as frustrated
as a beaver looking out over a hundred acres of logged land. He was getting nowhere fast with this case. It wasn’t like they had murders and gangland shootings every day. But the area was no longer the safe, idyllic place it used to be. This wasn’t Shangri-la anymore, Bill brooded.

He’d grown up in these mountains and hollows. He’d been dirt poor but happy. Bill wondered if Skippy hadn’t fallen prey to those drug suckers who’d invaded his little patch of paradise.

Skip just wasn’t the same kid he used to be. He’d grown secretive and distant. Could be alcohol. Heaven only knows, Bill thought. Too many bear traps for young kids, nowadays. Still, he hoped he was wrong. He hoped his son was just gnawing on some problem as insignificant as whether to go steady with Katie or drop her and ask Nadine out.

Life should be so easy, he thought.

The phone rang. It was Virgie Winthrop.

“No, Virgie,” Bill said. There was a tiredness in his voice. He really would have liked to have given the woman some good news for a change. Heaven knew, she deserved it. But there was none. “Naw, Virgie. Nothing’s changed. I’ll call you if we find out more.”

There was nothing more to say. Bill knew in his heart that Kyle’s killer might go free. There was so little evidence to go on. Practically zilch at the scene. Nobody had come forward with any leads. And in a community the size of Hope Rock, that was unusual. Everybody in this small burg knew everybody else’s business.

Or so it seemed.

Bill remembered when Pearlie Corinne was making watermelon wine in her kitchen. All the neighbors knew it, but Pearlie Corinne’s husband, Billy Jewell, who just happened to be a prominent deacon in the First Baptist Church of Hope Rock County and had yet to figure out his wife’s latest enterprise because he drove a semi on long hauls across the country. Pearlie Corinne wanted some sippin’ wine to get her through those long, lonely nights without Billy Jewell.

“Just a little nippin’ juice,” Pearlie Corinne would say, “to take the edge off my nerves.”

Bill would never forget the look of shock on Billy Jewell’s face when he came in after a long run to find the ceiling of his kitchen dripping pink. Pearlie Corinne’s 30-odd gallon plastic jugs had exploded. Billy Jewell swore to this day that his kitchen smelled like the butt-end of a brewery, albeit, a watermelon one.

Then there was the time Savannah Dorsey disappeared for two days. Her folks swore she’d been kidnapped. Savannah was 17 years old and in the ninth grade. She wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but she was a good girl. At least, all her family said so.

It was two weeks before the May Queen pageant. Savannah had been nominated a half-dozen times. She’d never won, but she had come in a close fifth or sixth a couple of times.

Oswold Tennie was as sweet on Savannah as a honey bun. He’d known her since grade school. Oswold was 13, pimply, and red-headed. He had one thing in his favor. He was smart as a whip and had skipped two grades.

He sat beside Savannah every day for a whole year. Oswold was intent that this year his beautiful Savannah would win the coveted prize of May Queen.

Because he was so smart, Oswold knew he could never win Savannah on his good looks and charm alone. The fact that he was so much younger than her was a problem, too, but it was one that Oswold felt he could overcome.

It might seem like a great gap now, Oswold reasoned, but when Savannah was 85, he would be 81. A frog’s hair’s difference at that ripe old age.

Oswold set his sights on the long view. He wouldn’t be discouraged that Savannah would not look his way, would not give him the time of day, and would not have poured a glass of water on his oily red head if it was on fire. None of that mattered to Oswold.

All he needed was patience. If he could hold out long enough, Oswold reasoned, Savannah would be his. The odds were in his favor.

Oswold set about to win the May Queen title for Savannah. The first thing to do was knock off the competition. In past years, when Savannah had ranked near the top 10 in May Queen polls, Oswold had noted that every girl in the county had entered the contest. That year, Oswold was determined that as few girls as possible would want to enter.

Oswold started a smear campaign.

“The throne that every May Queen winner sat on for the last 50 years was eat up with termites,” Oswold said. “I know for a fact that Zeldine Jeddie’s gown was nothing but holes. ’Em cooties ate plum through her skirts.”

“Cooties!” Velva, Nova, and Rilla screamed.

“Oswold Tennie, you lyin’ dog,” they said.

“Okay. But it just ain’t shots you gotta take if them cooties ’n’ termites eat ya. You gotta be fumigated.”

“What!” Nova said in disbelief.

“Fogged,” Oswold Tennie said with the absolute conviction of one who’d seen the finger of God write the Ten Commandments.

“Fogged!” Velva repeated.

“Yep. I ain’t lyin’, gals. Fogged ’n’ dipped in a 137 percent solution of canine-bovine flea dip.”

Oswold Tennie, who was a whiz in math, knew that there was no such thing as a 137 percent of anything. But he knew Velva, Nova, and Rilla. Those three couldn’t add two cents and subtract one from a dollar.

“Count me out of this year’s pageant,” said Rilla.

“Me, too,” said Velva.

“I ain’t intendin’ to be no raw-bottomed May Queen. I’m allergic to canine bovines.”

Oswold Tennie just smiled. It wasn’t until Bill discovered that Oswold’s plan included convincing Savannah Dorsey that she needed to secret herself away, like a nun in a convent, in his granny’s smokehouse’ that Oswold’s plans fell apart.

A manhunt was organized to find the kidnapper, as well as the kidnapped girl. Little did anyone, but Oswold Tennie, know that Savannah was perfectly all right.

After two days of praying and a lot of peanut butter sandwiches supplied to her by Oswold, Savannah reappeared, pale and smelling of smoke and about as dirty as a person could get.

“What in the Sam Hill were you thinkin’!” Savannah’s frustrated, yet relieved, parents said.

“I was preparin’ myse’f,” Savannah said.

“Fer whut!” her pap said.

“To be worthy of my crown,” Savannah said.

“What crown?” her mother asked.

“The plastic tiara that Oswold Tennie promised I’d win this year as May Queen.”

Oswold turned 12 shades of red. His plan was to drum up a little publicity for Savannah. When she was found, so much sympathy would have been built up for her, the girl would be a shoe in for May Queen. Savannah would have her crown, and Oswold would have Savannah’s undying gratitude.

Little did he realize her parents might involve the police. The sheriff and his deputies were present at the scene.

Bill had been young once himself. He’d been driven mad a few times by his infatuations over older women. Well, Maury was only a year older than he was, but still, Bill sympathized with Oswold. The sheriff talked to Savannah’s parents. They were furious.

Oswold Tennie’s parents were enraged, too. Of all the dern shenanigans their son had pulled, this one took the icing, the silverware, the plates, and the cake. Bill kept reasoning with the four adults. They finally agreed to let Oswold off, but only after teaching him a good lesson.

Bill put on his sternest and most official sheriff’s face.

“Oswold Tennie!” he said in a gruff voice. “You have the right to keep silent, the right to an attorney, but not the right to sleep in your own bed tonight.”

“I’m going to jail,” Oswold’s voice quivered as he said the words.

“No,” Bill said. “You’re going to spend the night dressed in the May Queen’s gown in your granny’s smokehouse.”

Poor Oswold. He looked so small in that gown. The plastic May Queen tiara sat crooked atop his greasy thatch of red hair. His bottom lip trembled as he entered the old log shed, but to his credit, Oswold did not cry.

The next morning, Bill, who had sat beside that smokehouse the entire night to make sure nothing happened to the boy, opened the creaking, wooden door. Oswold Tennie was all smiles.

“What’s the deal, Oswold?” Bill said. “I thought I’d open the door and find you fit to be tied. Spending all night in this stinkin’ smokehouse couldn’t have been a picnic.”

“Oh, but it was, sir. I guess Savannah don’t like peanut butter. I found four sandwiches left over in there. A little stale, but good enough to get me through the night.”

“Oswold,” Bill said, “you haven’t learned a thing, have you?”

“Yes, sir. I sure have. The next time I go after a woman, I’m gonna make sure she loves peanut butter. Life ain’t worth livin’ without a good peanut butter sandwich ever’ day.”

“If you say so, Oswold. And Oswold. Take that dress off. You smell so of ham and smoke, you’re libel to get eaten by a grizzly on your way home.”

Oswold took off the gown and the May Queen crown. The town council voted three to two to cease the May Queen competition. There was just too much bad publicity associated with it.

T
he crowd was large
; the applause was loud.

“That was Hobie Stricker and the Speckled Pups. Thanks for listenin’ in to our broadcast today at WAMR 89.5. Hope you enjoyed that song by Declan Wilson. He wrote it special for Ruth Elliot, dedicated to her and played for you for the first time, today. Thank ya, Hobie. That was a fine rendition. Now, let’s take a minute and remind you to come on down to The Band-Aid. Buy something, folks. Proceeds go to a good cause. The animals in our area need all the help we can give them. Take us on out, Hobie. Here he is, folks. Hobie Stricker.”

Hobie stepped up to the mike and lit into a bright, toe-tapping tune.

“Don’t you just love the fast ones,” Maury said.

“I love the fast one, the sad ones,” Hadley said, “and the slow ones that pull my heart strings right out of my nostrils. Hobie Stricker is the absolute best in my book.”

“And your little tune wasn’t too shabby either, Doc,” Maury said.

“Let’s go over to the Spoon and celebrate, Ruth,” Declan said.

“It’s going to have to be a late supper,” Ruth said. “This crowd will hang around until dark. Hobie always draws them in. They ask for more, and Hobie generously plays. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’ve been able to afford so many more supplies since we started this little venture.”

“I think Hobie gets as much as he gives,” said Declan. “He’s in his element up there on that porch.”

“He does look happy, doesn’t he,” Ruth said. “You know, I’ve never noticed it until today, but watch Hobie’s eyes. He seems to smile his brightest when he’s looking at Hadley.”

“Ruth Elliot,” Declan said, “you’re as bad as my match-making maternal grandmother.”

“Was she successful in her profession?” Ruth asked.

“She introduced me to my first wife,” Declan said.

Ruth was taken aback. First wife implied a second. Declan hadn’t mentioned being married. In fact, he never talked much about his life at all.

“I’m sorry,” Declan said. “How stupid of me. Of course, you couldn’t know. My first wife divorced me after three years. I’ve been married to my second wife, Clarissa, for 12 years. Clarissa and I have sort of . . . how do I say this? We’ve drifted our separate ways over the years.”

“You’re married,” Ruth said.

“Separated,” said Declan.

“Oh,” Ruth said.

She should have known there had to be a catch. Declan Wilson was just too good to be true. And after her disastrous relationship with Bobbie Joe Elliott, you’d think she would have learned a thing or two. How could she fall for the wrong guy, again?

“I’m really sorry, Declan, but I’ve got to see about things in The Band-Aid.”

“Are we on for tonight?”

“We’ll see,” Ruth said. “There are so many loose ends that I have to tie up this afternoon.”

“Call me,” Declan said.

Ruth waved and disappeared into the shop. Declan looked over the crowd. It was a fantastic turnout. The day couldn’t have gone any better. Any better, that is, until he mentioned being married. Declan stubbed the toe of his boot into the ground. It looked like another lonely night in Motelville.