Swan Song (3 page)

“Awww, look at that poor thing,” Becky commiserated, pointing Fray out to Duane. “What happened to it, do you know?”

“It’s called angel wing,” I told her, “and it is a she. The deformity is caused by people misguidedly feeding the young ones junk like bread when their wings are growing. Geese can’t digest that stuff. They’re mostly vegetarians, and if they have open water, they can usually find enough food to sustain themselves. That’s why the hurt ones hang out here. The underground springs that supply the pond keep the water moving.” I pointed out the spillway at the edge of the pond, which directed a steady stream of water under the road through a culvert and out into the marsh on the other side.

Duane looked thoughtful. “Can her wing be fixed? What about catching her and taking her to the nature center on Prospect Street?”

I smiled at his eagerness to do something constructive. “It’s too late, I’m afraid. Once the geese are adults, angel wing can’t be fixed. But Fray seems happy here. I’ve known her for years, and she always has company. This year, it looks like a little too much company, but I’ve never had the heart to chase off the birds that can fly. They all need open water to survive.”

“How do you know Fray is a girl? I can’t tell them apart,” Becky said after another minute.

“There’s very little difference between male and female Canada geese,” I agreed, “but as I said, I’ve been feeding Fray for many winters now. I wean myself from them in the spring, but every now and then Armando and I will drive by the pond to check out the babies. A couple of years ago, we happened to come by at afternoon nap time, and Fray was on the bank, covered in snoozing goslings, with a male standing guard nearby. It reminded me of the swans that used to summer here.”

Becky’s mouth formed an O. “I love swans! They’re so beautiful. Did they raise babies here?”

“Indeed they did for many years. George and Laura, we called them. They were excellent parents, and they managed to keep a few of their cygnets from becoming lunch for the snapping turtles each year. Once they managed to get seven to adulthood. Then in November, the kids would leave in twos and threes, and after a few more weeks of rest, George and Laura would take off for open water, too. Usually, they go to the Connecticut River. One year, though, the earthen dam at the far end of the pond had to be repaired, and State officials relocated the swan family to another pond. After that, George and Laura—and we think a few of the kids—stopped nesting here. They prefer the other place, but they cruise through in the spring and fall for a day or two.”

The feeding frenzy continued as I eased the car away from the bank and turned up to Spring Street and the waiting songbirds at the other end of the marsh. Minutes later, I introduced Duane and Becky to the little cadre of chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, finches and my special favorite, a cardinal I called Pip, that came to my whistle and feasted on the sunflower seeds and cracked nuts we poured at the edge of the plowed sidewalk. We backed off a few yards to give the birds space.

“Why do you feed the birds here, Kate? Can’t you just put out bird feeders at The Birches? Seems as if it would be a lot simpler,” Becky asked, clutching the collar of her hooded parka around her cheeks to cut the icy wind.

“It would be,” I agreed, “but the condo association has a ban on bird feeding. I can’t blame them, because the seeds attract rodents. So I picked out this spot. It’s on my way to work, and when pedestrians and dog walkers come down the sidewalk, the birds can just hop up onto the fence and into the bushes.” I indicated the split rail fencing and the shrubs on the marsh side of the walk.

Duane pointed to a large, globular nest hanging low over the fence. “Which bird lives in that?”

I laughed as a plump gray squirrel hopped along the top rail of the fence and dropped among the birds on the ground to stuff his cheeks with nuts. “No bird. It’s the winter residence of that outrageous fur ball over there. He’s figured out how to stay warm, sleep late, and get room service courtesy of Emma and me. The birds don’t seem bothered, so what the heck. Everybody’s got to make a living.”

“I guess he had a good realtor,” Duane joked. “Location, location, location, right?”

I nodded and looked at my watch. “Time to get moving. I really appreciate your helping me today. It makes it less of a chore when I have company. I don’t know about you, but this wind is making me hope May has the coffee brewing at the office.”

“Yeah,” Duane agreed. “Some hot chocolate will really hit the spot this morning.” Reluctantly, he and Becky turned their backs on the feeding birds and headed back up the sidewalk to where my car sat idling in the handy parking lot of a local insurance agency. Becky couldn’t resist trying to stuff a handful of snow down Duane’s collar, and he retaliated with a soft snowball, both of them laughing like the kids they still were from my distinctly middle-aged perspective.

By the time we’d made our way to the Law Barn on Old Main Street, which housed Mack Realty and Romantic Nights Publishing on separate floors, we were more than ready for the hot beverages May had prepared for us.

“Here you go,” she said, handing Duane and Becky their hot chocolate, “and hot coffee is coming right up.”

After murmuring hasty but heartfelt thanks, the two young people scurried to their respective desks, Becky’s in the main floor lobby and Duane’s in the Romantic Nights loft at the top of the stairs, to check messages and see what the day had in store. May and I watched them fondly as we waited for the coffee brewer to do its thing.

“It’s nice to have some young blood around,” May commented. “I got used to Charlie’s and Duane’s energy and high jinks over the summer, and I was afraid we’d have to go back to being grown-ups all the time when the fall semester started. But even with Charlie gone back to school, Duane and Becky have settled in nicely together, haven’t they?”

I nodded my agreement as I added Truvia and nonfat creamer to my coffee. “It’s a relief not to have to worry about one of them developing a crush on the other, too, don’t you think? From the first day, Becky and Duane have been like two puppies, totally enjoying each other without any romantic drama. My best friend in college was gay,” I added wistfully. No matter how many years passed, I still missed Danny. He’d been a better friend and a closer confidante than any of the girls with whom I’d hung out, perhaps because there had been no element of competition between us. It must be the same with Duane and Becky.

May chuckled. “From what you’ve told me, there’s already been enough drama in that young man’s life.”

I had to agree. Charlie Putnam and Duane Starling had been best friends right through high school, but Charlie hadn’t been certain about Duane’s sexual orientation until the night of the New Year’s Eve dance at the school when Duane had chosen to come out publicly by asking Charlie to dance. Not a good move, but the ensuing flap led to some good things for the boys, their friends and the community as a whole. A group of their schoolmates and several teachers joined together to make a public service video offering advice on less dramatic ways for gay youngsters to come out to their friends and families. The video went viral on YouTube. Not only did the boys’ friendship survive the trauma of New Year’s Eve, they became local, then national, celebrities in the youth community and thoroughly enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame.

“Duane’s an interesting guy. He seems content enough to work here for a while, but has he ever talked to you about what he wants to do with his life? Being a gofer and computer geek, however competent, in a small town office like this one can’t be all he has in mind,” May opined.

“Strutter would probably know, but I don’t. Strutter and J.D. have done more real parenting with that boy over the years than Mr. and Mrs. Starling ever did. Not only did they not know what was going on with him, they didn’t want to know, and as far as we can see, they still don’t,” I told May sadly. “Thank goodness for best friends and their parents, I guess.”

“Why didn’t Duane go to UConn with Charlie?” May wanted to know. “Didn’t he have the grades to get in?”

I had to laugh at that one. “Not only did he have the grades, he was salutatorian of the Wethersfield High School graduating class. He loves to tell people he has brains as well as beauty, usually with a big wink. No, he didn’t go to UConn because he didn’t want to waste his parents’ money until he figures out what he wants to pursue as a career, which I think is surprisingly responsible for a guy his age. I mean, how many people really have a clue about their life’s work at age 18? So he’s giving it a year or two and trying out different things while he takes some basic courses at Manchester Community College. That’s where he and Becky met. His parents set him up with a small apartment and a good used car and said they’d pay his tuition as long as he takes at least two courses a semester and works 20 hours a week. I think they wanted him out of the house as much as anything else, since they obviously consider him an embarrassment or a bad reflection on their child rearing abilities or something; but the arrangement works fine for Duane, so it’s all good.”

A shriek from the lobby told us that Duane was tormenting Becky, as usual, by waving the Have-A-Heart trap containing the night’s catch at Becky on his way to release the mouse or squirrel or whatever it was this time into the back yard of the Law Barn. Rodents were a fact of life in such an old building, and my partners and I had made peace with them, as had May. Wildlife was a particular passion of hers, as it happened, but so far Becky had resisted all of our efforts to desensitize her. Maybe helping to feed the ducks and geese would improve that, I mused.

“What does your day look like?” I asked May as we moved toward our respective offices, Romantic Nights up one flight and Mack Realty down six steps, sipping our coffee.

She made a face. “I had planned to do a little writing this afternoon and let Isabelle hold the fort upstairs, but I’ve decided to go to the convention luncheon. Lizzie’s giving the keynote speech, as you heard from her last night, and I confess, she really piqued my curiosity. It was probably the alcohol talking, but I’m interested to hear what she really does say when the time comes. Then there’s the awards dinner to get through tomorrow night.” She sighed heavily.

“You don’t sound too thrilled about being up for the Mystery of the Year Award.”

“It doesn’t mean a whole heck of a lot,” May confided. “It’s one of those things that the convention sponsors dream up to make writers more interested in spending a fortune to participate in their organizations and attend their annual gatherings. They pick a few titles and appoint a committee to judge which one is the best. Sometimes they even let members vote. It encourages a few sales among Mysteries USA members; but in the end, the award is just an ego boost to the nominees and winners. The reading public never heard of it, and it certainly doesn’t motivate anyone outside the association to buy. Still, one does one’s duty and shows up for the presentation—unless one can think up a suitably airtight excuse, of course. That was tough to do this year, what with the convention being right down the road in Hartford.” She took another sip of coffee. “How about you? Are you and Margo able to keep things going with Strutter on vacation?”

I smiled, thinking of our Jamaican partner visiting family on the big island with her husband and six-year-old daughter. “It’s only for ten days, and boy, does Strutter deserve it. She and J.D. no sooner got Charlie moved into his dorm than he was back for Thanksgiving with a truckload of laundry. Between the holidays and keeping Olivia on an even keel at school and her job here, it’s amazing that Strutter’s even sane some weeks, but she manages to keep it together somehow. I hope she’s lying under a palm tree drinking fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them. We’ll try not to let the place burn down until she gets back.”

“Where’s Margo, by the way?”

“Prepping a house on Ridge Road for a big open house tomorrow. Now that Christmas and New Year’s are behind us, buyers are starting to show some interest in our new listings. Are you driving yourself back to the Hilton? Traffic will be miserable in the middle of the day, not to mention finding a place to park.”

“Luckily, Duane thought of that, resourceful soul that he is. He’s going to drive me into the city and get a burger somewhere until it’s time to pick me up again. Unless Lizzie starts a real ruckus, it shouldn’t be more than an hour and a half or so.” She grinned and waggled her fingers at me as she started up the stairs, and I headed down the half-flight of stairs to the Mack Realty office. “Hey, why don’t you come with me as my guest, pretty please?” she threw over her shoulder. “I won’t be quite as vulnerable to the earnest amateurs if I have someone with me, and it should be a lot more fun than that silly reception last night.”

Fun, no. Interesting, yes.

Duane dropped us at the main entrance to the Hilton on Trumbull Street shortly before noon. After making careful note of his cell phone number and slipping him a twenty dollar bill for parking and lunch, “my treat,” May promised to call him as soon as she decently could. “I know there are panel discussions scheduled for 1:30 this afternoon, so they’ll have to wrap up the luncheon before then,” she said with obvious relief as we headed up the escalator from the lobby once again.

Today our destination was the grand ballroom, which had been set in typical banquet fashion with rows of tables and chairs placed perpendicular to the stage. The head table at the back ran parallel to the stage and was banked with flowers. A podium scarf in the very center bore the logo of Mysteries USA. Behind it were a small speaker’s desk and a microphone.

“That’s where Lizzie will drop her bombshells,” May whispered as we once more made our way through the chattering crowd, consisting mostly of older women. Every few seconds a voice would call, “May, hello!” or “Good luck tonight,” and May would smile gamely and wave at the well-wisher before eeling off in another direction.