The Gift of the Magpie Page 8

  I was standing by the side of the road, watching the trucks disappear into the distance and taking a small breather before heading for my car, when I noticed someone nearby. Mrs. Gudgeon, the binocular lady. She appeared to have been lurking behind one of the more robust sections of boxwood hedge, and I was pretty sure she’d been there for a while. But when she realized I’d spotted her she pretended she had just arrived at the curbside. She lifted the lid of her trash can and deposited a small plastic bag.

  Then she looked over at me and glared.

  “How come the town’s doing all this work for Harvey?” she demanded. “What’s so special about him?”

  “It’s not the town doing the work,” I explained. “It’s the Helping Hands for the Holidays.”

  “Charity!” She snorted in disgust. “He doesn’t deserve charity. He’s not broke—not if he can afford to sit there in his house all day, not doing a lick of work. He’s not the least bit needy.”

  “It’s not charity,” I said. “It’s a project of neighbors helping neighbors. Organized by the Ladies’ Interfaith Council.”

  “Harvey hasn’t been to church in years, you know.”

  “That’s okay.” Staying cheerful and polite was becoming harder. “You don’t have to be needy, or a churchgoer. Just a neighbor who could use some help. You can put in a request if you have any projects you haven’t managed to get done. We do plumbing, electrical work, carpentry, yard work—”

  “I’m perfectly able to take care of my own affairs, thank you very much!”

  “And of course anyone who wants to volunteer their skills is more than welcome.”

  “I have better things to do than to help a bunch of no-count, lazy freeloaders.”

  She stormed back up her driveway and disappeared into her house, slamming the door behind her.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Having a next-door neighbor like that on top of the relatives? I no longer wondered why Harvey had become a hermit.

  I spotted her binoculars at the front window. I waved at her.

  The binoculars disappeared and her venetian blinds snapped shut.

  I’d give it fifteen minutes before she eased them open and started spying again. Not that I was planning to stay around. It was time I left to pick up Caroline.

  I texted her when I was nearing the zoo, and by the time I pulled up at the staff gate she was waiting for me just outside it.

  “You’re leaving Grandfather to his own devices?” I asked.

  “Clarence Rutledge dropped by to check on the pregnant zebra,” she said. “And your dad came along to help out. Does he actually know anything about equine obstetrics?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “A lot about animal obstetrics generally. He and Clarence attend all the zoo births. Haven’t lost a mother or an offspring in years.”

  “Good to know. By the way, Clarence has a project for the Helping Hands group.”

  “Great.” I suspected my effort to sound enthusiastic wasn’t working.

  “Don’t worry,” Caroline said. “Your mother and I are taking point on this one. Seems the animal shelter’s getting overcrowded.”

  “It often is,” I said. “Especially since Clarence took over running it. If you put out the word to every shelter and rescue organization within five hundred miles that you’ll take any animals they can’t find room for, some of them are going to take you up on it, and yeah, it’s going to get overcrowded.” Of course, Caroline probably already knew that, since her sanctuary performed much the same function for injured wild animals and rescued exotics.

  “It’s worse than usual,” she said. “Even Clarence is getting a little concerned. But don’t worry—your mother and I have some good ideas to perk up his adoption campaign. We’ll soon have him back in good shape.”

  “I will leave it in your capable hands,” I said

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—if the animal shelter’s inadequate, why doesn’t Clarence lobby the town for a bigger building? There’s plenty of room for some expansion. Caerphilly isn’t broke. And there are certainly enough animal lovers here.”

  “The problem is that the animal shelter isn’t a public facility anymore,” I said. “Back when the Pruitts were running things, they kept trying to cut the shelter’s budget or turn it into a kill shelter. And then when we found out the Pruitts had mortgaged all the town buildings and the lender repossessed them all—including the old, totally inadequate shelter—Clarence ended up with all the animals at his veterinary practice. He decided enough was enough and started a private nonprofit, the Caerphilly Animal Welfare Foundation—CAWF for short. He even managed to buy the old shelter when it went on the market—not that much competition for a secondhand animal shelter—and enlarge it to the size it is now.”

  “But why not go back to having a public shelter, now that both town and county government are united and in friendly hands?” Caroline sounded on the verge of another diatribe on the crazy ways we locals did things.

  “Ask Clarence.” I shrugged. “I think he worries about what would happen if the Pruitts or someone like them got control again. I can’t imagine it happening, myself, but the very idea keeps Clarence up at night. Besides, being a private foundation, he can run it any way he likes.”

  “Good point,” she said. “If it were government funded, he might not be able to keep up that policy of taking in other shelters’ overflow. The taxpayers might object to him spending their money on animals from all over the state.”

  “The taxpayers might be unpleasantly surprised if we reminded them how much it cost to take in just Caerphilly’s strays and run the old completely inadequate shelter,” I said. “Anyway, the CAWF board of directors thinks it’s time to have a big fundraising drive for the building expansion—maybe even a new purpose-built building—but so far we haven’t talked Clarence into it.”

  “We? So you’re on the board?”

  “Along with Dad, Grandfather, Minerva Burke, and a retired zoology professor from the college,” I said. “But Professor Pedersen is thinking of moving back to Norway, so we may have an opening coming up. I’m supposed to sound you out to see if you’d be interested.”

  “Consider me sounded, then,” she said with a laugh. “And I’ll spend some time while I’m here in town digging into this CAWF thing to see if I can add value.”

  “Perfect.” I was pulling into the driveway. “And while you’re—wait. What’s going on in our backyard?”

  “Now that’s a very interesting question,” Caroline said.

  Chapter 10

  An interesting question? Clearly Caroline was trying to avoid answering me. I got out of the car and strode closer to get a better look.

  The entire backyard was swarming with birds. And not in the sense that our entire flock of two dozen or so Welsummer chickens were holding a forbidden convocation with an equal number of the Sumatrans—who were supposed to stay in their own pen across the fence on Mother and Dad’s land, to avoid the kind of fraternization that would result in Welmatrans or Sumsummers instead of purebred heritage chickens. What was going on right now took “swarming with birds” to a whole new previously unimagined level. It was a vast flock—almost a living carpet—of songbirds.

  Robins. Blue jays. Bluebirds. Chickadees. Doves. Depressingly vast numbers of starlings and pigeons. Evening grosbeaks. Goldfinches. Woodpeckers. And who knows how many birds that, to the despair of my ornithologically savvy father and grandfather, I could only think of as random nondescript brown-and-white birds.

  I did see a few copper-brown Welsummer heads and black Sumatran heads—they kind of stood out above the crowd of much smaller birds, as did the dozen or so crows. I even spotted one enormous turkey vulture, sitting patiently by himself near the edge of the crowd, as if hoping that sooner or later, at least one of the hundreds of frantic birds would overeat to the point that it shuffled off this mortal coil, so the vulture could join in the feasting.

  And I could see the dogs in the nearest windows. Tink was mer
ely watching with interest. Spike was barking hysterically at this monstrous avian invasion of the yard he considered his domain.

  “It’s just your grandfather’s latest project,” Caroline said.

  “What is he doing? Filming a remake of The Birds?”

  “Trying to recapture his magpies.”

  “And just how’s this circus going to help him do that?”

  “Just between you and me … I don’t think he thought this through very carefully,” Caroline said. “In fact, while I generally make it a rule never to say ‘I told you so’ to your grandfather—well, the temptation’s getting more irresistible by the hour.”

  “Have you even spotted any magpies in the crowd?” I asked.

  “Well, I have,” she said. “But only in passing a couple of times. And only because I’ve been patient enough to sit here and observe them. Your grandfather stormed off a couple of hours ago to sulk and think of a better plan.”

  “So he’s wasting all that birdseed?” I asked. “Well, I don’t suppose the birds feel that way, but rather a waste from his point of view, since he’s no closer to recapturing his magpies than he was to begin with. What’s he planning to do next?”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Caroline said. “I expect he is, too.”

  “Magpies are on the big side, aren’t they?” I asked. “What about putting out some kind of trap—one that lets any size bird in, but only lets the little ones out. Our poor hens would be the first ones to charge inside, of course, and you’d probably also catch the crows, but you could pen all of those somewhere else temporarily until the magpies take the bait.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Caroline looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t be too hard to design a trap like that. Of course, I doubt if we could design and build it before the birdseed supply runs out. Actually, I’m hoping when Rose Noire gets back from her volunteer work she can help us recapture them.”

  “You’ll have to convince her that they’re better off in the zoo,” I said. “And that will take some doing.”

  “Yes.” Caroline shook her head. “She seems quite taken with them. And she’s convinced they’re happier here. They bring her little presents.”

  “Presents?”

  “She’s got a regular collection of things they’ve left on the doorstep of her herb-drying shed. I’ll show you.”

  She led the way through one side of the yard, scattering the nearby birds as we passed, but only briefly. Greed had made them careless and unwary. I hoped someone had locked up Skulker and Lurker, our barn cats, before Grandfather had spread out the birdseed. If not, odds were they had stuffed themselves silly with a few of the slowest early arrivals and then crawled off into some quiet corner to sleep off their feast.

  We went through the gate that separated our yard from Mother and Dad’s farm. They’d allowed Rose Noire to begin her organic herb garden here some years ago, and then, this past spring, she’d erected the herb-drying shed—which also provided storage for all the supplies she needed for her business and included a small but useful greenhouse on one end.

  We went inside, and I closed my eyes while I took a few deep breaths. Before Rose Noire set up the herb-drying shed, I’d have assumed that if you put a hundred different herbs and spices in a small room they’d fight each other and produce a chaotic mess, but instead they all blended into a pleasing if slightly overwhelming whole. If I worked at it, I could tease out individual scents: a lot of evergreen, cinnamon, and clove, since she was busily making seasonal potpourris and teas. Dried apples and lemons to remind me of the harvest season, along with rose and lavender to keep alive the hope of spring. After the second or third time I’d walked in here, I’d gone back to the kitchen, thrown out most of the contents of my spice rack, and adopted a policy of buying only tiny quantities from the organic sources Rose Noire recommended. I knew my kitchen—and everyone it fed—was the happier for it.

  “Here’s where she keeps them.” Caroline pointed to Rose Noire’s worktable. In addition to a few tools—a mortar and pestle, a small grinding mill, and a stack of empty muslin bags waiting to be filled with potpourri—the table held a shallow square bowl—or was it a gently curved plate?—on which rested a small collection of items.

  An inch-long fir twig. A bit of pink beach glass slightly smaller than a marble. Two tiny feathers, one red and one blue. An old-fashioned crinkled foil Christmas icicle. A small bit of quartz. And a delicate silver hoop earring.

  “The magpies brought all this?” I asked.

  “So she says.”

  “Has she seen them do it? What if she’s giving the magpies credit for things that are actually coming from some shy admirer who happens to have the same ideas as a magpie about what makes a proper gift?”

  “Another good question,” Caroline said. “I didn’t think to ask. It’s definitely behavior that’s been seen in crows and ravens.”

  “But if she knows that, she might jump to a conclusion,” I suggested.

  Caroline pondered for a moment.

  “We could put up a little camera right over the door.” She pointed up into the eaves of the shed. “That way, not only could we confirm if the magpies are actually bringing Rose Noire presents, we could also learn more about their habits. Could help your grandfather recapture them.”

  “Make sure Rose Noire’s cool with it,” I said, as I turned to head back to the house. “Or she’ll do her best to aid and abet the birds, and Grandfather might never see them again.”

  “Yes, she could do that.” Caroline fell into step beside me. “And she would, too.”

  Back at the house, things were hopping, especially in the kitchen. I worried briefly that we might be having a repeat of last summer’s communications breakdown, when both Mother and Dad had thought they were in charge of parceling out our spare bedrooms to relatives coming for a big family gathering. Michael and the boys had thought sleeping in tents in our own backyard for a week had been great fun, but I doubted even they would enjoy it at this time of year.

  But to my relief it turned out that Mother had recruited a large crew to prepare the food for Harvey’s party in the furniture store.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Mother said when I offered to help. “You run along to the concert.”

  That probably meant she had some other, bigger project to spring on me later. But I’d worry about that when the time came

  “Your grandmother’s taking Harvey and Rose Noire over,” Mother said. “So you don’t need to worry about them. But you and Caroline should hurry if you want to catch the start.”

  So we took off—in Caroline’s car, so both mine and the Twinmobile would be available to ferry things over to the furniture store for the party.

  When we got to the New Life Baptist Church, I dropped Caroline at the front door and went off to see if I could find a parking space somewhere this side of the county line. By the time I got back to the church, it was standing-room-only in the sanctuary. Apparently Minerva Burke was looking out for Harvey—I spotted him sitting in a place of honor in the front pew on the right, with Cordelia, Caroline, and Rose Noire on one side and Deacon Washington on the other. The enormous organ was playing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” softly enough that people could still converse if they really tried. When Cordelia spotted me, I waved, and shook my head to turn down her pantomimed offer for them to scrunch together and make room.

  I went out into the vestibule and found a likely-looking patch of floor where I could lean against a wall and wasn’t in much danger of being stepped on. Then I closed my eyes and focused on enjoying the music.

  Okay, I nodded off for a few minutes and missed the end of “Silent Night,” but the first glorious chords of “Joy to the World” woke me with a start.

  “About time you woke up.” I glanced over to see my friend Aida Butler sitting on the floor beside me.

  “Why aren’t you inside?” I asked. Aida’s daughter, Kayla, was a soloist with the choir.

  “With luck, I’ll get
to hear the program at services on Christmas Day,” she said. “But just in case half the force is still out sick and I have to patrol then—well, I figured I could spend my dinner break here tonight.”

  As we listened to “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” she opened a carryout bag from Muriel’s Diner, unwrapped a gigantic sandwich, took a hearty bite, and sighed with contentment.

  She was nice enough to share her potato chips, which were the diner’s own made-on-the-premises kind, and still warm. We munched contentedly throughout the rest of the concert.

  “Are you patrolling Harvey’s neighborhood tonight?” I asked when she stood up to go.

  “Me and Vern,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “I bet that will make him feel better—not only that someone is patrolling the neighborhood, but that it’s someone he knows.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” she said. “Never says an unkind word about those nasty neighbors of his—not even when they’d called in a complaint about him.” She smiled and strode off.

  When the choir started its final number, I decided to begin my hike to where I’d parked Caroline’s car. Maybe we could beat the crowd leaving—or at least arrive at the furniture store a little sooner than Harvey. I pulled up in front of the church just as Caroline dashed out the front door, and watched as she shook hands with Reverend Wilson.

  “Put the pedal to the metal,” Caroline said as she hopped in the car. “Minerva Burke’s giving Harvey a tour of the church, so we have time to get there and make sure everything’s ready.”

  “Call Mother and warn her that the concert’s over,” I said. “And she’ll make sure everything’s ready.”

  And indeed, Mother was there to welcome us.

  “Isn’t this nice!” She held out her arms as if to call attention to our surroundings, beaming as if presenting an elegantly decorated room in a designer show house.