Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek

by Calinda B

“Ever hear of shifter poaching? And the anti-shifter movement that’s been going on since the nineteen hundreds?”

  “Yeah,” I say, my face growing hotter. “I keep up with history.”

  “Well, Mrs. McMurphy was known in inner circles across the country. She’s who inspired me to come here, with the promise of a new life. She said once I found my place here, I’d be safe…accepted. Only I…” He looks away.

  “You’re kidding. I merely thought her a nice woman who treated me and Elena to baked goods. When we got into high school we ignored her,” I say, feeling like an idiot.

  “I get it, but I’ll bet she missed you. And you now know what happened to that part about me being accepted. Not only that, I never got to meet her, only spoke with her on the phone.”

  “Yeah, she died.” I run my hand through my hair, only vaguely aware my body’s covered with gooseflesh. And trying to ignore the fact we’re all standing around conversing, naked. The boys seem unconcerned to their lack of attire and they aren’t shivering a bit. Instead, steam rolls off their skin.

  “She didn’t just die, Mercedes. She was murdered, same as Elena.”

  A gasp leaves my throat before I suppress it. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve got my sources.” A shadow causes his face to look darkly mysterious, full of hidden secrets. “When I got the gig to remodel her house, I jumped at the chance, figuring I could search for clues.”

  “And you never thought to query Muffin? You never thought his scratching at the wall might serve you in your quest?”

  “I, uh…” He rubs his jaw. “I guess I didn’t think about it. But you might be right. I never paid much attention to him. He and I seem to cohabitate, like roommates.” He chuckles. “Only I’m the feeder roommate.”

  “Well, you might think twice. I sure would.”

  “I’d hate to knock down a wall. I don’t think the budget allows for me to tear down what I’ve already worked on.”

  “Tell them you have a rodent problem. Tell them you can hear them scratching behind the walls.”

  “I, uh…” He scratches the side of his head. “I don’t think they’ll go for that.”

  “Why not? It’s a legitimate complaint. Happens all the time in rural settings.”

  “The, uh…the company that hired me isn’t particularly reasonable or upstanding.”

  “How come? Who is it?”

  “It’s, uh…it’s ARC.”

  I awake the next day, on fire with the new information culled last night. My first stop of the day: Chief Rickman’s. My second: the head of the organization I created to stop ARC. The third: the belly of the beast itself – I’m going to meet with ARC.

  After that, I’ll head back to my studio to throw a couple plates and bowls…keep my stock up. But before I bounce out of bed I find my fingers have assumed a mind of their own, as they trace and linger on my lips, remembering the briefest of kisses I shared with Lennon Lusk. Well…that will never happen again, I think, coming to my senses. He was no doubt thinking of Elena.

  I fling the covers from my body and roll off my soft-sheet covered mattress, wincing at the deep, jagged scrape Hawke’s dirty talons left behind on my neck. If I hadn’t washed it thoroughly when I got home last night I could get some kind of sepsis infection. Bird talons are so not clean. I’ll get you back for that, kid.

  After I shower, drink coffee, and eat breakfast, I head toward the storefront of Ottery Pottery, realizing the name now carries a special ring. Gah! Don’t make a thing of it, for goodness sake. It was only a kiss!

  When I flick on the lights, I see a form huddled against the front door, his or her back pressed against the glass. “What the…?” Did a homeless person bed down here for the night? I turn the padlock and open the door to find Mary, hunched over her knees.

  Her head pivots so she can stare at me with red-rimmed, watery eyes. Her face looks doughy and swollen, like she’s in water retention hell.

  “What now?” I say, slightly peeved. “We don’t open for a couple hours.”

  “I can’t get in. I don’t have a key to the deadbolt.”

  Nor will you ever, I think, freaked out about her early arrival and the possibility of trekking into this space, expecting no one and finding her. We need to have a chat about boundaries and personal space.

  “Oh, Mercedes. My roommate’s gone postal. Brody’s furious at me for supposedly spying on him and his girlfriend again. I didn’t, honest. It’s my house. I get to move freely around common spaces. He says he can’t get a moment of privacy.”

  I cock my head, crow-style. A curious shiver crawls up my spine. It’s that same sensation I experienced last night near the firehouse, when I listened to Bill and Mark yell at each other. Something about her words sounds hollow. I can picture her, intentionally creeping toward his bedroom, pressing her ear on the door and listening to him have sex with his girlfriend. “It’s your house. Give him the boot.”

  “You make it sound simple. I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m not strong like you.”

  She looks like she’s about to burst into tears, shaking free my sense of moral obligation and duty toward the downtrodden. “Okay,” I say, sighing. “Come on in. I have some errands to do so you’ll have to keep busy.”

  “Thank you,” she gushes. “You’re the best.” She sidles past me, heads for the drawer where I keep my feather duster, and pulls it free. As she begins to gently dust the displays of bright pottery, she says, “I saw Lennon Lusk last night.” Her voice turns all fan-girl dreamy.

  “Did you? How nice.”

  “He was with a teenage boy. They were wandering around. I asked him if he’d go hang out with me sometime.”

  “That’s bold.”

  “Yeah,” she says, and she actually giggles like a schoolgirl.

  And what were you doing out at night in the woods? Stalking him? I stiffen. “What did he say?” I can’t imagine Lennon being remotely interested in her.

  “He thanked me for asking and said he’s really busy at the moment but he might meet me for coffee sometime. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Uh, sure.” He was being polite.

  “I mean, I thought he might need some company now Elena has died. Word on the streets said he was crushing hard for her. I’m going to pick up the pieces.”

  “What streets are those?” Sure, Elena told me they flirted but she didn’t think the attraction was that strong. Maybe she tried to spare me from her true feelings? Maybe he felt differently? I chew on my lip. He doesn’t seem heartbroken she’s gone. Sad, maybe. Sorry, perhaps. But not crushed. But maybe I’m simply wanting to see him as less than grief stricken? I smile indulgently at her. Methinks Mary is the person crushing. She can keep her twenty-year-old fantasies.

  “Oh, you know.” Mary waves her hand breezily in the air. “Geek Beans. Places like that.”

  “Oh, sure.” One of the gossip mills. “Well, that must seem exciting. Good for you. I, uh…I need to head out.”

  “Okay. Thanks for being so supportive,” she says warmly. “You’re helping me.”

  “You’re welcome. I like to support strength in people, not weakness.”

  There’s a heavy drizzle in the air today, making for a dark sky, even though it’s full on morning. This is going to be a wet bike ride. I haul my bike out of the garage, don waterproof rainwear and head out. As I pedal through town, I pass by people shielded by umbrellas and raincoats. When they see me, they duck their heads, walk faster, and disappear from sight. This hurts. A lot. Last week, we exchanged hellos and friendly smiles, or at least nod civilly to one another. A lifetime of work trying to fit in…gone, overnight.

  A few blocks from the police station, I spy a brown metallic pickup.

  Lennon pulls up next to me, rolls down his window and says, “Get in.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Lennon.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Police station. I need to chat with Chief Rickman.”

  Lennon shud
ders. “The PoPo. Not my best friends. I’ll drop you off a block or two away. But first we need to talk. Get in.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “So, talk to me.”

  “Not here.”

  It’s too early in the day to be freaked out but chills roll up and down my neck.

  He gets out of his seat, strides around to where I’m standing, takes the bike and lifts it into the back.

  “Uh, thank you,” I say. I’m not used to men doing things like that for me. Usually I do it myself. I’ll never be a girly girl.

  “You’re welcome.” He opens the passenger seat for me, waits for me to scoot in, and closes the door gently behind me.

  This is another unfamiliar act of politeness I don’t know what to do with.

  Once we’re rolling, he asks, “Want to get a cup of coffee somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, wincing. “We’re persona non grata at the moment, remember?”

  “Right. I forgot. I’m usually carrying that badge of honor so I seldom think twice about it. But you know Geek Beans clientele won’t care. They’re too immersed in their online culture to notice us.”

  “Okay, but I can’t take too long. I have things to do today.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Aren’t you unemployed?”

  “Yep. But once I tell you what I need to tell you, then you’ll know why I have to do what I need to do.”

  “That’s cryptic,” I say, fingering the leather interior.

  “And then when I get all that done, Hawke and I want to take our bikes off-road and sling some mud in the woods.” He chuckles.

  “You’re talking like you’ve got something ominous to discuss, then you tell me you’re going to go biking in the woods?” I shake my head at him. “You’re an enigma.”

  “Life is short, sweetheart.”

  “Did you just call me a term of endearment?”

  “It’s a word, is all. It’s in the dictionary.” He smirks and shakes his head.

  I chew on a thought for a moment, wondering if I should set it free. Taking a deep breath, I say, “For someone who wants to fit in, you seem to go out of your way to not fit in.”

  “I never said I wanted to fit in. Where on earth did you get that idea?” He shoots me a dagger filled gaze.

  “Last night. You said Mrs. McMurphy promised acceptance.”

  “And you decided acceptance means I wanted to fit in?” He barks out a laugh. “Good one. Not in this lifetime, sweetheart. All I want is to live my life without looking over my shoulder all the time. I’m a shifter, remember? In the ladder of acceptance, shifters rank far below gays or blacks. Or are you telling me in your insulated little life here in Woodland Creek, you’ve never faced fear, judgement, or reprisal when people find out what you really are?”

  I squirm, ready to sling a few word arrows at him in defense…mature statements like am not insulated, and have too been judged! Nice, Mercedes. Grow up. “Of course I’ve been judged, but not for being a shifter. Other shifters around here know. The neurotypicals don’t know, or don’t care, or simply can’t comprehend.”

  “You need to get out more,” he says, shaking his head in disgust. “You have no idea what it’s like outside of Woodland Creek. Why do you think shifters have to slink into town in the middle of the frigging night, like criminals?”

  “Tell me, oh wise man.”

  He gives me a blank, undecipherable stare and looks away. “Another time, perhaps.” He pulls into the parking lot and we get out.

  I keep my head down as we enter, but sure enough, most of the patrons don’t even blink. A couple in the corner stares at us and leans toward the other to whisper, but then they shrug and get back to their computer screens. At least Chantal isn’t here, that nosy gossip.

  Lennon heads to the counter and orders a couple cups of coffee for us. He chats easily with the pierce-lipped girl behind the counter, who’s clearly smitten by his charms.

  Who says he’s not accepted around here? The female population has welcomed him with open arms, and other open parts. While I’m waiting for him to return, Marcia steps out from the back kitchen, carrying a tray of freshly baked, perfectly browned muffins.

  “Oh, hey, Mercedes,” she says, conspiratorially, crouching down to eye level. She rests the tray on the small round table and the heavenly smell of sugary blueberries, butter, and flour torments my nose and tickles my saliva glands, causing my mouth to pool with spit. Didn’t I eat breakfast? My stomach is telling me otherwise.

  “Hey, Marcia.”

  “Isn’t it awful what happened to Elena? You poor thing. You must be devastated. And to accuse you of doing it…” Her blue-green eyes gaze at me with compassion. “I know you didn’t do it,” she whisper-hisses.

  “Thanks, Marcia. I appreciate the support. I know I didn’t do it, too. I heard she and Bill had it out here, though. What can you tell me about their fight?”

  “Oh, man. I thought he was going to get abusive. They both finally stormed from here, her in tears, him in a red rage. And then…this was really odd…I saw him rooting around in the garbage after hours. He’d actually climbed over the fence and was in the dumpster, rummaging around for something. I stayed late to clean up. I was the only one here. Scared the bejeezus out of me when I caught him.”

  “What did he say he was doing?”

  “Oh, he made up a story about how he tried to give Elena an engagement ring. She took it, looked at it, said ‘no, thanks,’ wrapped it in his woolen scarf and shoved it in his face. He said he left in such a hurry he forgot it. But no-one here would throw it away. They’d hold it for someone to claim. I sure didn’t see it. The whole story sounded fishy.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, gosh, I didn’t leave here until two in the morning, so sometime close to that.”

  “Did anyone else see you and Bill?”

  “A car drove by real slow. I think it was one of the firefighters…Mark something, or maybe Dave Canon?”

  “I’ll bet it was Mark.” That’s the thing Bill doesn’t want him to reveal.

  “I didn’t get a good look.”

  “Is the trash still back there? Maybe we should have Chief Rickman take a look.”

  “No, it’s gone. But anyway, he had the yellow scarf in his hand. He held it up for me to see.”

  “Did it look odd? Any dark stains?”

  “Like blood?” She shivers. “I couldn’t tell. It’s dark out there at night. Geek’s owner still hasn’t installed safety lights. The only thing I could see were embroidered initials. Something like TS or IS. They didn’t match the story.” She stood. “Anyway, I have to get these to the counter. Want one? You look hungry and you also look like you could use some kindness.”

  I frowned slightly, wondering if she saw me as a charity case. “Yes, please.” As I unwrapped the pleated paper, Lennon returned bearing two mugs of coffee.

  “Want some?” I picked off a corner of the baked good and extended it to him.

  “Sure, thanks.” He took it and popped the whole thing in his mouth.

  “Get her number?”

  “Get whose number?” he asked, tearing open three packets of sugar at the same time and pouring them into his mug.

  “The exotic girl you were talking with. The barista.”

  He turned to look at who I meant. “Her? No. Why would you say that?” He appeared genuinely puzzled.

  “You seemed to be all chatty and flirty over there,” I say, thinking, what is wrong with me? Am I jealous, again?

  He gave me an indulgent smile. “If I’m flirting with someone, you’re going to know it,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, looking for the nearest exit, or a box I can crawl under.

  “It means, Mercedes,” he says, his voice lowering an octave, “you’ll be able to tell.” He picks up his coffee and slowly brings it to his mouth. “I give off really cle
ar signals when I’m interested in someone.” He takes a slurp, his eyes never leaving mine. He places the cup on the table, and a slow, sexy grin appears, as he licks the java from his lips.

  I reach a shaky hand toward the creamer, and he does the same.

  His hand curls around mine, as I clutch the small, stainless steel carafe, and he says, “You first.”

  “Me first, what?” I say, in a stammer-stutter.

  “Your move. The cream. You, first.” He lets his fingers unhurriedly, gently glide across mine, still pinning me in place with his gaze.

  I use two hands to pour the stupid cream, one to grip the handle while the other supports the pitcher, as Lennon’s gaze leisurely traces my body.

  He leans back in his chair and extends one long leg in my direction. It bumps against my leg and I nearly yelp.

  All I can think about is his naked body in the woods last night.

  He rests his knee against mine and I am suddenly much focused on the scorching heat at the juncture between my thigh and my calf.

  “You’ll know, Mercedes,” he says, his voice a husky whisper. “I make my intentions very clear.”

  I wet my lips with my tongue, blinking rapidly. Before flames start spreading up my still damp pants, Marcia walks by and interrupts us.

  “Hey, Lennon, nice to see you.”

  I jerk and sit up tall, pushing his damn leg away.

  “I gave Mercedes a muffin but didn’t leave one for you. Sorry.” She extends one, dripping with butter, on a white napkin in his direction.

  “I didn’t order one,” Lennon says.

  “I know. I feel sorry for the both of you.”

  His face, soft and open a second ago, turns granite. “Don’t bother. There’s nothing to feel sorry about.”

  “You know…being accused.”

  “It happens. Thanks for the muffin, though. I’ll take care of it at the register.”

  “Consider it a gift.”

  “I don’t do charity, but thanks.” He smiles at her in a warm but no nonsense manner until she gets the message, nods and slinks away.

  “She was only being nice,” I say. “I helped her get free of an abusive relationship.”

  “No one ever does a thing for another person without expecting something in return,” he says, his eyes guarded. “But let’s move on.”