by Devon Monk
My hand stretched out, fingers uncurling so that the tissue dropped on top of the Heartwood.
It settled there, like a square of used gift wrapping, wadded, smoothed out, folded. Waiting to be useful again, hidden away with the other treasures, a secret, rare and valued.
Something not to be shared.
“Fuck,” I breathed, the only word I’d ever spoken in his presence. Or I hoped it was the only word. My memory had obviously been tampered with. I knew he was the one who had been doing the tampering. For all I knew, we’d had long conversations. Yelling matches.
“Had your soul not been owned by my nephew just recently, I wouldn’t have seen you. Seen the opportunity that you present. Seen the tiny fissures in your soul I could compromise, small cracks in yourself, your power that I could exploit.
“The vortex opening in Ordinary was a window thrown wide, and oh, how the sunlight poured through.”
I could hear the smile in his voice, and I hated it.
“For all of these factors to fall into place so neatly, it might make me suspicious that other hands were involved, other forks in this pie.” He paused, thinking it through.
“No, when there is justice to be done, the heavens, the earth, the worlds above and below are simply wheels that need greasing to turn in one’s favor.
“Tonight, when the moon is dark, you and I are going to have a celebration. Won’t. That. Be. Interesting?”
He didn’t touch me but his voice, his will over me and my soul—or the fissures in it—made me want to bathe in bleach.
The instant that thought went through my mind, he stepped away, creating space between us. I could breathe again. It was an odd thing for him to do. Almost as if he were trying to ease my distress.
“Tonight,” he said gently. “You have my word this is business only. You will not be harmed. This will soon be over, Delaney Reed. You have my word on that, too.
“Put this away. Cover everything.”
I watched as my hand dragged the blanket back over the crate.
Death. Feather. Wood. Death, feather, wood. Death, feather, wood.
My hand closed the Jeep, then I stood there, waiting for his orders. I hated it.
I hated him.
Death, feather, wood. Jeep, Jeep, Jeep. They’re in the Jeep. My Jeep. Jeep.
“Go about your day,” he said. “Do what you must do. Tonight you will understand.”
Then he was gone…
…Jeep…
A voice from my dreams? A voice from my nightmares? My imagination?
…Jeep Jeep Jeep…
I turned my face into the stir of wind and blinked hard. Why was I standing here? I had walked out to the Jeep to…
…Death, feather, wood…
I’d blacked out again. How much time had I lost? I glanced at my phone. Seconds, if that.
Had I lost something else? No, I was sure I’d found something, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
I waited for my racing heart to settle, the sweat on my forehead, the back of my neck drying, cooling, as I sifted my brain for information, for hints of something important. I knew it was important.
A jay screeched. Another scolded in reply. The breeze shushed through the shore pines trailing the clean, green water scents of the lake.
It was a beautiful day. But those missing seconds were vital.
My phone vibrated. A text from Ryder popped up. It consisted of one word: Tonight.
I smiled. That must have been what I was thinking about. That was the mystery I was trying to unravel. He’d made reservations for us and wanted me in civilian clothes: casual but nice. But I wanted to do something a little more than nice.
Maybe I’d buy a dress. Picturing the shock on his face when he saw me actually wearing a dress made me laugh.
I sent him back a smiley face with a halo, then got in the Jeep and headed out to Mrs. Yates’s place.
Chapter Twelve
There were a lot of penguins. A. Lot. All of them made out of concrete, all of them spread out across Mrs. Yates’s yard like an entire waddle had decided to nest here.
Someone had spent most of the night pulling off this little prank.
News spreads quickly in our little town. I was not the only person who had come by to get a gander at the penguin debacle.
Half the town were either driving by, parking in front of mailboxes and driveways, or marching over to take pictures.
“Back it up, back it up now!” Myra yelled.
Myra cut through the crowd from the west, having shown up at exactly the right place and exactly the right moment to get this sudden surge of people in order before they stormed Mrs. Yates’s fence.
I started toward Myra. We met at the gate.
“My,” I said.
“Delaney. Where’s Shoe?”
“Working the tip line.”
“Because that’s more important than this.” She glanced at the crowd doing a risk assessment.
“He’s on Secret Santa,” I said.
She held up her fist, and I bumped it.
“So,” she asked. “How was it?”
“What?”
“Than’s house.”
I smiled. “Tasteful. Comfortable. Modern.”
“Really? Pics?”
“I didn’t get any.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s his home. It felt like I’d be sharing something that wasn’t mine to share.”
“Fair. So there wasn’t any creepy stuff? Weird old books?”
I shook my head. “Just flowers and plants. A lot of plants.”
“Huh.” She considered that for a moment then lifted the megaphone in her hand. “Shall we?”
“Give them a chance to take a photo. Let’s see if we can form a line.”
“All right everyone,” Myra said, the megaphone at her lips. “We want this to be a safe, orderly event. Everyone will get a chance to see the penguins. Families with kids, line up right here by the mailbox.
“Keep moving. Good job. We’ve got plenty of time,” she encouraged.
I touched her shoulder and thumbed at the house. She waved me that way.
Kelby, the giant we’d hired as reserve officer at our last staffing, was already sauntering our way, taking time to shake hands and smile as she went. She had been a local star in high school, beloved for her talent in basketball, volleyball, and golf.
Everyone liked Kelby. It made her a great asset on the force.
I tried to follow the little winding path to Mrs. Yates’s door, but there were penguins everywhere. They were replicas of the town’s famous, repeatedly kidnapped waterfowl, but they were either twice as large or half as small. One little penguin statue was cute. But hundreds of penguin statues staring blankly ahead was a little creepy.
Before I could even knock, the door swung wide. Two hands shot out, grabbed my wrist, yanked me into the sunroom, and shut the door quickly behind me.
It was overkill, but Mrs. Yates was not known for subtlety.
“It’s that man. That glassblower. I know it is.”
For a woman who was always coifed in case she was caught by a camera looking for Ordinary’s famous penguin, she looked a little unhinged in pink leggings, a fuzzy white bathrobe, and hair up in huge round curlers.
She was also smoking a cigarette.
That was new.
I took out my little notebook and pen. “Which glassblower are you talking about?” I knew she meant Crow.
“You know I mean Cow.”
“Crow?”
“Whatever animal he identifies as.” She took a long suck off the cigarette.
“Offensive,” I informed her. “His name is Crow.”
“Fine. He did this. Crow did this.” She leaned her back against the wall and peered out the slight opening at the edge of the curtain, spying on her yard.
“Where’s your penguin?”
She jerked her head toward the main part of her house. “I got him just in time. N
o one had arrived yet. Well, just that family across the street. Such nice, quiet people. Really keep to themselves.”
Except they really didn’t. They were a family of shapeshifters who wore more than one human face when they were out and about. She’d probably seen them and talked to them a lot more than she thought.
“Did you see Crow do this?”
She sucked the cigarette, then stamped it out. “You know it’s him. He’s been terrorizing me and my poor penguin for months.”
No, he’d borrowed her penguin once and taken it to the beach for a selfie.
Crow was a good-looking guy, and his Instagram post had gone viral. The picture of him and his lonely homie penguin had gotten over a million likes.
It didn’t hurt that Crow had been shirtless and knew how to pose.
Mrs. Yates hadn’t liked him much, but now that he’d stolen her limelight, she despised him.
“But you didn’t see him, did you?”
She pulled a lighter out of her pocket. “Everyone’s seen plenty of him,” she muttered.
“He apologized for taking the penguin. And you agreed, on camera for his Instagram viewers, that you were happy with the arrangement.”
“Hmmph. Arrangement,” she snarled.
“Arrangement. Any money he makes off those pictures goes toward the local food bank first, wildlife conservation second. To save the real penguins. The newspaper picked up the story and used your photo. Remember that? Remember how they said you were a local celebrity and philanthropist?”
She tipped up her nose. “Well, I got over it.”
Myra called out a new order, and a chuckle ran through the crowd.
I should have stayed out there and wrangled the unruly masses. I rolled my shoulders and exhaled one slow breath.
“All right. Let’s start from the top. When did you notice there were penguins in your yard?”
“This morning.”
“Did you see anyone at your house last night?”
“No.”
I didn’t think I needed to ask, but I did anyway. “Were you home?”
“Yes.” Here her eyes cut to one side.
Interesting.
“Talk me through the moment when you saw them.”
“There was a knock at the door. By the time I got here—I was bathing—and opened it, there was a note on the door.”
“Note.”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
She acted like I was asking for the world as she pushed off the wall and stomped over to the small corner desk. She muttered under her breath the entire time. Mostly it was “Crow” this and “picture” that.
She held out a piece of paper like she was showing her parents a D- on her report card.
I took it from her and read the two words: You’re Welcome.
I wouldn’t swear to it one hundred percent, but it certainly looked like Crow’s handwriting.
“This was on the door?”
“Yes. And there were people, and I was just standing there, and I was…” She ran her hand down her body to show her current state of dress. “Think of the pictures they have. They’ll be everywhere. The internet. They’ll be on dark eBay.”
I regretted lying to her about dark eBay, but I’d been trying to make a point.
“Did you see anyone taking pictures?”
“Well, no.”
“Then we’re not going to worry about that unless a photo surfaces.” I held up my hand to stop her mid-protest. “If it happens, we’ll take the appropriate steps.”
She didn’t look convinced, but some of her edges had gone softer.
“Fine. But I want you to arrest that terrible man.”
“How about I promise to look into it and make sure that whoever is actually behind this is held responsible?”
“And I want those fake, terrible statues gone. I want them off my yard. I want them destroyed!”
“I’ll bring in a clean-up crew.”
“When?”
“Today, if possible.”
“Today?” She glanced out the window at the huge crowd of people. I saw the moment it dawned on her that she was missing a chance at a heck of a photo shoot.
“Well, I know how thin the police are spread these days. If it took until, say, tonight, I’m sure I would manage.”
Her hand had moved up to her curlers, fingers pulling the ringlets down, plastic curlers hitting her carpet with soft thuds.
“There’s several tons worth of concrete out there, Mrs. Yates. It’s going to take a crew and heavy-load vehicles to get it all gathered up.” I tucked the paper in my notebook.
“So, not tonight?”
“Probably not.”
“Can you get it cleaned up by the weekend?”
“During the High Tea Tide?” I hedged.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot about the event. Is attendance expected to be high?”
“Looks like it.”
I watched her calculate how many people could stop by her house for a look at her famous penguin. Just like that, her scowl disappeared, and she was all sunshine and bubbles.
“Well, I say, let’s not rush it! You have so much on your plate. This little prank can hold until after the High Tea Tide.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Yates. But I’m sure I can arrange—”
“No, no. It’s fine. Just fine.” She had finished with the curlers and cinched her bathrobe tight. “I’ll freshen up. Wait a moment, won’t you? Half a second.”
Half a second ended up being fifteen minutes.
Mrs. Yates swanned out of her bedroom fully appointed in a soft, green, belted pea coat and shiny kitten heels that matched the large purse swinging at her elbow. Her hair curled and bounced, and the fuchsia lipstick was on point.
“Bring me the penguin,” she intoned.
I ran my job duties through my head trying to figure out where it said I’d haul waterfowl around for people with illusions of grandeur.
She pointed toward the living room and puffed up her hair with her free hand.
I pulled out my phone and texted Crow. You owe me.
I found the penguin in the center of her dining room table which was littered with magazines and newspapers. Most of them were spread open with bits clipped out and gathered in a basket next to it.
It looked like a ransom note production line, but a quick peek at the clippings showed articles and travel guides listing the best things to visit along the Oregon Coast, most of which did not include a certain penguin who was staring me in the eyes.
My phone vibrated. Crow’s reply: ?? And a winky face.
A winky face.
I texted: I know what you did last night.
His response: perv
I coughed to cover my laugh.
“Chief Reed. Now, please.”
I pocketed my phone and hefted the penguin. “Don’t look at me like that,” I said to its little face. “You’re the one who had to be so photogenic.”
“I am ready,” Mrs. Yates announced. “Open the door!”
She snagged the statue, flicked invisible dust off of it, then held it against her chest like an Oscar.
“So, I’ll get back to you on the clean up.”
“Yes, yes.”
“I want you to know we’ll do everything we can to find out who pulled this prank.”
“Uh-huh. Of course. Door please.” She pulled back her shoulders and put on a toothy smile.
I opened the door. Waited.
“Go,” she said through her teeth. “Announce me.”
I had a good voice and knew how to make it carry. Still, the crowd was a living breathing thing, some people hanging out, talking, others trying to push their way forward to figure out what was going on. Still more posed for pictures.
Myra and Kelsey had it under control. There was no stampeding. The line to get a good look at the yard was moving along at a decent pace.
I put my fingers to my lips and whistled.
&n
bsp; “Thank you for coming out, everyone,” I hollered.
Myra jogged over, bullhorn in her hand.
Someone yelled, “Louder!”
“Hold your horses, Bill!” Myra called back through the bullhorn.
A chuckle spread through the crowd. Then Myra was there, handing me the bullhorn.
“Thank you for coming out.” The bullhorn cast my voice across this block and the next. “This impromptu penguin flash mob is only going to be available for a week. Tell your friends.”
I decided it wouldn’t hurt to earn a few points with Bertie while I had so many people’s attention.
“As a reminder, the High Tea Tide event is Saturday only. Find out more about it by going online, or by checking with local shops. The event will feature tea, coffee, desserts, and delicacies from the finest vendors inside and outside Ordinary. I can also confirm there will be a petting zoo for the kids in the parking lot behind Sweet Reflections candy shop.”
“And now, may I draw your attention to Ordinary’s one and only concrete star: Mrs. Yates’s penguin!”
I started clapping. Everyone else quickly followed.
Mrs. Yates walked out like this was a parade, giving the one-handed float wave while lifting the penguin to show it off.
The crowd ate it up, whistling and shouting.
She strolled through the statues, patting a head here, lowering the “real” penguin down so two statues could see eye-to-eye, making the “real” penguin kiss the fake one. Then, with a practiced bow, she plunked that bird down on the pedestal in the middle of the yard, dead center, without even a wobble.
From her purse, she produced an adorable little bumble bee antenna hat and placed it on the penguin’s head.
A little kid yelled “Bee!” and everyone laughed.
Then Mrs. Yates did something I didn’t expect. She shouted: “Free Bee Bobbles for the children!” She pulled a fistful of headbands, with bobbing antennas, out of her purse.
Smart. And cute. Maybe even cute enough to get into the bigger papers in the Valley. Definitely cute enough to get her on Bertie’s web page.
Myra nudged my arm. “Louder.”
I lifted the bullhorn. “Free bee hats for the kids while supplies last, and free pictures with Ordinary’s most extra-ordinary penguin.”
