The Plucker: A Beastly Crimes Book

by Anna Starobinets

  “That wasn’t painful,” said Starling glumly, watching his tail feather disappear into Vulture’s briefcase.

  “Now it’s your turn, Sarah.” Vulture motioned toward the librarian with his wing.

  “Here,” said Sarah handing him a pale feather, white as ivory.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s one of my tail feathers. I was so frightened it fell right out. Being old is no picnic! Youth is wasted on the young! My feathers always fall out in stressful situations.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’ve been instructed to get freshly plucked feathers. We cannot accept molted feathers.”

  “But it just fell out! You could say it was plucked by psychological torture!”

  * * *

  “Finally, I’ve found you, Vulture!” panted Chief Badger. He shuffled into the library and leaned against a bookshelf.

  “Fot can I do fo you?” asked Vulture. He had a pale-white feather in his beak.

  “Huh?”

  “Shomshing wrong wish your heawing?” Vulture spit out the feather. “I said, ‘What can I do for you? Something wrong with your hearing?’”

  “I want you to run an analysis on this cup and. . .”

  “You want me to? I see. I thought Super Bat relieved you of your duties.”

  “I . . . I’m asking you to do me a favor,” stammered Badger.

  “There you go again, belittling yourself!” Vulture threw up his wings in frustration. “You are the chief! You shouldn’t ask me to do something! You should give me an order! Where is your self-respect? Why are you letting that flying rat drag your name through the mud? Of course I’ll do whatever you say, Chief Badger. I’m glad you’re continuing to work on this case. Personally, I remain wholly and completely under your charge. And I don’t give two hoots what Super Bat thinks about it!”

  “Thank you, Vulture,” Badger’s voice quivered. “I won’t forget this.”

  “Caw! Library cawrd?” Sarah emerged from the shelves. “What book would you like to check out?”

  “He’s also from the police,” said Vulture. “He doesn’t want a book either.”

  “Actually, I’d love to read something in my spare time. Do you have anything by Forest?”

  “What? I can’t hear you! Being old is no picnic!”

  “Robert Forest!” yelled Chief Badger. “‘He brandished his claws! Gnawed on tree trunks with his jaws! And in a mad, cackling fit he tore Owl and Cuckoo to bits!’ That’s what I’d like to read!”

  “You mean ‘The Ballad of the Mad Hamster’? Not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we haven’t had it at the Far Woods Library for a long time now. The one rare copy of Forest’s collected works we had disappeared many years ago. If you want, I can look up who checked it out last. Since you’re from the police, you could find that animal and fine them!”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” said Chief Badger. “I have more pressing work right now.”

  CHAPTER 9: IN WHICH A RIFLE IS AIMED FROM

  Acharred fragment of what used to be a bookshelf crunched under his paws. Chief Badger screwed the firefly in at maximum brightness and shone the flashlight into the corner. Ruins and ash. What else had he expected to find? Forest’s book? It was laughable. No book could have survived the fire. Why was he here? Why had he sat across from the Black House until dark, unable to move, listening to the creaking of the burnt shutters and the beating of his own broken heart? And why had he ultimately forced himself to go inside, to wander among the charred, blackened debris? To dig around the ashes and look for some burnt book? Nonsense. He was just using Forest as an excuse.

  It was the charred ruins of a burrow that had been burned to the ground and abandoned. Maybe he had come here because this was the perfect place for an animal like him. A lonely, old, fat, tired badger. Who had nothing to look forward to, except retirement. Who was beastly out of shape. Who had lost his beastly grip. Lost his self-respect. Lost everyone he had loved. These ashes were his hopes and dreams, the coal was his heart, and the charred remains were his ruined life.

  That room used to be an office. That one, a kitchen. And this one, a living room. Now there was only the remnants of an ottoman and the black hole of a fireplace. A long time ago, in another life, someone had warmed themselves by the fire here, on a rainy evening, reading Forest’s poetry, sprawled on a soft ottoman, cuddling with Melissandra, his wonderful wife. And she’d get up to go into the kitchen and stir the sizzling, juicy larvae in the frying pan. And then fire consumed that life. Along with the poetry, and the ottoman, and his wife, and their love, and the aroma of larvae wafting from the kitchen. Oh, there definitely wasn’t any need to punish the animal who had last checked out that book. Because fate had already punished him. Not for the book he never returned. For something else. For not appreciating his comfortable life. For not being attentive enough to the best wife in the world. For his stubbornness. For his arrogance. For his failure to protect.

  There was no need to look up the name of the animal who hadn’t returned the book. Chief Badger knew him. He knew his own name.

  He had spent years trying to forget this house. His house. His home. This house that, once upon a time, wasn’t black. He had tried to forget Melissandra, her voice and her laugh. And the sizzling larvae. And Forest’s book, which they had read together. And that evening when quietly but resolutely she’d said that when they’d have a litter of ten (no more or less!) precious badgers, she would read it to them, all except for “The Ballad of the Mad Hamster.” Because it was too scary. It wasn’t for cubs.

  He had almost managed to forget. Almost. All that remained was a timid, reproachful gaze, the smell of larvae, the tender touch of a soft paw, and a few lines by Forest all tangled up in his memory like flies in a web.

  Chief Badger sat down on a pile of ashes, as if on an ottoman. He would give anything to look into her eyes once more. To stroke her silky fur. To eat her home-cooked larvae. To read poetry with her. Chief Badger put his flashlight on his lap, closed his eyes, and plunged his paws into the ashes. He imagined that she was there with him. She was smiling. That he had just emptied the ash from the fireplace and had gotten lost in a daydream. And that there hadn’t been any fire, no plumes of smoke, no death. That he’d accidently dropped the book of poetry in the fireplace and was about to dig it out, saving it from the flames. That he’d open it and they would read that ballad together. There it was, the book . . . he’d felt it in the fireplace. All was well. They’d read a bit, then go have dinner. But why couldn’t he smell the sizzling larvae? Why did it smell of char and dampness? And where was her familiar, soft paw?

  “I want to hold your paw, darling,” whispered Badger and came out of his reverie.

  He had fallen asleep in that lonely Black House. Except . . . wait. He really had felt a book, somewhere deep inside the ashes. Chief Badger grabbed his flashlight and dug through the pile of ashes. A charred copy of Robert Forest’s collected works! As if it had been waiting for him all these years—there under the ash in his former living room.

  That, or someone had purposefully buried the book here.

  Either way, it was a lucky find.

  Badger looked over the book, sniffing it. It had been singed in some places, but was whole in others. He opened it carefully, flipping through the pages and saw a bookmark. A fresh, green, oak-leaf bookmark. Someone had been here very recently and had read this book. Someone had read “The Ballad of the Mad Hamster” because that’s precisely where he found the bookmark.

  The beginning of the ballad was missing, but it wasn’t interesting anyway. An elderly hamster buck and a young hamster doe were brought together by a matchmaker. Yes, Badger was remembering the plot now. The buck offers her his paw and heart. And then came the following lines:

  The hamster doe said to the buck,

  “You must be completely nuts!

  Look at you: you’re old and weak

  with a humpback and sagging che
eks!

  While I’m a beautiful work of art—

  I won’t wed an old fart!”

  “I may be elderly

  but I love you tenderly.

  Be mine—

  in elation, frustration, hibernation—

  oh hamster divine!

  Don’t give up on me,

  I’m rich with cones, you see!”

  “Well then, wealthy buck

  why don’t we try our luck.

  Since I’m the one you adore,

  give me your word

  that you’ll find the mystical bird

  whose milk will make you young once more.”

  The next three or four pages had been completely destroyed. They chronicle the buck employing the help of some young beasts to find the milk for him, their adventures in doing so, and someone (Badger couldn’t remember who) succeeding. The page after that was almost completely intact. Chief Badger touched it carefully with his paw.

  Once the buck drank milk from a cup

  into the air he did leap up,

  flipped three times and turned into

  a rabid monster through and through.

  Growling, with an evil grin

  into the woods he ran.

  He brandished his claws,

  gnawed on tree trunks with his jaws,

  he’d grown strong—was back in his prime,

  but the hamster had lost his mind.

  And in a mad, cackling fit

  he tore Owl and Cuckoo to bits.

  More burnt pages followed. What a pity. A real pity, because there was probably some indication of the subsequent attacks.

  “All right, partner,“ Chief Badger addressed his flashlight. “An owl and a cuckoo, just like we have. Wait! Look—more clues. Excellent. A whole list. A list of victims.”

  And all the animals implored:

  “Help! We’re being slaughtered!

  Devoured before our eyes:

  Cuckoo and Magpie!

  Sparrow, Hawk, and Warbler,

  Wolf, Raven, Hedgehog—the horror!”

  And again, the charred stubs of pages.

  “So what do we have, Partner?” Chief Badger shook his flickering flashlight to awaken the firefly. “Owl—plucked. Cuckoo—plucked. Magpie—hmm, I hope not. But she is missing. That’s worrisome. Sparrow—plucked. Who’s next? Hawk. Oh, Doc Hawk. We’ve got to assign him a guard dog. Warbler—he’s already being guarded. Wolves? Hedgehogs? I somehow doubt it. But a raven? Yes, plucking a rare white raven among the old books and catalogs in the library is right up our Plucker’s alley.”

  Something creaked underneath him. It was coming from the basement. Chief Badger sprung up. He was old and fat and forgetful! He’d forgotten to check the basement! He really had lost his beastly grip. Every police badger knows to check every room in the house. There he was, calmly reading poetry, while the maniac hid in the basement!

  Holding the flashlight in his teeth, Badger raced to the basement, gripping the charred remains of the steps with all four paws.

  The first thing he saw was a wall scribbled with circles, squares, dotted lines and arrows, exclamation points and question marks, numbers, mysterious abbreviations, and rough sketches of birds. In the hazy gleam of his flashlight, Chief Badger could make out bird feathers glued to the wall with sap. An owl feather, a sparrow feather and . . . a magpie feather.

  Chief Badger clenched his teeth, forgetting about the flashlight in his mouth. The flashlight crunched, and the light went out. He must have bitten through the firefly. A quiet shuffling came from the far corner. Chief Badger spit out the useless flashlight, turned toward the sound, and helplessly spread his paws in the darkness.

  “Don’t move!” he wheezed. “I’m a police badger.”

  “Too late, police badger” came a familiar voice. “I’m going to turn on the lights now. But no funny business. I’m armed.”

  There was the quiet strike of a match, and a candle illuminated the far corner of the basement. There, sitting in the corner on the black floor, was the young Barbara, aiming at Chief Badger with a hunting rifle. Next to her, in a pile of burnt feathers, was a plucked magpie.

  Lady Cuckoo told me I only had three days left to live, Chief Badger thought to himself. But I’ve only lived one. No wonder no one trusts cuckoo predictions.

  CHAPTER 10: IN WHICH A SLIPPERY CHARACTER IS MISSING

  “What will you have?” coyote Yote tossed a menu at Vulture. “We’ve got a river-themed special today: seaweed salad, crunchy crawfish encrusted in sand, and an eel-cream soup. And for our carnivores we have grilled leeches with blood. You’re a carnivore. Right?”

  “Not at all,” said Vulture proudly. “I’m a scavenger.”

  “Would you like something rotten? Some of the crawfish have gone bad.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not hungry. I’m not here for dinner.”

  “What do you mean ‘not hungry’?” yelped Yote. “What do you mean ‘not here for dinner’?”

  “I’m here for work.”

  “If you aren’t here to eat, then goodbye! Don’t sit at a table! Don’t rattle my nerves! Animals come here to eat, not to conduct business! No one has any respect anymore. Animals who are hungry leave, and animals who are not hungry come in. I’m all alone! There are so many of you, and there’s only one of me!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve carried out my police duties,” said Vulture, insulted. “And I won’t step foot in this place again! Because underneath that crunchy crawfish shell, you know what you are? Rude and disrespectful to your patrons.”

  “Ha ha ha!” howled Yote hysterically. “Look at you! You don’t order anything, and on top of that you insult me! Underneath your crunchy police shell, you are contemptuous, greedy, and disrespectful to the employees of this tavern!”

  “How dare you?” Vulture was so insulted his beak shook. “If you were a bird, I’d invite you to a duel of beaks! But since you’re just a coyote, I’ll write you a fine.”

  “A fine?”

  “A fine. For insulting a member of the police. And now, in the name of the law, fetch me your patron Mr. King Ping. For his own safety I am required to assign him a number, pluck one of his feathers, and—”

  “Hee hee hee!” Yote doubled over with laughter. “Fetch the penguin! Where do I begin?”

  “Is this funny to you?” Only Vulture’s tremendous self-control kept him from pecking the coyote in the snout.

  “No! It’s sad! Ha ha ha! I’m sad and disappointed! Hee hee hee!” Yote’s laugher suddenly turned to sobs. “That penguin is a crook! He swindled me! He played me for a fool!”

  “How, exactly?”

  “He dined here, all on the house, insisting that he forgot the PIN to his ’guin card: ‘Oh, I’m such a scatterbrain. Forgive me. I’ll remember it soon enough. This has happened before. And then I’ll pay my bill and even treat everyone to a drink.’ With all my beastly life experience, how did I fall for that slippery character’s antics? I believed the tall tales about his dangerous and difficult job, about the sharks he leads away from shore. I even planned this week’s river-themed special with him in mind. No one can be trusted! No one can ever be trusted! So go ahead, laugh at the coyote! He foraged for all the ingredients for the river-themed special himself! He, alone, is serving the whole tavern because the new waitress never showed up to work. And King Ping isn’t here! He ran off without paying a cone!”

  “Why are you so sure King Ping ran off?” Vulture made a note in his notebook. “He’s a bird—though somewhat cumbersome and awkward. Something might have happened to him. He could’ve gotten into the paws of the Plucker.”

  “Ha ha ha! Serves him right! But he’s such a slippery character, nothing will happen to him. I’m sure he’ll find a way to wriggle himself free. Hee hee hee!”

  Vulture looked at the laughing coyote with contempt. What kind of animals worked at this tavern anyway? No respect for themselves or others. He was sure the crawfish weren’t eve
n rotten—probably just stale. This was no place for a self-respecting bird like himself.

  On his way out, he briskly picked up a frog from the ground.

  “Ribbit!”

  “Attention all officers!” said Vulture. “Sending a message to all officers. A new bird is missing from the Far Woods. A penguin. And Magpie has still not been located.”

  CHAPTER 11: IN WHICH BADGERS LIE

  “I’m going to walk over to Magpie and check her pulse,” said Chief Badger as calmly as possible. He was standing with his paws up, trying not to make any sudden movements. “I just want to check her pulse. Don’t shoot, Barbara.”

  “Be my guest,” Barbara lowered the rifle. “I wasn’t going to shoot anyway. I simply have this for self-defense.”

  Chief Badger bent over Magpie.

  “She’s alive, but her pulse is very weak.” He turned to Barbara. “Why did you do that?”

  “Why did I take the rifle from Huntington Farm? I told you: self-defense. I wanted to have a way to defend myself if I ran into the maniac in the woods—”

  “Why did you do that to Magpie?” interrupted Badger. “And to sparrow Ro?”

  “Do what?”

  Chief Badger nodded at Magpie and made a plucking motion with his paw.

  “Are you crazy? You think I was the one who plucked them? Maybe you really ought to retire!”

  “Be careful with that rifle, Barbara. Don’t wave it around. It could go off! How about you give it to me?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’ve already called for backup. And when the Far Woods Police and hunting hounds arrive, you don’t want to be standing over a plucked magpie, holding a stolen rifle. Now do you?”

  “Probably not,” said Barbara, anxious.

  “Exactly. The hunting hounds won’t like that at all. They might even maul you.”

  “But you’ll stop them, won’t you?”

  “Only if you’re unarmed. It’s in their full rights to maul armed criminals.”

  “But I’m not a criminal! Fine, take the rifle!”