The Woodpecker Always Pecks Twice

by J. R. Ripley

  “Shouldn’t we get started?” snapped Bessie Hammond, a sixty-something brunette with a stick-like figure and a know-it-all personality.

  “Of course, Mrs. Hammond. As I explained, I can take half of you in my van. The rest of you will have to drive in separate cars.” There were several elderly residents in our small group, too, including four from Rolling Acres, a senior living facility at the edge of town. I was pleased to see my friends Floyd Withers, a retired banker, and Karl Vogel, former Ruby Lake chief of police, among them. The two other Rolling Acres residents introduced themselves as Clara and Walter Kimmel. Clara had shopped at the store a time or two. They spoke softly and dressed in identical khaki shorts, calf-length white socks, and pistachio-green National Audubon Society shirts.

  “I don’t drive,” snapped Mrs. Hammond. “I rode the bus.”

  “You can ride with us!” Ed Quince hollered. Ed’s a roly-poly retired grocer and might know more about birds than any of us. He certainly knows how to dress a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. “The Caddy’s got plenty of room!”

  Ed and Abby Quince had brought their own vehicle and had offered to chauffeur. Several others talked among themselves and worked out who would drive with whom. It appeared the van and Ed’s car would suffice to get us all there.

  “I am not riding with them!” Bessie exclaimed, clutching her knapsack close to her chest.

  “I’ll ride with Ed and Abby,” offered a fiftyish brunette named Otelia Newsome, who had a beehive hairdo. “You can have my seat in Amy’s van.” Otelia was single and owned a chocolate shop on Lake Shore Drive.

  “Works for me,” said Abby, a retired Lakeside Market cashier, with a moon face and red-tinted hair. My cousin Rhonda, a hair stylist-slash-colorist, does her personal best to keep Abby’s gray at bay.

  “There you go, see? Problem solved.” I had no idea what Bessie had against Ed and Abby. They had all worked in the same grocery market at one time or another. The Quinces were a lovely couple, always upbeat and friendly. Perhaps that was her problem—she preferred her company to be as ill-disposed as herself. Or maybe she had something against plush, comfortable Cadillacs. I’d have gladly traded the tired old minivan for a sweet, leather-trimmed luxury car. I’ll bet Ed’s AC worked.

  I led Bessie to the door, wondering what had compelled her to go on a bird walk with a group of folks she had nothing in common with and little patience for. “Let’s get started, shall we?” As we shuffled outdoors, I said, “By the way, there has been a slight change of plans.”

  “Oh?” said Mr. Withers. His mustache flapped in the light breeze coming from the lake. Floyd and Karl are constantly bickering over whose mustache was the more dashing. I gave up taking sides long ago. Who knew elderly men could be so vain about their facial hair?

  “Yes,” I explained, “an itinerary change. Instead of going to the state park, we are going to explore the area on the far side of Ruby Lake.”

  “Ruby Lake?” Bessie eyed me narrowly. “You promised we’d go bird-watching at the state park!”

  “Yes, but several interesting sightings at the lake have been reported to me.” I looked at my small but dedicated group. “Possibly even a magnolia warbler and a bobolink.” My ears caught several oohs and one snort. I scanned the crowd for the troublemaker but no one had guilty clearly stenciled to their forehead in red letters, so I had no choice but to ignore the affront. “We wouldn’t want to miss that now, would we?”

  Everyone agreed and Bessie had no alternative but to go along. I crossed my fingers that we’d find some interesting birds to watch, hopefully not only common crows and sparrows. Whether we’d spot a magnolia warbler or a bobolink was anybody’s guess. I’d be happy if Drummy, my cranium-splitting woodpecker friend, showed up. We could use all the birds we could get.

  Our walk to the curb was interrupted by a fortyish femme fatale in tight blue jeans who came bouncing across the street from the direction of the diner. Certain parts of her bounced more than others. A fact of which the men in attendance were not remiss to note.

  She waved a manicured hand with brilliant red fingernails. “Do you have room for one more?” She had neither a daypack nor a pair of binoculars but she had a decent pair of white sneakers on her feet. Not the best color for a hike in the woods, but that would be her problem. The shoes matched the white cotton shirt with the rolled-up sleeves that she’d knotted up at her waist front.

  “Good morning. Sure. You can ride in the van with us. I’ve got room.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “Lana, isn’t it?” I said. I sniffed. Was that a hint of cigarette smoke mingled in with that undercurrent of rose perfume?

  “That’s right, Lana Potter.”

  I nodded. “I’ve seen you around the diner.”

  Karl winked at Floyd and whispered something in his ear. Probably something lecherous. Harmless, but lecherous, I was sure. Karl Vogel is the lady-killer of Rolling Acres, or so he claims. I was afraid that Lana was out of his league—not to mention, half his age.

  As I helped my passengers into the van, I plotted a plan of attack. There is a city-owned park along the edge of the lake. We’d park there and hike out, taking the trail along the far side of the lake that turned away about midpoint. Toward the McKutcheon homestead.

  My ultimate destination.

  “Say, Amy!” Karl shouted from the rear seat. “I hear tell you saw another murder!”

  “Another murder?” I heard from directly behind me. That was Bessie.

  “Yep,” said Karl, in a loud but friendly voice. “This one over at the old McKutcheon house.” He chuckled.

  “Give Amy a break, Karl.” Via the rearview mirror, I saw Floyd give his friend the elbow.

  “Aw,” Karl said with a scowl, “Amy knows I’m only joshing.” He cupped his hands and yelled, like I couldn’t hear him anyway. “Right, Amy?”

  I grinned and waved. “Right, Karl! Don’t tell me,” I said, while I waited for the stoplight to turn green. “You heard from Jerry.”

  “That’s right.”

  I sighed. The current and former chiefs of police were on friendly terms. Sometimes, that was useful. Other times, I wished Jerry would keep his big yap shut.

  “A murder. Wow,” said Lana. She occupied the front passenger seat. Her teal eyes were on the lake.

  “Is that correct, Miss Simms?” asked Bessie, tapping the back of my seat. “You witnessed a murder?”

  “No, I mean, I don’t know. The chief says not.”

  Karl continued. “He says you saw a dummy being thrown out the window.”

  “I’d like to throw a certain dummy out the window,” I muttered, turning the wheel at the next right, and reveling in the accompanying titters I’d elicited.

  “Our Amy is aces at catching killers,” Karl boasted. “Heck, I’ll bet she’s already caught as many killers in her short time here as I did my entire tenure as chief of police.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that.” I found myself blushing.

  “Does that mean you’re investigating another mystery?” John asked with a smile.

  “There’s nothing to investigate,” I said, my eyes on the road ahead.

  Karl scratched his ear. “Of course, we didn’t have so many murders then as we do now.”

  My eyebrows shot up. That was an unsettling thought.

  “Not a murder at all then,” Bessie said matter-of-factly. “Of course, if there ever was a murder, I’ll bet I could solve it.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

  “You don’t say?” Lana turned to look back at Bessie.

  “Like that.” Bessie snapped her fingers a second time. “I’m quite the whiz at crossword puzzles, too. I can do them in ink, you know.”

  “Is that so?” Lana managed to sound impressed.

  “Shouldn’t we talk about birds?” suggested Floyd, bless his heart.

  “Good idea,” I replied quickly. “Anybody care to tell us what favorites you’re hoping
to spot?”

  “I’m hoping to see a roc or two,” answered John.

  “Very funny, John.” I glanced at his cherubic face in the rearview mirror.

  “A roc?” Lana swiveled her head around.

  “John’s joking. Rocs are mythological birds of prey.”

  “Oh.” Lana sounded disappointed.

  “I’d like to add the hooded warbler to my life list,” Bessie said, flipping through a small notebook.

  “Possible. Possible.” A life list is a list that many bird enthusiasts keep, identifying every bird species and subspecies that they have spotted in the wild. The hooded warbler is a striking yellow bird with a black bib and hood. They’re known to be active in the Carolinas in the summer. “Keep your eyes on the understory.” Warblers are mostly ground foragers.

  We continued this way, pleasantly immersed in idle bird chatter, until I pulled into the public parking lot that serves the Ruby Lake Park and Marina. The town holds title to the land the marina sits on but leases the running of it to a local firm. That management company, in turn, rents out space to other local business owners for such enterprises as boat rentals and storage, a restaurant and an ice cream parlor.

  The lot was only half-full, but I took a space nearer the road—and the restrooms, should anybody need a pit stop before we got underway. The Quinces slid into the space beside me.

  Ed and Abby had clearly been arguing and Abby’s face was bright red. Their passengers jumped out and quickly separated themselves from the ex-grocer and his wife.

  We gathered our essentials and I reminded everyone that this was our last chance for a pit stop. “I suggest you top off your water bottles, if you need to. It’s going to be a hot one.”

  Several took me up on my suggestion and filled their bottles from the drinking fountain outside the restroom. “Okay, follow me!” I waved. “Keep your binoculars and your cameras ready!”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Lana Potter at my heels.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t bring a pair of binoculars.”

  “No problem.” I fished in my day pack and brought out a spare compact pair of glasses. “You’re in luck. I always bring an extra pair. They aren’t the most powerful pair in the world, but they’ll do in a pinch.”

  “Luck of the Irish!” Lana took the small pair from my hands and expressed her thanks.

  We quietly followed the trail along the lakeshore, each of us whispering and pointing whenever a species of interest came into sight. I pointed out four ruby-throated hummingbirds zipping through a wild patch of bee balm.

  We admired their aerial antics for several minutes. Bessie took several photos using the expensive-looking camera she carried. Others settled for cell phone shots.

  “Nice camera,” admired Ed.

  Abby looped her arm through the crook of her husband’s elbow. “A camera’s a camera.”

  “This one is state-of-the-art,” bragged Bessie, holding the camera out at the end of its tether. “It’s capable of high-speed, ultra-close-up and panoramic photography.”

  Using her own little digital camera, Clara Kimmel shot a picture of her husband, Walter, posing beside a fallen oak. Otelia then offered to take a picture of the two of them together. Clara told her that wouldn’t be necessary.

  We left the hummingbirds behind. A half mile in, a smaller trail led inland, toward the McKutcheon homestead.

  “Listen!” I said, stopping once more. I cupped my ear. “I believe that’s a whip-poor-will.” Once common to the area, this would be a rare find indeed—if we could spot and confirm its appearance. The medium-sized bird’s gray and brown coloring camouflages them nearly perfectly amongst bark and leaves.

  “I thought whip-poor-wills were nocturnal?” Bessie said, apparently unconvinced of my identification.

  “Tell him that!” Floyd said as the bird sang once more.

  All eyes turned to the treetops as the bird’s distinctive whistling whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will call rang out. “Anybody got a backache?” I asked. “Because if you do, according to folklore, if you do a backflip while the whip-poor-will sings its song, you’ll be cured.”

  Ed guffawed. “Why don’t you try it, Karl?”

  “You first!” urged the ex–chief of police.

  We marched on, following a narrow dirt trail winding among a tall stand of pines. A crumbling dry-stack stone wall loomed ahead. I stopped and inhaled deeply. I love the earthy scent of the woods.

  “I don’t believe this is part of the public trail,” complained Bessie, assiduously poring over a free trail map she’d picked up at the trailhead.

  “I’m sure it is,” I said softly from the front of the line. “Besides, it’s along these quiet routes that an alert birder can more often encounter a rare species or two.”

  “Yeah, be quiet and let Amy lead,” wheezed Karl. The old gent wasn’t in the fittest condition. Then again, neither were the majority of my fellow bird-watchers.

  We spotted several birds, but nothing out of the ordinary. Somehow, Lana managed to get her right shoelace tangled up in a bramble of wild blueberries. Ed came to her rescue, extracting a multi-tool knife from his front trouser pocket and cutting her loose. “I call it my centipede,” he quipped, “because it’s got a hundred uses.” His wife clearly didn’t like the attention he was showing Lana.

  After fifteen minutes of walking, I saw the top of the McKutcheon house peeking up out of the trees.

  “Hey,” whispered Ed, “that’s the McKutcheon house.”

  “That’s where Amy saw that guy get thrown out the window,” Karl just had to say.

  “Thought she saw,” corrected Bessie. She aimed her high-powered binocs at the house.

  “I’ve never seen the McKutcheon house up close before.” Ed sounded a little awed.

  “I heard one of the McKutcheons had moved back to town.” John Moytoy trained his ancient binoculars on the house.

  “Who cares about a stupid old house?” complained Lana. “I thought we hiked out here to look at birds.”

  “Is that an owl?” Floyd pointed a wavering finger up into a tall, skinny pine fighting for its share of sunshine.

  “That’s a squirrel’s nest,” snapped Karl.

  Floyd’s eyesight isn’t so good. “I’m afraid Karl’s right, Floyd.” I crouched under a low branch and held it aloft for the others. “Come on.” I wanted to get closer to the house.

  An eerie silence hung over the woods. The forest absorbed our voices and our footsteps. Where had all the birds gone?

  “Good Lord!”

  I spun around. Abby was clutching her husband’s arm. Her binocs dangled from her concave chest.

  “What’s wrong?” Ed said, looking startled and not a little annoyed.

  His wife pointed toward a clearing about twenty yards up. “That’s a cemetery!”

  Sure enough, a black iron fence, fallen in places, kept watch over a half dozen or so gray tombstones looming up from a patch of tall weeds. I took several steps nearer and raised my binoculars.

  Ed frowned and removed his wife’s fingers from his arm. “So what?”

  Abby visibly shook. “It gives me the creeps is so what.” She spun around. “I’m not going any closer.”

  “A grave can’t hurt you!” snapped Bessie. She shot Abby the evil eye. “You’ll end up in one, one day.” She raised her camera and snapped a couple long-distance photos of the cemetery. “We all will.”

  “The family plot,” I heard John whisper.

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” whispered Lana, who’d crept up beside me.

  “A little,” I had to admit. I forced a smile and faced my group. “Perhaps we should go back.” I looked at my watch and was surprised to see how long we’d been gone. “Who’s ready for lunch?”

  Otelia Newsome was the first to agree.

  With Karl leading the rearward charge, we said goodbye to our inaugural bird walk. I stood for a moment, steadying my binoculars on the gravesite before turning to catch u
p with the others.

  One of those mounds looked fresh.

  6

  “Why don’t you simply tell Chief Kennedy?” Kim said for the umpteenth time. She’d pinned her hair atop her head and her blond locks spilled forward.

  For the umpteenth time, I answered her. “Because, number one, he won’t believe me.” If I called him to report a fresh grave at the McKutcheon house, it would only make him mad. “Number two, I want to check it out first before I go making a fool of myself.” I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately and this seemed to be a good time to put an end to the habit.

  We were alone in my kitchen. Mom was out, and Birds & Bees doesn’t open until one on Sundays. Kim had come early to take inventory. It was best done when there were no customers about, confusing the process with their purchases. We’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  I laced up my hiking shoes and hefted my binoculars. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

  “Not a chance. Sunday is a day of rest.” Kim wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug. “And rest is exactly what I’m going to do.” She studied her fingertips. “Maybe I’ll run downtown for a manicure later.”

  I looked down my nose at her. Sometimes Kim’s lack of focus amazed me. “What about the inventory?”

  Kim’s brow went up. “Oh, yeah.” She giggled. “I almost forgot.”

  After extracting my best friend’s promise that she’d get the inventory done, I headed off. I ran into my other temporary renter, Paul Anderson, as he stomped down to the shop from the second floor. His apartment is next door to Esther Pilaster’s.

  “Hey, good morning, Amy!” Paul called. “Got a minute?” He’s about my age, with wavy brown hair and a pair of close-set hazel eyes that always seem to be containing a joke.

  “Not now. Sorry, Paul. Big plans.” I lifted the binocs.

  “Ah, bird-watching, eh?” He ran his finger along the barrel of the binoculars. “Ever do any peeping with these things?”

  I pulled the glasses away. “No.” My ears were burning.

  His hand fell to my shoulder as I scurried down the last flight of steps. “There’s something I’d really like to talk to you about. I think you’ll like it.”