The Woodpecker Always Pecks Twice

by J. R. Ripley

  Jerry snorted. “Kim’s got her own house.” He leaned forward threateningly and I felt myself edge back. “Admit it, Simms. You were there because you wanted to get a look at Bessie Hammond’s house. You weren’t thinking of breaking in, were you?”

  “No.”

  “You trying to play detective again?”

  “No, of course not.” I wiped a hand down my blouse, chasing away invisible crumbs. “Yes, of course Kim has her own house. But she’s looking to move and I told her I would check the place out.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why would Kim be thinking of moving? She’s got a perfectly good house, too.”

  I thought fast. Not well, but fast. Sorry, Kim, I thought before saying, “Because she just broke up with Randy Vincent and her house holds too many bad memories.”

  Jerry fell back into his chair in surprise. “Well, well. Is that so?” He shot an inscrutable look at his officers.

  “Yes, Randy’s back with Lynda. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread the news around.”

  “No, no,” Jerry said rather smoothly. “Course not, course not.”

  Sutton lifted his head. “Kim’s broke up with Randy?”

  “Hey, that’s something,” Reynolds said from his own desk.

  Oh, Lord, what had I done? I’d thrown Kim to the dogs. Or in this case, hound dogs. Within hours the entire town would be talking about Kim’s ugly breakup. I might as well have had a billboard made up with the announcement in three-foot-tall letters.

  “My van,” I interjected. Good grief. It was like a feeding frenzy of bull sharks that had sensed fresh blood in the water. Jerry was married, heaven help his clearly sainted wife, but the other two were single. “Can I have my van?”

  “It’s out back,” Jerry said, returning his attention to me.

  “Is it, is it okay?” I could not afford to be buying a new vehicle.

  “Good as it ever was. Don’t you ever wash that thing?”

  I ignored the remark. “Who took it? How did you get it back?”

  Jerry explained. “A couple high school–age boys spotted it.”

  “On Peach Street?”

  “Peace Street,” the chief corrected. “Saw the keys sitting in the Kia and took it as an invitation to go for a little joyride.”

  “Ohmygosh.”

  “A few hours later, they either got tired, noticed the gas tank was nearly empty, or got scared. In any event, they dropped the van off outside the police station.”

  “And you caught them?”

  “Actually”—Jerry shifted—“Anita was looking right out the front window and saw the boys run off.”

  “I recognized them straightaway,” said Anita, coming in from her little communications cubby. “I phoned their parents, and their parents, well, let’s just say I don’t think Tommy and Michael McKillip will be causing any more mischief anytime soon.”

  I nodded. There was a pencil stuck in the loose bun atop Anita’s head.

  “You want to press charges?” Jerry inquired.

  I thought about it for a second. “No, I suppose not. You did say the van is okay, right?” I needed some reassurance.

  “Same hunk of junk it’s always been.”

  “Then no.”

  “I think you’re doing the right thing, Amy,” said Anita. “Believe me, those boys have learned their lesson.”

  I’d learned mine, too. Always remove the key from the ignition when leaving my van. I stood and extended my hand, palm up.

  Jerry pulled open his desk drawer, extracted my key ring, and gave it to me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jerry said. He came around the desk and led me to the back door leading out to the police parking lot. “And don’t you go near the Hammond house again. You’ve got no business there.”

  Anita followed us outside, announcing that her shift was over and she was heading home.

  “Have you even bothered checking Bessie’s house, Jerry? What if there’s some evidence hidden there, like her camera with a picture of her killer?” The van sat wedged between a couple of police cruisers. It did look a bit tired in comparison to the slick and shiny squad cars.

  Anita took my side. “Amy may have a point, Jerry.”

  “You and that camera again,” groused the chief of police.

  “Fine. I bet Bessie’s camera is not even at the house,” I goaded, as I reached the van. “I’ll bet the killer took it. It and him are probably a hundred miles away and you’ll never find either one of them!”

  “That would be a sucker’s bet, Simms.”

  “See? You agree with me!” I pointed an accusing finger.

  He pushed my arm down. “Because we found that stupid camera you were yammering about, down by the lake.”

  “By the lake?” I felt my resolve leaking away like the air that seemed to have leaked away from my left front tire.

  “That’s right.” The chief grinned smugly. “Bessie must’ve dropped it when she was bird-watching the day she was murdered.”

  “Are you certain it’s hers?”

  “It’s got her prints on it and matches the description we got from you and the others in your bird-watching group.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What’s on the camera? Did you learn anything?”

  Jerry planted his hands on his hips, elbows out like a couple of chicken wings. “Yeah, I learned that Bessie liked to take boring pictures of birds and flowers.”

  “So there was nothing—”

  Kennedy knew exactly where I was going. “No,” he interrupted. “No mug shots of her killer, no secret messages. Nothing.”

  “Can I take a look?”

  “Sorry.” He smirked. “Evidence. You’ll have to wait for the DVD release to come out.” He shot a warning look at Anita, then said, “And don’t you go showing that camera to her.”

  Anita vowed that she wouldn’t and, unfortunately, I believed her. She’s a stickler for the law.

  “So who killed her, Jerry? Tell me that.”

  “I don’t know,” Jerry admitted. “Yet.” He tapped the side of his skull. “But I’ve got my theories.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and they probably involve UFOs and little green men.”

  “Or widows in the lake,” Anita added.

  I gave her a high five.

  Jerry give us a middle finger salute and trudged off.

  22

  The following morning, I loaded up the van with a variety of birdseed the store had collected over the month in contributions to our Seeds for Seniors program. It was an initiative I’d started a while back to provide birdfeeders and bird food to retirement homes in the area.

  So far, we were supplying feeders and food to five senior living facilities. I’d been encouraged by the results and hoped there would soon be more. Watching and feeding the wide variety of birds in this part of the Carolinas had given a psychological boost to our senior residents.

  And now that I had my van back, I was good to go. I could deliver some of the bags of seed that had been accumulating and, since one of those stops was Rolling Acres, I could have a word or two with Walter and Clara Kimmel. Had Ed Quince been telling the truth, or was he attempting to misdirect me in hinting that Bessie and Walter may have been doing the two-timing tango? He must have been telling the truth, because what else could explain the notes from Walter that I’d found in Bessie’s nightstand? Unless the Walt in the letters was another person altogether.

  “That lady from Ruby’s Diner was in to see you,” said Esther, as I shouldered a twenty-pound bag of mixed seed out to the van. She did not offer to help. But that was okay. I suspected she’d collapse under the weight.

  “Get the door for me, would you?” Esther leaned against the back storeroom door and I eased past her. “What woman? Moire?” Did this mean all was forgiven? I was heartbroken over our little tiff and hoped it wouldn’t mark the end of our friendship.

  “No, that one th
at looks like a she-wolf.”

  I dropped the sack on the floor of the van. Only one woman I knew fit that two-word description. “Lana Potter?”

  “Yep. That’s the one.”

  “What did she want?” I asked, returning to the store. I grabbed two bags of safflower seeds. Squirrels don’t like safflower seeds, but birds do.

  “She said she needed to talk to you.”

  I paused, bags in hand. “That’s right. She did mention wanting to talk.” About what, I still couldn’t imagine. If it had anything to do with Gus, Moire, and her, I was staying out of it. I carried the remaining supplies out to the van, tossed them in and shut the door. Turning to Esther, I said, “Are you sure you can manage alone for a little while?”

  “That Channing will be in around noon. Barbara’s baking upstairs but said she’d come down if things get busy.”

  “Great.” I’d left my mother upstairs baking more of her breakfast cookies. Anita was with her. They were each in good hands. My kitchen, however, I feared for. Too bad woodpeckers, and birds in general, have such a poorly developed sense of smell, Mom’s breakfast cookies could have made a natural and harmless woodpecker repellant. “How’s Channing working out?”

  “She’ll do.”

  That was high praise coming from Esther. “If Ms. Potter comes by again, tell her I’ll stop by the diner when I get a chance.” Then I caught myself as I remembered Moire’s admonition that I stay away from Ruby’s Diner. “Better yet, ask Ms. Potter to leave me her number. I’ll call her when I can. I don’t suppose you know where she lives, do you, Esther?”

  “What am I, a phone book? When’s Kim coming in?” Esther demanded.

  “Kim may not be in for a couple of days.” I reminded myself to call or stop in and check on her. A little alone time would do her good, but too much alone time was probably not a good thing. Perhaps I could get her involved in some other activities, something to get her mind off Randy.

  “What’s Kim’s number?” Esther asked. “Maybe I ought to call her and tell her to stop her caterwauling and start earning a living.”

  “Why don’t we let her have a couple of days to recover before we go the tough-love route?” I pulled open the driver’s-side door.

  “Humph,” snorted Esther. She smoothed her oatmeal-colored cotton sweater, which clashed mightily with her bubblegum-pink slacks. I ignored what looked like two gray cat hairs on her sweater. “Your generation is too soft.”

  I let the jibe slide over me. “Say, Esther”—I slid my purse over to the passenger side—“would you mind watching my van for a minute? I forgot something.”

  Esther said she would, though she didn’t sound happy about it. No big deal. She rarely sounded happy about anything. I, on the other hand, was downright ebullient because I had noticed that Esther did not have her ubiquitous feather duster in her hand or anywhere on her person.

  I rushed inside the store, darting left and right. I discovered the feather duster lying on the kitchen counter. I picked it up, glanced out the window and saw Esther hovering near my van, then looked quickly around the store. Where, where, where?

  Finally, I found the perfect spot. An owl nesting box stood on display attached to a ten-foot metal pole near the middle of the store. I grabbed the step stool from the storage closet under the stairs, climbed up, unhooked the latch of the owl house, and thrust the feather duster inside. Some owls use the old nests of other birds, like ravens or hawks. Other species of owls are cavity nesters. Here in the Carolinas, this included everything from the barn owl to the eastern screech owl.

  Esther would never find her feather duster in the owl nesting box. Not in a million years. Assuming she lived another million years, and I wasn’t putting it past her that she would.

  I returned the step stool to its corner of the closet, wiped the dust off my hands and, hopefully, the look of guilt off my face, and returned outdoors.

  “Thanks, Esther.” I climbed in the van, smiled and waved as I watched her figure shrink in the distance.

  I drove up the long, upward-sloping drive that cut through the pristine green lawn fronting ROLLING ACRES, A SENIOR LIVING FACILITY. There’s a large main building with several areas with bungalows off to the right. My friend Floyd Withers lives in a condo in the main building. Karl Vogel, former Town of Ruby Lake chief of police, dwells in one of the larger bungalows.

  I came to a stop beside an unmarked, late-model white van. Millicent Bryant, an elegant, forty-something brunette, had a desk in the lobby. She more or less runs the place. And she more or less hates me.

  Why, I didn’t know. What I did know was that she wouldn’t be overly glad to see me.

  Okay, maybe I did go behind her back and install that first bird feeder out on their lawn without strictly getting permission. But couldn’t we get past that?

  I took a bracing breath, exited the van, and grabbed the first two bags of birdseed. The bird feeder was for a small hospice that had heard about our program and requested we give them a visit. I had told their director I’d be delighted and would stop there on my rounds later.

  I slammed the rear door of the van closed with my shoulder.

  “Amy?”

  I looked up. “John! What are you doing here?” It was my friend John Moytoy, from the Ruby Lake Public Library.

  He cradled a stack of books in his arms. “Delivering these. We rotate a selection of books out here every two weeks, plus bring any requested items. How about you? Can I give you a hand?”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got it. Besides, I’d say you’re the one who could use a hand.”

  John’s eyes twinkled. “Going inside?” A black-rimmed pair of reading glasses stuck out of the chest pocket of his short-sleeve white shirt.

  “As much as I’d prefer not to, yes.”

  John raised his brow. “Something going on that I don’t know about?”

  “Never mind,” I said. No point bothering him with my petty feud with the haughty Millicent Bryant. And I did need to get inside. Ms. Bryant had grudgingly allowed me to stash the birdseed in a small storeroom inside the senior activity center. As much as she seemed to dislike birds, the residents had become enthralled with bird-watching and the woman, despite what I might think of her, had recognized a losing battle when she was facing one.

  Walking side by side with John through the automatic doors and finding strength in numbers, we said hello to Millicent Bryant, who barely acknowledged my presence but waved heartily to John. “Good to see you, John!” she cooed.

  “Good to see you, too, Millicent!”

  “Good to see you,” I muttered, struggling with my seed up the hall. “Good grief.” I ignored the small trail of millet following me on the carpet. The tiniest of holes in the plastic bag and you were playing Hansel and Gretel, only this time instead of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, we were John and Amy and we were leaving a trail of birdseed.

  “Hear anything new about Ms. Hammond?” John asked as an attendant held the door to the activities center open for us.

  “Not a thing, at least nothing useful.” So far.

  “The police aren’t any closer to figuring out what she was doing alone in the woods and who murdered her?”

  “If they are,” I said, stooping and resting my bags on the floor so I could open the closet door, “they aren’t telling me.”

  John settled his books on a nearby table. “It’s almost surreal to think of her being murdered.” He shook his head. “A nice older lady like that.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “a nice older lady.” Only was she?

  “Say, that reminds me.” John ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “Are you coming to the vigil?”

  “Vigil?” I grabbed my birdseed scoop and poured some birdseed from one of the bags into a five-gallon plastic bucket I kept in the closet for the purpose. I’d carry the bucket out to the feeders and refill each with the handy scoop.

  “Yes. You know, the widow in the lake? Saturday morning is the big day. The hundred
and fiftieth anniversary, I think. This could be the one.”

  I grinned at him. “You mean the one where the widow, Mary McKutcheon, finally rises from the lake?”

  John nodded. “How about joining me?”

  I grabbed the bucket by its plastic handle. According to Derek, Amy the Ex and her friends were really into the whole widow-in-the-lake story. That meant Amy the Ex would be there at this vigil. Perhaps Derek, too. It also gave me another excuse for prowling around, out near the McKutcheon property. “What time?”

  “Five a.m.”

  My brow shot up. “You’re kidding, right?”

  John shook his head in the negative. “So you’ll be there?”

  I reluctantly agreed. At the very least, Drummy the woodpecker wouldn’t be waking me up Saturday morning. Because I’d be up before he could.

  “Tell me,” I said as John lifted his books and started for the bookshelves on the wall opposite, “do you believe in this whole ‘widow in the lake rising on the anniversary of her death’ story?”

  John shrugged, the books pressed against his belly for support. “Let me put it this way, Amy. This is one crazy world. I don’t disbelieve in anything.”

  We talked some more and agreed that we’d meet at Birds & Bees early Saturday morning. “I’ll bring a thermos of coffee,” I offered.

  “Better let me,” John replied, giving me a pat on the arm as if to say, thanks, but let an expert handle this.

  I got even by suggesting I bring the snacks. John would be getting one of my mother’s special breakfast cookies. I chewed my lip as my thoughts swirled around the widow in the lake and the corpse in the woods, and my eyes followed John’s departing backside. He had one thing right: This is one crazy world.

  I grabbed my supplies and left to complete my task. After filling the feeders, I didn’t bother going back indoors. I angled across the back lawn and followed one of the concrete walkways that meandered down the hill to the bungalows. I’d made a note of Walter and Clara Kimmel’s address before leaving Birds & Bees.

  There were three one-story bungalows to a building. The Kimmels occupied an end unit with an enclosed patio off the front. I straightened my clothing, double-checked my hair and makeup in my compact mirror, then rang the bell. Strains of “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair” from the musical South Pacific, one of my favorite Rodgers and Hammerstein shows, came from within.