Wait a minute! The thought hit Pam like a white squall. Mama said Buell had been in town on the very day that Arminger showed up asking about her pigeons! He had even accepted a ride from Arminger to hunt for Doc Weston. He could have known about Arminger’s offer. And he surely needed the money.
“But Buell would never claim his pigeons are better than mine,” she said aloud. “He knows better. His birds are scarcely alive!”
Pam especially hated to think that one of the Suggses would steal from her; they’d been the Lowders’ nearest neighbors as long as she could remember. Yet the more she pondered it, the harder it became to deny that the evidence pointed to Buell. And to cover himself if he was caught, he could always make up an alibi. Like borrowing Papa’s crab pots.
Buell’s guilt would even explain the cigarette butt outside the barn.
It all fit together, snug and tidy, like the pieces of a puzzle. Then why did Pam feel so dejected? There was nothing to do but go and confront Buell as soon as she got home and talked to Mama.
The sun was hot on Pam’s back by the time she sighted her own landing. She made the canoe fast onshore and trudged up toward the house, all the time rehearsing in her head what she would say to Buell. There was just no easy way to accuse your neighbor of stealing.
Halfway up the rise she was jerked from her concentration by a shriek, then barking and hollering that came from somewhere near the pigeon loft. Through her mind raced a hundred thoughts at once, but two jumped out in front:
Bosporus was back.
And he had caught Buell stealing another bird.
Pam tore up the hill, her heart pounding faster with every thud of her feet on the sandy ground. What a relief it would be to finally catch Buell red-handed!
But her heart nearly stopped when she topped the rise. There was Bosporus, teeth bared, with Henry backed up against the storage shed.
CHAPTER 12
A BIRD IN HAND
For a minute Pam was frozen. A jay scolded from a bough above her head, and a squirrel chattered. A mix of emotions swirled inside her. Astonishment at seeing Henry instead of Buell. Joy that Bosporus had returned. Fear at what Mama might do to Bosporus. Henry hollered louder, setting Bosporus into a frenzy of barking. Pam knew she had to move fast.
She sprinted the distance to the shed. “Bosporus!” she yelled. “Get down!” Bosporus looked at Pam the same way he did when he was pleased at himself for treeing a squirrel. He barked sharply.
“He’s going to kill me!” Henry wailed. Bosporus growled.
“Hush, Henry. You’re making him mad. Don’t move.”
She edged up on Bosporus. She didn’t think he would hurt Henry—not really—but Mama’s words rang in her head. He’s wild … unpredictable … you don’t really know what he would do. If Bos got a little too zealous guarding his “prey,” or if Henry made a sudden move … Pam closed her mind against that thought.
Step by step she sidled closer, talking, crooning to Bosporus. “You’re a fine dog, Bos, a fine dog. Look at what you done. Now hold still, boy. That’s a boy Hold—” and she grabbed the ruff of his neck, wrapped herself around him, and pulled him back. She winced more from guilt than pain as she felt the cockleburs in his fur pricking her. He glanced up at her with eyes so full of devotion and pride it wrenched her heart. Then he glanced back at Henry and growled menacingly.
That was when Mama came running up. Judging by her expression, she was plenty riled. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
Henry looked daggers at Pam. “That dog tried to kill me!”
“He attacked you?” Mama was standing with her hands on her hips, which meant she was boiling mad.
Fear for Bosporus rumbled in Pam’s stomach and began to inch up into her chest. She drew her dog closer. “Bos didn’t even touch him, Mama.”
Mama’s eyes flashed fire at Pam. “I asked Henry.” Her tone was razor sharp. “Did the dog bite you, Henry?”
Tension gripped Pam as she waited for him to answer. If Bos had bitten Henry, her dog was doomed; Mama would insist he be put down. Nervously Pam scanned Henry’s bare arms, looking for the clean puncture of canines. Sometimes such wounds didn’t bleed.
Then she narrowed her eyes. Had Henry’s coat pocket wiggled? She blinked. There! It had wiggled again!
A thought crashed into her brain, like a tree plummeting into a river. Someone in town … pigeons to sell … better than hers…
“Henry Bagley, tell me what you’ve got in your pocket!” Pam demanded.
Henry’s mouth fell open, and a guilty look etched itself across his face. From the loft a few yards away drifted soft pigeon noises, but Pam heard something closer—a faint groo-groo. And it sounded like it was coming from Henry’s pocket.
Mama heard it, and so did Henry. Pam saw it in their faces. But before either of them could act, Pam moved like a rattler striking. She shoved her hand into Henry’s pocket and pulled out a small, gray pigeon.
Odessa!
But Odessa looked pitiful. The iridescent feathers on her neck were dull. Her feet had been bandaged; one wing seemed to be broken, and there was a gash on her neck where the feathers had been clipped away. She blinked up at Pam and cooed weakly.
Fury welled up in Pam’s throat, nearly choking her. “What have you done to my pigeon?”
For once in his life, Henry appeared to be at a loss for words. His eyes darted to Mama, then to Bosporus, then to Pam. He stammered a few syllables.
Mama turned to Pam. “Well, I don’t know what Odessa’s doing in Henry’s pocket, but I can explain what happened to your brave little pigeon, or what I think happened.” She glowered at Henry. He looked away. “Henry and I found the poor thing this morning dragging herself into the pigeon yard. On foot. We figured she was attacked by a hawk and somehow got away, but couldn’t fly home.”
Pam had always suspected Odessa had more heart than any of her other birds. She stroked the bird’s soft crown. “So you doctored her up?”
“Yes, and fed her real good and put her in her nest pan. Maybe Henry would like to explain the rest.” Mama’s tone said Henry had better make his story good.
“He don’t have to explain. I know why he had Odessa. He was gonna steal her like he did my other birds and sell her to Mr. Arminger!”
“Pam!” Mama chided. “You got to quit pointin’ fingers at people without proof.”
“I know for a fact this time. I have proof, a witness.”
“Where is this witness?” said Mama.
Pam stammered, “I … can’t tell you right now.”
“I don’t know a thing about your stolen birds! I swear!” Henry protested.
“And I suppose you don’t know a thing about how Odessa got in your pocket,” Pam shot back.
“It was a joke, to pay you back for getting me in trouble with Pa. I was only going to keep the bird in my pocket until you missed her and got a good scare, but then that mongrel attacked me—”
“He’s lying, Mama. Alice warned me he said he’d get even with me. But I never thought he’d stoop to stealing.”
“You threatened Pam?” Mama directed this to Henry.
“Not exactly,” hedged Henry. “I might have said I’d teach her a lesson or something like that. I don’t remember to a hair.”
“You don’t remember.” Pam could tell Mama doubted Henry’s memory loss. “I see.”
Pam rushed in. “Mama, think about it. Henry’s been here every time a bird showed up missing. And he knew from the start that Mr. Arminger wanted ’em bad. It adds up, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t take your dang pigeons!”
“Henry! That’s enough,” said Mama. She hesitated what seemed a long time to Pam, then heaved an enormous sigh. “I s’pose it does appear that Henry took your birds.”
“Miz Lowder, I didn’t!” Henry looked genuinely distressed. If the situation hadn’t involved her pigeons, Pam might have enjoyed seeing Henry unsettled.
“I think the whole thing ne
eds to be settled at your house, Henry, with your father and Alice there. We’ll see if we can straighten things out,” said Mama.
“Not today. Pa has a Red Cross board meeting at the house this afternoon.”
“We’ll be happy to wait till his meeting is over. It’ll give me a chance to have a nice visit with your ma.”
Pam marveled at the way Mama could find a courteous way of saying near about anything.
The Bagleys owned the biggest and one of the oldest houses in Currituck County. It was a two-story Federal built in 1762 by Mrs. Bagley’s great-great-granddaddy, who made a fortune off shipping naval supplies like pine pitch and turpentine to England before the war. The house sat far back from the road in a willow grove.
Pam gasped when she saw Arminger’s truck parked in front of the house. She hadn’t realized that his meeting was Mr. Bagley’s meeting.
Mrs. Bagley, still dressed in her Sunday frock, greeted them at the door and ushered them into the front hall. Its walls had wainscoting of cypress wood, and a cypress stairway led up to a landing above. Pam had been in the Bagleys’ house a number of times, but Mrs. Bagley had never invited her past the hall. Pam always had the impression Mrs. Bagley looked down her nose at the Lowders.
Mama explained their errand.
“I don’t think Henry’s your thief, Mrs. Lowder. I’m sure it was just one of his boyish pranks.” Pam hated the way Mrs. Bagley made a show of pronouncing Mrs. as “missus” instead of “miz” like everyone else in Currituck did. Probably she figured it set her above the common folks like Pam and Mama.
“Still, I think it’d be best to air this out with everyone at hand,” insisted Mama.
“That’s not possible,” Mrs. Bagley countered. “As director of the Red Cross, Ed must head up the meeting, don’t you know.” Her tone dismissed them. She might as well have opened the door and pushed them out onto the veranda.
“We’ll wait,” said Mama firmly. She seated herself on the Empire sofa set up against the wainscoting. Feeling uncomfortable, Pam eased into a chair beside the sofa. Mrs. Bagley stared coldly at them, but Mama didn’t flinch. Pride surged through Pam. Mrs. Bagley’s snobbishness was no match for Mama’s determination.
Soon the parlor doors swung open, and the most important citizens of Currituck emerged: Mr. Bagley, Judge Patterson, Doc Weston, Sheriff Purdy, and Chester McClees, who was head of the Farm Bureau. And, of course, Mr. Arminger.
Mrs. Bagley glanced nervously at Pam and Mama, as if they were a spot of mud on her carpet that she hoped no one would notice. Before the men could do more than pay the barest respects to Mama, Mrs. Bagley had herded them into the dining room for “refreshments,” which meant a full supper intended to show off the talents of Mandy, her cook. Once the guests were safely out of range, she whispered in Mr. Bagley’s ear, stealing disapproving glances every now and again at Pam.
“I’ll take care of it,” Mr. Bagley assured her. With that settled, Mrs. Bagley rearranged her face, floated into the dining room, and closed the double doors.
Mr. Bagley cut a deadly look at Henry, who had planted himself sullenly on the stairs. “Fetch your sister,” he ordered. Then to Mama he said, “Let’s go in the parlor, Miz Lowder.” As courtesy dictated, he held out his hand to help Mama up. Pam wondered why such a genuinely nice man had married someone like Mrs. Bagley. “I’m sure we can iron this thing out,” he added.
Suddenly it occurred to Pam that no ironing out was necessary. The person who could prove her case was right here—Mr. Arminger! She pulled Mama aside and filled her in on the offer Mr. Arminger had received. “He’s my witness, Mama. Henry won’t dare fib in front of him.”
Mama’s face had remained impassive during Pam’s tale, and Pam couldn’t read her. Pam was eager to have Mr. Arminger back her up. “Can I go in and get him, Mama?”
“No, I’ll speak to him myself. You go ahead and tell your story to Mr. Bagley. I won’t be long.”
It seemed to Pam that Mama was gone forever, though the grandfather clock in the parlor had only ticked out a quarter of an hour. It hadn’t taken long for her to tell her side to Mr. Bagley, but then Alice and Henry began arguing over whether Henry had actually said he was going to get even or only hinted at it. Mr. Bagley seemed to think the story would be more fully told if his children were allowed to hash it out. Pam was getting impatient with the whole process. Where were Mama and Mr. Arminger?
Finally Mama returned with Arminger behind her. Pam’s heart dropped when she saw Mama’s face. Her mouth was set in a thin, straight line. “I’m sorry for not believing you, Henry,” Mama said.
Pam’s jaw dropped open. “But Mama—”
Mama shook her head. “It wasn’t Henry who tried to sell birds to Mr. Arminger. It was a girl.”
CHAPTER 13
HOMING IN
Arminger’s truck rumbled to a stop in the Lowders’ front yard. Arminger jumped out and came around to help Mama descend from the dizzying height of the bench seat. “I appreciate your letting Pam come help me, Mrs. Lowder. May I pick her up Saturday morning, early?”
“That’d be just fine, Mr. Arminger. I’m sure Pam’s rarin’ to get started.”
“So am I,” he said. “See you then, Pam?”
“Yes, sir. Early.” She grimaced as the truck roared off, kicking up a cloud of sand.
Mama shuddered. “Lordy, them motor trucks make my bones rattle, don’t they yours?”
“Yes’m,” Pam said idly. She had her mind on Mr. Arminger’s description of the girl who had brought him a pigeon in a basket on Wednesday afternoon. A skinny little thing, he had said, with white hair and the palest blue eyes he had ever seen. And she was barefoot. “Mama, you know as well as I do who Mr. Arminger was describing.”
Mama sighed. “Mattie. It can’t be no one else. But I don’t understand it. It don’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does. I figured it out on the ride home.” Pam told Mama about her original theory that Buell was the thief. “I only changed my mind because I thought we caught Henry red-handed. Now I’m convinced Buell stole my birds. He must’ve made Mattie talk to Mr. Arminger to throw suspicion off him.”
“I hate to think that of Buell,” Mama said. “He’s always so protective of Mattie.”
“I got to go over there and face him down, Mama. Else he’s liable to keep right on helping himself to my pigeons.”
“I don’t know, Pam. Likely I should talk to Iva about it, though I’m loath to worry her any more in her condition.”
“Then let me go and handle it my way. Please?”
“All right. But be careful you don’t get riled and spout off. Be as obliging as you can under the circumstances. Remember the strain Buell’s under with his pa gone. Hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” There was still one more thing Pam wanted to ask, and she didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “Mama. My dog.” She hesitated, struggling with the words. “Ain’t he shown you he’s a good watchdog and not vicious? Can’t he stay?”
Mama looked at her intently. “It’s true he didn’t hurt Henry one whit. And there’s no doubt he’s loyal to you, traipsing all that way through the woods to come back to you. We’ll give him one more chance. How’s that?”
Pam took Bosporus and went the back way to the Suggs place, up the creek a ways, through a sedge field, and past a pond where a family of mallards swam. Once on Mr. Eugene’s land—land tended by the Suggses—she noticed how run-down everything had gotten. Pope bushes grew thick in all the fields, and dog fennel had taken over the barbwire fences. She wondered if Mr. Eugene would put the Suggses out and try to find another tenant who would keep the place up. Pity for Buell’s plight tugged at her, but she hardened herself against it. Being dirt-poor didn’t give him the right to steal from her.
There was a reason she took such a roundabout route. She was hoping to avoid running into Buell until she could get a look at his pigeon shed to see if her birds were there. How could he deny taking Caspian and Orleans and Toulouse i
f they were sitting right in his shed?
Up through the bare tobacco fields Pam and Bosporus went, past the Suggses’ smokehouse and the corncrib, to the edge of the old pecan grove where Buell had his rabbit hutches and his bird shed.
“Dang!” Pam said when she saw Buell cleaning out his pigeon shed. “No way to check up on him first. Reckon we’ll have to plunge right in, boy.” She held tight to the scruff of Bosporus’ neck. It wouldn’t do to have him lunge at Buell; Mama had only given him one more chance, after all.
“Buell Suggs,” she sang out.
Buell glanced up. “Mattie ain’t out here, Pam. Did you hunt for her in the house?”
“Ain’t looking for Mattie. I come to see you.”
Buell’s face darkened. “Listen, I done told you to leave off pestering me about what I feed my birds. ’Tain’t none of your business.”
“I don’t care if you feed your birds chicken droppings. I got a bone to pick with you.”
“Oh yeah?”
Buell stood up straight and looked at Pam through narrowed eyes. Pam’s heart drummed in her chest. Buell towered over her. Why hadn’t she let Mama come with her? She swallowed hard. No, this was her fight, and she could handle it. Mustering all her courage, she opened her mouth to speak. Then she clamped it shut. She had just noticed something. Bosporus’ tail was thumping against her leg. Bosporus was looking straight at Buell … and wagging his tail!
Buell squatted and snapped his fingers toward the dog. “Com’ere, boy. You know me.” Bos trotted right to him, and Buell scratched his neck. “Bet he’s got some wolf in ’im with them blue eyes of his, you reckon?” He stroked the dog’s flank. “Now what’s this bone you got with me, girl?”
The Night Flyers Page 9
