by Edie Claire
Janelle’s face flashed with annoyance. “Okay, fine then!” she snapped, rising from the bench and whirling back toward the building. “You know how to reach me.” The last words were stage-whispered over her shoulder. Leigh stood watching, paralyzed with confusion, while Janelle strutted to the revolving door and re-entered the building without looking back.
Chapter 8
Dawn had broken. But the change in ambient light made little difference to the ibis as it stroked its long, curved orange bill through the mud at the bottom of the marsh. Crustaceans could be stirred up in such a manner with or without the aid of his eyesight. If the dark hours had any benefit, it was merely that the area was quieter, with no humans gamboling about.
This morning, however, the ibis was aware of a difference in routine. The sun itself had not even appeared, yet there were already multiple humans nearby. He snagged an insect with his bill, lifted and swallowed the creepy-crawly with a gulp, then straightened his feathered white neck for a look-round. At the moment, he could see nothing concerning. He had noted one human earlier on the boardwalk, but one human on the boardwalk was of no concern. More unusual was the low-pitched cry he’d heard a moment ago, which was followed now by grunts and huffs, and the slapping and splashing of human feet in the wetlands.
The sounds made the ibis nervous, particularly since they seemed to be coming closer. Suddenly, a group of ducks twenty yards away exploded from their roost in a cacophony of squawks and flapping. Immediately alert, the ibis stretched his wings and fluttered up. He pinpointed the source of the disturbance, then returned to ground a safe distance away.
Humans. The ibis did not bother to wonder why two of them were running through the middle of the wetlands instead of staying on the boardwalk as the others did. He had no incentive to ponder why they might be out so early, how their bodies could be charging the very atmosphere with perceptible fear and rage, or what made one flee while the other gave chase.
The ibis did not care. He settled his wings behind him, then began rubbing his head along his back, oiling his glossy white feathers. But he could not preen in peace. The noise from the humans not only continued, it got louder. The people were moving in his direction.
The ibis stretched out his neck again and cocked one eye in the direction of the noise. He was on the edge of a rise now and could see fairly well out over the mud flats. The humans were touching now, struggling. More waterfowl vacated the area. The ibis heard a human cry, a smacking sound, a groan. The figures weren’t upright anymore. They had disappeared into the tall grass. More birds took to flight, making as much noise as the humans were making.
The ibis stretched his wings and readied himself, then caught sight of a juicy worm on a grass stem. Snap. Swallow. The ibis returned its attention to the area where the humans had gone down. The noise seemed to have stopped. Wait… there was another worm. Snap.
Many worms here. Snap, snap, snap.
The ibis heard more human sounds, but these were more distant, and not alarming. They were coming from the boardwalk, like human sounds were supposed to. Low voices, free of tension, with the usual hollow plodding of feet on wooden planks.
One of the humans near the ibis stood up straight again. The figure was quiet now, and much of the charge around him seemed to have dissipated. The ibis watched as the human slunk away, this time making very little noise.
When the figure had moved completely out of sight, the bird lifted its long orange legs and waded back into the water. Those last few worms had been a little dry. He stuck his bill back into the silt and began to poke around for another crustacean.
If he was aware that the second human remained, lying motionless on the ground concealed behind the tall grass, the fact did not concern him.
Chapter 9
“Cats hate me,” Warren griped.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Leigh assured, stroking the purring white bundle of fur that had forsaken the cushiony cat bed in the wee hours of the morning in favor of Leigh’s ribcage — and had not stirred since. “Only Mao Tse hates you. This is Snowbell.”
Warren threw his wife a skeptical look as he adjusted his tie. He had to bend over to see himself in the mirror, and the shower had been a little tight, but otherwise he was as content as she was with their new lodgings in the deluxe forty-foot, Class A, quad-slide motorhome. Joyce and Wayne, it turned out, did everything first class. “I thought this was supposed to be a romantic vacation,” he reminded. “If I want a hostile cat sleeping between me and my wife, I can get that in Pittsburgh.”
Leigh laughed. “Snowbell loves everybody. You just didn’t properly introduce yourself, that’s all. Come and make friends. Scratch her behind the ears.”
Warren made a face, but did as she asked. The cat yawned and stretched contentedly.
“See there!” Leigh insisted. “She accepts your right to exist. How could you possibly compare her to Mao Tse?”
He smirked. “Good point. Well, I’m off. Don’t get into any trouble today.”
Leigh hid her face behind the cat. He was joking. It was something he said most days. She’d told him about the Finney sibs seeming to recognize her, and he knew about Sharonna’s snooping, too. But either he wasn’t listening closely or he was distracted by the stress of his consulting job, because as far as she could tell, he didn’t seem to register the connection between those incidents and the body found on the beach. Which was just as well.
“So, what are your plans today?” he asked as he grabbed his briefcase.
“Would you believe a morning bird walk?”
He laughed out loud. “Since when did you become a birdwatcher?”
“Since Bev bribed me with more of her cinnamon rolls,” Leigh confessed. “It’s one of her community activities. Once a week the ornithology nuts get together and do a morning walk, either at the beach or on one of the preserve trails, and then they get together for brunch.”
“Well, the brunch sounds good, anyway.” He leaned in to kiss her goodbye, watching Snowbell warily as he did so. When the cat made no reaction he smiled and petted her behind the ears again. “Amazing,” he muttered. “Later.”
Leigh smiled down at Snowbell as he walked out. The cat looked back at her with eyes half-lidded. The feline was, in Koslow Animal Hospital lingo, a “domestic medium hair” as opposed to a purebred. But otherwise, Snowbell was as upper crust as everything else in the motorhome, including the remotely controlled awnings, the electric fireplace, and the four big-screen TVs. The cat’s bright white hair was freshly shampooed and smelled like baby powder, she wore a soft blue collar studded with rhinestones, and her eyes were a striking shade of aquamarine. According to Joyce, she was deaf in one ear. But since Mao Tse’s ability to hear had always been voluntarily “selective,” Leigh scarcely noticed the difference. Personality-wise, the cat was an absolute darling. Since the moment Leigh had moved in last evening, Snowbell had accepted her new heating pad/servant with equanimity, displaying no angst whatsoever over the change of personnel.
Leigh leaned over in bed and looked at the clock. “Time to get moving, Snowbell, my dear,” she said lazily. “I’ve got to bandage up these blisters if I’m going to earn those cinnamon rolls.” The cat was not happy about losing her pillow, but when Leigh slipped out the door of the RV some time later, she was able to leave her charge happily consuming her prescribed breakfast: two different brands of commercial cat food (with gravy) plus a touch of fresh minced shrimp.
Leigh stepped out onto her hosts’ spotless patio and admired what looked like another gorgeous day. It had rained hard earlier in the morning, but now the sky was clearing up, there was little wind, and the air was comfortably mild. She smiled as she walked by the wooden sign that was posted in the grass beside the patio. The Nelsons. Edina, Minnesota. Underneath the main sign two more hung by chains, one of which read “Joyce and Wayne” and another smaller one was pink, shaped like a fish, and read “Snowbell.” A plastic yellow pinwheel was stuck in the ground beside
the sign, and it turned lazily in the slight breeze.
RV living. Why not?
Leigh headed out to the wide, curving lane and began walking past other patios, yard signs, and funky lawn decorations and on toward the community greenspace in the center of the park. A few people were out breakfasting on their patios, and all acknowledged her with a smile and a friendly nod of the head, if not a called-out greeting, even though most had never seen her before. She turned a corner and met up with Sue and Bonnie.
“Well, Good Lord almighty,” Bonnie drawled dramatically, peering at her through squinted eyes. “I thought for a minute there you were Jackie Onassis. You get yourself sunburned or something?”
Leigh’s hand flew up to her scarf. She had sworn she was taking no chances today. Her hair was covered, she was wearing Bev’s floppy sun hat, and yesterday she’d walked through a giant shark’s mouth to shop in a beach store that sold the gaudiest sunglasses on the planet. She figured that if she wore this getup while hanging around with a bunch of birdwatchers, she’d almost certainly be taken for a woman decades older, particularly while limping on her blisters.
What she hadn’t considered was how ridiculous she was bound to look to anyone who actually knew her. Although Bev was aware that she was trying to avoid Sharonna, Leigh hadn’t discussed her encounters with the other Finney sibs. Not that she didn’t trust Bev and Hap, but even to her own ear, those experiences sounded delusional, and trying to convince people she wasn’t crazy had never been a favored pastime. Besides, there was no need. Her association with the Finneys was officially at an end now. Full stop.
That said, she didn’t relish lying to the birdwatchers. They were such an earthy, unassuming group. These two women, in particular, she suspected could roll with some punches. “Honestly?” Leigh replied. “I’m trying to disguise myself. There’s someone on the island I don’t want to run into.”
Bonnie huffed out an exaggerated sigh, took Leigh’s arm in hers and gave it a pat. “Honey, say no more. Just hang with us. We’ve all got our little issues. Don’t we, Sue?”
“Oh, that we do,” Sue said evenly. She tilted her head back and raised her binoculars to her eyes. “Turkey vulture.”
“Well, looky there,” Bonnie said as they slowly drew within sight of their destination. A small crowd had already gathered just outside the community center. “Everybody else is here already.”
“Good morning,” Bev greeted them all pleasantly. “Well, I think that’s everyone, unless… Did anyone see Stanley walking this way?”
“No,” Sue answered. “I rapped on his door, but he didn’t answer. I figured he was ahead of us.”
“I expect we’ll see him there, then,” Bev replied. Her eyes rested on Leigh, and her brow furrowed. “You need binoculars.”
“Oh, no,” Leigh protested, “I’m—”
“Just a minute.” Bev hurried next door to her own fifth wheel, then emerged seconds later with an extra pair. “Now you can do this right!” she said with perfect seriousness as she hung the strap around Leigh’s neck. “All right, birders!” she cheered. “North entrance this morning. Who’s driving?”
Twenty minutes later, Leigh found herself reconnoitering with the group near the same pavilion where she had met Sue and Bonnie the day before yesterday. The birders did not all stay together on their walks, she learned, but split into smaller teams to take the various paths in different directions. Apparently they had a system where those with cell phones group-texted each other with the identification and location of their finds, but Leigh let this critical information drift in one ear and out the other. All she wanted this morning was a peaceful, soul-recharging nature walk in a comparatively warm climate. If she could feel more sunshine on her skin, so much the better, but since the sky had clouded over again, she supposed her earlier optimism about the day had been misplaced. Everyone else must have seen a grim weather report, because all the birders had donned either a raincoat or a poncho, and the preserve itself was practically deserted.
No matter. Leigh’s waterproof jacket was tied around her waist again, and extra socks and blister bandages were now official staples of her backpack. She would maintain her optimism.
She started out in a small group with Sue and Bonnie, but when the two practically broke out into a fistfight over whether they were looking at a greater or lesser yellowlegs, Leigh quietly withdrew and moved ahead. The tall observation tower she had noticed before was a good ways ahead along a winding trail that alternated between wooden boardwalk and gravel path. The surrounding wetlands varied from sandy plains with tall grass and some shrubs, to mud flats that might sometimes be submerged but weren’t now, to wide expanses of brackish water that ran only a few inches deep, to ponds with enough depth to suit eight-foot alligators. The area where Leigh walked now seemed to have none of the latter, although she suspected that once she reached the tower, she would probably be able to spot some.
Overall, this trail was higher and drier than what she’d seen at the other entrance, with much of the boardwalk leading over nothing but wet mud. The occasional streams of water Leigh passed over were quite shallow, with no ducks and only some very tiny fish and bugs swimming in them. She suspected that on another morning, the giant mud flats could probably show some interesting animal tracks, but the recent downpour had left them as smooth as brownie batter.
Leigh heard some excited commotion from the couple ahead of her, and she looked up to see them fixing their binoculars on something in the distance. But whatever bird they were looking at, she still couldn’t see. She looked down instead to study a school of tiny fish that swam in the scant two inches of water streaming beneath her feet. She smiled as the sun peeked out briefly, warming her arms.
This nature-walk thing was good therapy for her nerves. She should do it every morning.
The couple ahead soon began to natter at each other in less pleasant tones, and Leigh slowed her steps several times, hoping they would move on before she reached them. But she could not stall forever, and when she finally caught up with the woman she was surprised to find that the man was no longer on the boardwalk.
“Come back here!” the woman screeched. “Come back, you dad-blamed fool!”
Leigh looked up to see a man who appeared to be somewhere in his seventies standing in the mud about thirty feet away. He was facing the other direction, his binoculars trained on a large, long-legged bird that strutted along the side of a distant stream. The tracks leading from the boardwalk to him seemed to get deeper as they went. His feet were now invisible from the ankles down. “It’s got to be a reddish egret!” he exclaimed.
“Well, good, then get back here!” the woman ordered.
The man stared through his glasses another few seconds. “With the sun at that angle I couldn’t make out the colors — it could have been another tricolored heron — but I thought I saw the red neck for that one second, and then when he did that little hopping dance — did you see that? That as good as clinches it right there!” He swung around his upper body, attempting to pivot, but his ankles failed to move. The smile on his face turned to shock as he lost his balance and pitched sideways.
“Walter!” the woman screamed. “Your hip!”
“I’m all right!” the man called back unconvincingly. He had caught himself before he fell, but the twisting action must have cost him, because his face was contorted with pain.
“Oh! Oh, no…” the woman said worriedly as she looked at Leigh. “He’s supposed to have surgery on that hip as soon as we get back. He should have had it done last fall.” She turned back to her husband. “You need help?”
“No,” he insisted stubbornly. But Leigh could see otherwise. Both of the man’s feet were still stuck in the muck, and although he could put his weight on the left and move the right one around a little, any attempt to pull up on his left foot made him visibly wince.
“I’m coming after you,” his wife insisted, laying her giant bag down on the boardwalk.
Leig
h looked at the woman and cringed. Although she might not qualify as morbidly obese, her exaggerated pear-shape would fit right in with the women of Leigh’s family. Her hips and thighs were so broad she waddled when she walked, her feet were impossibly tiny, and she looked like she might not be able to step the six inches off the boardwalk without losing her balance and injuring the knee she already had in a support brace.
“No,” Leigh said quickly, putting a hand on her arm. “Let me. I think I see a way he can get back easier.” Without waiting for an answer, she hustled a bit farther down the boardwalk until the mud flat ended and the grass began. Then she removed her headgear, shrugged off her backpack, and sat everything down out of her way. In this particular part of the wetland the shallow water, sandy mud, and solid grasslands swirled together in whorls like a giant maze. Grassy swamps and brackish ponds could be nearby, but Leigh chose to believe that any alligator-deep water was out of range.
She stood on tiptoe to see out over the brown marsh grass and plot what looked like her safest course to reach the stranded birder. He was standing just a few steps from the edge of a grassy area that looked to be more solid; if she could reach him without having to cross any of the mud flats herself, they shouldn’t have any problem returning. But she knew that the wet, sandy soil’s appearance could be deceptive. Standing in one place too long, like the man had done, was asking for trouble. The amount of water around one’s ankles was a constantly shifting dynamic, and what seemed like solid ground one moment could become a lake the next.
She stepped off the boardwalk and was relieved to find that the footing here was stable. But once she was fully within the grass, she could no longer see her target.
“Walter!” the woman cried. “Walter!”
“Stop yelling, Barb!” the man called back peevishly. “Where do you think I’m going?”
