I lightly touched the back of her hand. "It's all right. I have friends like Wanda too."
Roy Freemont strolled around as if he was six-foot-five instead of the five-foot-nine or ten which he stood, at the most. His dapper collegiate style made him stand out in the family oriented setting. He smiled graciously at every young girl but had only arrogant snubs for anyone else, most especially his mother.
Mary busied herself restacking the leaflets but continued in her high level whisper. "The man standing next to Mrs. Freemont, looking like someone's high strung accountant, is her newest husband, Walter Keeler. It's hard to see how those two ever became a couple, let alone got married. Poor Peggy tried to assist Mrs. Freemont with the hats, but the woman nearly snapped her in two, told her she would only be waited on by Miss Dawson, the owner's daughter."
Just as Mary said it, the door swung open. Hot air swept in as a young woman entered the shop.
"There's Ruby." She paused and corrected herself "Miss Dawson ," Mary said quietly, and immediately busied herself straightening the items on the counter.
Miss Dawson, the daughter of the owner of Dawson Ostrich Farm appeared to be in her mid-twenties with black, short wavy hair parted on the side and smoothed down close to her head. Her lips were ruby red to match her name. She had a friendly, easy going way about her as she swept through the shop. She was dressed for business but hadn't forgone a touch of fashionable whimsy by topping off a pale blue, spiral crepe pleated skirt and a lace frilled, French voile blouse with a hemp straw hat that was adorned with the longest, most lush plum colored ostrich feather I'd ever seen. It was as if they had grown a special ostrich just to provide the magnificent feather. It made sense, considering where we were standing and that she would have access to the best feathers ever plucked from the rear end of an ostrich. She seemed remarkably efficient as she flitted around the store making sure everything was in its place, every employee was working hard and every customer was happy.
Ruby Dawson's gaze shifted Mary's direction. She hurried across to the counter, and I returned my attention to the box of postcards. There was such a variety it would be hard to narrow the choice down to three.
"Mary," Miss Dawson said, somewhat exasperatedly. "Have you seen the mate to this glove?" She pulled out a pale pink kidskin glove with tiny pearls running along the wrist. "I've looked everywhere for it and thought maybe I dropped it in here."
"Let me look in the box of lost items." Mary crouched down and lifted a cardboard box containing everything from a pocket watch to a pair of spectacles. "I don't see a pink glove, Miss."
"That's all right, Mary. I seem to be losing things left and right these days." She left the counter and headed across the store to where Mildred Freemont was still sitting. "Mrs. Freemont, sorry to keep you waiting," she said cheerily as she neared her customer.
I'd thumbed through all the cards and settled on the one with the man riding the ostrich, one that showed off the lovely gardens around the buildings and one that showed an entire flock of ostriches with their babies. "Mary, I'm going to leave these three postcards here and look around."
"No problem. Let me know if there's anything I can help you with."
"Thanks." I wandered toward a glass cabinet near the rear of the shop. Its shelves were neatly lined with un-feathered items like silver hairbrushes, ash trays and cigarette lighters. Each unique memento was engraved with a picture of an ostrich and the name of the farm. From where I stood, I could easily overhear Miss Dawson reciting to Mrs. Freemont the various fashion accessories they produced in their factory.
Mildred had risen from the chair. She wore an entirely too serious expression for the conversation at hand. She appeared to be a pampered woman, who filled out her slightly outdated skirts, no hoops required. Her braided black mushroom shaped hat seemed better suited for winter, or, at the very least, a funeral. It was not the best choice for a sunny day on an ostrich farm. Her chin rested on the buttoned collar of her blouse, and a double strand of pearls hung around her neck. She wore a permanent scowl as if she disapproved of everything and everyone, perhaps with the exception of her son. She had no kind smile for her new husband. He was a half head shorter than his wife and a good deal slighter in build with semi-transparent pale skin and a slight hunch in his back. It seemed obvious that Mildred was the boss, the decision maker, the head of the household. The way Walter stood beside her, looking ready to see to his to wife's needs and agreeing with every opinion whether she asked for it or not, it seemed he was more a simpering servant than a husband.
I returned to my task of finding something pretty for Birdie. I hadn't traveled all the way to Pasadena to stay inside a feather-filled boutique. I needed to pick something and head back out into the summer sun to find my two adventurous partners. The most unique item to catch my eye was a small silver tray with scalloped edges and an ostrich engraved in the middle. Birdie could use it to hold her sewing thimbles. She was always having to buy new ones because they were such a small, 'roly-poly' item and easy to lose. I caught Mary's eye, and she held up a finger to let me know she'd be right over.
To the right of the counter, Ruby Dawson had coaxed a reluctant Mrs. Freemont to try on a draped velvet turban that was festooned with a large ivory plume. Miss Dawson held a small mirror up while Mildred turned her face to the right and left to get a look at the hat from every angle.
"It's grand, dear," her husband said in a weak tone. "Truly it is."
Mildred rolled her eyes at the man, and he shrank back from the withering look. "Walter, if you think it looks grand, then I'm sure it's wretched. You have no taste when it comes to fashion," Mildred spouted loudly enough for everyone around to hear. She seemed to take pleasure in making the man cower. She turned back to Miss Dawson. "What do you think, Miss Dawson? I value your opinion on this," she said with a sharp scowl at Walter to warn him not to comment again.
Ruby Dawson's lips parted and her eyes flitted from Mildred to poor Walter and back again. It seemed she'd found herself in a conundrum as to whether to agree with the mealy mouthed husband or the forthright wife. "The dark green color is lovely with your complexion, Mrs. Freemont."
"Keeler," Walter piped up and then shriveled back, only this time he seemed determined to get his point across. "It's Mrs. Freemont-Keeler, actually," he said with a nervous snort and then decided to seal his mouth shut.
Mildred had the eye roll down to an art. I imagined her husband was on the receiving end of at least a dozen per day. She held the hat in place and called to her son, who was still deep in a flirty conversation with Wanda. "Roy, dear, what do you think of this hat?" A rare smile crossed her face. "Do you think Mother should buy this one?" she asked, delegating herself to third person as she tried to coax an opinion from a very disinterested son. He basically did everything to ignore her, including turning so that his back faced her. She yanked the hat off angrily enough to disturb a few of the pins in her hair. She handed the turban brusquely back to Miss Dawson. "If you'd please find something for your shop girl to do other than take up my son's time, I'd appreciate it." Mildred sniffled with a chin lift.
Miss Dawson put the turban on the hat holder. "Of course. I'm terribly sorry." Miss Dawson hurried over to pull Wanda away from her conversation with Roy Freemont.
"Now, what can I get for you, Miss?" Mary said from behind.
"Oh hello, yes, I'd like to see this silver tray, please."
Mary pulled it out. It was just small and delicate enough to look pretty and useful on Birdie's work table. "Can you wrap it?"
"Yes. What color bow?" she asked.
Mildred and her entourage left the store. It seemed she'd decided to get her son as far away from the pretty shop girl as possible.
"Surprise me," I said to Mary as I turned my attention back to her. "Can I pick it up on my way out of the farm?"
"Absolutely. And may I say, this is a great choice. I bought one for my mother at Christmas. She keeps it by the sink for her wedding ring when she's w
ashing dishes. I can check you out at the register."
"Oh, what a day," Ruby Dawson proclaimed as she whipped by the register. "Keep an eye out for my glove, Mary. I'll be in my office." With that she dashed back out of the shop.
Chapter Four
I caught up with Jasper and Daddy at the ostrich viewing area. It was already filling up with enthusiastic bird watchers.
"Poppy, I was just about to send Jasper to look for you. I didn't want you to miss the feeding time. Apparently, the birds swallow oranges whole and you can see the fruit make its way down their long gullet." Daddy had rolled up his shirtsleeves, something he rarely did in public but I couldn't blame him. The morning clouds were long gone, and a late morning sun was streaming down from a blue sky. Even the plethora of trees on the farm couldn't provide enough shade for the large crowd. Jasper and his industrious elbows, the same elbows he used to clear space on a crowded dance floor, had found a spot near the fence so he wouldn't miss any of the show. Squeezing through small spaces was his specialty and something made considerably easier by his smaller than average size.
A set of movable steps were being rolled in for feeding time. The owner, George Dawson, was standing on a portable platform answering questions being tossed his way by curious spectators. The owner of Dawson's Ostrich Farm was a portly fifty-something man who was constantly removing his straw boater (adorned with a much smaller ostrich feather than the plume in Ruby's hat) to wipe his forehead. And it wasn't just a quick swipe across the brow. The man started near his ear and wiped the entire top of his face. He ended each sweat dabbing by dotting his thick chin before shoving his handkerchief back into the pocket of his trousers. I wondered if he had multiple handkerchiefs or if he was using the same flimsy piece of linen for each episode. Aside from the heavy perspiration and obvious aversion to sunlight, he was, in general, jovial and proud to show off his fine collection of birds.
The cartoonish critters, apparently sensing their treat was on its way, had congregated near the fence. A cloud of dust and tiny wisps of plumage floated around the flock as they pushed and elbowed their way (much like my brother) to the front of pack.
I stretched up to see over the sea of hats in front of me. "They are awfully quiet for birds," I said. "If we were standing next to the same number of chickens or geese, the sound would be deafening, but I can't hear one little peep over the clamor of the spectators."
"See, you should have joined us for George Dawson's lecture. It was quite informative," Daddy said. "Apparently, the male ostrich can make a low booming sound, almost like a quiet roar, or at least that was how Dawson described it. They pillow out their necks before the sound is produced, but I believe they only do it when it's time to attract a pretty mate."
I laughed as I gazed out at the mosaic of long beaks flanked by big expressive brown eyes. "I suppose there's exceptional beauty in every species. Although, I must say, they are the oddest looking animal. Such a massive middle on top of long, bony legs. I can hardly believe that they are able to stand up straight on those thin appendages."
Daddy nodded. "Its legs are well placed beneath their bellies, and Dawson mentioned they often use their wings for balance, especially when they run. They can run as fast as a car."
"I suppose in the wild that makes up for their lack of flight. How else would they get away from predators?"
"According to Dawson," Daddy continued, "those clawed toes are like weapons. They might look comical, but if provoked, ostriches can be very dangerous."
"Then maybe we should tell Jasper to step back from the fence. Provoking is his specialty."
Daddy chuckled at my comment. "Did you buy anything in the shop?"
"Just a few postcards and a little trinket for Birdie."
Wheels squeaked behind us, a noise that seemed to signal to the birds that lunch had arrived. They paced and pushed and pressed into a vibrating ball of black and ivory feathers. Just like us humans, the taller birds stretched their necks to see over the shorter animals. Spectators parted as two young men pushed a cart filled to the brim with fresh oranges to the portable steps.
One of the men, who was thirty at the most, carried himself up the steps like an athlete. He removed his black cap to wave it at the crowd. He had brown eyes that were fringed with long lashes. "I'm Paul Wilkins, one of the bird handlers here at Dawson's Farm. We've brought a cartful of oranges. It's one of their favorite treats, as you can see by the enthusiasm of the flock." This garnered a laugh from the crowd. "Also, ladies, keep your hats, especially those decorated with things that look edible, away from the fence. We have had more than one hat catastrophe during feeding time." Another laugh.
Daddy leaned his head closer. "I guess the gentleman on the trolley wasn't exaggerating."
I tapped the brim of my flower adorned hat. "I'll keep clear of bird beaks. Although, that's probably a good rule in general, hat or no hat."
Paul reached into the back of his gray trousers and pulled out a thick pair of work gloves. His sleeves had been pulled back from his wrists and bound with a pair of green garters, just like the ones Duffy wore at the Soda Fountain. It seemed ladling sticky syrups and caring for birds with sharp beaks afforded some similar hazards. Paul's workmate handed up two oranges. One of the biggest birds squirmed its way to the fence.
"This is Homer, and he always gets the first orange because—" Paul stopped and admired the bird. "Well, just look at him." Another laugh. Paul's gaze caught something at the back of the crowd. A fleeting smile crossed his face, then he returned his focus to the ostrich. I glanced over heads, now stretched higher than usual, to see what might have caused his smile. Ruby Dawson was standing a few feet back from the rest of the group. She was sipping a cold drink and watching with keen interest as Paul dropped the first orange into Homer's wide open beak.
After watching the tenth bird swallow an orange whole, my throat began to feel a little sore. Others must have felt the same. The crowd around the feeding area had thinned to a few stragglers, including Jasper, who had moved even closer to get a better view. As he was apt to do, he had started a friendly conversation with the worker who Paul had handed off the task of feeding the birds.
After standing in the hot sun for a good twenty minutes, I was in need of some refreshment, and since those twenty minutes had been scented with the fragrance of fresh oranges, my mouth watered for something cold and citrusy. "Daddy, I think I'll walk over to the snack stand and get a lemonade. Do you want one too?"
He shrank rather sheepishly beneath his hat brim. "Jasper and I have already had two lemonades each. In our defense, it was while you were in the boutique. Otherwise, I would have bought you one as well." He reached for his billfold. "Let me pay for yours."
I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm an independent woman, remember?" I added a wink.
Daddy's round shoulders drooped. "You don't have to tell me. On days like this, I wish it were ten years earlier and you were still my little Poppy Blossom, holding my hand and depending on me."
"Oh, Daddy, you know I'll always be your Poppy Blossom."
He pulled a dollar bill from his billfold. "Then take this. My treat."
I took hold of the dollar. "Thanks. Sure you don't want to go for a third lemonade? I could get one for Jasper too. They'd go great with our lunch."
"Actually, maybe that's not a bad idea." He lifted the basket he'd been clutching since we left the Red Car. "It'd be nice to lighten this basket, and I'm getting pretty hungry. Besides, these deviled ham sandwiches aren't going to be good if we wait much longer."
"Perfect. You pry Jasper away from the ostriches, and I'll go order us three lemonades." I walked along the dirt pathway to the small stand selling cold drinks and sandwiches. As could be expected, on a hot busy day at the farm, there was a long line. The sandwiches they were selling were premade, wrapped in brown paper and ready to be handed off to the next hungry customer, so I concluded the line would move fairly fast. I stepped in behind
a family with two harried looking parents and three little ones in tow. After struggling to get the toddler to stand still in a line, a feat that was destined for failure, the young mother took the little boy's hand and led him away to the shade of the trees, where he quickly set about picking tiny wildflowers from the grass. I was only last in line for a few seconds when two of the farm workers, Paul, the ostrich handler, and Nate, Jasper's mate, lined up behind me. It seemed wrong that they needed to wait in line like those of us there for leisure.
I turned around and both men flashed polite smiles. Paul, with his long lashes and deep tan, was exceptionally handsome.
"Hey, you're that girl I met with the Englishman. Did he take a ride on the ostrich cart?" Nate asked.
"I think that's still on his to-do list," I said. "Do you two need to cut in front of me? I hate to see you wasting your entire break standing in line."
Paul tipped his cap at me. "Very kind of you, Miss. But don't worry about it. The girls running the stand keep things moving pretty fast." His point was proved when the line moved forward.
"All right, if you're sure."
"Yes, Miss," Paul said.
I faced forward. The family in front of me had dwindled to just the father. He looked relieved to be standing in line alone.
"Uh oh, there's the boss," I heard Nate mutter to Paul.
My gaze was easily drawn to a man walking purposefully along the pathway. He was most likely thirty-something but he wore it more like forty-something. His skin was leathery from the sun, and his hands and forearms, exposed from rolled shirtsleeves, looked as if they could tear a thick book in half. His dark eyes were set deep in his craggy face. He wore little emotion as he zeroed in on his apparent targets, the two men standing behind me. I caught the name and title on his tag as he approached, Arthur Jones, Farm Supervisor.
Murder at the Ostrich Farm Page 3
