It had been a long day. I was more than happy to get home to my cozy little house and my two adoring cats. Well, at least Antony was adoring, and granted, that was mostly because he saw me as a giant can of tuna. But I felt needed nonetheless. A cool shower and a peanut butter and banana sandwich and I was refreshed and ready to spend some time plotting our next move. I now had not one but two possible trajectories for Mildred's murder. One line of thought where Mildred was the sole victim and focus of some horrible person's ire. And another, where Paul became the target and Mildred was killed for no real reason except to seal Paul's fate.
I always thought better on my feet, so I paced back and forth in my teensy front room. It could hardly be called pacing considering it entailed just three good strides before requiring a turn, but it was the largest room in the house. My eyes flitted past the window, and I caught a movement in Mrs. Dewberry's kitchen curtains. She was sitting at the sill, drinking tea and watching the birds flutter in for the last meal of the day.
Tea seemed too warm, so I reached into the icebox for the milk bottle. I poured myself a glass and headed outside. With any luck, she would be feeling up to opening the window for a chat. I never quite knew with my neighbor, Mrs. Dewberry. I was just thrilled to get a smile and a wave hello. An exchange of words was even better.
She spotted me crossing the small courtyard with a glass of milk and slid open her window. I had placed Mrs. Dewberry, or Ginny, as she preferred to be called, at about the same age as Daddy, late fifties or early sixties. Her hair had shocks of gray, and there were plenty of what Daddy referred to as lines of wisdom around her eyes and mouth. The semi-permanent creases on her forehead seemed to be more from sadness than age. Like so many people, Mrs. Dewberry had suffered through the loss of a son in the war. When her husband died soon after her initial devastation, the poor woman had locked herself off from the world to keep from getting hurt again.
"Evening, Ginny" I said quietly. I'd discovered early on that Mrs. Dewberry preferred a gentle, non-raucous conversation. Which was certainly fine by me.
"Evening, Poppy. You know, I had an odd orange bird at my feeder this afternoon." It was rare for her to start the chat, so it seemed we'd reached another milestone.
"An orange one? How exciting," I said gently. "Do you think it was an oriole? That's the only orange bird I know of."
She put her cup of tea on the windowsill and moved closer. "I believe so. It had a black head and black stripes on its wings. I sat here very still for about ten minutes as it ate its lunch. The smaller birds stayed in the trees waiting for their big orange intruder to leave. My Gabe used to enjoy bird watching." She usually mentioned her late husband as part of the conversation, but she had yet to bring up her son Michael. I could only imagine how hard it would be for a mother to talk about a child she had lost. Still, I hoped one day we'd be able to talk about him, so I could learn more about Michael.
"I think Gabe would have been friends with Daddy. He enjoys bird watching too." I took a sip of the cold milk.
"No tea tonight?" she asked.
"I needed something more refreshing. Jasper and I are on a case, and we had to take the Red Line to Pasadena. Do you know the town?" I asked.
"As a matter of fact, I had a cousin who lived there. But she moved back east when her husband was relocated for a new job. Does the case have to do with the murder of the woman at the ostrich farm?"
I stood up taller to get a better look in her window. "How did you know?"
She smiled behind her tea cup and took a sip. "You told me you were visiting the farm, then I saw the murder in the paper."
I pressed my fingers to my mouth. "Oh dear, I was lamenting the lack of murders and good cases in the letter. I really am a ghoul."
"No, you're not, Poppy. It's just a coincidence." I was close enough to her window to hear her short gasp at the sound of distinctive footsteps. We had one utterly charming neighbor, Thomas Crandell, who ran a produce market in the center of town and showered us with fresh strawberries and tart blueberries. We also had an utterly contemptible neighbor, Mr. Samuel Wolfe, although mentally I just referred to him as Wolfe because he was mean and scary like the animal.
"The bird feeders are a nuisance," Wolfe barked behind me. "They make a terrible mess."
After our mild, temperate few moments of conversation, Wolfe's angry tone sounded extra alarming. Mrs. Dewberry snapped her window shut and the curtains fluttered closed.
I turned sharply and faced my perpetually grouchy neighbor. "Mr. Wolfe, you are rude. Mrs. Dewberry and I were having a conversation. You had no right to barge in on it."
Wolfe had sharp features and coal black hair to go with his name and his demeanor. His black brows touched together in the middle, and he barked out a mean laugh. "A conversation with Mrs. Dewberry? That hermit?" He laughed again and headed to his house. "Just see to it none of that bird seed lands on my walkway," he snarled and shut the door behind him.
I stomped back to my house, clutching my half-empty milk glass and wishing I'd had the guts to toss the contents at him. My cats, sensing that I'd stormed back inside in a much darker mood than when I'd skipped out, both headed for the bedroom to keep clear of the grumpy woman pacing around the front room.
I circled the room briskly at least a dozen times, glancing toward Mrs. Dewberry's kitchen window with each pass. But she never returned. I only hoped that Wolfe had not just taken everything back to square one with Mrs. Dewberry. After some of the rage melted away, I made a plan to write her a nice letter in the morning.
As I circled a few more times, the case entered my thoughts again. It seemed I was going to need to find out more about Eugene Strump if I was going to explore my new theory. But as was often the case, once the sun went down, innovative ideas and new plans sometimes lost their sheen. It was most likely because of my disagreeable neighbor, but somehow, everything started to look far more bleak. The same question had circled my mind more than once since Ruby had first visited our office, and it seemed to not only circle but land solidly this time. Only employees had keys to the ostrich pen. The two pieces of evidence were the leather ostrich lead and Paul's glove. Everything was pointing in one direction. What if Paul Wilkins was actually the killer?
Chapter Twenty-Two
By morning, my head had cleared from a good night's sleep, and I was feeling more determined than ever to prove that Paul was not the killer. I was also determined to test out my new theory and uncover whether or not someone was trying to hurt Paul, leaving Mildred's death just a tragic consequence.
I opened the front curtains to let the daylight in and to allow the cats to watch the magical bird show outside the window. The bird feeder had become like a trip to the movie theater for Antony and Cleopatra. Every day brought new adventure, an intriguing storyline and most of all, new feathery characters.
As always, my gaze swept across the yard to the little house diagonal from mine, Mrs. Dewberry's tan little cottage. She wasn't at her window but it was early. The empty window brought back our evening chat that was so abruptly and rudely interrupted by Mr. Wolfe. As I pulled my gaze away, I noticed something, or better put, I didn't notice something. The birdhouse, the one Daddy had built that I'd brought especially for Mrs. Dewberry, was no longer hanging from its wire. Several birds perched on the branches of the nearby Crape Myrtle tree staring at the empty wire and looking thoroughly despondent. I refused to even give credence to a quick thought that Mr. Wolfe had removed it. No, I was certain Mrs. Dewberry had taken it down to avoid conflict with our angry neighbor. I felt sickened by the notion that I'd caused her any stress. But I felt even worse knowing that she had truly enjoyed that bird feeder. She'd told me in one window conversation that she had even named a few of the frequent visitors. Humphrey, a fat little sparrow was one of her favorites.
I was running late. I would surely hear it from Jasper if he arrived and found me only half ready to head out, but this was a letter writing emergency. I headed to the small niche i
n the front room I'd carved out as my office and pulled out the chair.
My phone rarely rang, especially in the morning, so its loud bell startled me. I grabbed the stick and lifted the receiver to my ear. "Hello, Poppy speaking."
"Yeah, it's me, Jasper," he sounded a little hoarse and not himself. "Listen, Charlie's not starting. He needs a check under the hood. Kellan has the day off, so he's coming to give the car a once over."
"That's too bad. I guess I'll take the Red Car to the office. Even though I swore last night that I wouldn't step foot on a trolley for at least a week. It seems I have no choice. Why do you sound so hoarse? Were you yelling at Charlie?" I laughed.
"Yeah, that's it. I stood on the driveway this morning, in my pajamas, and yelled at my car."
"I know that's sarcasm, but even you have to admit it sounds like something you'd do." I sat down and pulled one of the postcards from the ostrich farm out of my desk.
"I guess it does but I wasn't yelling. I woke up with a sore throat. Doc is fixing me up some lemon honey tea concoction. I'm sure I'll feel better once Charlie is up and running. What are you going to do this morning?"
"I'm not exactly sure." I was rethinking my morning now. "I think I'll catch a Red Car to Daddy's, then make up my mind once I get there."
"All right but no promises on Charlie. He sounded even more hoarse than me this morning," Jasper said.
"Maybe Daddy has some honey tea for Charlie too. I'll see you soon. Hopefully, with a nice plan of action in my head." I hooked the receiver on the stand and put the phone back on the desk, then I pulled out a pen. With my usual morning routine made more complex with Jasper and his rattling old car both feeling under the weather, I didn't have time for a long letter. I decided Mrs. Dewberry might be cheered up by a postcard with a man riding an ostrich on the front. I couldn't start the day without at least dropping her a few lines. I was worried that Wolfe had upset her so much that she would pull back into her shell. It had taken months to get those first cracks, and I wasn't about to let them seal up.
* * *
Tuesday, June 19, 1923
Dear Mrs. Dewberry,
Thought I'd drop you a quick line. As I'm sure you can surmise, I bought this postcard at the Dawson Ostrich Farm. Isn't it humorous?
I just wanted to share my opinion on our rather unpleasant neighbor, Mr. Wolfe. I'm afraid I was very curt with him after he interrupted our nice chat. There was no call for me to be so defensive with him, especially because we were doing nothing wrong. And our little feathered friends, who wisely kick empty hulls out of their feeder, weren't doing anything wrong either. Daddy always tells me that you can't judge someone if you don't know much about them. Since the only thing I know about Mr. Wolfe is that he works long hours and doesn't enjoy saying hello or good morning, I suppose it would be wrong for me to make any kind of assessment of his character. Perhaps he had a terrible childhood or maybe there is trouble at his work. Who knows? But I do know this. There are two kinds of people. The kind who look at a busy bird feeder and see nature's sweet birds enjoying a delicious feast and the kind of person who looks at a busy bird feeder and sees a mess on the sidewalk. I don't know about you, but I prefer to be the former and not the latter.
Oops, out of room. These postcards really don't leave much room for thoughts . . .
Your friend, Poppy
* * *
I finished getting ready and headed out for the three block walk to the Red Car stop. There was still no sign of Mrs. Dewberry in the kitchen window which worried me. I hoped my postcard would put a smile on her face. I dropped it through the mail slot on the door and headed out to the sidewalk. The morning cloud cover had vanished early, signaling a hot summer day ahead. Since the temperature was already heating up, I knew the trolley ride was going to be uncomfortably hot. Fortunately, the trip to Daddy's was much shorter than the journey to Pasadena.
Once I reached the Red Car stop, I sat down on the bench to go through my notes on the case. Before I left the house, I'd made the firm decision to take another trip to the ostrich farm. I'd made a call to the farm and left a message for Ruby to leave our names at the entrance so we could get through. Jasper and I had planned to risk the trip in Charlie, hoping to avoid the hot, endless journey on the Red Car. It seemed we would be taking the trolley after all.
A woman sat next to me with flowery perfume. Not wanting to offend, I turned my head to the side for a discreet sneeze. She was dressed for business in a wraparound skirt of checked wool velour and a broadcloth silk tailored blouse. The blue nametag on her blouse told me her name was Verna and she was a teller at First National Bank, which was located in the center of town.
"Seems it's going to be a hot one," she said as she pulled off a white glove. Verna fished through her handbag and pulled out a compact. She opened it to spot check her makeup in the teensy mirror.
"Yes, and to think this is only June," I said. "We still have three months of summer to go." I could never understand why weather small talk was the usual direction for any conversation between strangers. Secretly, I'd always thought it would be wild fun to just start talking about everything on your mind, like talking to one of those high priced therapists who make you lay on their stodgy leather couches and peel away layers of feelings. It would be much cheaper to tell it all to a stranger, get their opinion and then go merrily in separate ways, never to see each other again. But instead, Verna and I continued on about the weather, a rather dull topic in the city of perpetual sunshine.
"We've been lucky to have this cloud cover every morning, but that will be gone soon. Then we'll wake up to the hot sun and the evenings won't cool off at all," Verna said with a highly accurate description of the months ahead.
"Yes, nighttime is when you look forward to a reprieve from the summer heat. I agree, that reprieve rarely comes in July and August." The Red Car waddled into the station. I was somewhat relieved not to have to come up with any more profound details about the weather.
Verna dropped her compact into her handbag and snapped it shut. She stood up and headed to the trolley. I did the same, but as I stood, I noticed she had left behind her glove. I picked it up and hurried after her.
"Miss," I called. "Your glove."
She turned around and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I think I'd lose my head if it weren't attached. Thank you."
I climbed onto the trolley behind her. The glove incident reminded me of the first time I saw Ruby Dawson. She asked her shop girl, Mary, if anyone had turned in her missing glove. The next time we spoke, she had lost a beautiful scarf. As far as I knew, she never found it. Could someone be trying to harm Ruby? Were they framing Paul to get to her? Or was I just losing my way entirely with this case? It seemed, unfortunately, that it might very well be the latter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I hated to admit it (and tried very hard not to) but I was excited to see Kellan. He was leaned far into Charlie's engine compartment. Jasper was standing over him, blathering away and asking a dozen questions. He sounded less hoarse. Kellan patiently answered each one. I, on the other hand, headed inside to see Daddy because there was nothing so mundane as a discussion about the inner workings of a car.
Daddy was cleaning up after apparently concocting not only Jasper's sore throat elixir but also a pile of buttermilk pancakes. He was elbow deep in a sink of suds when he heard me walk in. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "Poppy Blossom, I managed to wrest three pancakes from the boys. I've got them warming in the oven."
"Yummy. All I had was a piece of burnt toast for breakfast." I reached for the oven mitt and pulled my plate out of the warm oven. "These look delicious, Daddy. They'll hardly need syrup."
"That's good because Jasper and Kellan nearly emptied the bottle."
I sat down with my plate and attempted to dribble on the last bits of syrup. It was a slow, painstaking process. "You weren't kidding. What did they do? Lick the inside of the bottle?"
"Wouldn't put it past your brother." Dadd
y lifted a bowl from the frothy suds and rinsed it.
"What is my favorite private investigator up to?"
"Trying to figure out who killed Mildred Freemont-Keeler," I said between bites. The cakes were light and fluffy, just the way I liked them. I loved living on my own and being independent, but a few bites of Daddy's pancakes and I was instantly homesick.
"So you don't think it was the boy they arrested, the farmhand?" He turned off the water and dried his hands on a towel. Each day new slivers of pale gray took the place of his red hair. It was a good look for him. Made him look distinguished.
"To be honest, I'm not sure. I hope, for my client's sake, that he's innocent. Otherwise, she'll be heartbroken."
"Yes, Jasper was telling me about Miss Dawson and her engagement to the man about to be put on trial. It's a shame."
Laughter rolled through the kitchen window. Daddy smiled. "That Kellan is quite the charmer. It was nice of him to spend his day off here. And under the hood of a car, no less."
"Yes, it was. I hope he can get Charlie up and running. Jasper and I were hoping to drive out to Pasadena. We decided to risk the long drive rather than endure one of those crowded, hot trolley rides again."
Dad's brows pinched together. "I wouldn't count on Jasper going anywhere today. He sounded pretty hoarse this morning."
"He sounds better. And he's out there laughing and having a good time."
"That's because I made him swallow an aspirin along with the lemon tea. Once the effects of it wear off, he's going to be ready to climb into bed. He had a fever last night. I expect it to return tonight."
I sat back. "Darn, that means I've lost my partner and my mode of transportation. I've got places to go and people to see."
Charlie roared to life on the driveway. Daddy went to the window to look out. "Looks like that old Runabout is still kicking and fighting. But I still don't want Jasper to work today. If he rests this afternoon and gets a good night's sleep, he might just beat this thing before it actually takes hold."
Murder at the Ostrich Farm Page 12
