Creek Crisis Read online

  "Ladies, I’m sure we will have plenty of time to discuss this matter later, after our business has finally concluded."

  The words were colorless, mundane, but the effect on the two women was electric.

  "Of course," stammered Dorothy.

  "Yes, yes, I look forward to it," responded Mary.

  Leon, arms crossed in front of his chest, nodded.

  "Good, very good."

  He watched as the women retreated in separate directions, then slipped away into the darkness as quickly as he had appeared.

  Chapter 6

  After a few moments I stepped out from behind the tree to see Dorothy Sadler marching swiftly, back ramrod straight, away in the opposite direction. Whatever secret Mary Birdsong knew, it wasn’t something Dorothy wanted made public. None of your business Ollie, keep out of it. But I was curious and that made it my business.

  I decided to head in the direction taken up by Mary Birdsong. I wanted to meet the famous star, although she'd fallen on tough times, it would still be a pleasure, and I half wondered whether her emotional state was such that she might spill the beans on Dorothy. It is often easier to share troubles with a stranger.

  In the distance I saw Mary heading toward the bandstand. I followed at some distance behind. She stopped to watch the live music, swaying to the instrumental jazz, humming under her breath. The youthful YouTube Mary was gone, replaced by craggy lines, hard stone-cold gray eyes and thick rubbery skin. Only her voice remained vaguely reminiscent of the old Mary Birdsong.

  After a couple of minutes, I approached the diminutive singer and introduced myself.

  "My kids really loved the music you put out a few years ago."

  The former pop idol glanced at me through the corners of her eyes. They were devoid of emotion. She refocused her stare on the musicians who were beating out the opening melody of the "West End Blues".

  If it wasn’t the fact Mary was once famous, and curiosity living in my bones, I would’ve given up. I tried to think of something to say to engage her in conversation, but drew a blank.

  The DJ, Johnny Spinner, walked around the side of the stage. The radio show host looked directly at Mary Birdsong, raised both his arms to point at her as he did a little salsa dance toward us.

  As he approached, Mary touched my arm, a broad smile on her rubbery face.

  "I'm pleased your kids enjoyed my earlier music."

  A flicker of humanity flashed in the eyes as she continued. "It was a real pleasure to bring joy to so many people. The sad thing is I was a little too young to appreciate it all. But I had a lot of fun, as did my band members." She pointed at Johnny who was now standing at her side.

  "Long time no see, Johnny," said Mary.

  Johnny grunted.

  Mary continued, "Johnny was a drummer in one of my bands before …" Her voice trailed off.

  "You ditched me two weeks before your big hit," Johnny said, the face flushed and a vein pulsated in his neck.

  Mary stared at the musicians for a moment, then turned to look at me. "Oh well, I better go. It was nice meeting you. Wish I could say the same for you Johnny, you were a loser back then; looks like nothing’s changed."

  And off she went.

  Johnny stood still gazing at the band who played the opening notes of "Take the 'A' Train". His body appeared relaxed, and he tapped to the beat as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but his eyes narrowed, the pupils shrunken to nothingness, suggested otherwise.

  As the drummer beat out a frantic rhythm, Johnny Spinner slunk away.

  ◆◆◆

  "Meow." The sound: weak, feeble, high-pitched, as if squeaked by a mouse. "Meow." The noise came from the far side of the parking lot, away from the tents and the bandstand. I walked in the direction of the sound. The temporary event lights didn't extend to this part of the property, but the moon was full, shining a gentle blue light to illuminate the darkness.

  "Meow, meow, meow." It came from between two disused wooden shacks. Around the corner I peered. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dark.

  Mary Birdsong sat cross-legged next to a small wooden crate. In her lap three tiny kittens, only a few days old. Mary's face, excited, eyes alive, intense focus on the tiny felines. Mary didn’t look up, I doubt if she was aware of my presence. A gray rat sniffed the air, gnawed on a tree root near her, and she hardly turned her head. A large spider ran across the floor in plain sight, and she watched it without flinching.

  The meowing grew louder. Mary sat still and whispered, "you guys are simply the best, won't let ole Mary or anyone else down." The kittens let out a collective "meow," as if in appreciation. She picked up the smallest kitten, ginger with white ears, placing it on the ground in front of her. The little fellow lay there, wriggling feebly for a moment. Then stretched and crawled back toward her lap. The creature was so weak it could not raise its body fully, but dragged it along by taking short and uncertain steps with his four shaking legs. Mary picked up the tiny thing and said, "Your name is Struggles, just like my life."

  Under the light of the moon, a broad smile broke out on her face, the wrinkles in the corner of her eyes crunched up, and the dazzling beauty of her youth seemed to suddenly reappear. Then she said, "I wonder, if I was ever as small as you guys. I love you, each and every one. And I promise to take care of you for the rest of your lives."

  Mary carefully placed each kitten into the crate, attached the lid, stood up, and with the crate securely under her arm she strode toward the Cast Member’s Only tent.

  Chapter 7

  I woke up and blinked twice, it was still dark. The cell phone flashed five forty-five a.m. In the kitchen, I let Bodie out and scrambled a couple of eggs. A work crew would be around at seven a.m. to take down the tents, cart off the tables and chairs, and break down the stage areas.

  A sigh of relief passed my lips, Theodora would manage all the details. This left me free to get on with my regular day. "Yep," I said aloud, "bring your own event planner, is the way to go".

  Bodie and I headed out along a dirt path which ran through the countryside. The breeze from the west cooled the summer air, and tall oak trees offered shade against the rising sun. A turkey vulture hovered effortlessly over the wilderness, its oversized wings outstretched, keen eyes on the search for its next meal.

  Miles of trails snaked across this part of the Hill Country, locals use them as shortcuts into town. A glance up at the sun told me it was around seven thirty a.m., and there was plenty of time to get to Moozoos Café and back to Ealing Homestead before my eleven-a.m. appointment with Frederick Johnson, an event planner for Big Speech Industries, a multinational electronics firm based in Austin.

  At a fork, I decided to take the longer route which snaked upward across hilly terrain before it eventually looped back around to join the more popular trail which ended at the Riverwalk Bridge. The longer route, popular during the autumn with local teenagers and tourists, but little used during the summer.

  As I made my way along I noticed the path was narrow, partly overgrown, single file only. Into an easy stroll I settled. The gentle rustle of branches, and occasional chirp of a bird, the only sound. There was no hurry.

  At an opening ahead on the left, stood a copse of ancient oak trees. Like some giant prehistoric relic silhouetted against the background of the rising sun, they stretched their branches outwards, leaves swaying in the morning breeze. This was a spot where local teenagers hung out during the cooler months of the year. Two tire swings, attached by a thick rope to the branches of the largest tree, swung backward and forward. A homemade hammock, constructed of sackcloth and rope, empty, rocked alongside.

  At first, I barely glanced at it.

  "What’s that?"

  I freed Bodie from his leash and squinted ahead. Bodie whimpered, head pointing toward the trees, body tense, still. I was unable to figure out what it was that caught his attention. Many times, I've passed this copse of oak trees, both by daylight and moonlight. Somehow it l
ooked different now. My eyes strained to make out the irregular shape at the trunk of the largest tree.

  "Looks like someone piled up leaves and branches. Probably a prank by local teenagers," I muttered aloud. Millie Watkins, the local reporter, had written several articles about teenagers setting fire to shop store mannequins along the trail.

  "Bet they’ll be back later to set the thing on fire. Might be the same kids that caused the bushfire over at Mr. Hill’s ranch. Still, better take a closer look, and alert Deputy Dingsplat."

  I walked with care, treading lightly, cedar walking stick prodding the ground, acutely aware that snakes often rest among dried branches, leaves and undergrowth.

  It was gloomy beneath the trees, sunlight filtered out by dark green foliage. Rotten branches, dried leaves, sticks and moist soil formed a shallow mound. Built, by the haphazard nature of its construction, in a hurry.

  "When did I last walk along this trail?" I said out loud.

  I stood still, thinking.

  "Monday! The day of Harriot, chariots and miniature donkeys."

  I thought for a moment. That was three days ago, I hadn’t noticed it then.

  Bodie whined.

  Absentmindedly, I poked the mound. The cedar walking cane came to an abrupt stop.

  Thud.

  I prodded again.

  Thud.

  Something solid.

  Casually I pulled away large branches and twigs. The edge of a fabric, bright yellow with familiar black lettering on it, became visible.

  "Looks like a tarp from Gregg's," I muttered under my breath.

  I sank to my knees and scooped away twigs and leaves, one handful at a time as the dank smell filled my nostrils. Yes, it was definitely a tarp with Gregg’s Hardware Store in bold letters.

  I pulled the tarp with my right hand. It didn’t move.

  Again, I tugged, this time with both hands.

  An arm flopped out.

  Bodie howled.

  I stumbled onto my feet. From the hollow sensation in my stomach I knew that this was no storefront mannequin. I reached down and pulled hard with both hands on the tarp, sliding backward. A body rolled out. I lurched rearward, shards of fear traveling up and down my spine as a thumping pulse pounded heavily through the veins in my neck. Oh crap!

  The body: a woman, slender, worn blue jeans, a yellow Keep Austin Weird T-shirt, tattooed arms, rubbery-looking face, and an unusual shade of purple hair. It was Mary Birdsong!

  "Not possible!" I muttered and stared again.

  Mary’s eyes were open, lips parted ever so slightly. A brown patch of dried blood caked from her nose. Several dark purple lines crossed the neck, and the right hand clutched a small green bottle. My stomach lurched. I pitched forward and tossed up that morning’s scrambled eggs.

  I placed both hands on my cheeks as my head spun then suddenly cleared into a single thought. Why was Mary grasping that tiny green bottle? I had to take deep breaths to gather my courage. After several moments, with trembling hands, I picked up the walking stick and prodded the bottle. It didn’t move from Mary’s moribund grip.

  Something tapped my shoulder, I spun around--hands above my face for protection--legs shaking but ready to run. Then I realized it was a branch, low hanging, laden with leaves swaying gently in the Hill Country breeze.

  I shouldn’t touch the body, don’t disturb the scene that’s what they say in the movies isn’t it?

  "Better wait for the sheriff to arrive," I said, looking at Bodie. But something about the bottle nagged at me.

  It wouldn’t do any harm to give it another small tap, would it?

  I took a slow deep breath, then prodded it again, this time with more force. The bottle shuddered, then rolled out of Mary’s lifeless grasp coming to a stop on a small clump of dried twigs and leaves.

  On the front, a white label with bold black lettering–"Colloidal Silver". I picked it up and without any real thought, slipped it into my handbag as I pulled out my cell phone.

  "Sheriff’s department. I want to report the discovery of a body…"

  I had the entire day in front of me, and the rest of today--I was certain--wasn’t going to be like any other I’d known.

  Chapter 8

  Rays from the early morning sun chased away the remaining nighttime clouds, only a few high wisps floated in a light blue sky. The temperature already in the high seventies and rising, indicated that today would touch a hundred degrees.

  Like an ancient warrior guarding the tomb of a long-forgotten emperor I stood still, waiting. A rabbit scampered across the undergrowth, stopped, sniffed the air and looked in my direction. Then it bolted. Bodie whimpered.

  Paramedics were the first to arrive. Two individuals, on foot, traveling with speed along the trail. The younger, a thin spidery woman in her mid-twenties, out in front. Her footsteps light, quick, as she moved with the ease of youth. Behind, was the senior paramedic, a man in his late thirties, with a hooked nose and soft brown eyes. He breathed heavily but kept pace with his younger colleague.

  They came to a stop in front of me. The senior paramedic doubled over to catch his breath. "Hell of a walk up here," he said gulping for air. The man's gaze turned to the body at the base of the tree. "Judy, can you check out what we got here."

  The younger paramedic, whose name badge read Judy Kirkley, rushed toward the body, knelt, and after several moments shook her head.

  Judy stood up, glanced around, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking as though she wanted to say something. In a hushed voice she spoke up.

  "She’s gone."

  Her older colleague, having caught his breath, strolled over to give a second opinion. He bent over the body and peered at the face. A sucking sound gurgled from his throat.

  "Uh-oh! It’s Mary Birdsong, the singer from Austin."

  He shuddered despite the warm sunshine and placed his hand lightly on Mary’s face.

  "I’d say, she’s not been gone long. Whaddya think Judy?"

  The younger woman nodded, her eyes scanning Mary’s face.

  "Look!"

  She pointed to Mary’s neck. The older man nodded. They both turned to stare at me. I didn’t say anything, only turned from the body, my eyes down. They continued to stare.

  "What?" I said. "She was like this when I found her."

  The woman paramedic held up one hand and cut me off before I could say anything else.

  "Listen, we’re not the police. This is a matter for them."

  No one said anything. I looked at the senior paramedic, he had his upper lip between his teeth, biting down hard.

  "Well, there is nothing we can do for Mary. Loved her song "'Lovely Children, Lovely Family'" he said.

  Silence.

  The senior paramedic let out a low whistle and strolled over to where I stood.

  "Are you okay lady?"

  I nodded. "Yes, I’m alive… I’m fine."

  He patted Bodie on the head. Bodie howled.

  "Guess this is a crime scene now," said the younger paramedic.

  "Yup," her colleague nodded.

  The words set a mournful bell tolling inside of me. I sucked in my breath, pressed my palm to my cheek, then responded. "Most murder victims are killed by someone they know, someone with means, motivation and opportunity."

  Chapter 9

  Deputy Dingsplat arrived a few minutes later, on foot pushing a sheriff’s department mountain bike. He drew a deep breath as he approached the body. The senior paramedic placed an arm on his shoulder. Together they strolled out of earshot, almost. In a low mumbled tone, they discussed the situation. The voices so low I could hardly hear above the rustle of the trees. Now and again they looked in my direction.

  "Mary Birdsong…see that?…seen it before…suspicious."

  The conversation over, Deputy Dingsplat stood there with the paramedic for a few seconds, looking at the body, and me, and the body one more time. Finally, he strode over to where I stood, bent over to pat Bodie. He st
raightened up, his face pale, lips drained of blood.

  "Ollie, if it wasn’t for your actions the body might have laid here for months, perhaps even through the fall and winter. Anyway, given your experience helping our department with previous suspicious deaths, I thought you might like to know it looks like foul play."

  He paused, his eyes narrowing.

  "This is all off the record by the way. We won’t get confirmation until after the autopsy. But the paramedic and I both recognize the marks on her neck. Seen them before--strangulation. Not good Ollie, not good at all."

  He rubbed his chin and smiled.

  "There are some things civilians can do that uniformed officers can’t."

  It was too early in the morning to listen to this.

  "I’m not Miss Marple or a private detective." I responded. Coffee, I need coffee, or even better a Creek Jolt.

  Deputy Dingspalt radioed for backup and cordoned off a large area around the body with yellow police tape.

  As the shock began to abate I looked again at the body, so small and lifeless. My mind went back to the very last time I’d seen Mary Birdsong, outside in the dark, illuminated by silvery moonlight with three little kittens on her lap. The smallest, ginger with white ears and large eyes, stared into her face as if it understood what she was saying. She had named it Struggles and promised to protect it: her touch gentle, eyes soft, tone sincere.

  Within what felt like a handful of minutes the entire sheriff’s department were on the trail. The sheriff arrived in an off-road jeep, siren wailing. A tall lanky individual, with a wild forest of gray hair growing over his head and face, was in uniform, but the sheriff wasn’t. The man wore a sheriff’s outfit of sorts and a pair of wading boots--which alongside the fishing pole poking out from the back of the jeep--left the impression this murder thingy had disturbed his early morning fly fishing on the creek.

  "What’s the situation?" he asked Deputy Dingsplat.