Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek Read online

  Business is slow on this particular Monday, so I decide to send Mary off to deal with her roommate, close shop early and do some sleuthing. It’s barely two o’clock, so Lennon should still be at his job site, plus I want to take a pass at the fire station where Bill Holloway works.

  After Mary leaves, I lock up inside, adding the deadbolt for extra security, knowing she doesn’t have a key to that system, and head to the kitchen.

  My kitchen’s in the back of the house. It’s small, cozy, and the window faces my garden. Even though the leaves are nearly gone, there’s still enough cover for me to be stealthy. I can prop it open, trust the neighbor’s bulldog will watch over the area, and fly away with no one the wiser.

  Once I take flight, I can spy freely. No one pays attention to us crows. Most neurotypicals are consumed with their own lives and pay the natural world little regard, let alone credit us with any intelligence. Puh-lease. We’re as smart as smart can be. Why else would a flock of crows disappear when one gets offed by a shotgun? We simply alert the others and fly away. Or why would the guy who messed with one of us become public enemy number one for crow-dom? We pass the word, describing the facial features to a T. We have bright minds and keen awareness of the world around us.

  I take off in pursuit of Lennon, first on my agenda, flapping my wings in a steady rhythm. He’s easy to locate. He’s on the roof of a home in Old Town, working on a complete remodel. One of the Old Towners, Sarah Pringle, inherited money, and she wants to make her place look all fancy and rich. Whatever. I settle in a tree in the front yard and watch Lennon work, hoping I won’t be tempted by the dead squirrel I saw on the way over here.

  His movements are methodical and efficient. He lays the shingles, nailing them in place with a nail gun, moving quickly across the roof. He’s wearing a leather tool belt and sans cozy coat, no doubt warm from exertion as he makes his way across the steep pitched roof.

  I like watching his muscles bunch and bulge with exertion. Even if he is the enemy, he’s still fine to behold.

  “Hey, Lusk,” a male shouts from the ground.

  “Yeah?” His eyes narrow as he regards the person interrupting him.

  “Can you come down here?”

  “Can I finish the roof first?”

  “Afraid not. The general manager wants to see you.”

  “What?” Lennon yells, cupping his hand around his ear.

  “GM wants to see you straight away.”

  “What the fuck,” Lennon mutters, laying down the nail gun.

  He carefully navigates the roof and scrambles down the ladder leaning along the side of the huge house.

  “He’s in the trailer,” the guy tells him when he reaches the ground.

  Lennon tromps to the white construction trailer set up in the huge backyard. The Pringle’s remodel encompasses the entire house so they’ve gone to Mexico for the month.

  I flutter to the trailer and land on the roof. I spy an ant trail burrowing into a crack in the trailer. Can’t resist. I peck a couple ants. Tasty. I start to peck a couple more then remember what I’m here for. They’ll still be here when I’m done listening.

  Another crow flies by. Caw, he calls. I know he means, “Whatcha doing?”

  Caw, I respond, saying basically, “Nothing much.”

  He flies on by, satisfied with the answer.

  As a crow, I’ve got kick-ass hearing in the lower decibels, perfect for Lennon’s smooth, low-pitched bass tones. I hop to the edge of the roof, closest to the window, and tune in.

  “You’ve been arriving pretty late, boy.”

  That must be the GM.

  “I got here early this morning,” Lennon retorts.

  “For once. I hear you’re in trouble with the law again. Just got off with the sheriff.”

  Again? What did he do before this?

  “This is small town bullshit. The sheriff had no business calling you. I’m being wrongly accused for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Murder brings a stiff penalty plus a bad reputation. We can’t afford to have a murderer on the premise.”

  “I didn’t do it! It was a case of wrong place, wrong time.”

  “I hear you’re in cahoots with that McCartney girl; the know-it-all potter across town. She’s always in someone’s business.”

  I let out an angry squawk. Know-it-all?

  “I’m not in cahoots with anyone. I didn’t do it!”

  I don’t need to possess low register sensitivities to hear this conversation. The two men are shouting. Or at least one of them is.

  “Well, if you’re in the clear this will all blow over. But if you’re not…”

  A clatter sounded like Lennon tipped a chair over, or maybe threw a chair.

  “Lusk! That’s enough! I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “By doing what, exactly? By telling me I’m a fuck up who needs to lay low and stay out of crime? I didn’t do it.”

  “You left early yesterday. Clocked in late and clocked out early.”

  “I always finish my job.”

  “Why do you think I have what we in the trades call ‘hours of employment’? Think they’re mere suggestions? We have deadlines. You left early.”

  “I had a date.”

  “Yeah, with murder. You killed that sweet thing Elena Iris. It’s a shame.”

  “I did not. I completed my work and got an okay from my supervisor to leave so I could see her, not off her.”

  “That’s not what he told me.”

  “What does he know? Is he a cop on the side? Did you even ask him? I asked if I could leave. He said okay. How could it be any clearer than that?”

  “Your fingerprints were all over the doorknob to her house.”

  “What? Of course they were. She stood me up. I wanted to see if she got sick or something. Christ. That doesn’t make me a murderer. It makes me a concerned citizen.”

  “I know, I know, innocent until proven guilty.”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  I actually fluttered in the air; Lennon’s energy was so intense.

  “All I’m asking is you lay low for a little while. Maybe a week or two. If you’re as innocent as you say you are, when this blows over, you can come back.”

  “Are you telling me I’m being fired?”

  “Not exactly. More of a leave.”

  “An unpaid leave.”

  “Only until this blows over. They’ll find whoever did it.”

  “I need the money.”

  “You should’ve thought of that when you…”

  If the guy finishes his sentence I don’t hear it. The only sound for miles is the forceful slamming of the trailer door as Lennon stalks away.

  The ants catch my eye, drawing me away from my mission. I forgot to eat lunch, I rationalize. So tasty. I hop to their steady stream and gobble up a few more. You’ve got to keep spying on Lennon! Quit fooling around! A few more ants may or may not end up in my beak before I spread my wings.

  It’s easy to follow Lennon. He’s like a thundercloud, making his way through the property. As he passes by the house, a clang and clatter sounds from inside. A wall explodes, sending wood and plasterboard in a waterfall of fragments. Water gushes out a pipe lining the space between the outer wall and the inner one. Workmen yell and curse.

  Whoa, I think. Good thing Mrs. Pringle’s getting a remodel. Seems like her plumbing was bad.

  Lennon chuckles, like it’s funny. He grabs his tool belt then stalks to his brown metallic Chevy Silverado pickup truck. Flings the belt in the sturdy metal compartment in the back of the truck, locks it, and climbs into the cab, adding another angry slam of his door. Revs his engine and peels out to the disinterested stares of his co-workers.

  I fly above him as he accelerates out of the driveway. I keep up with him, easy peasy. He’s speeding through town, but he has to stop at stop signs and traffic lights, unless he has some sort of death wish. I’m managing just fine until I spy a friend of mine—Odin.


  He flies parallel to me so he can get my attention. Caw, he cries, short for “get your ass over here.”

  Caw, I retort, meaning, “Can’t. Following someone.”

  Caw, he returns, insisting I’ll want to hear what he has to say.

  I hook to the right and end up in the top of a nearby tree. Caw, I say, once we’ve landed. “What’s doing, soul snatcher?”

  Odin’s an old crow, maybe twenty. He’s revered in the world of winged ones. He’s one of the many who ushers souls to the other side. It’s no doubt a difficult job but he’s told me it’s been his calling since he was a wee chick. Those of us who aren’t part of the sacred few, serve to loosen the soul from the tissue as we pull, tug, and tear, consuming tasty tidbits as we do our job. And I’m proud to do it. I only wish the side effects—vomiting when I return to human—weren’t so bad. I hate to vomit.

  Caw. “It’s your friend Elena. Her death was so tragic she refuses to cross over.”

  That explains his absence at the creek last night. This statement evokes a strangled, garbled croak from my throat. My friend! Elena! I wish I could scream or yell. Instead I hop up and down a few times, indicating my frustration.

  Odin’s head bobs up and down. He makes a few soothing, rattle-like sounds, indicating he understands.

  “Do you know who killed her? Can she tell you?”

  He makes soft cooing caws, indicating she can’t. “You know we’re not allowed to know details of their departure. The ‘who’ and the ‘why’ are outside our job description. Sometimes we get glimpses of the ‘what.’ But our job is only to usher them to their maker.”

  Caw, caw. “This sucks. What can I do?”

  Caw. “You need to solve her murder. She won’t cross over until justice has been served. She’s counting on you.”

  And here I’ve been lost in comparison in my own “boohoo, I’m not as good as her” party. She’s counting on me. A small, sad caw escapes from my beak. “I’m trying. Did she…did she suffer?” The thought of poor, sweet, beautiful Elena suffering at the hands of her attacker horrifies me.

  Caw. “A bit, yes. Her torturer sought to drag it out, like a cat with a mouse. For the killer, it was sport…play.”

  Caw. “But you can’t tell me who did it or why?”

  His whole body bobs up and down. “Sorry, child, no. I cannot. There are rules.”

  I hop again, and flutter away from the branch. I’m so frustrated, enraged, in grief and this stupid bird body doesn’t allow the kind of free expression I’m needing. My wings beat the air, but it only causes me to get airborne and nearly knock myself out on a branch. Damn. I’m so distraught I could scream. I think I’ve been in shock since I found her. This is the first time I’ve allowed feelings.

  Odin has that effect on the world around him. He can be in the presence of someone who recently lost a loved one. All he has to do is flutter past, bearing the lost soul, and the person will break into sobs.

  I get a grip—literally—as my claws seize the branch beneath me, and I’m secure once more…at least physically. My mission to find Elena’s killer, fiercer than ever.

  As I head toward Lennon’s, I make a quick decision to stop by the fire department and see what Bill Holloway’s up to. I never liked that guy, ever since he was prom king to Elena’s prom queen, senior year. Star quarterback of the football team, his smile was always too bright, his blue eyes too shifty, and his hands too gropey. He even tried to feel me up a time or two, while he was with Elena. When I told her, she broke up with him, only to believe his lies a few years later and get back together with him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If she’d resisted his charming nonsense, maybe she would be alive today.

  Along the way, I fight back the desire to catch up with some of my crow friends, and am proud to say I sort of ignored a brand new batch of road kill on Old High Street. It was fresh and super juicy—okay, I might have checked—but I didn’t linger. I’m sure the others are feasting as I flap. They can perform the service we’re known for.

  When I arrive at the fire station, Bill and the others have their shiny-red ladder truck parked outside the garage, cleaning it like it’s a loved one, caressing and stroking its smooth surfaces. I land on the roof and call to Bill. Caw, caw. “You asshole! You cheating, lying, son of a bitch, asshat. You murderer!” It’s fun to curse in crow because no one understands me. Then again, what’s the point?

  Blond haired, artificially tanned, former quarterback Bill ignores me, of course. He dips a big beige sponge in a bucket of water and spreads foamy soap on the side of the fire engine.

  “You’re in a sour mood today, Holloway. What gives?” One of the crew shoots water from a hose, rinsing off Bill’s contribution. His breath forms ice clouds around his cheeks.

  “I’m no different than usual, Chief.” He swipes his hand vigorously back and forth along the red sheet steel.

  “You sure nothing’s bothering you?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “Good. Because your mood might change when I tell you something.”

  “What’s that?” Bill dips the sponge in the water again.

  “You know that girl you dated? Elena Iris?”

  Did Bill’s shoulders just tighten? I cock my head and study his movements. I’m a whiz at picking up subtle movements.

  “Yeah? What about her?”

  “She’s dead. It’s all over the news. Happened last night. Apparently, they waited to announce it until her family could be reached.”

  I swear on Saint Peter, Bill hesitates before responding as if trying to think of a proper response.

  “Seriously? I saw her yesterday.”

  My body bobs up and down. I knew it! He’s the murderer. I caw and flap my wings, hopping up and down.

  “Shit. Would you look at that bird?” The chief stares at me.

  “What bird?”

  “That stupid crow up there. He’s acting like he’s listening to us.”

  It’s a she, dipshit, and she is listening.

  “So why did you see her? Was she okay?” The chief gives Bill a steely-eyed glare.

  “Yeah. She was actually. We were talking about getting back together.”

  “Then why aren’t you more shook up?”

  “I guess I’m in shock, Chief. I can’t believe it. It’s…it’s…”

  It’s time for his lines, I think as he puts his arm against the truck and his shoulders shake in silent sobs. What a big faker. He’s less shook up than Lennon.

  The chief pats him on the shoulder and says, “Why don’t you take a break. Go upstairs and sort yourself out. Maybe take off. I can call in one of the volunteers. This has to hurt.”

  Bill nods, pretend wipes his eyes—there’s not a drop of moisture on his face if you don’t count his manly face moisturizer—and makes his slow, sad shuffle toward the building.

  I swiftly fly toward the side of the station, assuming he’ll be dragging his feet up the stairs. I hover, wings flapping furiously, at the one dirty window and watch his slow progress.

  As he gets out of sight of the crew, his legs begin a jaunty trot up the stairs.

  I squawk and flap my wings, causing him to jerk in response as he passes by the window.

  “Fucking crow,” I read from his lips.

  I’ll fucking crow you, you asshole. You’re not a bit sad. I’d really let him have it, but he’s out of sight.

  I fly back to the roof.

  When he emerges, about twenty minutes later, he resumes his funereal cadence once he’s in plain sight. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Chief. All I need is a few hours to grieve and I’ll be fine.”

  I let out a vicious caw, thinking, you could win an academy award, you big dipshit. Stellar performance.

  As he takes off, I follow him for a while, then head off in search of Lennon Lusk—as a human, once I’ve put on clothes. I’m on the information trail, and as far as I’m concerned, there are two prime suspects—Bill Holloway and Lennon Lusk, both of them top of the line as
sholes.

  Even though it’s freezing, I ride my bike to Lennon’s. I love exercise and try to maintain a small eco footprint as well. Lennon’s nephew’s clothes are in my backpack – that’s my excuse for stopping by. Dressed in a lightweight aqua lined, gray down hoody, orange techno undergarment, thermal pants and high-top tennis shoes, I zip and zoom through town, mimicking crow flight, both free and purposeful, in the way I’m feeling.

  Before I left, I studied myself in the mirror, trying to determine if I really look like a boyish, twenty-five-year-old version of a girl. All I saw was bleached blond hair, dark brown roots, hazel eyes and the usual checklist of facial features, including a smattering of freckles. I’ve been thinking of heading to the salon to get my hair back to blackish-brown, but haven’t gotten around to it.

  When I pull up to Lennon’s, I hear strange sounds, like skateboard wheels on concrete, and a cap gun, if my ears aren’t deceiving me. Loud raucous laughter burbles over the fence to his backyard. So much for his bad mood. I kind of thought he’d be getting wasted or shooting small dogs with a revolver at the pooch park.

  I lay my bike in the front yard and tiptoe to the fence. Crouching, I peer through a hole in the fence to see a handsome young brown-haired kid on his skateboard. Probably the nephew. He’s all lanky and lean. He probably snowboards in the winter and surfs in the summer. He’s got that kind of free-wheeling vibe like Lennon.

  He heads for a makeshift jump and sails over it, while Lennon, sitting in a lounge chair, shoots him with a cap gun as he arcs through the air. After each cap explosion, he downs a swig of beer from a growler of brew sitting next to him. Hefts it like a hillbilly, balancing the big jug on his shoulder and leaning back to swallow.

  What, is Lennon Lusk actually twelve instead of late twenties? And maybe I was right about him getting wasted and shooting things.

  “You’ve got lousy aim, Uncle,” the kid says as he lands, laughing.

  “I hit you every time, Hawke.”

  “Nuh uh. Did not. Missed me every time.”