Still Life With Crows

shook off the memory. “Well,” he said, “that’s about all the trouble we ever get around here. Until now.”

The FBI agent smiled and leaned forward, speaking so softly Ludwig could barely hear him. “The victim has been identified as Sheila Swegg, of Oklahoma. A petty criminal and con artist. They found her car hidden in the corn five miles out on the Cry Road. It seems she’d been digging up at some Indian mounds in the area.”

Smit Ludwig looked at Pendergast. “Thank you,” he said. Now, this was much better. This was more than a crumb. It was practically a whole cake. He felt a surge of gratitude.

“And another thing. Arranged with the body they found a number of antique Southern Cheyenne arrows in almost perfect condition.”

It seemed to Ludwig as though Pendergast was looking at him intently. “That’s extraordinary,” he replied.

“Yes.”

They were interrupted by a sudden commotion outside, punctuated by a voice raised in shrill protest. Ludwig glanced across the street and saw Sheriff Hazen marching a teenage girl down the sidewalk, toward his office. The girl was protesting gamely, digging in her heels, lunging against her handcuffs, her black fingernails cutting the air. He knew immediately who she was; it was all too obvious from the black leather miniskirt, pale skin, spiked collar, Day-Glo purple hair, and the glint of body piercings. A shrieked phrase managed to penetrate the plate glass of Maisie’s Diner—“eclair-eating, fart-biting, cancer-stick–smoking”—before the sheriff manhandled her through the door of the office and slammed it behind him.

Ludwig shook his head in amused disbelief.

“Who is she?” Pendergast asked.

“Corrie Swanson, our resident troublemaker. I believe she’s what kids call a ‘Goth’ or something like that. She and Sheriff Hazen have a tiff going. Looks like he’s finally got something on her, judging from the cuffs.”

Pendergast laid a large bill on the table and rose, nodding to Maisie. “I trust we shall see each other again, Mr. Ludwig.”

“Sure thing. And thanks for the tips.”

The door jingled shut. Ludwig watched the dark form of Special Agent Pendergast as he passed by outside the window and moved down the dusky street until he merged with the falling darkness.

Ludwig slowly sipped his coffee, mulling over what Pendergast had said. And as he did so, the front-page story he’d been assembling in his head changed; he broke down the type, rewrote the opening paragraph. It was dynamite, especially the stuff about the arrows. As if the murder wasn’t bad enough, those arrows would strike a particularly unpleasant note to anyone familiar with the history of Medicine Creek. As soon as he’d gotten the paragraph right, he rose from the table. He was over sixty and his joints ached from the humidity. But even if he wasn’t the man he used to be, he could still stay up half the night, write a snappy lead with two scotches under his belt, slap together an impeccable set of mechanicals, and make deadline. And tonight, he had one hell of a story to write.

Nine

 

Winifred Kraus bustled about the old-fashioned kitchen, making toast, setting out a pitcher of orange juice, boiling her guest’s egg, and making his pot of green tea. Her busyness was an effort to keep her mind off the horrible news she had read that morning in theCry County Courier. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And the arrows they’d found with the body, surely that couldn’t mean that . . . She shook the thoughts from her head with a little shiver. Despite the strange hours Special Agent Pendergast kept, she was very glad to have him under her roof.

The man was quite particular about his food and his tea, and Winifred had taken pains to make sure everything was perfect. She had even gotten out her mother’s old lace tablecloth and had laid it, freshly ironed, on the breakfast table, along with a small vase of freshly cut marigolds to make everything as cheery as possible. Partly it was to cheer her own distressed state.

As she moved about the kitchen, Winifred felt her dread over the murder slowly supplanted by a sense of anticipation. Pendergast had asked to take the morning tour of the Kaverns. Well, he hadn’t asked exactly, but he’d seemed quite interested when she suggested it the night before. The last visitors to the Kaverns had been over a month ago, two nice young Jehovah’s Witnesses who took the tour and then had the kindness to spend most of the day chatting with her.

Precisely at eight she heard a light tread on the stair and Mr. Pendergast came gliding into view, dressed in the usual black suit.

“Good morning, Miss Kraus,” he said.

As Winifred ushered him into the dining room and began serving breakfast, she felt quite breathless. Even as a girl, she’d loved the family business: the different people from all over the country, the parking lot full of big cars, the murmurs of awe and amazement during the tours. Helping out in the cave, doing tours, had been one way she’d tried to earn the approval of her father. And although things had changed completely with the building of the interstate up north, she’d never lost that feeling of excitement before a tour—even if it was a tour of one.

Breakfast finished, she left Pendergast with that morning’sCry County Courier and went on ahead to the Kaverns. She visited the Kaverns at least once a day even when there were no visitors, just to sweep up leaves and replace bulbs. She now did a swift check and found that all was in tip-top order. Then she went behind the counter of the gift shop and waited. At a few minutes to ten, Pendergast appeared. He purchased a ticket—two dollars—and she led him along the cement walkway, down into the cut in the earth, to the padlocked iron door. It was another scorcher of a day, and the cool air that flowed from the cave entrance was pleasantly enticing. She unlocked and removed the padlock, then turned and launched into her opening speech, which hadn’t varied since her pa had taught it to her with a switch and ruler half a century before.

“Kraus’s Kaverns,” she began, “was discovered by my grandfather, Hiram Kraus, who came to Kansas from upstate New York in 1888 looking to start a new life. He was one of the original pioneers of Cry County, and homesteaded a hundred and sixty acres right here along Medicine Creek.”

She paused and flushed pleasurably at the careful attentiveness of her audience.