Still Life With Crows

perfect O. Ludwig heard a hushed murmur ripple through the assembly. There was a brief clapping of hands. He turned to see Art Ridder and the sheriff escorting a man he didn’t recognize through the crowd. The man was small and thin, with a closely trimmed beard, and he wore a light blue seersucker suit. In his wake came Mrs. Bender Lang and a few of the town’s other leading ladies.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Medicine Creek!” Art Ridder boomed to the assembly. “It is my great privilege to introduce this year’s guest of honor, Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University!”

This was followed by thunderous applause and a few piercing whistles. The man named Chauncy stood, nodded once at the crowd, then turned his back on them and began to converse with Ridder. Slowly, the applause faltered into silence.

“Mr. Ludwig,” Pendergast said. “There’s a group of gentlemen in the far corner—?”

Ludwig looked in the indicated direction. Four or five men in bib overalls were drinking lemonade and talking amongst themselves in low voices. Rather than joining in the applause, they were looking in the direction of Chauncy with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, that’s Dale Estrem and the rest of the Farmer’s Co-operative,” Ludwig replied. “The last of the die-hard holdouts. They’re the only ones who haven’t sold out to the big farming conglomerates. Still own their own farms around Medicine Creek.”

“And why don’t they share in the town’s good feeling?”

“The Farmer’s Co-op holds no truck with genetically modified corn. They fear it’ll cross-pollinate and ruin their own crops.”

Ridder was now introducing the man from Kansas State to select knots of people.

“There are several other introductions I’d like you to make, if you would,” Pendergast said. “The minister, for example.”

“Of course.” Ludwig scanned the crowd for Pastor Wilbur, finally spotting him standing alone, in line for turkey. “This way.”

“Tell me about him first, if you please.”

Ludwig hesitated, not wishing to speak ill of anybody. “Pastor Wilbur’s been here for forty years, at least. He means well. It’s just that . . .” He faltered.

“Yes?” said Pendergast. Ludwig found the man’s gray eyes focused on him in a most unsettling way.

“I guess you’d have to say he’s a little set in his ways. He’s not really in touch with what’s happening, ornot happening, in Medicine Creek these days.” He struggled a moment. “There are some who feel a younger, more vibrant ministry would help revive the town, keep the youngsters from leaving. Fill the spiritual void that’s opened up here.”

“I see.”

The minister raised his head as they approached. As usual, a pair of reading glasses was perched on the end of his nose, whether or not he was reading anything. Ludwig figured he did it to look scholarly. “Pastor Wilbur?” Ludwig said. “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

Wilbur took the proffered hand.

“I envy you, Pastor,” Pendergast said. “Ministering to the souls of a community such as Medicine Creek.”

Wilbur gazed benevolently at Pendergast. “It is at times a fearsome responsibility, being entrusted with so many hundreds, Mr. Pendergast. But I flatter myself that I’ve shepherded them well.”

“It seems a good life here,” Pendergast went on. “For a man of God such as yourself, I mean.”

“God has seen fit to both bless me and bring me trials. We all share equally in the curse of Adam, but perhaps a man of the cloth shares more than most.” Wilbur’s face had assumed a saintly, almost martyred demeanor.

Ludwig recognized that look: Wilbur was about to spout one of his prized little scraps of poetry.

“Alas,”Wilbur began,“what boots it with uncessant care, to tend the homely, slighted shepherd’s trade?” He looked through his reading glasses at Pendergast with evident satisfaction. “Milton. Naturally.”

“Naturally.Lycidas. ”

Wilbur was slightly taken aback. “Ah, I believe that’s correct, yes.”

“Another line from that elegy comes to mind:The hungry sheep look up and are not fed. ”

There was a brief silence. Ludwig looked back and forth between the two men, uncertain what, if anything, had just passed between them.

Wilbur blinked. “I—”

“I look forward to greeting you again in church on Sunday,” Pendergast interjected smoothly, grasping Wilbur’s hand once more.

“Ah, yes, yes, so do I,” Wilbur said, the note of surprise still detectable in his voice.

“Excuse me!” The booming voice of Art Ridder, amplified, again cut through the babble of overlapping conversations. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would all be so kind, our guest of honor would like to say a few words. Dr. Stanton Chauncy!”

All around the Fellowship Hall, people put down their forks and turned their attention to the little man in the seersucker suit.

“Thank you,” the man said. He stood erect, hands folded in front of him like he was at a wake. “My name is Stanton Chauncy. Dr. Stanton Chauncy. I represent the Agricultural Extension of Kansas State University. But of course you know that.” His voice was high, and his manner of speaking was so crisp and precise that his words were almost overarticulated.