Still Life With Crows

 

Margery Tealander sat behind the old wooden desk of her spartan office, industriously clipping coupons while keeping one eye onThe Price Is Right. The picture on the old black-and-white was so poor that she’d cranked the volume up so as not to miss any of the action. Not that there was all that much action today; rarely had she seen such a sorry group of contestants. Bidding high, bidding low, bidding every which way except within a mile of the real price of anything. She paused in her clipping to peer at the screen and listen. Everybody else had bid on the latest item except for the final contestant, a skinny Asian girl who couldn’t be more than twenty.

“I’ll bid one thousand four hundred and one dollars, Bob,” the girl said with a shy smile and a duck of her head.

“Man alive.” Marge clucked disapprovingly and returned to her clipping. Fourteen hundred dollars for an over- under Maytag? What planet could these people be living on? Couldn’t be more than nine hundred fifty, tops. And the audience wasn’t any help either, yelling encouragingly at every wrong guess. Now, ifshe was on the show, the audience would see someserious cleaning up. She always seemed to guess the right price, always seemed to pick the right door. And she wouldn’t settle for any of those cheesy prizes, either, the redwood utility sheds or the knickknack cabinets or the year’s supply of floor wax. She’d hold out for the fifteen-foot Chris-Craft; she had a cousin up near Lake Scott with a dock and mooring. The pity of it was that she’d finally talked Rocky into taking her out to Studio City, and then a week later he was diagnosed with emphysema. And now, she couldn’t very well go alone, God rest his soul, it would be much too much for . . . Nowthis was interesting: twenty percent off Woolite with a grocery purchase of $30 or more. That hardlyever went on sale, and with triple coupons on weekends that meant she could buy it for almost half price. She’d have to stock up. You just couldn’t beat the Shopper’s Palace in Ulysses for prices. The Red Owl in Garden City was closer, of course, but if you were serious about saving a little money you just couldn’t beat the Palace. And on Super Saturdays she’d get ten cents off a gallon on regular gas—that more than made up for the extra mileage right there. Of course, she felt a little bad about not patronizing Ernie, but these were lean times and a body just had to be practical . . . Now, if that didn’t beat all. Nine hundred twenty-five for the Maytag. Sure would have looked nice right next to her slop sink. Maybe she’d talk to Alice Franks about looking into a bus excursion that could—

All of a sudden she realized that a strange man was standing before her desk.

“Good gracious!” Marge quickly turned down the sound on the television. “Young man, you startled me.” It was that man in the black suit she’d seen out and about recently.

“My apologies,” the man replied in a voice redolent of mint juleps, pralines, and cypress trees. He gave a formal little bow, then stood before her, hands at his sides. He had slender, tapered fingers with nails that—she noticed with some surprise—were subtly but very professionally manicured.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Just don’t be sneaking up on a body like that. Now, what can I do you for?”

The man nodded toward the coupons. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

Marge barked out a laugh. “Hah! A bad time! That’s a good one.” She pushed the coupons to one side. “Mr. Stranger, you have myun divided attention.”

“I must apologize again,” the man said. “I’ve neglected to introduce myself. The name’s Pendergast.”

Marge suddenly remembered the article in the paper. “Of course. You’re that fellow from down south who’s looking into the murder. I could tell you weren’t from around here, of course. Not talking like that, you aren’t.”

She looked at him with fresh curiosity. He was rather tall, with hair so blond it was almost white, and he returned her look with pale eyes full of mild inquisitiveness. Although he was slender, he gave no sense of being frail; quite the opposite, really, although his suit was so unrelievedly black it was hard to tell. He was really very attractive, in a Southern Comfort kind of way.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pendergast,” she said. “I’d offer you a seat, but this swivel chair of mine’s the only one. The people who come here aren’t usually inclined to stay very long.” She barked another laugh.

“And why is that, Mrs. Tealander?” The question was phrased so politely that Marge didn’t notice he already knew her name.

“Why do you think? Unless you happen to be partial to paying taxes and filling out forms, of course.”

“Yes, of course. I do see.” The man named Pendergast took a step forward. “Mrs. Tealander, it’s my understanding that—”

“Five hundred dollars,” Marge interrupted.

The man paused. “Pardon me?”

“Nothing.” Marge pulled her eyes from the now-silent TV.

“It’s my understanding that you are the keeper of public records for Medicine Creek.”

Marge nodded. “That’s right.”

“And that you function as town administrator.”

“A part-time job. Very part-time, these days.”

“That you run the public works department.”

“Oh, that just means keeping tabs on Henry Fleming, who drives the snow plow and changes the bulbs in the streetlamps.”

“And that you levy real estate taxes.”

“Yes, andthat’s the reason I don’t get invited to Klick Rasmussen’s canasta parties.”

Pendergast paused again for a moment. “So one could say that, in essence, you run Medicine Creek.”

Marge grinned widely. “Young man, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Of course, Sheriff Hazen and Art Ridder might not share your view.”

“We’ll leave them to their own opinion, then.”