Still Life With Crows

corn he could hear the cicadas droning. He paused, then rapped on the door.

It opened so quickly that he jumped. Special Agent Pendergast.

“Deputy Sheriff Franklin. Please come in.”

Tad took off his hat and came into the parlor, feeling uncomfortable. The sheriff had wanted him to quietly check up on what Pendergast was up to, what else he had learned about the dog killing. But now that he was here, he felt embarrassed. He couldn’t imagine any way to broach the subject without making the reason for his visit painfully obvious.

“You’re just in time for lunch,” said the agent, closing the door behind him. The shades were drawn and it was a little cooler here, out of the sun, but without air conditioning it was still uncomfortably hot. Not far from the front door sat two oversized suitcases—wardrobe trunks, really—overnight express labels still affixed to the expensive- looking leather exteriors. It seemed that Pendergast was settling in for a longer stay.

“Lunch?” Tad repeated.

“A light salad with antipasti. Prosciutto di San Daniele, pecorino cheese with truffled honey, baccelli, tomatoes, and rucola. Something light for a hot day.”

“Er, sure. Great.” If they were going to eat Italian, why not stick with pizza? He advanced another step, not knowing what to say. It was one o’clock. Who ate lunch at one o’clock? He had eaten at the normal time of eleven- thirty.

“Miss Kraus is feeling poorly. She’s taken to bed. I’ve been filling in.”

“I see.” Tad followed Pendergast into the kitchen. In one corner a stack of Federal Express and DHL boxes had been neatly piled halfway to the ceiling. The counter was littered with at least a dozen food packages sporting foreign-sounding names: Balducci’s, Zabar’s. Tad wondered if maybe Pendergast wasn’t Italian or French. He sure didn’t eat like an American.

Pendergast had busied himself in the kitchen, his movements deft and economical, quickly arranging odd- looking food onto three plates—salami and cheese and what had to be some kind of lettuce. Tad watched, shifting his hat from one hand to the other.

“I’ll just bring this plate back to Miss Kraus,” said Pendergast.

“Right. Okay.”

Pendergast disappeared into the back recesses of the house. Tad could hear Winifred’s soft voice, Pendergast’s murmured responses. A moment later, the agent returned.

“Is she okay?” Tad asked.

“Fine,” Pendergast said in a low voice. “It’s more psychological than physical. These delayed reactions are common in such cases. You can imagine the kind of shock she had, learning about the murder.”

“We were all shocked.”

“Of course you were. I recently wrapped up a rather unpleasant case myself in New York, where killings are regrettably more common. I am used to it, Mr. Franklin, or as used to it as a creature can ever be. For all of you, I have no doubt this was—and is—a most unwelcome new experience. Please sit down.”

Tad sat down, put his hat on the table, decided that wasn’t a good place, laid it on a chair, then snatched it up again, afraid he might forget it.

“I’ll take that,” said Pendergast, placing it on a hat rack nearby.

Tad shifted in his chair, feeling more awkward by the minute. A plate was put in front of him.“Buon appetito,” Pendergast said, gesturing for Tad to dig in.

Tad picked up a fork and stabbed into a piece of cheese. He cut some off and tasted it gingerly.

“You’ll want to drizzle a little of thismiele al tartufo bianco on there,” Pendergast said, offering him a tiny jar of odd-smelling honey.

“I’ll stick to it plain, thanks.”

“Nonsense.” Pendergast took a pearl spoon and dribbled some honey over the rest of Tad’s cheese.

Tad took another bite, and discovered it wasn’t bad.

They ate in silence. Tad found the food much to his liking, especially some small slices of salami. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Cinghiale.Wild boar.”

“Oh.”

Now Pendergast was pouring olive oil all over everything, as well as some liquid as black as tar. He poured some on Tad’s own plate as well. “And now, Deputy, I imagine you are here for a briefing.”

Somehow, having it stated so baldly made everything much less awkward. “Well, yes. Right.”

Pendergast dabbed his mouth and sat back. “The dog was named Jiff and he belonged to Andy Cahill. I understand that Andy is quite an explorer and that he used to roam all over the place with his dog. My assistant will be providing me soon with the results of an interview.”

Tad fumbled for his notebook, brought it out, and started taking notes.

“It appears the dog was killed that previous night. You may recall it was overcast for a few hours after midnight, and that appears to be when the killing occurred. I have the results of the autopsy right here, which I just received. The C 2, 3, and 4 vertebrae were actuallycrushed. There was no indication that any kind of machine or instrument was used, which is problematic, since if only one’s hands were employed, such crushing would require considerable force. The tail appears to have been hacked off with a crude implement and removed from the scene, along with the collar and tags.”

Tad took notes furiously. This was good stuff. The sheriff would be pleased. Then again, he’d probably gotten