Still Life With Crows

“My notebook,” said Corrie with a defensiveness she didn’t quite understand. “You wanted me to interview Andy, so I did. I had to write it down somewhere.”

“Excellent. Let’s have the report.” The FBI agent settled into his chair, his hands clasped together.

Feeling awkward, Corrie opened the notebook.

“What lovely handwriting you have, my dear,” said Winifred, leaning just a little too close.

“Thanks.” Corrie edged the notebook away. Prying old gossip.

“I went to Andy’s house yesterday evening. He’d been out of town, a 4-H trip to the state fair. I told him his dog had died, but I didn’t say how. I kind of let him assume it was hit by a car. He was pretty upset. He loved that dog, Jiff.”

She paused. Once again, Pendergast’s eyes had drooped to mere slits. She hoped he wouldn’t go to sleep on her again.

“He said that for the past couple of days, Jiff had been acting kind of strange. He wouldn’t go outside and went whining and cringing around the house, had to be dragged out from under the bed when it was time for his dinner.”

She turned the page.

“Finally, two days ago—”

“Exact dates, please.”

“August tenth.”

“Proceed.”

“On August tenth, Jiff, er, took a dump on the living room rug.” She looked up nervously into the silence that followed. “Sorry, but that’s what he did.”

“My dear,” said Winifred, “you should say that the dogdirtied the rug.”

“But he didn’t just get the rug dirty, he, you know,crapped on it. Diarrhea, in fact.” What was this meddling old lady doing anyway, listening to the report? She wondered how Pendergast could put up with her.

“Please continue, Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said.

“So anyway, Mrs. Cahill, who’s kind of a bitch, got pissed off and kicked Jiff out of the house and made Andy clean up the mess. Andy had wanted to take Jiff to the vet but his mom didn’t want to pay for it. Anyway, that was the last he ever saw his dog.”

She glanced over at Winifred and noticed her face was all pinched up. It took her a moment to realize it was because she had used the word “bitch.”

“What time was this?” Pendergast asked.

“Seven o’clock in the evening.”

Pendergast nodded, tenting his fingers. “Where do the Cahills live?”

“It’s the last house on the Deeper Road, about a mile north of town, not far from the cemetery and just before the bridge.”

Pendergast nodded approvingly. “And Jiff was wearing his collar when he was ejected from the house?”

“Yes,” Corrie said, concealing a stab of pride that she’d thought to ask the question.

“Excellent work.” Pendergast sat up. “Any news on the missing William Stott?”

“No,” said Corrie. “They’ve got a search going. I heard they were bringing a plane down from Dodge City.”

Pendergast nodded, then rose from the table, strolled to the window, folded his hands behind his back, and looked out over the endless corn.

“Do you think he was murdered?” asked Corrie.

Pendergast continued looking out over the corn, his dark figure accented against the evening sky. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the avian fauna of Medicine Creek.”

“Right, sure,” said Corrie.

“For example,” Pendergast said, “do you see that vulture?”

Corrie drew up to his side. She could see nothing.

“There.”

Then she saw it: a lone bird, silhouetted against the orange sky. “Those turkey vultures are always flying around,” she said.

“Yes, but a minute ago it was riding a thermal, as it had been doing for the past hour. Now it’s flying upwind.”

“So?”

“It takes a great deal of energy for a vulture to fly upwind. They only do it under one circumstance.” He waited, staring intently out the window. “Now, observe—it’s made its turn. It sees what it wants.” Pendergast turned toward her quickly. “Come,” he murmured. “We don’t have any time to lose. We must get to the site—just in case, you understand—before the state trooper legions descend and ruin everything.” He turned toward Winifred and said, in a louder voice, “Excuse us, Miss Kraus, for the suddenness of our departure.”

The old lady rose, her face white. “Not another—”