As the Crow Flies, page 3
“Wow…just like a dragon,” Liz said.
“A dragon?”
“Yeah. In mythology dragons hoard treasures—like in Beowulf and The Lord of the Rings, remember?”
“Then I guess she is like a dragon…or a pirate, for that matter. Her favorite pastimes are hoarding, listening to music, and staring at candlelight.”
Liz raised her brow. “Quite the thieving hedonist, huh? Reminds me of the woman I was with last weekend.”
Samantha smiled. “You can’t trust her alone with a burning candle, though, because she becomes mesmerized and stands too close. An ornithologist over at the zoo told me crows have been known to carry burning material to empty nests, just to watch the flames…the same way people enjoy bonfires, I suppose.”
Elbows propped on the table, Liz folded her hands and rested her chin on them. “Bertha sounds like the sweetest little sociopath. I can see the headline now: mystery writer goes up in smoke: feathered pyromaniac held suspect in author’s death.”
Samantha laughed as she drank her cappuccino, and it suddenly occurred to Liz that Samantha herself exhibited all the behaviors she attributed to her crow. While Liz was closing the shop, Samantha had stood by the door, clearly captivated by the pink twinkling lights in the window. And when they’d reached the restaurant, Samantha had asked for a corner table by a potted arborvitae tree covered in tiny white lights. She’d even asked the waiter to light the candle on the table, even though it wasn’t yet dark.
Liz looked at Samantha’s upper lip, which was now replete with a cappuccino mustache. She thought to tell her to wipe her mouth, but then decided it looked cute for the moment and neglected to mention it. “Don’t you feel bad keeping a wild bird caged?” she said instead.
“I don’t. She’s outside all day long—that’s why I have to get home. Around dusk she looks to come in. She even knows the sound of my car, and unless it’s dark she sometimes waits up the block and flies home alongside me.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And I really shouldn’t call her a thief, because half the time she actually brings me gifts.”
“Like what?”
“Shiny things she finds in the street—bottle tops, buttons, pieces of metal, broken glass. I know it’s stupid, but those gifts mean the world to me. I have a jar full.” Samantha smiled. “It may not be as pretty as beach glass, but it’s an interesting collection.”
“That’s incredible. I’d say a complex thought process is at work, not to mention the feelings of affection involved in gift-giving.”
Samantha nodded like a proud parent. “Anyway, when she comes inside she has a few parrot-size perches scattered throughout the house. If she’s not on a perch, she’s usually walking around following me.”
“What does she do all day outdoors? Fly with a flock of other crows?”
“That would be a murder of crows, not a flock. And I don’t know. I can’t very well spy on her without wings. I thought she’d grow up and leave me for a crow, but we don’t have any in the area. People tell me the West Nile virus wiped them all out there.”
“Why don’t you just clip her wings? Wouldn’t that be safer than having her outdoors?”
“It supposedly changes their personalities—makes them nervous and nasty.”
“Nervous and nasty…sounds like another one of my recent dates.”
“Geez.” Samantha frowned. “It doesn’t sound like you’re too good at picking women. Maybe you should get a bird instead.”
Liz pondered the idea. Maybe she would do well to give up on the prospect of a long-term relationship and get a pet bird instead. Maybe a lovebird. A lone, unpaired lovebird, sort of like Samantha’s bookend. Then she and her lonely, lovesick lovebird could pine over their shared state of lovelessness. Of course, Samantha and her bird could always visit, and the four of them could pine together.
Liz leaned back in her seat as the waiter returned with Samantha’s credit card.
“Oh, man,” the waiter said. “This is embarrassing…you’re Samantha Weller? The Ms. Weller?”
Liz tapped Samantha’s arm. “Wipe your mouth,” she said in a low voice.
“Huh?”
“Froth.” She pointed to her own upper lip.
Samantha quickly patted her mouth with her napkin and turned back to the waiter. “Ah, you caught my name on the card. Good detective work. I will confess, I am her.”
“I’m sorry for not recognizing you, Ms. Weller. I—”
“Don’t be. No one recognizes writers. We work behind the scenes. But thanks for plugging my books to your customers.”
“Yeah, but still…you always have a picture on your jacket covers. Is the bird bag really for Bertha, the psychic crow?”
“It is. And I’m sure she’d want me to extend her thanks.”
“Awesome. Um…could I ask you for an autograph?” He offered a pen and paper.
Samantha took the pen but refused the pad. “I have something better,” she said, reaching into her messenger bag and pulling out a black-and-white glossy of Bertha and herself. “I happen to have a few copies of the photo that will appear on the jacket of my new book.”
Liz reached across the table. “Oh, Sam, what a wonderful picture.” In it, Samantha wore a black turtleneck and a houndstooth jacket. Bertha sat perched on her forearm. “Can I have an autographed one, too—to hang in the shop?”
“Sure.” Samantha asked the waiter, “What’s your name?”
“Charlie. Could you make it out to Charlie and the Count? Count’s my black cat.”
To Charlie and the Count, Samantha wrote. May you never solve the mystery! She signed it, Sam Weller and Bertha the crow.
Charlie read the inscription. “That’s so cool…never solve the mystery…that’s deep. Thanks very much, Ms. Weller.”
Liz looked between them, puzzled as she tried to figure out what was so “deep” about Samantha’s inscription. She forced an understanding smile, feigning comprehension until Charlie the waiter left and they were alone again.
“I don’t get it,” she said flatly. “What does that mean? Why would you never want to solve a mystery?”
“Because once you solve a mystery, the mystery’s gone.”
“Yeah…so?”
“So the fun of a mystery is that it is a mystery.”
“You solve them in your books…”
“And see what happens? I have to create another mystery, because it’s the intrigue of the mystery that attracts us. Of course, what I wrote to Charlie refers to the cosmic enigma—you know, life’s bigger mystery.”
“Hmm.” Liz nodded in consideration of the idea. “I think I get it. I could use the same argument for why affairs are preferable to relationships.”
“Oh, I have to hear this,” Samantha said, sitting back with her arms folded. “Go ahead.”
“Well, it’s like you say, Sam.” She paused to finish her cappuccino. “A new lover, an unknown woman, is a mystery. You have to admit there’s nothing like the physical rush of being naked with someone for the first time. But in time—usually between twenty-four and seventy-two hours, in my case—the novelty wears off, the unfamiliar becomes familiar, the mystery unravels, and then,” she threw her hands up, “I have to find another. So solving a mystery is like squelching desire. Once you squelch it, it’s no longer desire.”
“Agreed.” Samantha smiled. “But in real relationships, that intensity of desire you’re talking about just isn’t sustainable. Compatibility, comfort, and contentment figure into the equation…and they can be just as nice, you know?”
“No, Sam. I don’t.”
“You’re still young.” Samantha picked up her cup and drained it. “When the right one comes along, you’ll understand that a healthy, long-term relationship can hope for a ratio of maybe seventy percent to thirty percent.”
“What, thirty percent contentment and seventy percent desire?”
“No. The other way around. If desire held at seventy percent, we’d all end up consumed by lust, staying home from work to have sex and losing our jobs. Long-term, that level of constant desire would distract us from accomplishing other goals.” Samantha studied her. “Where do you meet all these crazy women anyway, online?”
“Never online. I’m a very physical person, Sam. I need an immediate visual. I like to watch, interact, mingle—in real time, not through social media.” She shrugged. “I hang out here in the West Village…the Cubbyhole, Henrietta Hudson. And then there are always private parties, women I meet through business…and during the summer there’s Cherry Grove and the Pines on Fire Island.”
“Hmm. I haven’t been to the Grove in a few years. Maybe I’ll pull myself away from the computer and tag along this summer.”
“You should. I’d love to spend more time with you.”
Samantha checked her watch. “Right now, I should be catching the Metro-North,” she said. “I didn’t leave the porch light on, and Bertha gets spooked sitting alone in the dark.”
“You mean Detective Crowley’s psychic crow is afraid of the dark? I’m shocked.”
Samantha held a finger to her lips. “Shh. Please don’t tell her fans. It’ll ruin her public image, you understand.”
“My lips—I mean, my beak—is sealed.”
It was seven thirty when Samantha stepped off the curb to hail a taxi. And when one pulled up, she opened the door for Liz. “Get in,” she demanded with a crooked smile. “I always see my dates home.”
“It’s out of your way, Sam. I’m on the East Side.”
“Hop in. I’m on my way to Grand Central Station.”
“Thanks,” she said and got in. “You’re very accommodating, very generous, too.”
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to do everything right so you don’t bad-mouth me like you do your other dates.” Samantha grinned.
They traveled uptown together, and when they reached Liz’s building, Samantha got out to say good-bye. “Would you go with me?” she asked.
“Where?”
“To marry my bookend—providing Ms. Laraway can find me a mate.”
“Of course I would. I’d be happy to, Sam. You know that. Just give me a day’s notice.”
“Thanks.” Samantha kissed her cheek. “Thank you for everything.”
“Thank you, my dearest out-law.” She opened her arms, inviting Samantha in for a tight hug. “And don’t worry about me bad-mouthing you,” Liz whispered against her ear. “This grab-a-bite thing was the most stimulating date I’ve been on in a while.”
“I could say the same.”
“And I’m so happy you went to that estate sale and bought that bookend. If you hadn’t, it might have taken another family disaster—namely, the inevitable birth of their firstborn, our niece or nephew—before we found out how well we’d get along.”
“I believe fate is at play here, Ms. Bowes.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Ms. Weller. Something tells me it’s part of that bigger mystery of yours.”
Chapter Four
The yellow porch light cast an amber glow on the tiny Tudor but did little to illuminate the front door. Samantha fumbled with her keys, but before she could get the key in the lock, she heard the sudden whoosh of wings. She shuddered as the sharp claws of crow feet gripped her shoulder like the gnarled fingers of a witch’s hand.
“Jesus, Bertha!” Samantha muttered.
No matter how many times Bertha spooked her, no matter that Samantha always expected it, the crow’s surprise landing from the roof still shocked her. Somewhere, in the recesses of her colorful imagination, Samantha feared that one night it wouldn’t be Bertha but the hand of a malevolent entity. Maybe she’d been writing too many paranormal stories. Or maybe she’d just worked in forensics too long.
“Kaa-kaa!” The black bird cackled, balancing on her shoulder and pecking at her scalp.
“Hey, quit foraging. I don’t have any nits to pick.”
Bertha squawked as Samantha pushed the door open. The black crow flew to the ground and rushed in ahead of her.
Samantha dropped her messenger bag in the foyer, then took the canvas bag to the living room and emptied its contents on the coffee table. Later, when she was comfortable, she’d want to sit back and admire her Old Crow bottle and her Rookwood bookend—especially now that it was worth a few hundred dollars. From the pocket of her jacket she retrieved Ms. Laraway’s number, studied it for a moment, then placed it beside the pile.
“Ung-ung.” Bertha was complaining.
“You’re hungry. I know. I’m sorry. But guess what Sam-Sam has for you,” she cooed, shaking the doggy bag at the crow and heading for the kitchen. “Fish—I got fishies!”
Bertha bobbed her head, hopping in place and flapping her wings so that she appeared to be jumping rope. Excitedly, she jabbered and kept hopping, and after Samantha left the living room, she raced on foot to catch up with her. Samantha put fresh water in her bowl, kibble in another, then opened the round tin and placed it on the floor. “Mussels, calamari, rice. Have I redeemed myself for being late?”
The black bird tiptoed gingerly toward the seafood, first turning her head to the left to inspect the offering with one eye, then to the right to examine it with the other one. She paused as if weighing the two perspectives, then helped herself to a mussel.
Samantha opened the refrigerator and decided to pour herself a glass of Yellow Tail sangria. She needed to unwind. A day in Manhattan, her reunion with Liz, news about the bookend, cappuccino—all of it had left her overstimulated. In a good sort of way.
She left the glass in the living room, opened the windows, quickly showered, and by nine o’clock was settled on the sofa with everything of immediate interest. But Ms. Laraway’s number interested her most. Sipping her wine, she wondered if it was too late to call.
Nocturnal by nature, Samantha was aware that her writing habits often made it difficult to estimate the bedtimes of respectable people. She’d have to remember to consult a site on etiquette for updated rules on the matter. For now, though, she decided to dispense with etiquette and chance a quick phone call.
Samantha dialed the number and waited. If no one answered after three rings, she’d assume Ms. Laraway was in bed and hang up, but on the second ring someone answered.
“Hello?” a woman said.
“Yes, hi…Ms. Laraway?”
“Speaking.”
“Hi. My name is Samantha.” The woman sounded very young. “I’m calling about a piece of Rookwood. Ed Greenbarn referred me to—”
“I’m sorry, Samantha, but I think you want Dr. Laraway. Is it Gwen you’re trying to reach?”
“Gwen, yes.”
“If you’ll hold just a moment I’ll get my aunt.”
“Sure. Thank you.” Samantha heard music in the background—classical tunes like the ones Liz played in her store—but then the volume diminished to an almost inaudible level, and she heard the sound of muffled voices. Samantha waited, the light from a nearby lamp playing on the glaze of the rook’s blue body and giving its face an intelligent, lifelike glint.
“This is Dr. Laraway,” came a second voice.
“Yes, hello, Dr. Laraway. My name is Samantha Weller.”
“Yes, Ms. Weller. How can I help you?”
This voice was more mature, resonant, deeper than the first. It made Samantha nervous. “Well,” she said, “my sister-in-law, Liz Bowes, is an antiquarian and good friend of Ed Greenbarn. He gave us your number hoping you could help with a marriage.”
“Ed’s getting married—again?”
Samantha cringed. Here she was mimicking Liz, using antique-world jargon, all for the purpose of, what, impressing the woman? Dr. Laraway hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about. “No, no. I’m the one looking to marry.”
“And…? Where do I come in?”
Samantha rubbed her face. “I’m sorry…Please. Let me start over.”
“Take your time,” Dr. Laraway said good-naturedly.
Samantha took a deep breath. “I recently purchased a single Rookwood bookend at a yard sale and would like to find a mate for it. My sister-in-law said this would be considered a marriage.”
“Ah…so you want to marry two bookends.”
“I do.”
“What is it you have, Ms. Weller? An Oriental figure?”
“No, a crow. A rook, actually.”
“You have a rook?” she inquired, her tone losing its frivolity. “Hmm…which one?”
“Uh, let me see. The right one, I think.”
“The design,” Dr. Laraway said. “Rookwood produced several.”
“Oh.” Samantha looked at the bookend, thinking how best to describe it. “Well…it’s a rather ornate piece. The bookend itself is a book standing open like the letter L. The outside is a dark purple, I’d say, the pages yellow, and the rook is a midnight blue, which—”
“That yellow would be mustard and ming blue,” Dr. Laraway said.
Cradling the phone in her neck, Samantha lifted the piece in two hands and held its glossy finish to the light. “Ming blue,” she said, then set the piece down again. “And there’s a floral branch, too. A blooming sprig of pink flowers that—”
“That pink was known as Persian rose.”
“I see.”
“Go on, Ms. Weller.”
“Well, the flowers, the Persian-rose flowers,” she was careful to repeat the exact words for Dr. Laraway’s benefit, “cascade over the top of the book and onto the rook’s feet.”
“Cascade, you say?”
“Yes. Beautifully so.” Samantha reached out and ran a finger along the flowers. “They flow down to tangle themselves around the rook’s feet.”
“Tangle? Hmm…how interesting,” Dr. Laraway commented, although she was beginning to sound more amused than interested.
“Should I tell you more?” Samantha asked.
“Tell me where you’re from.”
“Pardon?”
“Your accent. I’m getting visions of cowboy hats and horses.”
Samantha laughed. “You have a good ear. I was actually born in Texas, but we moved to New York when I was twelve. I thought I’d lost the accent.”
