Chapter One
“Murder!”
“What?” squawked the man in the Seahawks cap. “What are you talking about?”
“Murder. The answer to question number 20 ‘What is the collective noun for crows?’ is murder. A murder of crows.”
“Well, I guess you learn something new every day, but please! No more language trivia questions! Can’t we just stick to sports or movies or current events? Oh! And no more music, either. “Flock of Seagulls! Bah!”
“It’s all in good fun,” said Artist Bill.” I read that brushes are called a ‘brood’.”
More grumbling ensued, but the monthly gathering for Tuesday Trivia eventually wrapped up with Grody’s Soldiers of Fortune taking home the bottle of wine prize supplied by the Whys Guys.
Chapter Two
As the trivia moderator headed for the building exit onto Taroroot Road, the neighborhood mystery writer and movie buff chivalrously held the door. “Where do you get all those great trivia questions? That last one was a real zinger! It reminded me of that classic Hitchcock thriller.”
“Well, I pull from a wide variety of sources, but that particular one was personal.”
“Personal?! Is there something in your dark, mysterious past we should know about?”
“Golly, NO! Honestly, Mickey, you can be so dramatic!” She continued, “Hyper and I were playing frisbee over on Schlitz Court Monday evening when I witnessed something I’d never seen before: a massive mob of crows lifting off the treetops of the elm preserve. What a racket! I could hardly hear the freight train going by! Hyper stopped in mid-chase and cocked his head at what first sounded like ball bearings in a metal cup, then a whoosh and whirl of wind through the leaves as hundreds of crows erupted out of the trees screeching and clacking before forming a mass moving in unison north over the new construction.”
“Huh! I wonder if they do that often. I wonder what set them off?”
“I don’t know, but it sure was creepy!”
Chapter Three
At the weekly Encore at Elmtree social that following Friday night, conversation once again turned to murder. Like so many birds of prey, theories and hyperbole took flight.
“I heard he was found with strawberry plants in his pants pockets and marigold seeds in his shirt pockets.”
“I heard he had a roll of poop bags in his hand when he died—do you think he had a dog?”
“Maybe! It could have been a dog leash around his throat that killed him—you know the kind for walking multiple dogs! Mine’s gone missing.”
“I’ve seen chickens in that part of the preserve. Maybe he got that Chinese bird flu!”
“There were animal tracks nearby. What do you think? A coyote? Oooh! Maybe the cougar got him!”
In another covey of neighbors, Nancy Lark expressed measured concern for how this mystery might impact home prices, while Lon Wilson wondered aloud if the evidence of a small fire near the body would finally get the attention of the construction chief. Mel Reeve listened thoughtfully, but kept her own counsel while a gaggle of gossipers chattered on.
Kathi Finch chirped that it must have something to do with those crooks over at Polymorph.
“Yeah! They never tell us anything! I’m gonna complain to Sunny when she’s here next week!”
“Maybe we could create a small memorial for him in the preserve?” Carol Dove suggested.
The murmuration and twittering flitted from circle to circle punctuated by conversations peppered by veiled accusations.
“Maybe that fresh bread in his backpack was poisoned?”
“I heard someone from the card players saw him entering the trail off Elmwood.”
“Has anyone notified the Snowbirds? They’ll want to know before they come back from down south.”
“He had a syringe. I’ll bet he was a druggie.”
“That gash on his forehead could have been caused by a golf club.”
“One shoe was missing. He lost it when he was running away from someone or something!”
“Maybe he smothered in that plastic they found him wrapped in.”
Like so many clucking hens, the residents clamored on as they dispersed to their safe nests for the night.
Chapter Four
A week later, a headline in the local paper announced:
“Transient Found Dead in Elm Preserve Identified”
A local man whose body was found by a hiker at Encore at Elmtree has been identified as Jupiter Falke, 67, of Yelm. His estranged daughter Eyrie confirmed his identity based on his belongings and dental history following notification by the Thurston County Coroner’s Office. “He was a good dad until he lost his job in the recession and my mom died,” she said. “Then things just went downhill for all of us, but especially him. He moved around a lot and we lost touch about a year ago. I heard from an acquaintance about two months ago he was trying to get to Canada because insulin is so expensive here. He hated relying on the kindness of strangers and did his best to repay them by weeding their gardens or walking their dogs.”
The Coroner confirmed Mr. Falke’s death was accidental. Sherriff “Doc” Bartlett said, “Mr. Falke apparently lost his footing on uneven ground and struck his head on a large concrete block. He seems to have dragged himself to a large sheet of construction plastic for protection from the elements before slipping into a diabetic coma. We estimate he died late Monday afternoon in an area of the preserve known to be frequented by wildlife. His body was discovered by Bill Stiley, local artist and a resident of Encore at Elmtree.” When questioned about the distinctly avian markings about the victim’s face, neck and hands, Sherriff Bartlett declined comment.
“When Papi wouldn’t come when I called, I hiked into the underbrush to investigate,” Mr. Stiley said. “Papi hightailed it out of there when she got spooked by a giant flock of crows…and she was carrying a shoe. As I saw the mob arc across the sky, they reminded me of an angry black paintbrush mark on a blank canvas. Then I found the body of that poor man. I can’t tell you what happened, but I ‘m guessing one witness was a “Murder of Crows.”
Left To Write 