Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [22]
He lifted the chimney from an oil lamp, then drew a match from her safe. “No, ma’am. I sat in that chair the entire time answering everybody’s calls.”
Pausing in her search, she looked up. “The entire time?”
His detour onto the porch flashed to mind. He struck the match against the seat of his pants, lit the lamp, and replaced the chimney. “What happened when you went to town?”
She returned to her stack. “Bettina decided to sell the nest and eggs to Mr. Ottfried—the wealthiest milliner in town.”
That was it? That couldn’t have caused all the commotion. “What else?”
Resting her hand against the stack of papers, she slowly closed it into a fist. “I saw Mrs. Ottfried.”
He set the lantern on the table beside her. “And?”
She turned her face toward the fireplace, even though no fire burned. Her chin quivered. “You should have seen what she was wearing.”
Frowning, he lowered himself into the easy chair on her left. “What was she wearing?”
“Bird parts.” She choked on the words.
“What kind of bird parts?”
“There was an owl on her hat.”
An owl was a bit extreme, but nothing to warrant her reaction.
“Her cape had swallow wings all along the edge.” She gestured with her hands, outlining a cape and where the wings had been attached. “Swallows consume billions and trillions of insects. And not just normal insects, but the kind which bite and suck blood. We owe them a great debt. And how do we repay them? By killing them so we can tear off their wings and sew them onto our capes.”
He rubbed his mouth. Guess she wouldn’t appreciate knowing next to coon hunting, bird hunting was his favorite.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
Finally. “What was the worst?”
“The finches.” She impaled him with her green gaze. “All along the hem of Mrs. Ottfried’s gown were dozens of beheaded finches.”
He cringed. That was pretty sick. Definitely going overboard on bird fashion. At least he ate the birds he killed. Still, he didn’t expect to lose any sleep over beheaded finches. Wouldn’t bawl his eyes out, either.
“Are you familiar with finches?” she asked.
“Can’t say I could pick them out of a crowd necessarily.”
“Finches look like they’ve been dipped in raspberry juice and left in the sun to fade.” She tightened her jaw. “But the ones on Mrs. Ottfried’s skirt were yellow. Yellow. Not yellow like a goldfinch, but a more saffron color. Do you know what you have to do to turn a purple finch saffron, Mr. Palmer?”
He had no idea what color saffron even was. Clearly, though, it was some shade of yellow. He shook his head.
“Cage it. For two years.”
That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Where did she come up with this stuff? “You’ve seen this happen?”
“Of course not. I would never cage a bird. But I’ve read articles and books and all kinds of publications on them.” She swept her hand in a gesture that encompassed the bookshelves. “There are no saffron-colored finches in the wild.”
“I see. So someone deduced they turn colors when they’re caged. For two years.”
“They didn’t deduce it, sir. They saw it. With their own eyes.”
“Who did?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I can’t remember exactly, but I’ve read it in more than one place.”
“But it was one of these societies who want to protect birds which substantiated the claim?”
“Of course.”
“Well, in order to confirm it, they would have had to capture the finches and cage them for two years, don’t you figure?”
She looked at him, nonplussed. “I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know.”
He couldn’t believe he’d wasted his concern over something so ludicrous as a few dead birds.
“I do know,” she continued, “finches sing to us from March to October.” Leaning forward, her eyes picked up the lantern’s flame. “You should see them when they go a-wooing.”
“A-wooing?”
“Yes. The male springs into the air singing to his ladylove while going higher and higher.” Clasping her hands, she pressed them against her chest. “That’s when his song reaches its highest ecstasy. Why, I’ve seen him go fifteen—no, twenty feet above his mate before