TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [19]
Rachael opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. This was, after all, her first time in Parlow.
Suzette said, “Horace Bench, the rich guy who founded the town back in the thirties, he bred and raised ducks—hookbills, rouens, runners, calls—the calls are real small, I’m told, like toy ducks. He figured not many folks would recognize those names, so he threw in some common ones, as well, like canvasback, rosy bill, old squaw. He himself lived on Runners Road, and his daughter, whom he didn’t like so it’s said, lived on Old Hooknose Lane.”
Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. “Hooknose? I thought the duck was called a hookbill.”
“Yep, that’s right,” said Suz, and grinned.
“Where’d the name Parlow come from?” Sherlock asked.
“Parlow was an Indian chief back in the eighteenth century who sought out any settlers he could find to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his people every year. He always brought trout for the feast. Isn’t that a kick?”
“And where is the sheriff’s office?” Savich asked.
“Oh, that’s on the main drag, First Street, one block over. Sheriff Hollyfield, now he’s so honest you could put your money under his mattress. Smart, too.”
“Duck names,” Sherlock said as they walked out of Monk’s Café, Savich carrying Rachael’s duffel bag. “It always amazes me what strikes people’s fancy.”
The three of them were checked in by the manager, Mrs. Flint, thankfully not a longtime native who could recognize Rachael. She told them Greeb’s Pond was the best of Parlow’s upscale lodgings. It was also the name of the current owner’s grandfather’s favorite duck.
They found their rooms decorated with a duck motif, from the wallpaper, to the hooked rugs on the floor, to the bedspread, to three small stuffed duck heads on the walls. “The only one I recognize is the mallard,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Imagine stuffing a duck’s head. And look at that little tiny one—you think that’s a toy duck, what’s the name—a call? And what do you bet the alarm clock will start quacking to wake us up?”
Since Sherlock had no intention of letting Rachael out of her sight, the two of them went back to the Parlow Clinic, waded through half a dozen patients to the desk, where Sherlock flashed her FBI shield at a very young receptionist who had short spiky red hair tipped with black and was vigorously chewing gum. She waved them back to the small room where they’d left Jack sleeping. Sherlock stopped by the door and tried her cell again. No luck. When she walked into the room, Rachael was saying, “You look better, Agent Crowne, and that’s a relief. We thought you’d still be out of it.”
Jack smiled. The debilitating headache was only a dull throb now, what with Dr. Post’s magic pain meds. “I slept a good hour, and I was still out when this gum-chewing teenager came in to draw some blood—just like a hospital. I was thinking, Rachael,” he continued, “that you need to stick around awhile, at least until after we get things squared away. What do you think?”
Rachael maintained a stony silence.
“Well now, moving right along. Sherlock, where’s Savich?”
“Here he is,” she said, and smiled as Dillon came into the examination room.
Savich said as he shook Jack’s hand, “Well, lad, you’re not looking so green around the gills anymore. How’s the leg and head?”
“I’ll live.”
“And that’s the best news.”
“Please, Agent Savich, where is my car?”
Savich said, “They towed your car to the best and most honest mechanic in Parlow—you can’t trust the others worth spit, so Mort, Sheriff Hollyfield’s dispatcher, told me. Anyway, that excellent mechanic can’t get to your car for a couple of days. He’s really backed up.”
“Yeah, right,” Rachael said. “I’ll bet you terrified him down to his socks, threatened him if he didn’t say that.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Sherlock said, and gave Rachael a sunny smile. “He can do anything.”
“She likes to suck up to the boss sometimes,” Savich said. “As I said, Parlow’s got other mechanics, most attached to gas stations, but the sheriff strongly recommended against them. So did the dispatcher.