At each corner of the park stood a tall pole with a birdhouse on it. One was a pink replica of the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast across the street, including an intricate gingerbread trim and a little front porch. Another looked like a log cabin. A small Noah’s ark stood at the top of the third pole, and on the fourth was a miniature white apartment house with three rows of three round holes on each side. That, I knew, was the purple martin house, having had one at my childhood home. How I loved nesting season, when the birdhouse was filled with chirping and the bustle of the mother bird flying in and out with food in her beak. I wondered if this house had any martins residing within. I needed to see if there was anything from Marlette inside, but I didn’t want to risk disturbing a nest.
A bench stood close to the house, and I figured if I stood on the armrest I’d just be able to peer into the closest hole.
“Can I hold your hand while I climb up here?” I asked Makayla.
She nodded. “Sure. If anybody asks, I’ll tell them you’re practicing lines for a play.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Which play?”
Makayla shrugged. “How about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”
Grinning, I paused for a moment to look around. Two little redheaded boys who appeared to be twins were taking turns climbing up a ladder and going down a slide with their mother standing nearby. A blond, curly-haired girl of about three with her thumb in her mouth sat on one of the spring rider birds—a big green hummingbird—staring at a jean-clad teenager talking on a cell phone. A boy of about seven was sitting on the ground in the corner by the Noah’s ark birdhouse, making intricate roadways in the gravel for his collection of cars. His concentration on his task reminded me of Trey laying out the tracks for his Thomas the Tank Engine collection. Somehow, it didn’t seem all that long ago.
I put down my bag, took off my shoes, grasped Makayla’s hand, and climbed onto the bench. Standing on my toes, I stretched up and was able to see into the holes on one side. There were bits of twigs and grass within, but nothing else. I twisted to look in the holes on another side.
“What are you doing?” a small voice inquired.
Startled, I lost my balance and only managed to land on my feet because of Makayla’s firm grip. The boy stood by the bench, a yellow Corvette in his hand.
“Are you putting a note in there for the Flower Man?” he asked.
Makayla and I exchanged excited glances.
“Do you mean the man with the long gray beard and coat?” I pantomimed a beard growing from my own chin.
The boy nodded. “He picks flowers even though my mom says that’s bad. And he hides notes in there.” He pointed to the purple martin house.
“That’s what I’m looking for now,” I said. “Did you see him put one in there recently?”
“Aiden! Come here!” The mother with the twins started walking toward us.
“Aw, Mom, I’m just talking to the ladies.” He rolled his eyes. “She always thinks somebody’s gonna take me or try to give me candy.”
Makayla smiled at him. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of chocolate-covered coffee beans at the moment.”
Having reached us, his mother grabbed hold of her little boy’s arm. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”
I reached out my hand. “I’m Lila Wilkins, ma’am, and I didn’t mean any harm.” Makayla also introduced herself.
“Hello,” the woman said, barely making eye contact. “Sorry to act overprotective, but we’ve seen our share of weirdos around here. Come with me, Aiden.” She pulled him toward the entrance. “We have to go home for supper. Dylan, Daniel, time to go!”
“But Mom, I gotta get my cars!” Aiden yanked free and ran to his toys, hastily dumping them into a bucket. “Bye!” he shouted, waving at us.
Disappointed that I couldn’t ask him, or his mother for that matter, more questions about Marlette, I climbed back on the bench and inspected the rest of the purple martin house. But there was nothing inside except for nesting materials. The twigs and fluff and grass that once kept helpless baby birds safe and warm now served no purpose and were merely debris.
I climbed down dispiritedly, reflecting on how the emptiness of the birdhouse resembled that of Marlette’s little home in the woods.
“Don’t worry,” Makayla said, seeing I was in need of a pep talk. “Tomorrow’s another day. Who knows what clues are just waiting to be found?”
“I hope there’s at least one, because at this point I am striking out as a detective.”
She took my arm in hers. “But you make a fabulous park bench acrobat.”
This earned her a laugh, but as we left the park, I carried the image of the vacant birdhouse with me. More than ever, I was determined to find out what happened to Marlette and to deliver a measure of justice to the person known to the children as the Flower Man.
Chapter 8
AS THE WEEK PROGRESSED, MY DAYS AT A NOVEL IDEA began to take on a regular rhythm. I was grateful for this, since the past two weeks had contained more drama than I cared to replicate.
On Friday morning my mother drove me to work, the way she’d done the previous few days.
“This is a nice little routine we got goin’, isn’t it?” She said as she pulled up in front of Espresso Yourself. “Me takin’ you to work, then stoppin’ in town for what I need, and I get back home in time to get my banana bread in the oven and prepare for my first client.”