Love on the Line by Deeanne Gist
“Did you have time to eat supper?” he asked.
Her attention remained focused on her nemesis. “Did I tell you Mr. Ottfried’s son is a member of my Junior Audubon Society?”
He lifted his brows. “You didn’t.”
“Well, he is. I think initially, Fritz joined in order to find out where the birds were and how to call them so he could kill them for his father.”
Luke tipped his hat to a man, woman, and two boys dressed in their Sunday best. The man returned Luke’s nod, then opened the door of Winkelmann’s Photography Studio.
“It backfired, though.” Georgie’s eyes dropped to half-mast. Her smile turned smug. “Fritz is my biggest proponent for bird conservation and has tripled the size of our society.”
“What does his father say about that?”
“I don’t know, but ads for his contest and spring collection continue to appear in every edition of the paper.”
Three tiers of beer bottles clinked inside a bottler’s wagon, temporarily blocking the millinery from view and diverting her attention.
“What’s the word on his contest?” he asked.
“It’s not doing too well. My Plumage League has secured a great number of pledges, even though our membership is still quite small.”
“You planning on running him out of town?”
She looked up in surprise. “Goodness, no. We just want him to stop using bird parts.”
Two women exited Schleider Furniture Company, intent on their conversation. Executing the intricate dance of walking without jostling others, Luke pulled Georgie closer to his side, skirting the preoccupied ladies. A few more steps and they reached the ice cream parlor.
Men, women, and children of all ages filled bent-wire tables and chairs, raising their voices to be heard over a player piano’s rendition of “Daisy Bell.” Luke took a deep breath, inhaling a melange of sweet smells. A white marble counter as fancy as any he’d ever seen stretched the entire length of one wall, swivel stools marking its length.
Two men in white coats and a woman in a low-bibbed black apron worked frantically behind the bar. Rows of flavored syrups lined their shelves like hard liquor in a fancy saloon.
Luke immediately spotted Peter Finkel across the room. The farmer’s side part, high forehead, and curled-over ears gave him more the look of an untried boy than a train-robbery suspect. Yet after Necker collected his purse, he’d made two stops on his way home. One was at Finkel’s, the other was at the home of a new telephone customer named Ragston. Luke had pushed both men to the top of his suspect list along with Necker, Duane, and Blesinger.
Georgie tapped Luke’s arm and pointed to a display of toothache gum and digestive tablets. “I hope that isn’t a portent of a fate to come.”
Chuckling, he asked what her favorite flavor was, then inched his way to the counter and ordered two helpings of tutti-frutti. Balancing a bowl in each hand, he returned to find she’d secured them a table in the corner.
“Looks wonderful,” she said, lifting a cherry from the top of her serving, placing it in her mouth, and plucking off its stem. “I can’t remember the last time I had ice cream.”
They sat in silence, savoring each bite until they’d satisfied their initial cravings.
“So what do you do at night after work?” he asked, tilting his bowl forward to scoop up the last few bites. “Once it’s too dark to be outside with your birds, that is.”
She shrugged. “Different things. I do a lot of my cooking and cleaning at night, since I’m not able to do much during the day. Lately, tasks for the Plumage League have kept me busy. And I read most every night just before I put out the lantern. What about you?”
“There’s not a lot to do at a boardinghouse. So I meet up with friends when I can.”
She smiled. “Who are your friends?”
“Duane Pfeuffer is my closest friend.”
Her smile lost some of its luster. “Duane Pfeuffer? From the Pfeuffer Feed Store?”
“You know him?”
“Not really. I’ve heard he’s a bit wild.”
“Duane?” He pretended surprise. “What else have you heard?”
“That he spends a lot of his time at Charlie’s Saloon.”
Luke nodded. “Well, I can’t deny that.”
She touched the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Is that where you spend your evenings? At the saloon?”
“Sometimes, but more for a game of billiards than anything else.”
She pushed the cream around in her bowl. “Who else do you spend time with?”
“Duane and I are going hunting with Arnold Necker on Sunday.”
Taking a bite, she looked at everything but him.
“You told me you liked Arnold,” he reminded her.
“I do.” She gave him a false smile. “What will the three of you be hunting?”
He didn’t answer.
She set down her spoon. The bouncy tune on the Pianola contrasted with her tight-lipped disapproval.
Sighing, he placed his forearms on either side of his bowl. “We’re not shooting songbirds, Georgie.”
“Well, I should hope not.” Her words were soft, barely audible.
“You know, slaughtering a cute little mild-eyed lamb isn’t nearly as pleasant to contemplate as eating spring lamb and mint sauce. But it’s done all the time.”
She tucked her chin. “I know.”
“Every November families all across our country put a turkey on the block and chop off its head.”
She folded, then refolded the napkin in her lap, refusing to look up.
“Every bird we down will be eaten. There is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying a wholesome outdoor sport when we’d otherwise have to single them out of a cote and wring their necks.”
She pushed out her chair. “I’d like to go home now.”
He looked at her bowl. “You haven’t finished.”
“Oh, I’m finished. I’m definitely finished.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Because I want to go home?”
“Because you begrudge me my bird hunting.”
“You can do whatever you like, Luke. Just like I can. And I’d like to go home.” She stood.
Shaking his head, he pushed in their chairs and offered his arm. She hesitated, but was too polite to refuse it.
Street traffic had slowed considerably with only an occasional dray rumbling by. He checked the sun’s descent, noting the long shadows it cast along the street. He kept at a leisurely pace, though Georgie held herself stiff beside him.
A shop boy stepped onto the boardwalk to sweep the landing in front of Seelhorst Tin Shop before closing up for the evening.
As soon as the boy was out of earshot, Luke cleared his throat. “Georgie—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Luke.”
He debated pressing her, then decided against it. He’d had no business stepping out with her in the first place. Even if she knew who he really was, it wouldn’t change the fact he loved to bird hunt. And he had no intention of giving it up. Not for her. Not for anybody.
Chapter Twenty
Pulling a dressing sacque over her nightgown, Georgie shoved her feet into fleece-lined slippers, then dragged the wool blanket off her bed. A pair of cardinals had chosen her backyard as their breeding ground. Repeatedly the male had seen his reflection in her window, mistaken it for another male cardinal, and slammed into the glass over and over in an effort to protect his territory.
She’d finally covered the spot with newspaper, only for his mate to see herself in the opposite window and do the same thing. Still, Georgie had never had cardinals nest in her yard, and she wanted to get to know them before they did. It was an hour yet to sunrise and they’d awaken soon, so she’d best hurry.
Wrapping the green blanket around her, she pulled her braid free and tiptoed out the back door. The air smelled of dew and had a slight nip to it.
She settled onto a chair, tuck
After her confrontation with Luke, she’d redoubled her efforts to save the birds. She presented Mistrot Bros., Ottfried’s local competitor, with literature documenting forty thousand sandpipers killed on the North Carolina coast for millinery purposes. The mercantile owner added the first and only male signature to the Plumage League’s pledge and announced he would solely stock hats that excluded bird parts.
Filled with a sense of victory, she immediately asked him to judge the Plumage League’s Maifest hat competition. He not only accepted her request, but also offered to place the top five hats up for sale in his shop.
His announcement doubled the number of hats entered, completely upstaging Ottfried’s showcase and contest. Easter came and went with the lion’s share of women sporting bonnets without a hint of birds upon them.
Cheo.
She caught her breath, her gaze swiveling toward the sound. The cardinal was somewhere on the east side of the yard, but it was too dark to determine its exact spot. Dawn was a good forty-five minutes away and none of the other birds had even awakened.
Cheo cheo.
So loud. But he was slow to get going. Like an old man creaking out of bed one joint at a time.
Cheo cheo.
A few more seconds passed, as if he was yawning and stretching before his next verse.
Wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet wheet.
She smiled at the familiar tune. He started his song over from the beginning, this time with a little more liveliness, until finally, he was singing the entire thing with total abandon. On and on he went, sometimes with a single cheo, sometimes with two. Sometimes fortissimo, sometimes pianissimo. Sometimes with pauses between, sometimes without stopping.
She closed her eyes, amazed at how a tiny thing could produce such a powerful sound. As far as she knew, only two species on God’s green earth could sing. Men and birds.
There was no comparison. The grandest virtuoso would be no match for her feathered friend.
His concert awoke a robin, prompting it to go through its repertoire. A bobwhite stirred, then introduced himself by name. A warbler fluttered to a tree nearby, with a sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet sweeter-sweeter.
The cardinal, not to be outdone, switched to a new song. Whoo-ett . . . whoo-ett whoo-ett . . . whoo-ett whoo-ett tuer tuer tuer tuer.
The sky lightened to gray; the moon began to fade. A plethora of robins joined the fray, along with blue jays, chickadees, whippoorwills, and thrashers. And then she heard it. A soft echo of the cardinal’s whoo-ett whoo-ett tuer.
Her male heard it, too. He held his song and was rewarded with another muted whoo-ett whoo-ett tuer.
Georgie searched the garden, squinting through the cusp-of-dawn light. The female had to be in the buttonbush across the yard.
Their conversation continued, her songs brief and ladylike, his manly and loud. Showing off, he introduced yet another new song.
Instead of echoing, she responded with the whoo-ett-tuer of before.
It took him aback. He sang his new one again, a little gentler this time. Then again. And again, each verse gaining volume.
Whoo-ett, the female replied.
Georgie smiled. The female liked that first song. But her mate was relentless, singing the new melody over and over until finally she matched him.
In a blur, he dashed across the yard, landing in the top of an elm, looking down his bill at his woman. She was definitely in the buttonbush.
The sun peeked over the horizon, gilding the edges of the cardinal’s brilliant plumage. He hopped across the branch, then spread his wings and glided down to the buttonbush.
He slipped into its crooked branches, the leaves rustling behind him and offering the couple privacy as he gave her a proper good morning. Cardinals mated for life and Georgie knew they spent each day together, foraging for food and nesting material, then looking for the perfect place to raise their young.
She pulled her legs up underneath her. Would Luke repeat his song until she capitulated? What would happen if the female cardinal never sang the male’s song? Would they still be mates for life?
Closing her eyes, she rested her head against her knees and tried not to wish she was the one receiving a proper good morning.
The further into April they went, the more the town emptied as farmers spent all waking hours in their fields. Not to be outdone, Mother Nature dressed the county for Maifest, blanketing the hills and meadows in a kaleidoscope of wildflowers.
On the eve of the festival, Georgie’s switchboard buzzed with excited chatter, and if ever she needed Bettina, it was now, but the girl hadn’t shown her face for over a week. The milliner’s son, Fritz Ottfried, had stopped by to help when he could, but he too had disappeared of late. As a result, messages to nonsubscribers were delayed or not sent at all.
The jangle of harnesses signaled Luke’s return from the field. Placing her earpiece on the switchboard table, she poked her head out the screen door. “Have you seen Bettina?”
Unwinding the breeching from the cart shaft, he shook his head. “I haven’t. She still hasn’t come by?”
She stepped onto the porch, the screen bouncing shut behind her. “No, and I’m beginning to worry. Are you still visiting the saloons in the evenings?”
His head whipped up, his hands stilling.
She crossed her arms, belatedly realizing the personal nature of the question. They’d spoken little over the past month, and when they had it was of nothing but business. “I was asking because I wondered if Bettina’s father was still being served.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, after the election and all.”
He frowned, then comprehension dawned. “You mean because of the passing of the habitual drunkard bill?”
“Yes.” The bill had made it illegal for liquor to be sold to any person who habitually drank.
Resting a hand on Honey Dew’s back, he looked into the distance, searching his memory. “You know, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him.”
“Well, that’s good. I just . . . I can’t help thinking it might have something to do with her absence. It’s simply not like her.”
He returned his attention to her. “You want me to check on her?”
“Would you mind?”
“No. I’ll go over there tonight.”
He didn’t continue unhitching the cart, but remained with his hand resting on Honey Dew, his hat pushed back, his gaze intense. With an effort, she lowered her eyes and turned toward the door.
“Miss Georgie!” Her gate opened, then slammed shut.
She whirled around. “Bettina. For heaven’s sake, we were just talking about you. Where on earth have you—” She gasped. The girl’s left jaw was swollen and her eye black and purple. “What happened?”
“I fell out of a tree, but that’s not why I’m here.” She glanced Luke’s direction, then ran the last few feet to Georgie. “Something bad is fixin’ to happen.”
Georgie squatted down, resting her hands on the girl’s bony shoulders. “What is it?”
“I heard tell somebody’s gonna do somethin’ to yer float.”
“My float?” Georgie’s eyes widened. The von Hardenbergs had delivered the Plumage League’s flower-bedecked Maifest float not an hour earlier and parked it behind her cottage. “Somebody said something?”
“Fritz.”
“Fritz Ottfried?”
“Yeah. He said some of them fellers is mad about the ruckus you and them other ladies have caused about shooting birds. So they’ve decided to teach you a lesson.”
Her heart began to accelerate. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“I dunno. That’s all he told me, but I think we oughter keep watch tonight. You can take the first shift. That’s the easiest one. I’ll take the second.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Luke said.
Sta
He loomed large, his expression fierce. “I’ll see to the float. Who did that to your face?”
Bettina’s expression grew guarded. “I done said already, I fell out of a tree.”
Georgie hooked a piece of hair behind the girl’s ear. “Does it hurt?”
“Nothing like it did at first.” She leaned close. “I’m not sure we should trust him, Miss Georgie. He’s one of the ones who likes to shoot birds.”
“Not for hats,” he said. “And I’d never do anything to Miss Georgie’s float.”
Georgie nodded. “I believe him, Bettina. He may like to shoot pigeons, but he wouldn’t harm me or you or sabotage our float.”
Bettina took his measure.
He lowered onto one knee. “She’s right, but you need to tell us everything Fritz said. Word for word.”
“I already did. Fritz heard some fellers talking, then he came out to my shack and pitched a few rocks at my window. He needn’t have, though. Pa was sleeping it off. Nothing can wake him when he’s booze blind.”
“Why didn’t Fritz tell Miss Georgie?” Luke asked.
She gave Georgie a side glance before answering. “His pa’s forbidden him to come out here anymore. Not even fer our bird meetings.”
Georgie stiffened.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’d expected him to put a stop to it long ago.”
“He didn’t know nothing ’bout it ’til yesterdee. Fritz got in a whole passel o’ trouble.”
Luke nodded. “Do you know where he is?”
“I could prob’ly find him.”
“Go ask him for names. I need the names of the men he overheard.”
Standing, Georgie held out her hand. “First you come inside and let me put something on your face.”
“I’m fine.”
She crooked her fingers. “Come on, it won’t sting.”
Bettina began to back up. “Sorry, Miss Georgie. If I’m gonna find Fritz, I’d best get goin’.” Spinning around, she raced out the gate and clomped down the street in her oversized boots.
Georgie followed her with her eyes. “She didn’t fall out of a tree.”