I lay there, knowing that I was asleep, yet awake, dreaming a real dream but not caring at all, enjoying a consciousness that was almost like being dead.
—Mickey Spillane, My Gun Is Quick
THE STRIDENT CRY of a crow woke me from a sound sleep.
I sat up as well as I was able, considering I had a sleeping bag zipped up around me like a nylon cocoon. The tent was empty, Seymour’s and Brainert’s sleeping bags were still rolled up in the corner, and I realized they’d pulled an all-nighter.
The cobwebs fell away as I climbed to my feet, but not the memory of my dream.
I was glad to know that my initial hunch about distrusting Syble had been correct. And my first theory about Cora had been right, too. She really was Peyton Pemberton’s great aunt. One day, that shy, damaged young woman would mature into an acclaimed actress and head of her own theater company. It felt like something to celebrate.
“Too bad I missed out on that dinner at Sardi’s,” I muttered.
Of course, Jack was not there to reply. And though I’d helped him solve his case, mine was still wide open.
I adjusted my clothes, slipped on my boots and a hoodie, and exited the tent. The campfire was a smoky memory. The folding chairs were empty. The teardrop trailer was closed up tight, and there was no sign of Seymour or Brainert.
I longed for a hot cup of tea, but all Seymour had in his kit was instant coffee. I took a drink from the water cooler and scanned the area in search of my fellow campers.
Millstone Creek had finally receded to its customary banks, and the place we were camped was no longer an island, just part of the shore. But the ground was still soft and muddy, and I spotted two sets of footprints heading into the woods.
Either Seymour and Brainert had gone off to investigate something—or they were busy doing what bears do in the woods.
I decided to follow their trail.
It was easy at first, but down among the weeds things got tougher. I barely managed to keep on their tail until I saw them both, just inside a line of trees.
“Hey, Pen! Look what we found,” Seymour cried. Brainert was beside him, but the professor’s eyes were on the ground.
I pushed through some saplings and reached the two a moment later.
“What is this?”
Seymour shrugged. “Search me. Crazy, huh?”
The circle was maybe fifteen feet across, with carefully manicured ground in the middle. The cleared area was outlined by a long, thin rope tied around tree trunks to create an irregular circle, about waist-high. Hundreds of bits of aluminum foil dangled from the rope, each painstakingly connected by hand.
“Aha!” Brainert cried, pointing to the sky. No, not the sky. One section of rope had broken, and the loose foil-covered string had blown high among the tree branches and become entangled.
“I did see light in the woods,” Brainert said. “That foil is high enough to reflect the headlights from the highway. That’s what I saw. I knew I wasn’t wrong.”
“Brilliant deduction, Holmes. Simply sterling,” Seymour replied.
I used the break in the rope to enter the circle. The ground had been swept clean of weeds. Only some dry grasses and a carpet of sunflower shells remained. Right in the middle of the circle I found a cheap plastic basin buried in the ground. It was partially filled with muddy water and dead leaves, but I got the feeling that wasn’t always the case.
I found more proof of my theory at the other end of the circle, where I found two empty mason jars, their former contents written on masking tape with a magic marker and slapped on the side.
“What are Juneberries?” I muttered aloud.
Whatever they were, I knew their purpose.
“What is this place?” Brainert asked.
“It’s a bird feeder,” I replied. “A great big bird feeder.”
“Actually, it’s a crow trap,” a new voice said, startling us. “Though I don’t actually trap any. I just feed the crows and observe them.”
The speaker was standing among the trees, her hair covered by an oversize baseball cap, a flannel jacket over her slim shoulders. She held a giant bag of bird seed in one strong hand. A red scarf wrapped around her neck and partially covered the woman’s face and muffled her voice, but I recognized her instantly.
“Norma Stanton!”
“Hello, Mrs. McClure. Hey, Seymour,” Norma the Nomad replied with a smile and a tiny wave.