Summer of the Spotted Owl (17 page)

At the mention of my name, Sylvester's Adam's apple shot up to jaw level and froze. He choked out a few words.

Mary Lou and the sports anchor leaned closer to hear him. “What was that, Syl?” the anchorwoman demanded. She waggled her eyebrows at the camera.

Sylvester spun round in his chair, leaped off and ran.

“Strange,” commented Mary Lou. “I could have sworn he said something about
insurance
.”

Reaching for the remote, Madge powered off Mary Lou and the sports anchor while they were still laughing.

“Please help yourself to the dinner Dinah and I have prepared,” she told our guests.

That's right,
guests
. Jack, Mother, Rowena, Talbot, Pantelli and Sean Pickles, a.k.a. Darwood King. Madge and I were holding our first-ever Galloway sisters' dinner party, in honor of the just-finished mural that she was about to unveil.

Well, not unveil. Unsheet. We'd strung a couple of the Urstads' bedsheets over the wall.

It was such a special event that I'd helped uncomplainingly. I'd even chopped carrots and celery into slim, dainty sticks at Madge's instruction.

Though, just before our guests arrived, Madge had marched me into the kitchen and made me wash the drops of blood off the carrot and celery sticks. I wasn't all that graceful at chopping. “C'mon, Madge. Blood adds a satisfyingly grisly element,” I'd protested.

Sean was busy crunching a celery stick now. “You'd have missed our house,” he assured his mom. “You have to admit, you're glad to be staying here.”

Rowena's eyes grew misty. “Yes, all the history—all the love—that's in the old place.” Then she sighed. “But all the repairs that need doing!”

Crunch! “I'm going to be in a position to help you with that,” the
Tomorrow's Cool Talent
host informed her. “I'll be earning lots more money. Did I tell you our show has been picked up for US syndication? That's why I was so secretive about my scripts—if my jokes had been leaked, the deal would have been ruined. Think of it, Ma. Soon my jokes will be heard in fifty states!”

A look of horror settled on Rowena's face. To distract Sean, Jack said pleasantly, “Hey, it's exciting about Dinah, Talbot and Pantelli appearing on your show, Sean. Er, Darwood. When does all this happen?”

“As soon as possible,” Sean returned. “We start filming in August.” With a carrot stick, he gestured at Mother. “Is it okay if Di and the boys fly out in two weeks, Mrs. Galloway?”

Mother's eyes crinkled in thought. She mumbled, “I suppose…I don't know if I can be the one to escort them, though, what with my job…”

Mother was being even vaguer and more absentminded than usual. I stared at her, then realized
she
was staring at the carrot stick Sean brandished. Specifically, at the bright red gob on the end of it, which Sean, in his enthusiasm, hadn't noticed.

Uh-oh. My washing-off hadn't quite been complete.

“We'll figure something out,” Sean said confidently.
Kee-rrrunch!

With a strange-sounding cough, Jack stepped out on the deck. He had a good excuse: Madge had appointed him barbecue chef as she didn't want smoke getting into her hairdo.

I could have skated on the glare Madge was sending me. “Guess I'll see how Jack's doing,” I said weakly and followed him outside.

And got
a big hug from him. “This is my official thank-you on behalf of soac,” Jack said. “The condo development that Councillor Cordes so slyly planned would have driven our spotted owl family out of their patch of forest, with the baby owls most likely not surviving.”

I gaped at him, pleased but surprised. “You're not mad at me anymore?”

“What? Oh, you mean for chasing after Bald Guy that day in the canyon.” Jack frowned at me in exasperation. “I wasn't so much mad as scared, Dinah. Listen, it's just that I love you, and I don't want to lose you. I—hey, what gives?”

Because I'd started blubbering. “Those are pretty much the words Mother used to say to Dad every time he'd disappointed her by going out and getting drunk. I don't want to be like Dad, Jack. At least not,” I corrected myself, “like that side of Dad. The reckless side.”

Jack handed me a serviette so I could blow my nose. He considered what I'd said. Then he smiled the funny, crooked smile I liked so much, though his gray eyes remained solemn. “You won't be like that side of your dad, Dinah. You're too strong.”

Then he added, “I'm not saying life will be easy for you. Life's often toughest on the strong people. They're the ones who take life on. Who challenge it, like you do.”

That was too theoretical for me. I switched topics. “What about that fax you sent back to me from soac? The one where you told me to stop bothering you?”

“Wh–? I never saw any fax. Wait,” and Jack looked amused, “that must have been Jan who wrote the snotty message to you.”

I pictured the scrawled signature again. Actually, it
had
resembled a “Jan” more than a “Jack.” “In the words of our buddy the spotted owl,
who?
”

“Jan's the soac receptionist,” Jack explained. At my disgusted expression, he laughed. “I'll admit Jan isn't overly supplied with charm, but listen, it's a volunteer position.”

Then I remembered the stern, dark-haired, soac protester that day at the rally. Ah. That would be Jan.

“Hmph,” I said and felt a lot better.

“We get a lot of crank phone and fax messages at soac, Dinah. All of which are monitored by Jan. Is it possible, when you were leaving your messages, you sounded a bit—say, eccentric? Being impatient, Jan tends to toss out or delete any messages that sound remotely strange.”

“We-ell…I guess reading the Book of Job into the SOAC general voice mail might've been a
bit
over the top. I was just trying to show how much I was suffering, with you mad at me.” I grinned sheepishly.

Sometimes I wasn't overly supplied with common sense. What'd I been thinking? Jack would never tell me to get lost.

Heck, he couldn't even tell a marmalade cat to get lost. Yup, Jack was going to adopt Napoleon.

Which reminds me. I'd told Sylvester all about Zoë and her poodle, Norman. He'd reported on Norman's cupcake-filled diet in his stories, after which the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had stepped in. Norman was going to be adopted too—by a family that believed in regular dog food.

I viewed Jack happily as he slid burger patties on the grill. Over the sizzles I thought of one more question. “How come you didn't expose me when I was hiding under the hang glider? You knew it was me.”

Jack shook the spatula at me. “I'll tell you why, Ms. Dinah-Mite. Once I realized what you and Itchy were up to, I didn't want to stop Itchy from revealing his dad and Zoë's plot to Rowena. Plus, if I'd exposed you, Itchy would've got into a mountain-load of trouble for letting a minor hang glide with him.

“But if you ever,” and Jack flipped a couple of the patties rather fiercely, “fly a hang glider again before you're eighteen, Dinah Galloway, I'll—”

“I'll only fly on airplanes,” I promised hurriedly, though I was rather pleased at his fierceness. “Like the one to Toronto in a couple of weeks.”

But it
appeared that wouldn't happen. That is, the trip would, just not the plane.

Loud retching noises reached us from inside. Talbot escaped, grimacing. “Pantelli's showing why he's unable to travel by air,” he said, sliding the door shut.

The noises were now blocked. However, through the glass, we could still see Pantelli bent double. “You mean he's throwing up at the
thought
of airplane travel?” I demanded.

“Naw, he's pretending to throw up. To prove his point,” Talbot explained, shrugging. “So it looks like we might be traveling by train—if some responsible grown-up will agree to accompany us. Your agent, Mr. Wellman, says he might be able to, provided his doctor prescribes a
lot
of medication for him to take on the way.”

“Oh, ha ha ha,” I said, annoyed at Mr. Wellman. “Like we'd be difficult or something.”

Meanwhile, Jack was glaring through the French doors at Pantelli. “I'll something Pantelli,” he announced grimly. Turning the barbecue down, he marched into the house.

Talbot was holding a newspaper-wrapped package. He sat down on a lawn chair and began opening the newspaper folds. Interested, I plunked down in the chair beside him.

“I made you a sort of present, Dinah,” Talbot said, looking as grim as Jack.

Huh? What was it with the male of the species all of a sudden?

He pulled away the last corners of newspaper to reveal…two heavily wired, duct-taped-together objects that resembled primitive telephone receivers. Very primitive. I doubt Alexander Graham Bell would have permitted them in his home.

“Um,” I said.

“When I heard about you getting stuck on the ledge, I made these for you,” Talbot said, still grim. He handed me one of the objects. “That is, one's for you and one's for me. They're walkie-talkies, with a one-mile radius.”

Talbot the musician was always tinkering with electronics. Until now he'd confined his experiments to sound equipment.

“Next time you're in trouble, you contact me,” he said.

I weighed the clunky walkie-talkie in my hand. Almost,
almost
, I made a scornful joke about needing to hire a Mack truck to carry this for me wherever I went.

Then I caught the unhappy look in Talbot's brown eyes. He really was worried.

A rare feminine feeling stole over me. It was kind of nice being worried about. Maybe I wouldn't make that joke after all.

I wagged the walkie-talkie at him. “Fine, but this transmits two ways,” I pointed out. “
You
might want to get in touch with
me
sometime for help.”

“Unlikely,” said Talbot, irritatingly superior.

It was weird—just then a breeze was whisking around the yard. I got a shiver, what Mother would call a premonition.

But of course I don't believe in that stuff.

We were gathered
in the dining room, in front of the sheet-covered mural. It was going to be my job to take down the sheets, at Madge's signal. To be ready, I was hastily polishing off the crab-stuffed mushroom caps I'd crammed on my plate.

Madge, who was shy before groups of people—quite the opposite of yours truly—smiled nervously round at us. Jack was holding her hand to give her courage. (Let's be clear:
that
type of femininity I'll never go for.)

“I struggled with this mural for ages,” Madge confessed. “I kept trying the greeting-card look because I thought that's what would please Mrs. Urstad. Out of my brush scampered cheery chipmunks and soft-eyed deer—and soon after, Dinah and I would be whitewashing them into oblivion. Right, Di?”

Cheeks bulging, I nodded. Hopefully no actual comment was expected of me.

Madge continued, “Then, one day, I realized that what I was trying to dream up, Dinah was living.” She smiled at me.

Huh? I attempted to crack a smile around all the crab-stuffed mushroom caps inside my mouth. What
was
my sister burbling about?

“Dinah was going out and experiencing life on the North Shore,” Madge explained. “Experiencing it chaotically, yes, because that's our Dinah—but experiencing it joyfully too.

“So, what Dinah lived, I painted,” said Madge and winked at me.

That was it: our signal. I pulled the sheets away.

And there it was, our July at the Urstads'. Under an immense blue sky, and against violet mountains, I was paddling around in the pool, musical notes spilling from my mouth, while Itchy hovered overhead in Big Red.

There was Talbot, playing a guitar beside the pool, and Pantelli, peering at a Douglas fir through a cracked magnifying glass. On the other side of the hedge, Napoleon preened and Bald Guy/Sean/Darwood listened, eyes shut and smiling blissfully.

Jack paraded in front of the Urstads' with a soac sign, while Madge, scowling, painted a tiny pink convertible red! That was funny—almost the best part.

But not quite. The best was the big, fluffy spotted owl perched on a branch in the foreground. He was the main feature of the painting. It had really been
his
July, after all.

Gulping down the mushroom caps all at once, I suddenly felt very, very happy, for him and for me. Nobody would stop the spotted owl from living in this part of the canyon. He could raise his family, safe and unbothered.

And when he felt like it, he could soar, unworried, up, up into the blue, where Itchy and I had flown—where my dad hung out.

Melanie Jackson
wrote her first mystery story at age seven and hasn't stopped since. She isn't sure why she likes mysteries so much, except that maybe it's part of being curious about life and its possibilities. A former jour
nalist, Melanie volunteers as a creative writing mentor for the Vancouver School Board. Born in Scotland, raised in Toronto, Melanie lives in East Vancouver, in the same Commercial Drive area as her singing sleuth Dinah, with her husband, daughter and cowardly cat.