The Plucker: A Beastly Crimes Book Read online

  and all your feathers will be lost

  if you encounter the hamster ghost!

  “Merry, buried. Presence, vengeance,” recited Super Bat. “Great rhymes. I like them. But they don’t change anything about this case. Obviously, a ghost hamster does not exist, Hawk and Barbara were just hallucinating, and all the crimes were committed by Badgercat. So please sign the confession. Yes, sign right here on the line.”

  Badgercat lifted his paw above the bark and froze.

  “What if the ghost does exist?” he asked hopefully. “What if I’m not the Plucker? What if it’s a hamster?”

  “Nonsense!” screeched Super Bat careening from the ceiling straight toward Badgercat’s head, as if she was going to ram right into it, like the dazzling bird in Forest’s ballad, but changed direction at the last second. “There are witness statements against you and irrefutable evidence! We found your claw in the bark of the oak where the sparrow was plucked. That alone is enough to find you guilty! So sign the confession! Right here on the line!”

  Badgercat stalled.

  “Someone could have planted Badgercat’s claw at the scene of the crime,” said Chief Badger suddenly.

  “Who would do that?”

  “The real Plucker. The rodent who is trying to frame Badgercat. The one who left his teeth marks on the oak.”

  “Who is this rodent?” squealed Super Bat. “The dead hamster?”

  “Maybe it’s the dead hamster,” said Chief Badger calmly. “Or maybe it’s Ratty.”

  “Ratty? You mean Badgercat’s imaginary friend?” Super Bat began laughing hysterically. “I’m embarrassed for you, Chief Badger.” Super Bat stopped laughing abruptly. “You could’ve at least tried to come up with a more believable story to cover up for your partner. Because as we stand right now, the real Plucker is either the ghost of a hamster or an imaginary rat.”

  “Why imaginary?” Chief Badger turned to Badgercat. “Describe Ratty to me, would you, Son?”

  “Well. . . he’s a rat. Normal looking. Gray. Distinguishing characteristic: one of his ears is ripped. Badger, I really did make him up. For instance, in my fantasy, Ratty was a special agent working for Madame Weasel.”

  “A rat with a ripped ear?” Chief Badger’s own ears perked up. “The right ear?”

  “Yes,” said Badgercat, surprised. “How did you know? Did you hallucinate him too?”

  “No, I didn’t hallucinate him, Badgercat. I saw him right next to Pigeon, Madame Weasel’s secretary. He was his bodyguard. The tip of his right ear had a rip. Like this,” Badger grabbed the confession bark and sketched an ear with a crooked scar.

  “Yes. . . his ear looked just like that.” Badgercat stared at the bark in shock.

  “You’re defacing the confession!” Super Bat cut in. “Cross out that ear! And sign on the line at the bottom.”

  “So that means Ratty is real?” Badgercat asked Badger, in complete disbelief, ignoring Super Bat’s yelling.

  “No, he isn’t!” trilled Super Bat. “And even if he was, he’s gone now!”

  “Why?” whispered Badgercat.

  “Because just this morning, one of Weasel’s rats was sentenced to death for treason and aiding the enemy. Madame Weasel delivered the final justice herself.”

  “Ratty! My friend!” Badgercat wanted to bury his face in his paws, but the pawcuffs wouldn’t let him. He shut his eyes instead. His dirty tail trembled.

  “So let’s sign the confession.” Super Bat impatiently waved the bark in Badgercat’s face.

  Badgercat opened his eyes. Quietly clinking his pawcuffs, he took the bark with the confession and placed it on his lap. He sat, motionless, for a few seconds, his giant moon-pupils staring into space. Then he slowly lifted his paw, timidly let out the remains of his claws, and suddenly, gruffly and furiously, slashed at the bark, ripping it to shreds.

  “I’m not signing anything,” Badgercat puffed himself up into a fur ball, his eyes narrowed furiously. “Let the hamster ghost sign a confession! Tell that Weasel of yours that I’m NOT the Plucker. And that she’ll”—his voice quivered—“she’ll pay for the death of my friend!”

  CHAPTER 21: IN WHICH THERE IS NO PULSE

  An imperceptive outsider might conclude that Chief Badger didn’t care about his image. He would go months without brushing his molted fur, he didn’t keep himself in beastly shape, he had excess badger fat, and his whiskers, which seemed to always have bits of Bump on a Log stuck in them, were greasy and curled up at the ends.

  But the outsider’s conclusion would be wrong. Though Chief Badger did not give much importance to his outward appearance or the greasiness of his whiskers, he was, indeed, concerned with his overall image. What mattered to him was honor and reputation. In these matters he was exceptionally thorough.

  Which is why the recently discovered book of Robert Forest’s poetry—which had survived the fire but had not been returned to the library by its due date—greatly bothered him. After Badgercat’s interrogation, which ended with his refusal to sign a confession, after the high-frequency hysterical fit had by Super Bat in response, Chief Badger was barely able to shuffle home to get some rest. But Forest literally robbed him of sleep. Chief Badger could not relax. He couldn’t stop thinking about the overdue book and the unpaid fine. A few times he had almost fallen into a comfortable, sleepy emptiness but was suddenly pulled out of it by the dreary cawing of librarian Sarah. “We haven’t had it for a long time . . . one rare copy disappeared many years ago . . . look up who checked it out last. . . you could fine them!” Chief Badger would shudder, start sweating, and open his eyes, bloodshot from so many sleepless nights.

  In the end, he got up from his crumpled moss bed, ate two lemons (to shake off his fatigue), grabbed the book, and headed to the library. Of course, he couldn’t return it—“The Ballad of the Mad Hamster” was crucial to the investigation. But he decided to confess to the white raven, pay the fine for all those overdue years, and renew the book.

  * * *

  The bookshelves were knocked over, and books were strewn about the floor. They were splayed open on the happiest or saddest parts of their story, trampled over by dirty paws, their wing-pages ripped. Lying among the books, with her gnarled feet in the air, was the librarian Sarah—plucked bald. Her eyes were glazed over with a pale film. A ring gleamed on her elderly ankle, a sad reminder of the exterminated white ravens. Her feathers, long ago turned ashy from old age, were now just ash.

  Chief Badger kneeled next to her, trying to feel for a pulse. There was nothing. He pressed his ear to her chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat. A faint, uneven flutter was coming from inside her motionless body. As if an injured moth with singed wings wanted out. As if a tiny, feeble chick was trying to peck his way out of an egg. As if Sarah’s scared soul was trying to fly away to wherever the freed souls of her white raven kin now nested.

  “I’m here to pay an overdue fine,” said Badger for some odd reason. As if that was the most important thing he needed to say to her.

  The pale film covering Sarah’s eyes quivered. She barely opened her beak and quietly whispered something.

  “Who?” Chief Badger leaned over her beak. “Who did this to you? Who is the Plucker?”

  The raven raised her plucked wing with a moan and touched the book under Badger’s arm.

  “Mad . . . hamster . . . ,” she whispered.

  Her wing gave a final jerk and fell limp. Chief Badger pressed his ear to her chest once more. Silence. The moth had gotten out. The last living white raven had left the Far Woods forever.

  CHAPTER 22: IN WHICH THE PENGUIN IS READY TO SHINE

  “Raven Sarah, whose tragic death was a shock to us all, was plucked last night around nine o’clock,” announced Vulture. “By this time Badgercat had long since been arrested and was here in the interrogation room. Additionally, the characteristics of the crime are identical to all the others. Sarah was plucked by the Plucker.”

  “Which means that Badgercat is not the Pluc
ker,” concluded Badger. “I am taking off his pawcuffs.”

  Super Bat grimaced contemptuously and turned away. By the sharp pain in the back of his head, Chief Badger understood that she was cursing in ultrasound.

  The pawcuffs jingled lightly as they were unlocked. Badgercat stretched his stiff paws, gracefully arched his back, and began purring at bliss level four.

  “Don’t think that you’re going to get off scot-free,” spat Super Bat maliciously. “Even if you aren’t the Plucker, in the past months you’ve broken so many laws of the Far Woods that you’ll be paying fines and doing community service for the rest of your life.”

  “Even so, I wouldn’t want to trade places with you, special agent Super Bat.” Badgercat lifted his tail defiantly. “I wonder what your boss, Madame Weasel, will do to you when she finds out that this whole time you were following the wrong lead, that the Plucker is still at large, and that you have no idea how to catch him?”

  “I know! I know how to catch the Plucker! Let me in!” came a voice from the hallway.

  “No one allowed in!” barked one of the dogs.

  Wet slaps, growling, and guttural yelps came from the other side of the door, and then something heavy smacked on to the floor.

  “Who’s there?” screeched Super Bat.

  “It’s some sort of animal who smells like fish and keeps saying he’s the king of birds. He’s trying to get into the interrogation room,” barked the dog.

  “The king penguin!” said Badgercat happily. “He’s alive!”

  “Let him in,” ordered Chief Badger.

  King Ping clumsily waddled into the interrogation room.

  “I can—”

  “He can catch the Plucker!” feverishly interrupted Badgercat. “He really can! He’s an expert!”

  “An expert!” repeated Starling.

  “An expert at what?” asked Super Bat, narrowing her beady eyes.

  “An expert at catching maniacs,” said Badgercat. “He uses himself as bait to lure sharks away from shore. You didn’t know that? Well, I did! That’s why I invited him to the Far Woods from Antarctica . . .”

  “You invited him?” screeched Super Bat. “On behalf of whom? On what grounds? With whose permission?”

  “I invited him on behalf of myself, Independent Badgercat heading a special investigation,” said Badgercat proudly. “I was hoping he’d be able to find the real maniac and take the suspicion off of me. He was to become bait for the Plucker. Not only is he a professional, he’s also a rare bird! But then he disappeared, and I began to doubt my innocence. By the way, where did you disappear to, Mr. King Ping?”

  “I didn’t disappear,” said King Ping shaking his head, causing him to lose his balance and teeter, almost falling over. “I was merely flying under the radar.”

  “Flying,” repeated Starling.

  “But penguins can’t fly,” said Super Bat.

  “No, I mean I was just laying low until it was my time to shine . . .”

  “Shine? You can light up?”

  “No! I mean that’s my technique: I lay low for a couple of days, so the maniac lets his guard down, then I suddenly come in contact with him. That’s what I always do with sharks. And I plan to do the same with your Plucker. I’ve surveyed the surroundings and am ready to step into my role as bait this very evening!”

  “I forbid it!” Super Bat fluttered spastically from wall to wall.

  King Ping tried to follow her trajectory, turning his head from side to side, which made him stagger and topple over with a loud smack.

  “What do you forbid?” he asked.

  “I forbid you to get involved in this case! The last thing I need is another victim!”

  “I’m not a victim—I’m bait. I can guarantee that my covert operation—”

  “Please! You can’t close your beak without hurting yourself!” screeched Super Bat. “Let alone catch a maniac! Even I, a special agent with super abilities, haven’t been able to catch this maniac! There will be no covert operations involving you! End of discussion! Everybody out! I’m going to the top!”

  CHAPTER 23: IN WHICH A BRILLIANT PLAN IS WORKED OUT

  “Completely out of the question!” Chief Badger stood up authoritatively. “And not because I’m afraid of disobeying that flying rat. I can’t stand her, and her orders mean nothing to me. But in regards to you, Mr. King Ping, I must agree with her. You cannot be the bait. I’m sure you are very agile in the water, but this is the woods. Savage, dense woods filled with rocks, gulleys, bushes, and trees. I can see it now: you trip over a root and fly into the gulley, with the Plucker fast on your heels. Or you ram your beak straight into a tree trunk. Or you simply fall over, just standing there . . .”

  Badger’s watch suddenly emitted an ear-piercing nightingale trill.

  “Oh, looks like I have to go,” said Chief Badger looking at his watch and nervously slicking back the fur on his head. “Please excuse me. Badgercat, how do I look? My whiskers aren’t too greasy, are they?”

  “Since when do you care about your appearance?” asked Badgercat, surprised.

  “Since . . . it doesn’t matter!” Badger pulled out a brush made out of pine needles from his breast pocket and quickly smoothed the fur on his sides. “How do I look? Will anyone answer?”

  “You look like an animal who could spectacularly solve a series of crimes, arrest a maniac, and achieve glory this very evening, but one who prefers to remain an uncelebrated, pot-bellied, molted, tired police badger on the verge of retirement,” said King Ping.

  “You’ve insulted me!” said Chief Badger.

  “And you’ve insulted me!” said the penguin flapping his flipper-wings in annoyance.

  “How have I done that?” asked Chief Badger, confused.

  “You ram your beak straight into a tree. You simply fall over, just standing there,” quoted Starling helpfully.

  “But it’s the truth!” Chief Badger spread his paws. “Since you showed up at the station, you’ve fallen over three times!”

  “And how many times have I fallen over since special agent Super Bat flew off?” asked King Ping.

  “Well . . . not once, I guess. What are you getting at?”

  “You see, I have a brilliant method of capturing maniacs, which requires three important stages of preparation. Stage one: fly under the radar. The maniac must lose sight of me, that’s to say ‘the bait,’ completely. Stage two: get to know the surroundings. The bait must know the area better than the maniac. And, finally, stage three: make sure the maniac’s guard is let down. The bait must look helpless and inoffensive.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. King Ping,” Vulture stared at the penguin in shock. “Are you implying that Super Bat is the maniac? I mean, the Plucker?”

  “I’m implying that the bait must make sure everyone’s guard is down. Anyone who isn’t trustworthy and anyone who, theoretically, could end up being the maniac. I don’t trust Super Bat. She has the mannerisms of a maniac.”

  “But we already know that the Plucker is a dead hamster!” yelped Badgercat. “Doc Hawk saw a dead hamster at his clinic. And before her death, the raven said she was attacked by one!”

  “I don’t trust the dead hamster either,” King Ping reassured him. “I thoroughly studied ‘The Ballad of the Mad Hamster’ that you, Badgercat, graciously sent to me in Antarctica along with an invitation to the Far Woods. And I’ve come to the conclusion that the next victim will be Doc Hawk. I have a brilliant, yet simple, plan: I make my way to Hawks Without Borders and begin taking a very obvious stroll. The maniac, who will definitely be there to attack Hawk, will see me and decide that I’m an easy target and will not be able to resist the temptation. Meanwhile you, the police badgers, will be hiding nearby. When the Plucker attacks . . .”

  CHAPTER 24: IN WHICH ANIMALS DON'T CHANGE

  Melissandra was sitting alone at the Tree Knot Tavern, at a table set for two.

  “I hate it when animals just sit there, staring at the menu, without ordering a
nything,” wailed coyote Yote behind her. “Have you finally made a decision?”

  “As always, I’ve made the wrong decision,” said Melissandra closing the menu and standing up.

  “You’re not going to eat?”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “But we’ve already prepared a Bump on a Log! Ha ha ha! Who’s going to pay for the Log?”

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t order a Bump on a Log.” Melissandra draped a delicate cobweb scarf over her shoulders.

  “Your daughter said you are waiting for Chief Badger! Chief Badger always orders the log. Ha ha ha! That’s what I get for trying to please a regular!” Yote grabbed the menu and threw it on the ground. “They always lie! Always offend! She’s lost her appetite apparently!”

  “They always lie,” nodded Melissandra thoughtfully and headed for the door.

  “Mama, wait a little bit longer! Please!” Barbara stuck her nose out of the kitchen. “I’m sure he’ll come! He’s just running late!”

  “I waited for him for a full hour,” said Melissandra. “I have some self-respect, you know.”

  “Hee hee hee!” yelped Yote. “Throw the log in the trash! Everyone I see is full of self-respect! I’m the only one without any!”

  “What do you think? Do animals ever change?” asked Melissandra, surveying the tavern. “I’m asking you—yes, all of you. Look up from your mothitos for a second!”

  The patrons looked up from their mothitos and stared at Melissandra with their hazy bloodshot eyes.

  “Well, you see, I don’t change,” said Desman. “I like the way I am, you see. I like things to stay the same.”

  “What a crazy idea—animals changing!” said an elderly Ferret. “I’m a rare fur-bearing animal! A veteran of the forty-third Woodland Hunt! If I change, no one will respect me. They’ll stop paying my veteran disability!”

  “Never! The lone Wolf will never change his ways! The lone Wolf refuses to get married! You hear me? He won’t marry!” Wolf ripped a clump of gray fur from his chest to show his seriousness and downed an entire mothito in one gulp. “To freedo-o-o-m!” he howled.