Burn- pigeon 16 Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Nevada Barr
case.
"I breathe silently," Anna said. "You're just guessing." She rose from the chair and walked toward the front of the room. "I think you were a bit sharp there on that last note. You know, just a hair pointy."
Geneva laughed. "You've been to too many firearms trainings without earplugs. I bet you can tell the difference between a .22 shot fired and a .38, but you've never been able to tell the difference between E-flat and middle C."
"Early childhood trauma," Anna said. "I could never pick out 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' on the piano."
"Shoot, anybody can pick out 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.' You must not have been trying."
"Where's Sammy?" Anna changed the subject. Geneva was right about her musical disability. She'd been the only sophomore Sister Mary Judette told to just mouth the words in choir, the only waitress excused from singing "Happy Birthday" to customers.
"He's around." Geneva whistled "Dixie" softly, and a tall champagne-colored standard poodle unfolded itself from behind the raised stage, stretched long and lean as a cat, and yawned hugely. "Sammy likes World War II songs," Geneva said as she dug Sammy's leash from a patchwork shoulder bag big enough to carry a small child.
Sammy sat still with his back to her while she latched the leash onto his harness.
" 'Boogie-woogie Bugle Boy' and all that. A pretty little blond number comes in with her hair done up and a forties' dress and heels and does Andrews Sisters stuff. Sammy laps it up. But then Sammy laps up cat shit."
"A seeing-eye poodle," Anna said as they fell into step in the bricked alley outside the auditorium. "Who'd've thunk?"
"A poodle!" Geneva exclaimed. "Here all these years I thought that kinky hair just meant he was an African American Lab."
Anna laughed, and Geneva took her arm companionably. She didn't need the guidance; she had Sammy and years of walking the same route to and from work for that. Geneva was just a warm, touchy sort of woman. Anna wasn't, but she didn't want to seem ungracious, so she quelled the urge to squirm free. The afternoon sun had been obscured by dark clouds, and a salt-and-swamp breeze kicked up the litter of yellow blossoms that dusted the walkway.
"When's this man of yours coming down?" Geneva asked as Sammy stopped them to wait for the light to change on North Peters. "When I'd heard you'd gotten married, and to a Mississippi preacher to boot, I didn't believe it. I mean I did not believe it. I made a major fool of myself arguing with the messenger. This guy must be a man of God to want a prickly old thing like you lying next to him at night."
"He's the sheriff of Adams County up on the Trace," Anna said.
"Ah, at home with criminals and firearms. That makes the union more explicable," Geneva said. "So you're honeymooning in my back apartment?"
Anna'd called Geneva to see if she could stay with her for a week but hadn't told her much more than that. Gossip in the Park Service spread with the speed of the Internet, and she guessed Geneva knew about her administrative leave and the investigation into the deaths on Isle Royale. After her and Paul's adventure in Big Bend, Anna, her dog, Taco, and her two cats had reunited at his home in Port Gibson. The leave was of an unspecified length--five weeks being the best guess--and Anna didn't want to sit around all alone in Rocky Mountain National Park thinking herself into a pit.
"Not so much a honeymoon," Anna said. "A getaway is more like it. He'll be down in a few days."
"Newlyweds. I bet you can't wait."
Anna could wait. She loved her husband and would be missing him before long, but she'd been by herself most of her adult life. She liked it. She was good at it. She needed it. Since they'd left for Big Bend in March, she and Paul had scarcely been more than arm's length from one another. Paul loved it. If he had his way, Anna and her menagerie would have lived in his shirt pocket. Anna needed a bit of breathing room to process the beginnings of
"I breathe silently," Anna said. "You're just guessing." She rose from the chair and walked toward the front of the room. "I think you were a bit sharp there on that last note. You know, just a hair pointy."
Geneva laughed. "You've been to too many firearms trainings without earplugs. I bet you can tell the difference between a .22 shot fired and a .38, but you've never been able to tell the difference between E-flat and middle C."
"Early childhood trauma," Anna said. "I could never pick out 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' on the piano."
"Shoot, anybody can pick out 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.' You must not have been trying."
"Where's Sammy?" Anna changed the subject. Geneva was right about her musical disability. She'd been the only sophomore Sister Mary Judette told to just mouth the words in choir, the only waitress excused from singing "Happy Birthday" to customers.
"He's around." Geneva whistled "Dixie" softly, and a tall champagne-colored standard poodle unfolded itself from behind the raised stage, stretched long and lean as a cat, and yawned hugely. "Sammy likes World War II songs," Geneva said as she dug Sammy's leash from a patchwork shoulder bag big enough to carry a small child.
Sammy sat still with his back to her while she latched the leash onto his harness.
" 'Boogie-woogie Bugle Boy' and all that. A pretty little blond number comes in with her hair done up and a forties' dress and heels and does Andrews Sisters stuff. Sammy laps it up. But then Sammy laps up cat shit."
"A seeing-eye poodle," Anna said as they fell into step in the bricked alley outside the auditorium. "Who'd've thunk?"
"A poodle!" Geneva exclaimed. "Here all these years I thought that kinky hair just meant he was an African American Lab."
Anna laughed, and Geneva took her arm companionably. She didn't need the guidance; she had Sammy and years of walking the same route to and from work for that. Geneva was just a warm, touchy sort of woman. Anna wasn't, but she didn't want to seem ungracious, so she quelled the urge to squirm free. The afternoon sun had been obscured by dark clouds, and a salt-and-swamp breeze kicked up the litter of yellow blossoms that dusted the walkway.
"When's this man of yours coming down?" Geneva asked as Sammy stopped them to wait for the light to change on North Peters. "When I'd heard you'd gotten married, and to a Mississippi preacher to boot, I didn't believe it. I mean I did not believe it. I made a major fool of myself arguing with the messenger. This guy must be a man of God to want a prickly old thing like you lying next to him at night."
"He's the sheriff of Adams County up on the Trace," Anna said.
"Ah, at home with criminals and firearms. That makes the union more explicable," Geneva said. "So you're honeymooning in my back apartment?"
Anna'd called Geneva to see if she could stay with her for a week but hadn't told her much more than that. Gossip in the Park Service spread with the speed of the Internet, and she guessed Geneva knew about her administrative leave and the investigation into the deaths on Isle Royale. After her and Paul's adventure in Big Bend, Anna, her dog, Taco, and her two cats had reunited at his home in Port Gibson. The leave was of an unspecified length--five weeks being the best guess--and Anna didn't want to sit around all alone in Rocky Mountain National Park thinking herself into a pit.
"Not so much a honeymoon," Anna said. "A getaway is more like it. He'll be down in a few days."
"Newlyweds. I bet you can't wait."
Anna could wait. She loved her husband and would be missing him before long, but she'd been by herself most of her adult life. She liked it. She was good at it. She needed it. Since they'd left for Big Bend in March, she and Paul had scarcely been more than arm's length from one another. Paul loved it. If he had his way, Anna and her menagerie would have lived in his shirt pocket. Anna needed a bit of breathing room to process the beginnings of
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