Fowl Play (Tuft Swallow)

1. Kodi

CHAPTER 1

“Shit, shit, SHIT!” My knee buckles. Papers scatter everywhere as I tumble to the floor. “Fuuuu–”

“Miss Gander! Language!”

I crane my neck to see Dr. Cratchet’s white-tufted head bob its way toward me over the top of the fax machine. I groan. Right. The patients probably heard all of that. As I reach to massage the side of my leg where the spasm rages, I see the legs of his pleated pants and frumpy velcroed shoes land on the thin carpet in front of me.

“Really, Miss Gander. You’ve made an awful mess of things, haven’t you?” Instead of bending down to help me clean up, the bulky toe of his orthopedic sneaker taps impatiently beside my ear. “Are you infirmed?”

“Spasm,” I choke out, hissing through another twitch of angry muscle and connective tissue. The rubbing isn’t helping. I need my meds. “Could you hand me my bag, please, Dr. Cratchet?”

He huffs disapprovingly before shuffling to the coat rack, where my purse hangs along with my blazer. He carries it pinched between two fingers as if afraid the feminine contents of my bag might somehow infect him with my affliction.

He knows better. Long before I was his clinic administrator, I’d been seeing Dr. Cratchet for my knee ever since I tore my ACL in high school. He’s the one who prescribed me the muscle relaxers in the first place, after all. And the one who informed me I’d never play softball again.

I thank him for the bag and dry swallow a couple of pills, shifting into a slightly less awkward position and swiping a few of the papers that scattered when I fell. I shuffle them back into their folder after I wedge it out from underneath my pelvis.

Dr. Cratchet clears his throat. “Mrs. Wilkins is ready to check out, now. Will you be able to resume your duties in the next few minutes, or shall I tell her to await a call?”

Can you give me a frickin’ second?

I hold my tongue. Sure, the Doc can be a little callous sometimes. But he does have a practice to run. And seeing as this is the only doctor’s office in town, we have to stay on schedule. A few minutes behind in the morning could mean an hour or more by the end of the day, and that doesn’t fly at the Tuft Swallow Clinic.

“I’ll be at the desk in a sec, Dr. Cratchet, I promise.”

He gives a noncommittal hum that could mean anything, before turning tail and exiting the office, leaving me sprawled on the floor between the front desk and the island in pain.

That’s fine, no need to assist me… Gritting my teeth, I slowly stand up, carefully avoiding any shift in weight that might send my leg into another spasm. It’s only a few steps between the fax machine and island where we keep all the printing supplies and the window that faces the waiting room, but each one elicits a grimace until I’m close enough to sink into my wheely chair.

I probably shouldn’t be surprised that my knee is acting up. Last night was the town cornhole team’s first practice with me as the new captain, and I may have gone a teensy bit overboard on the drills. Some might argue that half an hour of shuttle runs and burpees is overkill for a beer-league warm-up drill, but to those people I say two words: reigning champions.

The Mighty Swallows have been first in the league for over 50 years running, after all. Do you think I’m going to let my first year as captain be the one we lose that title?

Absolutely not. I already ruined one championship years ago. I’m not about to lose another.

But that doesn’t change the fact that running last night was a bad idea. My leg throbs and twinges the entire walk back to the front desk, where I check out Mrs. Wilkins and divvy out paperwork to the patients in the waiting room. By mid-morning, the muscle relaxers are finally kicking in. So I feel confident getting up and walking back over to the counter to handle the insurance documents that need faxing and make a fresh pot of coffee.

Dr. Cratchet isn’t the easiest boss to work for, but there are worse jobs in the small town of Tuft Swallow. All through high school, I expected to ride my way out on a College Sports scholarship–and almost did. But after tearing my ACL at the State Championships senior year, all the scouts withdrew their offers, and I ended up getting a bachelor’s degree at TSCC in hospital administration.

Yep. From star pitcher to secretary.

At least I’m not living at home anymore. Clinic Administrator is a good career–or at least, good enough to afford the rent on one of the divided brownstone apartments on Walnut Street. I’m only a couple of blocks from the local restaurants and nature trails. Sure, I can’t go jogging anymore, but it’s nice that I’ve got my job, favorite café, and the town park right within walking distance.

As I wait for the coffee to finish brewing, I dig into my purse for my phone. Texting or social media on the job is strictly forbidden, so I keep it away from my desk to avoid the temptation. I scroll through my notifications, including a text from my best friend Lily.

Lily

OMG, Kodi, have you seen today’s Pecker yet??

I hastily type a response, keeping an eye on the door just in case the Doc walks by and sees me on my phone.

Me

No! What’s the goss?

Lily

Ok. So you know that two-story office/apartment colonial on Elm that’s been for sale for months? Well, someone FINALLY moved in. A chiropractor! He got here a few days ago, and placed an order at the Signne Shoppe this week!

Uh-oh. Don’t tell my boss.

Ugh. How’s Doc Crotchety today?

The coffee pot dings. I grab my mug from the cabinet and fill it with the good stuff. Just black—no cream or sugar for me.

Me

Different day, same arrogance. I’m gonna check the mailbox, see if there’s a Pecker in the pile.

I take a sip, tuck my phone back in my purse, and head to my desk for the maildrop key. After I file away the fax receipts in the cabinet, I swipe the jangling keyring off the desk and venture out to the waiting room to check the mail.

Around me, all of our waiting patients have their eyes glued to a copy of the local gossip rag, The Nosy Pecker. I spy the bold headline plastered across the front page.

That’s Good Crack! New Doc Procures Punny Proof of Practice

Uh-oh.

“Miss Gander! What are you doing away from your desk?”

I flinch as I hear the squeaking leather of Dr. Cratchet’s shoes shuffle across the lobby towards me. Slowly I turn to face him, wincing when I see our office copy of The Nosy Pecker crumpled in his gnarled fist.

“Just checking the mail, sir,” I say cheerfully, attempting to stall the approaching meltdown I sense is on the way. From the anxious faces lifting from their papers around the waiting room, I know I’m not the only one gearing up for it.

“I’ve already procured today’s mail, Dakota. And while I’m doing your job for you, perhaps I’ll also check the calendar to see who’s next on the appointment schedule, check them in, and send them back to the exam room.” His face turns a delicate shade of mottled plum, and I swear his eyes begin to bulge slightly from behind his half-moon glasses.

“No need, Doctor, I can–”

“Wonderful! Glad to see I’m paying you to do more than just skulk around the corridor on the lookout for today’s delivery of prattling babble!” Spittle flies from his mouth as his voice raises. His inexplicable accent becomes choppier with every word, and I swear the temperature in the room rises a few degrees from the steam pouring out his ears.

I approach cautiously, holding my arms out like I’m cornering an enraged bull at a rodeo. Easy does it, Cratchet.

“Mr. Landon?” I call out, not taking my eyes off the unstable doctor. “You can follow me back to exam room one, please.”

The middle-aged man seated in the corner of the room hesitates briefly, and I shoot him a smile over my shoulder that I pray comes across more calming than desperate. “Right this way!”

He nods, rising, and I wait for him to reach my side before escorting him through the doorway toward the exam rooms.

“And leave that slanderous drivel behind!” The doctor roars behind us. Mr. Landon turns his wide eyes to me, his own Pecker still clutched in his shaking hands. He offers it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, swiftly hiding it from view. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Is he alright?” The patient mutters. “I have a physical today, and if he’s angry I’m not sure I want his fingers near my–”

“Everything will be just fine, Mr. Landon. Doctor Cratchet is a professional.” Mostly.

I smile my most reassuring smile, the act easier once we pass the threshold to the back and we aren’t in the same room as the boss. I direct Mr. Landon down the short hallway and leave him in the exam room, shutting the door behind me. As I return to my desk, I make a show of disposing his Nosy Pecker in the trash under my desk before calling out to the next patient to collect their intake paperwork.

The Doctor is still standing in the waiting room, his cheeks a less menacing shade of pink now, as his anger shifts toward embarrassment instead. The sound of my voice seems to rouse him from his thoughts, and he crumples what’s left of the newsletter into a tight ball before shoving it into the bright red sharps disposal box behind the counter.

Well, there goes rescuing THAT copy.

Once he’s safely behind the closed exam room door and I hear the familiar sound of latex gloves snapping, I know the coast is clear for a few minutes. I silently remove Mr. Landon’s copy of the Pecker from the trash and fold it, before slipping it into my purse to read later.

After closing, when I’m far away from the furious eyes of Dr. Cratchet.

Lily and her Pecker are waiting for me at our usual table when I arrive at the Crowbar and Grill, along with a pitcher of domestic beer and a stack of plastic cups. Must be Trivia Night. She’s a sucker for a deal, and every Monday there’s a drink special she’ll usually get roped into buying. Even if it’s a bunch of crappy beer that neither of us would ever choose to drink voluntarily.

“Start reading. I’ll pour you a beer.”

She’s already got a plastic cup in her hand before I can snatch the newsletter. “No, Lily, you know I hate that stuff.”

“I can’t drink the whole pitcher by myself!” She looks at me like I’m crazy. I shake my head and start to read, and she pours us each a cup.

Once again, the headline that I spotted in the waiting room this morning stares up at me.

That’s Good Crack! New Doc Procures Punny Proof of Practice

Move over, sports fans! There’s a new doc in town, and this one’s set to make your spine tingle. On Tuesday, May 16th, Dr. Brian Gosling (no relation– I checked) closed on the charming Colonial at 324 Elm Street. According to the County Clerk, his new chiropractic practice was registered at that address under the name “That’s Good Crack” this past week. Does this mean the Tuft Swallow Clinic finally has some competition?

“Oh my God. No wonder Dr. Cratchet was so angry this morning…” I stop reading to meet Lily’s gaze. “I seriously thought he was going to rip Mr. Landon a new–”

“Have you gotten to the best part?” She interrupts me, bouncing in her seat. “Keep reading.”

Our sources indicate that this young doctor is planning to start seeing patients soon. His website details that, in addition to traditional chiropractic, he specializes in Chinese Herbal Medicine, soft tissue manipulation…

“Chinese herbal medicine? Is that what you’re so excited about?”

“Ugh, Kodi, you’re hopeless. Right here!”

She points her finger down at the last line of the article.

We know you’re all curious, and our sources haven’t found any marriage licenses or domestic partnerships on file, meaning that a new bachelor is coming to town.

“You’re kidding, right?” I roll my eyes and wave over a waitress. “Lily, didn’t you just get out of a bad relationship?”

She nods wide-eyed. “Right? Perfect. Timing.” She sips her beer and sticks out her tongue in disgust. “Okay, ew, this is disgusting. Kodi, why did you let me order a whole pitcher of this crap?”

“I didn’t–”

“Hey ladies, what can I get for ya?” Charlene the waitress arrives, divvying out napkin-wrapped plasticware and depositing a bowl of roasted peanuts in their shells on our table. “The usual?”

Normally, Lily and I both get chicken Caesar salads, but my body is still recovering from practice the night before. If I’m going to be training this hard for the season, I need to keep my energy up, and that means protein.

“I’ll actually have the bacon burger tonight.” I scan the blackboard behind the bar for a look at the drink specials. None of them sound particularly delicious. “And can I get a gin and tonic with extra lime?”

“Absolutely, hon. And for you?”

Lily orders the usual along with a Cosmo. Charlene takes our orders back to the kitchen, the light green highlights in her short black hair glinting as she passes the neon bar signs. Once she’s gone, Lily unloads the beer pitcher and still-full cups onto a nearby table.

“Why are you so desperate to start dating again, Lily? Don’t you think that maybe you should take it slow?”

Personally, I’ve never understood my best friend’s obsession with finding The One. Between sports, school, and work, there always seemed to be more important things than dating taking up the majority of my focus. Don’t get me wrong, I like guys and all. I read the occasional kissing book to keep up with the lingo, even if I don’t have the experience to back it up.

But when I lost my sports scholarship and any chance of leaving Tuft Swallow along with it, I sort of gave up on all the romantic notions I had for life after high school. Including finding Mr. Right.

After all, I’d grown up with the same cohort of potential suitors since I was three years old. If I had a future with any of the guys around here, wouldn’t I have figured that out by now?

Why should a new doctor moving into town be any different? Not to mention, Dr. Cratchet would likely fire me on the spot if he ever found out I was interested in the owner of a competing practice.

I realize Lily is talking, and I haven’t been listening to a word she’s said. Our drinks arrive, and I poke my straw around to free the juice from my lime wedges and catch up with the conversation.

“...about the romance, you know? I’m twenty-four, for Pete’s sake–plenty old enough to be starting a family. And now that I have a decent job at the salon, I feel like I’m ready to move on to the next phase of my life.”

“Is twenty-four when we’re supposed to move onto the next phase?” I sip my drink. My knee twinges, a reminder that it’s been a full eight hours since I last took my muscle relaxers. Ah, shit. Now I’m drinking. There goes taking any more medication tonight…

Lily throws her hands in the air. “Kodi! Are you even listening?” Shoot, I wasn’t. Again. “I thought you’d be more excited about this!”

I let out a sigh, rubbing at my knee. “Honestly? Yeah. We could use another clinic. We’re always booked solid, and seeing as we’ve been getting more people moving to town recently, it would be good if we had another doctor around.”

Even if it isn’t a real medical doctor. I don’t say that part out loud. “But with the way Dr. Cratchet was storming around the office today, the competition might make my life more difficult than it’s worth.”

“Ugh. How do you work for that guy? He’s the worst.” Our conversation pauses when our food arrives, and I take a giant bite out of my burger. Heaven. “Is your leg okay? You keep rubbing at it.”

I didn’t even notice when my hand started massaging the side of my leg while I chewed. I swallow.

“Oh. Yeah, just a flare up. Practice was tough last night.”

“Yeeeaaah, about that. Um. I’ve been meaning to say something to you.” A wrinkle forms above Lily’s nose, and she sets down her fork.

I take a giant bite of bacon and beef. “Wha’?”

“Don’t you think you’re going a bit too hard with the whole ‘team captain’ thing? I mean, it’s a beer league. It’s supposed to be something fun we all do after work. Not training for the Olympics.”

My bite turns to sand in my mouth. I wash it down with some gin and tonic. “Come on. It was the first practice of the year. Everyone’s just out of shape. It’ll get easier.”

“That’s the thing, Kodi, it’s not supposed to get easier. It’s never supposed to be hard in the first place. It’s just cornhole.”

I gape at her. “Just cornhole?? Lily, you know what town we live in, right? ‘Cornhole Champions’ is engraved on our welcome sign at the town border. It’s what we’re known for.”

“We’re known for more than just our cornhole team.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I assume so.” Lily munches on her salad thoughtfully. “But you seriously might want to back off a little. Not everyone was happy after practice last night.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints.”

Which is mostly true. I heard some grumbling, a little moaning and groaning. But no actual verbal complaints.

A tiny knot of guilt twists uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach, souring my burger. I stare at the remaining half, no longer hungry. Shit. “Are people actually upset?”

The wrinkle above Lily’s nose is back. “Upset is a strong word. I just noticed that the temperature after practice last night was a little… heated.”

I contemplate that for a moment, thinking of the faces of the team as I packed up all the boards and bean bags the night before. But then, my old softball coach’s face appears in my head, as clear as if he was sitting right there with me in the bar: contorted as he barks out drill after drill. Glowing, when we won the regional playoffs. Then heartbroken, as he helped carry me off the field after I twisted my knee and got rammed by the other team’s catcher as I dove for home plate.

No, dammit. I’m tired of associating the word “champion” with my own failure to bring home the gold. This year, that’s all going to change. I’m going to lead us to victory, and everyone will be ecstatic when it happens. I’ll never have to see those looks of disappointment on everyone’s faces ever again.

“They’ll get over it. Once we claim champion status again this summer, no one will even remember how hard practice was the first few weeks.”

Her face falls. “We’re going to be practicing like that for weeks?”

“Yep. You’re gonna be in the best shape of your life, girlfriend.”

I toast her with my drink. She squints at the bite of salad on her fork.

“Hmm.”

“All the better to win over that sexy new doctor in town…” I waggle my eyebrows.

Her lip curls up at that. “Well, I guess a little extra exercise couldn’t hurt. And besides, if I get injured, that’s just an excuse to make an appointment!”

“That’s the spirit!”

And with that, we leave the topic of the Cornhole Championship behind, and Lily regales me with her plan to snare Tuft Swallow’s newest bachelor.