“Arthur Boyd has a domestic water bird unsecured on public property,” David said. “I have the citation drafted. We just need your signature to log it into the county system.”
“He was feeding it a biscuit,” I said.
“The code says municipal spaces must remain clear of agricultural interference,” David said, his fingers tapping against his clipboard. “If we let one slide, the whole square becomes a pasture.”
“Leave the clipboard on my desk,” I said. “I will look at it when the sun goes down.”
David frowned, his jaw tightening as he adjusted his belt again. He did not leave the clipboard.
At one o’clock, the heat had softened the asphalt along the curb of the square, leaving it sticky under my boots. Chief Victor was standing near the bandstand, tapping his gold wedding band against the wooden railing while he looked at a diagram of folding chairs.
“We need sixty chairs on the left and forty on the right,” Victor said, his booming voice carrying across the empty lawn. “Clara wants a simple path down the middle, but her mother thinks we need a wide lane for the dress.”
“Arthur Boyd is losing weight, Victor,” I said.
Victor did not look up from his diagram. “We all lose weight when the humidity climbs. Did you talk to the florist about the delivery truck parking?”
“He was in the diner with a duck on the seat next to him,” I said. “His sleeves are coming apart at the wrists.”
“Arthur is seventy-four years old,” Victor said, tapping his ring twice against the wood. “He has earned the right to be a little strange. Just make sure the street is clear for the wedding cars on Saturday.”
He turned the paper sideways, already walking toward the church steps without waiting for me to answer.
The road out to Arthur’s place was five miles of dry gravel that left a thick layer of gray dust on my patrol car’s windshield. When I pulled into the driveway, the old green pickup was idling near the barn, its exhaust pipe coughing a thin blue smoke.
Arthur was standing by the tailgate, lifting a heavy wooden crate into the truck bed. Around his boots, dozens of white ducks were milling in the dirt, their feathers pure white against the dark soil.
“You are doing some heavy lifting for a Tuesday afternoon,” I said, getting out of the car.
“They need a ride, Robert,” Arthur said. He tipped his canvas cap, his face flushed red from the heat.
I looked toward the porch of the farmhouse. A stack of white envelopes was piled near the screen door, some of them yellowed from the morning damp, sitting unopened on the wooden steps.
“The mailman has been busy,” I said.
“Just flyers,” Arthur said, whistling between his teeth as he hoisted another crate. “Nothing that needs a reply.”
