Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III here. I have seen many kinds of weapons used in the commission of a crime during my career. Bows and arrows, like Cock Robin, gingerbread houses, poisoned apples, even lung power. (Remember the wolf and the three pigs?) So I didn’t consider it out of the ordinary in Nurseryland when I discovered that blackbirds had been used to attack the royal family. Why not? After all, this is the land of the free and the home of the odd. However, the method of attack rather than the weapon was disconcerting, admittedly clever, and definitely malicious. After all, the perpetrator had no control over the birds once they were set free inside the royal palace, (or so I thought), and any mischief they did would be totally unpredictable. It was a bit reckless. But, like many crimes and criminals, irresponsible behavior is commonplace. I suppose if they had any regard for that sort of thing they wouldn’t be criminals in the first place.

I became involved in the case shortly after it happened. A man of my position has very little contact with the upper crust. We’re just working stiffs, dealing with the lower elements of society as a rule. Pig stealers, trespassers, peeping toms and the like. What does royalty know about our way of life? (And vice versa?)

However, occasionally a situation arises that requires someone of my profession be involved. The blackbird case, I soon learned, was one of them.

It was a sunny morning, not unlike most of the other mornings at this time of year. My disposition, however, was not as pleasant as the weather. It seldom is. I was working on my second cup of coffee, clearing my head from a night of overindulgence in food and drink—particularly the latter—when the door to my office opened with a creak that made me wince. Making a mental note to oil the hinges, I looked up to see a distinguished looking man standing rigidly before me. Although not familiar with the dress code of the palace, I had seen enough pictures to know that his outfit had royalty written all over it. I stood up, bowed my head slightly in a show of respect. I felt like Pavlov’s dog. Royalty tinkled a bell and we subjects responded with awe and respect, no matter whether the royalty in question deserves it. It’s been my experience that they seldom do. But that’s not an issue here.

"Mister Osgood?" The voice had a stentorian quality about it, befitting the position of the speaker.

"At your service," I replied.

The man extended his hand. "I am Thornhill Montague, adviser and counselor to His Royal Highness."

I wasn’t certain whether I was supposed to shake his hand or kiss it. Choosing the former—more sanitary if socially incorrect—I shook it firmly. He returned the handshake with an equal firmness and I relaxed.

He looked around the room with a hint of disdain, brushed a hand across his eyes and sat down. "I am here at the request of His Royal Highness, King Geoffrey Hart."

The name, although expected—after all he was the only king Nurseryland had at the moment—reminded me of the Queen of Hearts from Wonderland. Notwithstanding the spelling difference, I often wondered if they were related.

Since the gentleman was now seated, I felt it was safe to do the same. I knew that much about royal protocol. I sat down slowly, waiting for him to continue.

"It seems we had an unfortunate incident occur at the palace the other day," he said. He brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve and watched it drift to the floor where it settled among thousands of other pieces just like it. My maid service was not especially diligent. But they were cheap.

"Someone made an unprovoked and, I must say, cowardly attack on the royal family."

"How shocking," I said. "Can you be more specific?"

"Let me continue," he said testily. That’s another thing I learned about royalty and their servants: patience was not their long suit.

"The king, the queen, and several of the staff were injured in the attack. One of the maids lost her nose."

"Lost her nose?" I said, horrified.

Montague nodded.

"How?"

"One of the birds pecked it off. It was horrible." He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.

"Hold on a minute," I said, forgetting for the moment that my role in this meeting was to be deferential. "What birds are you referring to?"

Montague paused and looked at me with an air of perplexity. "Sorry, old chap," he said. "I forgot to tell you." He wiped his nose with an oversized handkerchief.

"The royal family and staff were attacked by birds. Blackbirds to be precise."

"Blackbirds?"

Montague shrugged. "That’s the official story But—well, let’s leave it that for the moment. It isn’t important."

My curiosity was piqued, but I accepted it—for the moment.

"You say this was a cowardly attack," I said. "I presume by that you believe someone put the birds up to this. How exactly does one go about training blackbirds to attack people?"

"Oh, it was deliberate," Montague said. "The birds were smuggled into the palace in a pie."

The tale was becoming more bizarre by the minute. I held up my hand. "A pie? Blackbirds in a pie? What a strange thing to do."

"It’s somewhat like the Trojan Horse," Montague said.

"How did the pie get into the palace?" I asked. "Didn’t your security guards inspect it before they allowed it into the king’s chambers—or kitchen. Or wherever?"

"It was delivered UPS. Ultimate Pie Service. And it is not an unusual delivery. Her Majesty is quite fond of pie and has it delivered almost daily. Whoever did this dastardly deed was aware of that I’m sure." He smiled ruefully. "Of course, this pie was considerably larger than most."

"How much larger?"

"The pie was perhaps two feet in diameter. Most of our pies are about ten inches. There must have been a couple of dozen birds in the pie."

"A pie that size should have raised some eyebrows," I said. "Wouldn’t security be curious? I would think they would..."

"That’s not for me to say."

I scratched my ear thoughtfully. I tried to envision blackbirds flying around the royal residence, attacking the king and queen, as well as pecking the nose off of a maid. But how does one get a blackbird into a pie in the first place? I posed the question to Montague. He smiled.

"Simple," he said with a note of superiority. "One simply places the bird in a pie pan, covers it with a top crust, and bakes it."

"Bakes it?"

"Yes. 350^o for one hour."

I sat up amazed. "Wouldn’t that kill the birds?"

Montague leaned forward. "No. But I think you should know that the birds aren’t really blackbirds. They are bluejays. They just turned black during the bake cycle. And there’s nothing meaner than a bluejay who’s been baked in a pie."

I took his word for it, hoping I would never have it proven to me personally. I changed the subject.

"OK. So we have a bunch of birds, annoyed by being shut up in a pie and baked for an hour at 350^o. What happened next?"

Montague shifted in his chair. "When the pie was opened the birds began to sing."

"Sing?" I repeated. "I thought you said they were angry."

Montague shrugged. "I’m just reporting what I was told by His Majesty." He leaned forward and dropped his voice a decibel. "Just between you and me, the king has a tin ear. I believe they were screeching. He wouldn’t know the difference."

That made sense, (a rare occurrence in Nurseryland). I was intrigued by the idea. Royalty has a history of retaining the services of brilliant musicians such as Mozart. What a waste. King Hart couldn’t tell the difference between "The Magic Flute" and a bunch of screeching bluejays. Taxpayers should be outraged.

But I digress. Turning my attention back to Montague, I waited for him to continue.

"What happened next is too horrible to describe."

"Try," I said. "Anything you can tell me could be helpful. You mentioned something about one of the servants getting pecked in the nose."

"Yes. Poor girl." Montague rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"Where did this happen?"

"She was in the garden." He shook his head. "It was ghastly. Without warning one of the birds swooped down on her, pecked at her nose repeatedly, and flew off. I witnessed the whole thing. I tried to shoo the bird away, but wasn’t able to save the poor girl from the attack." He put his head in his hands. "I felt so helpless. Her screams still echo in my ears."

The image evoked by his commentary was curious indeed. A young girl innocently going about her duties, suddenly being attacked and brutalized by a bird. I didn’t blame the bird, actually. After all, he (or she) had been treated shabbily as well.

Montague recovered his composure—a little too swiftly for my satisfaction—and looked at me appealingly.

"When did this attack take place?" I asked.

"Friday," Montague said. "About noon. I would have come to you immediately, but you were not available."

He was right about that. I’m a four-day-a-week man as a rule. Occasionally a three-day if the weather is right.

"Suffice it to say that we—His and Her Highness and the entire staff—want to find out who did this so that we may deal with him. And for that, we need your able services. You’re the top man in these parts."

I was flattered. Upon further thought, I realized that I was the only private eye in town. Be that as it may, I nodded my thanks and stood up.

"I’ll see what I can do," I said.

Montague nodded impassively. "If we can be of any assistance, don’t hesitate to call on us."

He stood up, shook my hand and left.

I sat back and replayed the discussion in my mind. Blackbirds, (or whatever), baked in a pie. An innocent maid lost her nose. It was not a run of the mill crime. I hardly knew where to start.

I decided to pay a visit to UPS. They were most likely innocent middlemen in this insidious scheme, but perhaps they could tell me who sent the pie.

The young lady behind the counter at UPS looked up as I entered the office and smiled brightly. "May I help you?" she said.

Identifying myself, I looked around the room. Except for a few pie tins laying on a table behind the young lady, there was no sign of anything that would give a hint as to their line of business. I let my eyes wander back to her, a pleasant enough task. The young lady was quite attractive, although much too young for me. Most of them are.

"The other day," I started, consulting my notes, "you sent a pie to the palace. A rather large pie, I understand."

She studied me with a puzzled expression. "You’ll have to be more specific."

"How many two-foot pies do you send to the palace," I said.

She wrinkled her forehead. "Two-foot pie? I have no idea what you are talking about. We only handle pies that fit within our standard package. A twelve inch pie would be the maximum size."

I frowned. Certainly Montague could not have been mistaken about the incident. "Are you certain?" I said. "I have it on good authority that a two-foot pie was delivered to the palace a few days ago. According to my source, the pie was delivered by UPS. You are UPS, am I right?"

She nodded. "We are the only pie service in town. But I can tell you with utmost confidence that we did not deliver a pie of that size to the palace."

I sighed. "I’d like to speak to the manager."

"I am the manager."

My look must have conveyed a message I did not mean to convey. She returned my frown and said, "does it surprise you that a woman is manager of this company?"

"No. No," I said. "I just thought..."

She extended a small hand. "The name is Mary Horner."

I started to shake it, but the name rang a bell. "Horner? Are you Jack’s mother?"

"Sister, actually. But yes, we’re related."

"It figures," I said. "But back to the subject at hand. I am absolutely certain that a pie was delivered to the royal palace by a UPS truck. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?"

Mary pondered the question, her fingers drumming the countertop. Spinning her chair around, she flipped through a file on the desk behind her. She lifted out a card, read it, and handed it to me.

"The last delivery made to the Royal Residence was five days ago," she said, pointing to a date on the card. "A blueberry pie. Two of them actually."

I ran a quick calculation. Five days ago would have been Thursday. The "bird" pie was delivered on Friday.

"It seems to me," I said, "that someone is using one of your trucks for unsavory practices."

Mary stiffened. "Are you certain?"

"Well," I replied. "I know for certain that a UPS truck delivered a pie to the palace on Friday. If you’re records are correct, then someone is impersonating your company. Do you have any idea who might do such a thing?"

Mary pursed her lips. "No," she said finally. "Who would want to do such a thing?"

"My question exactly," I replied. "Someone out there wanted to do the royal family a mischief. But who? Why?" I thought out loud.

Mary shook her head. "I have no idea."

I thanked her and left. Driving back to town I tried to come up with a motive for the attack. The royal family was well liked in town, as far as I knew. Of course, everyone has their enemies. But as a rule, nothing sinister ever happens. In this case, nothing of any consequence happened to the king or queen. The only casualty that I knew of was the maid. Maybe I was looking in the wrong place. Perhaps it was someone other than the royal family that was the target. Like the maid.

Of course, that presented a problem. As I said earlier, how does one control a bunch of birds? There was no way to predict what they would do when they were let out of the pie.

Or was there? In this upside down, nonsensical town anything was possible. But even here there were rules, odd as they may be. If I could figure the rule, I would be able, perhaps, to solve this crazy case.

That brought me back to the pie. It was a clever way to smuggle the birds into the castle. But why were they baked? That seemed a drastic thing to do to the poor creatures. To my way of thinking it should have killed them, or injured them so badly they would not be capable of attacking anyone. And here is where the odd rules of Nurseryland apply.

In the real world, the birds would have died. But here they were as healthy as ever, perhaps more so. And one of them attacked the maid. What about the others? As far as I knew, the only attack was the one in the garden. By a single bird.

Ornithology is not a popular profession here in town. But Sir Fenester J. Doolittle, distant cousin of Doctor Doolittle, lived here, and was an expert on birds. There is not much demand for an ornithologist in this part of the world, so he supplemented his income by operating a pet store. He sold many exotic creatures: singing owls, love-struck pussycats, laughing dogs and the like. But he specialized in birds.

He looked at me expectantly as I came through the door, hoping, no doubt, for a paying customer. I hated to disappoint him, but I wasn’t there to buy a pet. At one time I owned a Chihuahua, but he ventured into the road at the same time a truck was passing by. There was nothing left for me to bury. The experience left me scarred for life, and I never had a desire to own another pet.

I introduced myself to Sir Doolittle and briefly explained the reason for my visit. He brightened noticeably when I mentioned birds, and his eyes widened as I posed the question.

"What is the purpose of baking a bird?"

"Ahh," he said, a smile crossing his face. "I have written a treatise on that very subject. You will find it in my book, ‘Little Known Facts About Well Known Birds’."

I waited for him to go on. He gazed out of the window thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with excitement unwarranted by the event. Finally, with a sigh, he turned his attention back to me.

"I conducted an experiment several years ago. I took several species of birds and baked them for various times and at various temperatures. I discovered that this resulted in behavioral changes of certain birds."

I wasn’t surprised. Speaking for myself I would think that "behavioral changes" would be a mild way to put it.

"Bluejays were especially affected. The male bluejay became aggressive, attacking the last person he saw before being baked." Doolittle smiled ruefully. "In this case, the last person he saw was me."

I had a multitude of questions, not the least of which was, "what possessed him to bake the birds in the first place?" Knowing in advance that his explanation would be an outrageous statement that would only make sense to a devoted Nurseryland inhabitant, I refrained.

"The male bluejay?" I asked instead. "What about the female?"

"The female became agitated. But she did not attack. She twittered and flew about. But she did not become aggressive."

Twittered. "The birds began to sing." Maybe the king’s ear was more musical than Montague had given him credit for.

"You say the bluejay attacked the last person he saw," I went on. An idea was beginning to form. "If I were to show the bird a picture just before baking him, would he attack the person or persons in that picture?"

"Without question," Doolittle said.

"Where can I buy a copy of your book?" I asked.

Doolittle sat up straight, a broad grin crossing his lips. "I have one that you can purchase," he said. "There have only been twelve copies sold, and I bought eleven of them."

Aha!, I thought. If I could find out who bought the twelfth one, I would probably find the culprit. I kept this thought to myself. I shelled out ten bucks for the book, an outrageous sum considering the subject matter and Doolittle’s writing style. With the book tucked under my arm, I thanked him for his time and left.

Back at my office I checked my e-mail, or more correctly, my spam. No, I wasn’t interested in heightened orgasms. At my age the thought was frightening. No urgent messages. I turned my attention to the book. Finding the book publisher on the internet, I called up the website and typed in the name of Doolittle’s book. It was now out of print, having printed a first edition of one hundred copies, eighty-eight of which were still in inventory. I made a note not to buy stock in the publishing house, turned the computer off and reached for my hat.

The Nurseryland Bookstore, cleverly calling itself "Nurseryland Book Store", was a small shop wedged between a bakery, ("Hot Cross Buns") and a hardware store. The little bell tinkled as I opened the door. I supposed it was intended to remind one of Tinker Bell, but perhaps my imagination was working overtime.

The store was empty except for a bored looking young man behind the counter. I walked over to him and handed him my business card. He read it, a frown appearing on his otherwise unlined face, and handed it back to me.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"I am trying to find out who bought a book."

The young man’s frown deepened. "What are you talking about? We sell books. But we don’t keep records of who bought them."

His frown disappeared at the mention of the book. He smiled brightly. "I bought that book," he said. "I know Sir Doolittle and bought it more or less as a favor to him. I felt sorry for him, I guess."

"Oh," I said, my hopes rising. "Did you read it?"

He shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I gave it away. I was in desperate need of a birthday present for a friend of mine, so I gave her the book." He shook his head. "It wasn’t much of a present, but she seemed pleased with it."

"And who is this friend?" I asked.

"Jill."

"Jill? Jill who?"

"Jill Marchant. You know. She’s Jack’s girlfriend."

"Jack?" I asked. Then, remembering the incident with the pail of water, I added, "You mean Jack and Jill? The kids who had the accident when they went up the hill to get some water?"

"Yeah," he said.

I asked for her address, thanked the man and left.

Jill lived only a few blocks from the bookstore. Having made a resolution to engage in healthful activities, I elected to walk. It didn’t do much for my waistline, but made me feel noble. With the price of gas approaching three dollars a gallon, I found the walk particularly invigorating.

The young lady who answered my knock wore a smock and a cap, and was holding a broom. I apologized for interrupting her housecleaning and introduced myself.

"What do you want?" she asked, a note of suspicion in her voice."

"May I come in?"

"The house is a mess."

"I don’t mind," I said. "It’s important that we talk."

She hesitated, looking me up and down as though I were an escapee from a UFO. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she stepped aside.

"OK. But only for a minute. I’m very busy."

"I’ll be brief," I said.

She had been right about the house. It was in a state of disarray, with furniture pushed against the walls, rugs rolled up and chairs piled on top of the table. I found an upright chair by the door.

"May I?" I asked, pointing to the chair.

She nodded, pulled a chair from the table and sat down.

"What’s this all about, Mr. Osgood?" she said. "I have never spoken to a detective before."

I decided to use the direct approach, perhaps catch her off guard and make it easier for both of us.

"Where did you get the birds?" I asked.

She blanched at the question, and I knew that she was the guilty party.

"I...I don’t know what you’re talking about," she said.

"I think you do," I said. "You had better come clean. It will go a lot easier on you. One of the servants was badly hurt by this, and you could be in big trouble. Level with me and I’ll do everything I can to help."

She searched my face pleadingly, then looked at the floor.

"How can you help?" she asked.

"For starters," I said, "the royal family doesn’t want a lot of negative publicity. I think they would be willing to overlook a lot of this if you cooperate. You seem like a decent sort. I don’t think you are a bad person—just someone who made a mistake."

Jill considered this for a minute. Rubbing a tear from her eye, she looked at me and smiled sadly.

"I guess you’re right," she said. "I was mad and I did a bad thing. I’ve been sorry ever since—and scared."

"Tell me about it," I said.

Jill’s lips curled into a plaintive smile. "I wanted to get rid of the maid," she said. She looked at me pleadingly. "You know the day Jack and I went up the hill? Everyone thought it was an accident." Her eyes narrowed. "Well, it wasn’t. Jack told me that he was in love with the maid. ‘Head over heels in love’, as he put it."

I waited for her to go on.

"Head over heels? I was so mad I couldn’t help myself. ‘I’ll show you head over heels.’ I told him. That’s when I pushed him down the hill. He went tumbling down the hill head over heels. I was laughing so hard that I lost my balance and rolled down after him." She shrugged her shoulders. "I didn’t get hurt, though. But he was a mess." She glowered. "Served him right."

I studied the innocent looking little girl sitting in front of me. She seemed incapable of doing anything mean to anyone. But, as the saying goes, "a woman scorned..."

"So you decided to get your revenge," I said. "You knew about Doolittle’s experiment."

"Yeah," Jill said. "I read about it in a book. I collected a bunch of bluejays. Twenty-three females and one male. I showed the maid’s picture to the male, then baked them all in a pie." She straightened her smock. "Jack Horner sort of borrowed a UPS truck. His sister works for UPS, you know."

I nodded.

"So he delivered the pie to the castle. When the pie was opened the male headed straight for the maid, or so I heard. I wasn’t there, of course."

"That was a mean thing to do, Jill," I admonished. "The maid wasn’t to blame for your problems with Jack."

Jill shrugged. "I know. I didn’t expect her to get hurt as bad as she did. I just wanted to scare her, I guess. Or Jack. I really don’t know what I was thinking." She frowned. "Besides, I broke up with Jack. He’s a jerk. She can have him." She looked at me hopefully. "Do you think the maid will be alright?"

"I don’t know," I said. "A good plastic surgeon could probably fix her up pretty good. And the royal family can certainly afford the best." I hoped, for the maid’s sake, that the palace had a reputable HMO.

"Am I in trouble?" Jill asked.

"Probably," I said. "I’ll have to tell the king who did this thing. It’s up to him."

I stood up and headed for the door. Pausing, I turned to Jill. "Perhaps if you go to the palace and personally apologize, it would help."

She thought a minute, then nodded. "OK," she said. She paused, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. "Maybe I could take them a pie."

I shuddered at the thought of it. But when I looked at Jill, there was a twinkle in her eyes.

I shook my head. "How about a layer cake?" I said.

"How do you bake a bird in a cake?" she said.

"350⁰ for an hour," I replied.

It made sense to me.