Still Life by Melissa Milgrom (thriller books to read .TXT) 📗

was Peter Sunesen from Denmark. Sunesen's shop, Naturværkstedet, is as meticulous as a dentist's office. He is among the best bird taxidermists in the world, and Mayer has hired him for Hirst commissions. He's won the Danish, European, and Scandinavian taxidermy shows and has taken the WTC twice. He loves to do taxidermy, and he loves to talk about it. "I'm an Aries; I can talk forever," he said. I didn't doubt that. The best taxidermists talk like they preserve, each word a preenable feather. But my mind had gone into anatomical overdrive, and so I said, isn't it a bit odd to compare an Irish elk to lab rats, for example, to determine Best of Show? "It's a world show, and it is a show," he said. "We'll never know who's the better composer, Lennon and McCartney or Mozart. They all did brilliant music, and so it's a matter of taste, of preference. Some of the things in this show are impressive one time, but it hasn't got the lasting effects upon you. To improve too much is to get away from music.

"I love to watch birds, to hunt them, and eat them; everything about them. But it's the live birds that interest me—the excitement of getting it right. Can this curlew fool the birder? That's the standard I try to obtain."

He paused and added, "It's the same intimate sense that you have for your spouse. Someone who knows you intimately will know you have gained weight or that you are tired, but the judge who doesn't know that species won't know that. When I walk into that room, I see versions of nature that are distorted and wrong, and then every so often I see the real thing ... but it's rare. It's the jizz that will tell them apart: the nervous action ... The jizz is made up of everything."

Later that night, the BYOB wind-down party was being held in one of the Crowne Plaza's large banquet rooms. Unlike the previous night's awards ceremony, with its teenage "Liza Minnelli" in a sequined gown belting out "All That Jazz" and its tuxedo-clad taxidermists reciting the Lord's Prayer, this was just a party. People were seated at round tables, chatting, drinking, having fun. It was as dark as a nightclub, and it felt like one, too.

In the front of the room was a big stage with a microphone and a karaoke machine. People had already signed up to sing their favorite songs. One of the first to perform was Jerry Jackson, the blond taxidermist from Michigan, who had competed in Novices with a deer head and a raccoon. Jackson and his wife went up onstage and sang a duet, "Summer Lovin'" from Grease. Jackson is normally humble and introverted. Onstage, however, he let loose. He and his wife harmonized, filling the room with teenage romance. They finished. Everyone clapped. Then they sang "Falling in Love with You."

Soon the dance floor was a swaying mass of crooning taxidermists. Mayer, Fishwick, "Vinnie the Butcher," and Team Sweden were all twirling and twisting. I looked around for Ken Walker. I didn't see him, but everyone knew he was going to sing. At some point, someone belted out "We Are Family," prompting more and more people to get up on the dance floor. By the time Roger Martin played the harmonica, the room was packed.

I sat in the back, nursing a drink. Eventually, Ken showed up at my table. He was talking nonstop, happy with his blue ribbon—already over the sting of his hulking stag losing Best of Show to a Bambi-like fawn. "How are you going to end your book?" he asked. I shrugged and said, "It's still going on." He leaned in and mentioned something about those old mounts that the Smithsonian had destroyed. He shook his head but didn't dwell on it. Not here. Not tonight at the World Show. The MC was calling him up onto the stage:..."Three time World Champion and world champion singer is going to sing..."

Ken ran up and grabbed the mike. He nodded, scanning the crowd, revving up. He's done this a million times at clubs all over Alberta. His hunter's hands clutched the mike. He tapped a steady beat with his trapper's feet. He was wearing a khaki hunting shirt, not the requisite black suit. He had no props: no guitar, no black sunglasses. But it didn't matter. He had the jizz.

The first five notes were electrifying: doo doo doo doo doo. It was one of the most famous rock songs ever—the only song that outsold the Beatles when it was released in 1964 (two years after Ken was born). Everyone hummed the guitar riff before he sang a word; they knew this song by heart. He tapped the beat, his head nodding.

"Pretty woman walking down the street ... Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet...

"You're not the truth ... No one could look as good as you...

"Mercy."

His voice was rich and smooth and had the incredible Orbison range: the range Bob Dylan said made you want to drive a car off of a cliff; the voice of a professional criminal; the voice that could jar a corpse.

"Cause I need you ... I'll treat you right ... Come with me baby ... Be mine tonight..."

"Pretty woman stop awhile ... pretty woman talk awhile ... pretty woman yeah, yeah, yeah..."

More and more people joined the dance floor. Everyone was swaying and singing. I watched from the back, taking notes. The falsetto was spot-on, the growl beyond masterful. If you close your eyes, his parents said to me, you can't tell the difference.

So I closed my eyes. My heart wanted to dance. My heart wanted to throw this notebook off a cliff. I squeezed onto the dance floor, swaying and stomping with everyone else. For a moment, I forgot I was in Springfield. I forgot who was onstage. Something Ken once said flashed in my mind: "I idolized Roy Orbison. Always have. And that's why