Who whacked those people on the head?

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Wilma Wrinkle, the proprietor of Wrinkle's Reliable Repairs, lay sprawled across the worn floorboards of her shop. A hefty wrench, her usual companion, lay abandoned beside her, a testament to the unseen force that had put her down for the count. Detective Dooley, a man whose gut rivaled his girth, surveyed the scene with a frown. This was the third such incident in as many weeks. A series of seemingly random whackings had plagued the once-quiet town of Dullsville.

The first victim was Mildred Miggins, the town gossip, found unconscious in her rose garden, a trowel discarded nearby. Then came Herbert Huff, the postman, discovered sprawled beside his mailbag, a stray letter clutched in his hand. Now, Wilma, the ever-reliable repairwoman. Each victim bore a nasty bump on the head, but nothing was stolen. The only clue: a single, bright yellow feather found near each scene.

Dooley questioned the nervous townsfolk. Mrs. Abernathy, clutching her pearls, swore it was "those darn teenagers and their skateboards." Mr. Peabody, the timid librarian, mumbled something about "rogue pigeons." Little Timmy Tuttle, eyes wide with excitement, insisted it was a "giant, feather-throwing chicken!"

Dooley wasn't buying any of it. There was a pattern here, and feathers didn't throw themselves. He spent a long night poring over files, the yellow feather mocking him from a Ziploc bag. A glimmer of recognition sparked in his bleary eyes. "Wrinkle's Reliable Repairs," he muttered, "Wilma fixes everything..."

The next morning, Dooley found Wilma nursing a headache in her cluttered shop. "Rough night, Mrs. Wrinkle?" he inquired with a practiced smile. Wilma narrowed her eyes. "Rougher for whoever snuck in here last night," she growled. "Mess with my tools, you mess with my livelihood."

Dooley feigned surprise. "Tools missing? Any idea who it could be?" Wilma snorted. "The only folks who ever bother me are those good-for-nothing Peabodys' kids. Always tinkering with things they shouldn't."

A lightbulb flickered on in Dooley's head. The Peabodys. Timid Mr. Peabody, with his collection of exotic birds... and a son named Harold, known for his rebellious streak. Dooley thanked Wilma and headed straight for the Peabody residence.

There, perched on a stand, was a magnificent macaw, its plumage a vibrant yellow. Harold Peabody, a lanky teenager with a sheepish grin, stood beside it. Dooley recognized the tell-tale feather clutched in his hand.

"Harold," Dooley boomed, "care to explain why your prized macaw, Big Bertha, has been using Dullsville's citizens as target practice?"

Harold wilted. It turned out Big Bertha had recently learned a new trick - throwing objects with startling accuracy. Harold, nervous about the expensive bird's destructive tendencies, had been "borrowing" tools from Wilma to create a custom, feather-padded training perch. He'd been practicing in the dead of night, leading to the unfortunate whacking spree.

News of the culprit spread like wildfire. Relief washed over Dullsville. Mildred Miggins, sporting a spectacular head bandage, even managed a smile. As for Big Bertha, she was grounded, with a stern warning not to unleash her feathery fury on anyone else.

Dooley, enjoying a rare moment of peace with a jelly donut at the local diner, couldn't help but chuckle. The case of the curious conks had been a feather in his cap, albeit a slightly yellow one.