Parrots Prove Deadly (5 page)

Marc didn’t like the parrot, that was clear. If Jane couldn’t take him, though, he was the obvious one to give him a home. He’d mentioned kids. Maybe one of them would take to this lonesome parrot, teach him new words and let him fly around a room. If I could get the bird to where Marc would let him into the house.

“Bad bird.
”
There it was again, gone as soon as they appeared. Randolph was peering around, his little head craning this way and that. Marc might not be on his Top 10 list, but there was something else going on.

As if to emphasize the point, the parrot reached down and pulled out more silver down. I watched the slight, curled feather drift out of the cage and to the floor. This apartment held bad memories for the bird. I thought of Rose. She seemed innocuous, charming even in her gruff way. To a captive animal, she might seem quite different—and she did have strong feelings about her former friend, and all those who were close to her. Then again, Genie, the aide, had been here, too.

I needed to go back to my old notes. I couldn’t remember much about parrots—how they learned or the way their memory worked. They had excellent vision, I recalled, better than most mammals. There was something else—something about having more cones, more sensors, in their eyes. As I mused over this, more came back to me: some theory that said parrots had the gift of filling in the blanks, of seeing what
should
be there, as well as what shouldn’t—a gift that would be crucial to survival in their native jungle habitat. Was there anything in this room that would have,
should
have been a visual clue to the parrot? Something that would remind him of Genie? Or of Polly?

I was stretching. I knew that, but with little else to go on, I looked around the little living room. Neater than her across-the-hall neighbor’s, but not as spare as I’d originally thought. I saw photos, a lot of them, framed on the wall and along the long windowsill, easily visible from the parrot’s perch. Would a photo register to a parrot?

“Aw-wah!” I turned as Randolph—or whatever his name was—gave a strange-sounding call. He was biting at the bar of his cage, his hooked beak gnawing on it.

“You okay?” He stepped back, head bobbing, and I considered how he’d been standing. Head bent, sideways, he’d have been staring at the floor. At a large rawhide chew toy. Buster’s no doubt. That didn’t mean—

“Bitch!
”

Of course. The service dog would always have been here, in this room. That’s what Randolph was looking for, what he didn’t see.

“Bitch!” The parrot was louder this time, and it hit me. I hadn’t examined Buster, simply assumed he was an altered male. He was small for a shepherd, but I’d assumed that was a result of whatever cross had given him that glossy dark coat.

“Buster?” I did my best to look the parrot in the eye, one eye at a time. The result was disconcerting.

“Aw.” The parrot clicked with his tongue, his disappointment clear. I had not only not seen the obvious, I had been a fool. Buster was a female, a bitch. And my suspicions had once again come to nothing.

Chapter Eight

“It’s hopeless. I really am the sad sack Creighton thinks I am.” An hour later, I was home again, trying to unwind with a beer and my cat. “I can’t even get the basics about a damned guide dog right.”

“Well, those animals have no life.
”
Wallis gave the feline equivalent of a shrug, flexing and settling her long white whiskers.
“No sense of self. No sense of
fun.” Wallis may be neutered; she’d been spayed in the shelter where I found her. She liked to let on about a wild past, however.

“It’s worse than that, Wallis.” I joined her at the windowsill. The view from my mother’s kitchen took in a stand of birches, already golden against the bright red of the sugar maples. “I’m imagining murders now, too.” I told my feline companion. “When all I’ve really got is gossip, an overworked daughter, and maybe some interspecies tension.”

I confess, I was looking for more than sympathy. Beyond support, I was hoping for confirmation of what I’d suspected, and I did what I could to relax my defenses. If she could see what I saw, sense what I had experienced, maybe she’d have another take on it—another way in. Maybe I wasn’t making this all up.

“You are bored, aren’t you?
”
Wallis’ eyes closed slightly as she stared at me, taking it all in.

“Maybe a little.” I had to give her that.

Her whiskers flattened out against her face in satisfaction. Our move back to Beauville had been my decision, made unilaterally. As much as she enjoyed the view of the woods, I knew she would never let me forget our panicked flight from the city—from everything she had ever known.

“Little town, little life.
”
She turned toward the window and, with a moment of calibration, leaped to the sill.
“What fun is it without the chase?
”

I didn’t answer that. I did, however, think of Creighton. He thought I was amusing myself. Maybe not consciously, but at some level—looking for a bigger mystery than the one I was really supposed to be solving. Meanwhile, he had real problems on his hand. And if he was asking me for help, he was stuck without a clue.

I took in the vista outside. For all its problems, until now this little town had managed to escape the drug scourge that had swept through so many other former industrial towns. We had tourism. Those maples, the ones turning red, were worth their weight in gold. And we were small enough, our industrial past far enough behind us, that our troubles tended to be small too.

Without thinking, I reached to stroke Wallis’ back. I hadn’t had a friend like her when I was growing up. Maybe if I had, I could’ve held a little steadier. Instead, I’d gone as wild as was possible. In those days, that meant drinking too much. Smoking pot and driving wild. The low point for me had been a scary night in an earlier incarnation of the cop shop Creighton now occupied, pulled over in a stolen car one of my buddies had jacked for a joyride. When my mother had bailed me out, she’d sat me at the table that still stood beside me. Read me the riot act. And I’d made up my mind to get out—as soon and as far as I could.

Wallis’ fur was a lot warmer than any of those memories. Still, it made me sad to think of those days. Not that I’d come back, but that my town had grown so much harder and more dangerous.

“Tell me about the bird.
”

I looked down into Wallis’ green eyes. Was my cat trying to distract me?

“
I find birds…amusing.
”

“You find the hunt amusing.” She didn’t deny it. However, it was useful to catalog what I knew.

The bird’s repeating things it heard, I “told” her, letting the memories sift through my head. Not even necessarily what it had picked up from Polly. I thought of Rose and her foul language. Maybe the two old friends had spent more time together than apart; maybe they’d cracked each other up teaching the bird insults. I knew I should find out more about their relationship. Maybe Genie would know. Or the resident doctor.

It was pointless. Maybe the parrot had come to Polly cursing. Maybe he’d spent decades living with an actual sailor. There was no way I could tell who he was mimicking, or when he’d picked up whatever he repeated to me now. Not unless he let me in, and I was beginning to believe the bird’s limited mental capabilities would make that impossible.

“Now, now, don’t underestimate the undersized chicken.
”
Wallis had begun using metaphor more. I didn’t know if this was something she was picking up from me, or if I was just hearing her in a new way. “
I told you, it’s a skill that you have to work at.
”
That came through loud and clear.
“Funny, isn’t it? When prey animals do it so naturally?
”

“What was that, Wallis?”

“Listening.
”
She looked up at me as if I were a kitten.
“
They have to understand, or they’re what you call toast.
”

“So you think that parrot understands me?” I tried to get my mind around this. “Even if I can’t understand him?”

“
From what you’ve told me, ahem…
” A little hiccup that could have been a hairball, but was more likely her way of accenting that I ‘told’ her more unconsciously than with words.
“
He’s got a few years on you.
”

Great. I was being played by a parrot.

“Not necessarily.
”
Wallis wasn’t the type to humor me, so I paid attention.
“He may be waiting, testing you. Especially considering all he’s been through recently.
”

She had a point there.

“Besides, they hear what they need to hear—but they don’t necessarily get the larger picture. There’s a reason they call them feather brains. Juicy, though.
”
I waited, trying to ignore the way my own belly had started rumbling in sympathy.
“
But for noticing the little things? Well, they can do that.
”

A wave of disappointment came off Wallis, and I had the distinct desire to turn around and check to see if a twitching tail had given me away.

Chapter Nine

I wanted to go back to that parrot. To talk to him, see if I could break through his bird-like reserve. Not that I trusted Wallis’ words entirely. Like everyone, she had her angle. But for her to credit a bird with anything—besides flavor? I had to give it some credence.

I’d made a promise, though. A spoken one to Albert, and a silent one to that caged raccoon, pacing in his cage, and so before it got too late, I headed out again. The tourists had disappeared as the shadows lengthened, making the drive more fun. Besides, I’d figured my visit with the Evergreen Hills manager would be the easy part of the day. Animal expert making a house call, suggesting an easy fix to keep the residents happy; what’s not to like? I was even careful about parking, pulling neatly into a space marked for visitors before I went searching for the man in charge. I didn’t expect it to be difficult: Evergreen Hills—“Your Place in the Pines”—seemed to believe in obvious signage, with placards pointing the way to the sports center and the manager’s office in a green and yellow combination not found in nature.

“Mr. Gaffney?” When I found the office locked, despite the acid-yellow sign saying “open,” I began to poke about the grounds. The sign said someone would be on duty until five, and an hour seemed a reasonable time to settle this mess. The birds were all settling in, quiet coos of nesting and nighty-nights as the shadows lengthened. They kept earlier hours than most humans, however. “Hello?”

“Pru!” I turned to find a heavy-set man who looked surprisingly like my father, what I remembered of him anyway, complete with the gin-blossom nose and the jowls of a hound. “I thought it was you.”

“Jerry?” Jerry Gaffney had been part of my crowd in high school. We hadn’t had much in common besides drinking and cars. Still, seeing him shook me. He didn’t look good. “Good to see you.” I fixed a smile on my face and submitted to a hug. He held me a little longer than necessary. Then again, from the smell of him, he probably hadn’t had much of an opportunity to get close to a woman recently.

“God, you look great.” He practically licked his beefy lips. “I’d heard you were back in town. Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

I smiled in reply. I was used to this. People in Beauville were either surprised I’d come back or pleased, and not in a good way. It didn’t say much about the town that returning was rated a failure, but there it was. “So, you’re the manager here?” Albert had told me his title. It was a fancy term for “custodian” or “groundskeeper,” which made me wonder who was really in charge. I needed Jerry on my side, however. As I’ve said, a little positive reinforcement works for everyone.

“Yeah,” He puffed his chest out so it extended over his belly. “I keep the yuppies in line.”

“Great.” This was what I wanted to hear: he’d be easier to handle than a professional property manager—or a dozen screaming condo owners. “I think I’ve figured out your raccoon problem for you.”

“That’s right. You’re the animal lady, now.” He smiled. I didn’t like his smile. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

Not if I could help it. I remembered him from high school. I hadn’t wanted anything from him then, so things had been easier. For now, I smiled back. “Sure do, but I’ve got to file a report on this one, so—”

“I’ve got it all under control.” He was moving in. I sensed I was being herded back to the office. Or worse, his truck, where there was less chance of meeting anyone else. I’m not a big believer in aversive training, or I would have smacked his snout. Instead, I fell back on conditioning. What did he want? My attention. Which would be denied until he learned to behave properly.

I stepped aside, away from the outer wall of the building, and turned away. Just like any hound, he sensed the distance and suddenly became solicitous. “You came all the way out here, though…” He left it open-ended. I waited for more. “You had something to tell me?” Even his voice had grown softer.

“More what I wanted to show you,” I said, using my firm “command” voice, and walked him over to the corner of the property. Sure enough, up under the too-bright eaves and beside a nicely branching maple, I could see a hole. Not big, but big enough—just as the raccoon had remembered it. “There,” I pointed. “That’s your problem. That’s where raccoons and other animals are getting in.”

I made a point of using the plural. I didn’t want this lug having it in for any particular raccoon—and I wanted to make him a little nervous. “Other animals” could be anything. Squirrels. Rats.

“Oh, yeah. I knew about that.” He was bluffing. I began to relax. “I’m going to have the guys fix that when they do the gutters next month.”

“Why wait?” I didn’t want to hold that raccoon longer than I had to. “We removed one animal, but another will find it soon enough.”

“And will he get a surprise.” Jerry chuckled, his belly bouncing. “I know you people use the Hav-a-Hearts, but I got some of the other kind of traps from my cousin. You remember Jimmy?”

I did. He was a creep even back in high school.

“He got me some of them. The permanent kind. Let’s see how they like that.”

***

I had to think fast, and I had to hide the fury that was building inside me. Luckily, Jerry’s own body betrayed him. The chuckle had turned to hiccups, and soon he was bent over coughing. I patted him on the back, possibly harder than was necessary.

“You okay?” I was calculating. If he keeled over, I could walk away. I didn’t think anyone had seen me come back here.

He stood up, face red. “Yeah. I, uh, I’ve got to lay off the butts.”

And the booze and the burgers, I didn’t say. However, he’d given me my answer. “Maybe you should get those gutter guys in sooner,” I said, trying to look like my concern was for him. “I mean, trapped, dead animals—you’re going have to be up and down to that attic everyday, twice a day. Otherwise, you’re going to start getting complaints about the smell. Flies….”

The blank look on his face made it clear he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Hell, you’re right.” Then it faded into a smile. “That don’t matter, though. Joey’s been looking for a gig. You remember my other cousin, Joey, don’t you?” I didn’t, but I wasn’t surprised that there was another one. “He can check the traps. Every day, twice a day.”

“Have you spoken to Albert about this?” Albert was a town official. I wasn’t. He also wasn’t particularly threatening.

“Oh, Al. He’s all right,” the big man said. “What? You squeamish?”

Jerry started grinning then, the kind of grin that was halfway to a leer. One that made me want to punch him in that gut of his. He’d seen my distaste for his methods and read it as sentiment. I opened my mouth to cut him down—and stopped. Maybe this could work for me.

“Well, I do work with animals, you know.” I couldn’t bat my eyes at him. Just couldn’t. “And raccoons are actually very intelligent. Cute, too.”

“You want me to spare the little guys, don’t you?” It was working. I smiled. Positive reinforcement.

“Yeah.” I tossed my hair, extending my neck as I did so. It felt like Nature Channel 101, but if it worked…“That would be great.”

“Wish I could, doll.” He stepped closer, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops in a way that dragged his jeans dangerously low. I saw my error. He had taken my signals as cues to act in a way he considered masculine—now that he saw me as submissive. “Wish I could.”

“You do know using ‘kill’ traps—leg traps, crush traps, and the like—for raccoons is illegal.” I switched back to business mode so fast, I could see the recoil on his face. “And that raccoons, while they may be deemed a nuisance, are protected.”

“Protected by who?” He put his chin up in defiance. “Albert?”

“The state.” I met his stare and held it. “Department of fish and game.”

“You gonna tell them?” He looked me up and down again. This time, it was meant to intimidate.

It only got me mad. “If I have to.”

“Pru Marlowe.” His big face was brick red. “You used to be so much fun.”

I didn’t respond. I’d had that reputation, but he and I? Only in his dreams.

“Good thing Joey’s got some other tricks up his sleeve. Some fun powders,” Jerry said. “Maybe you should start watching out, too.”

***

So much for that simple fix. I drove away replaying the interaction, wondering if there was something I could have done to keep it from turning into Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. I knew I had a temper. I didn’t need Creighton—or Wallis—to point it out to me. But Jerry Gaffney seemed like a loser. A loser with just enough power to threaten a harmless animal. If he did any research at all, he’d find out it would be legal to hunt raccoons—to shoot them, that is—as soon as October started. I didn’t think he’d bother. That didn’t make him any less dangerous.

I stepped on the gas and enjoyed the surge of power as my car responded. The sun was setting, the half-light making the reds and golds glow. It was such a beautiful scene, I nearly missed the obvious point.

Jerry Gaffney wasn’t merely a danger to any raccoon that came by. Unless I had missed something, he had threatened me as well.