Wave Good-Bye (6 page)

So good, in fact, that if someone was inside, I might actually knock on the door and introduce myself. The place seemed that friendly and welcoming.

A newer model Toyota Camry with Georgia plates sat by itself taking up a space. From inside the building, a light glowed, and I could see someone hunched over a desk, one hand on what looked like a calculator. His or her back was to me.

I decided not to disturb him or her, but I did set down my flashlight, cup my hands over my face, and lean really close to the window for a better look.

My feet slipped off the edge of the sidewalk—and I started falling toward the glass. Windmilling my arms frantically, I struggled to stop my fall. The glass came toward me. I was going to crash through the window! I could imagine the sound, the embarrassment! With one last grunt, I threw both my hands forward—and my palms slammed into the pane.

I waited, sure that the person inside heard me hit.

But he or she didn’t.

Looking harder, I noticed the white cord from a set of earplugs. Whoever was working was also listening to an iPod. No wonder he or she didn’t hear me!

With effort, I did the first reverse push-up of my entire life. My skin made a sucking sound as I popped my palms free from the glass.

My heart was still pounding wildly as I squatted to pick up the flashlight. For a minute or two, I rested on my haunches, counting my lucky stars. When my breathing returned to normal, I stood up, tiptoed back around the building, and climbed into my car.

“Oh, buddy,” I said to my new pet. “You missed all the excitement. Lucky you!”

The parakeet whistled twice and his little toenails scrambled along on the cardboard.

“I bet you’ll be happy to settle into your new digs, right? No one’s going to peck at you at my house. Excuse me. Our house.”

My bird seemed to know I was talking to him because he chattered merrily.

“I think I’ll call you Sam. As in Sam I Am. How’s that?”

He whistled in approval.

Getting a pet had been an absolutely perfect idea!

Like a kid at Christmas, I couldn’t wait to open the box and see my new bird.

Once we got home, I quickly lined his cage with newspaper, washed and dried his seed and water cups, clipped the cuttlebone to the cage, and inserted the perches. For good measure, I tossed in his ball with the bell. Finally, I filled his seed cup and his water cup.

“Come on out,” I said, prying one end of the box open with my fingers. That allowed me to slide the parakeet into his cage.

Thump!

“Eekkk! A rat!”

But it wasn’t. It was a pink creature, devoid of all but a few feathers on his body. The feathers on his wings stuck out at odd angles. A scab covered one eye.

“You look like a dog with a bad case of mange.”

Turning around and around on the bottom of the cage, he tried to get a good angle on me, working out how to get his good
eye—his one eye—aimed in my direction. We looked each other over.

“Whoa, buddy. You really are in bad shape.”

With a flutter of wings—and what few feathers he had left—he aimed for the perch, hit it with his chest, and bounced onto the newspaper. After a quick shake of his head, he tried again. This time, he snagged the perch with one foot—and promptly swung upside down.

His one eye blinked at me in surprise.

He let go.

And fell on his head.

With another quick shake, he made a third attempt, and this time, he barely succeeded, wobbling back and forth on the perch before regaining his balance. Puffing up his scant feathers, he preened and pooped, seeming very proud of himself.

“Right. Nothing says home like a pile of poop on the floor,” I said to him. “All the best decorators agree.”

Still, I admit that I admired his can-do spirit. Talking gently, I reached into the cage and wrapped my fingers around him. His little head swiveled this way and that. His scabbed eye looked like it needed some attention.

“You poor little booger.” I carried him to the bathroom, dampened a cotton swab and gently dabbed his eye. Next I administered a small dab of ointment. “I hope you make it.”

Once I released him into his cage, he continued launching himself at perches, alternately falling and succeeding, until finally he attacked the seed dish with gusto.

“Oh! They didn’t let you have any food, did they?”

In response, he chirped at me. In fact, he paused in his eating enough to chatter loudly with what I assume was a litany of complaints about being bullied by his friends.

Leaving him to settle in, I decided to read my new book about parakeets. According to the author, sexing a budgie is a job for experts. Not something for an amateur to try at home. Not that I would. It sounded faintly inappropriate for me to turn him bottom-side up and dig around in his feathers. Certainly not a way to make a new friend.

However, according to the bird experts, there were behavioral clues one could observe regarding a bird’s sex. Males are more active, more likely to sing, more into head
bobbing, and more social. Also a physical marker, the cere, the band of flesh over the bird’s nose is blue or purplish.

My bird had a distinctly blue cere.

“Are you a boy bird?” He turned his good eye toward me and, I swear, he winked.

I laughed. “All right, Sam I Am. You have a good night, little guy. Sweet dreams.” And I covered the cage with an old sheet.

Chapter Seven

I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING BRIGHT AND EARLY in a good mood. When I took the bedsheet off my parakeet’s cage, he hopped around happily. Early on my mom had decided that all of us needed Sundays off as a day of worship and rest, so Violetta’s was always closed on the Sabbath. But getting a Saturday off was rare, especially in the fall when we were usually busy.

After puttering around the apartment and doing a load of laundry, I picked up the phone and called Vonda Jamison, my best friend since fifth grade.

“Hi, whatcha doing? I tried to get you last night.”

“Of course you couldn’t get me, silly. Ricky and I went to the bonfire and then the homecoming game. I was surprised not to see you there! Guess what? We won! Can you
believe it?” Vonda’s good mood was infectious, even over the phone. I don’t know how she sounded so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, because she got up at the crack of dawn to fix breakfast for her guests.

I found myself smiling. “Maybe we’re lucky I didn’t go. Maybe I would have jinxed the team.”

“Don’t be silly. Hey, have you had breakfast? Come on by. Ricky’s making those pancakes you love.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. I hopped in the car, drove over, bounded up the stairs to her front door, sprinted past guests sitting at the dining room table, and ran into the kitchen. After receiving my requisite hug from my BFF, I let Ricky—her on-again, off-again husband—load up my plate. After sliding two pancakes on for me, he stuffed a broken piece in Vonda’s mouth as he poured more batter into the sizzling pan.

They made a cute couple.

“I think I’m ready for a change,” said Vonda. This week her hair was black. Of course, I’d colored it myself before giving her a nifty, edgy Goth cut. Vonda liked to change up her look. “That way I don’t get tired of the woman in the mirror,” she said.

“What’re you thinking about?” I asked.

“Red. A good color for autumn, right? As long as I don’t look like a pumpkin face.”

Despite the fact that RJ, her son, was nearly eight, she hadn’t lost the baby fat she’d gained when he was born. On her, it looked good, because Von’s face turned gaunt when she was at her thinnest, but she was very self-conscious about the extra pounds.

“You’ll look great, Von,” said Ricky as he flipped over the steaming hotcakes.

Ricky had been our class clown, a geeky boy who grew up to be a nice-looking man. Of course, one reason was
my haircuts. Until he graduated from high school, his mother put a bowl over his head and hacked away at his gorgeous auburn curls.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” I said as he slid a second helping onto my plate.

“Grace Ann, you need to find yourself a man who cooks,” said Ricky, as he carried a heaping plate of hotcakes out to their guests.

“Or one who can afford to take you out to eat often. Dear Lord! You’re attacking those pancakes like you were starving.” Vonda shook her head. I noticed a new piercing in her left earlobe. She’d added a tiny, delicate pearl. That was so like her, a study in contradictions. Von could wear lace and ruffles with a black leather skirt. Her housekeeping was impeccable, but her handwriting was atrocious. She loved beer and barbecue, but kept issues of
Victoriana
magazine next to her bed.

Their bed and breakfast, Magnolia House, also reflected contrasting styles. Built in 1874, the house itself was old, but the interior had been totally updated and modernized. Its romantic piazza, a long open porch with a white balustrade running the full length of the house, made a stunning first impression. Located in the heart of downtown St. Elizabeth, the building sat close to the street. Ricky compensated for the lack of privacy by installing a white picket fence, behind which Vonda grew amazing roses. The huge pink and white blossoms made a stunning contrast against the deep coral siding.

Inside were a dozen guest rooms, each with a private bath and big-screen TV. Vonda had lovingly decorated each room individually, each in a slightly different style, a touch her guests appreciated. The sheets were Porthault, but the quilts pure Appalachian, handmade to her specifications. Every detail, from fresh flowers on the bedside tables to
the choice of magazines and toiletries, was perfect. In short, she’d created the penultimate romantic hideaway. I always felt a bit sorry for myself when I visited because I wasn’t a traveler with a reason to stay overnight and let her baby me!

“Come on, Grace Ann. Time for girl talk.” She gestured with her head toward the front parlor. That way Vonda could keep one eye on the front desk, but we’d have a little privacy. I grabbed my plate and she poured us two glasses of the honey-sweetened fresh lemonade that Magnolia House is famous for.

“Guess what? I bought a one-eyed parakeet!” I said.

“You bought a what?” Vonda reared back in shock.

I kept stuffing my face with German apple pancakes. I mean, if you visit Magnolia House and you don’t order the German pancakes, you ought to have your head examined. “I bought a parakeet with one eye. Turquoise wings. His body mainly pink. See, they plucked off most of his feathers. But he’s a chatty fellow. Likes to hop on and off his perches. Falls every now and again, but he’s getting better. I think it’s a depth perception problem he has to work out. I named him Sam, as in Sam I Am.”

“Sam I Am what? Defective?”

“Hey, that’s not nice. Just plain Sam I Am. He’s actually kind of cute. Or will be when his feathers grow back.”

Vonda stared at me. “One eye and no feathers? Why didn’t you name him Lucky?”

“Ha, ha, ha. Although that would have fit. The guy at the pet shop was going to, you know.”

“You know, what? Mark him down for a quick sale?”

“Kill him.”

“Ugh. So you’re telling me you have a rescue parakeet? That’s a new one. By the way, it’s Will.i.am, and you sure know how to pick them.” She rolled her eyes and took a sip
from her frosty glass. “Where’d you buy it? Fur, Fin, and Feather? I mean, if you were at the pet shop, you were right there where it happened. Only a half a block away.”

“Half a block away from what?’

“The murder.”

“What murder?”

“Lisa Butterworth.”

“What!”

“Remember her from high school? She’s dead.”

“Lisa Butterworth? You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe it!”

Vonda stared at me. “Why don’t you believe it?”

“Well, she’s the one who stole our client list.”

“You’re kidding!” Vonda’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “You never told me that!”

“Yeah, she is—or was—because now she’s dead!” Suddenly, those pancakes were dancing the rumba in my tummy. “And I just saw her! I bumped into her at Walk-Inn Foods, where we had a little, um, tiff.”

“A tiff? As in a fight?” Vonda’s face clouded with concern.

“Before I bought my parakeet, I stopped in the convenience store.”

“Where you had a fight.” Vonda dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

“Sort of. Not a big fight. We argued. That’s all. The manager told us to keep it down. Then, I bought food for dinner. And after that, I sort of cruised through the municipal parking lot. I saw her outside of Enchanté. Talking to someone. I decided to take a peek in the Snippets window before I went home.”

I didn’t mention who that someone was—or that Lisa bragged to me about having a relationship with Wynn
Goodman—because Vonda would go completely nuts if she knew he was in town. After what he did to me, and how miserable I was for months afterward, Vonda had taken a vow to personally turn Wynn into a soprano, and I don’t mean a mobster.

My friend sighed and gave me a sorrowful look. “How can you ‘sort of cruise through a parking lot’? And then wind up peeking in the Snippets salon window like a stalker? Hmm? How does that happen, Grace? Is it like being abducted by aliens? I mean, your story makes about as much sense. Did your Fiesta navigate there without you? You do realize what this means, don’t you?”