by J. R. Ripley
CARDINAL SIN
Dan turned and banged on Yvonne’s door. “Ms. Rice? This is Dan Sutton. Open the door, please.”
I hesitated with my fingers on the door handle of my van. “She’s not answering, Dan. I tried.”
He looked at me. “You’re supposed to be in your vehicle. With the doors locked and the windows rolled up.”
I moved even closer until we were shoulder to shoulder. “I tried the back door, too. Besides, with all the commotion we’re making between talking and your siren, if Yvonne could answer, don’t you think she would?”
Dan blinked, then jiggled the front doorknob. “Locked. You say the other door is locked, too?”
“Yes.”
Dan nodded. “Stand back.”
I took a step backward and slipped off the porch. As I rose and dusted myself off, I heard the sound of splitting wood. Dan had kicked the door in.
“Wait outside.” All business now, Dan drew his gun and stepped inside.
The doorjamb was splintered. The front door dangled on its hinges. I tiptoed closer and peered inside. The fire was nearly out.
Yvonne Rice sat in the easy chair closest to the fireplace. Spools of embroidery floss rested on the table beside her. An unfinished magenta and gold feather lay in her lap. Her chin sagged, and her eyes were slits.
And, oh yeah, there was a red wound in her chest that needed patching…
Books by J.R. Ripley
DIE, DIE BIRDIE
TOWHEE GET YOUR GUN
THE WOODPECKER ALWAYS PECKS TWICE
TO KILL A HUMMINGBIRD
CHICKADEE CHICKADEE BANG BANG
HOW THE FINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS
FOWL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
A BIRDER’S GUIDE TO MURDER
CARDINAL SIN
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Table of Contents
CARDINAL SIN
Books by J.R. Ripley
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cardinal Sin
J.R. Ripley
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2019 by J.R. Ripley
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First Electronic Edition: May 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0622-6 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0622-9 (ebook)
First Print Edition: May 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0623-3
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0623-7
Printed in the United States of America
1
It was a quiet afternoon in Birds & Bees, and I was enjoying being lazy. Then again, they say that it’s always quietest before the storm.
They were right.
I was half-drowsing in the sun with a patchwork comforter over my knees—a gift from my aunt Betty—feeling much like a lounging lizard in late August, kicking lazily back and forth in the rocking chair. I’d moved it to the window to be nearer the warm, sleep-inducing sunlight when the bell tolled, announcing a customer.
“Hello,” I said, struggling to control the yawn that was working its unladylike way out of my mouth. I stood, balled up the comforter, and tossed it on the rocking chair, setting it in motion once again—either that or a ghost had taken up residence. “Welcome to Birds and Bees.”
“Hi.” A lovely, auburn-haired woman smiled at me. “I was across the street when I saw your sign.”
“Awesome. Welcome.”
I examined my new customer the same way I would a new bird. There was an exotic quality to her features, including the deep-set brown eyes that were revealed when she pulled off her sunglasses and stuck them atop her head. There might have been some Polynesian or Hawaiian blood coursing through her veins. Arteries, too, for that matter.
“This is your first time in our store, I take it?”
“Yes.” The woman was dressed casually in blue denim pants and a sweater the color of moss that fell to just below her hips. Her shoes were dusty leather work boots that ended at the ankles and looked like they might have a story or two to tell.
“Is there something particular I can help you with? We stock our own blends of birdseed and locally made birdhouses.”
“Do you sell bees?”
“Bees?”
“You know, buzz-buzz.” The vibrating of her fulsome lips sounded remarkably beelike.
“Sorry, no.”
“I suppose I should have known. I was hoping…” She glanced at the window. “Because of your sign.”
“Birds and Bees?”
“Yes.”
“Again, sorry. You aren’t the first person to get confused. I sell a few beekeeping supplies but not much else. And Mitch Quiles is pretty much my only regular customer for those. In the spring and summer, we also carry plants that are beneficial to bee and butterfly populations.”
“Mitch Quiles?”
“Mr. Quiles is a beekeeper. He owns an apiary at the edge of town. I’ve got jars of his honey for sale on the shelf there, if you are interested in some local honey.” I pointed down aisle two. “It’s organic.”
The woman was disappointed. “When I saw the sign, I just assumed you sold bees. Silly of me, I guess. I didn’t even know I was in the market for bees until I saw your sign from the diner window.”
I followed her gaze out the window. Ruby’s Diner, once a gas station, stood directly across Lake Shore Drive from the Queen Anne Victorian house that served as my home and the center of my business operations. A dusty, matte-black pickup truck sat at the curb.
“Follow me.” I motioned for her to accompany me to the sales counter.
The house is three stories plus an attic and a basement. The store occupies the first floor. The main stairway in the middle of the store leads up to the second floor, which wa
s currently occupied by a couple of renters. One of them being an employee of mine, Esther Pilaster. The other unit was currently occupied by the co-owner of Brewer’s Biergarten, which was immediately next door. His name was Paul Anderson. My mother and I had the third floor to ourselves. Paul’s partner was my ex-partner—in bed, not beer, that is.
Being over a hundred years old, the house needed constant repairs and upkeep. Then again, I was only a little more than a third that age, and I needed constant repair and upkeep, too.
“Here.” I rummaged through an old-fashioned Rolodex under the counter. “Let me give you Mr. Quiles’s contact information. Maybe he can sell you some bees. A starter set, as it were.” I grabbed one of our store’s business cards and flipped it over to write on the back.
“Thanks. That’s very helpful of you,” she said, taking the card from me. I watched her lips move as she read the back of the card, then flipped it over to examine the front. “Amy Simms. That’s you?”
“Yep. All five foot four and hundred and five pounds.”
The woman was polite enough not to call me out on what was clearly an underrepresentation of my weight. She flapped the business card repeatedly against her opposite hand, then stuffed it in the front pocket of her jeans. “Thanks again.”
“My pleasure, Ms.…?”
“Yvonne Rice. Call me Yvonne.”
“Pleased to meet you, Yvonne. I haven’t seen you in Birds and Bees before. New to town or visiting?”
“I arrived about a month ago. I bought a cabin on five acres.”
“Wow. I envy you.”
“Yeah, I love it. I came from the city, so the solitude and the space are a real treat.”
“Tell me about it. I live here.”
“Here?” Her brow formed a V.
“Right here.” I spread my arms. “This is not only my place of business, it is home sweet home.”
Yvonne chuckled. “At least it’s convenient.”
“But there’s no getting away from work,” I replied. “Or my tenants.”
Yvonne Rice flipped through the pages of a well-worn bird ID guide I kept on the sales counter. “Now that I think about it. Maybe you can help me with something else.”
“Sure, name it.”
“There’s this bird that’s been hanging around in the bushes around my cabin.”
“Can you describe it?” I was always up for a challenge.
Her finger stopped on a page near the front of the book. “It looks like this.”
“A cardinal?” The northern cardinal was a common bird in these parts. “I’m not sure I understand your question.” And I didn’t.
She ran her thumbnail over the picture of the bird. “You see, it looks like this. I mean, the shape, that thick bill, and that black around the face…”
“But?”
“But the bird I have been seeing is yellow.”
I tilted my head. “Yellow? How do you mean?”
She turned the book to face me. “The feathers. They are yellow, not red.”
“OMG. I heard about this a couple of times. I think somebody in Kentucky reported a sighting a few years back. Then a woman down in Alabama or Louisiana, I forget which, she actually filmed one visiting her bird feeder.”
“What is it?”
“It is a northern cardinal. But it’s a genetic mutation. Very, very rare,” I explained. “Don’t quote me on this, but if I remember correctly, its yellow feathers are due to a rare mutation that blocks its ability to assimilate red hues. You know how flamingos get their rosy pink color from the shrimp they eat?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“Cardinals normally eat foods that are carotenoid-rich, too. That’s what produces these red and orange feathers.” I indicated the vivid red cardinal in the book. “Because of this mutation, the yellow cardinals are incapable of metabolizing those carotenoids, or something like that.”
I scratched my head. “I’m no scientist.”
“I think I understand.”
“And you got to see one.” I sighed and planted my elbows on the counter. “Wow.”
“So they are relatively common around here then?”
“Only if you consider one-in-a-million common,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve never seen one. I’ve never personally known anybody who has.”
She smiled coyly. “Except me.”
“Yes, except you.”
“Would you like to see it?”
“I would love to!”
“No problem. Give me a couple of days to figure out a good time.”
“Of course.” I pulled her closer as a familiar customer crossed the threshold. “Mind if I give you a friendly piece of advice?”
“Okay.”
“I wouldn’t go spreading the word around about the bird.”
“Why not?”
“The last person to do that had people flocking to her yard trying to catch a glimpse.”
Yvonne put a finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word.” She did a slow turn. “Maybe I should think about getting a bird feeder or two.” She rubbed her hands together. “Some birdseed, too.”
“I like the way you think, Yvonne.” Smelling a sale, I hastened from behind the counter to assist my new friend.
* * * *
Three days later, I found myself invited to a housewarming and bird-watching party.
Yvonne Rice had popped into the store a second time—and that time I had not been snoozing—and invited me to supper at her house. “Nothing formal,” she explained. “In fact, we’ll use the big picnic table in the backyard. I set up the bird feeder there. Hopefully, the cardinal will show up for us.”
“Have you seen it since we last spoke?”
“Once or twice.”
“That’s good.” It was a sign that the bird was staying in the area.
“There will only be a few other neighbors. Being new to town, I don’t know a lot of folks. Feel free to bring a date.” She paused. “Or are you married? I don’t see a ring.”
“Single.” I looked at my empty ring finger. The only ring I had was around my bathtub. Mom kept it clean, and Mom was out of town. I tended to let the whole cleaning thing slide. “But I have a boyfriend. His name is Derek.”
“Bring him. You should come too, Kim.” Kim was on duty at the time. “In fact, bring your mother and anybody else you like.”
I explained that my mom was in New Orleans with her twin sister, my aunt Betty, enjoying the sights. “But I will tell Esther.” She hadn’t been working in the store at the time. Whether she would be interested in attending was anybody’s guess.
In the end, Esther declined the invitation, telling me that somebody had to stay and keep the store open and the dollars coming in.
It was a barbed commentary on my habit of abandoning the store for more pressing matters. I couldn’t help it that the Town of Ruby Lake was a hotbed of activities other than bird-watching.
Although in this particular instance, bird-watching was exactly what I hoped to do. Catching a glimpse of the rare yellow cardinal would be a real coup.
Yvonne and I had agreed that if we saw the bird, we would photograph it and post it on the Birds & Bees bulletin board and web page, without mentioning its exact location, only that it had been sighted in the county. That would preserve her privacy and the cardinal’s peaceful existence.
On the way now to Yvonne Rice’s cabin, I had my camera and binoculars with me. Kim rode along with me in the minivan. Her boyfriend, Dan, was meeting us there because he was working up till then. Ditto my own boyfriend, Derek Harlan. He’s an attorney in town, and he can examine my briefs any time he wants to.
Don’t ask me to explain what that means.
I slowed and turned off the main road onto a bumpy gray gravel drive leading up to a modest log cabin with a sta
cked river-rock chimney.
Several other vehicles were parked haphazardly on the gravel and patchy grass between the cabin and the road. The smell of pine filled the air.
“There’s Dan’s car.” Kim nodded at a vintage Firebird Trans Am, Dan’s pride and joy. I didn’t see Derek’s little import model.
“I’m glad he could make it after all.”
Dan originally had said he was scheduled to be on duty and would be unable to attend. At the last minute, he had called Kim to say that he had worked out with Chief Kennedy to take the evening off.
Following the sounds of animated voices, we found that everyone had arrived before us, including Derek. He had exchanged his business suit for a pair of nice-fitting jeans and a green flannel shirt. All were seated around a redwood picnic table draped in a pale red and yellow gingham cloth that fluttered in the breeze.
At the edge of the yard, I spotted Yvonne’s new red tube feeder dangling from a lower limb of an old oak.
Yvonne waved and hurried over to greet us. Introductions were made.
“I brought you a little housewarming gift.” I handed her my gold-wrapped box.
“You shouldn’t have,” Yvonne protested. Our hostess was rocking a pair of form-fitting sand-colored corduroys and a white sweater. A compact, rainbow-colored knit cap sat atop her head. I was in my best denim and a silky-soft flannel shirt.
Yvonne had said there was no need for formality. Not that that had stopped Kim, who had decided to flaunt her good looks in a tight, knee-length blue skirt and matching top, along with a sequined jacket she had purchased at a designer outlet shop out by the interstate near Charlotte.
“Me, too.” Kim thrust her offering on Yvonne as well, and she carried the packages to the picnic table.
Mine was a birdhouse. Kim had refused to tell me what was in her own box. “You’ll see when Yvonne opens it,” was all she would say.
After introducing us to the others seated at the table, Madeline Bell, Ross Barnswallow, Murray Arnold, and Kay Calhoun, Yvonne opened my package first. “A birdhouse.” She lofted it for all to see. “How adorable.” It was. Aaron’s houses boasted delicate gingerbread roofs and copper trim. Each was lovingly hand-painted pale blue with white trim.
