by Edie Claire
NEVER STEAL A COCKATIEL
Copyright © 2015 by Edie Claire
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For Liking blurry pictures of random plants, snow, and chocolate.
For guessing what bizarre location I’m off to next.
For Commenting on stuff even when it’s boring.
But mainly, just for being there —
Reminding me every minute that readers are real.
This one’s for my Facebook buds.
Thank you.
Chapter 1
Leigh refused to open her eyes. She lay in bed, motionless and content. The sound she’d just heard wasn’t what she thought it was. Really, it wasn’t.
Tap, tap, tap.
She sighed. It was exactly what she thought it was. Someone was rapping gently on her bedroom window, trying to wake her up without disturbing anyone else in the house. As if that were possible. Warren slept like the dead, and both of their kids had inherited the trait. Leigh, on the other hand, had suffered from insomnia even before her husband hit forty and started snoring like a chainsaw.
She opened her eyes and looked at her clock. It was 4:30 AM.
Lovely.
She rose. An ordinary person, she thought to herself, would likely be concerned about either a burglar or an emergency. Leigh Koslow, advertising copywriter, mother of two, and supernatural magnet for mayhem of all descriptions, was concerned about neither.
Tap, tap, tap.
She crossed to her window with a yawn. No burglar would intentionally try to wake her up, and a true emergency would rate use of the doorbell. Taps on her window in the middle of the night, in her unfortunately vast experience, indicated a family emergency. And that was something different entirely.
She rolled up the shade expecting to see her cousin waiting outside. Cara lived at the farmhouse next door, attracted a fair amount of mayhem in her own right, and was by far the most frequent tapper on that particular window.
It wasn’t Cara. Leigh blinked away the cobwebs and attempted to focus her eyes. It was Mason Dublin, Cara’s father.
Leigh stared at him in confusion. Mason was in his mid sixties, with a full head of once-red hair now turned a soft gray and eyes of the same sparkling blue-green as his daughter’s. He looked back at her with an embarrassed grin and gestured toward the front of the house.
Leigh rolled the shade back down.
What could he want? She had always liked Mason, despite the fact that neither she nor Cara had met the man until they were in their thirties. His nefarious behavior as a newlywed had led Cara’s mother to banish him from their child’s life, but after serving his time and proving a sincere interest in his adult daughter’s well-being, he had — albeit with great reluctance on the part of his ex-wife — gradually returned to the relatively good graces of the family. Most of the family, anyway.
Leigh crossed to her closet, threw on a robe, and stumbled toward the front door. It was July, it was hot in the house even without a robe, and dog hair stuck to her feet as she walked across the carpet. What could Mason possibly have to say to her that couldn’t wait until morning?
She turned on her porch light, unlocked the door, and swung it open. Mason stood before her, blinking. He had a sheepish smile on his face. He also had a cat under one arm and a partially covered birdcage by his side.
“Are you kidding me?” Leigh asked drowsily, wondering if she might still be asleep. That would be nice.
“Sorry, kid,” he replied, scratching his head nervously with his free hand. “I hate to do this to you, but I need a favor.”
Leigh took a closer look at his cargo. A small, cream and gray tortie nestled in the crook of his arm. It was curled up tight and hiding its head as if trying to make itself invisible. Whatever was in the bird cage, Leigh couldn’t see. The three-foot-tall wire box had a towel wrapped around its top half.
“You need money?” Leigh asked hopefully.
Mason frowned at her. “Of course not. When have I ever asked you for money?”
She felt a twinge of guilt. Mason’s youthful lust for riches had been his downfall, and he was still a bit sensitive on the topic. “Never,” she admitted.
“Look,” he began, shifting his feet awkwardly. “I really do hate to ask, but could you possibly take care of these guys for me? For just a couple days… I mean, like… a week?”
Leigh shook her head in confusion. Surely she was only dreaming this. “Mason,” she asked, “since when do you even have a cat? Or a bird?”
“I don’t. They’re not mine. The cat’s my next-door neighbor’s. At my apartment in Bellevue, I mean. He asked me to take care of her if anything—” His eyes flickered with distress. “I mean, if he went out of town. I don’t know where the bird came from, but I couldn’t just leave it there, could I? And I’ve got to get to the airport. My flight leaves at six.”
Leigh’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. Mason had just said so many things that made no sense, she wasn’t sure where to begin. Besides which, he didn’t look like himself.
“Listen,” he said quickly, shifting the tightly curled ball of fur to his other arm. “I know I’m not making any sense. But the long and short of it is, I promised my buddy Kyle I’d take care of his cat, but I didn’t know he was leaving this week, and this week I’ve got to be somewhere else. I would have taken them to Cara’s, but Lenna’s afraid of birds, and I knew you and Allison would know how to take care of it.”
Leigh blinked three times in quick succession, determined to wake herself up. It didn’t work.
She let out a sigh. Mason’s last statement, at least, did make sense. His granddaughter Lenna was afraid of a great many things. Leigh’s own daughter, Allison, wasn’t afraid of nearly enough.
“Could you watch them until I get back?” he begged. “Please, Leigh? I can pay for their board, if you like.”
“You will not,” she protested. “Don’t be silly.”
“You’ll do it, then?” His expression softened, and with a slight cock of his head to the side, he gave her a dashing smile, his bright eyes sparkling mischievously. Her resistance crumbled. It wasn’t difficult to see how her Aunt Lydie had once been charmed into single motherhood.
Leigh gritted her teeth, swung the door open wider, and gestured him inside. “I’m sure Allison would love to pet sit,” she conceded. “But I still don’t get it. Where are you going?”
He hesitated. “Las Vegas. Pawnbrokers’ convention.”
Leigh quirked an eyebrow. Mason was usually a better liar. He wasn’t even trying.
He carried the cage inside and set it down, then extended the cat to Leigh. “Her name’s Peep,” he said apologetically. “I, um… I forgot to bring her food. Sorry. She did just eat a big meal, though. Poor thing woke me up, crying so loud next door. Good thing Kyle gave me a spare key. I don’t know how long her bowl had been empty…”
His voice trailed off uncertainly. Leigh reached out and tucked the cat under her own arm on autopilot, her brain still mired in confusion. There was definitely more to this story than Mason was telling her. If she was fully awake, she would interrogate him until she figured it out. But all she really wanted right now was to crawl
back into bed.
“When will you get back?” she asked, settling for the most obvious question.
“Friday,” he said, “Probably. I’ll let you know. You have my number.”
“Fine,” Leigh said with a yawn. “Go catch your plane. To that convention.”
Mason cracked a knowing grin. They had always understood each other. “Thanks, kid,” he said tenderly, leaning in to plant a fatherly kiss on her cheek. “I owe you one.”
“Damn straight,” Leigh responded.
He turned to let himself out, but swung around again at the door. “Oh, and Leigh—” he said, sounding uncomfortable again. “It’s kind of important. Could we keep this arrangement a secret? Where these guys came from, I mean?”
Leigh’s vision began to blur. She was so, so tired. Tuning out Warren’s snores had always been difficult, but since he’d caught a summer cold, she’d hardly slept a wink. She knew she should be doing more to understand what the hell was going on here, and that if she didn’t, she would kick herself later. She rallied her neurons and made the effort. “And why, pray,” she asked heavily, “must we do that?”
“Maybe no reason,” Mason answered smoothly. “But with a boy like Kyle… Well, you never know. I’d feel better if the critters stayed here incognito.”
Leigh had no earthly idea who Kyle was. She tried to care. She failed. “Whatever,” she croaked.
Mason grinned at her again. “I meant what I said,” he assured as he stepped out. “I owe you one.” With a wink, he closed the door behind him.
Leigh locked it and turned around. Finally… to bed!
Hsssssttttt!!!!
She froze. A black ball of bristled cat fur stood perched on the back of the recliner in front of her, its gold eyes filled with fire.
Oh, crap. She had completely forgotten she was holding an alien cat.
Leigh’s own ancient Persian, swelled to twice her ordinary miniscule size, aimed her flat little nose at the lump in Leigh’s arms and spat. Then, hissing with a venom not seen since the day the corgi pup had arrived, she coiled her wiry body, ready to spring.
“Easy, Mao!” Leigh soothed, clamping down on the now-struggling tortie and backing quickly away toward the stairs. “No worries. Peep here was just leaving!”
Mao Tse continued to growl. Leigh opened the door to the basement and fled down the stairs while the tortie crawled up her face. “Okay, okay!” she acceded, bending over the giant bean bag in the floor to detach the cat from her scalp. The tortie jumped into the center of the bag, burrowed down into its folds and made herself as small as possible. “Sorry,” Leigh apologized half-heartedly, feeling her cheek for signs of blood. “I guess I should have seen that coming. But don’t worry. You’ll be perfectly safe down here. Mao Tse is strictly an above-stairs kind of cat.”
Leigh glanced around the cluttered den with a sigh. She didn’t keep a litter box here, since Mao never came down. She’d have to rig one up. Like now.
Five minutes later, she slid a box lid covered with a trash bag and some litter into the corner behind the bean bag, then rounded up a clean dog bowl and filled it with water. The cat hadn’t moved, but she seemed a little less tightly curled, and Leigh leaned in to try and stroke her. The cat didn’t purr, but she didn’t shrink away, either. “That’s a good Peep,” Leigh said with a smile. “You make yourself at home. Breakfast will be served at seven.” She yawned again. “Ish.”
Now… bed.
Leigh had trudged only halfway up the stairs before an unfamiliar sound met her ears. Something halfway between a squawk and a cluck. What could Mao possibly be—
The bird!
Leigh shot the rest of the way up the steps and across the living room to find the towel off the cage, one of Mao Tse’s skinny black paws sticking through the bars, and whitish-yellow wings flapping frantically.
“No, no, no!” Leigh chastised, reaching to pick up the cage just as the Persian coincidentally lost all interest, withdrew her paw, and jumped back up on top of the recliner.
“Not buying it, Mao,” Leigh said, rolling her eyes as the cat gave a casual lick to a back leg, the picture of innocence.
Leigh looked into the cage and studied the bird, which was now scooting back and forth along a perch, bobbing and flapping with agitation. It was a cockatiel of the lutino variety, with a white and yellowish body, yellow crest, and bright orange cheek patches. Leigh was no avian expert, but she had watched her veterinarian father treat enough pet birds to assure herself that despite the scare, the bird showed no obvious signs of injury. “Easy, fellow,” she attempted to soothe, moving the cage away from the cat. “You’ll be all right. I’m sure we can find you some private accommodations somewhere in this madhouse.”
She carried the cage toward her son’s room and popped open the door. Eleven-year-old Ethan was sleeping soundly, arms and legs sprawled haphazardly on top of his covers. A sable and white corgi, equally unconscious, slept with its muzzle draped across one of the boy’s ankles. Leigh shook her head with a smile. A watchdog, Chewie was not.
She closed the door and moved down the hall to her daughter’s room. Having not been favored by the corgi’s presence this particular night, Allison would no doubt be thrilled to have a surprise guest. Leigh opened the door and peeked in. Ethan’s much smaller twin sister was curled up beneath a sheet adorned with running mustangs. Despite the girl’s adeptness at playing possum, Leigh knew that Allison was actually asleep. If the child had heard her “Grandpa Mason” arrive, she would have been up and investigating immediately.
Leigh stepped into the room, settled the cage just inside the door, and reset its towel covering. The cockatiel remained antsy, but was at least not squawking. Leigh checked to make sure the bird had water, then closed the door behind her with a yawn. Just a couple more hours of sleep. Then she would figure out what to feed them both. With luck, the bird would wake Allison first and the precocious young animal lover would have a detailed care plan ready to go by the time Leigh dragged her own butt back out of bed.
She looked down the hall to see the imperious Mao Tse standing in the living room doorway glowering at her. You are no fun at all, the cat’s gold eyes proclaimed.
“Yeah, I know,” Leigh cooed, scooping up the geriatric cat and scratching her under the chin. “You wouldn’t have eaten it. You only wanted to play with it a while. Sorry to disappoint.”
She put the cat down near her bedroom door, then moved to the kitchen to get sticky notes and a pen. After alerting whoever might rise first to the presence of their new guests and the inadvisability of letting either Mao or Chewie into the basement or Allison’s room, she at last returned to her pillow and settled down with a cat on her stomach.
Unfortunately, she was now fully awake.
She stared at her bedroom ceiling with frustration. Warren’s snores had progressed from chain saw to jackhammer. Even Mao’s purr seemed louder than usual. Worse still, she now remembered what day it was. Her mother was having some long-overdue surgery this morning — for bunions. Frances would be off her feet for two solid weeks, during which the other Morton women would be taking shifts to help her around the house. Leigh was first up.
Her eyes closed. She really, really wished this day was just a dream.
What was it that had been so odd about Mason, anyway? What was causing the uneasy feeling that only continued to increase the more alert she became?
Her eyes flew open. She propped herself up on her elbows, tilting an annoyed Mao Tse. “Apartment in Bellevue?” she whispered aloud. “What apartment in Bellevue?”
Leigh’s and Cara’s families lived in a suburb well north of Pittsburgh, but Bellevue was a small borough just beyond the city’s North Side. It was positioned between West View, where Leigh and Cara had grown up and where Leigh’s parents and Cara’s mother still lived, and Avalon, where Leigh’s father’s veterinary clinic was located. But for over a decade now, ever since Mason had returned to Pennsylvania and reunited with his daughter, he ha
d lived nearly two hours away at his own family home in Jennerstown, where he supported both himself and his invalid sister by running a pawn shop. Trudy, a recovering alcoholic, had died of cirrhosis a year ago; but Leigh hadn’t heard a word about Mason moving to Pittsburgh. Was it supposed to be a secret?
She fell back onto her mattress with a frown. What exactly was Mason playing at? She couldn’t fault him for lack of devotion to his daughter and grandchildren — no one could. Even Frances had to concede that his willingness to drive into town on a moment’s notice for any and every event of significance in Cara and her children’s lives was nothing short of heroic. Furthermore, he had always treated Ethan and Allison as if they were his own grandchildren. The man never forgot a birthday, and his soft spot for baseball had brought him to nearly as many Little League games as Warren or Gil.
But he was definitely hiding something now.
Leigh considered his appearance. He had looked different somehow… more dapper. Mason had always been a handsome fellow, and age had done nothing to diminish his considerable charm. But he had never had any—
Leigh’s breath caught. Money.
She knew the pawn shop was doing well, and had done well for years. But the family property in Jennerstown was run-down and in need of repair, and Trudy’s care expenses had been high. Mason had always managed for himself, never asking anyone in the family for help. But he had never been what you’d call flush, either.
Yet he had headed for the airport just now in the spiffiest outfit she had ever seen him wear. Business casual in the height of style. Everything Mason sported — including his shoes, if she remembered correctly — looked brand-spanking new and fit him like a glove. And unless he had sold the house in Jennerstown, the new apartment marked a second home.
Leigh sucked in an anxious breath. She wasn’t imagining things. The man had money. Where had he gotten it? And where was he flying off to in such a rush this morning?
An uncomfortable ache arose in her middle, just underneath the purring cat. No one, least of all Mason himself, could deny that for the first half of his life he had been somewhat “ethically challenged.” Although he didn’t have a violent bone in his body, he had served time in a federal penitentiary for counterfeiting, and with his long and unhappy history of get-rich-quick schemes, if he were any less wily he probably would have served more. Prison had had the desired effect, however; he had emerged a changed man who went to great effort to avoid so much as bending the law. Ever since Leigh had known him, he had been — if not the soul of propriety — a model ex-con.
