The Money Bird (An Animals in Focus Mystery)

by Boneham, Sheila Webster

  “Talking to Jay.”

  “So then what happened? Neil the Hunk is hunkered over your butt. Did he kiss it and make it better?”

  “He put in a couple of stitches, gave me a prescription for two weeks worth of horse-size antibiotics, and went on to normal emergencies.”

  “That’s all? No old home week?”

  “He didn’t know who I was.”

  “Sure he did.”

  “He was polite, professional, and showed no hint of recognition.”

  “How do you know? You were face down.”

  “Funny.”

  “Okay, brass tacks. Did you see whether he was wearing a ring?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, there you go. You should have made your move.”

  “No, I mean I didn’t notice. I didn’t have a very good view of his hands.” My brain zoomed in on an image of Tom’s smiling face and a wave of guilt sloshed over me.

  As if she had read my mind, Goldie said, “I don’t think you should tell Dr. Tom about Dr. Neil.”

  Despite my own twinges of conscience, Goldie’s comment hit me wrong. I mean, I like the guy a lot, but neither of us had made any firm commitment. “I’m not married to Tom.” Goldie let that go, although I knew her well enough to think I’d be hearing more on the subject later.

  “So you were naked with Neil the Hunk and you didn’t do anything about it?”

  “I wasn’t naked. I was draped. All that showed was the bite.”

  “Bite, butt, close enough.”

  “You try feeling sexy with a numbed fanny and a hospital gown.”

  “That is a real bite in the ass,” and I thought I’m never going to hear the last of this. Goldie’s voice brightened as she thought of something else. “You have to go back to get the stitches out, right?”

  “In your dreams. If I had to, I’d get Kerry, you know, Dr. Joiner, to do it, or just die with them in place. But they’re the dissolving kind.”

  I didn’t tell Goldie, but I was relieved that Neil hadn’t recognized me. Despite the years, hearing his voice had made me yearn for something long gone, something we share only with those who knew us as children. And I had to admit that, from the little I could see when I snuck a backward glance, Neil wore the intervening years well. The body that had once been all elbows and Adam’s apple had matured well, and a glance over my shoulder had shown me that he still had those famous bedroom eyes, although they now suggested silk sheets and champagne rather than a quick fumble on a vinyl backseat. He struck me as the kind of guy who might prefer to unwrap a package of his own choosing rather than have one served up fanny first.

  And that image, naturally, led my canine-oriented mind to an image of Mark Soudoff’s Miniature Schnauzer Heidi flinging her tail in Jay’s face at obedience practice last week. She wasn’t in heat. In fact, she’s spayed. But that never stops her flirting, and Jay flirts back, although he was “tutored” long ago. Of course, if he gets too fresh, Heidi offers to pin his ears to his nubby little tail. At the moment, Jay was gazing at the empty chocolate chip bag as a promising substitute for sex. He cocked his head, still flicking his gaze from me to the bag and back.

  Goldie asked, “What?”

  “Oh, just wondering if Neil likes dogs.” I winced as I forgot myself and rolled into a sitting position. Jay raised his head and listened for a moment, then leaped off the bed and raced out of the bedroom.

  “Well, there’s a big black dog getting out of a car in your driveway, and he’s with a fella who does for sure like dogs. Looks like he comes bearing dinner. Again.”

  I wasn’t sure if the flipflop in my chest was guilt or anticipation, but realized with a flush that I was glad the big black dog was here with his man, and not just because I wanted to hear about Tom’s trip to the lake with Detective Jo Stevens. I said goodbye to Goldie, rolled off the bed, and limped to the front door.

  thirteen

  As you might expect, I often do have my camera handy when I need it, but not this time. Drake stood on the front porch with my evening paper in his mouth, tail waving and eyes gleaming. Tom stood beside him balancing a container of salad on a pizza box, eyes gleaming, my mail in his mouth.

  “Are you two related?” I asked, taking the slightly damp paper goods from them and ushering them toward the kitchen. I limped along behind and tossed the mail and paper onto the pile that had sprouted on the table. “Let’s eat outside.”

  Tom was already elbowing the back door open and sending the dogs out. He winked at me and asked, “Buy you a beer?”

  “By all means.” He paused in the open door while I grabbed two Killians and a bottle of low-fat ranch from the refrigerator, then tucked the salad dressing between my arm and my ribs to fish a couple of forks and knives from the dishwasher. Good thing I’d run it last night. Note to self: pay more attention to the house. I glanced at the empty napkin holder on the table and ripped a length of paper towels off the roll beside the sink. This is getting to be a habit, I thought as I nodded at Tom to lead the way.

  We settled into our usual spots at my tangerine table, dogs lying at a discreet distance where they could maintain eye contact without being told to go lie down. As soon as he had slugged back some beer and stopped moaning about how good the pizza tasted, Tom wiped his mouth and began to speak.

  “Jo wasn’t too impressed with our crime scene.”

  “Did you take her to the island?”

  “Nope.” He took a big bite.

  “Why not?”

  “Mmm.” He swallowed and slugged down some more beer. “No boat.”

  “There is a boat. It’s tied to a tree behind where Collin stood to toss the bumper.”

  “Nope.”

  My brain was working on the boat’s disappearance as I asked, “Well, did you see anyone else out there?”

  “Nope.”

  “It was there yesterday.”

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t swear to that, though.”

  “I would. Hang on.”

  Two minutes later I held the viewer of my camera in front of Tom and showed him a photo of an aluminum bass boat bobbing in the late-afternoon sun. “I took that yesterday.”

  “Okay.” He watched me ease myself back into my seat. “You’re limping. And you don’t want to sit. Somebody bitecha in the ass?”

  “Who told you?” Tom was pretty good friends with our shared vet, Paul Douglas, but I was appalled at the idea that my vet had told anyone, even Tom, about my assault.

  “No one told me anything. I was kidding. You really got bitten?”

  “As a matter of fact …” I told him about my morning. Most of it. I didn’t tell him that my high school heartthrob had worked on my lacerated behind.

  By the time we’d finished our stories we had also finished the food and drink and the evening invasion of mosquitoes had begun, so we went inside. The dogs found a long rope toy and started a friendly growly game of tug, and Tom and I settled onto the couch. Tom wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, clearly interested in another friendly game, but first I wanted to know more about what Jo had to say.

  “Already told you, Janet. Not much. Really. There just wasn’t much to see from where we were standing, and other than the bag and your creepy feeling …”

  “It wasn’t a ‘creepy feeling.’” I squirmed away from him and smoothed my hair. “But I’m sure there was someone out there, someone watching us.”

  He pulled me against him again. “I just meant that you had the creepy feeling we get when we know someone’s watching.”

  “And what about that car? Don’t you think that was strange?”

  “Car?”

  “Tom! The black sedan that drove by us. That road is clearly marked ‘Dead End.’ There’s a sign right at the corner, and another right before that old barn. Other than kids looking for a lovers’ lane, or us, there’s no reason for anyone to get down that far. And that was not a kid car.”

  “Hmm. Oh, speaking of people being out there, I forgot to t
ell you. I saw a friend of yours out there the other day. Friday, I think. I was out there with Drake. Yeah, Friday.”

  “A friend of mine?”

  “Yeah. Said you told him to go out there to shoot birds.”

  “What?” My mind was clearly switched to mysterious events mode, because I took Tom’s words in the firearms sense.

  “Had a big lens. Said his name was Anderson. Said he was sorry you weren’t there and he’d call you soon.” He nuzzled my neck, pulled me close to him, and lowered his voice. “Didn’t catch his first name.”

  “That is his first name. Anderson Billings.” Anderson had taken several of my photography classes and I recalled telling him about Twisted Lake as a good spot for birds.

  Tom put an end to further conversation. I gave resisting a passing thought, but there’s something irresistible about a man who smells of wet dog and pizza. There’s also something disconcerting about having a pair of furry muzzles thrust into the action just as you get horizontal.

  “What say we reconvene down the hall, sans dogs?” Tom asked, pushing himself off me and standing up. “You are bad dogs!” he laughed, scratching a head with each hand. Jay and Drake wagged and panted agreeably. Then he took my hand and pulled me to my feet.

  A couple hours later I woke up and glanced at the clock on my night table. Half past nine. Leo was purring on the rocking chair in the corner, but we were alone. Then I heard the kitchen door close, and heard Tom softly telling the dogs to be quiet. A baby gate clicked into place in the kitchen doorway. And he was back, his skin cool against mine. “Oooh, you’re nice and warm,” he crooned, wrapping me up in his arms. Leo mewed a protest and curled into a ball.

  “You always go out in the backyard nekkid?”

  “Wasn’t. I had a towel. And I didn’t go out, just let the boys out and locked up.”

  I was starting to doze off again when Tom spoke. “Been thinking.”

  “Mmmm. Not unusual in a college professor.”

  He squeezed me but didn’t say anything. I got the feeling he had something important on his mind, but I was too warm and muzzy to do anything but wait. I droned, fighting off sleep, “Okay, professor, you’ve been thinking.”

  He rocked me back and forth a couple of times, and settled his cheek against my hair. “Uh huh.” He pulled me a little closer. “Been thinking Drake and I have lived alone too long. I think it’s time to expand the family.”

  I lay perfectly still, instantly awake. All I could think was no no no, don’t ruin a good thing. I didn’t have a lot of experience, but what I did have suggested that I wasn’t very good at long-term commitments. Or more to the point, I wasn’t very good at picking men who were good at long-term commitments. Besides, I’d gotten along fine without a long-term commitment ever since my marriage went belly up a quarter century ago. We lay without speaking, my thoughts bouncing around my brain like Mexican jumping beans, for what seemed like hours, although according to the clock I was staring at, not even a minute clicked by.

  “You awake?”

  I considered not answering, but instead asked, “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Or maybe never?

  Tom didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then kissed my cheek, rolled out of bed, and began to dress.

  I rolled over and watched him in the dim glow from the lights outdoors. “Tom?” An icy wave of nausea washed over me as I thought about past failed relationships and wondered whether I was the one who always ruined everything.

  “Got to get to school early tomorrow. Papers to grade.” He sat on the bed and kissed me again. His face was in shadow, so I couldn’t read his expression, but I felt as if he were sitting on my chest rather than beside me. “Besides, you’re sleepy and I’m wide awake, so I may as well go do something useful and let you sleep.” He ran a feather-light finger down my cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I heard the baby gate pop open, and Tom’s soft “Drake, here.” Then Jay was on the bed beside me, shoving his head into my hand and flipping himself over for a belly rub. When I heard Tom’s car start, I wrapped my arms around my dog, buried my face in his ruff, and tried to go to sleep. I didn’t have much luck.

  fourteen

  I hadn’t planned to take a day off from the veterinary photo shoot, and if I had, I wouldn’t have chosen to spend it nursing a sore backside and trying not to sit too hard, but there I was. By morning the drugs had all worn off, leaving me sore and less than euphoric. My left buttock was swollen and felt like the demon Tiffany was poking it with a hot little pitchfork.

  I tried to explain to Jay that I really wasn’t up to our morning constitutional, but he danced around my feet and grinned at the leash hanging by the door until he convinced me to pull on a pair of loose-fitting yoga pants and a baggy Eeyore tee. I ran a comb through my hair and checked for smeared mascara under my eyes. Why spend time on my appearance when I’d be sweaty and windblown in twenty minutes? Jay’s front paws tapped a routine around me that would put Gene Kelly to shame and, as I pulled the laces on my Asics tight, his muzzle darted in under my face and slurped my chin.

  Mr. Hostetler was sitting on his front steps across the street. Paco, his Chihuahua, stood at the end of his leash, and Mr. Hostetler’s grandson, Tyler, knelt next to Paco with a brush in his hand. Paco yipped once and his companions waved. Jay and I walked over to say hello.

  “Mrs. Janet,” asked Tyler, his little forehead wrinkled up, “are you okay?”

  “Sure, Tyler. Why?” I had forgotten for the moment that Tyler was at the veterinary office the day before.

  “The veterinarian said that little girl bit you.”

  Mr. Hostetler reached out to pet Jay, who was exchanging a mutual sniff with Paco, and said, “I hope it wasn’t a bad bite.”

  I smiled at Tyler and said, “You heard right, Tyler. She bit me, but I’m okay.”

  He cocked his head and asked, “But why?”

  I wanted to say because she’s a little monster, but Tyler was asking a serious question and I wasn’t at all sure I had a serious answer for him. I was afraid I would let him down when I said, “I don’t really know, Tyler.”

  He shrugged and said, “Okay.” He turned to pet Jay, and said, “I’m combing Paco.”

  A few minutes of small talk later, Jay and I took our leave.

  We usually walk the eastern end of the River Greenway where it skirts the slow brown Maumee from Maysville Road east toward New Haven, but once I was buckled into my van I decided to head downtown. I parked on Vermont and we walked through Lakeside Park, starting among the tea and shrub roses that mingle north of the massive white pergola. Spent and unpruned blossoms drooped among buds and flowers in calming pastels, welcoming yellows, playful oranges, passionate reds. We crossed under the stout vine-covered columns of the pergola and scurried down the western steps of twin staircases to a brick-and-concrete walk. Jay expressed mild interest in a little spaniel mix who was cooling off in one of the two round pools aligned with the long rectangular reflecting pool, and the riot of yellows, oranges, reds and whites bubbling out of concrete pots along our path made my heart smile.

  The cring-cring-cring of a bicycle bell burst through the hum of traffic and twitter of birds, and a lavender bike with fluorescent pink tails streaming from its handlebars caught up and wobbled past. Brown pigtails set high on the sides of the rider’s head swung and bobbed, and the bike swayed from one training wheel to the other with every pump of a pedal. The rider wore pink leggings and for a moment I feared it was Tiffany, but quickly recovered my senses. A man and woman followed on matched mountain bikes.

  We dodged west between Lake Avenue and the small body of water that gives Lakeside Park its name. We waited at the curb for a pack of helmeted velo-jocks in lycra body suits to whoosh past us, spines arched, legs spinning, and then crossed the street and headed southwest on Delta past two smaller ponds. All three bodies of water were home to what looked like hundreds of Canada geese and mallards. A single swan hunkered on the shaded grass so
uth of the middle pond. A trio of crows burst from a beech on the far edge of the pond and suddenly I was back at Twisted Lake. At least I wanted to be. I knew I probably wouldn’t get there for a few days, but decided to swing by my brother Bill’s place later to borrow his kayak just in case. I’d call Detective Jo in the morning and if the cops hadn’t checked the island by then, I’d go take a look myself.

  Jay stopped to update one of his sites, hiking his leg so high he nearly fell over, and then we turned right and jogged along the sidewalk between Edgewater Avenue and the Maumee River for half a mile to where the street fishhooks north. My gluteus maximus worked through the soreness, leaving me free to savor the rich scent of late summer gardens along the way. That, and the hazy light of the morning, lifted my mood ever higher. We crossed over where Columbia Avenue bridges the Maumee, formed where the St. Mary’s and St. Joseph’s rivers merge maybe a hundred and thirty yards north of the bridge. From there we picked up Clay, ducked under the Norfolk-Southern overpass, crossed to the north side of Main because the sidewalk is better, and headed east past the art museum. Forty minutes after we set out, we reached Freimann Park, where a handsome young couple veered toward us, hand in hand. They wore matching navy tees and neatly trimmed beards. Jason and Jason. Honest. I know them from photo shoots for the kennel club. We made the usual small talk while their Great Dane, Oscar Wilde, got reacquainted with Jay.

  I decided to splurge on breakfast at Park Place, and hoped that Jasper Jesperson was working. He was assistant manager, and another regular client for annual photos of his four stunning Himalayan cats. He had no qualms about letting Jay into the sidewalk seating area or about stretching the truth a tad in my dog’s defense. A few weeks earlier a customer had objected, and Jasper had told him that Jay was a service dog. When the skeptical complainer asked why an obviously healthy person would need a service dog, Jasper had stage whispered with a straight face that if I, “poor dear,” started to slip into one of my “states,” Jay would knock me down and sit on me until it passed. He added that “stress seems to set her off.” When he heard his name, Jay had confirmed the fantasy with a woof, then curled up with his chin on my instep.