He flinched. “But I—”
“I said no!” Myrtle let out one of her signature squawks, but this one was filled with panic and exhaustion.
I went over to the man, took him gently by the shoulder, and led him out the door. “Go to the Cozy Corgi. Tell the baker that Fred is giving you a pastry on the house.”
He scrunched up his nose. “Who’s Fred?”
Must not be a local. “I’m Fred.”
“A woman named Fred.” His nose became even more scrunched. “Well, Fred, I don’t need a pastry. I’m needing some birdseed for—”
“She said no. I’m sorry.” And she was probably getting ready to tell me the same thing the longer I took with the man.
“Well, of all the—”
He sounded like he was going to launch into a diatribe, so I stepped back into the shop, but couldn’t bite my tongue fast enough before shutting the door. “On second thought, don’t go to the Cozy Corgi. Go to the Black Bear Roaster instead. Try one of their scones.” I shut the door and locked it.
“I didn’t think I liked you when I first met you.” Myrtle gave a quavering smile, and there was a hint of laughter in her voice. “But I’ve had Black Bear Roaster’s scones. They’re awful. You might be okay.” A hiccup of a laugh exploded, then a real one, and then she burst into tears and sank to the floor.
“Oh, Myrtle.” I rushed to her and attempted to put my arm around her, but she shrank away. I sat close, helpless, and had no idea what to do.
Watson padded over, his leash dragging behind him. He nudged his cold, wet nose against her hand, like he did with me when he determined I wasn’t giving him enough attention.
I started to shoo him away, afraid what Myrtle’s reaction would be. Afraid she might even swat at him. To my shock, still crying, Myrtle moved the hand he’d nudged to his head, and after a moment, her other began to slowly stroke his side. Watson pressed up against her thigh and rested there, allowing himself to be stroked.
Watson had come to me from out of nowhere. It was the fifth anniversary of my father’s death, and I was sobbing at his gravestone, alone. And then Watson was there, curled up at my side, and he sat with me until the tears dried. When I got up to leave and he followed, I’d almost been surprised that he was real.
I put up flyers and announcements online about a lost dog. No one ever responded. I decided he’d been a gift from my father. Something to help me in my grief. It had been five years and many days my grief seemed as bad as the first. After Watson, things got better.
Watching Myrtle continue to stroke Watson, I was both touched by his atypical compassion and experienced a bite of fear. That somehow, when I got up to leave the store, Watson wouldn’t follow, wouldn’t want to go. That maybe he wasn’t a corgi at all, but some chubby, furry, short-legged angel that stayed with people as they were hurting but then moved on when they were better.
Ridiculous.
But as Myrtle’s tears began to dry, I couldn’t keep that worry at bay.
After a few more minutes, Myrtle sniffed, reached above her to retrieve her peacock-feathered purse, and pulled out a tissue. Then she gave several honks as she blew her nose. She sighed a shaky exhale and patted Watson’s head before looking over at me. “Good dog you got here. I’m more of a bird person myself, in case you didn’t know.” Though wavering, her smile was brighter that time. “But he’s a good dog.” She gave another pat and pulled her hand away.
Without hesitation, Watson stood, trotted around her outstretched legs, and took his place beside me.
I looked into his brown eyes. You know, don’t you? Both what I was worrying about and what I need right now.
Watson let out a long sigh, one that almost seemed annoyed, then stretched out by my legs and plopped his head in my lap.
I felt my eyes sting in gratitude, and I stroked his bristly orange-and-white fur.
“Sorry about that. I feel like a fool.” This time Myrtle’s smile was simply embarrassed.
While refusing to break physical contact with Watson, I refocused on Myrtle. “No reason to be sorry.”
“You believe that I didn’t do it, don’t you?”
“I do.” I nodded and chuckled. “Of course, that doesn’t mean that you didn’t, but I don’t think you did.”
She nearly laughed. “Yeah, you’re a little annoying, but I like you. I like you.” She patted my leg, and to my surprise, made no move to get up, leaned back against the counter and seemed to deflate impossibly more. Though the tears appeared gone. “I have made a mess of things, Fred. I thought I was doing right. I really did.”
I hesitated, almost wondering if she was about to make a confession, but I didn’t think that was what she meant. “How so?”
She blinked several times. It didn’t look like she was going to answer, but then she took a deep breath and launched in. “I don’t like people very much. But I understand them, part of why I don’t like them. I was looking for a way to do as much good as I could for the birds. I couldn’t do it on my own. So I made the club. Twelve spots, because people like things that are exclusive. I made it expensive, ridiculously so, because people like things that are expensive. If I’d made it only a thousand dollar annual fee, people would’ve balked, but ten grand?” She laughed and winked at me. “Ten grand means it’s expensive and doubly exclusive. And that’s one hundred and twenty thousand a year that I can use to help save birds.” Another laugh. “You know one way people are like birds?”
I felt like I was talking to a bird in human form every time I spoke to Myrtle Bantam. I figured it best not to say that. Though she’d probably take it as the highest form of compliment, come to think of it. “I can’t say that I do.”
“They are like starlings. Starlings love to steal and collect things. Fill their nests with worthless shiny trinkets.” She tapped the badges on her chest. “I have twelve starlings who pay a lot of money to be special. Even if they have to cheat to make themselves feel that way.”
I supposed it was a confession of sorts. “So you did know there was cheating.”
“Of course I did. Don’t you remember, I said I understand people. Why I don’t like them overly much. But”—this time when she tapped her chest, I got the sensation that she was pointing deeper, past the badges—“that proves I’m human too, doesn’t it? That I know about the cheating, and that I honestly don’t care. Like the club matters, outside of raising awareness and making money to protect as many birds as I can. To me, the ends justify the means. So what if Alice has her son make bird sounds? Big deal if I’ve caught Roxanne sneaking a peek at my notes for the meeting beforehand and getting her trivia answers? It’s a couple of people cheating. Maybe there is more that happens. The only two I’m sure of are Silas and Carl.”
I wondered if Silas possibly had a more special place in Myrtle’s heart because of that belief or not. And I also wondered if it made me guilty that I knew the truth and wasn’t planning on telling her.
She didn’t give me the chance anyway. Myrtle grasped my knee, startling Watson, but he placed his head back in my lap. “See what I mean? I’ve created a club, filled it with people who are willing to pay to feel special, to cheat to feel special. I let it keep going, because the ends justify the means. So maybe”—tears brimmed in her eyes once more, but they didn’t fall—“maybe that makes me responsible for Henry’s murder, even though I wasn’t the one who committed it.”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”
She scowled.
“I mean it, Myrtle. Sure, maybe there’re some things that aren’t exactly on the up and up about your club, but your reasoning makes sense. And even if those badges and the drive to feel special cause a few people to cheat, that’s a far cry from murder.”
Myrtle licked her lips and nodded slowly, like she wanted to believe it.
I wasn’t sure how long her openness would last. Maybe she had decided she liked me, but as she said, she clearly wasn’t a people person. Just b
ecause she wasn’t going to call the cops on me every time I walked into her store, didn’t mean she was suddenly going to be a bosom buddy. I needed to use the moment while I had it. Myrtle wasn’t the only one who sometimes believed the ends justified the means. And if taking advantage of Myrtle’s atypical openness helped free Paulie and led me to the true murderer, that was more than worth it.
I waited till her eyes met mine. “You don’t believe Paulie killed Henry?”
“No.” She sneered. “He’s a little chick rushing around at the feet of all the other chickens in the barnyard, simultaneously trying to get their attention while hoping not to get stepped on. He didn’t kill Henry or anyone else.” She cocked her brow. “He also doesn’t have poached birds in his store. Maybe he didn’t know they were there or simply didn’t know they were poached illegally. Paulie is one of the ones not here for his love of birds. Though he likes them well enough. He needed friends and is willing to pay for them. He’s hardly the only one. Not everyone is here for the birds. Pete is looking for time away from his wife and kids, and a bird club is one of the few things his wife will allow him to do on his own. Benjamin’s trying to sell cameras. Alice is attempting to fill the void her son left when he went to college. Roxanne likes to feel superior and special. Raul is the same as Pete. And Lucy… well, Lord knows why Lucy does anything.” Myrtle shook her head, and sadness seemed to overpower her guilt and worry for the first time. “So you see, Henry was one of the very few who truly cared about the birds. Now the bird club is outnumbered by people who are here for other reasons. I’ve only got Silas, Petra, Carl, and Owen.”
I latched on to Owen’s name. “Really? You believe that Owen is truly here for the birds?”
Myrtle gave me a rather shocked expression. “Why? What have you uncovered? I don’t know if I can take much more.”
“Nothing.” I debated how much to say but decided I might as well be direct. “Honestly, I don’t know anything about Owen. But he was the last one Henry accused of being a poacher.”
She rolled her eyes. “I love that Henry was dedicated to the birds, but he was an idiot. He accused everyone of everything. He was right about some of them, obviously. But more often than not, he was wrong. Owen was simply the latest person to be accused.” She shook her head again. “Owen wouldn’t be involved in poaching. He has only two badges, because of all of them, he does the one thing that matters. He pays twenty thousand a year to be in the club, simply to help the birds. More than anyone, he’s here for that. And he’s responsible for updating the computer system and putting in information when we spot rare birds and documenting when we notice things that are strange in the park.” She narrowed her eyes as she thought. “Honestly, at times he makes me uncomfortable, but the same could be true for me. A lot of us in the club are rather… different. I can’t say that Owen would or wouldn’t be capable of murder. But he wouldn’t be involved in poaching. The birds are much too important to him. He simply wouldn’t do it. He was used to Henry’s accusations. We all were. So even if I’m not sure if Owen could kill someone, there was no reason for him to kill Henry just because he was being accused of being the poacher once more. Nearly everyone had been accused at least three or four times of being a poacher by Henry, Owen included.” She took a deep breath, and I could see Myrtle begin to come back to herself, growing both stronger and distant once more. “I have no idea why Henry was killed. But it wasn’t because he accused one of the other members of cheating or being a poacher. I can promise you that.”
The miracle of miracles happened after I spoke to Myrtle. Watson and I returned to the Cozy Corgi, and both of us did our jobs. I sold books, and Watson allowed a select few to pet him and then napped at his favorite spots in the sunshine.
Oh, and I had a second breakfast. A tart covered in blackberries and cherries. While Katie’s baked goods were so far ahead of those offered at Black Bear Roaster they might as well have been different classifications of food entirely, she hadn’t gotten the knack of the cappuccino and coffee machines quite yet. Her dirty chai had a lot to be desired. I discovered, on the other hand, that Sammy did have the knack. I’d been considering returning to the Black Bear Roaster simply for caffeinated beverages, if for no other reason than to attempt to maintain an amicable relationship with Carla. After tasting Sammy’s dirty chai, however, I decided I could wait for another day. Then I remembered how intensely awkward our last conversation had been. Maybe waiting for more than another day would be prudent.
By one in the afternoon, I was relieved of having to act like a responsible adult, as winter descended on the town once more and the customers stopped showing up. Katie and Sammy used the time to get a jump on the following day’s prep work, and I opted to read.
I settled in with my book on the sofa, the warmth of the fire on one side, the light from the dusty-purple fabric of the Victorian Portobello lampshade above me, and the glow of snow flurries out the front window creating such a cozy environment, a person would think that murder could never happen within a hundred miles. And with the spicy aroma from Sammy’s dirty chai wafting around me, I decided I was in heaven. The sensation was doubled when Watson let out a long yawn from his nap, stretched his little legs in front while his nearly tailless rump arched in the air, then he padded to the main room, through the fantasy and science fiction room in between, curled up at my feet by the fire, and fell asleep again.
As I read, following as Miss Fisher solved the murder with more panache than I possessed, the details of Henry’s death whirled around in my mind. That was just it, actually. I didn’t have any details about Henry’s death. His throat had been slit on a snowy night in the woods, surrounded by fourteen other people—most of whom he’d accused of multiple crimes and driven crazy. As far as hard evidence went, I had none, save for the kakapo pin. The only thing I knew for sure was that neither Katie, Leo, nor I had killed Henry. Nor the small herd of elk we’d been mesmerized by. Other than that, it didn’t seem as if anyone had an actual alibi for the moment he’d been murdered. The ones who did, weren’t trustworthy. I added Carl to the list; I did trust Carl. Which meant Roxanne was cleared as well. And my gut told me that Myrtle was innocent, as well as Paulie. But that was it. Everything else was a convoluted mess.
No wonder Branson told me to keep my nose out of it. Although, they weren’t doing much better than me. They had brought in two different people for the murder, neither of whom had killed anyone. If my instincts were correct.
No sooner had I doubled down my effort to concentrate on the book, the front door of the shop opened, and I turned to see a tall figure bundled in a fur-lined parka.
He pulled his hood back as he searched the store, and then he found me. Benjamin.
I started to get up, but he motioned for me to stay as he hurried through the rooms toward me. As he walked, he slid off his parka and then joined me on the sofa. A few clumps of snow fell onto the fabric. I tried not to think about that. Gary and Percival had just refinished it. Hopefully snow wouldn’t do any damage, but I was the one who put it in the shop. It would hardly be the last time snow got on it.
Watson shifted as Benjamin sat down, but simply repositioned and fell back to sleep.
As Benjamin turned his wide eyes to me, once again I realized how young he truly was—twenty-five at the absolute oldest, but probably a few years younger. Rather impressive that he owned his own camera shop at that age, come to think of it. I wondered what his story was. “You’re dating Sergeant Wexler, right?”
I balked a little and sat straighter. I hadn’t anticipated that question. “No. I don’t think I am.”
Those wide eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not sure?”
I considered that for a heartbeat. “No, I’m not, which probably means that I’m not dating Sergeant Wexler.” I attempted a smile. “Wouldn’t you say?” At the admission I felt a tingle of disappointment, or loss, some sense of unpleasantness I couldn’t quite label. A bit of relief, too.
“Oh.” Benjam
in’s expression fell. “Okay then. I thought you two were close.” It looked like he was about to leave.
“Why do you ask? It seems like you were hoping Sergeant Wexler and I were dating for some reason?”
His fingers drummed quietly as he clutched the fabric of his coat. “It would’ve been good to have an in with someone at the police station.” He seemed to consider, glanced at me, and apparently didn’t find what he was looking for as he shook his head. “This was a mistake. Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your book.”
I grabbed his arm without thinking. “We’ve been on a couple of dates. And….” Good Lord, I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. But I needed to know why Benjamin was here, and like Myrtle and I had spoken about that morning, the ends can sometimes justify the means. “He was at my house last night. We talked for a while. We might not be dating necessarily, but I think we’re… something.”
He searched my face again. “You think he’d listen to you, like if you thought someone deserved a break, maybe he’d take your word on it?”
I thought that depended on the day. There were times I felt nearly certain he would, though none of those days had been lately. But still, I focused on those positive occasions as I answered. “Yes, I do. He did when Katie was accused of trying to kill Declan.” At least that much was true, mostly.
Benjamin nodded slowly but was still perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to flee.
“Fill me in, Benjamin.” While the stern professor routine had worked on him before, it seemed the young man now needed more of a motherly tone. Not an angle I had a lot of practice at. “It’s clear something is eating you up. Obviously you know the right thing to do is to say whatever it is, or you wouldn’t be here. If you’re worried about Branson getting involved, I promise you I’ll put in a good word.”
Bickering Birds (Cozy Corgi Mysteries Book 3) Page 13
