The pet magazines had virtually nothing about birds at all, though they had some interesting articles on dog care and training. I put them aside for Rob, who seemed to be taking an increasing interest in Spike’s welfare. Two of the three bird magazines appeared to deal exclusively with bird watching, so I put them aside for Dad. But Bird Talk, with a brightly colored close-up of a parrot on the cover, looked like the ticket. They had eighteen or twenty pages of ads from places selling birds—mostly parrots, macaws, and other exotics, but a few places offered canaries, parakeets, and cockatiels.
The Belle Glade Bird Farm wasn’t among them, though. No other aviaries anywhere near Caerphilly, so they weren’t advertising under an alternate name. And they weren’t listed among the several hundred vendors providing specialized bird merchandise, from cages and perches to food and toys. There were even people selling bird car seats and little bird harnesses, similar to what I was still considering buying for Timmy.
I couldn’t find Belle Glade in the classified section of the Clarion, either. They weren’t even in the Caerphilly Shopper, the free weekly advertising rag. In fact—
I hopped out of my perch, dashed back to the car and rummaged under the seat, where I kept a spare copy of the local phone book. Aubrey Hamilton was listed, but Belle Glade Bird Farm didn’t appear in the white or yellow pages.
So Belle Glade wasn’t an established bird breeder. In fact, it looked as if someone—Aubrey Hamilton or her reclusive nephew—was just breeding a few birds in the barn.
I’d also seen an article in Bird Talk about all the ghastly things that could be wrong with your birds if you bought them from anyone but a responsible breeder. Could Belle Glade be one of those irresponsible, fly-by-night breeders the article condemned so roundly?
Perhaps I’d mention the bird farm to Dad and Dr. Blake. No doubt they’d go dashing off to check the place out, and I could stop worrying about it.
“Auntie Meg! Take me, too!”
Timmy came running up and launched himself at my leg. Rose Noire came puffing along behind.
“He got very upset when he saw you go up to the car,” she said. “He seemed to think you were leaving him behind.”
“No, I’m not leaving him anywhere,” I said, putting my arm around Timmy. “Who wants some ice cream?”
“Ice cream! Ice cream!” Timmy scrambled into his car seat and sat completely still waiting for me to buckle him in. I found myself wishing I’d resorted to bribery much earlier.
After ice cream, we went home, and Rose Noire retired to one of the guest rooms to lie down with a lavender-scented compress over her eyes while Timmy and I played, had lunch, napped, and played some more. I didn’t get much done, but then I couldn’t think of much else that needed doing.
Well, with one exception. I wanted to find someone to babysit Timmy this evening. I had several expeditions I wanted to make. Probably a lost cause, finding someone in time to follow Nadine to see what I could learn about her travel plans, but perhaps a return visit to her house after six might be fruitful. Or some snooping around the Belle Glade Bird Farm. Maybe even a little stroll around the college campus, to see if I could find an excuse to go back to Karen’s office. The financial administration building wasn’t that far from the drama department—if I ran into anyone, I could always pretend I was on my way to see Michael. But all of these were expeditions I’d rather make under the cover of darkness, and without a toddler underfoot. And baby sitters were proving strangely hard to find.
Michael was out, of course, because he was tagging along with Dad and Dr. Blake, who were similarly unavailable. Rose Noire managed to sound genuinely sorry when she informed me that she was driving Mother somewhere. When Rob finally showed up, he turned me down with a convoluted and implausible excuse. I felt more sure than ever that he’d once again found true love with someone he suspected would not pass muster with the family. And none of the other relatives were answering my phone calls.
But late in the afternoon, when I was beginning to think I’d have to give up my plans, I got a call from Sandie.
“What’s new?” she asked.
“Not much,” I said. “Timmy has several new boo-boos, and the sheep are getting very tired of playing horsie-horsie.”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were, like, investigating. Trying to find Karen and all.”
“There’s a limit to how much investigating you can do with a toddler underfoot,” I said. “And for some reason, everyone I ask to baby-sit Timmy seems to have other plans this evening.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “If you really, really need someone, I suppose I could help out. Of course, I don’t have that much experience with kids.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “And if you’re serious . . . ”
“Sure,” she said. “Just let me know when you need me. After all, if you can do anything to help wrap this up and get bloody Nadine off my back, it’s worth it.”
We agreed that she would come over around eight and I returned to playing tag with Timmy with a lighter heart.
Dad tried to join in the game, but while trying to hide, he found several vigorous new poison ivy shoots behind the barn and took it very personally.
“It’s my fault,” he kept saying the whole time we were putting on our plastic gloves, pulling the vine out by the roots, and shoving it safely into a trash bag. “It’s all my fault.”
“Why, did you plant it?” I asked. “Some notion of Dr. Blake’s perhaps? Does one of the animals from the zoo need freshly picked poison ivy to thrive?”
“No, of course not. I just haven’t done a poison ivy hunt in weeks.”
“Probably because Dr. Blake has been keeping you too busy with his projects.”
Dad looked pained.
“Yes,” he said. “But they’re such worthwhile projects. And I think it’s important to spend time with him. You understand that, don’t you?”
Yes, I understood—Dr. Blake was over ninety, and since he and Dad had only found each other a few months ago, they had a lot of catching up to do.
But I could also see that Dad felt incredibly guilty about falling down in his self-appointed mission to keep his family safe from poison ivy. As a young man, while on a bird-watching trip to the Dismal Swamp, Dad had volunteered to climb into the water and untangle some vines that were keeping the boat from moving. The water had been up to his neck and the vines turned out to be poison ivy, resulting in the worst case of poison ivy anyone in the county had ever seen. The experience had made Dad passionate about exterminating any poison ivy that dared to grow near his family or friends. Discovering that the enemy had infiltrated our yard while his back was turned definitely depressed him.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time helping Dr. Blake with his projects,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to let him learn about some of your interests. He’d probably enjoy it.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely,” I said. Actually, I cared a lot less about whether Dr. Blake would enjoy poison ivy wrangling than whether Dad would. As I watched a smile growing on Dad’s face, I realized that one reason I’d rather resented Dr. Blake was that he seemed to be monopolizing all of Dad’s time for his own projects. Dad’s garden, his poison ivy extermination efforts, and many of his pet projects had languished all summer—it felt as if Dad himself had been partially eclipsed.
To Dr. Blake’s credit, when he showed up a little while later he joined in the poison ivy hunt with reasonably good humor, and Dad and I spent a happy afternoon teaching him and Timmy how to recognize and safely remove the ubiquitous three-leaved menace. He even seemed entertained by Dad’s vast store of poison ivy lore and trivia. Maybe I was being too hard on him.
When Michael got home, he took over Timmy-wrangling while I fixed dinner. Then he slipped off with Dad and Dr. Blake on their still-secret mission while I put Timmy to bed. I was in luck—I’d managed to wear him out enough during the day that he barely made it through two Dr. Seuss books.
&n
bsp; Or maybe my newfound resolution to be gentle but firm with him was paying off.
I was already in my skulking clothes—jeans and a dark t-shirt—when Sandie arrived.
“So where’s the little cherub?” she said.
“You’re in luck,” I said. “He’s already safely in bed. And if your luck continues, he’ll sleep through, and all you’ll have to do is entertain yourself while he sleeps. Still—just in case.”
I introduced her to the mysteries of Timmy’s now well-organized instruction manual. Showed her the stash of juice, milk, and fruit all ready if Timmy woke up and wanted something to eat or drink. Demonstrated how to secure the car seat, and then brought it in so it would be handy in case of emergencies. Made sure all the emergency numbers were right by the phone.
I was beginning to understand why Karen had lost touch with me after Timmy’s birth—why some new parents ceased to have a social life at all.
About the time I was finishing up my demonstration, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to see Mother and Rose Noire standing on the front porch.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Meg,” Mother said. “You’re not dressed.”
I looked down at my jeans and t-shirt.
“Actually, I think I am,” I said. “Unless you’re trying to tell me I’m having an ‘emperor’s new clothes’ moment.”
“You’re not dressed for the garden party,” Mother said.
“That’s because I’m not going to a garden party.”
“It’s the garden club summer outing,” Mother said. “I know I told you.”
“If you did, I didn’t remember it,” I said. “Sorry. No can do. Unless it’s okay to bring Timmy.”
“Perhaps next time,” Mother said. “Unless perhaps your friend . . . ”
She looked at Sandie, who glanced over at me.
“This is Sandie, a friend of Karen’s,” I said. “And I’m sure if she could, she’d love to take care of Timmy while I go with you to the garden party. But she has to leave pretty soon.”
Sandie looked puzzled, and then caught on.
“Yes, darn it all,” Sandie said. “Maybe some other time.”
Mother sighed as if deeply disappointed in both of us and floated out.
“Isn’t it a little late in the day for garden parties?” I asked Rose Noire.
“They’re illuminating Mrs. Wexford’s garden with hundreds and hundreds of those little fairy lights,” Rose Noire said. “It’s going to be so magical—are you sure you can’t come?”
“Duty calls,” I said. Rose Noire sighed, and followed Mother.
“Was I supposed to say that?” Sandie asked, after I shut the door. “I mean, I thought you did need a baby sitter.”
“Yes, but not to go to a garden party,” I said. “I’m going to snoop and see if I can find anything incriminating about Nadine.”
“Good,” Sandie said. “I suppose it’s wicked of me, but I do hope you find something. In fact—wait a sec.”
She rummaged in her purse and came out with a college key card.
“You can get into the building and our department with this. You’re on your own when it comes to getting into Nadine’s office, but at least I can get you that far.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Thanks!”
“Now you just go on,” she said. “And don’t worry about me. I brought my book. I’ll just sit here and keep an ear open for Timmy.”
She sat down in the living room. I peered out the front windows, to make sure Mother and Rose Noire weren’t still out there. No, I saw Rose Noire’s car chugging off.
I also noticed that Seth Early was already on guard, lurking behind the hedge at a low spot in the road. Still watching for the swarthy man? Another mystery I was still no closer to solving—who was the swarthy man, and was he watching our house, and if so, why? And could I figure out something to call him other than the swarthy man, which sounded more melodramatic every time I thought it?
Of course, I could see why Mr. Early hadn’t had much luck accosting the so-called swarthy man. Unfortunately, it still hadn’t occurred to him that while his hiding place was concealed from our side of the street, anyone coming out from town could clearly spot him from the ridge. If anyone had been watching our house, he had probably already seen Mr. Early and chosen his hiding place accordingly. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake.
“I’ll see you later,” I told Sandie. “I’m going to check something in the yard and then I’ll take off.”
“I’ll be here,” she said, holding up the thick paperback she was reading.
Twenty-Nine
I went out the kitchen door and set out across the backyard then down the hill as if planning to walk across the fields to Mother and Dad’s farm. I ambled along as if on a pleasure outing—Meg enjoying the scenery, and maybe relishing a break from childcare. Not that I expected anyone to be watching, but you never knew.
Once I reached the woods, I picked up the pace and circled around, heading for a place where the woods came right up to the road. I figured that would be the perfect place to cross the road. I could skulk through the woods on Mr. Early’s side of the road, climb up the back of one of the hills that overlooked our house, and keep an eye on him and our house at the same time.
But as I approached the road, I realized that someone had anticipated me. A dark blue Honda Accord was parked by the side of the road, just out of sight of our house.
I watched it for a while, until I was sure it was empty. Then I carefully approached it and peered in the windows. Neat and clean inside, and almost empty, except for a couple of books on the front seat. Books very familiar to the daughter of an avid bird-watcher: The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America and Hawks and Owls of Eastern North America.
So did this mean that the owner of the empty car was an innocent bird-watcher, out prowling the countryside in search of owls and other nocturnal birds to add to his life list? Or was that only the impression the bird books were supposed to make on a suspicious passerby? When Dad went bird-watching, he usually took his guides with him, along with a small pocket flashlight so he could consult them in case he ran into an uncommon species. Perhaps leaving your guides in the car was an act of bravado—the bird-watching equivalent of doing crossword puzzles in pen. Then again, I didn’t see any of the other detritus that usually accompanied Dad’s birdwatching forays—the water bottles, the snacks, the compass, the Tecnu in case he had to wade through poison ivy, the tripod and telescope, the dry clothes in case he fell in a swamp. Perhaps Dad went overboard on the paraphernalia, but still, the more I stared at those two books, placed with such artful carelessness in the front seat of the Honda, the more suspicious I found them.
Of course, since I’d been looking for a missing friend for several days, had discovered a dead body along the way, and was suffering from a slight case of sleep deprivation, maybe I was more paranoid than usual.
Not a puzzle I could solve by continuing to inspect the car. I wrote down the license plate number, then I crept along the edge of the woods for a way, until I came to a nice, climbable tree that gave me a good view of the Honda, the road in front of our house, and Seth Early. I found a comfortable perch and settled back to watch all three.
I realized that I could have kept tabs on Mr. Early even without seeing him, since the sheep flock tended to hover near him, and there was a constant trickle of sheep coming to him to be petted and then returning to the main flock to resume grazing. Must have made the wait more amusing. From a distance, though, the sheep were less amusing. Did they really have some kind of sleep-inducing qualities? Or could I blame Timmy for the fact that I kept almost nodding off and then jerking awake just as I was about to slide off my perch. I positioned myself so the stump of a dead branch would poke me in the chest if I started nodding off and resolutely avoided looking at the sheep.
After fifteen minutes, I began to think better of my surveillance. After half an hour, I had decided it
was a waste of time. But it was too early for the next item on my agenda, and when I thought of climbing down and going home, I reminded myself that at least it was quiet and peaceful up in my tree. Odds were I’d have an even harder time finding a babysitter the next time I wanted a Timmy-free evening. And the later the better for most of the other places I planned to prowl.
I settled back and concentrated on enjoying the unaccustomed solitude. I did my yoga breathing exercises—the ones that were supposed to bring clarity and energy, not the relaxing and falling asleep ones. Clarity and energy were proving elusive.
Then I spotted something at the house that woke me up a little. Rob, coming out the front door.
Rob, who refused to baby-sit because he was going to be out all evening? Rob, who I thought had already left for his rendezvous with Ms. Wrong?
Well, maybe he was going out after all. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but he had a garment bag thrown over his shoulder. He was carrying something in his other hand, but I couldn’t quite see what.
He set the something down to stuff the garment bag into the Porsche’s almost nonexistent trunk, and I recognized the other piece of luggage—Spike’s carrier. Just then the carrier rocked back and forth slightly, which meant Spike was in there, hurling himself from side to side as he usually did to protest his imprisonment.
Rob squatted down beside the carrier, and leaned toward the screen in the door, as if speaking to Spike. Then he laughed and patted the top of the carrier—safer, most of the time, than patting Spike directly. He buckled the carrier into the passenger seat, got into the car, and drove off.
Where on earth was Rob taking Spike at this time of night?
While I was still pondering that dilemma, I heard a car engine off to my right. The Honda had started up. I couldn’t see its driver, but I watched in astonishment as it gently glided down the road, following Rob.
I might have assumed it was a coincidence if the Honda hadn’t been driving with its headlights off.
Cockatiels at Seven Page 18
