Cockatiels at Seven

by Donna Andrews

  He turned on his heel and headed for the door. As he walked, he pulled out his cell phone and punched a couple of keys.

  “Trey?” he said. “Change of plans. I’ve just got a few things up at the house to load and then—No, I’ve got them tied up.”

  Who was he talking with, I wondered. And then I remembered that Trey was one of the names on the message slips on Karen’s desk.

  Of course, so was Jasper. And the slips were dated Monday or Tuesday, when Jasper was already dead, which meant someone had been trying to reach Karen and pretending to be Jasper. Why?

  “Dude,” Freddy was saying on the phone, “that’s way over the top. We can just leave them tied up here, no problem. And if—”

  That’s all I caught before he slammed the door behind him.

  We all looked at each other.

  “What’s he up to?” Aubrey asked.

  From outside, I heard the sound of a car door slamming.

  “This is what Dad and Dr. Blake have been investigating lately, isn’t it?” I asked, looking at Rob.

  “Probably,” he said. “I haven’t been involved in it for months.”

  “But you were involved?”

  “They sent me out to find out whatever I could about the Belle Glade Bird Farm,” he said. “That’s how I got started doing the doggie dancing. Sorry,” he added, turning to Aubrey.

  “And I thought you were interested in learning,” she said.

  “I was—I am!” Rob protested. “When they sent me, I didn’t realize how cool it was going to be. They were annoyed when you went to Maine and there was no reason for me to come out here for the rest of the summer, but I was relieved. I figured by the time you came back, they’d have finished their raid, and it would be okay again, and I could keep working on the dancing without them expecting me to spy on anyone. I mean, I felt pretty guilty, spying on Aubrey’s cousin.”

  “Why should you feel guilty about spying on a major drug and wildlife smuggler?” I asked.

  “Major?” Arroyo said, with a laugh. “That’s rich. Freddy isn’t a major anything. Except maybe a major idiot.”

  “How do you know?” I asked. “And for that matter, who are you, Mr. Arroyo, and what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Carlos Arroyo,” he said. “U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’d show you my ID, but . . . ”

  “You can do that when we get loose,” I said. “Are you one of the guys who interrogated Henry and Phyllis Blanke?”

  “Blanke? Who are they?”

  “Never mind,” I said. He sounded puzzled, so maybe Fish and Wildlife wasn’t the only federal or state agency snooping around Caerphilly. “So you don’t think Freddy’s a major player in the smuggling game.”

  “He’s chum,” Arroyo said. “We were hoping to follow him to the big sharks.”

  “The drug suppliers,” Rob said, nodding wisely.

  “Well, I’m sure the DEA would be interested in them,” Arroyo said. “We’d bring them in once we had enough evidence to make our move. But we mainly want the guys who’ve been doing the finch laundering.”

  “Finch laundering,” Rob repeated. He and Aubrey burst into laughter. Okay, I admit I chuckled a bit myself.

  “Why am I imagining a clothesline filled with brightly colored birds fluttering in the breeze?” I asked.

  “Because you’re way old-fashioned,” Rob said. “Me, I see a passel of them tumbling round and round in the dryer.”

  “Ouch!” Aubrey exclaimed. “They wouldn’t like that.”

  “I always use the delicate cycle,” Rob said.

  “Very funny,” Arroyo said, as if he didn’t really think it was the least bit amusing. “Finch launderers are the people who provide phony provenance to prove the birds are legal—that they were bred in captivity, either in this country or in a country where it’s legal to export them to the U.S. That way the smugglers have an easier time selling them. In the wild, Gouldian finches are endangered, and I’d bet anything those finches weren’t bred in captivity.”

  “Endangered species,” I said. “Yeah, that’s probably what got Dr. Blake interested.”

  “His heart’s in the right place,” Arroyo said. “I just wish he’d cooperate with us a little more. Do you think he stole Hamilton’s finches?”

  “Seized, not stole,” I said. “At least that’s how Dr. Blake would see it. But yes, I’m pretty sure he did. Let’s concentrate on practical matters, shall we? Like getting ourselves untied and trying to catch Freddy? Preferably before whoever Freddy was talking to has time to get over here, because it sounded to me as if he was talking someone out of doing something a lot more drastic than tying us up.”

  They all looked at me as if awaiting further instructions.

  “That was an invitation to throw out some suggestions,” I said. “Anyone have an idea?”

  “I can move my hands up and down,” Rob said. “I’ll start working on sawing through the tape with the corner of the post I’m tied to.”

  His shoulders began twitching rhythmically.

  “Well, this might help,” Aubrey said. “Paris! Julie!”

  I heard a scuffling noise as the two poodles snapped to attention, and one of them barked gruffly.

  “Come here!” Aubrey coaxed. “Here, Paris! Here Julie!”

  More scuffling from the stall, and a little whining.

  “Come here! Treats!”

  The door to the stall swung open, bringing one of the dogs with it—it looked as if he had jumped up and used his paw to open the latch. Or her paw; I couldn’t exactly tell the two shaggy beasts apart. They trotted over and began licking Aubrey’s face.

  “Good girl! Good boy!” she said, her voice a little muffled by all the fur around her.

  “Well, that’s a start,” I said. “Now what can they do? Gnaw the duct tape off? Maybe go fetch Chief Burke?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Aubrey said. “Down girl! Settle down.”

  Just then Spike came trotting out of the stall and looked around expectantly.

  “Oh, great,” I said. “Spike’s loose.”

  “Do they fetch?” Arroyo asked. “Hamilton left his duct tape and utility knife over there in the corner.”

  We all craned to see. Yes, the utility knife was lying in plain sight. If Hamilton hadn’t taped us to the posts, any of us could have crawled over to get it.

  “Go get it, Julie! Fetch, Paris!”

  Aubrey began jerking her head toward the utility knife and staring at them. The dogs watched her with great interest, but they didn’t seem to be grasping the notion.

  Spike trotted over to the cages along the wall and began growling at the birds. The birds weren’t too thrilled by this—they began fluttering and squawking.

  “Am I making any progress?” Rob asked.

  “A little,” I said, glancing over at his hands. Of course, at the rate he was going, we wouldn’t be free for weeks, but I didn’t want to discourage him.

  “Fetch! Fetch!” Aubrey repeated.

  One of the dogs began to get the idea, and walked over a little in the direction of the utility knife.

  “Good boy! Fetch!”

  The other dog—Julie, presumably—rose up on her hind legs and began dancing around in a circle.

  “Good girl!” Aubrey said.

  “How is that helping us?” I asked.

  “Well, it isn’t,” she said. “But I’ve been trying to get her to do that for weeks.”

  Arroyo began giggling.

  “Now fetch!” Aubrey repeated.

  Paris got the idea. He picked up the roll of duct tape, trotted over to Aubrey, dropped it beside her, and began licking her face.

  “Good boy!”

  “He got the wrong thing,” Rob said.

  “Yes, but he’s getting the idea. Good boy! Now fetch again.”

  Paris dashed away a few feet, then rose up on his hind feet and began dancing beside Julie.

  “Oh, brother,” Arroyo groaned, through his giggles. “Th
ey’re never going to believe this back in Richmond.”

  About that time, Spike got tired of torturing the cockatiels and looked around to see what other mischief he could get into.

  “Fetch! Fetch!” Aubrey repeated.

  Spike seemed to notice where all our eyes were glued. He trotted over and picked up the utility knife.

  “Good boy!” Aubrey exclaimed.

  “Oh, great,” I muttered.

  Having taken possession of the utility knife, Spike began trotting around the barn floor, as if deliberately taunting us with it. For a few minutes, we were all calling “Here, Spike! Here, boy!” but the more we called, the happier he was to prance around out of reach.

  “Everyone shut up!” I said. “And don’t look at him.”

  I turned my head so I could pretend to be looking away while keeping tabs on Spike in my peripheral vision. Almost as soon as we stopped paying attention, he stopped prancing and stood looking irritably around.

  “Spike,” I said softly.

  He turned and looked at me.

  “Here, Spike,” I said.

  “It won’t work,” Rob muttered.

  “Quiet,” I said. “Here, Spike.”

  This time I wiggled my fingers. Spike lifted his lip slightly. I wiggled the fingers again. He began slowly stalking toward me. Every time he slowed down, I wiggled my fingers tantalizingly. He finally fell for it, and ran forward to lunge at my fingers, dropping the utility knife at the last second.

  “Yow!” I yelled, as he sank in his teeth. “Here, Paris! Here, Julie!”

  The two poodles romped over, tails wagging, and began licking my face. As I’d hoped, Spike felt threatened by the proximity of two much larger dogs, and let go of my mangled fingers to bark furiously at them. Julie stuck her nose down to sniff Spike and had to jerk it back quickly when he lunged at her. Paris growled, and lowered his head to stare at Spike in what any sane dog would recognize as a stern warning. Julie barked at Spike, who snapped at her again.

  “Oh, great, a dogfight,” Rob said.

  “Call them over so I’m not in the middle of it,” I said. “If I can just have a minute or two of peace and quiet, I think I can cut myself loose.

  “Paris! Julie!” Aubrey called. “Treat!”

  “Here, Spike!” Rob called. “Fingers! Fingers!”

  The dogs couldn’t decide whether to come when called or fight, but at least they milled a little farther from me. After a couple of false starts, I managed to slice through the duct tape around my wrist—not without giving myself a few minor lacerations.

  “Good job!” Arroyo said. “Now cut me loose.”

  I did as he asked, and then moved on to Aubrey and finally Rob.

  “I was getting there,” Rob said, as I lowered the box cutter to his tape.

  “I can leave you to get on with it if you like,” I said, pausing. Perhaps he didn’t realize his escape efforts had only produced a barely visible dimple in the duct tape.

  “No, that’s okay,” Rob said. “I’d better rescue Spike.”

  Arroyo had pulled out a cell phone and retreated to a corner to talk to someone. Aubrey and Rob waded into the fur tangle and hauled away their respective dancing partners.

  I heard a car start outside.

  Thirty-Two

  Freddy was still here? What was taking him so long? Not that I liked the idea of his getting away, but it shook me up a bit, knowing he could have walked in at any moment during our dog-enabled escape. I ran over to flatten myself against the wall beside the barn door, ready to jump him if he came in. But after a few seconds, I heard the car begin to bump and rattle over the rutted dirt driveway. Maybe he hadn’t heard the dogs, or assumed their barking came from the stall. And he had said something about loading something up at the house. After all, if Dr. Blake was right, he probably was smuggling a few things other than birds.

  Whatever had delayed him, it was a break for the good guys. I glanced over to see if Arroyo had noticed. He was still on his cell phone.

  “He’s driving off,” I said.

  “Good.” Arroyo didn’t even look up.

  “He’s getting away,” I said. “Aren’t you going after him?”

  “He has my gun,” Arroyo said. “I’m calling for backup.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “Backup will take forever.”

  “I’m working on it,” he said.

  “I’m going after him,” I said. I grabbed my purse and sprang for the door, fishing out my car keys and my cell phone as I ran.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  “Tell your backup I’m following Freddy,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll try to reach Chief Burke and tell him where we’re going.”

  Outside, I saw taillights disappearing rapidly down the dirt lane. I scrambled into my car and pulled out. I didn’t turn the headlights on—I figured that could wait until I was on the road and Freddy wouldn’t know for sure it was someone following him.

  I got to the end of the lane and glanced up and down, to see which way Freddy had gone. Taillights disappearing to the right—that figured. Away from town.

  Just then another set of headlights appeared across the road from me. A pickup truck pulled out of a small side lane and took off after Freddy’s taillights.

  I couldn’t be sure with the brief glimpse I got as it passed—but it looked like Seth Early. Apparently he’d eventually figured out where he’d lost his prey and backtracked to the last place he’d seen it. Our caravan was reassembled—well, minus Rob’s car.

  It took Mr. Early a little while to figure out that the new caravan was going at a much higher speed, but once he caught on, he fell into the same comfortable trailing distance he had before. I turned on my headlights after a couple of turns and followed suit.

  After a couple of miles, I realized that another car was following me. Was it Arroyo, perhaps, in a borrowed car? Or his backup? I hoped so. The only other people I could think of who might be motivated to keep pace with our breakneck crew would be some criminal ally of Freddy’s, and that would definitely be bad news.

  When we reached the Clay Hill Road, Freddy turned left—away from Caerphilly. I fished out my cell phone and managed to dial 911 without landing in a ditch.

  “Hello, Meg, how are you?” Debbie Anne, the dispatcher, said.

  “I’ve been better,” I said. “I’m on the Clay Hill Road, heading toward the county line at sixty-five miles an hour, chasing an illegal bird smuggler who may also be Jasper Walker’s murderer.”

  “Oh, my!” Debbie Anne said. “You don’t mean Freddy Hamilton, do you?”

  “The very same,” I said. “He’s not driving his own truck—he stole a car. Dark blue Honda Accord. I have the license number—oh, damn!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m bleeding all over my notebook.”

  “Bleeding! What happened?”

  “Just another Spike bite.”

  I managed to find the page where I’d written down the Honda’s tag number, used the map light to read it to Debbie Anne, and then held on while she issued an all-points bulletin. We were going seventy-five now, and I was getting a little nervous about how close behind me the unknown car was following. And, for that matter, even more nervous about who was in the unknown car.

  “So you already knew about Freddy?” I asked, when Debbie Anne came back on the line.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “The chief and the DEA have been watching him for days. I have to tell you, the chief’s a mite peeved at the way you kept showing up over there.”

  “He could have told me what was going on. Warned me off.”

  “Those DEA men wouldn’t have liked that, now, would they?”

  So there were DEA men in town. I made a note to tell Henry Blanke he’d been right after all.

  “I mean, the chief knows you and your family wouldn’t be mixed up in drugs or murder,” Debbie Anne was saying. “But it’s different with the Feds. I can tell you, the chief is goin
g to be that relieved when we’ve finally got them out of our hair. Oh, good, the chief’s heading your way, and one of our patrol cars, and they’ve got a couple of state troopers coming from the Clay County direction. You should hear the sirens pretty soon.”

  “Can’t be soon enough for me,” I said, as we rounded a rather sharp curve. It occurred to me that it would be wiser to hang up and drive with both hands, but if Debbie Anne was giving out information, I didn’t want to miss my chance. “You don’t already have a car on the scene, do you? There’s someone I don’t know tagging along behind me—is that one of your people?”

  “I’ll check,” she said, putting me on hold.

  Was that a siren in the distance, or was I only imagining it?

  “If it’s one of ours, it’s not anyone who’s checking in,” Debbie Anne said. “You be careful now.”

  “Call me if there’s anything I should know,” I said, and cut the connection.

  I definitely heard a siren now—it was still faint, but getting closer. Coming from ahead of us.

  Suddenly, I heard squealing tires ahead and hit my own brakes. I stopped without too much trouble, but in front of me, Seth Early’s truck skidded and landed with the truck bed on the road and the front end in the right-hand ditch. The car behind me nicked my right rear fender before coming to a halt about ten feet past me. Beyond it, I could see the blue Honda backing out of a driveway. Evidently Freddy had heard the sirens and decided to turn around.

  The unknown fourth car—a beat up old sedan that looked vaguely familiar—moved again. At first I thought it was going to turn around to follow Freddy, but then instead the driver pulled it to block the left-hand lane. Seth Early’s car was blocking part of the right-hand lane. I said a few words Mother probably didn’t think I knew and pulled my car into the remaining gap, passenger side toward Freddy, of course, and I immediately cut the engine and leaped out, cell phone in hand.

  The sedan’s driver wasn’t as quick, and I think Freddy accelerated as much as he could before plowing broadside into the sedan, knocking it partly out of his way. He backed up, shedding bits of his car and the sedan, and I suspected he was going to ram the sedan again.