by Ginny Aiken
“A parrot?” she asks. “That bitty thing there’s a parrot? I thought they were big ol’ things with can-opener beaks.”
I hand the card to Aunt Weeby. “See for yourself. According to Mr. Pak, this is a Sun Conure, a small breed of parrot.”
“Hmm . . . ,” Aunt Weeby murmurs.
Sally leans over my aunt’s shoulder. “Oh! Look here. He says the bird’s name is Rio, Rio de Janeiro, like the city in Brazil. How cute!”
Carla, who’s been silent up to now, chuckles. “Would you look at that? He just pooped.”
Max laughs.
Miss Mona leans over to look at Rio. “He is beautiful, Andie. And I’ll bet you very, very expensive. It’s mighty . . . unusual to have a parrot for a pet. I never met a parrot owner before, you know. I’m sure it’s going to be real interesting too.”
The vise that took hold around my forehead when I first saw the bird—Rio—squeezes harder. I’d thought I’d be leaving my troubles behind in the Big Apple. Instead, I seem to be attracting new ones here faster than my little black dress does lint.
I mean, think about it. First, I agree to work for Miss Mona, trouble if anything. Then, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona decide I’m a paper doll in need of a makeover. Next, Max the Magnificent and his gemstone ignorance blindsides me. And that’s when things really get . . . what did Miss Mona call it? Oh yeah. Interesting.
Right.
Can we agree that finding a dead ruby vendor in the vault is trouble? Big trouble.
Someone somewhere must be laughing. But it sure isn’t me. My heart aches for Mr. Pak. Plus there’s a Mrs. Pak in Thailand, one who’ll mourn the loss of a truly nice man.
And what am I supposed to do with a screaming, molting, pooping machine?
I’m in trouble all right.
Which fact permeates every corner of my being when Officer Donald comes out of the vault, locks his gaze with mine, and heads right for me, a piece of paper—yeah, another troublesome piece of paper in less than five minutes—in hand. “Any idea, Miss Andie, why this dead fellow would have your name and the address of the network in his hand?”
Dorothy’s tornado seems to have lost its way. Instead of Kansas, it’s decided to strike Kentucky this time. And instead of a cute little mutt named Toto, it’s decided to pick me up, spin-cycle me to bits, and then spit me out in the middle of yet another episode of The Twilight Zone.
And right into trouble with the law.
I gotta get a life. For real.
Oh, wait. That’s what I thought I was doing when I came back home. Where did I go wrong?
7 00
The next morning, when the alarm clock goes off, I force one eye open a crack, reach a hand out from under the comfy down comforter, and smack the beeping bully silent. But for some strange reason, the alarm screams again a second later.
My head pounds in response. “Why . . . ? Why today?”
After the day I had yesterday, I don’t want to wake up, much less deal with a dysfunctional alarm clock. Miss Mona had said I didn’t have to do today’s show, but after everything that went wrong during that disaster of a launch, I don’t think it’s in my best interest—or the network’s—for me to pull a no-show. I do need sleep, though, before I can face that camera—and the whole wide world—again.
What Max the Magnificent does is his business.
The relentless alarm continues to rattle my brain. “Aaarrgh!”
There’s no two ways about it. I have to do something about that noise. Inch by inch, I drag my exhausted body upright, and rub my eyes to clear them of their early morning sleep fog. And then I notice that the clock isn’t beeping at all. But the screams haven’t let up one bit.
“What on earth—” I tap my forehead between my brows. “Ugh. Rio!” I wish he was a nightmare. If he were, now that I’m awake, he’d just—poof!—disappear.
No such luck.
“Pipe down! It’s too early for this. Go back to sleep.”
A wild batting of his wings against the cage bars accompanies another barrage of shrieks. I slump down onto the bed again, my back against the padded headboard. Sure, he’s a beautiful animal, but I can’t stand his racket, and I don’t know a thing about birds. What does one do with a parrot for a pet?
At the very least, I know he needs water, so it’s good I refilled his bowl before I went to sleep last night.
I shudder. What a night . . . day! Donald Clark—Chief Donald Clark—raked me over the interrogatory coals until late into the night. If nothing else, he’s thorough and determined.
In that whole time he never let his eyes drift away from my face. “And you say you didn’t come up with some kinda plan to have him meet you here at the network?” he asked me for what must’ve been the thousandth time.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Donald!” Aunt Weeby finally burst out. “The girl’s told you and told you she doesn’t know a thing about this here Pak man’s trip to Louisville. If she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know, and it doesn’t make no never mind how many times you ask or how many different ways you ask it. Why, I’m about ready to swing my purse at your fat head and give you what-for. Ten thirty came and waved us good-bye, and you’re still asking her the same ol’ thing. I’m tired, she’s tired, and we want to go home.”
He slapped his hands against his thighs, then stood. “Well, Miz Weeby. It might not hurt if you looked at it from where I stand. Your niece comes to town, and next I know, I have me a dead Thai in Miss Mona’s vault.”
Aunt Weeby waved. “Coincidence, Donald, dear. The one doesn’t have a thing to do with the other.”
“Beggin’ pardon, ma’am,” he said, dogged and unfazed by her scolding. “The victim brought Andrea Adams a mighty pricey present, and he even had her name and address on a note in his hand. That to me doesn’t spell no coincidence.” By then, I’d had it. Aunt Weeby was right. I was tired. And the chief’s questions felt a gnat’s hair away from police harassment. Plus Aunt Weeby needed to rest. With what little oomph I had left, I pushed myself to my feet. “Chief Clark?”
Once I had everyone’s attention, I went on. “Can I make a couple of points clear here?” He nods, and I go on. “When Julie got to Mr. Pak, and even when you and your officers checked him out, he was still warm and the blood wet.” Oh yeah. I grossed myself out when I thought of that, but the thought of jail time grossed me—freaked me—more. “So if we use even as little logic as a pigeon in Central Park boasts of, we all know I couldn’t have hurt Mr. Pak.”
He brought heavy silver brows close over the bridge of his nose. “And how would your city pigeon and I know that?”
“I have what might be the world’s best, tight-as-a-two-sizes-small-shoe alibi. I was in front of a camera—live, you know?—in plain view of millions of America’s shopping-crazed women.”
He pushed his square jaw out. “Who’s to say you didn’t kill him before you went on to start up with your show?”
“I didn’t have time.” I tugged on a bunch of hair slicked into the updo. “This took about forty-five minutes to cook up, and then I went straight to makeup. You can check with the hairdresser, Cecelia, and Allison, the makeup girl. I was on time for my show too. All that doesn’t leave much time for me to kill Mr. Pak and stick him in the vault.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How about after the show? When you stomped off the set all by yourself?”
“I wasn’t out of sight of the rest of the staff for more than five minutes. I don’t know a thing about killing, but I’m sure it must take more than five minutes to kill someone and stash him away in a vault.”
Julie, whom the chief had held hostage too, stood. She looked as pooped as I felt. With a shaky hand, she wiped her eyes, and started for the bathroom door.
“Where d’you think you’re heading, Julie?” the chief roared. “I’m not done here.”
“You’re done with me,” Julie answered. “And you’re done with Andie. She’s right. She had no time to kill that man, and what’s worse, you know
it. Just because you don’t have a quick answer doesn’t mean you can force one out of where there isn’t one.”
“You’re vouching for her?”
“We all are, Chief.” She opened the door. “And my girls had to go to bed without me. It’s the first time ever I haven’t been there to hear their prayers. Had it been for a good reason, I wouldn’t be so steamed. Go home and get some sleep. You might do better figuring things out in the morning after you’ve snagged some shut-eye.”
Julie’s no-nonsense statement gave everyone else the push we needed. In spite of the chief’s sputters, we all said good night and went our individual ways.
At home, it took all my wiles to duck a dousing of Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s fish oil.
Now I have this charming wake-up call to deal with.
Why me? Why does trouble stick to me like lint to black velvet? Oh, did I ever mention it does? Well, now you know.
It occurs to me the poor parrot might actually be hungry. But what does a parrot eat? Aside from the clichéd “Polly wanna cracker” bit, I don’t know what to feed it. And that might be why he keeps complaining. I figure I’d squawk too if I hadn’t had a bite to eat since the night before.
Come to think of it, I haven’t had a bite to eat.
When I drag myself to the bedroom door, I catch the thump-thump of Aunt Weeby’s cast moving around down in the kitchen. “Hey, there! Do we have any crackers?”
“What d’you want crackers for?” she asks. “I’m making us eggs, bacon, grits, and fruit. Isn’t that better’n any ol’ crackers?”
For my taste buds? Oh yeah. My arteries? Oh my.
“Breakfast sounds great. The crackers aren’t for me, but the bird might want some. He’s been letting the universe know he’s not happy, and I don’t know what one feeds a parrot. I didn’t give him anything last night. He’s probably starved.”
“Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to haul him up to your room. Whyn’t you bring him to the kitchen? It’s sunny, and I seem to recollect parrots are from hot, steamy, sunny places.”
“They’re tropical, Aunt Weeby. I’m not sure Kentucky’s ever going to fake him out, not even if you use the electric oven like a space heater.” But since anything’s better than rooming with the feathered earsplitter, I grab the cage and head down.
“Maybe we won’t pull no wool over his eyes,” Aunt Weeby says, “but at least he’ll be outta your room. When he kicks up a fuss again, he won’t wake you up.”
I snort. “Hey, this is no stealth bird we have here. I’ll hear him coming miles before I see him. How could anyone not hear that awful noise?”
As if on cue, Rio lets out an ear-shattering “Shriek!
”
“Oh, sugarplum. He sure is loud. Gotta say that much for him.” She shakes her head. “Wonder why that foreign man came all that way here, and to give you a parrot, for goodness’ sake. Isn’t that the most peculiar thing ever?”
Aunt Weeby’s talking about peculiar? I love it when pots call kettles black.
“I’ve wondered myself. And aside from wishing me good luck with the new job, and telling me a little about Rio, the card still leaves things clear as the tax code.”
She arranges four strips of sizzling bacon, a field of sunflower-colored eggs, and a perfectly pillowy biscuit on a plate, and then, next to all that, builds Mt. Kilimanjaro out of fluffy grits. My mouth waters and my stomach growls on cue.
“Well, I sure do hope Donald gets to the bottom a’ this whole hoo-hah. Who’d’ve thought we’d find us a dead man in the vault?”
I dig into the fat-fest she puts in front of me, and wonder if it wouldn’t be more efficient to just trowel the stuff onto my hips and thighs. This living with Aunt Weeby deal could prove risky for my wardrobe. And thinking of wardrobe, what am I going to wear today? To counteract that fiasco yesterday, I have to look way more professional than usual. Maybe the Ann Taylor pieces will seal the deal.
But the thought of the show gives me the worst case of cold feet I’ve ever had. Who’d want to face the world after that? I could never have imagined my first day on the job would go off with such a series of disasters.
And the death of Mr. Pak is a real tragedy. It puts things into perspective. Even Max’s ignorance doesn’t seem so outrageous by comparison.
I push my hair behind my ear and shove away from the table. I take the dishes to the sink, run water, and then wash up. “Maybe if I talk to Mrs. Pak, I can figure out why Mr. Pak wanted me to have that bird.”
“Do you know her?”
“No, but he always talked about her. He really loved her.”
“Well, there you go, sugarplum. You just toddle over to the S.T.U.D. and give the lady a call. I don’t have long distance here at the house. Not since you gave me this cute little toy thing.”
Toddle? Yikes!
She points to the cell phone in front of her plate—I gave it to her last Christmas when I got worried about her being all alone in this great big house. “It’s not a toy, and you know it. Besides, isn’t it more convenient to have a phone you can carry with you all the time?”
“Why, sure it is.” She patted the device. “It was right handy when I found myself at the mercy a’ that horse and the horse’s behind of a stable hand what’s supposed to have been showing me how to muck the stall.”
My stomach plummets when I think what could have happened to her. Aunt Weeby’s only a hair over five foot three, and while she’s sassy and spry, there are limitations to sassy and spry—like a ton of farm horse dancing on her head.
“I’m just thankful you got help fast. From what I’ve figured out so far, that leg of yours is a real mess.”
She leans down and raps her knuckles against the pink cast. “It’s a battle wound. Life’s nothing more than a brand-new battle after the last battle you fought ends. If a body doesn’t collect herself a war wound or two along the way, why, then she isn’t really living, now is she?”
What a way to look at things! “Gotta tell you, Aunt Weeby. I’m allergic to pain.”
“We all are, sugarplum, but if things don’t come up against us enough to rub our noses a bit the wrong way, then we aren’t doing our part. And that goes twice for Christians. God didn’t put us all down here with cotton balls around us. He told us to go out and salt up the earth for him, and if that means we rub someone or something the wrong way, well then, the Lord’s just gonna have to deal with us and them.”
How our conversation about a parrot’s shriek issues made its way around to Aunt Weeby’s theology, I’ll never know. But I do know she loves her Lord without any holding back, and lives her life fully for him.
And, scary thought, she kinda makes sense.
So before I catch any more of the Aunt Weeby brand of nuttiness, I snag a cracker, break off a piece, and learn that Rio does love crackers. I also learn that little parrots aren’t just way too loud.
“Good grief, Aunt Weeby! What a messy eater. Are you sure you want him in your nice, clean kitchen? Look at all the cracker crud he’s flicked out of the cage.”
My aunt, practically mesmerized by the bird, nods. “Sure.
It’s not any big never mind. The floor’s good ol’ pine, and it cleans up right nice. Don’t you worry yourself about Rio and my kitchen. I know we’re going to get on real fine.”
That doesn’t exactly reassure me. Then again, nothing much about Aunt Weeby does.
But I’m not a woman of leisure. I can’t stick around and babysit . . . er . . . keep an eye on things. I have a show to prepare for. Thank goodness Sally and I determined ahead of time what I’d sell in the first six shows. Last night’s events are renting too much room in my brain for me to go in and choose a whole show’s worth of material right now.
As I head back upstairs, My cell phone rings. I hurry, and am thrilled to hear Peggy’s voice. “How are you?” I ask.
“Great. I loved your first show. Who’s the guy?”
“Don’t go there! Miss Mona spra
ng him on me as a surprise five minutes before I went on. And he’s no great bargain.”
“He looks great.”
“That’s about it for him.”
“Aw . . . I’m sure you’ll find a good side to him.”
When she falls silent, I get a bad feeling I know what’s coming. And she doesn’t disappoint.
“Listen, Andie. Are you okay? I read the paper this morning, and I figure you must be the person named as the ‘new employee who found the corpse.’ What happened?”
I tell her what I can, since I don’t know much. She commiserates, we talk about her kids, and then I notice the time.
“Hey, listen. I gotta go. I’m due at the studio soon.”
We agree to lunch next Saturday, and hang up. I hit the shower feeling way better than I have since before Miss Mona presented me with the S.T.U.D.’s stud.
I dress in the gorgeous black Ann Taylor jacquard jacket and skirt, and hit the road. By the time I reach the S.T.U.D.— can you believe that’s what they call the studio and warehouse complex?—I’ve almost talked myself into believing I can, really and truly, do today’s show.
But as I hurry down the hall to hair and makeup, I see my nemesis in the hall. Before I can duck out, he sees me too, and heads my way.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
What kind of greeting is that? “How’d I sleep?” I roll my eyes. “Like a log. I was drained. Why’re you here?”
His cheeks turn a bronzy rust—did I mention he’s got a to-die-for surfer-boy tan to go with the blond hair and baby blues?—and he blinks. “Sorry. But I don’t get it. What do you mean, why am I here? I have a job, a contract. I have a show to host.”
I snort. “And how do you plan to do that when you don’t know gems from Jell-O?”
He takes a step back. “That’s not exactly right. I know my diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. Oh, and garnets too. The real ones, that is. Come on. Tell me. What was that orange thing you were selling yesterday? And don’t give me that mandarin garnet spiel. We both know that’s not really what it is—”
