Priced to Move

by Ginny Aiken

  “Your aunt’s scarier than Stephen King.”

  “But so lovable.”

  “And way older than you. You’re at the age where you need to come back to New York and get a life.”

  “Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m-Working-Too-Many-Hours-For-My-Wife. You want me back here so I really don’t have a life, like you!”

  “I have a life.”

  “Sure you do. And an angry wife—”

  The bell on the front door chimes into my words. “Roger?” a woman asks.

  “And that angry wife’s here,” I say. I grab my handbag, drop a quick kiss on Roger’s suddenly greenish cheek, and head for the back door. “Gotta go. She’s all yours, pal.”

  “Traitor,” he mutters, then steps toward the front. “I’m here, honey! What brings you to the store?”

  As I let myself out, I hear Tiffany’s little-girl voice, but I don’t catch her words. I’m glad. I’m not crazy about Roger’s trophy wife and her extravagances. Yes, I do like designer duds, but I shop discount—something Tiff would never dream of doing. She’s all about that price tag and the “because she can” factor.

  I hurry down the back alley to the sidewalk, make my way down to the corner, and check my cell phone. As a proud procrastinator, I haven’t deleted New York numbers yet, and right there, on my contact list, is the one for my favorite cab company—the one with English-speaking drivers, since I’m not multilingual—that doesn’t have speed issues.

  When the company promises a cab in six minutes, I shut my phone and get ready for my short wait. And that’s when I get a hinky feeling.

  I turn around but see no one. Well, no one but the messenger guy on his bike, the suited exec fixated on his blackberry, the young woman in a tailored tan suit—you get the New York picture. Still, the short, downy hairs at the back of my neck are all lined up like good little soldiers. I know that I know that someone’s watching me.

  That’s all I need.

  Lord? More trouble? It’s been coming at me for ages now, and I think a dead ruby vendor, gun-happy Burmese goons, a nutty aunt, and a shrieking parrot are enough. Oh yeah. And about the cohost? You know I really don’t need him, on any of many levels, so you can send him back to Podunk, Missouri, or wherever he came from. Don’t you think I’ve earned a vacation?

  When I realize what a self-serving excuse for a prayer that is, I try again. I’m sorry. That reeks of pride, doesn’t it? Let me put it a different way. I know you know everything, especially what really matters. You also know what’s coming down in the future, and while I’d rather think about new designer shoes, I don’t think it’s looking like that’s going to be my top concern anytime soon. So . . . if you could, please keep an eye on me. I wind up in more trouble than anyone else I know. Help me listen to you better—I know, I know. You don’t bellow, but sometimes I’m kinda thickheaded and don’t catch your warning. I can use some help there too. Especially with that pride thing. It’s not pretty. I’m sorry. And thanks.

  The cab squeals to a stop, bringing the traffic to a standstill in the already nasty snarl on the street. The guy in the car behind the cab honks his horn, rolls down his window, and yells an obscenity. The one in the red Chevy behind him is another story. He stares at me, then at the loudmouth, at the cab, and at me again.

  Goose bumps pop out all over. It’s splitsville for me, especially since I’ve begun to see a bad guy behind every cab, hot dog stand, and trash can or two.

  I collapse on the backseat. The guy behind the wheel isn’t sporting a turban, but he doesn’t look like the all-American guy next door either.

  “JFK, please, and I have to be there yesterday.”

  “Excuse, please? Yesterday? I no understand.”

  “Are you new with RideSafe?”

  “Yes. I come from Greece three months back.”

  “Who owns the company now?”

  “Own? Company?”

  “Sure. Your boss.”

  “Oh. Cousin Spiros new boss. He good man. Give me work.”

  I fight to squelch the urge and touch of hysteria that zip right through me. It’s all Greek to me won’t exactly win the driver’s cooperation.

  Instead I say, “I’m flying US Airways.”

  “Okay.”

  While it isn’t a white-knuckle ride, it isn’t a Sunday drive in the country either. I pay, jump out, and then I see it again. The same red Chevy whose driver stared at me back at the street corner near Roger’s store. When I’m about to call 9-1-1, a tall brunette in a designer black suit walks up to the car, opens the rear door, puts in her overnight case, and then sits in the front passenger seat. They pull out, slowly, too slowly for my comfort.

  Still, they’re gone.

  Who says there’s no such thing as coincidence?

  While my flight home is uneventful, I know that I know that I know something out there made me feel weird. Paranoia isn’t usually a problem for me. I didn’t imagine what I felt. I also know what I saw the driver of that red Chevy do. On the one hand, he stared. On the other, he drove away when his companion hopped into the car.

  So I must have imagined that someone’s-looking-at-me feeling before he drove up.

  Right?

  Wrong?

  If someone was staring at me, who could it have been? And why?

  Well, I’m pretty sure I know the why. Mr. Pak. And his rubies. But that doesn’t get me any closer to the who. More to the point, was it tied to the Burmese shooting spree on the dirt road to Mandalay?

  Probably. Mr. Pak dealt with Mogok Valley rubies. And he’s the only connection I have to Myanmar.

  Why? Why? Why?

  Why would he come to see me? Why did he bring me an invitation to Myanmar? Why did someone kill him? Why did they stick him in our vault—or kill him there? Why did someone shoot at us? And to top it all off, why did Mr. Pak bless me with a loudmouth bird?

  Back home in Louisville, I’m faced with the reality of parrot ownership. The first thing I hear when I walk into Aunt Weeby’s house is that mind-altering “Squawk! Shriek, shriek!”

  I will my heart to return to its normal sluggish pace, then, “Shut up, Rio!”

  A couple more shrieks and a squawk follow, and finally the clump-clump of Aunt Weeby’s cast makes its way across the upstairs. “Is that you, sugarplum?”

  “Sure is!” I grin as she clumps downstairs. When I get my welcome-home hug, I wink. “And how many other late-night visitors do you get?”

  “Pshaw! Mona wanders in whenever the fancy strikes her, the girls from the church’s benevolence group all have keys—”

  “They all have keys? When did you start locking doors?” She tightens her pale pink chenille robe wrapped around her petite frame. “Since Mona’s become a pain about it in the last few months. C’mon, Andie. Tell me. Do you honest-to-goodness think a lock’s gonna stop one a’ them agents a’ Satan if they want to break in and rob me blind?”

  “You do have a point. Where there’s an evil will, there’s always way more than one single way.”

  “Amen. And that’s why them locks are a waste of time—to good folks, that is. I have to remember to carry a key, remember what key chain I put it on, remember where I put the key chain . . . it’s too much bother. And for what? All of this”—she waves toward the beautiful parlor and foyer— “means nothing before our Father. It’s only what we’ve gone and done for him that counts.”

  “I know that.” The locked/unlocked door argument was making me dizzy. “So do you lock or do you not?”

  “When I remember.”

  “I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d lock. There’s no reason to invite the wackos in.”

  “Maybe and maybe not. Remember that girl the rapist from Atlanta kidnapped after he killed a bunch of folks at his trial? She read to him from The Purpose-Driven Life. He didn’t kill her.”

  “But he didn’t repent either. He’s back in trouble for . . .” What was it he did? I know I heard it on the news one day. “Oh, I don’t reme
mber. It’s late, we had the weirdest trip, I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.”

  “Weird? You had a weird trip? How weird is weird?”

  I groan. “I should’ve known better than to say a thing. There’s plenty of time tomorrow—”

  “Now you just hold them wild horses there, sugarplum. I get me a call from Mona telling me you and that boy Max are sleeping together in front of everyone and their great-grand-nanny in some airport, then you come home and tell me the trip was weird. Don’t you think that calls for a little explaining here?”

  I’m gonna kill Miss Mona. Boss or no boss.

  “Fine. If you’re going to grill me, at least let me make myself a cup of cocoa. I’m going to need it.”

  I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, then hook my arm through hers and head to the kitchen. She sits at her favorite end of the ancient farm table that has been in the family for more than a century and a half. I take a pan from a cupboard, splash a generous amount of milk in it, take out the Ghirardelli cocoa—oh yeah!—add sugar, and mix it all together.

  The gas stove gives me the willies to light, but I brave fumes and potential obliteration and plunk the pan on the burner. A quick swipe of the counter where the cocoa dust landed, and— “What are you waiting for?” Aunt Weeby demands. “You’ve been putzing around this kitchen, plumb giving me heartburn from the anxiety, and you still don’t say a word. You’re like to give a body a conniption fit, you’re so contrary.”

  About that pot calling the kettle black . . . ?

  “I seem to remember telling you I needed a cup of cocoa.”

  Worry creases her forehead. “That tells me, sugarplum, that something’s gone very, very bad.”

  The stool Aunt Weeby likes to use while chopping veggies by the sink offers me a good look into the saucepan, so I perch there and face my aunt. “I don’t even want to talk about it. I know it’s going to worry you, and that’s not so cool. You do crazy stuff when you’re worried.”

  “If you didn’t go doing stuff that worries me in the first place, I wouldn’t have to be doing crazy stuff to take care of you.”

  “Sure. Blame it on the victim.”

  “Victim? I don’t see you as any downtrod doormat.”

  “I shouldn’t have used that word.” True, but I also know she’s going to find out everything that went on in Myanmar. It’ll go easier on me if I’m the one who does the telling. “But it does sorta fit this case.”

  I go ahead and fill her in on the details of our trip. Then I notice the silence. “What’s with Rio? In the short time I’ve known him he’s never been quiet this long. He nearly cost me my hearing when I walked in.”

  “That’s on account of you woke the poor baby up.” She preens. “You see, Andie, I’ve decided to become an expert on sit . . . p-sit. . . . Oh, phooey! It’s a long formal name for them Sun Conures like that Rio of yours . . . psittacines! That’s it. Anyway, they’re right fascinating, let me tell you.”

  My aunt, the parrot expert. Oh-kay. See the consequences of world travel?

  “Very well, Madam Expert. Tell me why that loudbox is suddenly so silent.”

  “I got him a cage cover.”

  “A cage cover.”

  “That’s right. Parrots like to sleep in cozy, dark places, you see. So I had Mona’s Edwina drive me to a pet supermarket. Did you know such places exist? You’d never believe all the things they sell there. Anyway, Edwina drove Rio and me to the pet place, and I got him his very own little cozy cover.”

  The idea of a bird under a tea cozy doesn’t quite cut it. What’s worse, the idea of Aunt Weeby turned loose on the greater Louisville population, accompanied by that hearing aid’s best friend, is not a thing of beauty.

  “How did you get Rio to the pet place? You didn’t lug that cage around, did you?”

  “’Course not, Andie. That cage’s almost as big as I am. I got myself on that there World Wide Web, and I ordered us a little ol’ travel case. It’s the sweetest thing! You’re just plumb gonna love it. Rio looks adorable inside.”

  My head throbs like a hammered thumb. “What you’re trying to tell me is that they sell cage cozies at that place you went to.”

  “That’s it! And the cage cover almost matches our travel case. It’s got all the same colors and the same black piping on the seams. Only problem’s that the cage cover has cute little parrots all over, but the travel case—can you believe this?—is covered with cats! I’m telling you, it’s an outrage.”

  My mind conjures the image of Rio entering the drooly mouth of a big ol’ meowser. Aunt Weeby’s all outraged on the bird’s behalf while all I see is a tasty feline snack. And I’m the bird’s lucky owner. What’s wrong with this picture?

  “Why are we talking about the dumb bird?” I ask.

  “Why, Andie! Rio’s not dumb. He’s already talking to me.”

  Imagine that conversation. What did I get myself into when I moved back to Louisville?

  “Fine, he’s not dumb, and he beats Oprah at repartee. Can I finish my cocoa and go to bed?”

  She crosses her arms. “Only after you’ve gone and told me every last little detail about that sleeping together you and Max did.”

  I’d hoped she’d forget. Then again, Aunt Weeby has a mind like a fox trap.

  “It’s no big deal.” I take my now-empty cocoa cup to the sink. “Every armchair at the airport was taken, so we both sat on a sofa. While I slept, I must’ve slipped sideways, and neither one of us noticed that I landed on his shoulder.”

  “You landed on his shoulder?”

  “Must be. ’Fraid I can’t tell you more than that. I was sleeping.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Sorry to disappoint. And now I get to go to bed.”

  “Mm-hmm. You’ll need all the rest you can get, sugarplum.”

  “I . . . will?”

  “Uh-huh! Why, you’re going to be mighty busy, girl. What with your show and all that sleeping on Max’s shoulder and all that investigating you’re gonna be doing, that is.”

  I ignore the sinkholes in Aunt Weeby’s words. “Investigating?”

  “Sure, Andie. No one’s figured out yet why that dead guy wound up dead in our vault. Someone’s gotta do it. I figure you’re snoopy enough. That’s all it should take, some good ol’ fashioned snooping on your part. I’d do it, but I got me a cast and a bird to hold me back some.”

  Okay. Help me here. Do I accept the compliment to my abilities or do I yelp at the insult? After a nanosecond’s thought, I decide to do neither.

  “I bet you’re gonna tell me what I should do.” Why am I wasting breath? This is Aunt Weeby. She tells everyone what they should do.

  “There’s only one thing to do. You’re gonna have to sniff out every last little thing there is to know about everyone who works out at that TV shopping network Mona’s got herself.”

  Now there’s an appealing prospect. Stick my nose where it doesn’t belong to alienate my co-workers. “And how do you want me to do that without landing behind bars?”

  “Easy, sugarplum! You just chat them up at work, ask all kindsa them subtle questions they do on TV, and maybe get a look inside their handbags. You know what they say about women’s handbags, right?”

  They have something to say about handbags? “No, Aunt Weeby. I don’t know what they say about women’s handbags. But I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me.”

  “I don’t rightly know about any dying, but I can most certainly tell you about pocketbooks. They always say you can know all about a woman by the stuff she stashes in her purse.”

  What’s in mine? Gum wrappers, a brush, my favorite Copper Rose lip gloss, my checkbook, wallet, sunglasses, a hair scrunchy, keys. That’s it. Pretty boring. And then I remember the no-man’s-land at the bottom, the flotsam that litters the lining. Receipts, the four-inch spiral-bound notebook I fondly think of as my brain . . .

  Okay. Maybe “they” are onto something. There’s just one m
inor detail. “How do you expect me to get into these handbags?”

  She stands and smacks her fists on her hips. “What? Do I have to do everything for you?” After an indignant sniff, she sails out the kitchen doorway. “You figure it out.”

  Did I tell you I’m squeamish about sneaking around? No? Well, I’m telling you now. I mean, I do have the urge to snoop, but not the guts. That’s why there’s no way I’m diving into other women’s handbags. Dead ruby vendor or not.

  No way.

  No how.

  Not in this lifetime.

  1400

  “Are you just the clumsiest cow or what?” Danni demands. Or what. Time to punt. “I’m so sorry, Danni.” I kneel. “Here. Let me help you pick it all up. I owe you that much.”

  Okay. I’m busted. I accidentally on purpose bumped her purse off the makeup counter while we wait for Allison to show up. And, of course, I’m on those spilled contents like stink on skunk. Against all logic, I’m pulling an Aunt Weeby.

  “What are you doing now?” she shrills.

  Innocence when you feel like the worst rat doesn’t come easy. “Me?” What to say? I grab a fistful of rubble, none of which checks out as remotely interesting. “Ah . . . what does it look like I’m doing? I’m . . . uhm . . . trying to help. I made the mess, and the least I can do is give you a hand picking it all up.”

  “You are the most obnoxious creature I’ve met in all my born days.” Her big brown eyes spit hate my way. “First you come and steal my job away from me, then you score the cutest guy in town as your partner—and don’t think I didn’t hear all about that cozy little sleep deal during the exotic vacation you took on the network’s nickel—you bring down on us some crazed criminal who kills some guy you know, and now you’re going through my stuff like an alley cat in a dumpster.”

  I snag a lipstick from under a cart of fuchsia, lime, and cobalt hair rollers, and stick it in Danni’s bag. Is this how people at the S.T.U.D. see me? If that’s the case, then I’m in worse shape than I thought.

  Oh, Lord Jesus, help me! I know, I know. I got myself into this, but I don’t know how to get myself out. I know you can show me, though.