To Kill a Hummingbird

by J. R. Ripley

“He was innocent of the burglaries, too,” I said.

  “Yes,” Mom replied, “Anita told me the owner of Grace’s B and B found a lot of merchandise in one of her guest rooms, stashed in the closet. She got suspicious and phoned the police. The two young men staying in the room admitted to the crimes.”

  “What I want to know,” cut in Kim, “is where was Rose’s daughter the entire time she was trying to shoot you?”

  “Amber? She dropped Pack off at his place, then went to the lake to think, she says.

  “Pack loaded up his van with eggs and headed straight to the farmers market. But he wanted to appeal to Rose once more to turn herself in.” I clamped my hands over my knees. “I think holding the information in was eating him up inside.”

  “So he storms in and saves the day.” Kim fiddled with her cell phone. She was expecting a call from a client.

  “Pretty much. Pack said he heard us yelling inside, then heard the shots and figured I was in trouble.” I bit my lower lip, remembering the risk I’d taken. “He knew what Rose was capable of. He’d seen evidence of that with his own eyes.”

  “To think,” Mom muttered, “I’d been talking to Rose just that morning. I had no idea that a couple of hours later she’d be trying to shoot my daughter.”

  “Incredible,” said Kim, nodding. “Unbelievable.”

  “I heard it all yesterday, and I still can’t believe it,” said Mom.

  “Believe it,” I said. “And you,” I added, pointing to my best friend, “you need to call Dan and tell him yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “That you’ll go to Jerry’s vow renewal ceremony. Don’t make the poor man ask you again, and don’t make him go alone.”

  Kim opened her mouth to sass me, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a humungous shape being pulled slowly up Lake Shore Drive by a truck that I knew well. Too well.

  “Hey! I’m not done with you!” Kim hollered at me.

  I waved her off, jumped off the front porch, and ran to the street. My shoulder slammed into a hummingbird feeder, and it crashed to the ground, splashing sugar water all over the lawn and walkway. I’d pick it up later. Kim followed me to the street.

  “What’s that doing here?” I was staring at Mason Livingston’s giant birdhouse on wheels, his former home away from home. Paul and Derek climbed out of Paul’s pickup. Derek had rushed back to town the moment he’d learned what had happened.

  “Isn’t it great?” Paul was beaming as he slapped me on the back. “I bought it off Livingston’s estate. You wouldn’t believe how cheap I got it.”

  “Yes. I would.” I took a step closer. “But what is it doing here?”

  “I got a variance.” He readjusted a plastic peony in one of the trailer’s window boxes nearest the sidewalk.

  “A variance?” I scratched my head.

  “Yeah, I’m on the town planning commission. You remember.”

  “I do now. But you still haven’t answered my question, Paul. What is it doing here?” In front of my place of business. This was just too much déjà vu. Paul and I had met when he’d begun parking a dilapidated camper on this very spot.

  “I thought it would make a great promotional tool.” He pulled his cell phone from the front pocket of his blue jeans and snapped a quick picture of the birdhouse.

  “For promoting what? Giant red birdhouses to sell to the tourists?”

  “Very funny, Amy. For promoting you and me.” Paul threw his arms out. “Birds,” he said, pointing first to Birds & Bees. Then, moving his arm over to his place, he added, “and brews. Birds and Brews.”

  “No offense to the recently departed Mason Livingston, but it looks more like a giant funhouse.” That was Kim.

  “I don’t know,” Derek interjected. “It does have a certain kitsch factor, Amy.”

  “It was a dead man’s last home,” I retorted.

  “Yeah,” agreed Paul. “But he didn’t die inside it.”

  I shook my head. Surely the two of them had gone crazy. It was up to me to be the voice of reason. “And the town told you that you could just leave it sitting here on the street all the time?”

  Paul shook his head. “No, don’t worry. We’ll only park out here on Birds and Brews days. From six till ten in the evening. That’s the best the town would do. Believe me, I fought for more.”

  “I’d have fought for less.”

  Derek chuckled. He was dressed casually in cargo shorts and a black T-shirt.

  I leveled my eyes at him. “I hadn’t intended the comment as a joke.”

  “I’ve always thought it was kind of cute.” Kim ran a hand along its side.

  “Don’t worry, Amy,” Paul assured me. “The rest of the time we’ll park the trailer out back behind our shops.” He stroked the side of the birdhouse lovingly. “And the insurance on her is a lot less than you’d think.”

  What was it with men and things on wheels that so infatuated them? And why did they think of them as feminine? And how much money for insurance were we talking exactly?

  And why was he saying “we”?

  “I’m thinking of using it to sell beer, too. It will be a Brewer’s Biergarten on wheels. I can set it up at fairs and carnivals, street festivals.”

  “I have to admit, that’s not a bad idea, Paul.” If anything, it would keep Paul Anderson and the trailer far from my sight.

  “I knew you’d like it.” He looked past me to Derek. “Didn’t I tell you she’d like it?”

  “That you did.” Derek’s eyes went from Paul to me and back again. “But you forgot to tell her the best part.”

  My left brow went up. “There’s a best part?”

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.” Paul rubbed his hands together like he was trying to start a fire. “It’s half yours.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not.” I folded my arms firmly across my chest.

  Kim snorted and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Sure it is.” Paul pulled a receipt from his pocket. “I’ve got the receipt right here. See?”

  “I am not paying one nickel for a share of this thing.” I ignored Derek as he laughed behind me.

  “You don’t have to. Barbara already gave me your share of the money.” He turned to my mother who had joined us curbside and had an impish grin on her face. “Surprise!”

  My arms fell to my sides, and my eyes went to the legal-looking paper Paul held open before me. Sure enough, I owned one-half of a giant red birdhouse. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Derek had drafted the document himself.

  “My mother gave you money for this thing?”

  “Yeah, a check from your Birds and Bees business account. I’ve already deposited it in the bank. Your mom says she’s thinking of selling those Barbara’s Bird Bars of hers out of the trailer, too. Right, Mrs. Simms?”

  “I was thinking it might not be a bad idea.” Mom cast a hesitant look my way.

  “I think that’s a great idea, Mrs. Simms!” Paul rubbed his hands together. “You can sell your suet cakes out one window while I sell beer out the other.”

  “Did you know about this?” I asked Kim.

  Kim threw her hands in the air. “Not a word.”

  I wheeled on Derek. “What about you? Are you going to be offering legal advice from the back step?”

  Derek hooted. “Not a bad idea!”

  A black SUV lurched to a stop behind the giant birdhouse, one wheel hopped the curb. Lance Jennings from the Ruby Lake Weekender was behind the wheel. He cut the engine, climbed out, brushed himself off, and rushed over. A fancy camera dangled from his hand. “Hi, sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem,” said Paul.

  “Hello, Lance. What are you doing here?” I asked. He’d already been by yesterday afternoon for an interview with me about the murder and what had happened at Bookarama. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Lance turned my way. He was dressed in khakis and a navy polo shirt. “Hi, Amy. I’m not here for you. I’m here for this.” He pointed to
the trailer.

  Paul came between us. “I asked Lance to come by and take a picture of the trailer for the newspaper ad we’re going to run.”

  “Newspaper ad?” I goggled at them both.

  Lance bobbed his head as he began snapping photos, circling the giant birdhouse like it was an ostrich and he was on a photo safari in Africa. “There’s going to be a story, too.”

  Paul explained. “Lance is going to give us a write-up on the christening of the new Birds and Brewsmobile.” His eyes twinkled with delight.

  “Birds and Brewsmobile?” My mouth hung open.

  “Birds and Brewsmobile.” The beginnings of a smile passed Derek’s lips. “I like it, Paul.” He avoided looking at me.

  “It does have a certain ring to it,” added Mom, looking happy.

  I kept my opinion to myself. How could I rain on her parade?

  “Come on!” Esther stuck her head out of the truck’s driver side window and blew the horn.

  Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!

  Where had she come from? “Aren’t you supposed to be minding the store?”

  She ignored me and tooted the horn a second time.

  I shook my head. “Some assistant manager,” I muttered.

  Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!

  Oh, brother.

  Esther locked her hands around the steering wheel. “Let’s test her out!”

  I scurried over to her door. “Do you even have a driver’s license, Esther?”

  Esther pulled a face. “Sure, I’ve had it since sixty-seven.”

  “Was that the year when you were issued the license or your age at the time?”

  Esther thought a moment before saying rather uncertainly as she blinked at me through her failing eyes, “Both?”

  I yanked at the door handle. “Scoot over, I’m driving.”

  With luck, by the time I maneuvered this behemoth across town to the hospital, it would be visiting hours.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of J.R. Ripley’s next Bird Lover’s mystery

  CHICKADEE CHICKADEE BANG BANG

  coming soon!

  1

  “It says here,” read Kim, “that the black-capped chickadee is slightly larger and a tad brighter than the Carolina chickadee.” She had her nose in a well-worn copy of one of my birding field guides.

  “What good does that do us?” whispered Otelia, hovering nearby like a baby jay. “We have nothing to compare it to.” She cinched her light sweater tighter. A light, cool breeze had kicked up.

  Sally Potts snapped her chewing gum, and the little bird jumped to a farther branch. It was late September and leaves were beginning to fall from the trees, but there were still plenty of yellow-orange leaves on the maple to obscure our bird.

  “Shh.” I pressed a finger to my lips. The bird in question was the chickadee singing in the tree overhead, but I wasn’t sure yet which species it belonged to. “Go ahead and read some more, Kim,” I suggested softly.

  “Umm.”

  I watched for a moment as Kim’s eyes scanned the page, then lifted my binoculars and trained them once more on the small chickadee.

  Chickadee-dee-dee! The bird extended its neck and shook itself briskly after singing its signature song—a sure sign that we were spooking it.

  John Moytoy, a Ruby Lake librarian, lowered his binoculars and rubbed the bridge of his nose where his eyeglasses hit. “The Cherokee called it tsikilili because of the sound it makes.” John is well versed in the Cherokee heritage, being of Cherokee descent himself. He has jet black hair and is cherubic in body and spirit. He’d been letting his hair grow out, and it was now long enough that he sported a ponytail.

  “Thanks, John,” I said. “Like many other animals, numerous birds are commonly named for the sounds they produce such as cuckoos and bobolinks.”

  “And whip-poor-wills, right?” That was Tiffany LaChance. Tiff works as waitress at Ruby’s Diner. She’s a buxom blonde, who is very easy on the eyes. Hers are green. She was a few years older than me but had already been married and had a child. She had been wedded to Robert LaChance, but I didn’t hold it against her because they were divorced now. Robert and I have had our differences. Tiffany and her eleven-year-old son lived in a condo by the lake.

  “Good example,” I whispered. Tiff wasn’t one of my regulars, so it was especially nice to see her join us.

  Kim cleared her throat. “It also says that the black-capped chickadee has a larger area of white behind their, um, aur-auriculars.” Kim paused and shot me a questioning look. She’s a long-legged, blue-eyed blonde who can eat any amount of food and get away with it, as evidenced by the tight jeans hugging her hips. Life really wasn’t fair.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Go on.” Kim and I were both in our mid-thirties. The blue eyes were practically all we had in common physically. On a good day, I was a tad heavier than her—a tad being measured in five-pound increments—but I also had an inch on her heightwise. While Kim often goaded me to dye my hair blond like hers, I was sticking with the chestnut brown I’d been born with.

  Kim took a sip from her water bottle, then read a little more. “The Carolina chickadee’s auriculars are more grayish.” She closed the book and looked up into the maple.

  “What the heck is an auricular?” Karl scratched the side of his head and pushed his thick black-rimmed eyeglasses back up his nose for the hundredth time since our in-town bird walk had begun. He owned an ancient pair of binoculars that he’d had since his younger days. The weight of them strapped around his neck threatened to bring him to his knees.

  “The area around the ears,” I replied. “That’s the name for the feathers that cover their ears.”

  The four-inch gray, white, and black bird hopped to yet a higher branch. The black-capped chickadee and the Carolina chickadee share a territory, and their markings are quite similar, making them difficult to differentiate. The fact that they sometimes interbred made it near impossible to distinguish such birds with the naked eye.

  “Like a covert?” Floyd asked.

  “Exactly.” I smiled. “In fact, they are also called coverts because they protect the ears.”

  Floyd had once told me that in his younger days he had been a duck hunter, so I wasn’t surprised to see that he was familiar with the coverts that hunters often used in the field. I was glad he’d given up shooting ducks—not only for the ducks’ sake. Floyd’s eyesight wasn’t the best. He occasionally mistook branches and even rocks for birds.

  “So what do we think? Black-capped or Carolina?”

  “I vote black-capped,” answered Kim. She stuck her water bottle back in its holder attached to her waist belt.

  “I vote Carolina,” countered Sally Potts. Sally’s a slender woman with red hair and sharp green eyes.

  “I vote lunch,” came Steve Dykstra’s reply. Steve was also new to our group. He’d come into the store once or twice for birdseed, and when he saw the sign on the chalkboard announcing our next walk, he had asked to sign up. Steve had been mentioning lunch ever since we’d met up after breakfast.

  “I’m thinking Carolina myself,” I said, studying the little bird closely and ignoring the digressions that always seemed to pop up on these walks.

  “Look at that beauty.” Karl whistled. “White with teal accents.”

  “Where?” I turned and followed the line of his binoculars. “I don’t see anything.”

  There was too much traffic. My little birding group and I were on a birding-in-the-city walk and had stopped at the Town of Ruby Lake’s spacious town square to observe the large variety of birds that could normally be found there.

  People who weren’t into birding didn’t realize how many interesting species lived in an urban setting—though urban was generous when describing our modest town nestled among the Carolina foothills.

  I moved my binoculars back and forth. Could Karl have possibly seen a blue-winged teal? The ducks were rare to this part of western North Carolina, but it wouldn’t be impossible to
see one—especially with the lake being so near. And with the fall, we would get our share of migrators.

  “Right there!” Karl said loudly. “Heading east. You can see its rear end!”

  “I can’t see anything,” complained Otelia Newsome, a fiftyish brunette with a beehive hairdo. She owns a local chocolate shop that I’m drawn to like a bee to nectar.

  “Me either.” That was Kim.

  I refocused my binoculars on an elm across the road.

  Karl lowered his glasses. “It’s gone now. Turned the corner. What do you think, Floyd?” asked Karl. “Was that a fifty-seven Chevy or maybe a Pontiac?”

  I lowered my glasses and gaped at Karl. “What?”

  “That was no Star Chief,” Floyd said, lowering his own glasses and wiping the eye pieces with the corner of his shirt—something I’d warned him a hundred times would only scratch them. “Didn’t you see those taillights? Definitely a fifty-seven Chevy Bel Air. Man, what a beauty.”

  “You guys were looking at a car?” I shook my finger at Floyd and Karl. “We’re supposed to be bird-watching.”

  “Yeah, but not just any car, Amy,” explained Karl. “That was a fifty-seven Bel Air.”

  The corner of my lip turned down. “So I heard. Can we get back to bird-watching now, do you suppose?” I asked with a smile.

  Karl nodded sheepishly.

  Floyd nudged Karl and said in a stage whisper, “That car’s not from around here. I’ll bet it’s in town for the car show.”

  The car show in question was part of an upcoming annual event. Among the myriad special events the Town of Ruby Lake helps organize, each fall we host the Ruby Lake Fall Festival. It’s held the first weekend after the fall equinox. The fall festival features a number of popular events, including a classic-car-and-tractor show and a baking competition. The local residents enjoy it, the tourists come from miles around, and the merchants love what it does for their bottom lines.

  I was hoping it might do the same for mine, though I wasn’t sure I could count on an uptick in my bird store traffic from fans of classic automobiles and farm equipment or even baking. But you never know, so I was participating like most every other business owner in town. Kim had suggested we bake up a couple dozen mock four and twenty blackbird pies. But considering we ran a shop catering to birders, it seemed a bit tasteless to me. No pun intended.