Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  “Bad bird,” I said, waving my hand at his beak.

  “Go ahead, make my day,” he rasped. Eerie, how much he sounded like Clint Eastwood. I soon felt the telltale warmth of bird poop dripping down my back, so I put the annoying little mimic back in his cage and changed into a clean T-shirt.

  That left me pretty much alone and friendless, but I didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself. I still had Milton Palmer’s home phone number, so I decided to call the Palmers and see if Arnetta would talk to me. Penny answered. I asked how her father was feeling, and after being assured he was doing well, I asked to speak with her mother.

  Arnetta came on the line. “Aimee, I’m glad you called,” she said. “Penny explained how kind you were to her when the police were harassing Milton.”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “Have the police bothered any of you again?”

  “No. They’ve determined Milton is no longer a person of interest—I think that’s how they say it. Neither am I for that matter.”

  “That’s wonderful.” I couldn’t force much enthusiasm into my words.

  “I suppose you’re calling about my deception.”

  “Deception?” She lost me for a moment, then I realized what she meant. “You mean our ballet date?”

  “Yes. Penny told me she explained my situation, but I still feel I owe you an apology.”

  I laughed. “To tell you the truth, you were the best date I’ve had in months.”

  “Then you’re not angry?”

  I assured her I wasn’t, but I took advantage of her eagerness to make amends.

  “Arnie … I mean, Mrs. Palmer, I called because I need to ask for a favor.”

  “Certainly. And please call me Netta. I’ve had enough of Arnie. What’s the favor?”

  “It’s not easy to explain.”

  “Then let me treat you to lunch. The phone is so impersonal.”

  It turned out the Palmers lived on a two-acre ranchette not far from Jack and Amah’s property. We agreed to meet in an hour at the Four Corners Pizza Parlor, which split the distance between us. I showered, slipped on a clean pair of jeans, and pulled my hair back in a ponytail.

  Arnetta and I reached the parking lot at the same time. She waved and came over to my car wearing white slacks and a ruffled pink blouse. Her hair was highlighted and tousled in stylish curls, and silver hoop earrings hung from her ears. As a woman, she was every bit as attractive as she had been as a man. Next to her, I could have passed for an orphaned refugee.

  We walked into the pizza parlor together, found a clean table and ordered beers. I showed my ID, and we eventually got served. I stared at her face as it morphed back and forth between Arnie and Netta. She had the kind of androgynous beauty that made actors like Johnny Depp so fascinating.

  “It takes a while, but you’ll get used to it,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”

  “No. You’re adjusting to a new reality.” She took a sip of her beer.

  I took a hefty swallow of mine. “I should explain why I wanted to talk to you. It’s rather complicated, but I think you can help me.”

  “I’ll try. What is it you need?”

  “A friend of mine is in trouble, and I think Lorraine Beardsley can help. I’d like to talk to her, but I don’t have her phone number. It’s unlisted, and she’s getting ready for her wedding and all. I thought you might be able to arrange something.”

  “And why do you think I have her number?”

  “You were lunching with her at Stone Soup. The two of you seemed friendly, even though you acted as if you’d never met when we were introduced at the ballet.”

  My observation evoked a wry smile from Netta. “That was for Maybelline Black’s benefit. She doesn’t know about my gender change experiment, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I understand completely. How do you happen to know Maybelline?”

  “I met her once in the pre-Bonnie days, when Milton and I attended a TMC volunteers’ fundraiser at the Beardsleys’ home. Fortunately, she didn’t recognize me at the ballet. I hope you’ll keep my secret.”

  “Don’t worry. I’d pluck my eyes out before I’d give you away to Maybelline.”

  Netta responded with a throaty laugh. “Apparently Maybelline has been a loyal TMC volunteer for years. She’s particularly fond of Vane, so Lorraine made an effort to befriend her. I don’t know how she found the patience.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Netta gave me a sympathetic look. “I suppose you’re stuck with her now.”

  “Twice a week,” I conceded. “She takes some getting used to. I can understand why you didn’t want her to know you were Arnie. She’s not good at keeping secrets.”

  “Thank heavens Lorraine is. She’s known all along, and she’s been fully supportive. We’re members of a very exclusive club, you know.”

  “Victims of Bonnie Beardsley?”

  “We prefer the term ‘survivors.’ ”

  “Do you have other members?”

  “I’m sure Bonnie preyed on any number of married men, but Lorraine and I are the only wives in Timbergate who have been humiliated so publicly by the late Mrs. Beardsley.”

  “But you both survived; she didn’t.”

  “True. And neither of us is a suspect in the case, so we’re free to get on with our lives.”

  “Lorraine has been cleared, too?”

  “She and Troy were eliminated early on. She thinks the police have a promising suspect.”

  My heart sank.

  “We’re hoping it isn’t Vane,” she continued. “He’s such a hopeless romantic. He actually thought Bonnie was in love with him.”

  “He seems to be handling it well enough.”

  “Lorraine has talked to him. Apparently he’s confident the real killer will be found. Meanwhile, he’s already beginning to appreciate his new single status.”

  “Sounds like everyone benefited except Bonnie.”

  “Sad, but true,” Netta agreed.

  “You almost sound sorry for the woman who broke up your marriage.”

  “I am, actually. I’ll tell you a little secret. You’re not the only woman Arnie met at the museum.”

  My whole body tingled as if I’d put my finger in a socket, but I managed a cool, “What do you mean?”

  “I—Arnie, I should say—spotted Bonnie at the museum one day, just a couple weeks before she died. I suppose it was morbid curiosity, but I struck up a conversation with her. I thought if I was really meant to be a man, some part of me would respond to her so-called irresistible sexuality.”

  “How did that work out?”

  “She flirted, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. It was pathetic, really, as if she were set on autopilot to seduce any man she met. She obviously wasn’t saving her love for Vane Beardsley. I took her number, told her I’d call, then left, wishing there was some way to save her from herself.”

  If she was telling the truth, “Arnie” Palmer had flirted with Bonnie, but according to her, at least, her behavior did not constitute stalking.

  “And you never saw her again?”

  “No. I’d done what I needed to do about Bonnie. Closure, if you’ll pardon an overused term.”

  “You and your husband are back together, and Lorraine Beardsley is marrying a great guy. The survivors are thriving.”

  “True. Lorraine and Troy are blissfully happy. As for me, I’m luckier than most people with gender confusion. I let myself be influenced by a well-meaning but biased therapist. Ironically, what I’ve been through did help me find myself. I know who I am now. I love Milton, and I want to be his woman, his wife.” Netta studied her pearl-polished nails for a moment. “You know, anyone who thinks the opposite sex has it easier should try it for a while. That goes for both genders. A little give and take could go a long way in most relationships.”

  For some reason, that reminded me of the Underhills. “There’s one other thing I wanted to ask you. I
t’s about the couple we met at the ballet. The Underhills.”

  “The people who are cloning your llama? What about them?”

  “I’m not really having it cloned. That was a fiction.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Considering my own situation, I try to allow people their eccentricities, but that surprised me. You seem so normal.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But about the Underhills. How well do you know them?”

  “Milton and I have been at social functions occasionally where they’ve appeared. Of course that was a few years ago, before we separated. When I saw them at the ballet, I was curious whether they’d recognize me, so I struck up a conversation while you were in the powder room.”

  “Do you think they did recognize you?”

  “No. Willow was undressing me with her eyes. Wouldn’t she have been surprised? And by the way, I was serious about their reputation. If they ever invite you to spend time with them, run like hell in the other direction.”

  “Sounds like good advice.” Too bad I was about to do the opposite.

  Netta swallowed the last of her beer. “I’d better get back. Milton still needs a lot of looking after.” She took a pen from her purse and wrote on a napkin. “Here’s Lorraine’s private number. I’ll call her to pave the way as soon as I get home. She’s the salt of the earth. If she can help your friend, I’m sure she will.”

  We hugged goodbye and promised to keep in touch. After she left, I sat staring at the phone number, torn between heading home and ordering another beer. I started toward the counter and heard a man say, “Gimme a beer” in a horribly familiar croak. I was standing directly behind Orrie Mercer.

  I did an about-face and sped out the door. Mercer was the last person I wanted to run into on a day off. It was bad enough I had to see him every day at work. The way my luck was going, Maybelline’s disagreeable beau would turn out to be one of Jack and Amah’s neighbors.

  There were two messages waiting on my machine at home, but I didn’t listen to them. Instead, I waited fifteen minutes, then called the number Netta had given me, hoping Lorraine had already been told to expect my call.

  A man answered. A household employee, I guessed. I gave him my name and said Mrs. Beardsley was expecting my call, that I was a friend of Arnetta Palmer.

  “Right, I’m Troy Bilkowsky,” the man said. “We met at the ballet. I just got off the phone with Netta Palmer. She said you’d be calling. I’m afraid Lorraine isn’t here.”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “Not until Thursday. She’s visiting family out of state.”

  “Her daughter?” I figured it was worth a shot. He had said out of state.

  “Daughter? No, she has no children. Her father is quite ill, so her parents can’t travel out here for the wedding. She went to New York to spend a few days with them. After the wedding this Friday, we’ll be abroad for several months.”

  Bad news.

  “I’m sure this sounds like an imposition, but it’s extremely important that I talk with her. Does she have a cellphone number I could call?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give out her number. She asked not to be disturbed.”

  “She won’t be home until Thursday?”

  “That’s right. If you’ll tell me what this is about, I’ll see what I can do when I talk to her this evening.”

  “Please, just tell her I called and give her my number. Ask her to call me as soon as she can.”

  Chapter 29

  With that out of the way, I checked the first of my two messages. It was Harry, sounding inappropriately upbeat. “Hi, Sis. Don’t call Mom and Dad until you call me first. Call my cell. I’m at the job site.”

  My other message was from Mom in the Azores. “Hi, honey. We miss you. Call us. We want to hear about your new job at the hospital.” Oh, boy.

  I called Harry. As soon as he picked up I said, “What’s going on?”

  “Have you talked to Mom and Dad?”

  “No, I got your message first. Have you talked to them?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mention this Beardsley thing. Aimee, I don’t know how much longer we can keep it from them. The Azores aren’t that backward. At least Faial isn’t. Mom says the yacht club in Horta has a cyber bar now.”

  “Darn, I keep thinking they’re out of touch with the world.”

  “So do Mom and Dad, and except for talking to us once a week, they prefer it that way.”

  “They’re going to hear about all this anyhow, as soon as Amah and Jack get home.”

  “When’s that?” Harry asked.

  “I’m guessing Saturday.”

  “Almost a week.” I could hear the wheels spinning in Harry’s brain. “Abe thinks he can keep DA Keefer off my back for a while. We can do a lot by Saturday.” Harry, ever the cockeyed optimist.

  “I won’t say anything to Mom and Dad before Saturday.”

  “Okay. By then Bonnie’s real killer should be in jail. Considering the number of registered sex offenders in this area, I can’t believe they’re wasting all this effort on me.”

  “I can. Marco hates you.”

  “That reminds me. Is Tango keeping his distance?”

  “As far as I can tell. I honestly haven’t had time to worry about him.”

  “Keep your eyes open. If he gets anywhere near you, I want to hear about it.”

  “You will. Anything else while you’re giving orders?”

  “Yeah, Nick told me about the lead you two brought back from Larkspur. He said you promised you wouldn’t snoop around on your own again.”

  “Nick and I are working on it together.”

  “Good. I love you, Sis. Hang tough.” I nearly choked on the lump in my throat. He never said stuff like that.

  “I will,” I whispered.

  Working with Nick involved my making a call to Grover and Willow Underhill. Willow had given me their Everlasting Pets business card at the ballet. I searched through my purse and found it in the bottom stuck to a Snickers wrapper.

  The face of the card was crowded with hot pink embossed lettering and a sketch of what appeared to be a poodle romping in some sort of doggy heaven. In the bottom right corner, I noticed an arrow drawn in green ink. I flipped the card and read the hand-written message. Call 530-555-4FUN.

  This was a call that required false courage. I checked the fridge. No wine, no beer, no nothing. I needed to go shopping. I taped the Everlasting Pets card to the door of the fridge. The Underhills could wait a little longer. I drove to the market.

  When I returned, I stashed my groceries and checked messages again. Only one, and it was from Nick, nagging me to call the Underhills and try for the next night. With a twinge of guilt, I thought about the call from Mom. I had put off calling back, and now they’d be asleep.

  I opened my newly purchased bottle of Chardonnay and poured a hefty helping into an old juice glass decorated with a sketch of a rooster. When I raised it to my lips, my stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the brie and crackers with Nick on the yacht. I’d skipped breakfast, and lunch had been a beer with Netta Palmer.

  I would need my wits about me when I called the Underhills, so I set aside my wine glass and surveyed my new purchases. Cooking would take too long. I was tired of kettle corn, so I settled for apple slices and Triscuits spread with peanut butter. Bosco perked up when he saw me sitting at the table with my snacks, then fluttered and squawked until I gave in. I made sure Fanny was outside, then opened the cage and let the bird join me at the table. My rosy-cheeked dinner date pranced around on his little claws, pecking at Triscuit crumbs and bits of apple while I polished off my feast.

  I was almost finished when my phone rang. No doubt it would be Nick hounding me about the Underhills, so I let it ring. When my machine picked up, he left a terse message: “Quit stalling.”

  I cursed the machine but made the call. Willow answered. “Underhill residence, Willow speaking.”

  “Hello, Willow, this is Aimee Machad
o. With the llama? I hope you don’t mind my calling your private number. It was on the card you gave me at the ballet.”

  “Of course not. I’m thrilled to hear from you. Are you still seeing that lovely man we met at the ballet?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s involved with someone else.”

  “I see,” she said. “Then you’re unattached at the moment?”

  “Not exactly. I made up with my ex-boyfriend. I told him about you and Grover, and he thought it might be fun to get together.”

  She made a breathy “Ahhhh” sound. I heard her whisper, “Grover, pick up.” A muted click told me I had two fish on the line.

  “What’s your boyfriend like?” Willow asked.

  “He looks a little like Robert Redford did thirty-five years ago. Did you ever see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

  “Yes, but I never can recall which was which.”

  “Redford was the blond one, Sundance. That’s what I call Nick when we’re feeling playful.”

  “Oh,” Willow sighed. “And what does he call you?” I heard breathing on the extension.

  I spouted the first thing that came to mind. “He calls me Princess Moonbeam.”

  “I get it,” Willow said. “He’s the sun and you’re the moon. That’s quite clever.”

  “Thank you.” I wished I had thought of it. I made a mental note to tell Nick about our new terms of endearment.

  “Grover and I call each other—”

  I dropped the phone at that point. I wasn’t about to hear what Mr. and Mrs. Disgusting called each other in the throes of passion.

  “Oops, sorry, dropped it,” I said, then rushed on. “So anyway, Nick and I were wondering if you two are free tomorrow night.”

  “It so happens we are. What did you have in mind?”

  “Tell you what, now that I know you’re available, I’ll run it by Sundance and get back to you.”

  “When?” Willow asked.

  “Suppose I get back to you tonight? No later than ten.”

  “Lovely, just lovely.” Her eagerness would have been flattering if the circumstances hadn’t been so revolting.

  I put Bosco back in his cage and then called Nick and ran the conversation by him. He suggested we meet them for dinner at Chez Philippe, Timbergate’s most elegant restaurant.