Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  I pursed my lips in the mirror, doing my best to imitate a haughty French woman, and frowned.

  Let’s face it. I was a wreck. And no amount of lip gloss was going to help the situation.

  I yanked down on the sleeves of my faux-wrap blue jersey V-neck blouse in a vain attempt to combat the cold. I’d left the store without even thinking to ask Officer Sutton to let me grab my coat. March in Ruby Lake was not the time of year to be running around in a flimsy shirt, especially after dark.

  I yawned for the umpteenth time. Then again, it was no wonder I looked and felt the way I did. I’d been up half the night here at the police station while Ruby Lake’s finest did their best to confound and confuse me.

  I frowned at myself. They’d managed to do a pretty good job of it so far, too. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe it was knowing a man had been murdered in my house-slash-business. Maybe it was wondering if I was going to end up charged with murder and, if I wasn’t, if I’d be allowed to open Birds & Bees as scheduled.

  Would the police keep the store locked up and off-limits as a murder scene? If so, all my business plans would go up in smoke.

  And where would Mom and I sleep? We lived in that same house. Esther the Pester lived in that same house. Would we all be out on the street? Would Mom and I be sharing a Dumpster with Esther? Could I keep collecting her rent?

  The prison guard assigned to make sure I didn’t make a daring escape from the ladies’ room was waiting for me when I came out. Okay, so she wasn’t a mean-eyed, mean-faced prison guard with an itchy trigger finger. She was Anita Brown, the department’s middle-aged nighttime dispatcher and part-time home-based pastry chef. She could be pretty mean if you beat her at pinochle. At least, that’s what Mom told me.

  Mom loves her pinochle. I didn’t understand the game at all, though my mother tried to explain the ins and outs of the card game to me on multiple occasions. I didn’t get it and I couldn’t help it. Every time she starts describing something called melds my mind turns to images of Mr. Spock and his Vulcan mind-melds, and everything else just turns to mush and gibberish after that.

  Mom was waiting for me too, dressed for a night on the town in a pair of wide-legged black slacks with a black-and-white, horizontal stripe wool sweater. There was no sign of her friend Cheryl Harper, the woman Esther claimed she’d gone to the movies with. Instead, a sixtyish man, black-and-silver hair swept regally back over his head, stood at her side. One hand rested on her elbow. Had Mom been out on a date? Without telling me? His nose looked like it belonged on an old Roman coin.

  He wore a brown suit and he extracted a business card from the inside pocket of the loose-fitting jacket. Chief Kennedy took one look at the card and dropped it on his desk. “I know who you are, Mr. Harlan.”

  It was a small office, no more than a couple hundred square feet with several desks scattered about, and with absolutely no sense of style at all. These guys could use a feng shui session. They could also use a vacuum cleaner. The view looking out on Barwick Street was barely visible because there were filing cabinets blocking half the windows. The dented and rust-pitted file cabinets were themselves topped with stacks of sun-yellowed and dust-covered folders and drooping potted plants.

  Officer Dan Sutton sat back in a simple wood chair propped against the side wall with his hat down over his eyes. I didn’t know if he was simply bored or snoozing.

  Mom shoved past Jerry Kennedy’s desk and raced to my side. “Amy!” she cried, pulling on my arms. “Are you all right, dear? I came as soon as I heard.” She looked over her shoulder. “Well, as soon as I heard and could get hold of Mr. Harlan.” She wiggled her fingers at the gentleman.

  My brow wrinkled and I whispered close to her ear, “Just who exactly is Mr. Harlan?”

  “He’s your attorney, dear.” Mom fluffed her blond bob. She was a brunette like me, but had been dyeing her locks for a number of years in an attempt to hide the gray that she says she caught from me. I’m not convinced mothers can “catch” gray hair from their teenage daughters, but I wasn’t about to argue the point with her. She’d only accuse me of giving her yet another strand or two of gray hair. And I thought the hair color and style made her look more like I imagined actress Jenny McCarthy’s mom would look than mine.

  I stiffened. “My attorney?” My eyes bounced from the elegant-looking Mr. Harlan to the inelegant-looking Jerry Kennedy. “Do I need an attorney?” I confess I was somewhat relieved he wasn’t her date, but less happy to think I actually needed an attorney.

  There was a lone cell in the far corner, currently occupied by one forlorn and disheveled young man with an acne-scarred face who watched us dejectedly. I couldn’t blame him since the cell had no TV. I prayed I wasn’t about to become his roommate.

  Heck, I’d rather room outside in the Dumpster with Esther the Pester.

  I noticed a hint of trouble in Mom’s blue eyes. Had I missed something while I was freshening up in the restroom?

  “Jerry here—”

  “Chief Kennedy,” Jerry said rather wearily, and I sensed a tone of defeat in his voice. Maybe that was because he’d suffered through two years of school with Mom as his high school science teacher. Mom’s retired now, but she’d seen his grades, knew his study habits and at least some of the secrets in his teenage closet. He’d get no respect from her.

  Mom rolled her eyes dramatically and continued. “Jerry seems to think you had something to do with the murder of that poor man at our house.” Mom dragged me past Chief Kennedy’s desk toward Mr. Harlan. “Mr. Harlan is here to protect you from getting arrested.”

  Jerry scowled and his cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk’s, as they always did in such circumstances—like when I’d rebuffed his teenage hormone-induced urges back in eleventh grade. “I never said Amy was under arrest, Mrs. Simms.”

  Mr. Harlan stuck out a brown and weathered hand. “Ben Harlan. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Simms.”

  He handed me a business card. Mr. Harlan seemed to have a never-ending supply. I rolled it over in my hand and slid it into the pocket of my butterscotch corduroys.

  “Are you saying Ms. Simms is free to leave, Chief?”

  Chief Kennedy nodded. His chin rested on his fists. His elbows were anchored to his desk. “Yeah, but I’m going to want to have a word with you in the morning. There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “Are we free to return to Birds and Bees?” I asked with trepidation.

  Chief Kennedy thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Just so long as you stay away from the crime scene. We might have missed something. I may have to call in the boys from state and have them take a look too.”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere near the crime scene, Jer—Chief Kennedy,” I replied.

  “Where’s your coat?” Mom asked, hustling me toward the door. Maybe she was afraid Jerry would change his mind and lock me up.

  “At the house.” On the counter where I draped it while waiting for the cops to arrive.

  Mom grabbed her charcoal peacoat from the hook and threw it over my shoulders. “See you Sunday, Anita?” Sunday’s their standing pinochle game.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Anita Brown answered with a smile and a wave. “I count on beating you for my weekly lunch money.”

  Mr. Harlan held the door. “I trust you will keep me informed over the course of your investigation, Chief Kennedy.”

  Jerry waved his hand halfheartedly. I didn’t know if that meant yes or no, and I didn’t care. Surely, I couldn’t need a lawyer. I hadn’t done anything wrong. He pointed a finger at me. “I mean it, Amy. Stay out of that storeroom until I give you the all clear.”

  I nodded. Boswell may have been mistaken when he quoted Samuel Johnson as saying the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but that didn’t make the aphorism any less true.

  4

  There was no telltale light leaking from the crack between Esther Pilaster’s door and the floor. She was probably sleeping. I turned on the hal
l light and stared at the crime scene tape that did its best to block entry to the storeroom.

  Now a crime scene.

  Mom had already gone upstairs to bed. I knew I’d told the police I’d stay far away from the storeroom, but I wanted to see the scene of the crime one last time. It was mere hours till morning anyway, and I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep a wink. There was black powder all over the floor and a darker stain where I suspected the dead man’s head had lain. Recognizing what that stain represented, I instantly regretted my decision to revisit the scene.

  Funny to think a man had been murdered here in this quaint Victorian house. It seemed such an uncivilized thing to do. We should be drinking tea and talking about flowers and birds. Not knocking each other in the head with birdfeeder hooks. After which, the only talk of flowers would be what floral arrangement to lay atop the deceased’s grave.

  I yawned and trudged up to our private apartment. Mom’s door was closed. In a few minutes, my eyes were too.

  * * *

  I woke to the smell of coffee. There’s no better way to wake up. I sucked in the life-giving aroma, then remembered the horror of the night before. I glanced at my bedside clock. Somehow I’d managed to get a solid four hours’ sleep.

  Thankfully, the rats or mice or squirrels or whatever critters were partying in the attic had taken the night off for once. I’d hire a critter wrangler to rid me of them if I had the money to spare, but the business was taking all I had and more. Soon, the weather would be warm enough that whatever had found shelter in my attic would return to a life out of doors. Hopefully, I could get the attic checked out and sealed properly before next winter’s infestation.

  I found Mom in our small yet well-appointed kitchen.

  “Jerry’s waiting for you downstairs,” she said.

  I grabbed a mug and poured a cup of coffee. My hand was shaking, which only made me mad. Mad at myself. “What do I care,” I snapped, “if Jerry Kennedy’s waiting for me?”

  From the small kitchen I could see the edge of Ruby Lake; a very light chop kept the surface churning. That meant a cold wind was sweeping across the lake from the mountains to the west. A Carolina chickadee scrabbled along the gnarled limbs of a red oak in the yard, probably in search of insects.

  Mom twisted her head to look at me. One hand clutched the spatula she was using to push eggs around the cast-iron skillet. “What?” She was still in her pale blue housecoat and slippers. I was in my flannel pj’s with the pink piglets on them.

  “Sorry.” I blew my lips over the coffee. “Guess I’d better go see what he wants and get this over with.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “What about breakfast?”

  “It’ll have to wait,” I said, though my stomach disagreed with the decision.

  “Maybe you should wait until I call Ben Harlan.” Mom wiped her hands on her frilly apron and reached for the phone on the wall. Mom had to be just about the last person on the planet who insisted on a landline.

  I rested my hand atop hers. “That won’t be necessary. I can handle Jerry Kennedy.” Though I still couldn’t get used to the idea of seeing him in an official law enforcement uniform. I would never have expected to see him dressed like a policeman unless it was for Halloween. Even then, he’d have been more likely perpetrating tricks rather than gathering treats.

  I returned to my room and pulled on a pair of jeans and threw a navy blue cable-knit sweater over my head, then headed downstairs feeling a lot less confident than I talked. Besides, as a kid, Jerry had had a habit of sticking his fingers where they didn’t belong. I didn’t want him making a shambles of my business before I’d even had the chance to open my doors to customers.

  “Got any more of that?” Jerry stood behind my sales counter peering at my register. I noticed he was wearing latex gloves.

  “What?”

  Jerry gestured in my direction. It took a second for it to sink in that he was talking about the coffee mug in my left hand. “There’s none in the pot.”

  I frowned. Maybe I should be opening a coffee shop rather than a bird store. “I’ll put some on.” I went to the corner and grudgingly rinsed out the pot. The remains of last night’s brew had stuck to the bottom of the carafe. I’d probably forgotten to turn the pot off last night. I’d had more important things to think about, like a dead man on the second floor and my own possible incarceration. Thankfully, the machine was on a timer and had turned itself off eventually, leaving nothing but a sticky coffee residue.

  A few minutes later, I set a mug of fresh coffee on the sales counter.

  “You sure nothing’s missing from the till?”

  I shook my head. “We aren’t even open yet. There wasn’t anything in the till to take.”

  Jerry, Chief Kennedy—it was going to be hard to think of him as representing the law—looked around the room. There was no sign of a break-in. “You said the front door was unlocked?”

  “That’s right.” I’d explained all this the night before. Though the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I had locked up before I left. That meant either Esther had unlocked it and not locked up afterward or somebody else had picked the lock.

  Jerry Kennedy nodded between sips of coffee. “And nothing else was stolen?”

  I nodded once more. Again, we’d been over this a hundred times. “Look around,” I said, waving a hand. “There’s not a whole lot here to steal.”

  Jerry grinned. “Yeah, who’d bust into a store to steal a bunch of birdseed, let alone murder a man over it?”

  I ignored the insult that I was sure was buried in that sentence. “Did you get any fingerprints off the door?” Like maybe matching those of the dead man.

  “Only yours.”

  Great. “Any idea who the dead man is—was—yet?”

  Jerry pulled in his lips. “We’re working on it.” He helped himself to a refill. “You sure you’d never seen him before?”

  “Never.” Though the way he was lying there, I’d only seen half his face. I grabbed a few of the Aaron Maddley bluebird houses off the counter and arranged them on a shelf facing the front door. I forced myself to think about something more pleasant. The best way to take my mind off something I didn’t like was to keep busy.

  So I did.

  I tapped my fingernail against my teeth. I’d have to make up a sign to hang from the shelf explaining that the birdhouses were locally handcrafted. Tourists love to buy things local to the area they are visiting. I’m that way myself—like the orchid throw or the cheesy kitchen magnet I’d brought back from Dollywood in Pigeon Forge. And with the mountains and the lake, the town of Ruby Lake gets its fair share of tourists, winter, spring, summer, and fall.

  I dragged a forty-pound sack of black oil sunflower seeds toward the bins that lined the bottom half of the side wall between the sales counter and the front of the shop.

  “So who was this guy then?” Chief Kennedy peeled off his gloves and scratched his forehead. “And what was he doing in your house?”

  By guy, I supposed he meant dead man. I looked up from my chore. I was scooping sunflower seeds into one of the glass-fronted bins. I’d always enjoyed the soft rustling noise that falling unshelled sunflower seeds make. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me that?” I pushed the big green scoop into the bag. “It is your job.”

  “I have my theories.” Jerry Kennedy sounded rather cryptic.

  “Such as?” I grunted as I lugged the twenty-five-pound bag of shelled peanuts over to the bins. Manhandling all these heavy sacks was a bother but buying in bulk saved me a bundle. Chief Kennedy hadn’t offered to help, but that was okay by me. I would have refused anyway. I began filling another bin with peanuts.

  Chief Kennedy hitched up his pants. “A crime of opportunity would be my guess.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Crime of opportunity?”

  “Yep.” Jerry reached into the bin and helped himself to a handful of peanuts. “You said yourself the front door was open. Our victim
walks in, probably intent on robbing the place, and ends up dead.”

  “Yeah,” I said, snapping the lid of the bin down before he ate up all the profits, “but how do you explain the dead part? Did he turn despondent on discovering I have nothing worth stealing and whack himself in the head with a wrought-iron birdfeeder pole?”

  “Or you caught him, grabbed the first thing handy,” speculated Chief Kennedy, “and whacked him in the head with said birdfeeder pole.” He blinked. “As I recall, you were on the girls’ softball team all through middle school and high school.”

  “Oh, please, you know I never could hit anything.” I was a terrible hitter with a team record-low batting average. I had been a pretty good outfielder though.

  Chief Kennedy shrugged.

  I felt a head of steam rising behind my eyes. “I wasn’t even here.”

  His eyes danced. “So you say.”

  “Like I told you before, I was picking up birdhouses. These birdhouses,” I said, grabbing one off the shelf and shaking it. “Ask Aaron Maddley.” Like I’d demanded last night.

  “I plan on it,” Chief Kennedy replied.

  “Shouldn’t you have done it already?” Then he’d know I was innocent. “It’s not like there are a lot of crimes to go investigating in Ruby Lake.” Especially outside of peak tourist season when we had a few more minor offenses due to the influx of people. Nothing too serious: public intoxication, speeding on the lake—small stuff for a top lawman like our Jerry Kennedy.

  The chief hitched up his trousers. “Had a break-in at the hardware store a few nights back. Caught the perp quick too. If I do say so myself.” He wriggled his jawbone. “Though he disposed of the stolen goods before we caught up with him. Probably stashed them someplace around here.”

  “Congratulations,” I said as drily as possible. “I still don’t see what’s stopping you or one of your men from talking to Mr. Maddley.”