Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  And he was something, all right. A jerk. I couldn’t wait to get Matt’s murder behind me and get Derek out of my life.

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding out from under his hand. The man was slimier than a state fair deep-fried stick of butter. “How’s Kim?” Derek Harlan had gone down to the station to look after Kim at my and my mother’s request.

  Derek unbuttoned his peacoat. “She’s fine. Chief Kennedy harangued her for an hour or more, then let her go.”

  “That’s good.” I offered Mr. Harlan some coffee and helped myself to a cup. “I tried telephoning Kim several times last night and all my calls went to her voicemail.”

  Derek fell into one of the rockers and rested his cup on his knee. “Guess she wanted some alone time. I’ve got to say, it doesn’t look good that she lied about not being in town the night of the murder.” He scraped his lower lip. “Especially in light of her history with the guy.”

  “Wait a minute.” I gasped, nearly spilling my mug. This was expensive stuff, too. I buy organic, shade-grown, bird- and earth-friendly coffee. The Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center created the Bird Friendly seal of approval to encourage production of shade-grown coffee and biodiversity. Besides being better for us all, it’s better tasting. “You’re saying Kim lied about not being in Ruby Lake when Matt Kowalski was murdered?”

  Derek paused, maddeningly, to take a sip, then nodded. “You didn’t know?”

  “No! Why would she do that?” Kim’s my best friend. Why would she lie to me? Was that what she was about to get into last night when Esther pounded on my door and Chief Kennedy showed up? It did explain how she’d noticed the Cole’s Trucking semi parked outside the Ruby Lake Motor Inn the morning she’d claimed to return. It was on the opposite side of town from where she would have been coming had she driven straight up from Florida.

  I had been wondering about that, but not enough to give it any serious thought. I mean, she could have headed out that way to stop at some particular store or a gas station she favored before coming by Birds & Bees. I’d had no reason to think she’d been lying to me about being back in Ruby Lake.

  The lawyer shrugged. “It took some badgering,” he said, “and I think a little fear of maybe ending up behind bars, but your friend Kim told the chief that she was with a guy named Randy Vincent.”

  “Randy Vincent?” My mouth went dry. This wasn’t good.

  He nodded. “Spent the night, apparently.” Derek’s brow jiggled.

  The lovebirds at the front door cooed and I rose to greet what I hoped would be a customer. We’d had a number of looky-loos the day before, more interested in asking questions about the murder and exactly where the body had been found than about birds and birdseed.

  The whole time, I couldn’t help thinking about what Derek had just said. Kim had been with Randy Vincent. And she had spent the night? Randy’s a local property manager. He owns a string of cabins around the lake and several vacation rental properties around town as well. He’s also married. Though I had heard, from Kim come to think of it, that he was separated.

  I pasted a smile on my face as a wizened gentleman in a rumpled tan wool suit and overcoat held a weathered and worn cylindrical Plexiglas birdfeeder up by two fingers. “Can you help me?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” I replied. “What do you need?”

  Although he appeared to be in his seventies, his blue eyes shone brightly. He looked at the feeder. “Can’t figure out how to get the darn thing loaded.”

  “Loaded?” He was holding a birdfeeder, not a shotgun.

  He cleared his phlegmy throat, handed the feeder off to me, and rummaged in his coat pockets. He pulled out a plastic grocery bag filled with mixed birdseed. There were a couple of tiny holes in the bottom of the bag and a fine rain composed of bits of millet, cracked corn, sunflower seed pieces, and oat groats spilled over his shoes and onto my floor. It was your typical universal blend of birdseed. I recognized the brand as one generally sold in the big box stores.

  He ran a wrinkled hand through his thinning white hair and frowned as he looked at his brown leather loafers. He kicked his toes against the hardwood to clear his shoe tops. Okay, so now the mess was just all over my floor.

  I gently relieved him of the plastic bag. “No problem. Follow me.” I dropped both bag and feeder on the sales counter. The feeder looked quite old. It was covered with dirt and bird poop. I grabbed a pair of disposable nitrile gloves and got to work.

  “I tried pouring that stupid food in the holes, but every time I did it seemed like half spilled back out.” He jabbed his thumb at one of the feeder holes. “They oughta make the holes bigger.”

  I grinned. “Like I said, no problem. The top comes off.” His brows drew together as I grabbed the tethered lid and turned. It was frozen. I huffed, tapped it gently against the counter, and tried again. This time the lid turned with a squeak, then popped off in my hand. “Why don’t I hold it open while you pour?”

  The old man nodded and slowly poured seed from his bag into the feeder. I didn’t know if it was his age or his natural motor skills, or lack thereof, but there was just as much seed spilling over the counter as there was down the barrel of the feeder.

  I twisted the lid back on tight and placed the birdfeeder back in his now empty grocery bag. There was bound to be some food spilling out the feeder holes as he carried it home. At least this way, he’d recover it. “You might want to consider one of these,” I said, tossing the soiled disposable gloves in the trash can at the end of the counter and gesturing for him to follow me across the aisle.

  “What is it?” he said, scratching the top of his head.

  I handed him the red plastic device. “It’s a combo birdseed scoop and funnel. You pour the seed in the top, place this narrow end in your feeder, then twist this little damper with your thumb, and voilà!” I explained. “The seed pours into your feeder tube.” And not onto your shoes or my floor.

  He grunted and turned it over in his hand, playing with the doodad on the bottom—open, closed, open. “Looks like it could work.”

  “It does,” I assured him.

  “How much?” He toyed with his moustache using the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

  “Four ninety-five.”

  “Sold.” He fished out his wallet and handed me a credit card. “Used to work here, you know.”

  I swiped his card. “Oh?”

  “Yep. Used to be a bank.”

  “I’m afraid that’s before my time.” The old place had started life as a boarding house as far as I knew, and over time been home to countless business enterprises.

  He barked out a surprisingly loud laugh. “Everything’s before your time. Now me, I’m ancient. I remember everything.”

  “You’re not that old.” I handed him back his card. “Would you like a bag for that?”

  “Toss it in with the feeder.” He opened his rumpled grocery bag. “So if I’m not that old,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “how’s about going out with me sometime?”

  My tongue clicked. “Sorry,” I replied. “I wish I could, but we have a strict rule against dating our customers.”

  He shrugged. “Your loss.” He headed for the door.

  “Come again, Mr. Withers.”

  He paused and turned around. “How’d you know my name?”

  “Your credit card.”

  Dwayne Rogers opened the door and brushed past the old man. “You looking for me?” The two men nodded at one another.

  I waved. “I was hoping you could remove the pallets from the back room.” I’d called his boss earlier and learned he was still in town. We’d emptied all the store goods from the wooden pallets and now the things were simply in the way.

  Dwayne scowled and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Removing pallets isn’t part of my job.”

  “I understand. I don’t mean to be any trouble. But I’m glad you haven’t left yet.” I described how the pallets were too large for me to haul off and the tr
ash pickup service wouldn’t take them.

  He shook his head. “Thought I’d spend a few days. I’m staying with my uncle.” His lips twisted. “Besides, the police want me to stick around a little longer”—the driver looked pointedly in my direction—“in case they have any more questions. He paced up and down and I couldn’t imagine why. “Fine,” he said finally. “Where are they?”

  “Storeroom. You want me to—”

  The driver cut me off with a wave of his hand. “I know the way. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  Apparently I wasn’t Dwayne’s favorite person. I guess his first impression of me, fear and surprise etched on my face, blood dripping from my hands, hadn’t been a good one.

  No, definitely not.

  No matter, I saw Mom chatting it up with Derek Harlan over in the corner and was about to join them when a small crowd entered. At the tail end of the sudden and welcome crowd came Aaron Maddley, the farmer-slash-talented-woodworker who’d sold me the handcrafted bluebird houses. “Mr. Maddley, this is a pleasant surprise.”

  Aaron Maddley’s a tall man about my age, with the rugged good looks of a man who spends a good deal of his time out of doors and has the calluses of a man who knows how to use his hands. He wore a brown leather jacket with a fleece collar, a pair of blue jeans, and heavy work boots. Though of a similar age, our paths hadn’t crossed until he’d shown up at the store with his offer to supply me with the handcrafted bluebird houses—an offer I’d gladly and quickly accepted.

  “Hello, Ms. Simms.” He wiped his feet at the mat. “I thought I’d check out your new place.”

  I shook his hand.

  “I see you gave the houses a good home.” He beamed. “No pun intended.”

  “None taken,” I replied. “And, please, call me Amy.” I swept my hand along the shelf. “I gave them a place of honor.” I picked one of his cedar birdhouses and told him how I planned on adding a small sign along the edge of the shelf with his name, a brief bio if he’d provide me with one, and an explanation of how he was one of Ruby Lake’s local artists. He appeared very pleased. “They really are pieces of art.”

  “I’d be honored to give you a bio. Not much to tell though,” he said modestly.

  “In fact”—I’d had a sudden thought—“you ought to have your signature on them. Folks love that.”

  He seemed to give this some thought. “I suppose I could use a marker.”

  “Or a wood-burning tool,” I suggested. “I’ve got one you can borrow.”

  “Thanks. I’ll write it on the bottom,” he said, turning the house upside down.

  “That would be perfect.”

  “Sell any yet?” He looked at me shyly.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head and set the birdhouse back on the shelf. “Not yet. But then I’ve only been open a day. We’re kind of off to a slow start.”

  Aaron did a turn around the store. “Yeah, I heard about Matt Kowalski.”

  “That’s right, the police mentioned they’d be checking with you. I told them I’d been out to see you at the time of the murder.” I smiled at him. “I hope you gave me a good alibi.”

  The farmer dipped his chin. “Yeah, told them how we’d had business. That officer they sent wanted to know exactly what time you came and exactly when you left.”

  I let out a breath. Thank goodness somebody could vouch for my whereabouts. “Did you know him? Matt Kowalski, I mean.”

  Aaron nodded and leaned idly against the front counter. “Went to school together. Had some classes together. Do the police have any idea who might have killed him?” Aaron had lowered his voice. He stepped aside as I rang up an order for a birding field guide to the Carolinas.

  “Besides me, you mean?”

  “Come on, you didn’t kill anybody.” He ran his fingers through a thick thatch of brown hair.

  “Tell Chief Kennedy that.”

  Aaron rolled his hazel eyes. “I find it almost as hard to believe that somebody around here killed Matt in your store as I can that folks picked Jerry Kennedy to be their chief of police.”

  We laughed. Mom and Derek Harlan joined us. I made the introductions.

  “New in town?” Aaron asked the lawyer as the two men shook hands.

  “Yes, I’ve joined my father’s practice.” Derek’s eyes seemed to be sizing up the other man. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got there. What line of work are you in, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Got a place outside town. Do a little farming.” The edges of his mouth cracked. “Took over my father’s practice, you might say.”

  Derek nodded.

  “Aaron also builds the most wonderful birdhouses.” I pointed to the shelf across the way.

  “Very nice,” said Derek. “Listen, Amy”—I watched Derek’s Adam’s apple bob up and down—“if you aren’t busy Saturday night—”

  “Sorry,” I said, already cutting the man off. “Like I said. I am. Aaron and I are having dinner at Lake House. Aren’t we, dear?” Amy’s eyes begged Aaron to play along. Lake House was a romantic, upscale restaurant in the Ruby Lake Marina. Probably the most romantic spot in town for food.

  Aaron cleared his throat and his toes scuffed the floor. “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve got a date Saturday night at Lake House.” Aaron shot me a nervous look. “What time did you say I was supposed to pick you up, miss, I mean, Amy?”

  “Seven thirty, darling.”

  He bobbed his head. His cheeks glowed strawberry red. “Yeah, that’s right, seven thirty.”

  Mom followed the conversation like she was watching the world’s strangest tennis match.

  “I understand,” the lawyer replied. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying, right?” He’d directed his comment to Aaron, my make-believe boyfriend. The two men shook hands once again. “Oh.” Derek stopped at the door. “You really should get that leak looked at. Could be some serious water damage.”

  “What leak?”

  12

  “Thanks for playing along.” I stared dejectedly at the slow drip coming from the ceiling. A three-foot damp circle stained the ceiling and the wall all the way down to the windowsill. Derek had pointed it out to my mother before leaving. That’s what they had been talking about while I’d been busy.

  “You mean we don’t really have a date?” Aaron feigned insult but his eyes and smile gave him away. “You’re canceling on me? What is it? Is there another man in your life? You can tell me.”

  I smiled despite my latest woes. “Very funny.” Aaron looked at the ugly stain on the wall. Was he actually upset? If so, was it because I’d made him lie to Derek or because I’d practically scoffed at the idea of the two of us going out to dinner together?

  I guess I could see how that might come across as insulting. I swallowed. “I mean, do you want to?” Aaron turned and faced me. Our eyes met. “Go on a date, I mean.” I took a step back. Geesh! Now I was asking a man out on a date!

  A man I barely knew.

  I took another step back and banged into a chair. “I mean, we could go out to dinner.” Why wasn’t he saying anything? And why was he looking at me like that? I rolled my tongue over my teeth. “At the Lake House.”

  “Sure.” Aaron stuffed his left hand in the back pocket of his jeans. A small smile played across his face. “We could talk business.”

  “Yes, I would like to talk”—I hesitated—“business. I mean, I did want to ask you if you might be interested in supplying other sorts of birdhouses.”

  “Watch out.”

  “Huh?”

  Aaron pushed me gently to one side as a water-logged ceiling tile came crashing down. He clucked his tongue and shook his head.

  “I guess I’d better make a phone call.” I groaned, taking the opportunity to change the subject and relieve us both of an awkward situation.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, I stood in the shadowy and damp basement beneath my old house with visions of dollar signs dancing in my eyes. Where were the sugar plums
when you needed them?

  “That’s quite a mess you’ve got here,” pronounced Cash as I joined him. Cassius Calderon was a local general contractor and owner of CC Construction. He’d done some work for Mom in the past—replacing the roof on Mom and Dad’s old house—so I knew I could count on his expertise.

  Cash had spent the better part of an hour inspecting the old Victorian from top to bottom. He’d discovered a leak that started at the roof and fell, apparently unhindered, to the basement floor. “I’m afraid we’ll have to fix the roof and open up some walls to repair the damage.” He fingered the crumbling basement wall. “There’s a lot of wall damage.” He turned his dark eyes on me. “And in these dark and wet conditions. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He blinked. “You don’t want mold. Trust me.”

  I nodded. I trusted him. Mold I didn’t need. Money, on the other hand, I feared I could use a bundle of...

  Cash is a big man with a barrel chest, dark blue eyes, and a bristly crew cut. There’s a small brown mole just below his left earlobe, the size of a pencil eraser. Though I knew he was somewhere between fifty and sixty years old, he was as fit as any forty-year-old. Heck, he was probably as fit as most twenty-year-olds. Cash’s brown bomber jacket with his company’s name, CC Construction, stitched in red lettering on the front, was unzipped. Underneath he wore a comfortable gray sweatshirt and a pair of Wranglers.

  “How much do you think this is going to cost?” I asked with trepidation.

  Cash pursed his lips. The tip of his steel-toed boot bounced in a puddle of rain water. “Too bad you didn’t get this place inspected before you bought it, Ms. Simms.”

  “I know.” I waited. Cash is not a fast mover. Or talker.

  The unfinished basement had a low ceiling and the contractor stooped as he paced up and down the cramped, dank space. “To tell you the truth, and I’m not criticizing or anything . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well”—he stopped and scratched his head—“it’s just that I’m surprised you didn’t notice the problems earlier. I mean, what with all the work you’ve been doing down here.”