Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  Most everyone dressed up at least a bit for dinner at the Lake House. I did too. I’d opted for a formfitting black dress and black heels, with a string of pearls. Nothing too showy, nothing too suggestive. I didn’t want anybody, especially Aaron, getting the wrong idea.

  A massive stone fireplace to the left blazed brightly. We handed our coats to the check girl. I noticed heads turn as the elegantly dressed host led us to our table near the water. I didn’t know if they were looking at me because I was a murder suspect or because I was on a date, but I’d decided I wasn’t going to let it get to me either way.

  Aaron asked what kind of wine I liked and we settled on a domestic red from one of North Carolina’s many wineries, this one located in the Yadkin Valley. Not everybody is aware that North Carolina is home to over a hundred wineries and was at one time the country’s leading wine-producing region.

  My stomach was nervous, so I settled on a lightly seasoned baked fillet of sole and steamed vegetables. Aaron was stabbing at his steak when I decided to skirt my way around to the questions I had roiling inside me. “So,” I said, swirling the wine in my glass, “terrible about Matt’s murder, isn’t it?”

  Aaron jerked his head back. “I’m surprised you’d even want to talk about that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He picked up his glass. “It did happen in your house. We are in a nice restaurant. Having a nice meal.”

  “I know,” I said quickly, pasting on a smile. “But that’s just it. It did happen in my store, in my house. I’m curious to know what Matt was doing there and why it got him killed.”

  Aaron seemed to think this over. “I guess I get it.”

  “So, do you have any idea who might have wanted to murder him?”

  He looked taken aback and grabbed for his napkin. “Me? None at all.” He balled up his napkin and wiped the side of his face. An awkward silence fell over us, then he said, “I’m sorry. Do you mind if we talk about something else?”

  “Sure.” I sipped slowly, my mind trying to find a way to steer the conversation back toward Matt’s murder without giving myself away. Then it hit me. I smiled. “Do you have any sisters or brothers, Aaron?”

  He looked up from his plate. “A sister.” He reached for a dinner roll and extended the basket. I declined.

  “Oh,” I replied. “Does she live around here? Maybe I know her. What’s her name?”

  Aaron tugged at the skinny black tie knotted at his collar. “I don’t think so. Grace hasn’t been back to Ruby Lake for years. She lives in Savannah.” He chewed slowly. I watched the muscles of his mandible working back and forth. “About the birdhouses, I was thinking maybe of doing some for cardinals next. You know, some platform nest boxes. I read that cardinals prefer those to the enclosed kind.”

  I nodded absently. At the moment, I cared nothing about birdhouses, even if they were ostensibly why we were meeting for dinner. Savannah. Hadn’t Kim said Atlanta? Not that that meant anything, except that Kim had been wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m surprised she doesn’t come home to visit more often. Savannah’s not that far.” Not so far that a woman couldn’t drive up, commit a murder, and be back home again—four hours at most each way, I reckoned.

  Aaron looked at me in silence for a moment. Fluttering shadows from the candle on our table played across his clean-shaven cheeks. I wondered if I was looking into the eyes of a murderer. Finally, he shrugged. “Not everybody misses this town.”

  I nodded politely and pushed my carrots around on my plate.

  “What about you, Amy? Any brothers or sisters?”

  “Nope. Just me. Mom says I’m all any mother needs.” I leaned against the back of my chair. “I’m not quite sure how she means that though.”

  Aaron smiled. “I’m sure it’s meant as a compliment. I’d say you’re all any man needs, too. I mean—” He blushed.

  We both finished the wine. He signaled the waiter for a second bottle, but I begged off. “It’s been a long day,” I said. “If I drink any more, I just might lay my head down on the table and take a nap.”

  “Coffee?”

  I agreed to the coffee and he ordered two. Not because I wanted some but because I wanted to keep him talking.

  “So about those nest boxes—what do you think? Is it something you could see carrying in your store?”

  “Sure,” I said, with a toss of the hand. “Let’s start with half a dozen whenever you’re ready and we’ll see how they do.” He agreed. I planted my elbows on the tabletop and rested my chin in my hands. “Are you and your sister close?”

  He looked at me sharply. “I suppose so. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.” I shoved a lock of hair behind my ear. “I guess it’s just that not having any siblings makes me curious about the relationship between brothers and sisters.” My finger played along the stem of my glass. “I suppose you’d do anything for her?”

  Aaron nodded. He took a deep breath and his eyes scoured the dining room. “Hey, isn’t that your lawyer?”

  “What?”

  He pointed across the table. “Over there. With that woman and little girl.”

  He lowered his arm and I swiveled my head. Derek Harlan occupied a table with what had to be his wife and daughter. The woman was a knockout brunette with full red lips and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. Diamond studs decorated her earlobes.

  The woman said something that set Derek to laughing, and the little girl, probably seven or eight years old, was beaming too. So, the happily married man was out for a family meal. Good for him. “The jerk.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, sorry.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”

  Aaron chuckled as the waiter set down our coffees and offered us a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. “I’m afraid so. I take it Mr. Harlan’s not your favorite guy.”

  “Not by a long shot.” I added a spoonful of sugar and stirred thoughtfully. Aaron hadn’t been much help at all. “How’s the farm?”

  He shrugged his strong shoulders. I had no trouble imagining he had the strength to kill. “So-so. It seems like there’s always too much to do and too little time to do it all.”

  I nodded to show I understood. “I guess that’s why you weren’t around when I first showed up at your house the other evening.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You know, when I first arrived at the farm to get the birdhouses,” I explained. “I couldn’t find you anywhere. And then, boom, suddenly there you were.”

  He smiled and sipped his coffee. Black and unsweetened. “I don’t remember. I must have been out in the field.”

  “Of course.” Except that he hadn’t been. At least, I didn’t think he had. I needed to get a look in that big barn of his. Aaron Maddley could have driven into town, murdered Matt Kowalski, and made it home within the time in question. Maybe he’d been cleaning up inside the barn, washing away blood or some other evidence of the crime. I couldn’t come out and ask him and there was no way to know without taking a look in that barn myself.

  “Something wrong?”

  I shook my head and settled my half-empty cup down on my saucer. “No, I just saw somebody else”—actually a couple of somebodies—“that I know. Sort of.”

  Aaron twisted his neck. “Who?”

  I pointed with my butter knife. “The mayor, Mac MacDonald, and Robert LaChance.”

  Aaron started to get up. “Do you want to go over and say hi?”

  I said no. What I really wanted was to be a crumb on that table so I could hear whatever it was the two men seemed so engrossed in discussion about. Both had been seen in the vicinity of Birds & Bees the night Matt died. Coincidence?

  17

  I froze. There it was again. That banging. I lay still, taking quiet, shallow breaths. I listened to the wind howling outside. I could hear the rain pelting the roof too. A doozy of a storm was raging outside. Did that explain the noises that had wakened me?

&
nbsp; I never should have had that coffee. Caffeine does things to me at night. It doesn’t just simply keep me buzzing, it keeps me thinking. And that’s not always a good thing. Letting your imagination run away with itself sometimes leads to consequences. Unthinkable consequences.

  No, there they were again. These noises didn’t sound like the storm. They sounded different somehow. Too regular maybe. I silently pushed back the covers and sat up. I was alone in the apartment. I was beginning to regret that Mom was staying with Aunt Betty. As I listened to the clatter above me, I was regretting my decision to stay behind all the more.

  Isn’t it always that fool woman who stays behind that gets killed by the ax murderer in all those movies? I felt around the floor using my toes and found my slippers. I slipped on my terry cloth robe.

  I could still feel the spot on my left cheek where Aaron had gently kissed me as he dropped me off at my door. I didn’t know what to think of that. I needed to keep my distance. The man could be a cold-blooded killer.

  Then again, his lips had been surprisingly soft . . .

  A gust of wind rocked the windows and I almost jumped back under the covers. I’d have jumped out of my skin if it hadn’t been factory sealed. Maybe it’s only some poor animals who’ve come into the attic to get out of the cold and the wet, I told myself.

  As much as I hated the idea, I had to leave the safety of my apartment to check the attic. I opened the small storage closet in the third-floor hallway. To reach the attic, the home’s original designer had built a steep, narrow staircase into the side of the closet. I put a tentative hand on the handle and was surprised how easily the tiny door opened. The opening was so narrow, I had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Narrow steps led to the top. The low-ceilinged space felt tight, claustrophobic. It smelled damp, and I tasted dust on my tongue. Tenebrific shadows danced on the walls as two brilliant flashes of lightning appeared in the small roof window about six paces to my right. A moment later, the muffled boom of thunder rattled the loose floorboards.

  My breath caught in my throat. I wished I’d brought a flashlight. I wished even more that I’d brought that baseball bat I’d seen under Esther the Pester’s bed. All I owned was a lightweight, tapered French rolling pin. Perfect for rolling pastry dough. Not so perfect, I suspected, for fending off murderous maniacs or, possibly, vengeful ghosts.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a glow of light that seemed to be coming from behind a pair of crossbeams. An untidy pile of boxes leaned up against the thick beams, preventing my seeing further. I crept toward the light, like a moth to the flame—hopefully, not like a lemming to its death . . .

  I held the rolling pin out at arm’s length. A floorboard squeaked underfoot and I froze. My heart thudded against my chest. The wind kicked up outside, like I’d angered some crazy elemental god, and the rain came down even harder. The basement was probably a swimming pool by now.

  I crept up to the ceiling joists, bending low to avoid a strut. I thought I could discern some sort of scraping sound, but couldn’t be certain. My mind could easily be playing tricks on me. Being scared half to death could do that to a person.

  I lifted one slippered foot, then the other. I turned the corner. A man’s hulking figure lurched toward me. He had some sort of clawlike weapon in his right hand. I stepped back and screamed.

  I also dropped the rolling pin. In the process, I had learned something about myself. I’m useless at self-defense. But I was still pretty good at running. I turned and I ran.

  I didn’t get far. My assailant’s hand reached out and caught the back of my robe by its hood and I felt it slip away. Unfortunately, my arms were stuck inside and I was trapped. Done in by my own robe. I whirled and prepared to strike.

  “Ms. Simms?” I felt the arm release me.

  I shouted. Unfortunately, there was no one to hear besides the two of us. Except Esther Pilaster, and I couldn’t imagine her doing me any good. Besides, she was back down on the second floor. I rather doubted she’d hear my death cries way up here.

  “Are you okay?” The big hulking figure bent low and turned the beam of light coming from the lantern on the floor toward me.

  I gaped. “Mr. Calderon?” I sobbed. “What are you doing here?”

  He must have seen my eyes go to that big claw hammer gripped tightly in his right hand. I also noticed he was dripping wet. His dark blue eyes narrowed. “I was worried about the roof. What with this big storm we’re having.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if designed to bring home his point.

  I felt every inch of my skin bristling. Was this Matt’s killer I was facing? Cash is a big, brawny guy. A guy who could as easily swing a birdfeeder hook as he could a hammer.

  “I thought I’d check on the tarp.” He used the hammer as a pointer. “A couple of the rope tie-downs came loose.” He stuffed the hammer in his belt. “But don’t worry, I nailed them back down.”

  I looked about the low space. Shadows hid most everything. I’d never been up here before and didn’t care if I was ever up here again. “How did you get up here?”

  “Your mom gave me the key, remember?”

  I nodded slowly. I guess that was true. I really couldn’t remember. I kept at arm’s length from the contractor. I wasn’t sure if I was buying his story or not. Better safe than sorry.

  “Well—” He took a step toward me. I gasped and matched him step for step, but in the opposite direction. “Guess I’d better be going now.” He picked up his lantern. “Hope I didn’t disturb you any—”

  “Wait!”

  His brow crinkled and drips of rainwater ran down the sleeves of his jacket. “What is it?”

  I pointed. “What is all that?”

  Cash Calderon slowly turned the beam of his light in the direction I was pointing. “Oh yeah. That.” He rubbed his forehead with his cap’s visor. Even in the dim light, I discerned a smile. “I’d been meaning to mention that.” He stepped toward the corner and toed the sleeping bag with his boot. “Looks like somebody’d been spending some time here.”

  I nodded, slack-jawed. A rumpled red sleeping bag lay in the corner. There were a couple of empty takeout containers, a half-consumed bottle of water, a bottle of Kentucky bourbon that had also been nearly depleted, and wads of stained paper napkins. And that’s just the highlights. The corner was a veritable nest. But who or what had been nesting there?

  In my house. Right above me. I shivered at the thought. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “One of my workers discovered this the first day on the job. Like I said, I’ve been meaning to tell you about it.” He zipped his jacket. “In case you weren’t aware.”

  I shook my head in the negative. “I had been hearing noises. I thought it was squirrels. Or something.” I waved my hand in the air. “An animal.”

  He looked surprised. “Not an animal at all. A human.” He picked up the red sleeping bag. “Whoever was here probably cleared out when you moved in.”

  Somebody had been living in my attic? That was both extraordinary and scary. Who was he? When was he here? How long had he been here? Was he actually living here or merely a nocturnal visitor? I repeated Cash’s words in my head. Cleared out . . . or been murdered? My mind spun in circles, then came to an abrupt stop. Matt! It had to be Matt! It could only be Matt.

  But what did that mean? Matt had been living in my attic and had been found dead on the second floor. What had he been up to, and why had it resulted in his being murdered?

  If he had been secretly living in my house, I’d be the one who wanted him out. Why would somebody else kill him?

  18

  “Maybe he was hiding from someone,” suggested Kim. We sat in the apartment, batting around hypotheses and scenarios to explain what Matt might have been doing in my attic.

  “If it was Matt,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, it was Matt Kowalski, all right.” Jerry Kennedy marched through the door and dropped his hat on an empty chair. He hitched a thumb over the top of h
is belt. “Got any coffee?” I’d waited until morning to call the police station and report what Cash Calderon had discovered in my attic. So you’d think Jerry would have had breakfast and his fill of coffee by now.

  “How do you know for sure it was Matt?” I ignored his plea for coffee.

  “Dusted for prints. His are all over the place.” The chief did a turn around my tight galley kitchen. “Now, how’s about that coffee?”

  “How’s about telling me what you found out about Grace Maddley?” I snatched up the coffeepot and held it out at arm’s length.

  “Not much to tell.” He sniffed. “I telephoned the Savannah PD, like you asked. They told me they’d interview the girl.” He helped himself to a mug from the mug tree beside the gas stove and nudged it toward me.

  I grudgingly poured. I looked him in the eye. “Please let me know when you hear back from them.”

  “Fine.” He blew on his coffee and took a sip. “This is good brew. But I don’t expect anything to come of your lead on Grace Maddley.”

  I frowned and shoved the carafe back into the belly of the coffeemaker. “Why not?”

  “After all this time?” Jerry raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t a pleasant look. “If she was going to kill the punk because of what he put her through, why didn’t she do it years ago?”

  I agreed. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. “That still leaves her brother, Aaron.”

  He nodded and helped himself to the open bag of pecan sandies I’d purloined from Kim’s house. “That it does,” he agreed, mouth full of cookie, shortbread crumbs spilling down his uniform.

  “And there were no other fingerprints?” I asked hopefully.

  “Nope.” Jerry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “None that mattered anyhow. Yours and Matt’s, of course. And some smudged prints that could have belonged to Ronald Reagan or even Santa Claus for all we could tell.” The chief set his mug down on the little table beside the door where I drop my keys and purse and screwed his cap back on. “Ladies.” He nodded and left the apartment, pulling the door shut behind himself.