Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  “Now that he’s gone,” Kim said eagerly as she curled her legs up under her butt, “tell me how your date with Aaron went.”

  “Not much to tell.” I flopped down on the sofa beside her. “We ate. We chatted. I saw Robert LaChance and your buddy the mayor confabbing at another table.” I refrained from mentioning Derek Harlan and family.

  “Come on, Amy. Spill.” She grabbed my shoulders from behind and squeezed. “I want details. Juicy details.”

  I pushed her hands away. “There are no details. Every time I tried to ask him about his sister, he changed the subject.”

  Kim rubbed her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm is right. He was downright evasive.”

  “Evasive, or you’re just a lousy Mata Hari?” teased Kim, referencing the famed WWI spy.

  I decided to evade the question. “I’m keeping Aaron’s name near the top of my suspect list,” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “If only I could get in that barn of his . . .”

  “Why?”

  I explained how I thought there just might be some evidence out there.

  Kim wrinkled her nose. “Evidence? What sort of evidence could there be? The police have the murder weapon.”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? Bloody clothes. Something that belonged to Matt.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Whether it will tie him to the murder or exonerate him, I don’t know. But I’d sure like a look around.”

  Kim paced back and forth. “You know . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Aaron’s a farmer, right? Grows vegetables?”

  “So?”

  “So don’t all the farmers around here attend the weekly farmers’ market Monday mornings?”

  I leaped at Kim and hugged her tight. “Kim, you’re a genius!”

  * * *

  I yawned. It was a desultory Sunday afternoon and I was alone in the store. Patchy clouds scudded across the mountains and the lake was devoid of recreationists. There was a decided lull in customers and I sat on a stool behind the counter thumbing through a copy of Bird Watchers Monthly when the lovebirds announced a customer. At least I thought it was a customer. Seeing who it was, I’d have been happier to see a tax collector.

  “Mrs. Hammer,” I exclaimed, none too happy and plenty surprised to see Gertie Hammer marching toward me. “What brings you here?” Surely she didn’t want to buy a birdfeeder? She’d be more likely to buy a shotgun and blast the little birdies to smithereens if they came anywhere near her.

  She braced her thick knuckles against the countertop. Her brilliant blue eyes sparked at me. Her gray-black hair was buried beneath a brown knit cap with white trim. What had started as a widow’s peak had become an entire range. “I heard you’ve been having some troubles.” She tugged down the zipper of her puffy lime-green down jacket, then peeled off her gloves and thrust them in the pockets.

  I slowly closed my magazine and pushed it aside. “You could say that.” I thought of the million problems with the house and the thousands of dollars those problems were going to cost me and my pitiful bank account. And while I’d have loved to blame Gertie for all those problems, I’d been the one foolish enough to buy the place in my haste to get started, without getting a proper inspection done.

  Gertie nodded and reached into her black leather purse. The thing was giant. Big enough to hold a bowling ball. And a pair of size ten shoes. “And I don’t mean the murder,” she quipped. She waved her arms in circles. “It’s all the other stuff.”

  I eyed her warily. What was the old battle-ax up to? It couldn’t be anything good. It was never anything good.

  She went on. “Roof leaks, critters invading the attic—”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly—” I was about to explain how it appeared I’d actually had a human infestation rather than an animal one, but she cut me off.

  “Foundation troubles.”

  I frowned. I suppose she’d been talking to my contractor. Oh well, my woes weren’t exactly privileged contractor-contractee information.

  “Of course, there’s this too.” She pulled a rumpled Ruby Lake Weekender from her inside coat pocket. She thwacked the front page.

  I read the headline: “Falcon Attacks Shoppers at Birds & Things Grand Opening.”

  Great, Lance hadn’t even gotten the name of the store right. I read on. He’d had no problem making a big deal out of Roland’s falcon taking a little nip out of one of my customers’ hair though. Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill. I had a good mind not to advertise with the paper again.

  Besides, Roland and his assistant-slash-girlfriend had coaxed Roscoe back down from that big pin oak. Eventually.

  I handed back the paper. “Was there something you wanted, Gertie?” Besides to get my goat.

  She beamed a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Like I said, I feel bad for you. Real bad.”

  Okay, now I was really getting suspicious. And nervous. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. So you came here to . . .” I hesitated, trying to come up with the right words. But with Gertrude Hammer and nice there were no words that joined the two things together. “Pay your condolences? Offer some”—dare I say it—“advice?” There, I’d said it.

  Gertie harrumphed and her head wobbled side to side. “No, don’t you get it?”

  I shook my head no and watched in fascination as she reached into her bowling-bag purse and extracted a green vinyl checkbook. She tore out a pre-written check and handed it over.

  “This ought to cover it.”

  My eyes went from the strange woman standing before me to the strange check with all the zeroes on it stuck between my fingers. “I don’t understand,” I said after a moment. And I didn’t. The amount written out was all I had paid for her property and then some.

  Gertie cocked her head. “I’m agreeing to buy the old place back from you. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  I laid the check slowly down on the counter.

  “Problems and all.”

  “But why?”

  The little old lady shrugged her shoulders. “Like I said, I feel sorry for you. I feel sort of like I took advantage of you.”

  Alarms went off in my head. Gertrude Hammer never felt sorry for anybody. And the Gertrude Hammer I knew lived to take advantage of other people. In particular, unsuspecting people. If there was a sucker born every minute, then Gertrude Hammer was the suckee.

  So why on earth would she now be offering to so generously buy back this money pit that I’d discovered I’d paid way too much for?

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t.”

  Her eyes flashed with malice for only an instant and then a phony smile took over her face. It was like watching an alien clone body-snatcher in action. “Nonsense.” She pushed the check toward me. “Of course you can. Don’t be shy. Don’t worry about how you’re taking advantage of a poor old woman. Please”—she slid the heavily zeroed check ever closer—“humor an old woman. I won’t rest easy if you don’t let me make amends.”

  Amends? Was that it? Was Gertie dying? Was this her attempt to get past Heaven’s gates? “Is everything okay, Mrs. Hammer?”

  “Sure, fine.”

  “Are you—” How could I put this delicately? “Feeling well?”

  She pushed out her chest. “Fit as a fiddle. Look, are you going to sell me back the house or aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t. I appreciate the offer, though. Really, I do.”

  “So take the check already. We can close tomorrow and you can cut your losses.”

  I sighed. “Sorry. Birds and Bees has only started. I really want to make a go of it.” Having this store had been a dream of mine. I couldn’t let it go so quickly.

  Gertie pulled a face. “Suit yourself.” She pointed a gnarled finger at my nose. “But mark my words, you’ll fail just like all the other businesses. Why, the last business, that pet store, didn’t last six months!” />
  I nodded. I’d heard all about that. “I really have high hopes.”

  “Hopes!” Gertie snorted. “You can’t live on hopes, Simms. It takes money. And if you don’t sell, this place is going to take all you’ve got. And more. Just ask that fool Theo Allen and all the others before him who thought they had what it took. Allen thought he had the moxie to run a pet store! The man was a retired truck driver, for heaven’s sake. Didn’t know the first thing about pets. I wouldn’t trust him to feed my dog for a day!” She shook her head in evident disgust. “Six months!” She waggled her fingers. “Six months!”

  “Did you know somebody was living in the attic, Mrs. Hammer?”

  “Huh? Attic? What attic?” Gertie looked taken aback. She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “What are you going on about, Simms?”

  I explained how we’d discovered evidence that someone had been living upstairs in the house’s attic.

  “All the more reason,” Gertie said with a shake of the head, “to sell this place and get out while you can!” Gertie zipped up her jacket with a quick, sharp motion.

  I promised I’d give her offer some thought. But the only thought I was going to give it was to wonder what in the world the devious old woman was up to . . .

  19

  I flew to the front window like an eastern wood pewee being chased by a mockingbird and pressed my nose to the glass. Gertie was hobbling down the sidewalk in front of Birds & Bees and quickly disappeared around the corner. The old woman could move.

  I could move too. I raced back to the counter, snatched the bag of trash from the can and headed for the back door. The bag was only half full and I normally hated to be so wasteful, but this was an emergency. I gripped the doorknob with my free hand and slowly pushed it open. It squeaked miserably like a baby bird waiting for food. I promised the hinges some oil if they’d just shut up.

  Sliding sideways out the door to keep from having to open it wide, I peered left and right. The Dumpster was ahead and to the left. I spotted Gertie Hammer at the edge of the back parking lot, standing under an elm that butted up to and buckled the sidewalk in that spot.

  She was talking to some man in a tan suit, overcoat, and galoshes. And I recognized him. What the devil was Gertie Hammer doing standing on my sidewalk talking to Robert LaChance?

  Had they simply run into each other?

  The pair hadn’t seen me, so I remained frozen where I stood. Holding the big, near-empty black trash bag in front of me like it was going to hide me. Stupid, I know. What could Robert LaChance, Tiffany’s ex, and Gertie be talking about? Was she in the market for a new car?

  Hard to imagine. For as long as I could remember, Gertie had been driving a big old Oldsmobile Delta 88. It had started life beige but was slowly turning to rust. Then again, weren’t we all?

  The car dealer grabbed Gertie’s arm. He seemed to be pleading with her. To do what?

  Robert’s head swiveled my way and Gertie looked too. I smiled and waved and sauntered over to the Dumpster. I tossed the bag over the side and casually looked over my shoulder as I returned to the back door.

  They were both gone.

  I stared up at the roof. The blue tarp seemed to have held up, but I noticed the metal stairs attached to the back of the house appeared to have a couple of loose supports. That could be dangerous. I’d have to remember to ask Cash Calderon to take a look at that before somebody got hurt. I considered asking Cash to pull them down, but if I did want to rent out the other unit, I’d want the renters to use those stairs, thus avoiding the store completely.

  Realizing I’d left the store unattended, I hurried back inside only to discover Mac MacDonald coming down from the second floor. He hesitated as he spotted me, then ambled down to ground level. “Ms. Simms.” He extended a hand. “I’m Mayor MacDonald. My friends call me Mac.”

  “I know who you are.” I forced myself to smile. What was the man doing upstairs where he didn’t belong? “Can I help you with something, Mayor?” I looked pointedly up the stairs. “Come to see the scene of the crime?”

  He flashed unnaturally white teeth and I noticed a slight pink color to his cheeks. “Mac.” His hand was cool to the touch. He filled out a black wool suit, matching knee-length coat, and a homburg. The man was all of forty but dressed like he was eighty. “Actually, I was looking for you.”

  He turned and headed toward the front. I followed. A sweet odor followed him too, like apple pie and citrus. It must have been the cologne he was wearing. Either that or he was a messy eater. “I wanted to welcome you to the business community.” He fiddled with a birdfeeder pole. “And wish you luck.” Did he realize it was a pole similar to the murder weapon? “How’s everything going?”

  “Pretty good,” I replied. “Considering.”

  The mayor nodded. “The murder. Yes, that was a terrible thing.” He shook his head. “Just terrible. Not good for the town. Tourism suffers.” He ran his tongue over his upper lip. “Not good for business.”

  Mayor Mac MacDonald slid the birdfeeder pole back into its slot. “I do hope it doesn’t jeopardize your fledgling business.” His gray eyes bored into me. “So many businesses seem to fail these days.” There was a sadness to his voice. Real or induced? I couldn’t tell.

  I shifted uneasily side to side. This guy came to offer a welcome and wish me luck? “I’m hoping the police will solve this horrible crime soon. Tell me, do the police have any news?”

  The mayor shook his head. He watched the monitor for a moment. I had a bird identification DVD playing at the moment. He rubbed his sharp nose. “Chief Kennedy says he has several leads. I’m confident we’ll have this little matter solved before you know it.”

  Little matter? A murdered man in my house was a little matter? I shadowed the mayor to the sales counter, where he extracted one of the locally designed postcards from the rack.

  “I’ll take this one. I like to support our local businesses,” he said as I rang up the big spender for the two seventy-five he was shelling out. He adjusted his hat. “You might consider joining the Ruby Lake Chamber of Commerce, Ms. Simms. They’re always looking for new members.” He stood, holding his postcard, staring out at the lake for a moment, then departed.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so happy to see somebody leave. And that was saying a lot. I’d had Jerry Kennedy in my apartment just that morning, after all.

  I was pushing some extra chairs in front of the stairs to keep people like our dear mayor from going upstairs, when the lovebirds cooed. I’d been meaning to do as Kim suggested and get some rope or chain, preferably with a sign attached, asking folks to stay off the stairs, but hadn’t had the time yet.

  I hurried to greet my customer. It was the stroller couple, although they didn’t have a stroller or any children at all with them this time.

  I smiled. “Hello, it’s good to see you again!” I had some questions and hopefully the two of them had some answers. I didn’t know if it would clear up Matt Kowalski’s murder or not, but I don’t like unanswered questions.

  The young woman approached, loosened her pale blue scarf and took off her cap. Straight blond hair spilled to her shoulders. “Can you believe it?” I arched my brows. She smiled. “We forgot to buy birdseed.” Her hand lightly slapped her forehead and she glanced at her husband, who laughed too.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself.” Amy Simms, ace salesperson. Not.

  He shook his head. “Not much good having a feeder and no food to put in it. We were glad to see you were open today. It being Sunday and all.”

  “Only afternoons.”

  He looked toward the ceiling. “What’s going on with the roof?”

  I couldn’t help looking too. “Oh, I’m having some minor repairs done. Roof leak.”

  “That can be serious,” the woman said. “We had a roof leak in our last place, didn’t we, honey?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Tell me about it. Water had run all the way dow
n to the basement. The contractor’s got to patch things up from top to bottom.”

  “Bummer,” replied the man.

  “Yeah, bummer,” agreed his wife.

  “I hope your contractor knows what he’s doing. An old place like this needs to be properly restored.”

  “Oh, please, Ted.” She turned to me, a twinkle in her eye. “You do not want to get my husband started.”

  “Hey, c’mon, Sally!” laughed her husband. He spread his arms in placating fashion. “What can I say? I’m sort of a history buff. I like old places. And yours is a beauty.”

  I laughed with them. “Yeah, well. This beauty needs some serious cosmetic surgery.”

  “We’re the Nickersons, by the way.”

  I held out my hand. “Amy Simms. Welcome.” I asked them if they’d like some special blend, but Sally suggested they start with one of the prepackaged bags of seed.

  Ted set a ten-pound bag of the black sunflower seed I’d recommended on the counter. I rang him up.

  “From my alma mater, I see,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your beanie. UNC-Chapel Hill. I went to school there too.”

  Ted looked at his wife. “Oh yeah. Go Devils.” He shoved a strand of brown hair up under the knitted cap.

  I tilted my head and handed him change for a twenty.

  “Renovations can be a bear. I’m a bit of a DIYer myself. How long does your contractor expect all your renovations to take?” asked Ted.

  “I don’t know.” I glanced out the window. “But you can ask him yourself.” A battered red pickup had pulled up to the curb. Cash Calderon unfolded himself from the interior and stepped inside the shop.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Simms.” Cash wiped his feet carefully on the mat. He was dressed in his Sunday best and I barely recognized him. He’d even shaved.

  “Hi, Mr. Calderon.” I extended my palm toward the young couple. “This is Ted and Sally Nickerson. They’ve just moved into a house on Sycamore.”