Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  “Welcome,” the contractor said, giving Ted’s hand a brisk shake. “I was passing by and thought I’d ask how the roof held up. Any more trouble?” He turned his gaze to the spot in the corner where the ceiling tile had come crashing down the other day.

  I couldn’t help but look too. “No, nothing. Nothing new at least.”

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Simms.” I’d asked him a dozen times to call me Amy, but he said he thought it was more respectful of his customers to use their surnames. “We ought to be finished with the roof in the next day or two.” He paused a moment. “If the weather holds up and we don’t get any more rain, that is.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “After that, we’ll get to repairing any areas with water damage, check for mold, fix the foundation, and seal the basement.” I knew he was trying to be helpful, but all I was hearing were dollar signs.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll need to get in that empty front unit. All that water.” He nodded sagely. “It has to go somewhere, and it seems to be following a path down the front of the building. I’d like to make sure there’s no damage in there.”

  I agreed. “I’ve been meaning to take a look inside, myself.” I told the contractor that as soon as I found the key, I’d be sure to give it to him.

  “Nice guy,” Ted said, balancing the birdseed on his left shoulder. He shared a look with his wife. “Guess we ought to be heading back to the house.”

  “Speaking of houses,” I started, stepping quickly around the counter, “which one is yours?”

  “Pardon?” Sally asked.

  “I mean, on Sycamore. You see, I, ah, have a friend on Sycamore and when I mentioned I’d met this lovely young couple, she said she was unaware of any recent sales on the street.”

  Sally and Ted shared a look again. What was with these two? Were they telepaths or something?

  I went on. “And then when I saw you going into that cabin at the motor inn—”

  “Excuse me?” Ted tugged at his ear.

  “You what?” Sally’s forehead reddened. “Were you spying on us?”

  “No, I—” I held up my hands defensively.

  She turned to her husband. “Can you believe this?”

  He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “Is this what everybody in this town is like? Sticking their noses into everybody else’s business?”

  “No, of course not!”

  Sally planted her fists on her hips. “If you must know, it was my aunt’s house. She recently passed and left it to us.”

  “We’re having it fumigated,” barked Ted.

  “Termites.” Sally practically spat the word out. “Let’s go, Ted.”

  I propped my back against the counter. The sound of the slamming door was still ringing in my ears. Oh well, at least it blocked out that ceaseless cooing of the lovebirds . . .

  20

  I telephoned Kim and we agreed to meet at Ruby’s for dinner. I filled her in on what I’d learned over the course of the afternoon.

  “Of course,” I said, stuffing a plump, hot onion ring in my mouth and chewing for a moment, “it all raises more questions than it does answers.”

  Kim glommed a ring off my plate and twirled it round her finger before biting into it. “Something’s fishy, all right. But it’s not this sandwich.” She pushed her plate to the edge of the table and waved for our waitress.

  Tiffany came quickly. “What’s up?”

  “I ordered the chicken patty with slaw.” She lifted the lid of the bun with her fingernail. “But this baby’s all beef.”

  “Sorry.” Tiffany sighed and rolled her eyes. “That Len. You’d think he could keep his orders straight.” Len was one of Moire Leora’s longtime short-order cooks. His memory was a little short though, too. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

  “No hurry,” Kim said, reaching for her soda.

  “So now I’ve probably lost a customer for life and have no idea what Mac was doing in the place.”

  “I called his cell, but he hasn’t gotten back to me.” Kim sucked at her drink. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree about the mayor. Why would he care what’s going on at Birds and Bees? Why would he murder Matt?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” I admitted. I folded my arms. “You want to tell me why Gertie Hammer came in acting all sweet as tea and offering to buy the place back from me, and then had a powwow with Robert LaChance?”

  A blue plate clattered to the tabletop. “Robert?” Tiffany straightened the plate in front of Kim. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.”

  “What about Robert?”

  I explained how I’d spotted her ex behind Birds & Bees moments after Gertie had been in, offering to buy the old place back from me. “Are Robert and Gertie friends?” I knew it was a stupid question even as I asked it. Gertie’s friends with no one.

  Tiffany shook her head. “I can’t imagine what the two of them could have had to talk about. Maybe she has a problem with her car?”

  “Yeah, that could be it,” Kim replied. “The old clunker is bound to have a problem or two. The car, not the woman. Well, both.”

  The three of us laughed.

  I told Tiffany about my troubled days. I knew the poor woman had troubles of her own and figured that nothing would cheer her up more than to see she wasn’t alone. “I still can’t figure those Nickersons though.”

  “How’s that?” inquired Tiff.

  “Well, he was wearing a UNC-Chapel Hill beanie. When I mentioned I’d gone to school there too, he said ‘Go, Devils.’”

  Both women gave me blank looks.

  “The Devils are Duke—the Blue Devils, to be precise. We’re the Tar Heels.”

  “That is odd,” admitted Kim.

  “Were you able to find out anything about that house on Sycamore?”

  “House on Sycamore?” Tiffany scooched in beside Kim.

  I explained about the Nickersons’ claim to be moving into a new house.

  Kim waved her hand. “You heard what the lady said. Her aunt left her the house. End of story.”

  “I suppose.” Though I wasn’t ready to let go of the Nickersons just yet. The two were slippery as a pair of greased pigs.

  “I could find out,” Tiffany offered. She pushed her pen behind her right ear.

  “Oh?” I asked hopefully.

  She nodded as she rose from the booth. “I have a friend. A neighbor, really. Anyway, her daughter works afternoons at the motel, part-time, as a housekeeper. I can ask her if she knows anything about them.” She hesitated. “If you like?”

  I grinned. “I like.”

  * * *

  Monday morning it rained. Or to be more precise, it hadn’t stopped raining since Sunday evening. North Carolina can be like that. Some days are beautiful, Carolina blue skies—the kind James Taylor likes to croon about—other times . . . well, your roof leaks. The contractor had called to say he was sorry but there was nothing he could do about the rain and that it would be impossible to finish the roof until it dried out.

  “Cheer up,” Kim told me. “The ceiling hasn’t caved in.” She glanced nervously at the plastic sheet duct-taped to the ceiling in the far corner. “Not yet, anyway.”

  I grabbed my coat from a hanger on a nail near the back door. “Thanks for coming in to open.”

  “No problem. I guess I could hardly say no.”

  I flashed a wicked smile. “Especially since this was your big idea.”

  “Hey,” Kim replied. “I only said that farmers normally go to the farmers’ market Monday mornings. I didn’t tell you to go break into a man’s barn.” She crossed her arms. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell Jerry Kennedy if he or one of his officers catches you at it.”

  I zipped up my coat and tucked my hair under my wool hat. “Sure you don’t want to come?”

  “I have to open, remember?”

  “I could call Mom. I’m sure she’d be happy to come in.” Mom had a low t
olerance level for her twin sister and was probably near her limits already.

  Kim’s mouth turned down. “Just go.” She unlocked the back door. “Somebody’s got to be available to bail you out later.”

  * * *

  The sky was leaden, and it was so dark and the rain so heavy that I needed my headlights on for the drive to the farm. The windshield wipers thwacked to the beat of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” from the musical Grease. I felt a little that way myself. I felt a lot that way. For a frightening five minutes, tiny hailstones bombarded the Kia.

  I pulled into the long dirt drive leading to Aaron’s house, relieved to be off the messy roads. Unfortunately, the dirt had long turned to thick, oozy red mud. The near-bald tires spun as I pulled up to the house, and the back of the minivan broke to the right before coming to a stop. I cut off the engine, listening to the unsettling sound of rain pelting the metal roof of the van as I gathered up my courage. I knew I had it around there someplace.

  The drapes were pulled open but there was no sign of life inside Aaron’s house. Not even a glowing lightbulb. I knew he had a big German shepherd, but the old boy must have been dozing; otherwise I’d have expected to see his big, hairy paws up on the window ledge as he gazed out at me with those penetrating and predatory chocolate-brown eyes of his.

  There was no sign of Aaron’s battered old blue Toyota Tacoma. So that meant that, indeed, Aaron was at the farmers’ market. Either that or the pickup was tucked safely away in the barn.

  Not a pleasant thought.

  The rain kept beating down on the thin roof of the Kia, as if trying to drive me and the van into the ground. My fingers drummed an accompaniment on the dash. Lightning created a show against the backdrop of the mountains. I was slowly going mad.

  Sloughing off my shoes, I grabbed my boots from the backseat and slid into them. I glanced at my watch. I’d been here five minutes or more and still no sign of life. It was time to get off my butt and search the barn or turn around with my tail between my legs and head back to Birds & Bees.

  I squeezed the door handle and pushed open the door. Cold, hard rain lashed against my face and hands as I ran to the relative safety of the barn. I pulled at the big barn door and opened it a crack. Thank goodness it wasn’t locked. I’d brought no tools and wouldn’t know how to pick a lock anyway.

  I heard a horse whinny and froze before continuing. “Hello?” I called tentatively. “Aaron? Are you here? It’s me, Amy Simms. I thought I’d come talk to you about those birdhouses . . .”

  Nothing, thank heavens—only the rain hitting the roof above, echoing madly. I pressed on.

  Inside, the mingled scent of hay and a mix of earthy odors that only life on a farm could create greeted my nostrils. I also smelled fear. I seemed to have carried that in with me.

  What I didn’t find was a light switch. When was I going to learn to carry a flashlight?

  I slid across the floor, my boots heavily caked with mud growing heavier as the straw clung to the bottoms, adding another five pounds to me. A crack of light, not much, outlined the gap in the back barn doors. From my last time here, I knew there was a workbench to the left and some stalls to the right. I headed to the workbench.

  I discovered a strip light attached to a shelf above the bench and flipped it on. It wasn’t much, but the glow allowed me to see dimly around the barn. I quietly and carefully searched the workbench, checking all the bins and the bottom drawers. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. No obvious murder weapons, instruments of torture, or trophy body parts.

  For the first time, I wondered if I dared search his house. Assuming I could break in. Assuming that German shepherd didn’t eat me for lunch.

  I noticed a simple wood ladder in the far corner, leading to a loft. I’d save that for last. Not having any portable light, I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to see anyway, assuming I didn’t break my neck trying to climb up and down in the near darkness.

  I approached the horse, not much more than a black shadow, and rubbed his nose. “How are you, boy?” He could have been a she—either way the animal replied with a gentle whinny. I patted his side and continued my search.

  Going on the premise that Aaron Maddley and/or his sister, Grace, had murdered Matt Kowalski and then Aaron had driven back here to the barn—this was where I’d seen the pickup that night with its engine still ticking, after all—where would he hide the evidence?

  Whatever evidence that might be. I turned slowly around the big, quiet barn. My eyes had grown accustomed to the low light and I now noticed a ragged stack of hay bales to the right, beneath the loft. A glint of something shiny caught my eye.

  I crept to the corner. The edge of a trunk of some sort stuck from behind several bales. It rested on a black oilcloth. The trunk was closed but unlocked.

  I lifted the lid. My eyes grew wide and my mouth went dry. A rumpled pair of dungarees and a torn and bloody shirt lay inside. A wood-handled knife lay atop them. I bristled.

  “Amy?”

  I jumped and screamed. The lid of the trunk slammed down on my knee, then shut with a bang. As I spun around, I slipped and tumbled against the rough wallboards of the barn. I felt a splinter jab into my palm and winced in pain.

  I scrambled to get off my knees. Hands grabbed me.

  “Are you all right?” Aaron grabbed me by the elbow and lifted me easily.

  I nodded as I tried to balance myself on two feet once again. Kind of hard when you’ve been frightened to death. And caught in a barn by a vicious killer.

  “Let me hit the lights.” Aaron released me and I watched his shadowy figure fade. A moment later big overhead fluorescents sprang to life.

  I hobbled over, hoping to make my escape, but he stepped in front of me and held out his arms. “What are you doing here, Amy?” He wore a black rain poncho, slick with water, over a pair of sturdy dungarees and work boots.

  “I, uh . . .” My eyes swung madly around the barn. There had to be some way out of here. Maybe if I climbed to the loft I could hold him off until the police arrived. But why would the police arrive? I hadn’t told them I was coming. I couldn’t telephone them because, like an idiot, I’d left my purse in the Kia.

  “Why don’t we go inside and I’ll make us some coffee?” he suggested. “You’re shivering.” Aaron turned toward the open barn door. “Are you all right? Did you hurt your hand?”

  I realized I’d been holding my open hand up like a stop sign, feeling the sharp and no doubt germ-filled splinter under my skin. “It’s nothing.” I pulled my hand away from his grasping fingers.

  I thought about jumping him right then but knew it would be futile. He was a lot bigger and stronger than I was. I didn’t even have a weapon of any sort. I hadn’t realized I was shivering and didn’t know if it was from being drenched with cold rain or from fear of being murdered out there in that desolate barn. But I was definitely shivering now. Uncontrollably.

  “N-no, that’s okay,” I said. “I really should be going. Sorry. I only stopped by to ask if you’d started on those birdhouses.” I made a large circle around Aaron and headed awkwardly to the exit.

  “You came all the way out here for that?”

  “Sorry,” I said over my shoulder. “I should have called first.”

  “No problem.” He’d caught up to me and laid a hand on my damp shoulder. I flinched. My heart beat against my chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded. “I’d better get back to the store.”

  Aaron walked me out, flicking off the lights and shutting the barn doors behind us.

  I felt his eyes on me as I backed up the minivan and headed quickly toward town.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” I gasped, throwing off my wet coat and hat and tossing them recklessly on the front counter regardless of the mess it would create. I’d already stomped in with my mud-caked boots on, leaving a messy trail in my wake; how much bigger a mess could I make? Besides, I was rattled. The entire way back to t
he store, I’d driven with one eye on the rearview mirror, trying to be certain Aaron Maddley wasn’t following me in his pickup truck.

  “I couldn’t,” replied Kim. “I tried, but you weren’t answering your phone.” The customer she’d been assisting over at the seed bins eyed us suspiciously.

  Mom stood behind the counter. “Amy Hester Simms, what have you been up to?”

  Uh-oh. All three names. Spoken in a clipped staccato cadence. Never a good sign with my mother. I shot Kim a searching look. Hopefully, she hadn’t told my mother about my little breaking-and-entering adventure. Technically, I wasn’t sure it was breaking, since the barn doors weren’t locked. If I’d had time to get into Aaron Maddley’s house, that would have been another story. Probably one ending in my incarceration. Or being swallowed whole by an unnaturally large German shepherd. What did he feed that thing, anyway? Magic, gigantism-inducing beans?

  I wiped drops of cold rain from my nose with the back of my sleeve. “Nothing, Mom.” I’d blasted the van’s heater all the way home and was still chilled to the bone. I’d heard fear could do that to a person. I’d been experiencing it a lot lately, so I knew it had to be true.

  Mom stepped out from behind the counter and began refilling the seed bins. Kim led her customer to the register and rang her up. “That’s not what Kim’s been telling me.” Mom tapped her foot.

  I gulped. “You told her? It was supposed to be a secret!” The customer left hurriedly. I guess she didn’t care much for family squabbles in the middle of her shopping experience. I grabbed a small pair of tweezers from my purse and gingerly yanked a mile-long pine splinter from my right palm. I winced.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” Mom asked.

  “Splinter.” I held up my palm. “Gone now.” I flicked the splinter into the trash can.

  Kim folded her arms. “I didn’t tell your mother anything. What do you think I am? A snitch?” She pulled the apron from around her waist and placed it on a hook on the wall behind the counter. “You may as well tell her now, though.”

  “Well . . .” I wasn’t sure this was a share-with-Mom kind of story.

  Mom’s eyes bored into me more effectively than any harsh police-interrogation-room overhead light, and my resolve failed me. I told my mother about our suspicions and how I’d gone to Aaron Maddley’s farm to have a look around.