Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  “Yes?”

  “There might be something on the old place in the archives. Perhaps some stories in the old Ruby Lake Weekender, or even one of the larger papers making mention of when the house was constructed, who the architect was—that sort of thing.” He blinked at me.

  “That would be perfect,” I replied. “Where do we begin?”

  John smiled at me and rested his hand on my shoulder. “We don’t begin.” He pointed at me. “You do.” He checked his watch. “I have work to do.” He rose from the chair at the study carrel and waved for me to follow him.

  John pulled a key from his key ring and unlocked a warped oak door leading to a back room. He flicked on a light switch. Metal shelving ran up and down the long, narrow, and windowless room. Row after row of boxes covered each shelf.

  “What is this place?” I whispered.

  “Archive room.” Dust rose from the floor as he worked his way toward the back. “Goes all the way back to eighteen-something.” He tapped a sagging old box with his open hand. “I’d suggest you start here.”

  I pulled a face and coughed as dust hit me in the nose, mouth, and eyes. “Don’t you have all this on computer, or microfilm, or microfiche,” I said hopefully, “or something?”

  John smiled. “No, but if you’re volunteering to perform the task for us?” He arched a playful brow. “The library is always looking for volunteers.”

  I scowled and pulled down the box he’d pointed me to. “I’m afraid my plate is pretty full these days, John. Otherwise, I’d be delighted.”

  John laughed, filling the small space with joy. “Yeah, I’ll bet you would!”

  He left me to my task and I lugged the first box over to a long walnut table against the far wall. There was no chair, so I sat on the tabletop and gingerly started removing the box’s contents, one by one.

  I yawned. And coughed up more hundred-year-old dust.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  John came in later with coffee. “How’s it going?” He handed me an old Kiwanis mug. “I brought you this.”

  “You’re a life saver,” I replied, drinking greedily.

  “So,” he said, jumping up beside me on the table. It rocked back and forth for a moment but held.

  “I’m not sure.” I hadn’t found out who’d built the house, but after searching several boxes—and there were only a million or two more to go—I had found a few stories that mentioned my house. “What do you think of this?” I held up a copy of the Weekender from 1892.

  “Ghosts?” A look of bemusement crossed my friend’s face.

  “Hey!” I gave him a friendly shove. “I’m not saying I believe, I’m just asking what you think.”

  I went to shove him again, but he held up his mug of coffee. “Uh-uh,” he said, “don’t want to spill any coffee on library property.”

  I drank while he read. The article told the story of a Heather Sampson who had run a boarding house out of my current home. That is, until she was murdered in her bedroom, stabbed multiple times. She’d only been in her early forties and her killer had never been caught. Her ghost was said to haunt the old place ever since. I found several other references to Heather’s ghosts in further editions of the paper strung out over the years.

  “The stories sort of dried up in the twenties,” I told John.

  John grunted. “After a while, a lot of these stories sort of fade away. What are you trying to say, Amy?” He handed back the paper. “You think Heather Sampson has returned?” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “Woooo-wooo! Haunting your place?” He raised an eyebrow playfully. “Do you think she’s resorted to murder herself?”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Of course not.” At least not that I’d ever admit. I certainly hoped she hadn’t been stabbed in what was now my bedroom. “But something strange is going on in that house.” I slapped the paper against the table. “And I want to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Easy with that,” John said, gently taking the paper from my fist before I did any damage. “Library property, remember?” John folded his hands. “When you say strange”—he hesitated—“you mean the murder?”

  I blew out a breath. “I mean the murder and all the other weird things that have been going on in that house ever since I bought the place, including the fact that Gertie suddenly wants to buy it back for more money than I even paid her.”

  John’s brow shot up. “Strange doings, indeed.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” And he didn’t, so I filled him in on all the craziness, from the noises, to the murder, to the squatters, to the screams, and to the mysterious white figure in the night.

  John took it all in with the patience of a saint. Like I said, the man is cherub material. When he saw that I was finished venting, he placed the dry, yellowed newspaper back in the carton and returned the carton to the shelf. “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Follow me,” John repeated in lilting tones. He guided me back to the freestanding shoulder-high shelf of books near the checkout counter. This was where all the recent additions to the collection were kept. His fingers played over his lips as his eyes scanned the shelves. “Here it is.” He lifted a trade paperback from the bottom shelf.

  “What’s this supposed to be?” If I sounded dubious, it’s because I was.

  John smiled. “If you’re into ghosts and things that go bump in the night—”

  I read the title aloud: “Crazy Carolina: Stories of the Misfits, Misadventures, and Mysteries of the Tar Heel State. What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Read it,” replied John. “At the very least you’ll have some fun.” He patted my back. “I think you could use it. I’ve been wanting to read it myself ever since we got it in. But it’s been so popular, we can hardly keep it on the shelf. I’ve been telling Luann we may need to order more than just the two copies.” Luann Wiggins is the head librarian. “The author’s local, from over in Winston-Salem.” John led me to the front desk and checked me out. “Maybe it will give you some ideas.”

  “Ideas I don’t need,” I quipped. “I’ve got plenty of ideas.” He walked me to the door and held it open for me. “What I need are answers. Tell me, John, can you think of any reason Gertie would want to buy my house?”

  “Senile?”

  We both laughed. “Sure, there’s that. But why would she be talking to Robert LaChance?”

  “The car guy?” John looked perplexed. “Not a clue.”

  “Me either.” I hesitated. “What about Bella Bologna?”

  His right eyebrow arched. “I hear the orecchiette with chicken is quite good.”

  “Ha-ha. No, I mean how much do you think it costs to open a franchise?”

  John looked bemused. “More than you or I have got, that’s for sure.” When he saw I was expecting a real answer, he gave it some thought, then said, “A million bucks? Maybe more. Why?”

  I told him how Robert LaChance was considering investing in one down in Raleigh.

  John whistled. “That’s a lot of money. I didn’t know his pockets were that deep.”

  I added how I had a hunch the mayor might be an investor too.

  John laughed. “Never happen. You know how little the town pays Mac?” I didn’t. “Not enough to live on. That’s why he keeps the real estate gig.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Look, Amy, as your friend, you want my advice?” His arm draped over my shoulder.

  The corners of my mouth turned down and I looked at him sideways. “Maybe.”

  “Stop looking for conspiracies. It’s Birds and Bees you ought to be worried about.”

  I waved goodbye to John and sighed as I climbed into the rental car. John didn’t understand. It was Birds & Bees that I was worried the most about.

  26

  Cash Calderon stuffed his hammer in the leather tool belt around his reasonably trim waist. He wore loose dungarees and a red-and-black checked flannel shirt. He and his men
were wrapping up work for the day.

  I took a look around the store. The ceiling had been patched and painted. There were no telltale signs of water damage. They’d made a lot of progress. “Looks great.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I patted his arm. “You’ve done an excellent job.”

  “I know it’s taking a bit longer than I said it would.” There was an apologetic tone to Mr. Calderon’s voice. “But with this weather—”

  “Really,” I said, cutting him off, “I’m very happy.” I patted his arm once again. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well”—he shuffled his boots along the floor—“I wanted to be sure you’re satisfied with the quality of the work.”

  “Very. I couldn’t have done better myself,” I teased.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I was concerned what with that other contractor sniffing around.” He looked sheepish. “I thought maybe you were unhappy with the work and looking to replace me.”

  “No!” I gasped. “Wait. What other contractor?”

  Cash described a man who’d been by less than an hour ago, come in, taken a look around, and then left again. “When I asked him if I could help him in any way, he said he was asked to come by.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t ask him to come by,” I said, puzzled. I crossed my arms over my chest. “How do you know he was a contractor?”

  Cash touched the side of his nose. “I’ve got a nose for them. I can sniff them out,” he said slyly. “Besides, I should know. I’m one myself.”

  I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “I wonder who the devil he is.”

  “I don’t know,” Cash said. “He’s not from around here, that’s for sure. I’d know him if he was.”

  One of Cash’s men joined the conversation, a young kid with bouncy black bangs and a rail-thin frame. “Whoever he is, I saw him cross the street.” The young man pointed with the screwdriver in his hand.

  “The diner?”

  “Yep.”

  I shrugged. “That’s it, then. He was probably meeting someone at the diner and wandered into Birds and Bees. Maybe he’s a potential customer.” A girl could hope.

  I locked up behind the men and headed over to Ruby’s, figuring I might as well see this guy for myself. There was a good-sized dinner crowd and Moire Leora waved to me from behind the register. “Sit anywhere you like!”

  I nodded and searched the dining room. Mayor Mac MacDonald, Robert LaChance, and a third man, who looked vaguely familiar, occupied the far corner booth. A fourth man, whom I knew slightly better, rose from the table and teetered my way.

  I intercepted him in the alcove leading to the restrooms. “Mr. Withers,” I said. “Remember me, Amy Simms, from Birds and Bees?” I tilted my head toward the shop. He wore the same well-worn tan wool suit he’d had on when I first met him.

  “Oh, of course.” He smiled and his moustache twitched. “I remember you.” He rubbed the side of his neck, which was bandaged, reminding me of a white-banded killdeer.

  “Are you all right? I heard what happened. A mugging, how terrible!” My fingers flew to my chin. “I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest?”

  Mr. Withers tossed his hand. “Bed rest! I don’t know what the doctor was on about. A man goes stir-crazy lying around in bed all day. Thought I’d come out and grab some grub that didn’t come out of the freezer.”

  “Good for you. I see you were having dinner with the mayor and Robert LaChance.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, bumped into the guys and they asked me to join them.” He smiled wistfully. “Talked about the old days, like when your place used to be a bank and a man could walk around this town without getting himself attacked.” He looked at me somberly. “Or killed.” He smiled once more. “Probably bored them to death, listening to an old man ramble on.”

  “Nonsense. I think you’re adorable.”

  He blushed and scratched his hair. “In fact, I told them about the time that armored car got robbed right outside the bank. Your shop, Birds and Bees, used to be a bank at one time, you know.”

  I nodded absently. I knew. He’d told me so more than once, including not half a minute earlier.

  “Happened a long, long time ago.” He chuckled, then rambled on. “The only reason I remember at all is because I ran into that feller at your store the other day and it got me to thinking, and—”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the action at the corner table. The man with Mac and Robert had picked up his coat and laid it across his lap. “I’m sorry,” I interrupted. I leaned closer, rested my hand on Mr. Withers’s and whispered in his ear. “But who’s that other man with them?”

  My eyes darted to the broad-shouldered stranger across from Mac and Robert. Definitely the guy I’d remembered from the store. He had a large, lumpy nose I’d never forget—in fact, it looked more like the prow of a ship than a nose.

  Mr. Withers glanced back. “Some buddy of theirs.” He scratched his stubbly chin. “From Raleigh, I think.” He smiled. “Got a free meal out of them, so I can’t complain!”

  As Mr. Withers said goodbye and headed off, I approached the men’s table, but all three had disappeared. A busboy was clearing their plates and glasses.

  I plunked down on the still warm vinyl bench seat and sighed. I suddenly realized that the man with Mac MacDonald and Robert LaChance was the same burly, pasty-faced man I’d noticed come into Birds & Bees on opening day. I remembered because I’d seen him come in, but I had not seen him depart. And that was around the time that the Nickersons had come in . . .

  What did it all mean?

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I looked up slowly. “Mr. Harlan.” I pulled myself together, straightened my sagging shoulders.

  He smiled. “It’s Derek, remember? Mind if I join you?”

  I slid to the far back of the booth. “Oh, I remember, all right.”

  He slipped off a heavy black leather jacket and laid it on the bench across from us as he sat next to me. Beneath, he wore a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of jeans. I guess he wasn’t in lawyer mode. “So, I had a word with your Chief Kennedy today.”

  “Oh?” I grabbed a plastic menu and looked it over. I guessed wrong. He was in lawyer mode. “So? Any news?”

  Derek shook his head. Our waitress bustled over and we ordered drinks. “Nothing concrete. There’s a two-hour window, at least, during which Mr. Kowalski was likely murdered. But no evidence linking anyone to that crime.” His eyes twinkled. “Except for you, of course.”

  I frowned and sipped my tea. “Of course.”

  When the waitress returned to take our orders, I chose the baked mac and cheese with a panko and parmesan crust. Comfort food. And comfort was just what I needed. Derek Harlan ordered the fish and chips. We made small talk until our dinners arrived.

  “What about you?” he said, pushing the chips my way. “Find out anything?” I couldn’t resist grabbing a few despite my best intentions. I was looking for comfort food, remember? The lawyer sprinkled some pepper over his cod. Who does that? “I hear you’ve been nosing around?”

  I frowned once again. I seemed to do that a lot around this guy. “Who told you that?” I stuffed three fries in my mouth and chewed vigorously.

  “Chief Kennedy, for one.” He broke off some fillet, aimed his fork at me. “He seems quite annoyed with you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly thrilled with him these days.” I snatched another handful of the jerk’s potatoes and pushed them in my mouth. “I mean, why hasn’t he solved this case yet? It’s not like he’s got a million other murder cases to work on.”

  Derek shrugged and reached for his fries, probably worried that I was going to gobble them all up before he’d gotten any. “It’s a process of elimination and a search for clues,” he pontificated. “Give him time. I’m sure he’ll uncover the truth.”

  “I’m not sure how much more time I’ve got.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means I think som
ebody is trying to kill me.” I huffed out a breath. “Or at least scare me.” And they were doing a pretty good job of it.

  Derek nodded and finished his plate. “I heard about the midnight intruder.” A busboy quickly took the empty dish away. “Dessert?”

  I really shouldn’t. I still hadn’t taken that walk around the lake I’d promised myself. “I’ll have the apple turnover.” I could see them up at the counter, under the glass lid, beckoning, practically calling my name. Derek ordered the same.

  Okay, I’m weak. Who isn’t?

  “It’s not only that,” I said. “I think somebody’s trying to kill me next.”

  Derek’s brow shot up. I’d noticed that his right arm had settled on the top of the bench seat and had been working its way slowly yet inevitably closer to me. I slid out of reach as the waitress brought dessert.

  I explained about my near demise over the side of Airport Road. Derek toyed with his dessert fork and eyed me somberly. “That does sound serious. Have you told the police?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, you should. And make sure they look over your vehicle.”

  I promised I would. “I’m not sure what good it will do though.”

  Derek looked at his gold watch. “I’d better be going.”

  Sure, he had a wife and child to go home to.

  He rose and placed a couple of twenties on the table. “Dinner’s on me.” The lawyer grabbed his jacket and winked at me. “Looks like we finally got a chance to have dinner together. We should do this again sometime.”

  “Speaking of dinner,” I said, ignoring his lecherous intent, “I saw you the other night at the Lake House with your wife and daughter.”

  “Yes,” he answered, without hesitation. “And I saw you too. With that Aaron Maddley fellow. How was your date?”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I replied automatically.

  “Oh?” His right eyebrow formed a question mark.

  I backpedaled quickly. “I mean, it was a date. But—” I was blushing, more from anger at having nearly been caught in a white lie than from embarrassment.