Flight of the Sparrows

by Annie Jones

  Kate couldn’t believe a man like this was capable of setting traps near his property. Bonnie and Paul had both cautioned her that Artie might not be cooperative or even particularly kind about what she had come to talk to him about, but Kate didn’t care. She knew that God, the Author of all good things, was woven in the very fabric of Artie’s life, and that there was something worth reaching out to in Artie. And she fully intended to find it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Place ain’t for sale.” Kate was still walking up to the house when the front door swung inward, and Artie, dressed in clean blue-and-white-striped overalls—much like the ones he had loaned Dud—and a brown plaid shirt stood in the doorway. With his eyes squinted down hard at Kate, he concluded gruffly, “So, no use you standin’ out there looking it over like you’re plottin’ where to hang a porch swing.”

  Kate didn’t quite know what to say to that until a slight hint of amusement flickered across his face.

  “I was just admiring the view, Mr. Best.” She confidently strode the rest of the way up the walk and onto the porch. “You really have put a lot of effort into keeping up your home.”

  Any trace of humor in his expression evaporated instantly. He stepped back from the door as she crossed the threshold, and when she came inside, he gave the door a push.

  It shut with a wham that made Kate jump.

  He didn’t acknowledge her comment. “Be right back. Got to take care of my parrots.” He turned and started up the narrow stairway behind a door just off to the side of the gleaming hardwood-floored foyer. “Won’t take long. Got some taxidermied specimens ’long with some scrapbooks and such there in the parlor if you want to take a look at ’em.”

  “Actually, I’d love to see the parrots.” Kate stepped forward and placed her hand on the roughly varnished rail. “If you don’t mind my tagging along.”

  “May have to do your talkin’ over the squawkin’.” He gave her a look over his shoulder, sort of sizing her up from the tips of her white tennis shoes to the top of her clipped-back hair. She must have passed muster because he gave a lopsided shrug and concluded, “No reason why you can’t come along.”

  He gave a jerk of his head and started up the steps again.

  Kate followed. She wondered if she’d been too optimistic thinking she’d ever get anything out of him, much less find actual answers to her questions. At the landing halfway up, she paused to give her arthritic knee a rest.

  Artie kept on trudging upward one creaking wooden step at a time.

  She raised her head to watch him and found herself squinting into the glare of sunlight through an octagonal pane of plain glass. “That would be the perfect spot for a stained-glass window.”

  That made Artie stop in his tracks. He looked down at her, then up at the source of the hot, bright shaft of sunlight. “I reckon. This staircase used to lead up to the old attic, back before...”

  His hand flexed on the handrail, and his jaw tightened. He took a deep breath, then fixed his gaze on the few remaining steps ahead of him. “Back before I converted the attic to a proper place to house the parrots. Had that window put in to provide some natural light on the stairwell. Don’t really need no stained glass.”

  “Sometimes we do things not because a house needs it but because we need to do things to make that house feel like home.” She really could envision a stained-glass piece in that window and hoped he might say he’d like one so that she could make one for him.

  “Only ones that need to feel at home ’round here these days are me and my parrots. I don’t see no use for fancy stained glass.” Artie started up the steps again and without looking back, added, “But maybe the parrots might like it.”

  Kate smiled and made a mental note to work up some sketches for a possible stained-glass project.

  Artie waited at the door at the top of the stairs, his hand on the shiny new brass doorknob.

  “Is there anything I need to know about the birds before we go in?” Kate asked as she joined him in the small area at the top of the stairs.

  He scrunched his face, then glanced back and said, “The green one bites.”

  “The green one?” Kate held back.

  “The Nanday conure.” He stepped into the upper room.

  Kate followed, then stopped to take it all in. It was a huge, airy space with three walls the color of butter and a third one wallpapered with tropical plants. There were two dormer windows on the wall that looked out over the front of the house and a single window on the north wall. Three large bird cages sat in their own designated spaces with birds in them. There were also large perches hanging from the ceiling, leading her to believe that Artie sometimes let the birds have the run of the room.

  “I don’t usually keep them cooped up if I’m in the house.” He began attending to the cages one by one. “But if I know someone is coming or I’m going out to...be out awhile, I cage them.”

  Kate noted the hesitation before he settled on the noncommittal “going to be out awhile.” If he had recently begun going out more during the day and didn’t want people upsetting his parrots, that would explain his change of policy requiring visitors to make appointments to come by.

  Kate contemplated that possibility as Artie went to the first and largest of the three cages and peered in at a large red parrot, the kind Kate could picture sitting on a pirate’s shoulder eating crackers. “Is that a macaw?”

  “Scarlet macaw.” He took a moment to speak to the large bird, which reacted as though it had just seen a long-lost friend. “An Ara macao.”

  “That’s his Latin name, but based on his appearance, I’m guessing this is Captain Crackers.” She came closer, but not too close.

  “How’d you know that?” he asked, his shoulders tense and his eyes squinty.

  Kate shrugged. “You told me their names on the phone once.”

  “And you remembered?” He leaned in and gave the parrot something that looked suspiciously like a nuzzle. The bird grabbed the strap of Artie’s overalls as if needing confirmation that it was really him. When Artie withdrew his hand from the cage, he eyed her again. “That was nice of you. I hope you don’t expect me to be nice in return. Ain’t my nature.”

  They moved to the next cage, and a loud shriek greeted him. He didn’t flinch, but neither did he lean in to interact with the bird.

  “The green one,” Kate said softly.

  “The Nanday conure. Sometimes called the black-hooded parakeet because of that black cap of feathers on its head. I call him Bebe.” Artie stepped aside so that Kate could get a better view of the green bird. “He’s the reason I ended up with these parrots.”

  “He is the reason?” Kate cocked her head. She wouldn’t ask about Joanie, but if Artie wanted to volunteer some information, she would be ready to listen.

  Artie didn’t go into detail. “They’re illegal to own in some states. I was the closest person with a captive bird wildlife permit.”

  The bird screeched again.

  “I see. Is he full grown?” She peered at the bird, which she judged to be about eleven inches long.

  “He’s about twelve years old. He’d better be.” Artie chuckled and started toward the third cage. “I’ve had him most of those years.”

  “It’s been that long since you and—” Kate broke off, realizing she almost brought up his relationship with Joanie.

  Artie paused halfway to the next cage and turned to study her. “What’s been that long?”

  Kate couldn’t lie or even fabricate a creative rendition of the truth that might smooth over her faux pas. She took a deep breath and put her hands out, palms up in resignation. “I went by Joanie’s Ark today to talk to them about something that happened to Bonnie. The girl working the desk told me about you and Joan Capshaw.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Oh.” Artie turned his back to her and went on to the next cage without further comment.

  Kate fit her hands together in front of her and waited, her stomach mor
e knotted than her intertwined fingers.

  Artie opened the door of the third cage to a pair of large blue parrots with yellow feathers at the back of their heads. Instantly they began to make noises that sounded to Kate like children babbling or a singer doing warm-up vocalizations.

  “Sapphire and Bluebelle?” Kate ventured.

  Artie nodded. “Blue-mutation, yellow-naped Amazons.” He offered his hand to one of the birds, who rubbed its head against his rough, calloused skin. “Amazona ochrocephala.”

  “They’re gorgeous,” Kate said, watching as these birds grabbed onto the straps of Artie’s overalls as well.

  All the parrots were active now, each seeming to crave Artie’s attention and willing to make all kinds of noise to get it.

  Kate couldn’t reconcile this man with someone who would string fishing line on his property to trip and hurt people.

  She walked slowly from one cage to the next. “I know you didn’t plan on having these parrots, but I bet you’re glad every day to be able to have helped such beautiful creatures.”

  “There’s something to be said for helpin’ them creatures that ain’t so special too, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  Artie opened a cabinet near Bebe’s cage and withdrew a brightly colored packet. Without closing the cabinet doors, he emptied the last bits of the contents into one cupped palm and offered it to the bird. Bebe fell upon the offering and quieted down immediately.

  “Can’t screech and eat at the same time, can you?” he told the bird before he crumpled up the packet and tucked it into his overall pocket. He lifted his gaze to Kate and said, “Got to do this with a steady hand, or he’ll take a nip out of a finger.”

  “Ouch,” Kate said in a show of empathy for how that must feel. “You know, if you’d like—that is, if you think the parrots would like a stained-glass window on the stairway, I’d need a replica of the size and shape of the window to begin to lay out a pattern. We could use some newspaper, tape it up to the window, draw around the shape, and cut it out.”

  He didn’t say whether he liked the idea or not, but he did pick up a newspaper from the open cabinet before heading to join Kate by the partially open door.

  “Those birds are wonderful, Mr. Best.” She moved ahead of him on the steps and quickly made her way to the landing. “Thank you for showing them to me. Of course, that wasn’t the purpose of my making an appointment.”

  He stopped behind her on the landing, unfurled the paper, and pressed it into the deep-set decorative window. It blotted out every last bit of sunlight and left the rest of the staircase in gloomy dimness. “Can’t trace around the shape of that until I get a pencil, but if I stick that paper up there, that’ll remind me to do it.” When he lowered his hands, he folded his arms and looked right at her, his expression unreadable in the newly darkened passage. “Well?”

  “That’ll be fine,” she said, taken aback by his tone. “Get the tracing to me whenever you can.”

  “Ain’t concerned about the tracin’, Mrs. Hanlon. You brought up the reason for you comin’ out today.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Kate pivoted slowly on her heel. “I hardly know where to begin. It’s a delicate matter, you see, and—”

  “Don’t even bother goin’ no further.” He clomped down the steps behind her. When they both stood in the warm, inviting foyer, he anchored his feet firmly on the hardwood floor and folded his arms. “You already said you’d been to Joanie’s Ark. I reckon they sent you to ask me to help pull them out of this aggravatin’ mess of a sparrow hunt they got themselves into.”

  “Aggravating mess?” she echoed his words, hoping he might expound on them.

  “It’s disruptive, and even if they do find those birds, what then?” He uncrossed his arms and strode across the floor into the parlor.

  Kate followed him into the room that resembled a small museum of bird- and Artie Best–related items. Trophies and scrapbooks on shelves, taxidermied birds in elegant glass cases, and eggs from ostrich to robin were displayed in nests resting on gilded branches. Two entire walls were filled with framed photos, certificates of appreciation, permits, and awards telling the story of Artie’s dedication to preservation, education, and the community.

  On a pedestal just inside the door was a book spread open for guests to sign in and leave comments. Kate stole a glance at it only to find Artie had just recently begun to use it to make a note of when people came out by appointment. She saw her name and Dud and Charlene’s. No one else’s in the past two weeks. That didn’t give her much to go on, but she did notice one more thing. The appointments were always scheduled for the same times of day—late morning or early afternoon. Nothing before eleven or after three.

  She didn’t have to think about it too hard to realize that Dud and Charlene must have been lying, then, when they found her in the supply barn and said they had an appointment.

  Artie sat down in a wingback chair with a huff. “When Cassie Capshaw came up with this gimmick to raise funds for her own interests, what long-range plans did she make for after all them amateur birders go home? Has she got anything in place to help deal with the trash and tire tracks and torn-up trails from the participants trampin’ up and down out here?”

  Artie had spoken before about how much he resented people tramping up and down on his land. His sudden shift from the man who made space in his life for wounded and unwanted birds to this surly, anxious man had Kate second-guessing the wisdom of bringing up the traps. She raised her chin and, in doing so, faced the wall detailing Artie’s concern for community, and her conviction was renewed.

  “Mr. Best, I don’t know anything about their plans. But I do know that if I had issues with Sparrowpalooza, I would go directly to Cassie Capshaw and discuss it. That’s the same courtesy I want to extend to you.”

  His anxious demeanor didn’t change as he said, almost angry, “You got...issues with me, Mrs. Hanlon? Have I done something wrong?”

  “I don’t know, Artie. Here’s the situation at hand.” She then laid out what she’d discovered, about the latest cardboard-box trap and the fishing line tied between the trees and Bonnie spraining her ankle.

  “I don’t know nothin’ about it,” he said when she concluded. He stood, took a look at the clock on the wall, and began pacing. “But if it happened on my land, tell her to send me her hospital bills, and I’ll see to them. I feel mighty bad about it, but I didn’t set any traps.”

  He sounded firm and sincere about paying Bonnie’s bills, and the way he said outright that he hadn’t done it led Kate to believe him. His reaction was just exactly what any concerned but uninvolved person’s would be. She detected no guilt, hesitation, or anything suspicious in him on this subject.

  He led Kate into the entryway, turned his back on her, and started toward the front door.

  “I see,” Kate said, realizing she was being shown out. “There’s something else.”

  “I don’t have time to fritter the day away gabbin’,” he said curtly. He opened the door for her. “Don’t feel the need to leave a donation. I know you didn’t come for the birds. You came for your friend.”

  “But I did come for the birds, Mr. Best.” She moved past him over the threshold, then turned to finish telling him the other reason behind her visit.

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Hanlon. I got to go.” He came out onto the porch after her and looked up into the sky, like a man considering the weather or the direction of the wind, or maybe gauging the time of day by the position of the sun. “That means you got to go.”

  Kate looked at the sky as well and guessed it to be after four. “I just wanted to revisit my friend’s theory with you, Mr. Best. She has evidence to show there aren’t nearly as many birds around here as there should be, given the setting and the season. Don’t you have any thoughts about that?”

  He stiffened. He stole a sideways glance in the general direction of the driveway and bird barns, then scoffed softly, and asked, his voice low, “Where is your fri
end from, Mrs. Hanlon?”

  For just a moment, his voice sounded so threatening that Kate had second thoughts about answering that question or continuing the conversation at all. But if she did that, she didn’t stand a chance of learning anything, and that was why she had come here: to learn as much as she could. “Texas. My friend is from Texas.”

  “She comes here from Texas and thinks she knows how many birds she could expect to find on any given September afternoon out here in my little private corner of Tennessee?” He shoved his hands into the deep side pockets of his overalls.

  Kate tensed. This wasn’t the sincere man she felt she’d connected with moments earlier, the one she had believed incapable of setting the traps. This man was avoiding the question. Even if he had nothing to do with the traps, she couldn’t help thinking he knew more than he was saying about the missing birds.

  His shoulders slumped forward, almost menacingly, as he grumbled, “People. I’ll be glad when there’s a whole lot fewer of ’em around makin’ their messes and stickin’ their noses in where they don’t belong.”

  “Was that aimed at me, Mr. Best?” Kate asked gently as she moved quietly down the steps and onto the walk.

  “It’s aimed at them out-of-towners and hobbyist interlopers,” he muttered. “But I do think you should go on home now, Mrs. Hanlon, and leave worryin’ about the birds around these parts to me.”

  Kate considered asking him if that was his way of saying he was worried about the birds, but as she made her way from the walk to the horseshoe drive where Dud and Charlene always parked their van, something caught her eye.

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Best,” she said with a nod. Then, the instant he turned his back to head toward the bird barns, she bent swiftly to snatch up what she had found. She took only a moment to look it over before stuffing it in her handbag and saying good-bye.