The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  Megan started to return the photograph to her grandmother, but Annabelle waved her away. “You keep it, sweetheart. You’re in charge of the family history now.”

  Megan tucked the photograph carefully into her wallet, shaking her head a little in wonder. “As mysteries go, I’ve got to admit, you’ve definitely outdone yourself. But you know, there is a much easier way to find out who your father was than to go all the way back to Virginia. Why don’t you just send for your birth certificate?”

  Annabelle chuckled a little. “That’s not as simple for someone my age as it is for you. I tried finding my birth certificate when I applied for social security, but it had been lost in a fire or flood or some such nonsense decades before. Besides, it’s not the who I’m interested in, don’t you see? At this stage of the game, what difference could that possibly make? It’s the why. I want to know the story, my dear. There’s always, always a story. And in the end, it’s hardly ever what you expect.”

  ~*~

  “All in all,” observed Paul, sinking onto the plush, down-upholstered tapestry sofa with a glass of scotch, “I have had better days.”

  “You know what they say,” agreed Derrick. “Sometimes you’re the donkey, and sometimes you’re the tail.”

  The look Paul gave him spoke volumes about what he was trying hard not to say.

  Purline stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, scowling at both of them. “And if you think for one minute that I’m going to be cleaning up after all them animals—”

  It was at that moment that they heard the door to the back garden open, followed by the scrabbling of little paws on expensively refinished wood floors. Paul lurched to his feet in alarm as a herd of small-to-midsized dogs flooded into the room, followed by Harmony with a kitten under each arm.

  “Harmony!” Paul exclaimed. “I thought we agreed the dogs are to stay in the garden!”

  “Well, I tried to explain that to them,” replied Harmony reasonably, “but they seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the concept of boundaries.” A scruffy looking Pekinese mix that Derrick had promptly named Cozette caught the hem of Harmony’s flowing gown between its teeth and began to tug. “It’s not as though the garden is fenced, you know,” she added, calmly disengaging her garment from the jaws of the playful Pekinese. “That would make it all so much easier.”

  Paul sidestepped an impromptu game of chase between a fuzzy poodle-mix called Roxie Hart and something vaguely resembling a cocker spaniel that Derrick, whose theme had quickly become obvious, called Eliza Dolittle. Paul glared at Derrick. “We are not,” he said, loudly enough to make certain he was heard over the sudden outburst of yapping from Eliza, “building a fence.”

  “Well, you needn’t look at me as though it was all my fault.” Derrick bent to scoop up an ugly little bulldog mix called Gaston, who was sniffing suspiciously at the fringe of the three-hundred-year-old Oriental carpet that anchored the room. “You’re the one who said we couldn’t possibly leave all those animals to be executed.”

  Holding the squirming little dog at arm’s length, he crossed the room and thrust it toward Harmony. This action caused the two kittens, Grizabella and Mr. Mestopheles, to squirm from her arms and shoot across the room, sending a crystal vase and an imported French lamp tottering dangerously in the process. Purline saved the vase, scooping an excited Roxie Hart out of her path with her foot, and Paul steadied the lamp, holding his glass of scotch high as a daschund—now known as Sweeney Todd—scooted through his feet in hot pursuit of Grizabella.

  “Just our luck,” he agreed dismally, “that our volunteer work should fall on Expiration Day.”

  Purline stared at him, once again sweeping a curious Roxie out of the way with the toe of her sneaker. “Expiration Day? What’s that?”

  “It’s the day when all the animals that have been in the shelter for over a week are, well …”

  Derrick helped him out by slashing a finger across his own throat and supplying, “Expired.”

  “Good Lord above,” exclaimed Purline, eyes widening. “They didn’t expect you to …?”

  “No, no, no,” Derrick assured her.

  Paul added, “But, knowing what was scheduled, we would have been complicit.”

  “You know what they say,” added Derrick. “All that is necessary for evil to thrive is for good men to do nothing.”

  Purline looked slightly skeptical. “Well, that’s all fine and good,” she said, tugging her shoelace out of Roxie’s mouth, “but what are you going to do with all these dogs and cats?”

  Derrick looked at her hopefully. “Purline, you have children. Wouldn’t they like—”

  “No,” she interrupted firmly. “I’m not taking home any of these puppies, like I didn’t have enough to do already, with a husband and two kids, not to mention this place.” She shook her foot to dislodge the poodle, ignoring Derrick’s crestfallen look. “It’s your mess, you fix it.”

  Harmony cradled Gaston against her bosom. The little dog was almost swallowed up, and squirmed in protest. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “it’s become quite trendy for B&Bs to offer a rent-a-cat program for travelers who are forced to leave their pets at home and just want something to cuddle up with at night.”

  “Seriously?” said Paul, looking as though he expected a pie in the face at any moment. “Rent a cat?”

  “No, wait,” Derrick said excitedly. “I read about a similar program back home. Someone was renting out dogs to joggers who wanted a running companion but who didn’t want all the trouble of keeping a dog.”

  Paul turned his disbelieving looked on Derrick. “And they charge money for this?”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of,” declared Purline. “What are you going to do with all these critters when you’re not renting them out to some fool who wants to run with a dog or sleep with a cat? Put them in storage?”

  Once again, Derrick looked deflated. “She has a point,” he told Paul, plucking Grizabella off his pants leg. “We probably should have thought this through.”

  “We’re going to have to find homes for them,” Paul said, with a note of finality that would not have sounded out of place at Waterloo.

  “How?” said Derrick. “We don’t know anybody here. And we have a grand opening to organize.”

  “And when fleas start hopping on all them fancy movie stars y’all invited you’re going to wish you’d never laid eyes on any of these dogs,” declared Purline with a nod of her chin that was a mere harbinger of the I told you so that was to come. “Meantime, I guess I’ll start cleaning out that shed out back and you can keep them there tonight. I’ll probably get bit by every copperhead in the county doing it, too.” She paused and fixed each of them with a meaningful look, but no one volunteered to help.

  She bent down and finally picked up the poodle that had been nibbling at her shoes, tucked it under her arm, and muttered as she left the room, “What kind of name is Roxie Hart for a dog anyway? I reckon we’ll just see about that.”

  Paul’s expression was a mirror of the alarm on Derrick’s, and they said at once, “Exterminator.”

  “First thing in the morning,” added Paul, brushing at his sleeve and then his shoulder uneasily.

  “And don’t forget to leave a check for the limousine company,” Harmony said, tickling a heavily panting Gaston under the chin. “It has to be done no later than tomorrow if you want to reserve twenty cars for the fifteenth. I held your wine order with a credit card but they’ll invoice you later.”

  Paul and Derrick exchanged a quick look. Derrick cleared his throat. “Um, Harmony, on the subject of credit cards …”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I almost forgot in all the excitement. I have a caterer for you. I called Emeril—”

  “Lagosse?” gasped Derrick, and even Paul’s eyes widened. “You got Emeril Lagosse to cater our party?”

  She gave them an odd, almost dismissive look. “Of course not. He’s filming a special, and he couldn’t g
et here in time anyway. But he recommended that young fellow at Daffodil in New York …”

  “Wait a minute,” said Paul, cautiously impressed. “I read about him. First Michelin star, fastest rising young chef in the fusion scene …”

  “And, unfortunately, booked,” said Harmony. “But he recommended someone who’ll be much better for our purposes, and best of all he’s available. He wants you to call and discuss the menu. I left his number on your desk.”

  Paul smiled politely, trying to mask his disappointment. “That was nice of you, Harmony. Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” she replied cheerily. “If you need me for anything else, I’ll be supervising this little fellow in the garden. Something tells me it’s time for another tinkle, isn’t it, pretty Gaston, isn’t it, baby? Time to tinkle-winkle?”

  She left the room, cooing and rubbing noses with the singularly unimpressed Gaston, and Derrick went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. When he was certain she was out of ear shot, he returned to Paul and whispered, “Do you suppose we’ll ever get paid?”

  “We’d better,” Paul whispered back, “if we’re expected to book twenty limousines from National Airport.”

  “God only knows who she hired to cater.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Emeril, that much we know.”

  Derrick sighed. “I’ll check it out in the morning.”

  “Speaking of bad news,” Paul added in a low, but slightly more normal tone, “Heidi is out. She’s filming too.”

  “Well, that’s one,” said Derrick glumly. Then he brightened. “But there is good news.”

  Paul sipped his scotch. “I’m breathless.”

  “Jenny Franklin—you know, she used to come into the gallery all the time, never bought anything, but always talked like an expert—anyway, she’s friends with Donovan Handel whose hairdresser knows Courtney Mitchell who does Addison Paron’s nails who works for Patty McClain’s agent!” He tossed back a satisfied gulp of his bourbon. “And I,” he pronounced, “have her personal e-mail address.”

  Paul spent a moment trying to unravel the connections, then gave up. “Congratulations,” he said. “There’s more good news, you know.”

  Derrick looked at him curiously.

  “We’ve already completed our first ten hours of community service.”

  Derrick nodded in pleasant agreement, and then his contentment began to fade. “The bad news is,” he said, lifting his glass, “we still have ten to go.”

  ~*~

  Derrick’s silver Volkswagen Touareg hybrid bumped and lurched over the rutted dirt driveway, its cargo section filled with foil-wrapped plates that smelled suspiciously like an elementary school lunchroom. Honeysuckle and wild roses, long since out of bloom, grabbed at the windows with sticky fingers from either side, and both men instinctively shrank back, peering ahead in consternation. Past a rusted-out silo and a tumbled-down split rail fence shot through with tall fescue, a weathered gray shack came into view, its front porch sagging like an old woman’s chest. Derrick pulled up in front of the steps and turned off the engine.

  The windows were dark, and the wild grass that served as a yard was tall enough to be used as a hedge. Derrick said uneasily, “Well.”

  And Paul agreed, “Well.”

  He consulted the slip of paper on the console upon which he had written directions. “This has to be it.”

  “I suppose.”

  For another moment, neither of them moved. Then Paul got out of the car, opened the hatchback, and selected one of the plates. Derrick followed, carrying the box that contained a bottle of sweet tea, six ounces of coffee, a jar of peanut butter, and a loaf of white bread. He couldn’t help glancing surreptitiously at his watch. Nine hours, thirty-six minutes to go.

  They made their way cautiously up the creaky steps and knocked on the door. They waited. Paul knocked again. There was not so much as a stirring inside.

  Derrick slid an anxious glance in Paul’s direction. “You don’t suppose he’s …”

  Paul scowled, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Of course not.”

  Derrick consulted his notes again. “Well, it says here he’s eighty-five.”

  Paul knocked harder.

  “I’m not sure what the procedure is,” Derrick went on, worried, “in the case of the … you know, unexpected demise of a customer. I knew I should have taken that CPR course at the Community Center last year.”

  Paul’s shoulders were stiff and he shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, a sure sign of suppressed agitation. “In the first place,” he said, “they are not customers, they’re clients. In the second place, in the case of the demise of one of these clients, I don’t think CPR would—”

  The door opened suddenly and a crepe-faced, bow-shouldered man with a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip glared at them. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  Derrick pushed himself forward, smiling broadly. “Hello there, Mr. Briggs,” he said warmly. “I’m Derrick Anderson and this is Paul Slater, with Meals with Love. We have your—”

  The door slammed in his face.

  Paul lifted his eyebrows, glancing at Derrick. He knocked again.

  The door jerked open. “Get the hell off my stoop with that crap,” said Adam Briggs, cigarette bobbling, “and come back here when you’ve got something a man can eat.”

  “But,” said Paul quickly, wedging his foot in the door just as it was about to slam shut again, “this is a nutritionally balanced, low-sodium, low-fat, carefully prepared three-course meal designed especially for you.”

  The other man stared at him as though he had spoken Latin. He leaned forward slightly, sniffed the air, and drew back in disgust. “Smells like crap,” he declared. “You got any peanut butter?”

  Derrick fumbled to edge the box through the door. “Actually, yes. But I’m sure—”

  The man on the other side of the door grabbed the box, kicked Paul’s shin with surprising acumen, and slammed the door on them both the moment Paul jumped back, yelping and rubbing his bruised shin.

  “Are you all right?” demanded Derrick, alarmed.

  “All in the line of duty, my good man,” replied Paul with a pained expression. He stretched out his leg and flexed his foot inside his Ferragamos, checking the crease of his trousers. “I’ll live.” He looked at the foil package in his hand. “But seriously. How bad could it be?”

  Derrick looked worried. “Do you suppose we get credit for hours even if they don’t take the food?”

  Their next stop was at a far more appealing little cottage at the edge of town belonging to one Abigail Freeman. Though small and in need of painting, its owner obviously still possessed some pride of property, as evidenced by the fragrant wildflower garden that bordered the well-weeded front path, and the pots of blooming geraniums that lined the steps to the front porch. The door was opened by a plump woman on a scooter chair, her silver hair immaculately coiffed, her print dress neatly ironed. She beamed up at them, her smile gradually fading as she saw what they offered.

  “Hi,” began Derrick cheerfully. “My name is Derrick, and this is my friend Paul. We’re from—”

  “Meals with Love, I know,” said the woman with a resigned sigh. She backed the scooter away from the door. “I suppose you might as well come in.”

  Paul and Derrick exchanged an uncertain look, then followed her through the small, cluttered house to the kitchen, where a yellow enamel table was scattered with magazines and unopened mail, and the sink was filled with dishes. The house smelled of pine cleaner and neglect.

  “I don’t suppose they remembered my lemon pie,” said Abigail. “They never do. The one thing I always ask for, I don’t know why they can’t remember.”

  “Well,” said Derrick, summoning enthusiasm, “I’m sure this will be delicious, even without the pie.”

  “I’m sorry the place is such a mess,” she said. “It’s not as easy for me to get around to things as it once was. But if you’d sit a s
pell, I’ll bet I could find a teapot and a couple of cups.”

  She looked so cautiously hopeful that it was hard for Paul to say, “Well, we do have quite a few more meals to deliver …” And when her expression turned to the kind of forgiving resignation that spoke of how very many times she had heard that excuse before, he added quickly, “But we’d love to visit with you for a few minutes while you eat your lunch.”

  Her face lit up with excitement. “I’ll start the tea. I might even have a box of gingersnaps around here somewhere that hasn’t gone too stale.”

  Derrick began clearing the table. “Now, Miss Abigail, don’t you worry about that. We’re here to serve you.”

  She beamed at him. “Well aren’t you sweet? It does get lonesome all by a body’s self, and it’s nice to have company. I just wish the food was a tad more on the tasty side.”

  Paul placed the plate on the table in the spot Derrick had cleared. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy what we brought today. Let’s see what we have here. Why, look …” He peeled back the foil. “We’ve got creamed carrots, creamed, um, spinach, some nice …” He examined the entree closely. “Nice, um, chicken …”

  “Turkey,” corrected Derrick, sotto voce.

  “Right, turkey in gravy … shall I cut it for you?”

  “And some really, really lovely bread and peanut butter,” added Derrick enthusiastically, smiling as broadly as possible. “Please, Miss Abigail, just give it a try. Just pull your chair up here, right next to the table, I’ll find some silverware …”

  The older woman looked at the offering with barely disguised dismay, then lifted innocent, faded blue eyes to them. “But I couldn’t possibly eat all this by myself,” she said. “Please, bring three plates. I insist on sharing.”

  Paul looked at Derrick. Derrick smiled weakly. “Maybe,” he said in a tone very similar to the one Sydney Carlton might have used when facing his executioner, “just a taste.”