Parrots Prove Deadly

by Clea Simon

  “A few weeks, probably.” I was winging it, so to speak. I’d never reeducated a parrot. The look of shock on her face brought me back to earth. The rent, of course. “Don’t you have till the end of the month?”

  “I’m trying to have everything cleaned out by the fifteenth. They’ve promised me a rebate…”

  I nodded. “That gives us almost two weeks. Let’s see what we can do.” If Jane was that hard up, I wanted my money up front. “Should I bill you? Or is there someone handling the estate?”

  “My brother, Marc.” She looked around like her sibling might suddenly pop out of a box. “Only he—let me write you a check.”

  Curiouser and curiouser, I thought, as she retrieved a beat-up bag from the corner and fished a plastic-covered checkbook from its recesses. I took the check, though. I don’t get paid enough to handle family dramas.

  “When can you start?” She stood up straighter. Hiring someone can do that. Transfers dominance. We’re all animals.

  “This afternoon. Now, even.” It was past two, and I’d done my jobs for the day. “Will I be in your way?” The apartment wasn’t that big, but maybe I could take the bird into the corner.

  “No, I should go.” She looked around at the mess and her shoulders sagged. I’d been right about the fidgeting, not that she was happy about whatever awaited. “Marc’s meeting me. He’s really busy, and we’re supposed to talk about some things.” She didn’t look thrilled. “Do you want to meet him?”

  I shrugged. Anyone who knew the bird might help me understand him. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Maybe you could convince him to, you know, take Randolph?”

  “Mind your own business, you ignorant slut.” The voice—loud, harsh, and strangely asexual—interrupted whatever vague answer I’d been planning to give. African grays are talented mimics, and I could only guess at whom Randolph was doing now. Jane winced, but she didn’t follow up when I smiled rather than give her an answer. Just as well, I was distracted. The parrot’s voice had gotten louder, and something about his cool glance made me wonder if our exchange had prompted his words. “Bugger off!”

  So she did, heading off to meet with her brother and leaving me in the close apartment with Randolph the angry parrot. Every surface outside the bird’s cage was covered with books or knickknacks, so I wandered over to the windowsill and leaned back, the better to study my new charge.

  “So, Randolph—” I paused. “Is that your name?” Now that we were alone, I needed to make some kind of connection with this creature. Often the first step to doing that is to acknowledge the animal’s sense of himself—what he calls himself. This bird, however, was silent. A little shuffling on the perch with those scaly feet was all.

  “Okay, then, how are you doing?” I was speaking out loud. More important, I was reaching out with my thoughts, trying to see the room as the bird might see it. “Do you miss your person, Polly?” With the light behind me, the parrot’s ruffled breast feathers were obvious, as were the spots he’d picked bare. Animals experience grief, just as we do. Even when there is no affection, the habit of another’s presence can become part of our lives—it’s a habit that can be hard to break.

  Nothing. Then it hit me. Randolph had lived—I checked my notes—for seven years with Polly Larkin. She had died here. Not in her bed, as I’d first imagined, but on the floor, after taking a nighttime tumble. I thought about the aide—and about Jane. Even if there had been money for twenty-four hour care, aides have been known to snooze—and the impulse to get up in order to go to the bathroom dies hard. I looked around the room again. It was small enough that the bed and both doors—to the bathroom as well as the hallway—would be visible from the cage. Small enough so that one old lady, with her walker by her bed, probably thought she could make it. She’d been wrong though. Such an event could easily leave an animal traumatized. I would have to get at that, work through the shock, before we could move on.

  “Did you witness Polly’s death?” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “Your person?” I looked at the walker and down at the floor. I didn’t know how far she’d gotten.

  “Squawk!” The yelp—and something else—made me jump. For a moment, I had felt something. Pain? Panic? My words, or maybe my focus on the walker, had hit a nerve.

  “Polly?” I moved over to the walker. Tried to imagine an old lady, small and frail, positioned behind its curved metal frame. It was light. Hollow, but supposedly strong enough. I leaned on its rubber grip.

  “Put that down, put that down. Stop. That’s mine.” I resisted the impulse to pull back. The bird wasn’t talking to me, not like other animals do. This was a parrot. It was mimicking someone—the eerie voice had gone higher and scratchy. An old lady’s irritation showing through. Either the walker, or my movement, had triggered this, and I needed to let the parrot roll. Anything could be useful for getting inside that sleek gray head.

  “Stop! What are you doing? Stop it! What? Waah!”

  The next sound made me fear the bird was choking, and I bolted for the cage, banging my shin against one of the boxes. It went over with a thud, landing up against the walker, and I ignored it, trying to remember anything I could about avian first aid.

  That wasn’t much, and I had only time to open the cage before the big bird faced me and barked out something that sounded like “Ka-duh-klump”—a sound that was echoed a split second later as, behind me, the walker tumbled to the carpet in a jumble of metal tubing. The sequence confused me, for a moment, and I turned from the bird to the walker and back again. The parrot was still now, standing and breathing normally. Still, something was off.

  “Randolph,” I addressed the bird. I didn’t really see an option. “What did you say?”

  “Ka-duh-KLUMP!” The bird repeated, louder this time. Sounding for all the world like a walker, holding up the infinitesimal weight of a frail old lady, as it tumbled first against a table, and then to the floor.

  Chapter Three

  I’m not insane. No matter what some of my clients would say, were they to know how I really got the dirt on Flower’s biting habit or Pinky’s litter problems. I do have a rudimentary knowledge of animal behavior.

  Parrots are smart—for birds. Some studies suggest they have the intellect of a human toddler, with a similar ability to string words together for simple—very simple—sentences, and that they do have a sense of what they say—the meaning of words. But they don’t usually pick things up immediately. Certainly not after one hearing. So just because I had heard something that could have been an aural recreation of Polly Larkin’s death—a death apparently brought about by an interaction with an intruder—didn’t mean that was actually what Randolph the parrot was reproducing for me.

  Still, when the door opened behind me, I jumped.

  “Who the hell are you?” A man, short, dark, and stocky, stood bull-like just inside the door. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m Pru Marlowe, the behaviorist.” I reached for the knife I always carry. The bullish little man wasn’t moving toward me, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. Sure enough, the knife was in my pocket, its handle cool to the touch. “And you are?”

  “Oh, huh.” His already limited vocabulary seemingly exhausted, the man relaxed. “Sorry.”

  I waited.

  “Marc! There you are.” Jane appeared behind him, in the doorway. “Miss Marlowe, this is my brother? Marc?”

  I looked from my client to her sibling, unable to see any resemblance between her pale hesitation and his florid bulk. “Charmed.” I put an extra dollop of acid in it. Hey, he’d startled me.

  He had the good grace to blush, his olive cheeks turning red as he raised one hand to brush over his close-cropped hair. “I’m sorry, Miss. It’s just, well, we’ve had some problems.”

  “I understand.” I wouldn’t have phrased the death of a parent that way, but we all experience grief in our own way. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “No, that’s not it. I mea
n, thanks.” The blush was deeper now. “I didn’t mean my mother. Since, well, before really, there’ve been some problems with things going missing. Some important family things. The aides, you know.”

  “Ah.” What had the parrot said? Put that down. That’s mine. A dozen questions sprang to mind.

  “But what are you doing here?” Jane stepped between us before I could phrase any of them. “If I hadn’t seen you—you said Tupenny’s.”

  I remembered that she had left in a hurry. The self-consciously cozy tea house was on the other end of Beauville’s main drag.

  “Did I? Gee, sis, you sure?” Jane was blocking my view of the little man, so I stepped to the side. His color had faded back to normal as far as I could see. “Now that you’re here, though, maybe we can get some things settled.”

  He looked at me as he said that, and I didn’t like it. I get paid to work with animals. Families, that’s a whole different species of trouble.

  “I mean, Jane and me.” He was still looking at me. I know I’m easy on the eye, even with my long hair tied back and my curves camouflaged in denim. Something else was going on here, though. Something between this man and his sister—something I had fallen into. “We’ve got some things to discuss.”

  “Do you want me to go?” Behind me, the bird was quiet. I wished I too could just listen in here.

  “No,” said Jane. “Yeah,” said Marc. I looked at Jane. She was the one paying me.

  “I want her to work with Randolph.” She was standing straighter and was clearly taller than her brother. “That’s what Mother would have wanted. And you said, if the bird didn’t curse so much…”

  “So much? I have kids, Jane.” This sounded like well-worn territory, and I waited for her response. “You don’t have anything else to take care of.”

  “You know my landlord won’t allow pets.” She sagged visibly. Usually I reserve my sympathy for animals. They’re the ones who can’t defend themselves in our world, but this was too much. I could be wrong, but I was betting that Jane had done the lion’s share of caring for their mother—the lioness’, actually—and was now in charge of cleaning up.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” From the look I got, I almost thought they’d forgotten me. “I think I may be able to retrain the parrot. They’re very intelligent birds, you know.” A faint chirp behind me made me feel the compliment was appreciated. “If not, I can help you find some options.”

  “Mother wouldn’t want Randolph to go to strangers.” There was a prissy tone in her voice that I knew would have gotten to me.

  “I’m not exposing my kids to that kind of language.” Then again, he wasn’t much better. “They’re kids, for Christ’s sake.”

  I raised my hands for quiet before the parrot could chime in, too. “Please, we have this room till the end of the month, right.” Jane started to interrupt, and I remembered. “Until the fifteenth, I mean. Let me see what I can do.”

  They both nodded, Marc only after his sister glared at him, and I saw the dynamic: she was the elder, the one who ultimately managed everything. The responsible one, despite what Marc had said about her getting their meeting place wrong. He was the one who had gotten away—and gotten a life.

  “I’ll need your contact info, Marc.” I reached for my notebook, looking up only when he squawked, parrot-like.

  “Why?” His face grew dark again. Suspicious.

  “You’re a family member. Randolph here has some experience with you. And if the plan is for Randolph to live with you, it may help for him to learn a different set of reactions to your presence.” It was all true, but it wasn’t the only reason I wanted this man’s information. I handed him my notebook and watched as he took my pen to scribble down some numbers. Keeping as quiet as I could, I waited to see if he was going to turn back the page, look at what his sister had told me about his mother’s decline and death. He didn’t, but I got the feeling he wasn’t happy—either at giving me his contact info or at finding me here in the first place.

  Jane might see him as her naughty baby brother. The one who wouldn’t help out.

  Me, I was thinking about what the parrot had said. I was wondering why he’d misled his sister about their meeting place and tried to sneak into his mother’s empty apartment. I was wondering, too, why he couldn’t meet her eye.

  Chapter Four

  “A bird.” Wallis was washing her face. I knew that each time she swiped her white paw over her whiskers, however, it was really to avoid facing me. “She’s listening to a bird now.”

  I didn’t answer her, even though I could. Wallis and I have something special. With most animals, I hear their thoughts. It’s like I’m eavesdropping usually, and as my brief time with the parrot had reminded me, the give-and-take is pretty iffy. Wallis and I can have actual conversations, although I usually speak out loud and her voice is only in my head. I suspect that this two-way communication is because we’ve lived together for so long. She’s sure it’s because she’s a cat.

  What I did know was that her feline nature lent her a certain attitude toward other, smaller animals. And while a day before I might have agreed with her about avian authority, at this point, I just couldn’t be sure. Those sounds—that virtual reenactment—had been a little chilling for my taste.

  None of which I could explain to my tabby housemate. I’d hit the Internet as soon as I had gotten home and only after a couple of articles had I related my day’s experience. And then the chime of the doorbell, followed by a hard rat-a-tat-tat rap on the door, had interrupted us.

  It was the police. One officer, actually, and he squinted back at me as I eyed him, door opened part way.

  “Evening, ma’am.” With that angular face and the short hair, he looked like a boy scout, all grown up. “We’ve had reports of a disturbance.”

  “No disturbance here, Officer.” I leaned on the doorframe. I could feel Wallis around my ankles, but I tuned her out. I was focused on the cop’s blue eyes. They didn’t blink. Neither did I.

  “You’re not in need of assistance then?” For a moment, he glanced down, and I could feel Wallis tensing ever so slightly.

  “Assistance?” I let my gaze slide over his body. Slim, muscular. Definite boy scout. Definitely grown up. “No.”

  “Well, how about pizza then?” He proffered a flat box. It smelled of anchovies. Delicious, but I wasn’t hungry for pizza.

  “Maybe later,” I said, letting my voice soften. He took my cue, setting the pizza box down to take me in his arms as Wallis trotted away.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, I was getting dressed. That was supposed to be a hint. Jim Creighton—Detective James Creighton—and I had been seeing each other regularly enough that his showing up unannounced wasn’t totally out of place. But he was pushing, and as much as I enjoyed interludes like the one we’d just had on my sofa, I didn’t want him to get too comfortable. I had a lot on my mind, and the one colleague I wanted to discuss it all with was tiger-striped.

  “You hungry?” He reached over to where the pizza box had been abandoned on the coffee table. “It’s still warm, and I know Wallis wants some.”

  I looked down. Sure enough, my tabby had returned to the living room, and now sat on the rug, tail neatly curled around her front feet and a look of devotion on her face.

  “Well, mozzarella wouldn’t melt in your mouth,” I said to her as I accepted a slice. Wallis brushed against Jim’s shin as he stood and reached for his pants, and I wondered what both of them were playing at. It wasn’t all about the cheese.

  I was right. “I want to ask you something, Pru.” I’d started toward the kitchen, but I could hear fine. “And I don’t want you to take offense.”

  I returned with a six-pack. That was better than a verbal response.

  “It’s about your old friends.” He opened two beers and handed one to me. I took it, and waited. “Really old friends.”

  Wallis had jumped up on the sofa by then, and I sat beside her. With both of us focusing o
n him, Creighton would have had to be made of something harder than stone if he didn’t crack.

  “I’m not saying anyone you know is involved. I’m just—” He waved one hand in the air, nearly knocking over his drink. “I’m kind of at my wit’s end with this one, Pru.”

  “So, tell.” I had some pity and took a swig of beer.

  It broke the tension. “We’re seeing a flood of drugs in town. Drugs we haven’t seen before. Prescription drugs, for the most part. Oxycodone, Oxycontin, and a new synthetic opiate that’s even more powerful.” He waited, and I nodded. I read the news occasionally. “The usual route is from Canada. There have been some big busts in Albany.”

  Another nod. I’d heard.

  “This is something different. It’s more powerful, and the money involved seems to be much bigger, as a result. I wasn’t sure if you were still talking to Mack—”

  “Whoa!” This was too much. My sort of ex might not be the straightest arrow, but I didn’t see him as a dealer. Even if he was, I didn’t know if I’d rat him out to my current beau. And if Creighton thought I was still seeing them both…“Off limits.”

  “I’m not saying he’s involved.” I glowered. Beside me, I could feel Wallis’ fur begin to rise. “Honest! I was just wondering if he’d heard anything.”

  “Heard?” He wasn’t getting off that easily. “So this wasn’t just a booty call.”

  “Look, it’s going out to schools, okay, Pru? It’s serious.” He looked at his beer. I noticed he didn’t drink. “This new drug, it’s brutal. Two kids ended up in Berkshire General over the weekend. One didn’t make it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was. Some things might just be more important than my loyalty to an old flame. Besides, I’d been the one to set the terms on our relationship; Creighton’s only innovation was the pizza. “Look, I’ll ask around, but that’s not—that was never Mack’s thing.”

  “I know.” The pressure off, Creighton looked years younger. “I’m just clutching at straws here. And what happens between us…” He paused. He knew if he continued, I’d shut him down.