by Clea Simon
Then again, “need” was a funny word. That doctor had said the drugs had gone missing. Did that mean someone else did “need” them?
***
“She didn’t need them,” Genie repeated. “She didn’t want them, and she didn’t take them.”
Someone did. I didn’t need Wallis by my side to point out the obvious. Nor that repeating something can be a way to prove it to yourself. For example, if you can tell yourself that an old lady didn’t really require medication, you might feel better about stealing it.
“There seem to be some differences of opinion going around.” I tried to smile. I didn’t want to suspect this woman. She was a working stiff, just like me. Then again, I also didn’t want to miss anything.
“It’s that son of hers.” She nodded. Something had been confirmed. “He thinks I stole from her. From them.”
I waited. The fact that I shared her low opinion of Marc Larkin didn’t mean there wasn’t some truth on both sides.
“He thinks I took those candlesticks.” She looked up at me. “You do, too. That’s what this is about.” She raised her cup, and I felt myself begin to color.
“My job is to take care of the parrot. To retrain the bird so it can go to a new home.” It wasn’t a denial exactly. It was a clarification. It was also the truth.
“That bird.” The acid was apparent now. “Flying around. Cursing. Messing everywhere. Not like Buster.”
Of course, Genie worked with Rose, too. “You like dogs?”
“A dog serves a purpose.” She paused, and I tried to keep my face blank. “That dog, anyway. I hope—”
She stopped so quickly, I looked over my shoulder to see who had come in. Nobody. The only sound was the rain on the front windows. Even the barrista seemed to have taken off.
“What?” It wasn’t good policy, but my backward glance had already been awkward. “Is Rose going to lose Buster?” It seemed to me that a service dog would be allowed under any circumstance. And the dog was healthy and in her prime. Then again, if someone had it out for the parrot…“Do you know something, Genie?”
She shook her head, a look of pain crossing her face. “The dog is permitted, by law. It is all the little things. The food, the vet. Her contract covers my visits, up to an hour a day. As if that…” Another shake of the head. I was right: the aide spent more than that with the blind woman.
“So Rose is going broke.” A guilty glance and a confirming nod. “Does she have any family?”
“I don’t think so.” Genie pushed back from the table. “And I should be getting back. On days like this, I take the dog out while she’s at lunch.”
I nodded and rose to walk back with her. “Would Rose want the parrot? If, well, if neither of the Larkin kids want him?” I was already planning on how we could do it. I bet I could get Doc Sharpe to help subsidize the bird’s supplies.
“Lord, no.” Genie waved me off and was out the door. “But good luck with all that.”
She seemed intent on getting away, so I let her go, watching as she raced, hunched over, by the building. Anxious to get to work? Or to get away from me?
***
I was pushing my luck with Nancy. That was apparent from the moment I stepped back into the lobby, a little soggy and with a latté to go for her.
“Coffee?” I held out the cup. “We were just over at Starbucks.”
“Thanks.” She took it, but she wasn’t smiling. “Are you going up to Polly Larkin’s unit?”
“No, not now.” I would have to talk to Jane and to her brother, but I wanted to gather more information first. “Though I was wondering if you could help me with some things.”
The blonde paused, about to take a sip, and I could tell she was weighing the cost of the coffee.
“Nothing major.” I smiled and leaned in.
Any hope I had of recapturing that girly-girl sympathy was gone, however. She drank, but she looked up at me as she did. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to get a bead on Polly Larkin’s parrot.” It was true, more or less. “Trying to iron out its behavioral issues. And I thought it would help to know who else spent time with him. Who else might have been involved in the bird’s care.”
“I thought Genie would have been able to tell you that.” The receptionist did notice who walked by.
“She did, but there are things she doesn’t know.” I was winging it, about as well as a caged bird. “About the finances, basically. And whether, well, whether Polly left anything to her friend, Rose Danziger.”
Nancy looked a little surprised at that. “I wouldn’t think so,” she said after a brief pause. “I don’t think she had anything—that is, I believe her estate was tied up in her care.”
I nodded. “And her estate was administered by?”
“You’ll really have to talk to the family about that.” Nancy shut me off. It didn’t matter. She’d already answered several of my questions. One, that Polly had money, at least enough so that a few extra—and unnecessary—prescriptions wouldn’t raise the alarm. And, two, that her children, which meant Marc, Jane had said, had control over it. And that anything that Rose would have to remember her friend by—or to help her out—would only be whatever Polly had given her before she died.
I took the elevator up to the second floor, wondering what, if anything, all this meant. Rose had my sympathy. She seemed to be managing in her little studio, and I couldn’t see anyone letting her dog starve, but it couldn’t be easy. No money for luxuries like the occasional field trip—and nothing extra for a private aide, not beyond what the facility provided. Still, that didn’t mean she would steal, either the candlesticks that Marc had all but accused her of or the drugs that had gone missing.
I didn’t see how any of it related to the parrot, either. For all I knew, Randolph had made himself sick. Bird physiology wasn’t my strongest point, but the progression from overpreening to some kind of autoimmune collapse seemed reasonable, if pitiable.
What I did know was that there were discrepancies in what I heard. Rose seemed to consider Polly her dearest friend, and seemed quite friendly with her parrot, too. Marc clearly considered the blind neighbor a leech. And Genie, who seemed to genuinely like Rose, disliked the bird.
As I walked down the hallway yet again, a stray thought hit me. Could Genie be afraid for Rose? If the aide had heard Randolph repeat something—something that would get her blind charge in trouble—she’d have motive to hurt the parrot. It was farfetched, I knew that, and as I knocked on the door of 203, I tried to think of a next step. Pinning Marc down about his accusations would be a start.
I was out of luck. There was no answer. Even Jane seemed to be taking a break from her constant packing. Unless she was lying there, too. Cold and unresponsive.
I knocked again, and started at a noise behind me. It was Rose, with Buster, and Genie taking up the rear.
“Pru! It’s Pru, isn’t it?” The dark shades turned up at me, and I was struck by that uncanny sense that she could see me. “Are you coming to lunch, dear?”
“No, Rose. I was just looking for Jane.” Above her head, Genie gave me a more quizzical look.
“Oh, she won’t be back till later, dear.” Rose had already started down the hall, Buster moving her slowly but purposefully toward the elevator. “Something with the hospital,” she called over her shoulder. “A meeting about poor Polly, I believe.”
I turned and exchanged looks with Genie. Neither of us said anything, but she turned briefly and checked to make sure Rose’s door was locked.
Chapter Twenty-one
When in doubt, listen to the animal. It’s not just basic training in my profession, it’s common sense. And since I had played all the cards I could think of at LiveWell, it was time to hit up Randolph again.
Maybe, I thought, as I walked by Nancy once again, the hospital stay would have loosened the bird up. Then again, as my cheery “bye” went unreturned, maybe he would have taken a turn for the worst, and my job woul
d be over.
Thinking of this, I gunned the engine. Out on the highway, my car is my therapy. People, they can drive you crazy. And animals I care too much about. Wallis would have me see the world as she does: divided into predators and prey, with death and suffering a natural part of the rhythm of things. She thought me weak, I knew that, but it was more than weakness. Too much of that suffering, too much of that death, was caused by my kind, by humans. I had to do what I could to stop it. Which meant that only when I was driving could I find something like peace. Since the latest round of engine work, my old muscle car’s engine purred like Wallis on a catnip high, and I felt the knot of tension in my back relaxing. Even the setting was perfect. The wet day had driven off some of the leaf peepers, even as it magnified the colors. I had the road to myself.
Or nearly. Out of nowhere, a pickup appeared, rocketing unseen from some feeder road. Its bright yellow sideboards flashed and swayed like a hazard sign, and I slammed on the brakes as the truck fishtailed from its own sharp turn. For a moment, things looked iffy—I was close enough to see a crease in the rear gate, where the paint had peeled off. But I slowed, and the truck took off. I could feel my car slide on the wet newly fallen leaves and eased off the brakes. A baby of this vintage, its better to let her find her own way, and she did, rocking a little as she settled out. Up ahead, the acid yellow truck was disappearing against the softer hues, and I cursed both the driver and my own complacence.
“Bastard.” I’d been careless. But my mood was shattered, and the road had lost its allure.
Driving somewhat more slowly, I made my way to County. Whatever peace I had regained was lost as I walked into the waiting room. The uproar of barks, mews, and crying children was enough to disturb a normal human. For me, the cacophony was full of anguish. Bow-wow became “ow, ow, ow” as a puppy pulled as far away as he could from his owner’s sadistic older brother. “Home! Home!” cried at least three cats, thrown into this unknown—and frankly terrifying—environment. It was all I could do to not cover my ears as I made my way to the front desk where Pammy, oblivious to everything but her gum, blinked up at me.
“Doc Sharpe around?”
She chewed and considered before nodding.
“Mind if I go back?” It was a formality, but with this many people in the waiting area, I assumed Pammy had locked the door to the examining rooms. From the way she nodded, however, I reappraised, and turned to go find the good vet.
“Pru,” she called after me. A thought must have surfaced. “Pru, are you taking that bird? Doc says we need the space.”
I nodded and kept walking. Well, that sounded like the parrot was in good shape. Unless, of course, the vet had stored a corpse. But when I went back into the first cage room, I saw what Pammy had meant. Every available cage was full. One wall held cats, the other dogs and what looked like an adult monitor lizard. On the table, three carriers with their pets still in them waited like their people outside.
The small-animal room was no better. Spring is supposed to be bunny season, with Easter gifts bearing surprises of their own, but from the number of rabbits I saw against one wall, I could only assume that house rabbits had become trendy again. I would need to brush up on leporidae issues—dental and digestive, as I recalled—if this kept up. In smaller cages, I saw a variety of rodents: hamsters, guinea pigs, an ancient gerbil. Some budgies occupied the upper row. The buzz in here was quiet, most of these animals were used to living in their personal space, and having the outer world change wasn’t a big deal to them.
What I wasn’t seeing was a parrot, and so I continued on in search of Randolph or someone who could explain where the bird had gone.
“Pru, good to see you.” Doc Sharpe looked as harried as he ever does, his white hair fluffed up like a new chick’s plumage. “We’re a bit busy.”
“I’ll say.” Like any good Yankee, the vet was prone to understatement. “Is this all because of the new condos?”
He ran a hand over his hair and only succeeded in messing it up more. “The condos and that new development over by Amherst. Plus, all the weekenders. Vacationitis, you know.”
I nodded. People on vacation tend to forget that their pets do better with routine. Feed Rover too many treats or take a day off from changing Dolly’s cage lining, and pretty soon you have a sick pet. Sometimes, of course, the animal is simply disoriented or scared by the change in behavior or setting, in which case, bringing him or her here did more harm than good. Try telling the human that, though, when Bailey won’t stop barfing.
“Do you need me to lend a hand?” I didn’t have time, not really. I was hoping to settle the raccoon issue today. Doc Sharpe is the source of most of my referrals, though, as well as a decent guy.
“No, no.” Now it was the glasses that he was fussing with, taking them off to rub his eyes.
“Doc, is something wrong?” Like I said, I like the guy.
He put his glasses back on before answering. “I don’t know, Pru. I feel that things are changing. Maybe I’m just getting too old.” He looked up at me and smiled, as if caught by surprise by his own confession. “Nevermind me, Pru. I’m simply a bit tired. But there is one thing.”
I waited. For the old vet to have revealed that much was a sign of a greater disturbance.
“I could really use the cage space back. That parrot, the Larkin bird? As far as I can see, he is fit as a fiddle.”
I nodded, thinking. Doc Sharpe is a good vet, and I trust him. But birds are tricky, and Doc Sharpe was clearly distracted. Besides, I didn’t know just how safe the Larkin unit would be for the big parrot. Randolph had gotten sick there, and whether that had been by chance, accident, or intent, I hadn’t decided. Still, I didn’t want to add to the vet’s problems.
“May I leave him here a few more hours, Doc? I need to make some plans.” Not that I knew what those were. “And, Doc, where is he?”
“Sure, sure. A few hours should be fine.” He turned to walk away and then stopped. “Oh, he’s in the dispensary,” he said, fishing a ring of keys from his pocket. “I had him in my consulting room, but—ah—he was proving a bit disruptive.”
“I bet.” That got me a tired smile, as I took the keys and the old vet slumped off to see yet another patient.
***
County may be the biggest and best equipped animal hospital around, but its dispensary is basically a large closet. That doesn’t mean it was a bad place to put the parrot: as I unlocked the door, the lights came on and I stepped into what was one of the cleanest rooms in the building. Almost everything in here was behind glass; some controlled substances under the additional protection of locked cabinets. But the temperature was kept constant and the air purified. There was no view, but, really, it might have been the safest place for Randolph.
That didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Hey, how are you doing?” I approached the cage, which had been placed on the work table where Doc Sharpe prepared various compounds. Randolph had his head tucked beneath his wing, as if he were asleep. That could have been because the room had been dark until I came in. For some reason, I doubted it.
“Bugger off.” Randolph stirred enough to be heard. “Ignorant slut.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” I leaned against a ceiling-high shelf. “You were pretty sick there for a while.”
“Squawk!” Randolph straightened up long enough to shoot me a sideways look, then he started preening. I couldn’t help but think of Wallis.
“So, are you ready to go home again?” It wasn’t the best idea, but I was hard pressed to think of an alternative. The thought of Wallis had extinguished the one other option I’d been halfway considering.
“Ha!” Randolph sat up and fluffed his feathers, and I was reminded once again just how big he was. “Ignorant.”
“I don’t know, Randolph.” It seemed like he was just repeating words, but I couldn’t shake the sense that we were having a conversation. Just in case, it seemed sensible to act as if we were
.
“Good girl!” With a whistle, Randolph jumped to the side of the cage and wrapped his powerful beak around the wire.
“You want out, don’t you?” Another whistle, as I started to formulate a plan. “And I’m willing to spring you. But first, you’ll have to give me something.”
The low whistle that followed could have been an interrogative. It could have been nothing. If Doc Sharpe came in right now, he’d be locking me away in another kind of room soon.
“I need you to tell me what happened that night.”
A whistle and that horrible noise—“ka-da-KLUMP!”—convinced me that I wasn’t crazy. As the parrot shifted from foot to foot, I tried to catch one of his eyes. At moments like this, I felt so sure that Randolph was aware—that he did have some higher sense of himself, of me, and the world. That ran counter to everything Wallis would say, but I had to try, and as I caught one eye—that separated vision was unnerving—I focused my thoughts. Birds have excellent vision: they’re better at seeing movement and amodal perception, “filling in the blanks,” than we are, and I felt that Randolph’s eyes were key. Or eye, as I stared into the little black pupil.
I don’t always have luck reaching out with my thoughts, but I did my best now. “What was that? Can you tell me? ” It would be so easy for me to project onto this poor animal, to ascribe a human sense of tragedy and loss. I’d seen that too often with my clients. Still, parrots have excellent memories and they are known to bond with people. He might be repeating noises, nonsense sounds. Or his vocalizations could mean more. I had to know. “Randolph—if that’s your name—are you trying to tell me something? ”
“Be quiet!” Randolph’s voice was loud and strangely deep, and it startled me, coming as it did just when I’d been focusing so much on the silence. I don’t like to be taken off guard, but I must have jerked back and in the small room that had consequences. I hit the shelves behind me, sending a wall’s worth of vials and bottles rattling. Instinctively, I reached back, only shaking them up more, and, it seemed, disturbing the parrot. “Shut up, won’t you?” Randolph shifted on his perch, staring at me. “Shut up!”
