by Clea Simon
“Oh.” It was the best I could do. “Really?” I looked at Wallis. She looked at me, and I tried to convey what was racing through my mind. First off, Creighton is a cop. A good one. He doesn’t just chat about what he’s working on. Suddenly, the fact that he was checking in on me was worrisome. “No trouble, I hope?”
“Nothing major.” I waited, cursing my clumsiness. Someone must have seen my light, back in the empty unit. That must have been Creighton cruising by. And Creighton knew my car. I’d parked away from the condo, back in the trees. Far enough? “So you’ve been home?”
“Since I left work.” Nothing to do but brazen it out. Besides, that was more or less true. “You thinking of coming by?”
“No, I’m bushed.” So the call was simply to check up on me. I smiled at Wallis. I’d passed the test. “But Pru? I do think we should sit down and talk, sometime soon. There is something going on up there. And it’s getting dangerous. We found blood.”
***
I was cursing like Randolph for a few minutes after that, and Wallis chose to make herself scarce.
“Wallis? Where are you?” I checked Randolph’s room, but either he was sleeping or doing a good approximation, head tucked neatly under his wing. It was just as well: the cat had gotten something from the parrot, and I had no idea if the bird had wanted to share.
“You don’t have to yell.” Wallis appeared in the hallway in that maddening fashion cats have. I swallowed back my retort and simply looked at her. “Come along, then.”
I followed her back down to the kitchen, where she waited while I shredded more turkey. Then I watched her eat, and bathe, until finally I could stand it no more.
“Spill, Wallis.” I stared at her. Cats hate to be stared at. “What did you learn from the parrot?”
She jumped up to the windowsill. I had the window closed—the rain had brought a chill—but she liked to be eye-level with me. It was a status thing.
“You act like you’re expecting answers.” She had her back to me, while she surveyed the yard. “I mean, this is a bird we’re talking about.”
“Yes, I know.” I was working very hard at not losing my patience. “But we also both know that this parrot, Randolph, has said some very interesting things. And besides, parrots are not just any birds. They’re larger, they live longer—”
“Next you’ll be saying they can think.” Wallis lashed her tail.
“They can, after a fashion.” I let my mind wander over everything I had read. The research on parrots was tantalizing. “There’s evidence that they do connect some sounds with meanings, like a child would—a human child,” I specified. “They can remember things they’ve seen, and that they can form attachments to people.” She looked up at me, so I hurried on from that. “But, yeah, sometimes they just repeat sounds for no apparent reason. Still, if that bird witnessed something and is repeating it back to me—”
“I know, I know. You want to know if what the bird is telling you is something that really happened, whether or not understands what it’s telling you.”
That was pretty much the whole question in a nutshell. So I waited, while Wallis completed her survey. From her, I got an image of a vole, three squirrels, and something larger: a fisher?
“Something weaselly, that’s for sure.” Wallis turned toward me finally. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, that parrot…” Her ears went up, and she turned back to the window
“Yes?” I was beginning to think that my tabby hadn’t gotten anything, the way she was stalling.
“I wasn’t stalling. That squirrel was being distracting.” She turned back toward me and settled into her Sphinx pose. “What you have to keep in mind is how that creature thinks. It’s all pictures for it—okay, him—shapes and movement. Half the time, I didn’t know if he knew I was there, or if he was just checking out the room.”
That made some sense, from what I knew of parrot vision, and it could explain why the bird’s vocalizations had changed when he moved from LiveWell to County. A bird, even a big bird, is a prey animal. They have to be sensitive to their environment.
“Huh, some environment. More like an overheated henhouse, with those old biddies.”
Polly and Rose, I assumed. Wallis closed her eyes slightly, the feline equivalent of a nod. “There were others, too, but they were the main ones. The ones that bird responded to.”
“Responded to?” I was beginning to sound like a parrot. “You mean, in terms of what he said?” I thought of the parrot’s various outcries: “hands off, that’s mine,” and, more recently, “shut up.”
“I wouldn’t credit too much what that bird says. Most of it is gibberish, sounds he’s picked up. Words that he likes.”
“That he likes?” I was going to squawk soon if this kept up.
“That got a reaction.” Luckily for me, Wallis was in a tolerant mood. She does enjoy explaining things to me. “He’s grown fond of attention from your type, and he’s learned what makes you jump.”
“Huh,” I nodded. “That is interesting.” Wallis closed her eyes in satisfaction, and I wondered silently. Was Randolph repeating that awful noise—the sound of the walker keeling over—because it had made an impression on him? Or because I reacted to it?
“Oh, I don’t think he’s thinking much of you personally, Pru.” Wallis could be a bit condescending, but what she said made sense. “He’s had a lot to deal with recently.”
Of course, I was a newcomer in his long life. That could be why I wasn’t connecting with Randolph—and why I was having trouble retraining him.
“I’m sure that’s part of it.” Wallis’ eyes were closing for real now, and I felt her growing fatigue. “You have some sense, after all.” Sleep was coming on her quickly, a trait I often envied. “But there’s more to it, Pru. That’s what I found so interesting.”
“Wallis?” I didn’t want to wake her. No good could come of that, but I was intrigued.
“He keeps replaying scenes in his mind, Pru, in that cranky old mind. He feels—how would you put it? He feels responsible, Pru. He feels—what would be the word? ”
I filled in the blank. “The parrot feels guilty.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
It was what I had thought, that first time I met Randolph, only I hadn’t been sure. And with that puzzling statement, Wallis was out. Drained by bourbon and pain, I wanted nothing more than to follow her lead. There were a few too many questions, however, so as I dragged myself back up the stairs, I made myself head to my old bedroom—Randolph’s room—to check in once more on the gray parrot.
“Hey, Randolph. Randy.” I was buzzed, I knew it. I didn’t care. “Do you really feel guilty about something—or are you just having a laugh at my expense?”
The large bird shifted on his perch and eyed me. I knew I should let him be, should cover his cage to re-create some semblance of routine for him. We’d both be better for a good night’s sleep.
“You let something slip to Wallis—to the cat.” I pictured the tiger-striped tabby and got a low whistle for my efforts. “She thinks you don’t care about me, about what you tell me. That you’re just responding to the environment. To the room you’re in.”
Nothing. “Is that true?” I leaned back against the doorjamb. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to slide to the floor and fall asleep there. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Shut up.” It was so soft, I could have missed it.
“Thank you, Randolph.” My own eyes were closing. “I’m sure that means a lot.” There was too much to piece together. “Is it true you feel responsible? Do you feel guilty about Polly’s death? You were in a cage. You couldn’t help her. Don’t you know that?”
“Shut up,” he said softly. “Shut up.”
***
The next morning dawned cool and crisp, the front that went through had brought with it that New England clarity for which our autumns are famous. I was glad of the cold. It was just a nip in the air, really, but it helped clear my head of whiskey and
bad dreams. Besides, it gave me an excuse to wear gloves. No way did I want to explain my bandaged hand to anyone, particularly Tracy Horlick.
“Late night?” She greeted me on her doorstep, in the same faded housecoat she always wore. Maybe the haze of stale smoke protected her from the cold.
“Not particularly.” I felt rather smug. For once, her gossip was off kilter. I might feel like crap, but with one thing and another, I’d been in bed—alone—before ten.
“Cause I hear that cute policeman, James Creighton, was burning the midnight oil.”
I’m not the sort to get jealous, but even if I were, I wouldn’t show it. Instead I smiled even more broadly at the old hag. “He’s got a tough job,” was all I said.
“Maybe it’s all the new people in town.” She took a hit off her cigarette, and I watched the ash extend. “As well as the ones who’ve come back.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t rising to her bait. “Where’s Bitsy?”
With a snort that was probably supposed to put me in my place, she turned. A minute later, I was in the company of Growler. That company wasn’t much more congenial.
“What are you thinking of, walker lady? ” He looked back over his shoulder, those black button eyes conveying scorn. “Tackling that one? ”
“Tracy Horlick?” I didn’t want to refer to the old lady as the dog’s owner. “Old smoke teeth?”
“Huh! ” The dog chuffed, the closest thing to a laugh he’d give me, but he kept charging ahead. “No, that bear-thing. The little bear.”
“The raccoon?” I paused without thinking, and Growler tugged at the leash. “Sorry,” we resumed walking. I was holding his leash—a formality, really—with my left hand. I hadn’t thought he’d noticed.
“I didn’t. But the smell.”
I’d washed the wound again in the morning, before rebandaging it.
“Huh.” That laugh again. “It’s in your blood. I can smell it.”
“Great.” I had successfully avoided all thoughts of rabies for a good twelve hours. Some of the first signs were similar to those of a cold or flu. But it was soon—too soon—to worry. “I’m trying to save an animal’s life here, Growler.”
“Stupid animal. Young and stupid.”
I chose to believe he was talking about the raccoon, and not my own decision to delay treatment. “Growler, it only fell afoul of people because it was looking for a safe place to stay.” Considering the bichon’s domestic situation, I was careful to tread lightly here.
“Old smoke teeth isn’t a killer.” So much for not mentioning things.
“If I have my way, Jerry Gaffney won’t be either.” The dog gave me a quizzical look, and I realized he had no reason to know the name. Instead, I figured I’d pick the small dog’s brain. “So let me tell you the latest about the parrot,” I began, before stopping myself. What was I going to say: that I’d let my cat interrogate Randolph? How would that play with the small, but macho canine?
“Huh! ” This time it was clearly a laugh. “As if you could understand what either of them was trying to tell you.”
I’m human, I’ll admit it. And that shut me up for the rest of our walk, which seemed to suit Growler just fine. He kept his commentary to himself as we made our rounds, leaving me to pick up bits about the neighborhood dogs, their diets, and general health.
As soon as I’d returned him and touched base—I couldn’t call what Tracy Horlick and I exchanged pleasantries—I made my way to LiveWell. Randolph had been in good shape when I’d left, and Wallis had made herself scarce. I’d raised the shade to let the big parrot view the world, and he’d started twittering softly to himself, sounding more like a bird than I’d yet heard. Maybe, I’d thought, the poor creature had simply spent too long with humans. Not that I could do much about that. And while Wallis and I did seem to have an agreement, I wanted the bird out of my house. His presence was not only too much of a temptation for my tiger-striped tabby, it was a bad precedent to set for clients. I do not run a boarding service. Nor am I, as the Tracy Horlicks of Beauville would probably have it, a hoarder.
Guilt. I thought about that as I drove. What did that mean? Wallis had picked up a lot of human concepts from me, but I couldn’t always count on her understanding them perfectly. Responsibility, for example, seemed a particularly unfeline concept—there were things one did and things one didn’t. “Should” or “shouldn’t” didn’t really have a place in the animal world.
The question was rattling around my head as I pulled in to the assisted living center and parked by an SUV with MD plates, distracting me as I walked in the front door.
“Ms Marlowe?” It was the receptionist, Nancy. “I have a message for you.”
Damn, I knew I should have called first. I hadn’t in part out of the fear that Jane Larkin would find a way not to meet with me.
“It’s from Mr. Larkin,” Nancy was saying.
“Mr. Larkin?” I’d assumed Polly was a widow.
“Marc? Polly’s son?”
“Oh, right.” I was fuzzy-headed. I nodded, once again regretting last night’s bourbon.
“He says he’ll meet you at eleven. He needs to speak with you.”
“Thanks.” It wasn’t Nancy’s fault that Marc phrased his request as a demand. I checked my watch: it was a little after ten. Pity. I’d have loved to have left a message of my own, and not been here when the conceited schmuck arrived.
As it was, I confirmed with Nancy that Jane had in fact returned to her packing, and I headed up to the second floor to meet with her. I hadn’t made any progress with Randolph, not of the kind she had hired me for. But I wanted to keep in touch. I knew how easy it was for a client to not deal with a troublesome animal, and I did not want to become the parrot’s default guardian.
Jane was alone when I arrived. She looked worse for wear than I did.
“Oh, hi.” She looked up from a box that seemed to contain nothing but crumpled newspaper. “You didn’t bring Randolph, did you?”
“No, he’s still at my place.” I moved a lamp off a chair and sat down. “But I think we need to talk about him.”
I hadn’t thought she could deflate any more. “You can’t retrain him. I knew it.” She reached for a china figurine, one of a dozen I only now noticed in shades of pink and gray.
“It’s not that.” I reached for one, too. I needed to bond with this woman somehow. “I can, with time. There’s been a lot else going on, though.” I was thinking of what Randolph kept repeating—and Wallis’ take on it. Jane, however, had her own interpretation.
“It’s just too much, isn’t it?” She paused and looked around. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m packing everything. Marc doesn’t want it, and I don’t have room for it.”
The priority she gave her brother bothered me, but it didn’t surprise me. “I don’t think he’ll want Randolph either.” I made my voice as gentle as I could. “Even if I can retrain him. Are you sure you can’t take him?”
I was already thinking of options. I’d heard of an African gray rescue group back in the city. If there wasn’t one closer, I could probably arrange transport. Jane, however, was on another track.
“Maybe Marc was right. I should have bought.” I didn’t understand, but she explained. “He kept telling me I should buy a condo. After our father died, I could have. He could have gotten me a deal, too.”
“He’s a realtor?” I couldn’t see the bullish little man selling anyone anything.
“What? No, he’s in business. One of his clients got him in, though. It’s a new development, and he was very excited about it. Originally, I thought I’d do it. The units are bigger than my apartment, and I’d have had room for Mother’s treasures.”
The thought of this washed-out woman buying a place just so she could display her mother’s china left me speechless. Luckily, she kept talking.
“And Randolph, of course. But it was just so much money—and it was going to be so long before I could move in. Then Mother got sick, and I was afraid to
spend any more than I had to. Marc kept saying I could rent it out, make more than enough to take care of Mother, but I don’t know.” She smiled up at me, her face pale. “I’m not much of a risk taker, and I guess I missed my chance.”
“There are always other opportunities.” I smiled back. I didn’t want to say that I’d trust her brother’s idea of a good investment about as much as I’d trust his sense of fashion. Everyone said the economy was recovering, but Beauville was hardly a boom market. I thought of that empty unit at Evergreen—and found myself wondering. “He wasn’t talking about Evergreen Hills, was he?”
“You know it?” She brightened briefly. “It would be so nice to own a place right near town. So convenient.”
“You’re better off.” I was thinking fast. I’d be meeting with Marc soon, and I bet he could tell me who was on the board of directors. No need to involve Jane in that, though. “I hear the construction is shoddy.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “They spent a fortune. Everything top of the line.”
I didn’t respond to that. I knew what I had seen. Besides, Beauville might be a small town, but this was still too big of a coincidence. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Jerry Gaffney, would you? He works there.”
“Oh, no.” She had resumed wrapping and packing, so I reached for another figurine. A shepherdess. Of course. “We didn’t get that far. It was all just plans, then. But Marc took me out to the site. So pretty.”
It had been. I did some quick math. Evergreen Hills had opened a little over a year ago, which meant it had been under construction for a year or maybe two before. I’d bet the development had been planned in the go-go years before the housing bust, and by the time Marc was trying to get Jane to buy, its investors were probably getting a little frantic.
“If you want to buy, I bet there are other places around that can offer you a good deal.” I was beginning to sound like a realtor. If she could take the parrot, though, that would be a load off.
She was shaking her head. “No, it’s not for me. I only looked because Marc was so adamant. And he knows my budget.”
