Parrots Prove Deadly

by Clea Simon

  It was a worksite, at least that was my first guess, and I remembered my earlier thoughts that perhaps Evergreen Hills had been intended as only the first of several condo developments. The trees had been felled and the brush cleared in an area big enough for another building or two the size of those at Evergreen Hills. For a moment, I flashed back to the condo. This area didn’t have the view, but a good landscaper could remedy that, taking down some more trees to let in the sun and put in some gardens, maybe a fish pond.

  The money must have run out awhile ago, though. The ground was still bare and beaten down, but the cutting looked old, dry and dead. The only sign of construction were a couple of sheds, the kind of corrugated metal ones that crews use to store tools. The door to one was open. Parked next to it was Jerry’s truck and another small pickup, beat-up blue and muddy. Neither Jerry nor the owner of the other truck could be seen.

  I parked by the edge of the clearing and got out. As an afterthought, almost, I let Buster out, too. Having a large dog by one’s side is never bad for a discussion. She was quiet, which I found reassuring, and seemed to be taking in the surroundings, sniffing the air, those large ears alert.

  “Come on,” I murmured, as much for my own benefit as for hers. Together we walked toward the shed.

  “Hello?” I called out. I didn’t know what Jerry Gaffney got up to in his private time. Outside of Evergreen Hills and its connection to the animals in my care, I really didn’t want to. “Anyone there?”

  I didn’t think they’d heard me, and I moved a few steps closer. In the middle of the clearing, a ray of sun broke through, but the shed was in shadow, its open door a gaping hole. Then suddenly a man was in it. Jerry’s cousin, Joey, carrying a crate of some kind, his arms crossed around it protectively.

  “Hey, Joey.” I nodded. Buster picked up on my cues and stood at the alert.

  Jerry appeared next, emerging from the shed to step in front of his cousin, as if shielding him. “Pru, what are you doing here?”

  “I saw your truck.” I decided to play it straight. “I had some questions.”

  “Yeah?” He crossed his arms. Meanwhile, behind him, his cousin lugged the box over to Jerry’s truck. “You finish up,” Jerry called back to his cousin, as he set the box in the truck bed. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “So, is this official Evergreen Hills business?” I nodded toward the truck. “Does the board know about this?” I was fishing. I had some ideas, but barely enough to chum the waters. “Is this the payoff for torching the condos?”

  Jerry laughed. I’d guessed wrong. “Get out of here, Pru. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  I stood my ground. “You know me, Jerry. I don’t scare easy, and I’m always up for something interesting.”

  He smiled at that. “Not anymore, Pru. You’ve changed. And this isn’t fun. This is business.” As he spoke, his cousin emerged with another carton. It must have been heavy, because Joey had to prop it on the edge of the truck bed for a moment before shoving it in. It was only there for a moment, but it was long enough for me to see a label on the box. A logo, in cream and brown.

  “That’s from LiveWell.” I said it before I could think. I’d thought this had to do with Evergreen Hills, with the condos.

  “You shouldn’t have seen that.” Jerry’s voice was low, but threatening. He nodded to his cousin and they both started to walk in different directions. They were going to circle me, I saw. Separate me from my car. I took a step backward, trying to judge the distance. Wondering if it were already too late.

  “Buster,” I said, pulling slightly at her harness. “Now would be a good time to start acting like a guard dog.” She remained silent, but as I stepped back, she took a few steps with me, both of us acutely aware of the two men now flanking us. And then of a different noise: tires on gravel. Another car was approaching.

  I’m not the damsel in distress type, but as I turned around I felt a flood of relief rushing through me. Now was the perfect time for Creighton—even a pissed-off Creighton—to have tracked me down. Only it wasn’t. The vehicle that pulled into the clearing, next to mine wasn’t his dull dark cruiser. It was flashier. Bigger. An oversize SUV in menacing black with chrome bumpers as high as my head and wheels to match. I registered the MD plate as the door opened, and George Wachtell stepped out.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, smiling. He had changed his medical whites for a sports coat, his raw silk tie looking particularly out of place in this rough setting. “If it isn’t the officious Pru Marlowe.” The effect was creepy, like a comic-book villain. “Lost in the woods.”

  Whatever comeback I could have mustered didn’t have a chance. It was Buster who responded, barking like mad. “Help! Help! Help! ” Her bark rang out, loud enough in the clearing. “Help! Help! ” I doubted it would reach beyond the trees, though, Wouldn’t summon—

  My own stupidity hit me. “Help! Help! Help! ” This wasn’t a call for aid; it was how Buster knew the doctor. People called for him in that way—they called for help, and the doctor was there. It might even be what some had called out, as he came too near. “Wachtell” would mean nothing to a dog. “Help,” however, meant “doctor.” I didn’t have time to muse on my ability to misinterpret. I needed to get out of here.

  “Good to see you, too. Doctor.” I stepped toward him, and also toward my own car, and saw him nod to Jerry. “I should’ve known.”

  The over-prescribed painkillers. The flood of illicit drugs—newer and more powerful. More valuable on the black market. An investment that was underwater.

  “You were keeping Evergreen Hills afloat by selling drugs.” I said. “Drugs you prescribed, including that pricey new synthetic. Only you were ordering more than you gave out and you still didn’t have enough. So you stole from your patients at LiveWell. They were helpless. Nobody ever believed them.”

  Except Genie. She’d told me the doctor was a bad guy. I’d put it up to his racism, the power he lorded over her. The raccoon had told me: “Don’t trust.” Particularly don’t trust those in authority. Frank had confirmed it: “He’s right,” the little ferret had said, picking up the raccoon’s warning. Even Buster, when my bitten hand had held her down, had added her voice. “He’s right,” she had said to me. Trust the wild thing, she had meant. That raccoon had better instincts than I had.

  “Do your colleagues here know about the real victims?” I looked at the cousins. “That you killed an old lady, and tried to kill another?”

  “Shut up.” That was it—the phrasing, the intonation in two short words—just as I’d heard Randolph repeat so often. The good doctor wasn’t always so polite. But while I was processing this, thinking about how he must have told old Polly off when she complained, when she caught him raiding her stash, he was moving on.

  “Jerry?” Wachtell had turned to his colleagues, and Jerry started to walk toward me again. But a barking dog is a wonderful companion, sometimes, and if Jerry was too stupid to be afraid, Joey wasn’t. The younger Gaffney held back, and I saw my opening. I raced to the car, diving in on the passenger side. As Buster dove in behind me, I started the engine. Jerry was at the car door by then, grabbing at the handle, reaching for the keys, when Buster grabbed his hand in her powerful jaw.

  “Shit!” Jerry jumped back, and Buster let go. I slammed the door, manhandled my car into gear, and took off—backward—down the trail.

  “Gaffney!” I heard Wachtell over the sounds of tires and stones. He must be used to obedience. My last sight of Jerry, however, was of him holding his wrist tight against his body, and Joey backing away. Then the road turned and I had to watch it, peering around Randolph’s cage behind me as I weaved around potholes as fast as I dared, trying to remember if there would be any place to turn around. How far it was back to the highway.

  Clunk! Under the trees it was too dark to see, and I’d hit something—a rock, a log. I kept going. Thunk! That one shook the frame. This wasn’t like the other day, with a smooth road that let my baby ride.
This was a trail, unpaved and deep in shadows. And Wachtell wasn’t like Creighton. Whatever else I might think of Beauville’s finest, he’d play by the rules. And then a sudden flood of light hit me, highlighting every tree, and I glanced behind me. The doctor’s SUV was barreling down on me, eating up the rough road without a pause.

  I turned back to the road. I needed to concentrate. Those lights were doing me a favor, allowing me to accelerate around the biggest holes. It didn’t matter. He was gaining. I didn’t want to think of how high that silver bumper was. How his SUV outweighed my car.

  “She must have been drunk.” I could hear him now. “She’d been acting erratic. She had no reason to go off-road in that old car of hers.”

  I put it from my mind. I hit a rock, and Randolph squawked. Buster had started barking again and in a moment, I knew why. A jolt—too big to be a rock—knocked me back. Another. The lights were getting brighter. Blinding. I could hear Wachtell revving his engine, preparing to ram me again. Something smacked the hood—another stone—ricocheted off a tree. Or, no, gunshot? A bang, as loud as an explosion, and the car jolted, nearly out of control. I gripped the wheel, as desperate as any wild thing ever caught in a trap. I hit the gas.

  Chapter Fifty

  If there were any tourists on the highway, we’d all have been dead. My bumper hit the pavement with a bang, and we bounced high enough to set Randolph squawking. But the suspension and the tires held up, and once we were off the dirt, I could feel my baby digging in. We squealed backward, nearly skidding as I turned us wide, across both lanes. Then, without looking behind me, I jerked into gear and we tore down the road—away from the turnoff and that crazy doctor. I knew I left rubber behind, but on the open road that SUV was no match for my GTO and after a few minutes I even started breathing again.

  “Everyone okay?” I reached over, to feel Buster panting beside me. She’d dug her claws in to stay on the seat. I knew the upholstery would show the marks. I didn’t care. “Randolph?”

  “Bastard! Hand’s off! Mine! Mine! Mine!” A little fluttering, but I figured that was good. The parrot was okay. “What are you doing? Stop that! Hand’s off!”

  “I got it, Randolph.” I was still driving, fast, but I had the breath to think now. To talk. “Wachtell killed Polly. Tried to kill Rose, too, though I don’t know why—”

  I stopped. I did know. I should have. Wallis had told me. She’d said Randolph had felt guilty, or at least, that’s what I’d heard. How often had she told me—had I told myself—that animals don’t experience emotions as we did? Randolph hadn’t felt guilt, per se. He’d felt responsible. Maybe with reason. In Rose’s empty apartment, I had asked Buster and Randolph what had happened. They’d done their best to tell me. Randolph had gone into his routine, mimicking Polly’s protests. Saying, as he’d said so often in my presence: “That’s mine! Hand’s off!” Parrots learn best by repetition, and I wondered if this had happened more than once. After all, who would believe an old lady if she accused her doctor? And if the old lady had been increasingly sedated, maybe she wouldn’t even have remembered what had happened. What she’d said.

  But Randolph had. And Randolph had taken up the responsibility of calling out the thief. And Randolph had then seen what had happened—at least in part because he kept repeating the damning words. Maybe that was what switched him to his quiet mode, saying “hello” and “pretty bird” like it was all he knew.

  I thought about that one, as I drove, about what had happened to Rose. The road was clear behind me, no headlights in sight. I knew what Wachtell was capable of, however. I could guess what had happened to Rose. Randolph had tried to tell her, but then Wachtell had come in. Then it was all “hello” and “pretty bird” again. At least until Jane had shown up: Jane, who should have known better. Afterward, when I had asked, the parrot had returned to the innocuous words, but they had come to mean something more. “Hello” and “pretty bird” were Randall’s way of saying Wachtell, just as “help” had been Buster’s.

  Buster had been doing her best to tell me, too—and to help Randolph. I still didn’t know what had happened to Randolph back in Polly’s apartment, but I could bet. Easy enough to sicken a bird: a spray of cleaning solution. A ground-up pill in his water. Or maybe it had been coincidence: stress or the dust raised by Jane’s cleaning. Either way, I bet it had given Wachtell the idea that he could try again, once Randolph was alone in Rose’s apartment.

  ***

  What he hadn’t known—what he hadn’t counted on—was Buster being there with the parrot. Her continued barking had not only been her way of trying to communicate—what I heard as “Help! Help! ” was really her way of saying “Doctor! It’s the doctor!”—it had kept Wachtell from offing the parrot. It had also resulted in the frenzied call for Buster to be taken out of there. I was suddenly very glad Genie had called me, and that I’d been there to take her. Glad as well that I’d returned on Sunday. Wachtell might not have been on duty, but I’d bet he’d have found a reason to stop by Rose’s room. To stop Randolph. I didn’t trust that doctor, no way.

  I’d have a hard time proving any of this. Officially, Wachtell hadn’t been there. Nancy, clearly, had been under orders to say he wasn’t on duty. But I already knew how the doctor lurked around LiveWell. What had he said? He hadn’t wanted the residents to think he made housecalls. That was a good story, for Nancy and for any nosy civilians. The residents, though, they learned he had very different reasons for covering his tracks. Some of them even survived.

  Rose had known. I’d let other concerns take priority. Rose, though, she had the time to think about this. She was mourning her friend, and she knew something about Polly and how LiveWell was run. And so when Randolph had replayed Polly’s death scene, Rose had understood.

  Had she confronted Wachtell? That seemed unlikely; the old woman was too smart for that. But he’d heard. He’d probably eavesdropped on the pair. And he’d begun drugging her too. He’d probably overdosed her, that night, and I’d have been willing to bet that the rumors of her depression came from him, as well. I remembered his words, his smirk. His self-righteous attitude, as I drove through the lengthening shadows. “Patients confide in me,” he’d said. Yeah, right.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  After about a half hour of driving all over town, I was pretty sure nobody was following me. For all that it was still light out, I felt myself nodding. It was time to get off the road. My long day yesterday, the excitement today: all of it had drained me and the adrenaline was wearing off.

  I wasn’t sure how to explain any of this. I wasn’t sure if I could. All I knew was that I needed to get home, to spend some time with Wallis, and to keep these animals safe. About ten miles out of town, I swung my last crazy U and headed home.

  When I turned into my drive and saw that big black SUV, I panicked. Wachtell—Wallis. The doctor must have found out where I lived. I left the engine running and tore up the drive. “Wallis!” I called. If that bastard had come to my house…If he’d hurt my cat…

  “Relax, Pru.” Creighton stepped out from the shadows and grabbed me, nearly spinning me around. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

  “Wallis.” I pushed against him. “Wachtell.”

  “I know. He’s a bad egg.” Creighton held me. “But we have him. It’s okay. It’s all okay now.”

  Gently, his hands on my shoulders, he turned me. There, off in the bushes, I saw Creighton’s car. Beside it, a cruiser. And leaning on the cruiser, legs spread, was Wachtell. A uniform was patting him down, big hands moving roughly over those expensive clothes. As I watched, he kicked one of the doctor’s fancy loafers, spreading his legs farther apart. Wachtell grunted as he fell against the hood. From the bruise on his cheek, I didn’t think it was the first time. Stupid fool, so self important. He must have resisted, and I was glad.

  The wave of satisfaction receded as I remembered why he was here, and Creighton couldn’t hold me then. I tore away and raced to my front door. Somehow the key
s didn’t work and I kept dropping them. It was Creighton, finally, who took them from my hand. He opened the door and stepped back, and I fell on my knees to embrace the tabby who waited there.

  “Took you long enough,” she said, the purr already starting. “And I gather you’ve brought a dog? ”

  ***

  With Wallis’ consent, I brought both Buster and Randolph up to my old bedroom, and closed them in. Buster had been quiet, acknowledging my tabby’s turf, and she had watched from the top of the banister, tail twitching and alert. I left her there, on guard, and went downstairs to get the rest of the story from Creighton.

  “So you knew it was Wachtell?” I looked at him, his words sinking in. “Behind the drugs?”

  “Believe it or not, Pru, I do know my job,” he said, a hint of a smile on his face. “We’ve been tracking the money. He set up a shell company, and it took us until today to find out who was behind it. But we did, and it’s Wachtell. We thought so, from the nature of the drugs, but we weren’t sure until today—until I could look at the records at LiveWell, at what he’d ordered and prescribed. It explains a lot. There’s been cash poured in, and then this morning, when someone tried to torch the place. It all fits.”

  “There’s a shed, you know.” The memory almost hurt. “Two sheds, in a clearing off the highway.”

  He nodded. “You said. You may have to point it out on a map. The staties are being very difficult about their helicopter.”

  I nodded. I’d given him the details. For me, it was all fading into a blur. After the shock of seeing him here, seeing the cruiser, the last jolt of my adrenaline had been used up. I was wired. Tense. Exhausted, but as I lay against him on the sofa, his warmth was beginning to relax me. “I didn’t expect you here. It’s been a while.”

  “I’ve been busy.” He took my hand, looked at it. “You’ve been, too.”

  I nodded. The bandage was half off and filthy. I’d not had the energy to change it. “This is why I was at the ER, actually. I need to start a series of rabies shots.”