And there, right in front of me, was Amelia Scott’s name. She was president of the local right-to-die organization, the Bethany Hemlock Guild, and Jed Conway was vice-president. At the bottom of the flyer, in capital letters: Urge Your State Legislators to Support Death with Dignity.
I didn’t have to look back at my notebook for a reminder of what Carole Humphreys had said when I’d told her that Jed Conway had been shot. I remembered it word for word.
I’ll bet it’s that business with those Hemlock people. I had assumed that she was referring to Dorothea and Jenna, at the Hemlock House. But Carole had more likely been talking about the people of the Hemlock Guild.
I had been lucky again.
Chapter Nine
Herbs for Your Birds. Here are three herbs that parrot lovers should know:
Ginger—planning an auto trip with your bird? If your parrot suffers from motion sickness, offer fresh thinly sliced ginger root or steep fresh ginger slices in a cup of hot water for tea and use it (cooled) to replace the water in the cage cup. Ginger is a time-tested remedy for nausea.
Aloe vera (the “Band-aid plant”)—promotes skin cell growth. It can treat cuts and bites, prevent infection, and ease itchy skin. Feather picking? Try spraying a mixture of aloe gel and water (one part gel to three parts water). And yes, your parrot can safely nibble your aloe plant, although too much may have a laxative effect.
Chamomile—traditionally known as a soothing sleepy-time relaxant, chamomile has been used for centuries to help relieve stress, calm restlessness, and ease minor stomach discomfort. Keep a supply of purchased teabags on hand. Add 1/4 cup of your regular-strength tea to 1 cup of warm water and share with your birds at bedtime.
“Herbs to Keep Your Bird Healthy”
https://susanalbert.com/herbs-for-your-bird/
The drive back up the mountain was easier than it had been the day before. I knew where I was going and what to expect of the twists and turns, more or less. I could keep my attention focused on the road instead of being distracted by the mountain landscape.
Now that the sheriff had alerted me to Virgil’s coming, I thought it would be good to listen to a weather forecast and see just when the storm was due to arrive. I was still more than a little skeptical, because the sky was a cloudless blue, the spring air was mild, and the understory trees were flaunting their flirty green leaves against the darkness of the hemlocks. If snow was on the horizon, there was no sign of it yet. I punched the car’s radio buttons, looking for a local station with a weather report.
But all I seemed to get was mountain music—“Rambling Boy,” “Handsome Molly,” “Barbara Allen.” And then, dolefully, a traditional ballad by a group of local musicians that called themselves the Mountain Songcatchers. I remembered it from the movie O Brother Where Art Thou. In a minor key and a capella, the song was so eerie it made me shiver.
Death, oh death,
How can it be
That I must come and go with thee
For death, oh death
How can it be
I’m unprepared
For eternity.
Now, I’m not somebody who looks here and there for omens—that’s Ruby’s department. But as I drove through a dark tunnel of hemlocks growing close to the road, the song seemed so ominous that I hurriedly turned the dial. All I could find was the national news out of Washington, though, and it was as dark and unnerving as the song lyrics. I was glad when my cell rang, in a holder on the console, and I turned the radio off.
“Just checking in,” McQuaid said. “I’m headed back to Pecan Springs from San Antonio. Where are you?”
“Driving up a mountain,” I said, negotiating a hairpin curve to the left, with a hundred-foot drop-off on the downhill side. “A steep mountain. On a twisty road. Forest on one side, sheer cliff on the other and ‘Death Oh Death’ on the radio. A thrill a minute. How are you?”
“Fine. ‘Death O Death’ here too, actually. I’m risking life and limb on I-35.” McQuaid likes to say that he had enough excitement with the Houston PD to last for two lifetimes, although I notice that he seems to relish the occasional dangerous investigation that walks into his PI firm. “You? Besides cliffs and trees and twisty roads, I mean.”
“Does a shooting count?” I filled him in on my discovery in the Open Book.
He whistled. “Jeez, China, how do you do it? I let you out of my sight for a few hours and you’re stumbling over dead bodies!” I imagined him rolling his eyes.
“This body wasn’t dead,” I said. “At least, last I heard.” I followed with a quick rundown of my meetings with my two pals, the chief of police and the county sheriff, and Carole, my sister under the skin. “I’m hoping to see Margaret Anderson tomorrow, if we don’t get snowed in. And there are the Hemlock Guild people, too. I have to find out how to connect with them—and who to talk to.” Amelia Scott?
“Snowed in?” McQuaid asked incredulously. “What snow? It’s spring break already! We’re in the eighties.”
“It’s spring break in Texas. Here in North Carolina, we’re expecting Virgil.”
“Who’s Virgil?”
“A blizzard. The sheriff says he’s the storm of the century, reincarnated.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “Sounds like you’re living dangerously. Please tell me that you’re staying out of the line of fire.”
“Doing my level best.” With a shiver, I changed the subject. “You’ve heard from Caitie?”
“Yeah. She and Spock are settled in for a weekend of ranch fun. Caitie says Spock has a crush on your mother’s horse. She’s teaching him to ride. And say “Hi-yo Silver, away!”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Next thing we know, Spock will be asking for his own horse.”
“Brian is coming for supper tonight,” McQuaid said. Brian is his son by his first wife, bad-penny Sally, who turns up every now and then and turns us all upside down. He’s a student at the University of Texas. “I was thinking that I could stop for a pizza,” McQuaid added. “Or . . .” He left the sentence dangling.
“Or there’s a quart container of beef stew in the freezer,” I offered. “And a loaf of sourdough bread. I think there’s a tub of garlic butter in the fridge. Is he bringing Casey?” Casey is Brian’s live-in girlfriend.
“Casey’s moved out,” McQuaid said quietly. “Lotta angst, I’m afraid. Which is probably why he’s coming. Man-to-man about women. That, and his laundry. The washer at his place appears to be inop. I need to get up there and see if I can fix it.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, but not about the washing machine. Brian and Casey have been together for quite a few months now and I genuinely like her. She is smart, athletic, and beautiful. But she is also pre-med and competition tennis, and there isn’t a lot of room in her life for a boyfriend. Still . . .
“Tell him not to give up just yet,” I said. “She may reconsider.”
“Love is hard on the young.” McQuaid sighed. “I wouldn’t be that age again for a million dollars.” There was a moment’s silence. “You’ll be at the Hemlock House tonight?”
“That’s the plan. I’m told we’re having chicken and slicks for supper.”
“Chicken and . . . sticks?”
“Slicks. Chicken stew with flat dumplings. Traditional Appalachian dish.”
“Doesn’t sound like it would go good with beer,” McQuaid said. “Here’s my off-ramp. Looks like I survived another drive through the death trap. Talk to you tonight.” His voice became stern. “No more dead bodies. Hear?”
“Love you too,” I said, and clicked off, glancing at the clock on my cell. Not quite four, and supper was a couple of hours away.
Plenty of time for parrots.
• • •
A hundred yards beyond the Carswell mansion, the road narrowed, made a hairpin left, and rose at an even steeper angle. I had to navigate several more switchbacks i
n the next mile or so before I saw the wooden sign: Hemlock Forest Parrot Sanctuary. Appointment only.
The sanctuary was located on the side of the mountain, well above the road and surrounded by forest. It took me a moment or two to figure out what I was looking at, for all I could see when I got out of the car (bags of banana chips in hand) was a screened enclosure that turned out to be an outdoor aviary. It was built on three sides of an open grassy square in front of a large A-frame house with a steep green metal roof. A mini-jungle of bushes and small trees grew inside the enclosures, and I could hear the musical splashing of a waterfall. Next to the A-frame was a large storage shed with a snowmobile parked off to one side.
Sometimes when you set things in motion, you don’t know where they’re going to end up or what’s going to happen along the way. Ruby, with her intuitive gifts, could probably have guessed that this was one of those times. But I’m usually so focused on what’s directly in front of me that I don’t give much thought to what’s around the corner.
The same thing was true today. I wasn’t expecting much from this visit except for a few interesting parrot closeups. I got that—and more. Much more.
I found my way to the front door and rang the bell. From the slightly open window beside the door came a strident voice: “Don’t want any.”
“I’m China Bayles,” I said. “Jenna Peterson called about my visit. I’d love to see the parrots.”
“Don’t need no more parrots,” the voice said. “Got enough parrots.”
“I’m not bringing a parrot,” I replied, beginning to agree with the people who thought that the woman who lived here was a little nuts. “I’m China Bayles. I’m staying down the mountain at Hemlock House and I’d like to meet—”
The door opened about three inches. The woman peering out was in her sixties, short and wiry, with a lined, leathery face and snappy blue eyes behind oversized red plastic cat-eye glasses. She wore a beaded Indian headband and a pair of long steel-gray braids tied off with red yarn, an ankle-length blue caftan heavily embroidered with bright colored feathers, and scuffed brown loggers’ boots. Perched on her shoulder was an African grey parrot with a black beak and a fan of bright red tail feathers.
“Hello, cutie,” the parrot said, and made kissing noises. “Don’t need no more parrots.”
I felt foolish for mistaking the parrot for Claudia Roth. “Hello,” I said to the bird. “What’s your name?”
“Pipsqueak,” the parrot replied, holding out one light-gray foot. “Got something for me?”
“Don’t be pushy, Pippy,” the woman said. She squinted up at me. “China Bayles? You’re the one with the parrot?”
“That’s me,” I said cheerfully. “His name is Mister Spock. He’s an Eclectus, and boss of the house. Keeps us on our toes.” I held out the bags of banana chips I’d bought at Sam’s. “This is for your parrots.”
She snatched the bags from my hand before Pipsqueak could get them and opened the door just wide enough for me to squeeze through. “Be quick. I just got my guys rounded up. I don’t want them making a break.”
As I squeezed through the door, I heard a raucous squawk and a bright blue and green parrot swooped over my head, wings flapping noisily. I ducked and looked up as the parrot landed next to a large blue macaw perched in the A-frame’s rafters. With a shriek, Pipsqueak lifted off Claudia’s shoulder and flew to join them. One of them dropped a fat wad of poop onto the floor below, where a pile suggested that the rafter was a favorite perch.
“I thought they lived in the aviary,” I said. “It’s gorgeous, by the way. I wish we had something like that for Spock.” I was thinking that maybe I could talk McQuaid into building one. After all, he’d built Caitie’s chicken coop. Spock could spend the day out there when we were at work and Caitie was in school.
“Most do live in the aviary, when its warm,” she said. “They’re indoors now because of Virgil. They’ll go back out when the nighttime temp stays above forty.” She peered at me. “You look agile enough. How handy are you when it comes to catching birds?”
“I’ve had a fair amount of practice,” I allowed. Spock likes to play hide-and-seek-the-parrot. “You need some help?”
She nodded. “I got most of them. But there are still three stubborn birds out there, and it’s easier with two. You’re just in time.” She turned and began clumping across the room. “This way.”
Maybe it was the tricks I’d learned catching Spock, or just a round of good luck. But when I tossed a towel over the last bird, a bright orange conure, Claudia nodded shortly.
“You’re a pro. Let’s put these boys up and have a cup of coffee.”
The birds I’d caught were returned to their own large, bright bird rooms, three separate indoor aviaries built against one side of the A-frame. The size of small bedrooms, they were equipped with cages against one wall; perches, swings, ropes, and toys hanging from the ceiling; feeding stands on tables and shelves. The floors were covered with newspaper. Large birds, such as the macaws, lived in one room, cockatoos in another, and Amazons and African greys in the third. There was another smaller room lined with cages for birds that, for a variety of reasons, couldn’t go cage-free.
Altogether, Claudia said, she was taking care of twenty-five birds at the moment. “I’m down a few,” she added, pouring coffee. A bright blue parrot—Tick-Tock—flew down from the rafter and landed, teetering, on the back of a chair, where he began to preen, cooing. “Fostered some out last month,” she added. “Due to get another two or three this week. One of them has a broken wing. I also do rehab.”
I thought of multiplying Spock’s mischievous energy by twenty-five or thirty and decided that “a little bit loony” wasn’t quite the right word. Certifiable might be more like it, or unhinged or even stark staring nuts.
Claudia put the cups on the table and we took chairs on opposite sides, as Pipsqueak returned to her shoulder with a loud squawk and a flurry of wings. She opened a bag of banana chips and began sharing them with him and Tick-Tock. In a moment, the other two parrots, an Eclectus (like Spock) and a large red macaw with gorgeous blue and yellow wings, flew down from the rafters to join the party. When the four of them had finished the banana chips, Claudia shook the bag to show them that it was empty. Tick-Tock gave a frustrated screech and Pipsqueak wailed “All gone!” so despairingly that I had to laugh.
I gave her my cover story, but Claudia didn’t seem very interested in my magazine article about Sunny Carswell. While the parrot quartet chattered and clucked and cooed and recited scraps of parrot ditties, the two of us swapped parrot tales, sipping our coffee and enjoying the bond that forms between people—even between strangers—who share a common passion.
When I met Spock and was offered the chance to adopt him, I knew I couldn’t bear to see him go to yet another unhappy or sterile home, where he would be locked up in a cage in the corner and neglected. Claudia understood that impulse, and I understood why she couldn’t turn down a bird with a broken wing or one that just needed security, structure, and somebody to pay attention. She might be unfiltered and a little loose with the truth, but she knew her parrots—what to feed them, what toys keep them occupied, how to deal with parasites, what books are helpful. She told me about The Parrot Who Owns Me by Joanna Berger, and I told her about a list of parrot-friendly herbs and spices I’d written for my newspaper column. Put a pair of parrot people across a table from one another and they will talk parrots for hours on end.
Parrots weren’t the only thing on my mind, though, and after ten minutes or so, I shifted the subject.
“You must know Jed Conway,” I said. When she frowned and nodded, I told her what had happened in Bethany. I didn’t, of course, tell her about Jed’s whispered word. “He could be dead by now, I suppose,” I said regretfully.
Her lips tightened and she turned her head away—but not before I saw that the news of his shooting didn’t
seem to surprise her. It certainly didn’t distress her, either, which was interesting.
“The police don’t have a suspect yet, as far as I know,” I added. “I talked to Carole Humphreys afterward, and—”
“Got what he deserved, after the way he treated Sunny,” Claudia broke in abruptly. I saw what he was doing and I know why he did it. If he’s dead, that gets three cheers from me.” She clapped her hands in slow-motion applause. Joining in, the red macaw gave a loud police-siren whistle. Tick-Tock flapped his wings and cried “First down! Goal to go!” Pipsqueak bobbed his head and clicked his beak.
Well. Now we were getting somewhere. Jenna had told me that Claudia was an oversharer who lacked a filter. She said whatever she thought without considering who she was saying it to. What else might she say?
“How did Jed Conway treat Miss Carswell?” I asked.
An ordinary person would surely have thought twice about answering this blunt question, especially when it was asked by a stranger who claimed to be writing a magazine article about a dead neighbor. Someone else might even have said something like, “And just why are you asking?” or “What the hell business is it of yours, anyway?”
But Claudia didn’t ask. The answer to my question was at the top of her mind so she let me have it. She didn’t pull any punches, either.
“Jed Conway is responsible for the way Sunny died,” she said flatly. “He introduced Sunny to that pal of his, Amelia, and after that, all Sunny could talk about was that Hemlock Guild stuff about death with dignity. Oh, I could understand her suicide—after all, she was going to die of cancer. What I couldn’t understand was the gun. She had plenty of pills she could have used if she’d wanted to. I just can’t believe that she would have used that gun. The same gun that killed her father and grandfather.” Her face grew dark. “Our father and grandfather. Has anybody told you that Sunny was my sister?” If she was lying about the relationship, it sounded as if she had managed to convince herself.
Hemlock Page 16
