A Whisker of Truth

by Patricia Fry

  “Yes, but look at her bag,” Savannah said. “Isn’t that just like the leather bag she carried? I noticed it because Iris has one kind of like it.”

  Rochelle shrugged, took a swig of her iced tea, and resumed eating.

  “Yes, that’s the same woman,” Savannah confirmed minutes later while watching her remove a small clutch from the bag. “I saw her pull that purse out, probably to get her car keys before we drove away earlier. You didn’t see that?”

  Rochelle glanced up one more time. “I guess not.”

  Upon finishing her meal, Savannah announced, “That was really good.”

  “Did I lie?” Rochelle joked.

  “Uh-uh. Yummy.”

  “Do you have room for dessert?”

  Savannah shook her head. “No way, but go ahead. Be my guest.”

  “Not me; not today.”

  Before they could continue their conversation, they heard a woman’s voice. “Shelly?”

  Rochelle looked up and found herself facing a woman of about forty who had shoulder-length blunt-cut brown hair with highlights and was wearing a teal-blue business suit and matching heels. “Alison?”

  The woman leaned toward Rochelle and said quietly, “It’s Francesca. Alison no longer has a place in this world.” When she saw the puzzled look on Rochelle’s face, she laughed. “Oh, I used to be Alison. You knew me when I was living as Alison, but now I’m Francesca. You can call me Francesca.”

  “Okay…uh…Francesca,” Rochelle said hesitantly. “So what are you doing in the city? Do you live here now? Last I heard you were living in Mexico.”

  Francesca gazed across the room, saying, “I live everywhere.” She looked down at Rochelle. “If you mean is this where I sleep, I’d have to say yes, at least this week. Who knows where I’ll be after that. And yes, I have property in Mexico, but I’m still a free spirit.”

  Rochelle nodded slightly and muttered, “You always were.”

  “So what are you doing here,” Francesca asked, “so far from your roots in Maine?”

  “Planting new roots,” Rochelle said. When Francesca seemed to be waiting for more, she added, “My husband and I have an art studio here in town. I make jewelry.”

  “Wow!” Francesca said. “Who would have guessed mousy little Shelly would one day make jewelry?” She leaned over and studied the necklace Rochelle was wearing. “Is this one of your little creations, dear? My, it is…well, it’s you.”

  Seething by then, Rochelle said as graciously as she could manage, “Thank you.” She looked across the table at Savannah and picked up her purse. “Well, we’d better be going, don’t you think so?”

  “Okay,” Savannah agreed.

  Rochelle stood and nodded toward Francesca. “Good to see you. We’re on the run today. Take care,” she called over her shoulder as she led Savannah out the front door.

  “Who was that?” Savannah asked once the two women had returned Rochelle’s car.

  Rochelle shook her head. “Someone I never thought I’d have to ever even think about again.”

  “Bad juju, huh?”

  Rochelle laughed. “Yeah, you might say that.” She sighed. “I knew her back in Maine growing up. We sort of hung out with the same crowd, and…” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think I ever had a pleasant experience or encounter with that woman, even when we were kids. I don’t know if it’s that our vibrations clash or if she truly is evil, and that’s what I sense.”

  She shuddered. “Ewww! I really dislike being anywhere near her. Francesca, huh?” she huffed. “I wonder where that came from. She was Alison growing up. She changed her name to Candy in junior high, then to Ginger, at one point. A former classmate told me she moved to some exotic place for a while…I forget where…and became Aurora. I don’t know who the heck she was in Mexico—probably Carmen or Maria. Now she’s Francesca?”

  “Does she have multiple personalities?” Savannah asked.

  Rochelle thought for a moment. “Could be, I guess.” She frowned. “Savannah, even my child-self sensed something repugnant about her. I guess her personality or her spirit just doesn’t complement mine somehow.” She shivered. “And here she is in my space again. I’ll have to do some work to keep her warped negativity from infiltrating what I strive so hard to achieve within myself.”

  She grinned at Savannah. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I imagine I’m talking outside your realm of comfort with my woo-woo stuff.”

  Savannah laughed. “A little bit, yeah.” She spoke more seriously. “So you don’t like her, huh? You think she’s evil?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that exactly, but maybe.” She took a deep breath and tried to sound calmer. “So is there any place you’d like to go?”

  “Actually, I think we should go back to your place and check on the critters, don’t you? I need to let Rags out for a while and we don’t know what mischief Clayton and Matilda are inclined to get into.”

  Rochelle chuckled. “Yes, probably a good idea.”

  Minutes later, Savannah said, “There’s that old building again where Rags and I’ll be hanging out for the next two days. It really is rather intriguing. There’s a lot to it—I mean the architecture is unusual. You say it was a gentlemen’s club originally?”

  “Yes, that’s what I recall hearing. We can look it up on the Internet if you’re interested. There’s some secrecy around the place.” She raised her eyebrows. “And interesting rumors.”

  “Oh?” Savannah questioned.

  “Yeah, scandalous things are supposed to have gone on in there.” She stopped at a traffic light and nodded toward the building. “I think there’s at least one unsolved mystery related to that place or the people who used to meet there. I don’t exactly remember what I was told. It didn’t mean much to me at the time.” She glanced at Savannah. “But I can tell you I get some heeby-jeeby vibes from that place sometimes.”

  As Rochelle drove on past, Savannah looked back at the building. “Hey,” she said, turning in her seat.

  “What?” Rochelle asked.

  “I think I saw your friend.” She chuckled. “Or your not-a-friend, Francesca or Alison, back there.” She laughed. “Or maybe Ginger or—what did you say—Candy?”

  “Where?” Rochelle asked. “Damn, is she following us? I wouldn’t put it past that woman to follow me just to be annoying.”

  “No. She was back there at that building in the parking lot. I recognized her outfit—that teal-blue suit she was wearing, and she had that same large bag.” Savannah looked at Rochelle. “Do you suppose she has written a book and she’ll be at the book fair with me?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a weird coincidence?” Rochelle said. “But I guess it’s possible. Everyone’s writing a book these days. I know at least five authors.”

  Savannah cocked her head. “You do?”

  “So what was Alison…um…Francesca doing back there when you saw her?” Rochelle asked.

  “Just standing outside her car looking at the building. She may have been taking a picture. It kind of looked like she had a camera.” After thinking for a moment, Savannah added, “But I wonder why she was sneaking around the place a while ago.” She was quick to answer her own question. “Maybe she was looking for a window. She wanted to see how it was set up inside.”

  “I suppose.” Suddenly Rochelle shouted, “Oh no!” just as they heard car tires squeal, then a dull thud.

  Savannah caught herself against the dash as Rochelle slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of her. “What happened?” she asked, looking ahead.

  “I guess someone didn’t stop in time,” Rochelle suggested. “There’s probably a fender-bender accident up ahead of us.” She squinted into the distance. “Oh no, wait…is that…?”

  “Who?” Savannah asked. “What?”

  “Simon. I think he got hit. Oh no.”

  “That little boy?” Savannah asked. “He must be okay. There he goes running.”

  “Yeah, what’s he got
?”

  “I can’t tell. He’s sure holding tightly to it. I think it’s a framed picture. Look, Rochelle, he just went into your studio.”

  “Well that’s odd,” Rochelle said. “Let’s check it out, shall we? I want to make sure he’s okay.” She pulled her car into a parking space and the two women climbed out. “What happened?” Rochelle asked when they entered the studio and saw Peter talking to the boy. When the child saw the women, though, he darted out the door and ran up the street.

  Peter stood staring after him, a puzzled look on his face. He held up a small painting. “He evidently saw someone take this from my window display just now, and he chased him down and got it back.”

  “Really?” Rochelle said. “I wonder why?”

  Peter shrugged. “I guess he’s trying to be the white knight of the street people or something.” He looked out the window. “Hey, did someone get hit out there? I heard what sounded like an accident.”

  “I’m not sure,” Rochelle said. “I think a couple of cars collided trying to miss hitting the boy. Simon must have chased the thief into the street and accosted him.” She shook her head. “But why? Why would he care?”

  “Good question,” Peter said, scratching his head.

  “Do you know where the boy comes from?” Savannah asked.

  Peter and Rochelle looked at each other. He said, “Nope.”

  Rochelle explained, “Like I told you, Simon comes in here when it’s quiet and looks at the paintings. Sometimes I pay him for doing little chores.” She smiled. “He likes using the feather duster.”

  “It appears that he’s fond of you guys and didn’t want to see you get robbed,” Savannah said. “You have a friend there.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t want him risking his life like that,” Rochelle said.

  “No,” Peter agreed, staring after the boy. “We sure don’t want to see him hurt. It’s hard enough knowing that he’s living on the streets.” He faced Savannah. “At least we think he is. We can’t get much information from Simon about his living situation, but it’s a concern for us seeing him seemingly without any adult supervision or anyone to care for him.”

  Rochelle put her hand on her husband’s chest. “Yes, we do worry about the little guy. She kissed him on the cheek. “We’re on our way home to check on the—what did you call them, Savannah? Oh, critters. See you later, hon.”

  Chapter Three

  “Well, the birds look okay,” Rochelle said after checking on them when they got home that afternoon. “How’s Rags?”

  “Good. Want to go out with me while I take him for a walk?”

  “Sure,” Rochelle said. “Let me put on my walking shoes and grab a sun visor.” She looked at Savannah. “Need a visor?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Good idea.”

  The women had been walking among the gardens around Peter’s and Rochelle’s yard with Rags for several minutes when Savannah squealed, “Hey, Rags, where do you think you’re going?” She held the leash taut. “I’m not climbing a tree after you.”

  Rochelle chuckled. “What does he see up there, a squirrel?”

  “I don’t know.” Once Savannah had Rags under control, she squinted into the branches of the old oak. “Wait!” she shouted. “Is that…? Rochelle, I think it’s one of the parrots.”

  Then they heard a familiar voice. “Hello, pussycat. What’s up? Peek-a-boo. Peek-a-boo. Hello, pussycat.”

  “Well, Clayton,” Rochelle said, “that’s quite a vocabulary you have there.”

  “Yeah, and I want to know what he’s doing out here,” Savannah said. “How’d he get out again?”

  “Good question. And how are we going to catch him?” Rochelle asked.

  Before the women could react, the parrot flew down and landed on the ground next to Rags. He jumped onto the cat’s back and held tightly to the harness, causing Rags to turn in circles.

  Rochelle laughed. “Silly cat, he’s trying to see Clayton. Careful Rags,” she cautioned, “He’s going to fall off.”

  “He’s okay, Ragsie,” Savannah soothed. “He just wants to take a ride. Let’s give Clayton a ride back to the house, shall we?”

  Rochelle glanced around the yard. “I hope Matilda didn’t follow him out here. We’d better go in and make sure she’s safe.”

  Savannah laughed. “Yeah, she doesn’t seem to be the adventurer this guy is.”

  “Is there such a thing, Savannah, as an indoor-outdoor bird? If we keep the parrots, should we give them outdoor time?”

  Savannah shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve had little experience with birds, but I don’t think it would be a very safe lifestyle for a domesticated bird to fly free on a whim. That’s the beauty of a large, outdoor aviary. Birds can be outside with the luxury of flight while being confined and safe.”

  “Makes sense,” Rochelle agreed. “Oh!” she shrieked, shrinking back and glancing around frantically. “What was that?”

  “Good gosh,” Savannah muttered, ducking. “Where’d he go? Rags, no!” she shouted.

  Meanwhile a man called out, “What happened? I heard a scream. Is everything all right?”

  Rochelle gulped. “Mr. Perry, hi. Where’d you come from?”

  “I was walking by and heard a commotion.” When he saw Savannah kneeling next to Rags, holding tightly to his harness and appearing to be looking for something, he asked, “Did you lose something?”

  “Yeah,” she said, breathlessly, “a parrot. A large bird—a hawk, I think—dive-bombed him and he fell off the cat into these shrubs.”

  Mr. Perry squinted at the women and repeated, “A parrot fell off the cat?”

  “Yeah, he was riding on the cat’s back,” Rochelle explained, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

  “You don’t say?” the man responded, sounding suspicious. “Is the cat okay? He looks a big shaken.”

  Savannah nodded. “It was a pretty big bird. I’m sure it scared him.”

  “There he is,” Rochelle shouted, pointing.

  “Hello, pussycat,” Clayton chirped from a branch just overhead.

  “Are you all right, Clayton?” Savannah asked. “Gosh, that was a close call.” She turned to Rochelle. “Now you see why giving birds free time outside isn’t such a good idea.”

  “I guess not,” she said, wide-eyed. “Can you get him down from there, Savannah?”

  “I think so.” She stood up and reached into the tree with one hand. When Clayton flew down and landed on her finger, she placed him on Rochelle’s shoulder and suggested, “We’d better get him inside and check the latch on his cage. I think he may be opening it himself. We need to do something about that.”

  “Did you call the bird Clayton?” the man asked. When the women looked at him, he explained, “It’s probably a wild coincidence, but I knew of a band of wild parrots about his size living in a neighborhood north of here, and one was called Clayton.” He chuckled. “There was Clayton and Clayton Junior, and Matilda, as I recall.”

  “Hello, pussycat,” the bird recited.

  Mr. Perry pointed. “That is Clayton. That’s what he used to say all the time. How’d he get here, for heaven’s sake?”

  “It’s an odd story,” Savannah said. “My cat and I helped save Matilda from a dog yesterday and I guess Clayton and Matilda were so appreciative they wanted to stay with us. They flew into my car and wouldn’t get out, so I decided to adopt them.”

  “Wow!” he said. “What a story. Lucky birds.”

  When Clayton opened his wings and fluttered, Rochelle said, “Savannah, we’d better get him inside. Good bye, Mr. Perry. Thanks for stopping by. Have a great walk.”

  He nodded as the two women and the cat walked away with the bird.

  “Is something bothering you, Rochelle?” Savannah asked once they’d secured Clayton’s cage fastener. “You’re kind of quiet.” She laughed. “Or are you sleepy after that big meal we had for lunch? Ready for a nap?”

  “That does sound tempting,” Rochelle said, “but I don’
t want to miss a moment with you while you’re here.” She paused. “Actually, I do have something on my mind. It’s about Alison-Francesca. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s about to create some sort of chaos and that it will impact us in some way.”

  “Us?” Savannah questioned.

  Rochelle looked at Savannah. “Yes, us.” She shook her head. “Savannah, I’m concerned. I keep seeing her, you, Rags, and that old building. There’s something about the Bamford Building.” When she saw a look of concern on Savannah’s face, she said, “Oh, let’s hope I’m wrong this time—it happens. I’ll try to shake it off and send it flying—kick it to the curb, as they say these days.”