The first room on the left looks like my aunt used it as an office. Stacks of books and boxes of papers line the walls and crowd the 1950s metal desk that’s tucked into the corner. Three filing cabinets crouch along the opposite wall, surrounded by more boxes.
Next on my journey down memory lane is the white-and-pink-tiled bathroom. I finger one of the threadbare salmon-colored towels. A twinge of something that feels a lot like regret runs through me, but I push it away. I hadn’t seen my aunt for years, and that wasn’t entirely my fault. I brush it away. I’ve got to take inventory of the rest of the apartment before I can get started.
A pair of bedrooms, one on each side of the hall, and a kitchen complete the apartment. The larger of the two bedrooms even has its own half bath and a walk-in closet. It’s a completely normal room except for the creepy cat paintings on the walls—felines with enormous eyes and terrifying smiles that seem to stare at me as I walk past. Those will definitely have to go before I list the house, or they’ll scare everyone away. I’ll list them on eBay. There has to be someone out there who collects such strange pieces of art.
The other bedroom is the room that I stayed in when I was visiting, and it still bears the lilac-colored bedspread that was there twenty years ago. I touch it, and a little puff of dust follows my fingertips. I wonder if anyone’s been in here since I left. We were my aunt’s only family after my mom passed away. Maybe you should have stayed in contact. It wouldn’t have killed you to call her. I shake my head to dispel the voice. Absolutely not. I quickly stride out of the bedroom, almost as if to escape.
A small kitchen at the end of the hall leads to an open door into the back of the bookstore. I close it quickly before Marge can set her beady little sights on me again and attack. Okay, this could have been worse. From a critical perspective, the apartment is out-of-date, but it’ll do. And even better, it’ll give me enough space to figure out what I want to do next. For the first time in a couple of months, I feel a spark of hope. I just might be able to do this.
After lugging in my suitcases and a bag of toiletries, pretty much all of my immediate life except for what’s in a storage container back home, I take a minute to collect myself. Despite my neighbor’s eagle-eyed gaze, nobody knows me here, and that’s how I want it to stay. As long as I can keep my anonymity, I should be fine.
Shame rises up in me at the callous way I’ve acted toward getting rid of my aunt’s stuff. She deserves better. I know in the back of my head that she didn’t cause what happened, but she didn’t help, either. Still, she deserves someone who can lovingly and carefully go through her entire life’s belongings and make sure they find appropriate, respectful homes.
I’m not that person, even in the best of circumstances, and I can’t spend a long time here. It’s too risky. It’s too dangerous—someone might find out who I am and what I can do. I’ve learned all too easily that society doesn’t like people who are different. Unfortunately, she’s stuck with me.
Okay, enough with the pity party. Time to get some work done. The first order of business is figuring out what to do with the one-of-a-kind creature in the bookstore. Animal shelters take birds, right?
I quickly search for local animal shelters on my phone and find the number for one right here in Tranquility Falls. Thank goodness. Finally, something has been easy.
“Hello. Tranquility Falls Animal Shelter, Amy speaking. How may I help you?” The woman sounds so tired and her greeting so flat that I almost regret calling her and asking her to take Marge. Almost. I’ve got to do something with the bird. No one in their right mind will buy this place with a crazy cockatoo in residence.
“Hi, Amy. My name is Sh—Willa Thompson.” Darn it, running into that guy and having the vision must have rattled me more than I thought. What do you expect? He’s going to shoot someone, and soon. And if you warn him, he’s going to think you’re crazy. Hell, you think you’re crazy half the time. “I’m... uh, helping a friend get the bookstore ready for sale”—why do I feel so ashamed saying that?—“and I just found out there’s uh, well, a parrot living there. Do you take birds?”
Silence. Then Amy clears her throat. “Um, well, no, actually. We’re not cut out to handle birds, especially ones like yours.” My bird. She knows exactly who I’m talking about. Coffee Guy was right. Marge’s reputation does precede her. “Maybe find a rescue or another bird lover who can take it.”
Wonderful. That’s not what I wanted to hear at all. “Are you sure you can’t help?” Desperation creeps into my voice. “I don’t know anything about birds, and it tried to kill me as soon as I got into the store.” Probably shouldn’t have told her that.
“I’m sorry,” Amy says. “But I really can’t help. Maybe talk to Kathy Wallis. I think she was taking care of Marge, wasn’t she?”
Desolation settles in as I mumble something about doing just that and hang up the phone. Based on how quickly Kathy left after I arrived, I doubt she’d want to adopt Marge anytime soon. And at this rate, I bet everyone in the entire state knows Marge’s reputation. I’ll never get rid of this bird.
I drop the phone on the brown-and-gold tweed couch in the living room and stare at the door connecting the bookstore and the apartment. Inside, a feathery assassin waits to cleave my flesh from my bones. I take a deep breath. You can do this, Willa. It’s just a bird.
THE NEXT MORNING, A loud rapping on the front door of the bookstore brings about a raucous screeching from within. From the safety of my aunt’s kitchen, I nearly drop the cup of instant coffee I’d scrounged from the cupboards.
“I’m coming,” I call.
Marge lets out another unholy screech.
My phone vibrates. Are you home? my realtor, Dorothy Dane, texts. I imagine her punching the numbers in with her inch-long, pointed bright-red fingernails, her mouth pursed in a frown.
Crap, I totally forgot about our appointment. I glance at the time on my phone. Yup, I’m late. I quickly text her back: I’ll be right there.
I set the coffee cup down on the counter and hurry to the adjoining door. Hand on the knob, I take a deep breath. I don’t have time to duck around the building to escape Marge, so I’ll have to go through the belly of the beast. Hopefully, I’ll get the green light from Dorothy, though, and I can list the bookstore as soon as I find a new roost for Marge.
The brass doorknob warms against my hand. Marge is just a bird. She’s not a serial killer. Before I lose my nerve, I swing the door open and sprint past the office and the storage rooms, through the aisles and stacks of books, past the tree and one very, very angry cockatoo, who squawks indignantly from her perch. The black-and-white TV is still playing, and I briefly catch the theme song to The Addams Family.
No wonder the bird’s messed up if she has to listen to this stuff twenty-four seven. One or two episodes I could handle, but not all the time. I make a mental note to put something calming on as soon as I’m brave enough to attempt to change the channel. Maybe there’s a birdie zen show that will release Marge’s inner yogi, and I’ll be able to go near her without bloodshed.
I smooth my hair and paste a smile on my face as I grab the doorknob. God, I hope Dorothy didn’t see my mad dash. That would be embarrassing.
Through the narrow window in the front door, my big-haired blond realtor purses her fuchsia lips and checks the time on her phone. She must be one of those sticklers for being on time. I usually am, too, but things are kind of crazy right now.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I say as I open the door and gesture her inside. “I’m still getting settled and—”
“And Marge,” she says, a wry smile on her face.
That startles a chuckle from me. “Yeah, Marge. I didn’t know she was still here.”
In the sunlight, Dorothy Dane’s eyes flick up and down as she sizes me up. I immediately pat down my hair again. It’s the kind of red that has always stood out, like the deep blood orange people strive for in the bottle, but for me it’s totally, painfully natural. I can’t bl
end in even if I try, which I have, but it’s never worked.
“What about your neighbor? Have you met him?” She jerks her head at the building next door.
“Sort of.” I quickly explain running into Coffee Guy yesterday and our brief interaction.
“Oh, that’s Nick Turner. He moved here not that long ago. Handsome, eh?” She waggles her eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“He’s single too.”
I barely resist rolling my eyes. “I’m not looking for a relationship, Dorothy. I’m just here to get the bookstore ready to sell and then get out of town.”
“Hmph. Why the rush?” She eyes me speculatively. I bet she’s not only one of the top realtors but one of the top gossips too.
I wince inwardly but don’t show it on the outside. “I’m between jobs right now”—understatement of the century—“but I still have things to attend to at home. I hope to find someone who will appreciate this space and then maybe even keep it a bookstore.” That would save me a ton of time cleaning it out. Heck, if they loved birds and wanted Marge, I’d probably sign the place over to them for free.
“Great. Let’s see what we’ve got.” No sooner do we enter the bookstore than she wrinkles her nose. “You’ll have to air it out a bit before we list it. I haven’t been in here for years. I honestly didn’t know Wanda was even still in business.”
I peer down the narrow path to the front, but I can’t see Marge. That’s not a good thing. I’m quickly learning that quiet cockatoos are dangerous. At least she’s not screaming.
Dorothy squints at the towering, over-stacked bookshelves lining the walls and the folding tables buried under books and boxes and magazines, and I don’t blame her. She follows the narrow pathway that leads from the front to the back then turns down one of the paths that strikes out along each side like roots on a long, twisted tree.
“I’ve got the name of a professional cleaning service, if you’re interested,” Dorothy says, replacing her look of disdain with a pleasant smile. “We’ve contracted with them for several properties in the past, and they’ve done an exemplary job.”
Yeah, as if I can afford that. Unfortunately, that also means she expects me to clean it to that level. I don’t have time for that.
We stop about ten feet from the front desk. Marge rests on a thick branch jutting out from the tree stand. She turns her head almost one-hundred-eighty degrees and starts preening her feathers with a smug, satisfied look on her feathery face. A bit of feather fluff floats to the ground, and she watches it fall before addressing us. “Go to hell,” she squawks.
Dorothy jumps, and I stifle a snicker.
“You are going to do something about that bird, aren’t you?” she asks.
My shoulders stiffen. “Of course. But I just got here, remember?” She makes it sound like I need to dump Marge on the curb like old furniture. The bird may be a terror, and I might be terrified of her, but I’m not going to do anything to hurt her. Hell, I don’t know how I’d get close enough, even if I wanted to.
“Hmph.” Her nose twitches as if she doesn’t like my attitude. “Well, I can’t list the bookstore until it’s been cleaned up a bit and she’s out of here.”
My stomach sinks. So much for listing it right away. “I was hoping you might be able to list it as a bookstore and maybe find someone interested in keeping it open...” My voice trails off at the grimace that crosses her face. Yeah, I guess that’s not happening anytime soon.
“Given the unique location,” Dorothy says, “this building has the potential to appeal to a wide variety of entrepreneurs, given the right staging and description. Did the previous owner’s nieces hand over the paperwork?” She means the paperwork supposedly giving me, their currently unemployed childhood friend, the right to list and sell the property.
“Of course. Shelby had the lawyer fax it over before I got into town. I bet your secretary has it.” I wonder if it will always feel weird to say my old name as if I were someone else. But you’re not her anymore. You’re Willa. I take a deep breath. “How soon do you think you can list it after I get it cleaned out?”
Dorothy scans the bookstore from top to bottom. “Within a couple days. It’s not very often that property comes up for sale on Main Street, and the fact that this building in particular has never been on the market will definitely work in your favor.”
Finally, some good news. “Then it looks like I have some work to do.”
Dorothy and I inspect the rest of the bookstore, giving Marge a wide berth. I jot down some notes about some of the things Dorothy thinks will be most beneficial on a small notepad I find in one of the drawers. I will, after all, be funding my new start with this money, so I need to get the most bang for my buck.
A twinge of guilt takes root in my chest, but I push it away. It shouldn’t have to be like this. My aunt would want me to be happy, and I won’t be happy as Shelby ever again, not if the media and a slew of armchair detectives have anything to do with it.
Dorothy brightens up a little bit once we leave the bookstore and start going through the apartment in the back. “This won’t take much sprucing up at all,” she says. “It’s outdated, but we can use that to our advantage by emphasizing the vintage charm of the place. ‘Authentic to its era.’ That’s what I’ll call it.”
Authentic, my ass. “I, um, hope you’re not planning on me doing any remodeling. That’s really not in my budget.” Or my abilities. Sure, I can wield a hammer like the best of ’em, but any sort of power tool scares the bejesus out of me.
“It would help the place sell faster if you made it more modern.” She eyes me up and down, and I can just about feel her mentally assessing how handy I am.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
I can see the disappointment in her eyes, and she frowns slightly. “Well, I can give you the names of a few contractors, if you want,” she says.
I look down, feeling my face flush. “Shelby didn’t really give me a budget, so unless I can do it on my own...” I leave it open-ended, but she gets my point.
Dorothy sighs. “It’s fine, dear. I’m sure we can make this place shine. I tried to get Wanda to sell it years ago, but she wouldn’t entertain the thought. We’ll get you a good price, I promise.”
We finish up in the apartment quickly after that. Dorothy wisely stays quiet about the stacks of boxes spilling out of each room and the musty smell that permeates everything.
“Do you have parking in the back?” she asks, her voice perking up. “That would be a huge plus.”
“Um, I think there’s room for a couple cars.” I pulled my car into the gravel lot back there last night, but it was already dark, so I didn’t see much. “But there’s a dumpster back there too. I’ve been using it to empty out some of the trash I don’t think is salvageable.”
Dorothy yanks the back door open. Light streams inside, and I shade my eyes. I’d gotten so used to the dim interior that it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
Dorothy steps out first, providing running commentary on what I can do to spruce the place up and command a better price, her voice sounding like the “wah wah wah” of the teacher in the Peanuts cartoons, when she stops dead in her tracks. I bump into her, and a shrill scream slices through the air. It takes me a couple of heartbeats to realize that it’s coming from the woman in front of me.
The realtor backs into me before whirling around and shoving me out of the way, nearly tripping over her heels in her haste. I stagger against the wall.
“Dorothy!” I call, but it’s too late—she’s already vanished into the darkness of the bookstore. I start to go after her, but something’s holding me back. I can’t leave without seeing what made her run away.
Heart racing, I slowly turn around. I don’t want to see what made her scream, but I have to. I take a deep breath. “You can do this,” I mutter.
About ten feet away sits my half-rusted brown station wagon that had seen better days a couple of de
cades ago. On the other side is a green dumpster, its heavy-duty black plastic lid gaping open. Something juts out of the shadows between the dumpster and the wall, something with two legs, two arms, and blond hair liberally streaked with gray.
I gulp, panic rising with the bile in my throat. The woman’s head is twisted at an unnatural angle, and a dark pool of something spreads underneath her body. This can’t be happening.
I take a step, feeling a million eyes watching me. I have to check. In the shadows, I can’t tell if she’s injured or breathing or... or not. You can say it, Willa.
“Um, Dorothy?” I call out behind me, my eyes not leaving the woman on the ground. “Call 911, okay?” My voice sounds sure and steady, but the fear makes my insides quiver. There’s silence behind me then the sound of someone retching, and the only thing I can think is that I hope Dorothy made it to the toilet in time.
I crouch down, my heart pounding. I’ve got to touch the body, feel for a pulse. I know I have to, but I don’t want to have a vision. I pull the sleeve of my shirt over my hand, gently brush the woman’s hair aside. Her skin is cold and clammy and a jagged cut stretches from one side of her neck to the other. Oh God. I scoot back, and my foot accidentally hits the puddle and slips. Bile rises in my throat. I scrabble into the sunlight. Crap. Whatever I stepped in is red, sticky, and wet, and suddenly Dorothy isn’t the only one who is screaming.
Chapter 3
“Hey, are you all right?” Someone grabs my shoulders and pulls me from the ground, dragging me away from the body.
The gruff voice jars me out of my frozen state, and I struggle against the guy’s grasp. “Let me go.” My elbow connects with his shin, and he grunts. Serves him right. As soon as I’m free of the drying puddle of blood, however, he drops my arms as if I’m on fire.
I spin around, the dead body seeming like the lesser of two evils, and my stomach sinks. Coffee Guy—Nick. Crap. I eye the light-blue T-shirt he’s wearing. At least he’s not carrying a coffee cup this time.
Birds of a Feather Page 2
