She's Not There (31 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The sky was the color of a spring iris, but there was still some scattered snow, like a clothesline had broken and left white sheets strewn on the ground.

It was cold, and Amelia reached down and kicked the car’s heater up a notch.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked.

The Bird, sitting in the passenger seat, gave a grunt but didn’t look at her. She was too intent on looking out the window. Amelia wondered what she was thinking. The Bird hadn’t been out of the nursing home in a long time, Jill had told her, and her view of the world had narrowed to what she could see from the window of her room.

That’s why Amelia had wanted to take her out today. Jill said The Bird’s mood hadn’t been good lately. Maybe this would cheer her up.

So far, the trip hadn’t gone well. When Amelia had arrived at The Edge of Heaven that morning, it had been a repeat of her last visit in December. The Bird seemed happy to get the Teaberry gum that Amelia brought, but she still didn’t recognize her.

It was never going to change, Amelia thought as she turned the rental car off US 71 and down a side street. This was how things were now for her and her grandmother. But she was coming to accept that. It was similar to what she felt for Clay Buchanan. He had e-mailed to tell her that he had begun investigating the disappearance of his wife and son. She had written back saying she was still staying with Jimmy and had started work at a women’s shelter. They had exchanged other e-mails since, which left Amelia with a sense that while they would always be in each other’s lives, there would still be a space between them.

Amelia glanced over at The Bird.

She was swathed in a red down parka that Amelia had brought for her. But there was a peacock brooch pinned on the front, one of the pieces of jewelry Amelia had found in the box of mementoes Buchanan had returned to her.

“What day is it?” The Bird asked.

“Wednesday,” Amelia said.

“What month is it?”

“February.”

The Bird nodded, looking out the window. “February is Mother Nature’s way of giving us the finger.”

Amelia laughed.

They turned onto Fairfield Street, and Amelia slowed the rental car and then stopped in front of the faded gray house. She turned off the engine and looked over at The Bird.

“Is this where you live?” The Bird asked.

“Well, I’m thinking about maybe coming back here in the summers,” Amelia said. “What do you think?”

“I think it needs to be painted.”

“Let’s go inside,” Amelia said.

The realtor who had been caring for the house had given Amelia the key. Amelia helped The Bird make her way slowly down the sloping yard and they went inside. The air was musty and cold, and when Amelia tried to turn on a light, nothing happened. The Bird was standing in the middle of the living room, her eyes flitting over the old furniture, the fringed lamps, and flowered wallpaper. Then she walked slowly to the back windows.

Amelia came up behind her and they stood side by side, looking out at the lake.

“It’s really cold in here,” The Bird said finally.

“Yes, it is. Maybe we should go.”

The Bird nodded and started back toward the door. Then she stopped. She was staring at something. At first Amelia thought it was the aluminum walker in the corner, but then The Bird went to the old player piano. She looked at Amelia then back at the piano.

“Do you play?” Amelia asked.

The Bird nodded. “Yeah, with my feet.”

She eased down onto the piano bench, putting her feet on the pedals, but she didn’t try to pump them. She just sat there, staring straight ahead.

Then she began to sing, so softly that Amelia could barely hear her.

“Life is long since you went away, I think about you all through the day, my buddy. No buddy quite so true . . .”

Amelia went to the piano and sat down next to her grandmother. The Bird had stopped singing. But Amelia knew the words.

“Miss your voice, the touch of your hand, just long to know that you understand, my buddy,” she sang. “Your buddy misses you.”

The Bird looked at her with cloudy green eyes. Then she smiled.

“You’re my Mellie,” she said.

Amelia took her grandmother’s hand in hers. “Yes, I am,” she said.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It takes two of us to write a book. But it takes many others to make it fly. So stand up and take a bow . . .

SJ Rozan, dear friend, fellow writer, and avid birder whose expertise gave our character Clay Buchanan wings.

Tom Clark of Motorcar Gallery Collectible Exotics in Fort Lauderdale, who knows his gull wings.

Peter Lent, esq., an odd bird who is nonetheless okay for a lawyer and Patriots fan.

Sharon Potts, Neil Plakcy, Christine Jackson, and Miriam Potocky, who helped push this story out of the nest.

Daniel . . . for being there.

And to our amazing flock at T&M: Anh Schluep, Alison Dasho, cover designer David Drummond, and the eagle-eyed Faith, Scott, Nicole, and Sharon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

P.J. Parrish is the
New York Times
bestselling author of ten Louis Kincaid and Joe Frye thrillers. The author is actually two sisters, Kristy Montee and Kelly Nichols. Their books have appeared on both the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller lists. The series has garnered eleven major crime-fiction awards, and an Edgar
^®
nomination. Parrish has won two Shamus awards, one Anthony, and one International Thriller competition. Her books have been published throughout Europe and Asia.

Parrish’s short stories have also appeared in many anthologies, including two published by Mystery Writers of America, edited by Harlan Coben and the late Stuart Kaminsky. Their stories have also appeared in Akashic Books’ acclaimed
Detroit Noir
, and in
Ellery Queen
Mystery Magazine
. Most recently, they contributed an essay to a special edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s works edited by Michael Connelly.

Before turning to writing full time, Kristy Montee was a newspaper editor and dance critic for the
Sun-Sentinel
in Fort Lauderdale. Kelly Nichols previously was a blackjack dealer and then a human resources specialist in the casino industry. Montee lives in Fort Lauderdale and Nichols resides in Traverse City, Michigan.

The sisters were writers as kids, albeit with different styles: Kelly’s first attempt at fiction at age eleven was titled “The Kill.” Kristy’s at thirteen was “The Cat Who Understood.” Not much has changed: Kelly now tends to handle the gory stuff and Kristy the character development. But the collaboration is a smooth one, thanks to lots of ego suppression, good wine, and marathon phone calls via Skype.

The first eleven books in the series, in order, are:
Dark of the Moon
,
Dead of Winter
,
Paint It Black
,
Thicker Than Water
,
Island of Bones
,
A Killing Rain
,
An Unquiet Grave
,
A Thousand Bones
,
South of Hell
,
The Little Death
, and
Heart of Ice
.