Parrots Prove Deadly (3 page)

Chapter Five

Finding the aide was simple. I called LiveWell first thing in the morning and found out that Jean Sherry was working with other residents. Apparently, the aide was a longtime employee of the center, which spoke well for both her honesty and for a lack of financial duress. Not that I assumed “senior care aides,” as the receptionist had called her, were that well paid. If LiveWell was placing her with private clients, LiveWell was taking a cut. Still, it made it more likely that the aide hadn’t fled the state with the Larkin silver, and that I’d be able to find her when I went over for my afternoon session with Randolph.

Before then, I had my regular clients: two dogs and one confused dogcatcher. Okay, in truth Albert was more than a dogcatcher. As I pushed through the glass doors of our town pound, I had to remind myself that the bearded lug behind the desk wasn’t some homeless guy or—considering our semi-rural surroundings—a lost mountain man who had stumbled into civilization. The flannel-clad man-lump seated behind the desk was the animal control officer for the town of Beauville. Not that he seemed to know it.

“Hey, Albert.” The beard bounced off this year’s plaid, and I realized he’d been sleeping. “Too early for you?”

“What? No.” He sat up straighter and blinked. “I was cogitating.”

“Cogitating, huh?” The pound was quiet at this hour, and I pulled up the guest chair to sit down. I was hoping to spy a glimpse of Frank, Albert’s pet ferret. “Hope you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” He sputtered. “I mean…”

I smiled. Frank liked to collect shiny things, too. Only his command of the things he found was better. And I was pressed for time. “Never mind, Al. You called about a consult?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did.” He shuffled some of the papers on his desk, as if looking for notes. “It’s about a raccoon. A problem over at Evergreen Whatsits?”

“Evergreen Hills.” I knew it. A condo development carved out of the woods. Longtime residents wouldn’t have called Albert about a raccoon problem. They’d trap it themselves. Or shoot it, I realized. Maybe having Albert here had some benefits. “Young male, right?”

“Seems so.” He gave up with the papers. I doubted he had legible notes anyway. “They were calling it ah, um—a ‘home invasion,’ I think.”

I rolled my eyes. Autumn and the young animals leave the nest. As the weather gets colder, they start looking for new places to stay. And as we encroach on their territory, they return the favor. “Got into the attic, huh?”

Albert nodded, his beard bouncing on his chest. “I used the box thing and got it out.” Humane trap, raccoon, I translated. “The peanut butter really worked.” He chewed his lip at the memory, and I wondered how much had made it into the trap as bait. Enough apparently. “Thanks.”

“And where did you release the animal?” I don’t know why I bothered asking.

“Mile away.” He paused. “At least.”

He’d let it go around the corner. “And it came back?”

He nodded. Of course it did. To a young animal out on his own for the first time, those showy dormers looked as good as they did to the city folk. “The manager called. Again,” he said, his voice low. Someone had been angry.

I sighed. A local would have been easier to reason with: if animals get into your house, you find out how—and block the entrance. Some of these new people didn’t get that. They just wanted the problem fixed. At least it wasn’t nesting season. I wasn’t as easily cowed as Albert, but I wouldn’t want to explain to some irate vacationer that Mama Coon got to stay while her kits were growing.

“You want me to remove the animal?” I didn’t get paid to do Albert’s job, but I’d help him out. Hell, I’d be helping the animal, too. At some point the manager would probably poison it if it came back. I pushed out of the chair. “Traps in the back?”

He scurried to follow me. “Actually, Pru, the raccoon is back there. I went back and got him.”

That manager must have been furious. That said, I wasn’t sure why Albert had called me in. He bit his lip again, and I waited.

“They say it might have rabies.” He paused. I didn’t know what he was thinking. My gift doesn’t work with people. I knew I was getting angry. Yes, rabies in raccoons is epizootic—the animal equivalent of an epidemic—and zoonotic, which means it can be transmitted to people. But sick animals act like sick animals—they charge at you. They look like hell. From everything I’ve heard, this poor creature was only trying to find a safe place to spend the winter. “I had to take it.”

That was that, then. “Did you send in a sample?” Our little pound doesn’t have the facilities for medical testing.

“A sample?” Albert blinked up at me. The idea of him at a microscope almost made me smile.

“Of the brain matter.” Another blink. “You know, the animal’s head?”

“Oh, no.” He looked over his shoulder. “I was hoping you’d handle it.”

I closed my eyes. It wasn’t that I
wouldn’t
be paid for this; it was that I couldn’t be paid enough to do it. “I’m not killing a healthy animal, Albert.”

“Killing?” For a big man, his voice sure could squeak.

“That’s how they do the test.” My curiosity was aroused. “So, when you said you ‘took it…’”

“I mean, I took it in the trap. It’s in the back.” He motioned toward the pound area, and when I opened the door he made to follow me. “Alive.”

“Albert.” I turned and he raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry. I just…” He had no excuse, and I felt for him.

“Look, the animal is probably freaked out as it is. The fewer people who go back there, the better.”

He nodded and returned to his desk. As he did, he pulled open a drawer and a familiar masked face popped out.

“Frank!” I did my best to keep my excitement out of my voice. “I didn’t know you were here today.”

“
Cave, cage, locked in…
”
The ferret was not happy at being confined.

“I was going to start cleaning the cages when you came in,” Albert fumbled for an excuse. “I wanted him to be safe.”

“Uh huh.” He’d been napping and didn’t want his companion eating his lunch, more likely.

“
I ate the pistachios already.
”
Frank stood, his nose twitching. The little mustelid had more need of food than his person.
“Half the donut, too.
”

I couldn’t help smiling. Frank, at least, could take care of himself. That raccoon, though—he might be in trouble. Still, while I was here…

“How’s the cute little boy?” I spoke out loud to explain why I was bending over Albert’s desk, reaching my hand out for the ferret to sniff. I had barely touched the parrot during my visit, unable to find an excuse to take him out of his cage. And I had showered this morning, so even any lingering traces would be gone. Still, it was the only way I had of cluing the ferret in. Help me, I was saying. I need your expertise, your particular animal skill. Silently, I was visualizing the parrot. The gray smooth back, the roughed-up belly feathers. The cursing.

“Nest—birds. Big bird means big nest.
”
I held my breath. The children, I’d known something was hinky with them from the start.
“Big nest means…big eggs!
”

“
Sorry, Frank.” I swallowed, my own mouth suddenly full of saliva. “No treats for you today.” So much for that idea.

Chapter Six

Twenty minutes later, I was on my way. Beauville—deep in the Berkshires—was in peak color, the maples sugar red, the birches gold, but even though the scene was gorgeous and my car, a vintage Pontiac GTO, was purring like a kitten, I couldn’t focus on foliage.

For starters, I’d promised Albert I’d help him with the raccoon. The animal certainly couldn’t help himself. A young male, as I suspected, he’d seemed as healthy as I was. And although that’s no guarantee of anything, there were so many other reasons for the young animal’s behavior that I couldn’t see euthanizing him just to make sure.

When I’d gone back to see him, pacing back and forth in one of the pound’s large dog cages, I got the complete disorientation of an adolescent out on his own. He’d left home for the first time only a month before. After a few weeks of wandering—and some scrapes with other young males—he’d found what seemed to be the perfect burrow. Warm, high up, and dry, the attic was everything a raccoon could want, and this little creature was smart enough to know it—and to find his way back after being relocated once. What he couldn’t understand was his removal. He hadn’t even had to fight anyone to get in there. The space was empty; it should have been his.

In a just world, it would’ve been. I didn’t want the poor guy to get in any more trouble, though. The condo residents might be city folk, but at some point they’d contact a local—someone other than Albert—who would rid them permanently of the raccoon. I knew the type. Those city folks wouldn’t want to see what was done, but they’d be happy the “problem” was “resolved.”

As I turned onto the highway, pulling directly into the fast lane to avoid the leaf peepers, I decided on a plan of action. I’d drive over to Evergreen Hills later, talk to the property manager. I figured if I showed him the point of entry—despite the animal’s dazed state, I had a good visual image of a missing shingle under an eave—I could make a case for sealing it off. Then I could release the raccoon—I was sure Albert wouldn’t rat me out, especially if I was helping him out of a jam. As long as he stopped “invading” their space, there was little chance the residents would recognize the young male.

I was thinking about communicating with the raccoon as I drove over to LiveWell. I hadn’t had much luck during my brief visit, when I’d stood and watched the poor animal pace. Back and forth, back and forth in what is usually a dog enclosure in the locked rooms behind Albert’s office, he’d been too anxious to relax. Which might be why I’d only gotten the little bit I had: just a few jumbled images that gave me the beast’s history, leading up to his current predicament. Other than that, it was all just a sense of a fit, young animal, confused by life. Of course, I could have been projecting. That’s the kind of thing I have to be on the lookout for, but what I hadn’t gotten was the usual jolt of comprehension—a voice, a sound, a
feeling
that let me know I was tuned in to the real thing.

That may have been me. I hadn’t tried my usual method for jumpstarting communication: reaching out for the kind of physical connection that can sometimes share a shock of knowledge. Partly, I didn’t want to disturb the freaked-out animal any further. A wild animal—even a raccoon—was not going to find human touch comforting. Partly, I’ll admit, I didn’t want to get bit. I really did not want to kill him in order to test him for rabies. But I don’t believe in taking stupid risks, either.

In truth, I didn’t know how much I could get from wild animals, those not socialized in our terms. Birds, I heard. They’re usually direct—they want to broadcast their message to everyone within earshot. And they could be noisy, especially out here in the woods. The occasional squeal of fear reached me when I was outside, too; prey animals reacting to the cruel realities of their world.

More often, though, I found myself talking to domestic animals, usually the ones I came into contact with through my work. It gave me a leg up, helped me understand why they were acting as they did. And I’d told myself it also provided some insight into the animal brain. Maybe I was flattering myself, though. Maybe I could “hear” these animals because they were so attuned to humans, to how we communicate. Even birds, after all, know something about us. Maybe a raccoon was simply so foreign I didn’t know how to relate, not unless and until he wanted to.

That, I decided, was a problem for a different time. For now, I’d settle for getting that hole closed up. First, I told myself as I turned into the LiveWell lot, I needed to focus on my latest paying gig. My car—baby blue and built to get the most out of its 450 cc engine—stood out among the Toyotas and Volvos scattered through the visitors lot anyway, so I took my cue from the one oversized SUV and pulled in at an angle, taking up two spaces. I’d only recently had her painted, and I didn’t want any dings. I could take some abuse from a crazy relative or two. My GTO? No way.

“Nice! Nice!
”
I picked it up as I walked away and smiled. No, it wasn’t a compliment about my car. Or for me, for that matter. Someone had lined a den with soft down. Someone else was appreciative.

It’s always good to be loved. It doesn’t always happen. No relatives were in evidence when I walked into the LiveWell lobby. Despite its almost-chic color scheme, the place was deserted. Well, not entirely: I could hear someone calling bingo from a nearby room, and two women—at least one of them evidently deaf—were loudly discussing an upcoming daytrip to one of the casinos over the border. But the family members who were supposed to be appeased by the fancy decor were missing. The only person in sight under the age of sixty was the receptionist. She looked like the one I’d checked in with yesterday. Young and blonde, with a little too much eye makeup for the setting, she nodded at me as I walked in, and then turned back to the magazine she had opened on the calendar blotter. I didn’t know if she remembered me, or if I looked benign. Considering my suspicions, I thought a little more caution might be advisable.

Not that I wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. “Hi,” I approached the desk with a big smile. “I’m looking for Jean Cherry?” I could see the clumps in her mascara as she blinked. “I believe she’s working with Rose Danziger this morning?”

“Oh, yeah, Jeannie.” She nodded again. “Rose’s aide.”

I stood corrected as she consulted a clipboard decorated with the LiveWell logo.

“They should be in Rose’s room, 204.”

I thanked her and headed for the elevator with a little extra spring in my step. I wasn’t crazy about interrogating the aide. I remembered my mother’s last days all too well and suspected what she’d been through. Plus, I had been hired by her last client’s relatives, which would add to any natural reticence the aide might feel about talking with me. However, the room number was promising. As Polly’s neighbor, Rose might have seen something.

I was in luck: 204 was right across the hall from the late Polly Larkin’s apartment, the numbers set in that overdone logo.

“Coming!” The voice sounded about the right age, and I was encouraged by its vigor. “One moment!”

But any hope I had of Rose Danziger having seen something was dashed, as the door swung back to reveal a pale and tiny figure in dark wrap-around glasses, holding onto the harness of a guide dog.

“Rose Danziger?” I addressed the woman. The dog held its place by her side, but I could sense the animal—a dark shepherd-mix by the look of the long, intelligent face—sniffing me, sizing me up.
“Cat, person, dog, dog…raccoon?
”
This canine companion had a good nose.

“The one and only.” The woman by the dog’s side looked up at me as if she could see me, a big smile on her dried-apple face. “And who might you be?”

“Pru, Pru Marlowe.” I held out my hand and felt, as much as saw, the dog go on alert. So I turned it, palm up, for him to sniff. He craned his neck, but didn’t take so much as a step from his person’s side. The ears, they were pure German shepherd, large and sensitive. So was the focus. The size was a little off, a little short in the body, and I put that down to the crossbreeding, but he reminded me of Cousteau, my neighbor’s dog back in New York.

Cousteau hadn’t been a happy pup. I’d finally convinced his macho owner to have him neutered. Even with his lusts contained, though, he was bored. These are work dogs, happiest when they have a task that they can accomplish. Right now, this dog was occupied judging my role in his person’s life to determine if I was a threat. While he made his mental calculations, I made a few of my own. I’d get to the aide. First, I wanted to talk to the neighbor. Blind or not, she seemed quite alert. “I’ve been hired by Jane, Polly Larkin’s daughter, to help with the parrot.”

“Oh, Jane. Jane and Randolph. What a fakakta cock-up!” She turned with a gesture that seemed to dismiss the whole family. The dog made a larger circle around her so as not to trip her up. I got a sense of herding, of sheep, as if Rose were a young ewe rather than a white-haired human. Cousteau would have loved this gig. “Come in.”

“You know her?” I followed the little woman into a room that would have almost mirrored the one across the hall, if it had been filled with boxes. This one looked a little smaller, but felt more spacious, one end made into a neat little parlor with a short cream loveseat and two off-white chairs. Rose settled into one, the dog lying by her feet, a sense of deep contentment coming off him like warmth from his fur. I admired his training. I wasn’t even getting any sense that he was tempted to jump up on the remaining chair. “Jane Larkin?”

“Of course I knew Jane. Polly and I were friends.” The old lady turned and called into an alcove. “Jeannie, did I know Jane?”

A young woman, very tall and ebony skinned, stepped into the living room, holding a small tray with a teapot and a plate of cookies on it. “I don’t recall you ever calling her by her right name, Rose.” She ducked back into the kitchenette and returned with three mugs. “Not in my hearing.”

I was trying to place her accent as she sat in the remaining chair. No mistress-servant relationship here, then. Not with the aide, at least; the dog didn’t even look up as she passed the plate of cookies, and when I tried to reach out with my thoughts I was rebuffed.
“We are sitting.
”
Yes, I figured that much.

“Oh?” I figured the women would be a better bet, and primed the pump as the aide handed me a mug. Chamomile from the smell of it. Well, I’d survive.

The old lady and the young turned toward each other silently, as if to share a look, and then the aide burst out laughing. The dog remained silent.

“Jeannie thinks I’m an old bitch.” Rose leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. The dog shuffled slightly. Taking in her movement, that was all. “She knows what I’m talking about, though.”

I nodded and turned toward the aide. “So you must be Jeannie Cherry.”

She nodded, her mouth full of cookie. Rose, however, corrected me. “It’s
Genie
”
—
she softened the word, changed the accent—“not ‘Jeannie.’ It’s short for Eugénie, as in Napoleon’s empress.” She reached for a cookie and motioned for me to take on. “And her last name’s Cherie. Like the drink, if you can’t speak French.”

“My apologies.” Haitian, of course. That slight lilt was Creole. I wondered how many other residents here would respect the young woman’s heritage. “Genie. But dare I ask?”

I raised my eyebrows and left the question open, taking a bite of cookie. These two seemed ready to gossip, and the cookie was surprisingly good—a crisp lemon wafer dusted with confectioner’s sugar.

Genie looked over at Rose, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. It’s one thing to correct a third party about a mispronunciation. Another thing entirely to badmouth a client’s family—even a former client.

“Rose believes that Jane is a—a milksop,” Genie said, after a brief pause, obviously making an effort to use different language than Rose favored. “No family of her own. No independent life.” The aide shot a look at her charge. “I think she was a good daughter, doing what she could.”

“She used her mother as a tired-ass excuse.” Rose gestured with her mug, coming just short of spilling the hot tea. “Polly didn’t need that much care. Not till the end. And even then that washed-out overgrown girl didn’t do anything that you weren’t capable of doing much more efficiently.”

Genie sighed and nodded. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, I’d have bet. No wonder the dog remained so calm. “But she wanted to do it, Rose.” The emphasis was gentle. “Polly was her mother. It’s different when it’s your family.”

“Genie doesn’t want to say how clumsy that girl was. She made Genie’s job harder. I know, I heard it all.”

“Bathing Polly. Getting her dressed. It wasn’t what the girl was used to.” Genie gave her that. “She was there every day,” she said to me. “She wanted to be of use.”

“Everyday?” I looked from the aide’s unlined mahogany face to Rose’s white-on-white wrinkles. It was easy to forget that eye contact didn’t matter with the old lady. “She didn’t have a job?”

“She quit her job when—” Genie didn’t get a chance to finish.

“She was fired again, the stupid cow. Like what happened the last time.” Rose took another cookie and turned as if to stare at me. “That girl had no life, and taking care of her mother was her excuse for not having one. Not like her brother, Marc.”

Genie was shaking her head, and Rose turned. For an uncanny moment, I wondered if she was faking her blindness. “You know what I’m saying, Genie. I could see it. Hell and damnation, even Buster here could see it.”

She reached down and gently patted the dog by her side. It was the first time she’d acknowledged the dog, a fact I put aside for later. For now, I looked at Genie, but she only continued shaking her head. I waited for her to say anything, but the moment passed, and I didn’t want to break up the collegial mood.

“I met Marc yesterday,” I ventured finally. Rose beamed, but I saw Genie’s lips grow tighter as if she were physically holding words back. I remembered Marc’s accusations and wondered how much he had expressed. Clearly he hadn’t been able to prove anything, or Genie wouldn’t be working at LiveWell. Still, it couldn’t be pleasant to be accused of theft. “He seemed, well, a bit on edge.”