Parrots Prove Deadly (4 page)

“Being with that useless sister drives him batty, that ignorant slut. He’s a doll.” I was beginning to see where the parrot got his language. But I’d get back to the bird. For now I turned to Genie, waiting for her response. When none came, I smiled, as if that might disarm her. “You’re not crazy about him, are you?”

“She thinks Marc was just after Polly’s money.” Rose broke in before Genie could respond. “She thinks he tried to have her fired, even though I keep telling her otherwise.”

I looked at Genie, but her face had gone as blank as the dog’s.

“She thinks Marc wanted his mother dead.” The old lady broke one of the cookies in half and reached down to offer it to the dog. “She thinks Marc murdered my old friend and that he’s going to get away with it.” With an audible snap, the dog grabbed the cookie, and we sat there, the only sound the wet munch of Buster, enjoying his treat.

Chapter Seven

I’d have loved to grill the old lady further. Despite her blindness—and questionable judgment about her friend’s son—she was an observant old coot, and I trusted her memory, especially when it pertained to her late friend. Unfortunately, Genie had her own ideas. No sooner had we all caught our breath than the aide jumped up and began to hustle her charge out the door.

“Look at the time!” Genie consulted her watch, which might have been a bit of pantomime for my benefit. “Rose? We have to go.”

“The casino trip?” I had an image of the blind woman at a card table. It made me smile.

“Oh, no.” I could have sworn the old lady had read my mind. “I don’t do that silliness. That’s all—”

“Rose?” Genie interrupted her before she could say more. “We can’t keep Dr. Wachtell waiting.”

Buster stood, his senses alerted by Genie’s actions, if not by her words, and watched as Genie hurriedly stacked the cups and returned the tray to the kitchen area. Looking down at the dog’s bright black eyes, I realized I’d missed an opportunity. The shepherd mix had an extremely narrow focus—a necessity for the job, I figured—but if his mistress had strong feelings about what was going on across the hall, he would have picked up on something.

“May I help?” I was stalling, trying to think of an excuse to tag along and continue the conversation.

“No thanks. The doctor’s office is in the complex.” Rose reached for my arm and once again looked up at my face as if she could see me. “I would take my sweater, though.” She made to get up—this was her home base, after all—but the aide was quicker.

“I’ve got it.” Genie strode over to a closet, moving fast enough so that I almost believed they were late for an appointment.

Rose sighed, but waited, still hanging onto my arm. “You should come again.” Her grip was firm. “We can talk about Randolph—and about Polly.”

“Rose?” Genie had the sweater over her shoulders and was gently pushing.

“I will.” I nodded to the old lady, not caring that she couldn’t tell. “Thanks for the tea and cookies.” This I directed to Genie. “And the conversation.”

Genie lifted her eyebrows at that, and continued to hurry her tiny client toward the door.

“I’ll be by tomorrow.” I called after them.

“Rowf.” Buster barked once, softly.
“Plans,
”
I translated. “
Don’t distract us.
”
But Rose had invited me back, and no matter what Buster or Genie thought, Rose was still the boss in that apartment.

***

I watched them head down the hallway and waited while they got into the elevator. Chasing after them was pointless, but I was curious to see how they interacted. Genie’s interruption certainly seemed timed to shut Rose up when the old lady wanted to say more, and I had to wonder what she was on about. The old woman clearly liked her—hell, I had too—so why didn’t Genie want Rose to talk to me?

It could have been anything. Genie knew I was working for Jane Larkin. Maybe she was afraid I’d carry word of gossip across the hall. Maybe she was afraid I’d piss off the mourning daughter. Maybe the Larkin family still owed her money. The fact that Genie’s services seemed to have been arranged through LiveWell made it unlikely that she’d be invoicing separately, and I didn’t get the sense that Jane Larkin was one to welch on a bill. Marc, well, maybe he did think his mother’s care was costing too much. I remember thinking something similar when I got the itemized expenses for the home hospice care. Didn’t mean I’d killed anyone over it, or even shirked on my bills.

I was in the hallway for so long that the voice behind me made me jump.

“Oh! You are there!” It was Jane Larkin. I checked my watch. Sure enough I was ten minutes late for our appointment. “I was wondering if you’d gotten delayed.”

“I’m sorry.” I put on my best contrite smile. “I ran into someone. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“That’s okay.” She turned and led me back into her mother’s apartment. Now that I’d seen another unit, I realized that Polly Larkin must have one of the larger studios. Not that this apartment was what you’d call spacious, crammed as it was with boxes and furniture. It did make me wonder just how much LiveWell cost—and how tight money was for the Larkins. I couldn’t exactly ask the faded woman, who was now bent over assembling a box.

“I’m going to start with the parrot now,” I said instead. “Will you be staying?” I couldn’t think of a nicer way of asking, and scrambled for an excuse to get her out of here. “I usually work with the animals alone.” I paused. “I mean, in private.”

She looked up, her pale face lined with worry. “I’ll be quiet, I promise. It’s just, well, I really need to finish the packing. Besides, Randolph is used to me.”

A low whistle from the cage said it all.

“That’s the problem.” I was grasping at straws. “I need to break him of habits. Get him thinking in a new way. And it’s too cold for me to take him outside.”

“Oh.” She put down the tape dispenser. “I didn’t—”

What she didn’t do was finish her sentence. I wasn’t going to make it easy for her and stood there, hovering. Inside his cage, Randolph muttered. “Crap. Crap in your hat.”

I tried not to smile, but the colorful expression did the trick. “Wait here.”

I hoped she’d come back from the closet with her coat on. Instead, she held a key.

“You can take Randolph across the hall. Mother and her neighbor were friends, and Mrs. Danziger always took Randolph in when the cleaning crew was here. She won’t mind.”

I opened my mouth to object. To explain. Anything—and shut it before Jane could notice. She didn’t need to know I’d already met Rose. The blind old lady was out at her appointment.

“She’ll probably be grateful for the company,” Jane’s confided, her voice lower. “She’s almost ninety and blind as a bat, and I think the lack of mobility is making her a bit nuts.”

“She’s the woman with the seeing-eye dog.” It seemed sensible to establish that I knew
of
the neighbor.
“German shepherd mix.”

“Oh, of course.” She looked at me as if I’d said something witty. “Of course you’d notice that. But don’t worry, the dog isn’t dangerous.”

I didn’t know whether she honestly thought a trained service dog would threaten a person, or if she was referring to Randolph. But I took the cage down from its hanger as she asked and followed her across the hall. She was knocking, and I went through the charade of waiting for an introduction, all the while keeping my eye on the elevator at the end of the hall.

“She must be out. No matter.” Jane tried the door. It wasn’t locked. “She and Mother were in and out of each other’s places all the time,” she said, pocketing the key. “There, now you can have some peace and quiet.”

Not knowing what else to do, I stepped back into the parlor I’d vacated only a few minutes before. Jane headed for the door, pausing only to call back. “Don’t worry if she comes back while you’re here, Pru. She’s a little past it, if you know what I mean. But she won’t freak out on you. There are people in and out of the units all the time, here. They don’t even allow you to have a deadbolt put on, just in case there’s, you know, an emergency?”

With that she closed the door behind her, and I took a seat. She was my client, and I was supposedly booked for the next hour to work with Randolph, who was still muttering various scatological phrases, his big beak working as he turned his head side to side, taking in his surroundings with those strange yellow eyes. I wasn’t thinking about the bird’s dirty mouth, though. What I was realizing was that security in this pricey community was virtually nonexistent. If someone were stealing from Polly, the pool of potential suspects was building-wide. More, even, if you counted all the outside contractors who must come in each day with only a smile to the receptionist. And while Jane had confirmed her mother’s friendship with the elderly neighbor, she had also cast doubt on her perception. Not to mention her sanity—and, possibly, her motives.

“What do you say, Randolph?” I was looking at the bird, but I was really talking to myself. Call me biased. I didn’t think the avian brain was up to the situation.

“Some piece o’ cake, huh?” The parrot barked out what sounded like a laugh. “Stupid cow.”

“And just who are you talking about?” He was repeating words. He had to be, I wasn’t getting the usual feeling of connection—of translation or psychic contact, and yet…. “The neighbor Rose? The daughter?”

“Daughter, daughter. Dishwater!” With a loud squawk, he flapped his wings and succeeded in fluttering above his perch. Nothing else; no mental messages. Still, I felt for him. This cage was too small for a grown bird. Then again, Polly’s apartment had been too small for a grown woman, even an old one. I looked up and saw he had trained one cool eye on me, as if expecting a response. I reached out with my thoughts:
What are you trying to tell me? Is it about Jane?

“Dishwater!”
The hoarse voice could almost have been laughing, but there was nothing more.

“I think we agree on that one.” I said finally. “What I want to know is who said that?” I didn’t really expect an answer. We were in Rose’s apartment. Randolph had been here before, Jane had said. It was likely that he’d picked up Rose’s words, maybe because they rhymed, and it made sense that being back here would spur him to repeat them.

“No talking. Shut up. Shut up. Skwah?” Randolph shifted on his perch, stopping only to groom his breast. He plucked out a bit of down, enlarging the bald spot. This was anxious behavior, the avian equivalent of biting your nails until they bled. This was the problem I should be addressing, not some crime that may or may not have ever happened. I shook my head. I was being worse than foolish, I was being neglectful. Whatever else was going on, this was an animal in distress, and I had been hired to help him.

“Crap!” He said, loud and clear.

I had to laugh. Okay, I hadn’t been hired to help the bird except indirectly. I’d been hired to clean up his language, which would allow him to find another home. The fact of his distress, or his loss of his longtime companion, might be relevant, however. I thought of the comfort he must find in repeating phrases that he either heard from the old lady or that had amused her and shook my head. Yeah, my clients were the people who paid me. Times like this, I really wished I could just avoid that part of the transaction entirely.

“Randolph, let’s talk.” One yellow eye focused on me, and for a moment I wondered. I didn’t think he understood me. I wasn’t getting any of that connection I would have with a cat or even with a focused work dog like Buster. Still, that cool sideways gaze made me wonder. What the hell, I thought. The sound of my voice might reassure him—might serve as a point of contact. “Would you like to talk?” The eye looked me up and down. “About Polly?”

The bird whistled and shuffled down his perch, his gaze moving on to the apartment around him. There was no connection here; my first instincts had been correct. Randolph was still, however, an animal in crisis. I looked around. I’d love to let him out, let him stretch what looked like considerable wings. However, we weren’t in his home apartment, and I didn’t want push the bounds of neighborly privilege. Parrots aren’t usually litter trained.

“It’s fine, sweet cheeks. Caw!” The gray head tilted and suddenly the parrot was sizing me up again. This time, I did the same. Those little eyes were cold, but just then, I’d have sworn there was something in them—some spark.

“You know, I think you can understand me. At least sometimes.” I waited, trying to blank out my mind of anything except the bird. Then I let in other images—the apartment we had just left. Jane.

Another low whistle, and the bird took a dump.

“Was that an editorial comment?” I asked, unable to stifle a chuckle. He didn’t respond. In truth, I was lost here. I wanted the bird to be happy. I wanted him to quit pulling out his own plumage. That meant finding him a home. To do that, I needed to retrain him—and fast. “Okay, forget that. Let’s start with the basics.”

I put my face close to the cage and waited until the bird looked at me again. “Nice birdy,” I said, enunciating each syllable. “Nice, nice birdy.”

I felt like a fool. The parrot’s silence felt like scorn. But what choice did I have? In the absence of a single, strong stimulus, parrots learn by repetition. Tomorrow, I’d remember to bring some treats; positive reinforcement works for anyone. The key, though, was to replace those offensive phrases with something more benign.

“Nice, nice birdie. Bird-eee.”

A little flutter, an understated coo. “Birdy?” I was trying.

“Bitch.” Another squawk followed, but I’d heard him loud and clear. The bird was getting to me. I could see why Marc didn’t want him. I wondered whom else he’d pissed off. “Stupid bitch.” I would have dismissed it, too, except that I got a flutter—I couldn’t call it more than that—of something underneath the human-sounding words.

“Bad. Bad bird.
”
Then again, out loud: “Bitch.”

“Randolph?” A squawk. “You’re not—you aren’t calling me a bitch, are you?”

Nothing. Nothing from the parrot, anyway—and it hit me. The kick I gave myself could have knocked me down. How stupid could I be? Just about the first thing I’d learned with my gift was to ask an animal its name. Wallis had told me that, once I’d stopped freaking out. She’d been called Mrs. Ruffles before, a stupid name, but the one she’d had at the shelter where I found her. Turned out, she hated it more than I did.

Now I turned to the parrot once more. “I’m sorry. I started to ask you yesterday, but we got interrupted.” I didn’t know if any of that would translate. Still, it couldn’t hurt to be polite. “I’m Pru, Pru Marlowe. Would you tell me your name?”

“Skwah!” Another shuffle. “Crap!” More obsessive grooming, so painful to watch. “Bitch!”

I wasn’t getting anywhere. The parrot didn’t want to talk, only to curse. There had been something though—the briefest of thoughts:
“Bad bird.
”
The words echoed in my head.

Where had that come from? Well, Marc was one obvious source. I remembered, I’d been thinking of the old lady’s son when the bird had started talking again. Marc had probably said as much, maybe worse, to his sister—or to his mother—in the bird’s hearing. And the rest? Would Randolph call Marc a bitch? I didn’t know enough about avian comprehension. For that matter, I didn’t even know if the words Randolph repeated back to me were connected with anything he meant. They might just be sounds. Noises that got him attention and, just maybe, kept him from finding a new home.