We’ll Always Have Parrots ml-5

by Donna Andrews

  “She has a soft growl, doesn’t she?” I said.

  “She’s not growling, she’s flehming,” the keeper said. “When they open their mouths like that, they’re actually sucking in air and sampling it with this extra scent organ in the roof of their mouths. It helps them sense things.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked.

  “Food, for one.”

  Salome flehmed me again.

  “I liked it better when I thought she was growling,” I said.

  Salome dropped something she’d been chewing—the shredded remains of a leather baseball glove—padded over to his side of the cage and rubbed her head against the bars. The keeper stuck his hand through the bars began scratching her behind the ears.

  He saw me watching and frowned.

  “Don’t try this,” he warned. “You might think she’s just like an ordinary housecat—”

  “No, actually the four-inch claws and fangs are a dead giveaway. I suppose you can do that because she knows you.”

  “Yes,” he said, giving Salome one last scratch before withdrawing his hand. “And because I accept the fact that she might kill me, or do something like this again.”

  He pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal two red scars running parallel down his right arm, from wrist to elbow.

  “Yikes,” I said, stepping a little farther from the cage.

  “She ate a Pomeranian once,” he said, pulling the sleeve down again.

  “You’re not serious?” I said, frowning.

  “She tried. She would have, if I hadn’t distracted her.”

  “So you’re just trying to scare me.”

  He shrugged, and walked over to the door to hang up a CLOSED sign. I noticed that he didn’t have full use of that badly clawed arm. I edged farther away from Salome’s cage. Maybe “scared” was good in this case.

  “So what makes you want to own a tiger?” I asked.

  “I don’t own her.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I realize you can’t own a wild animal, or even a domestic one in the same sense you can own a car or a house; that at best we’re only temporary guardians of the earth and—”

  “No, I mean I don’t own her,” he said. “I can’t afford it. I work at the sanctuary. The Willner Sanctuary. They take in big cats and other exotic animals that have been mistreated or abandoned, and try to give them an appropriate environment.”

  “Sounds worthwhile. But what’s she doing here? Even with the jungle decorations, I’d hardly call this an appropriate environment.”

  “It takes a lot of money to run a place like that. Do you know how much meat a tiger eats every day?”

  Salome chose that moment to yawn.

  “I don’t even want to guess,” I said, watching Salome’s teeth.

  “Eight pounds, in her case,” he said. “Not as much for the smaller cats, of course, like the servals and bobcats, but more, for some of the larger cats. And the sanctuary currently has thirty-seven big cats.”

  “Expensive.”

  “So we do educational and fund-raising events,” he said, pointing to a jar in the corner.

  I walked closer to the jar—it took me farther from Salome as well. The jar contained a scattering of coins and one lone dollar bill.

  “Doesn’t look as if it would pay for the gas to get here,” I said.

  “This doesn’t seem to be a very generous crowd,” he said. “A shopping mall appearance does better.”

  “So, if it’s not working out, do you take her home early?” I asked.

  “I only hope I get to take her home at all.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Mrs. Willner is negotiating to sell her,” he said. “The sanctuary’s having a hard time making ends meet as it is. If she sells Salome, she has one less mouth to feed, and the proceeds can support the others.”

  “Sounds reasonable, I guess,” I said. “Sort of a bloodless way to let one tiger feed the rest.”

  “If the buyer likes her, and the sale goes through, I’ll have to escort her to her new home.”

  He stared mournfully into the cage. Salome stared back, looking equally depressed, though for all I knew she merely regretted that the bars prevented her from making him an hors d’oeuvre.

  Maybe separation from Salome was exactly what this guy needed.

  “So she’s going to another sanctuary?” I said.

  “No. To a private owner.”

  “Is that legal? I mean, can anyone just go out and buy a tiger?”

  “In most states, perfectly legal,” he said. “And it should be illegal to own an animal unless you’re genuinely qualified to take care of it, and willing to take the responsibility.”

  “If you tried to enforce that, half the cats and dogs in the country would be homeless.”

  “Probably,” he said. “Certainly most of the people who own big cats wouldn’t be allowed to. And that would be just fine with me.”

  He fell silent, and I decided that if he and Salome faced separation, maybe I should give them a little time together. I pulled out my camera and took a picture of the two of them, and then I fished into my wallet, plunked a ten dollar bill into the jar, and tiptoed out.

  Mother had disappeared by the time I emerged, but I ran into Dad.

  “Meg! Just the person I was looking for!” he exclaimed. “I want to hear about the body.”

  “You generally do,” I said. “Walk with me.”

  I told him the gist of what had happened while we waited in line at the hotel coffee shop’s carryout counter—our new room didn’t have amenities like a coffee pot. And then he peppered me with questions as we threaded our way through the crowd to the dealers’ room. He paid no attention, as usual, to who might overhear us. Of course, most of the people in the hotel already knew there had been a murder on the premises, but most of them still looked startled when they heard someone at their elbow asking questions like, “Had rigor mortis begun to set in?” and “Can you describe the head wound?”

  The answers, incidentally, were “I have no idea; I didn’t touch her” and “No, because she was lying face up.”

  “I wish I could have seen the body,” he said, with a sigh.

  “I took pictures,” I said.

  “Really?” Dad said. “How clever of you! Let me see.”

  But, of course, the tiny camera screen was just as unsuitable for his study of the body as for mine of the paper scrap.

  “Kevin’s having blowups made for me of a couple of the photos I took of the crime scene,” I said. “Call him, and maybe he can add in some blowups of the body.”

  “Excellent idea,” Dad said, “and I should probably see if I can talk to the medical examiner.”

  He didn’t mention the medical examiner by name, so I deduced that it wasn’t one of his old buddies.

  “If you manage to talk to the M.E.,” I said, “see what you can find out about the paper she was holding in her hand.”

  “What was it?” Dad asked.

  I decided to evade that question. Not because I suspected Dad, but because I knew that his idea of keeping quiet would be to swear everyone he met to secrecy before blurting out everything he knew. And if too much information about the comic fragment got out, Detective Foley would know exactly who to blame.

  “The police don’t seem to think it’s very important,” I said, shrugging. “Could there be a medical reason for that?”

  “Possibly,” Dad said. “Of course, they would have to wait for the M.E.’s report to be sure, but a seasoned homicide detective would suspect if something had been staged—if someone placed the paper in her hand after death, for example. Do you think it’s important?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Just curious.”

  “Morning,” Alaric Steele said, falling into step beside us. “Rumor has it you had quite an adventure last night.”

  “Adventure’s not the word I’d use,” I said, “but if you heard I was the one unlucky enough to find the QB’s body and
spent the next hour getting interrogated, then you heard right.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out,” Dad said, “meanwhile, I’ll be following a line of inquiry of my own.”

  With that, he trotted off.

  Chapter 22

  While Steele and I opened the booth, I wondered briefly what Dad’s line of inquiry was, and whether it would unduly annoy Detective Foley. And then I decided I’d have enough to worry about, trying not to annoy Foley with my own line of inquiry, whatever it turned out to be.

  And what I’d overheard Foley saying bothered me. It sounded as if Foley didn’t plan to investigate the comic fragment seriously. I couldn’t help thinking that the fragment was more significant than he realized.

  Of course, maybe I couldn’t help thinking that because it was the one genuine piece of evidence that I knew as much about as the cops. And it must be important if I found it, right?

  I felt a renewed temptation to pull out the camera and study the photos, a temptation I resisted, partly because I knew there wasn’t much more I could learn from the tiny little screen, and partly because the dealers’ room had opened and customers were straggling in.

  Steele didn’t badger me with questions about finding the QB’s body, which increased my appreciation of him enormously. Of course, he didn’t need to ask questions, just keep his ears open for the next half hour or so while everyone I knew and not a few total strangers plied me with questions. But still, I appreciated the restraint. Almost as much as I appreciated being able to say,

  “I’m sorry; the police have ordered me not to discuss that with anyone.”

  I was saying this for about the seventeenth time when Dad showed up again.

  “Meg,” he said, “any chance I could borrow that little tape recorder of yours? Unless you’re going to use it in your sleuthing.”

  “I’m not sleuthing and the tape recorder is Michael’s,” I said. “He uses it to study lines. I don’t even know if he brought it, but you could ask him.”

  “Great!” he said. “Where is he?”

  I glanced at the clock and then pulled my program out of my purse.

  “He’ll be in the Ruritanian Room at eleven,” I said. “If you hurry over there, you can probably catch him.”

  With half an hour to spare, but I didn’t want Dad hanging around talking about rigor mortis and alarming the customers.

  “Wonderful!” he said, turning to leave.

  “And Dad,” I said, “please don’t go around telling people that I’m sleuthing.”

  “Oh, right,” Dad said. “Keep it discreet. Check.”

  He nodded repeatedly, looked around to see who might be listening, put his finger to his lips, winked, and slipped away in a conspicuously furtive manner.

  “Good grief,” I muttered.

  “You’re some kind of detective?” Steele asked.

  “Dad wishes,” I said. “He’s a big mystery buff. I wish I was the brilliant amateur sleuth he imagines me.”

  “So you could get the glory of solving Porfiria’s murder,” he said.

  “The hell with the glory,” I said. “I just want the cops to solve this as soon as possible. If I could help them, I would. All this notoriety isn’t good for Michael’s career.”

  “I should think an actor would welcome the publicity. Especially when he’s cleared of any suspicion, as I assume he will be,” Steele added, with a half bow.

  “I’m not sure even an actor benefits from the publicity of being a suspect in a famous homicide,” I said. “But I didn’t mean the acting; I mean his career at the college. In the real world, Michael’s an assistant professor of drama at Caerphilly College. The administration’s already a little dubious about offering tenure to someone who runs around on TV every week in a pointy hat and a black velvet bathrobe. A star turn on Court TV might finish his academic career.”

  If this weekend’s notoriety hadn’t already, I thought, feeling a queasy sensation in my stomach. Or maybe I was just hungry.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. “I could raid the buffet in the green room.”

  “I had breakfast just now, thanks,” he said. “But you go ahead. And if you need to lie down or something, feel free; you had a long night. It’s not like we’re swamped or anything.”

  No, and it wasn’t because there were any particularly exciting panels, either. I poked my head in the main ballroom where a woman was presenting a slide show on Porfirian costumes to a sparse and apathetic crowd.

  I checked my program. Yes, she was one of the twelve unlucky invited guests.

  Then I realized that this wasn’t my program—I’d given that to Detective Foley. It was Eric’s.

  He’d gotten signatures from seven out of the twelve invited guests—including the QB’s, which no one would be able to get from now on. I could use the program as an excuse to talk to the remaining five, several of whom I didn’t actually know. Not that I needed an excuse but this would put them off their guard. And I knew I could find a chance to talk to the rest, no problem. And then—

  Of course, before I started interrogating people, I would need some idea what to ask.

  I shook my head, and continued toward the green room.

  At least I’d solved the mystery of where all the fans had gone. Most of them were milling about in the hallway and the lobby, trading misinformation about the murder and gaping at the news crews that had appeared, overnight, to besiege the hotel. Salome’s keeper loitered with the rest—the lure of staring at the media must be irresistible if he’d leave her so he could do it.

  A blond reporter for one of the local network affiliates was talking earnestly at a camera in front of the main entrance and, out in the parking lot, a petite Asian woman was interviewing several costumed fans. The three red-clad musicians were singing a parody of “Car 54, Where Are You?” in the overly cheerful manner performers use when pretending not to mind the lack of an audience. Near the front desk, where the “Welcome to Amblyopia!” sign marked the entrance to the convention itself, another blond reporter was arguing with three Amazon security guards, while her cameraman stood nearby, holding his equipment at the ready. And, of course, several monkeys hovered overhead, watching intently. They seemed intrigued by any conflict or argument.

  “This is a public place!” the reporter was saying.

  “Not this weekend,” the senior Amazon said. “If you don’t have a ticket for the convention, you can’t come in.”

  “Then I’ll buy a ticket!” the reporter said.

  “Sorry,” the Amazon said, crossing her arms. “We’re sold out.”

  “Sold out!” the reporter exclaimed.

  The other two Amazons crossed their arms, too, as did the monkey perched on the shoulder of the taller one.

  The reporter took a deep breath and was opening her mouth to protest when she suddenly began batting at her head and shrieking. Apparently one of the hovering monkeys had become fascinated with the wire leading to her head and made a grab for it, ripping the earpiece out of her ear and the lavaliere microphone from her lapel.

  The reporter retreated from the lobby, shouting something rather incoherent about lawyers, rabies, and the First Amendment. One of the Amazons tried to retrieve the microphone and earpiece from the monkey, resulting in a lively game of tug of war, while the cameraman had begun filming some nut who’d shinnied up a pillar in the lobby and was doing something to one of the parrots.

  I moved to where I could get a better angle and saw that it was Dad, teetering just below the lobby ceiling, his legs locked around the pillar. With one hand, he was waggling a piece of fruit, trying to catch the parrot’s eye, while the other hand held Michael’s cassette recorder as close to the parrot as possible.

  “I don’t even want to know,” I said.

  Chapter 23

  In the green room, I scanned the occupants covertly while filling a plate with bacon and hash browns. Yes, several suspects were available for questioning, if I could think of anything to ask.


  I scored another autograph for Eric and eliminated one suspect immediately. The mild-mannered elderly actor who played Porfiria’s chief counselor had only just come from the airport, and was all agog to hear about the QB’s death. I was a little worried that I’d get stuck answering his questions, but the bearded professor I’d seen lecturing several times Friday interrupted his monologue about the similarities between the modern TV series and Chaucer and barged into our conversation. After also signing Eric’s program, he began telling Porfiria’s counselor all about the murder with endless details. Though not, I quickly noticed, much accuracy.

  A convention volunteer standing nearby saw the expression on my face and ambled over.

  “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Just wind him up, give him a topic, and he can go on for hours.”

  “Amazing, yes,” I said. “You’d think by now he’d have accidentally gotten one fact right, but so far he’s batting zero.”

  “Well, what do you expect?” the volunteer said. “Last night we decided, for the good of the convention, to take him out for dinner and keep him away as long as possible. So we all drew straws and I was one of the ones who lost. We collected him at four, after his last panel, and we didn’t manage to dump him off again until two in the morning. He missed the whole thing.”

  “So anything he knows about the murder is secondhand.”

  “And probably wrong,” the volunteer grumbled. “Even if someone told him what really happened, there’s no way he’d stop talking long enough to hear it. His mouth doesn’t have an off switch, or even a pause button. God, what a night.”

  “Your valiant service to fandom shall not pass unnoticed,” I said. “For that matter, the police might be mildly grateful that at least you’ve given one possible suspect a good alibi.”

  “We could be persuaded to frame him, if you’d like,” the volunteer said. “We could suddenly recall that he made a very long trip to the bathroom, and came back covered with blood, complaining about a broken paper towel dispenser.”

  “Sounds suspicious,” I said. I couldn’t decide whether or not to laugh—I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.