Cockatiels at Seven
Page 1
Praise For Donna Andrews
And Her Meg Langslow Mysteries
COCKATIELS AT SEVEN
“Suspense, laughter and a whole passel of good clean fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“More fun than seven cocktails—and a lot safer, too.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“The plot, in true ‘You Can’t Take It With You’ fashion, involves plenty of snakes, as well as the titular cockatiels and assorted exotic birds. The author has a fine sense of pacing and a droll . . . sense of humor. This is character-driven fiction, and Andrews maintains the action within the confines and sensibilities of her town-and-gown setting.”
—The State (Columbia, SC)
THE PENGUIN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
“Deliciously daffy.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Andrews always leavens the mayhem with laughs. So march yourself down to the bookstore or library and check out The Penguin Who Knew Too Much.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Andrews’ eighth Meg-centric mystery moves along like the best beach reads.”
—Entertainment Weekly
MORE. . .
“The level-headed, unflappable Meg takes it all in stride . . . This eighth cozy in the series makes the most of humorous situations, zany relatives, and lovable characters.”
—Booklist
NO NEST FOR THE WICKET
“Fun, lively, charming.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Andrews strikes just the right balance between comedy and suspense to keep the reader laughing and on the edge of one’s seat . . . Fans of this series will no doubt enjoy this installment, while new readers . . . will be headed to the bookstore for the earlier books.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)
“Any day when I start reading about Meg is cause for delight. Ending the book makes me yearn for more than one per year. Hint.”
—Deadly Pleasures
“As usual, Andrews is a reliable source for those who like their murder with plenty of mayhem.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Andrews’s talent for the lovably loony makes this series a winner; to miss it would be a cardinal sin.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
OWLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL
“A loony, utterly delightful affair.”
—Booklist
“It’s a hoot . . . a supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Death by yard sale epitomizes the ‘everyday people’ humor that Andrews does so well . . . for readers who prefer their mysteries light . . . Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story . . . . This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader, and enjoy another visit to Meg’s anything-but-ordinary world.”
—Romantic Times (starred review)
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARROTS
“Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us We’ll Always Have Parrots . . . to help us survive February.”
—Washington Times
“Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews’ gift for deadpan comedy.”
—Denver Post
“Always heavy on the humor, Andrews’ most recent Meg Langslow outing is her most over-the-top adventure to date.”
—Booklist
“I can’t say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it.”
—Deadly Pleasures
“Hilarious . . . another winner . . . keeps you turning pages.”
—Mystery Lovers News
CROUCHING BUZZARD, LEAPING LOON
“If you long for more ‘fun’ mysteries, à la Janet Evanovich, you’ll love Donna Andrews’s Meg Langslow series.”
—Charlotte Observer
“There’s a smile on every page and at least one chuckle per chapter.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This may be the funniest installment of Andrews’ wonderfully wacky series yet. It takes a deft hand to make slapstick or physical comedy appealing, yet Andrews masterfully manages it (the climax will have you in stitches.)”
—Romantic Times
REVENGE OF THE WROUGHT-IRON FLAMINGOS
“At the top of the list . . . a fearless protagonist, remarkable supporting characters, lively action and a keen wit.”
—Library Journal
“What a light-hearted gem of a juggling act . . . with her trademark witty dialogue and fine sense of the ridiculous, Andrews keeps all her balls in the air with skill and verve.”
—Publishers Weekly
MURDER WITH PUFFINS
“Muddy trails, old secrets, and plenty of homespun humor.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“The well-realized island atmosphere, the puffi n lore, and the ubiquitous birders only add to the fun.”
—Denver Post
MURDER WITH PEACOCKS
“The first novel is so clever, funny, and original that lots of wannabe authors will throw up their hands in envy and get jobs in a coffee shop.”
—Contra Costa Times
“Loquacious dialogue, persistent humor . . . a fun, breezy read.”
—Library Journal
“Half Jane Austen, half battery acid . . . will leave you helpless with heartless laughter . . . Andrews combines murder and madcap hilarity with a cast of eccentric oddballs in a small Southern town.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Andrews’s debut provides plenty of laughs for readers who like their mysteries on the cozy side.”
—Publishers Weekly
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
DONNA ANDREWS
Cockatiels at Seven
The Penguin Who Knew Too Much
No Nest for the Wicket
Owls Well That Ends Well
We’ll Always Have Parrots
Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon
Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos
Murder with Puffins
Murder with Peacocks
Cockatiels
at Seven
Donna Andrews
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
COCKATIELS AT SEVEN
Copyright © 2008 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from Swan for the Money copyright © 2009 by Donna Andrews.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2008013626
ISBN: 0-312-37716-9
EAN: 978-0-312-37716-8
Printed in the United States of America
Minotaur hardcover edition / July 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Acknowledgments
Authors are apt to compare their books to children—and like children, books oft
en require a small village’s worth of people to bring them into existence. I’d like to thank . . .
All the folks at St. Martin’s Minotaur, who publish the book to begin with, and then work diligently to get it into readers’ hands. I owe a debt of gratitude to Andrew Martin, Pete Wolverton, Hector DeJean, Lauren Manzella, Toni Plummer, and especially my editor, Ruth Cavin, who plucked Meg’s first adventure out of the entries to that year’s Malice Domestic/St. Martin’s Press Best First Traditional Mystery contest and said “Yes!”
My agent, Ellen Geiger, and the staff of the Frances Goldin Literary Agency, who take care of the business side of things so I can focus on the writing; to the staff at Curtis-Brown, especially Dave Barbor, who helps make Meg international.
My name twin, Donna Andrews of Maryland, who graciously offered to help with the proofing.
My writing group, the Rector Lane Irregulars, for many evenings of critique, cheerleading, and friendship: Carla Coupe, Ellen Crosby, Laura Durham, Peggy Hanson, Val Patterson, Noreen Wald, and Sandi Wilson. And the other friends who read drafts, listen to me brainstorm, and generally provide moral support: Kathy Deligianis, Suzanne Frisbee, David Niemi, Dina Willner, and all the Teabuds.
The friends who let me borrow their canine friends: Barb Goffman for Scout, Suzanne Frisbee for Paris and Julie, and Tracey Young and Bill Sommers for the inimitable Spike.
My family, for being not nearly as much like Meg’s family as most people think. And especially my nephews, Aidan Jay Andrews and Liam Stuart Andrews, who helped inspire Timmy and even let me borrow Kiki.
One
“Meg, are you busy?” Dad asked.
I didn’t turn around. The iron rod heating in my forge was approaching white hot, which meant it was the perfect temperature for working. So instead of answering, I gripped the rod with my tongs, pulled it out, slapped it onto the anvil with a satisfying clang, and began hammering one end into a point. Okay, I confess, I showboated a bit, just to emphasize how very busy I was. I worked faster than I normally would, with just a little flourish as I turned the rod, left, right, left, right, over and over, shaping the point. Then I moved an inch and a half back and began shaping and narrowing another area.
When I’d done as much as I could without heating the metal again, I plunged the rod abruptly into the water bucket, sending up a cloud of faintly acrid steam. I closed my eyes as I breathed in the familiar, strangely soothing odor. Or maybe it wasn’t the odor I found soothing. When you’re feeling annoyed, whacking things with a two-pound hammer works infinitely better than counting to ten.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m busy.” I turned to see both Dad and Dr. Blake standing in the doorway of the barn where I’d set up my smithy. Technically, I was allowed to call Dr. Blake “Grandpa” now that the DNA tests had proved he was Dad’s long-lost father, but that would take some getting used to, so for the moment I went to great lengths not to call him anything at all.
I pulled the iron rod out of the bucket, held it up and sighted along the shaft. The end I’d been working on had now taken on a shape like a rough spear point. I smiled at the smooth, flat surfaces, with just enough faint dimpling to prove that they had been hammered on a forge rather than poured in some factory. Nice work, if I did say so myself. And a good start on having a productive Monday morning.
“That’s not finished, is it?” Dr. Blake asked.
My mellow mood evaporated.
“No, of course not,” I said.
“What is it?” he asked. “Some kind of primitive boar spear?”
“A towel rod. This is only step one of a five-or six-step process. When it’s finished, it will look like this.”
I strode over to the section of the barn where I stored completed work and picked up a towel rod made of a single iron bar hammered into a graceful curve with a curling leaf on each end.
“The part that looks like a spear point is what I’m going to turn into the leaf on this end,” I said.
“Oh, I understand,” Blake said, in a falsely hearty tone that suggested he didn’t understand at all.
“She sold a pair of those to the governor!” Dad said.
“Lieutenant governor, actually,” I said. “And it was his wife doing the shopping.”
“Nice,” Blake said. I suppressed a sigh. I could tell he was trying, but since my work had nothing to do with zoology or the preservation of endangered species, his own particular obsessions, he was having a hard time.
“Still,” Blake went on. “Think of all the time you could save if you could find a way to automate some of those steps. You could make ten times as many iron doodads in the same time. And more cheaply, I expect.”
“That’s not the point,” I said. “It’s handmade. It’s not like every cookie-cutter towel bar you can buy down at the hardware store. Every one is unique.”
“Unique, handmade—I suppose they’re nice, but look how labor-intensive this is.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s labor-intensive. Like taking care of the animals down at your zoo. Think of all the time you could save if you just freeze-dried and stuffed them all. No need for feedings several times a day, cleaning the cages, hauling them to and from the vet—just dust them off every few weeks. You could probably take care of ten times as many animals with the same staff. And more cheaply.”
“That’s not the point,” Blake said.
“So you’re busy, then?” Dad asked—probably to change the subject and keep the peace. Blake was frowning at me. Did he disapprove of my sarcasm? Surely he didn’t think I was serious about taxidermying the zoo’s inhabitants?
“Very busy,” I said. “The cupboard is nearly bare.” I swept my arm in a dramatic half circle to indicate how very large the storage end of the barn was, and then fixed my gaze on the pitifully small pile of finished metalwork in one corner.
“Oh, dear,” Dad said, shaking his head in sympathy.
“And I’m scheduled to do that really big craft show over the Labor Day weekend,” I said. “Only three weeks away. What with all the distractions I’ve had this summer, I haven’t had nearly as much time to work as I thought I would.”
“Hmph!” Blake snorted. “Does young Michael know you consider your wedding and honeymoon distractions?”
I ignored him.
“We won’t bother you, then,” Dad said. “But can we use your shed?”
“Which one?” I asked. “And for what?” The three-acre property Michael and I had bought contained not only an enormous Victorian house and a two-story barn but also a bumper crop of small sheds and outbuildings in various states of disintegration.
“Any one you’re not using,” Dad said. “Don’t you want us to tell you about our project?”
He sounded eager. I suspected the tale would be an interminable one.
“Later,” I said. “Pick a shed as far from the house as possible.” If both Dad and Dr. Blake were involved, they almost certainly wanted the shed for some project related to birds or animals from the small local zoo that Blake had recently bought. “Downwind, if that’s likely to be a problem. And I’m not doing any midnight feedings.”
“Oh, of course not,” Dad said. “Thanks!”
Blake nodded his thanks and dashed off without speaking. Dad lingered.
“Something else?” I asked.
“He doesn’t mean to be insulting,” Dad said.
“No, but he manages it quite brilliantly.”
“It would help if you’d show an interest in some of his projects,” Dad said.
“There’s a difference between showing an interest and letting him take over my life,” I said. “Like those orphaned wolverine cubs he tried to foist off on me.”
“Wolverines are really quite sweet at that age.”
“And require feeding every hour with an eyedropper,” I said. “No thanks. I’m letting you use one of the sheds—try to convince him that’s a sign of profound interest in whatever you two are doing.”
Dad shook his head and followed Dr
. Blake.
I picked up the iron rod and stuck it back in the forge.
It had barely begun to redden when my brother Rob ambled into the forge holding a leash.
“Hey, Meg,” he said. “Mind if I borrow Spike?”
“I don’t mind if you take him off our hands permanently,” I said. Technically Spike, an eight-and-a-half-pound furball with delusions of Rottweilerhood, belonged to my mother-in-law, but Michael and I had had custody ever since her allergist recommended a trial separation. We’d grown used to having him around, but I still cherished the forlorn hope that someone else would grow profoundly attached to Spike and insist on adopting him. So far, Rob was the only possible candidate, and Rob wasn’t responsible enough to be trusted with a pet rock.
“No, I just want him for the afternoon.” Rob strolled over to the indoor pen where Spike usually snoozed while I worked, and climbed over the fence.
“Just don’t let anything happen to him or Michael’s mother will kill you,” I said, turning back to my forge.
“No problem.” I heard the small scuffle as he cornered Spike and a muffled ouch as he failed to avoid getting bitten. I was pulling the hot iron rod out by the time he led Spike through the gate. He stopped to watch.
I didn’t rush it this time, because I was performing the slightly more complicated job of spreading the point at the end of the rod and working it into a rough leaf shape. Sometimes it took me two heatings to finish the transformation, but I was in good form today. I finished the leaf, plunged it into the water bucket, and drew it out to examine.
“That’s so cool,” Rob said.
“Thanks,” I said. I sloshed a dipper full of water over the rod, to cool the parts that had been above the water line. My good mood was returning.
“I could never do that in a million years. I think you’re so lucky to have a creative outlet.”
I frowned slightly. Rob didn’t usually lay it on this thick unless he had an ulterior motive.
“Something else you wanted?” I asked.
“No—what do you mean?”