To Kill a Hummingbird

by J. R. Ripley

  His wife nodded her agreement. “You don’t see a lot of holiday campers pulling up to a campsite in a giant red birdhouse.”

  “Maybe he’s asleep.” I tried the door. It was unlocked. “Mason?” The interior was cramped and filled with shadows. Only a bit of light spilled through the curtained windows. A single bed was pressed up toward the front end of the trailer nearest the pickup truck.

  I gasped and felt a sudden chill.

  Mason Livingston lay sprawled out on his tiny mattress.

  I hurried to the bed. He was in the same clothes he’d worn when I’d met with him earlier in the day, though his tie hung loose around his neck. “Mason?” I touched my hand to his chest and felt a heartbeat.

  Mason stirred, sluggish as a honeybee on a cold spring morning. “What?”

  I smelled alcohol on his breath. “Mason!” I gasped. “Are you all right?”

  He sat up, looking groggy and pale. “Yes. Amy?” His eyes flitted around the cramped space. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to get you. It’s time for your lecture. Everybody’s waiting.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mason dropped his feet over the side of the bed. “I am so sorry. I must have dozed off.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I drove all the way from Nashville today.”

  “Here,” I said, handing the professor a glass of water from a tiny table beside the bed. “Of course, you’re tired. Drink this, get freshened up, and we’ll walk over to the biergarten together.”

  Mason nodded and lurched to his feet. He pulled open the narrow door to a tiny bathroom and disappeared inside. Minutes later, he came out looking somewhat refreshed and semi-alert.

  I hadn’t made up my mind whether he was sober. A bottle of tequila lay on the floor within reach of the bed. It was three-quarters empty.

  “You know,” I chuckled as I led him back through the marina and over to Brewer’s, “I don’t mind telling you that you gave me quite a scare back there.”

  “How’s that?” inquired Mason, adjusting his tie.

  “When you didn’t answer your door for me or Lance—”

  “Lance?”

  “Lance Jennings. He’s a local reporter.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Jennings.”

  “You know him?”

  Mason’s lips curled. “Let’s say we’ve had some communications.”

  That was an odd remark and an even odder look on his face, but I didn’t pursue the matter. “I saw Lance outside your door . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Then I saw you sprawled out on the bed, and I—” I hesitated.

  “You what?” We stood at the edge of Lake Shore Drive, waiting for traffic to clear before crossing.

  “You’ll think it’s silly.”

  “Tell me, Amy. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  I nodded as we stepped into the street. “I thought you were dead.”

  Mason threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Amy. You always did have quite the imagination!”

  I waved to my mother and Esther, sitting in a pair of rocking chairs on our front porch. “That’s my mother,” I explained to Mason as we passed. “I’ll introduce you to her later. She’s dying to meet you.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” replied Mason. We entered Brewer’s Biergarten and joined the group in the courtyard. I introduced the professor to Derek and Paul. “Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” said Mason.

  “Likewise,” said Paul. He wore jeans and a crisp black T-shirt with his business’s logo discreetly placed on its left sleeve. “Try the lager. I brewed it specially for the event.”

  Mason accepted his glass and sipped. “This stuff tastes like cat urine.” He spat and set it down quickly on the table, then drank from the first glass of water he could find.

  Paul forced a smile and shoved his hand through his wavy brown hair. “Isn’t this going to be fun,” he mumbled to Derek.

  Derek patted him on the shoulder and came to take his seat beside me. Unfortunately, Mason had taken his spot. Derek was forced to sit at the end of the table, and he shot me a bemused look.

  Rose Smith, owner of Bookarama on the town square, was among those in attendance. She approached our table the minute we sat down. “Good evening, Professor Livingston.” She held out a hardcover copy of his latest tome, Hummingbirds and Their Habits. “I’m Rose Smith, from the bookstore?” She seemed nervous and hesitant to speak. “I got your email and brought the book for you. You said you wanted a copy for tonight.”

  Mason took the book with a smile. “Thank you so much.”

  “Good evening, Rose,” I said. I introduced her to Paul and Derek. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Mitch Quiles at the farthest table and shot him a wink.

  “We’ve already met.” Derek shook her hand. “I’m a frequent visitor to your bookstore.”

  “Yes, you do look familiar.”

  Derek looked around. “Where’s your lovely daughter, Amber?”

  “She’s working tonight. Plus, she’s busy making last-minute arrangements for Professor Livingston’s book signing. There’s so much to do.” She turned to Mason. “It’s going to be wonderful, I’m sure. I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to come to my humble little store and speak to us.” She smiled at me. “We expect quite the turnout. You are coming, aren’t you, Amy? Both of you?” She was looking at Derek.

  “Of course, we will,” I said for both of us.

  “And you, Mister Anderson?” she asked hopefully.

  Paul’s lip curled. I had a feeling he was still smarting from the professor’s cat urine comment. “Maybe.”

  “Wonderful,” said Rose. She was a small, fiftyish brunette with a pageboy haircut and green eyes. I remembered seeing her daughter a time or two at the bookstore, a lovely young blonde in her twenties. “And don’t worry,” she told Mason. “I got everything on your list that you requested. The wine, the cheese, the special signing pen.”

  He patted her arm solicitously. “Splendid.” He turned to me. “Shall we get started, Amy?”

  “Just a minute.” Lance Jennings pushed his way between us as Rose slunk away to a table at the far end of the courtyard.

  “Lance,” I said, startled. “We’re about to begin.”

  “Lance Jennings. Ruby Lake Weekender.” He stuck out his hand and offered a business card, but Mason ignored it or didn’t see it. “I was wondering if you might have time for an interview afterward.”

  I looked at the professor. I knew how tired he was. “I’m not sure tonight is a good idea, Lance. Maybe tomorrow?” I looked from the professor to Lance and moved to get Lance away.

  “Hold it!” called a voice at the edge of the courtyard. We all turned. A woman stood on the sidewalk, looking in over the brick pony wall that separated the sidewalk from the courtyard.

  “Now what?” I muttered. The woman wore tight blue jeans and a white shirt. She lifted her leg and deftly climbed over the wall. She waved impatiently for a pimply faced kid, who looked like he’d just barely finished high school, to follow. He hesitated, struggling to balance the ungainly camera on his shoulder, then did as she ordered.

  She hurried over, oblivious to the stares of our Birds and Brews gathering. “Violet Wilcox,” she declared. “AM Ruby. How about a quick interview for our listeners, doc?”

  Mason looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

  “Listeners,” sneered Lance. “What listeners?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, putting myself between her and Mason. “Who are you exactly?”

  She looked at me like I was a total fool. Her platinum blond hair, milky complexion, and hour-glass figure had clearly caught Paul Anderson’s attention.

  “Your friend, Mason, appears to be as popular as a rock star.” Derek leaned toward me. “Should I be jealous of this guy?”

  “Never,” I assured him. I turned to Ms. Wilcox. “I’m sorry, but both you and Lance will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t we film your talk now, doc?�
�� Violet Wilcox ignored me and focused on Mason.

  “I really don’t know—” The professor was holding his book up against his chest as a shield.

  “What do you need film for, for crying out loud?” Lance cast a disparaging look at the hapless cameraman. “You run a radio station.”

  The blonde turned on Lance. “For your information—”

  Paul took action. I wasn’t sure if it was for Mason Livingston’s benefit or his own. “Listen, Violet, isn’t it?” He laid a hundred-watt smile on her. “I’m Paul Anderson, owner of Brewer’s Biergarten.” He left out the part about being one of two owners of the business, the other being my lousy ex-boyfriend, Craig Bigelow. “Professor Livingston is rather busy at the moment. How about if I buy you a drink?”

  She hesitated.

  “Have you ever had a behind-the-scenes look at a brew pub?”

  “No, I haven’t.” She blinked. Apparently he was having some sort of effect on her.

  “Great.” He laid a hand on the small of her back and led her away. “Then you’re in for a treat. I’ll bet your listeners,” he glanced at the kid with the camera, “or viewers would love to learn more.”

  She nodded and waved for her pimply faced assistant with the camera to follow. That was the last we saw of them that night.

  4

  On the morning of the professor’s book signing, Mom and I were enjoying breakfast at Ruby’s Diner across the street from Birds & Bees when Paul Anderson showed up. He was heading for a stool at the bar but came to our table at the window when he spotted us sitting with the sun in our faces.

  I hadn’t been in Ruby’s much lately. The diner’s owner and I had had a bit of a falling out, but our relationship seemed to be on the mend. At least she was allowing me in the diner.

  I had missed the diner’s onion rings almost as much as I’d missed my rapport with its owner.

  “Good morning, Paul,” Mom said, ever cheerful. “Join us.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Morning, Amy.”

  “Good morning, Paul.” I raised my brow. “We missed you last night. You and Miss Centerfold have a nice time?” He and the woman from the radio station had disappeared, and Paul had never reappeared to talk to our group about the beer like he was supposed to. Fortunately, Mason liked to talk and was an accomplished speaker. He’d held most everyone’s rapt attention.

  “Who?” asked Mom, lowering her coffee mug.

  Paul chuckled. “Violet Wilcox. What’s wrong, Amy? Jealous?”

  I pulled a face. “You wish.” Nonetheless, I dug into my stack of buckwheat pancakes with renewed interest. “We are supposed to be hosting Birds and Brews jointly. The whole thing was your idea, as I recall.” I cast a critical eye his way.

  He couldn’t stop beaming. The waitress came and took his order of ham and eggs and coffee. “What can I say? I’m a popular guy. I couldn’t get away. Besides, I was trying to keep her from interfering in Livingston’s talk.” He dumped too much sugar and too much cream into his coffee. “How did it go?”

  “Great,” I answered. “Though, truthfully, I thought a number of people looked a bit out of sorts or put off by the lecture. Maybe it was just one of those nights.” Mr. Quiles, for one, had barely said a word the entire evening. I ran a forkful of pancake through a puddle of syrup. “Rose Smith certainly seemed enraptured. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him.”

  “Yeah, after everybody left, I saw her hanging around inside with your pal, Mason, sharing a couple of bottled beers.”

  I could tell that Mason’s remark about his in-house brew still stung. “Interesting. Could romance be budding for Rose?”

  “Oh, Amy,” Mom groaned.

  “Where is the professor, anyway?” Paul looked across the diner and waved for more coffee.

  “Beats me,” I answered. “He was supposed to be here.” We had made plans to meet that morning for breakfast. “He knew Mom was coming and wanted to meet him.”

  “You always spoke so highly of your old college professor,” Mom said, folding her napkin and tucking it under her plate. “I suppose I will have to wait until the signing tonight.” Mom had said she was going to come and buy a copy of his book, not that she was as into birds as I was.

  “What time did Mason leave the biergarten?” Remembering how tired he had looked yesterday afternoon and how long he had been on the road with the book tour, I expected he was tucked inside his trailer, fast asleep.

  Paul rubbed his chin. “I’d say about ten thirty. Violet left right after that. I didn’t even get her phone number.”

  “You mean the two of you didn’t do the horizontal tango?” I teased.

  “Amy!” said my mother.

  “Sorry, Mom.” I grabbed my wallet from my purse and placed some cash atop the bill.

  “For your information, Ms. Wilcox was still antsy to get an interview with Livingston. The woman never gives up. I think she just wants to scoop Lance and the paper.”

  “From what I’ve seen of her so far, that sounds about right.” I described Ms. Wilcox to Mom and explained how she worked for a local AM radio station.

  “How on earth did this Ms. Wilcox expect to find Professor Livingston so late at night? Didn’t you say he was staying at the campground, Amy?”

  “Are you kidding?” Paul replied. “How can you miss him?” He reached across the plate and helped himself to a slice of my toast. I wasn’t going to eat it anyway—not that he’d asked. “Everybody’s talking about that crazy red birdhouse he came rolling into town with behind his pickup truck.”

  “True,” said Mom, having seen the tiny trailer house with her own eyes.

  “This from a man who spent his first days in town living out of a dilapidated camper parked outside my store.”

  “I remember it fondly,” said Paul as he dug into his eggs the minute the waitress set his plate down.

  “I don’t. I guess you’ll have to wait until the book signing to meet Mason, unless he stops in the store before that, Mom.”

  But he didn’t.

  * * *

  Derek picked Mom and me up a half hour before the book signing and drove us down to Bookarama. What with it being the middle of the tourist season and the evening of a special event at the bookstore, he’d had to park a block away in the public lot.

  Rose and her daughter, Amber, stood just inside the door, greeting customers as they filed in. Rose wore a red-and-yellow flower print dress, while Amber had opted for jeans and a long-sleeve black sweater.

  I had tried calling Rose earlier in the day but had gotten her store’s answering machine. I’d wanted to find out if she had been in touch with Mason. I hadn’t heard a peep from him all day, and that had been concerning. The last thing I wanted was for him to miss his own signing, not only for his sake but for Rose’s and the Bookarama’s.

  It was with relief that I waved to the professor, seated alone at a six-foot-long table set up at the back of the store. Row after row of beige folding chairs had been placed in front of him, and nearly every seat was filled.

  “Hi, Amy, Derek. And Barbara.” Rose hugged my mother. “So glad you could make it. How are you?” Everybody in town knew about Mom’s MD. Mom said she was doing fine. Rose pushed a hand through her hair. “I’m so glad to hear it.”

  “Congratulations, Rose,” I said, meaning it. “It’s quite a coup to get a well-known expert like Professor Livingston to do a signing at your store.”

  Rose giggled. “I don’t know about that. If you ask me, he came more because of your relationship with him.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” I replied. “He’s lucky to have devoted independent bookstore owners like yourself to promote his books.”

  “Thanks, Amy.” Rose stepped aside as three more people, including one with a guide dog, came through the door. She looked harried. “Amber, would you please show Amy, Derek, and Barbara where the refreshments are?”

  Amber agreed.

  “You two go ahead,” I said. “I want to say hel
lo to the professor and give him these.” I waved the box of chocolates I’d been meaning to give him.

  Derek left with my mother, and I walked over to Mason, who was chatting with an older woman who appeared to be bending his ear with a story about the birds she had seen on her adventures in Africa.

  An ordinary-looking woman I judged to be in her late forties stood behind Mason. She wore a simple cream-colored blouse and a long, pleated brown skirt with low heels. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pushed back behind her ears, held in place by a pair of thick glasses.

  “Good evening, Mason. Am I interrupting?”

  “Certainly not.” The professor stood as I handed him the chocolates. “What’s this?”

  “I know what a sweet tooth you have, so I brought you a little something from one of the local chocolatiers, Otelia Newsome. You met her last night at Brewer’s.”

  I looked around the crowded store for her face so I could introduce her formally but saw no sign of her. “I don’t see her, but I know she’ll be here. She promised she would. Don’t let that stop you from enjoying the chocolates in the meantime.”

  Mason beamed. “I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.” He set the box at the edge of the table, rubbed his hands together, then looked at his watch. “I believe it is nearly time to get started.” He touched the spacebar of the silver laptop at his side. A white display screen had been set up behind him and to his right.

  “I’ve prepared a presentation. Nothing tells a story like a picture.” A bottle of wine and a cheese-and-cracker tray rested beside the computer. The cheese and crackers looked untouched, but the bottle of wine was nearly empty. That probably explained his reddish eyes and nose. Kim wasn’t the only one to notice that the professor liked to drink a little more than I had remembered.

  Mason turned to a woman hovering behind him. “Amy, I’d like you to meet Cara Siskin.”

  Cara smiled briefly and shook my hand. Her cheeks were flush. “My pleasure.” Green eye shadow accentuated her emerald eyes.

  “Ms. Siskin works in my publisher’s publicity department.” He winked at me. “She keeps me in line.”

  “I try to.” Cara rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Speaking of which, we should be getting started. Your fans are waiting.”