To Kill a Hummingbird

by J. R. Ripley

  “It’s me, Amy!” I called through the glass. “How are you? Can we talk?”

  She glanced upward, then motioned for me to go around to the rear.

  I hurried around, cutting through the alley between the barber shop and the hardware store. Amber came out the service entrance of Bookarama lugging the trash.

  “Hello, Amy. I’ll just be a minute.” She dragged the black bag to the dumpster and tossed it inside.

  I waited for her in the shade cast by the awning over the rear entrance.

  “Is everything okay?” Amber wiped her hands against her blue jeans.

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you. We haven’t spoken since the morning you came by the apartment.” I glanced at the upstairs windows. “How are you and your mother holding up?”

  “Fine.” Amber smiled wanly. “Considering.”

  “Can we talk inside for a minute, Amber?”

  I could sense her hesitation. She twisted a silver ring on her finger round and round before saying, “I-I suppose. Mama’s resting though. Come on in, but we’ll have to be quiet.”

  I followed the young woman inside. The space was cold and filled with books. I’d never been in the back of the bookstore before. “Wow. You’ve got quite an inventory.”

  “Most of these are used. We buy and sell. Mom tends to get carried away,” explained Amber. “I’m not sure we’ll ever sell half of these. People come in selling, and Mama doesn’t have the heart to say no. You’d be surprised what poor shape some of the books are in when she accepts them.”

  “Actually, I remember seeing a pile of paperbacks by the front door the other day. All their covers had been torn off.”

  Amber grinned. “See what I mean?” She took a seat on a small, threadbare stool near a bookshelf and offered me a wobbly office chair that was missing one of its arms.

  “Amber, did you egg Mason’s trailer?”

  The young woman’s lower lip trembled. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She was silent a moment, playing with her ring. “Because I saw him before the signing. He was back here with Mama. He was trying to kiss her.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “I thought it was disgusting.” She looked into my eyes. “It turns out I was wrong about the whole thing. Mom told me later that she liked him.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “I saw Mason and Rose together at Brewer’s. They did seem to be getting along rather nicely.”

  “I felt so stupid. It’s been a long time since Mama’s had somebody in her life. I overreacted. But I didn’t kill him.”

  Tears had begun to fall. “I mean,” she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, “I know it was stupid, egging his trailer and all.” She took a deep breath. “But I felt I had to do something.”

  I smiled. “Did you tell Chief Kennedy that?”

  “Yeah. He thinks I killed Professor Livingston.”

  “Well, I don’t.” I clasped my hands on my knees. “And I don’t think your mother did either.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “I know. She was talking to a friend of mine at the time. Why do you think said she killed him?”

  Amber smiled sadly. “She told me she thought I did it.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “When she came down and found him dead, she jumped to conclusions. She couldn’t imagine who else might have done it. I mean, we are the only people living here.”

  “But there were dozens of others here that night,” I replied. “Do you think I could talk to her?”

  “Mama? I don’t think now is a good time. I don’t want to disturb her. She’s been having trouble sleeping.”

  I nodded commiseratively. “I can imagine. Perhaps another time.”

  “I’ll ask her. I promise.” She rose and pulled a paper cone from a steel sleeve attached to the side of a five-gallon water cooler, filled it from the jug, then drank.

  “You know, with all these shelves and nooks and crannies, it wouldn’t be hard for a person to hide in the store.”

  Amber turned her head slowly, looking thoughtful. “I guess so.”

  “Who else was here in the bookstore that night who might have had the opportunity to kill him?”

  Amber shook her head in frustration. “You were here, Amy. And after what you just said, I think just about anybody could have murdered the professor.”

  “You didn’t notice anyone in particular hanging around, waiting for Mason maybe?”

  “No. I left as soon as the signing was over.”

  “That’s right, you went to the lake.”

  “Yeah.”

  I rose. I didn’t want to intrude on Amber any longer than necessary. “Derek told me your mother has hired a lawyer.”

  Amber nodded. “Mama said it was for our own protection.” She wrung her hands. “I do hope this is all over soon.”

  “I hope so, too. If there’s anything you can think of that will help Chief Kennedy solve the case, you shouldn’t hesitate to tell him. Trust me, he wants the real killer as much as we all do.”

  “I will.”

  I walked to the back door. “Will you be opening Bookarama back up soon?”

  “I hope so. Business is so-so at best, and this should be the busiest time of year for us. I’m hoping Mama agrees to open back up.”

  “What’s stopping her? The police?”

  “No, they’ve said they’re done here. No, Mama doesn’t want nosy reporters and lookie-loos poking around.”

  “I don’t blame her. I’ve been getting a few of those myself.”

  Amber shook herself. “I think they’re morbid.”

  “I agree. Please tell your mother I said hello and give her my wishes.”

  Amber opened the door. “I will.”

  I tapped the door handle. “And you should keep this door locked during the day. There’s been a string of break-ins.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard.” She fingered the lock. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  I stepped out into the sun.

  “You know,” Amber said, “speaking of reporters before . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I saw Ms. Wilcox arguing with Mister Duvall and the professor’s publicist yesterday. I don’t remember her name.”

  “Cara Siskin.”

  “That was her name.” She grinned at the memory. “She was really badgering them.”

  “You mean Ms. Wilcox was badgering Mister Duvall and Ms. Siskin?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Outside the professor’s trailer.”

  “When were you there?”

  She dropped her eyes to the ground. “I felt sort of bad about what I did to the professor’s birdhouse. I was thinking of maybe trying to clean it up.” She shrugged. “Not that I suppose it matters now that he’s dead.”

  “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

  “No. I rode my bike over to the campground and held back when I saw them standing beside the professor’s trailer. I don’t think they saw me, and I was too far away to hear anything.” She twirled a finger through her hair. “Why? Do you think it’s important?”

  “At this point, with a murderer loose in Ruby Lake, I’d say everything is important.”

  Amber tilted her head. “I think I hear Mama coming down. I should get inside.”

  Amber closed the door behind me, and I heard the sound of the lock being set. Smart girl.

  I gave it a minute, then made a beeline for the dumpster.

  19

  While dumpster diving wasn’t my favorite sport, I’d make an exception in this case. I knew I was grasping at straws, but I had an itch and I needed to scratch it.

  I wanted to know what was in that bulging bag of trash that Amber had just tossed. I believed she and her mother were innocent. “But just in case,” I mumbled before taking a look around to make sure the coast was clear and somebody didn’t see me jump in the dumpster.

 
I held my breath and climbed up and in. The commercial-sized trash bin was piled high with various bags and loose odds and ends of assorted refuse.

  And it all reeked to high heaven.

  Fortunately, if there was a fortunate side to standing knee-deep in a smelly dumpster, I had no trouble finding Amber’s recently deposited trash bag. I ripped off the tie and pulled open the top, wishing I’d brought gloves.

  Dirty paper towels, paper plates, an assortment of mail and catalogs, scraps of lettuce, broccoli, and chicken bones. And that was just the stuff I could recognize.

  Half-gagging I hauled myself out of the dumpster and brushed myself off as best I could. My little dumpster dive had been a waste of time. I’d come up empty-handed.

  And I was glad I had. Nothing I’d found inside could in any possible way have implicated them in Mason’s murder.

  If they were innocent, there was a cold-blooded killer loose. The question I had to answer was who.

  * * *

  I still had plenty of time before I had to go home and get ready for my date with Derek. I decided to spend it doing something I’d been meaning to do ever since the murder, or at least since the name Violet Wilcox kept popping up—and that was pay a visit to her.

  The radio station was located well out of town. It had been around since the fifties, though it had been idle probably more often than it had been active. Operating an independent AM station in the Town of Ruby Lake had rarely been profitable.

  I popped in the soundtrack to Man of La Mancha as I drove. As much as I loved the musical, the film version with Peter O’Toole and Sophia Loren was my favorite. Maybe I’d talk to Ms. Wilcox about airing a Broadway show tunes program. She’d have at least one listener in town.

  As “Little Bird, Little Bird” played through the speakers, I eased on the brakes when a white flatbed truck pulled out in front of me and onto the state highway from behind a stand of thick bushes. It was a Duvall’s Flower Farm vehicle, and Frank Duvall was at the wheel.

  I waved as he passed but he ignored me or didn’t recognize me. Cara Siskin was in the passenger seat beside him.

  It was a small world and seemed to be getting smaller by the day.

  The big billboard at the side of the road read: AM Ruby. I lifted my foot from the gas pedal. There was little traffic on this stretch of highway, so I stopped for a moment before turning in.

  A squat cinder block building painted yellow sat just off the road. The wide gravel-and-dirt parking lot held a black van with some electronic gizmos sticking from its roof and the name AM RUBY emblazoned on its side in bright red and yellow. The van had Texas plates and was even more dilapidated than my own van.

  Tall radio towers stood beside the building, and a large satellite TV dish was perched atop the building’s flat roof. Pine trees surrounded the building on three sides.

  I pulled up to the front door and climbed out. I pushed the buzzer at the windowless door. A monitor hanging under the eave sparked to life, and Violet Wilcox’s face appeared. “Hi, this is Violet.”

  “Hi, Violet. I don’t know if you remember me, Amy Simms? From Birds and Bees?”

  “I’m on the air right now. Please call the station and leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, but this will only take a minute.”

  “Sorry,” Violet waved. “Gotta go!”

  The screen went blank. I considered pressing the buzzer again but didn’t want to get her mad at me. She’d never speak with me then.

  I heard a loud noise behind me and turned. Violet Wilcox, dressed in blue jeans and a black AM Ruby V-neck shirt, had thrown open the side door of the van and was climbing out. I glanced at the monitor, then back at her.

  She had her hands full and didn’t notice me for a second. “Oh, it’s you,” she exclaimed, finally laying eyes on me as she set down her box of well-coiled cables. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping to have a word with you. I thought you were on the air?” I pointed helplessly to the monitor overhead.

  “I don’t like anybody to know when I’m not around. We’ve had a few things stolen. Broadcasting equipment isn’t cheap, let me tell you. And when you’re in a campestral setting like this, miles from the nearest house, it’s easy pickings for burglars.”

  “I see.” I had no idea what campestral meant but wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing. I’d look it up on my smartphone once I was out of there.

  She picked up her box off the ground and walked toward me. “My god, woman!” Violet Wilcox fanned her hand madly in front of her nose. “You smell like a landfill on a hot summer’s day!”

  I felt my face go red. “Sorry.” I’d noticed the smell while I drove but had assumed it was my old van having one of those days. “I was—” I shut my mouth. How could I explain to this woman that I’d been dumpster diving and why?

  “Never mind,” she said punching some numbers on the keypad at the door. “I don’t want to know.”

  She went inside the building and, though she hadn’t invited me to follow, I did.

  “So what do you want anyway?” Violet Wilcox asked. She set the box down on an office chair at the entrance. The desk in the vestibule seemed more like a holding area for junk than somebody’s workspace.

  The windows that looked out onto the parking lot in front had been blacked out.

  “I heard you had been looking into Professor Livingston’s background and hoping to have him as a guest on your show.”

  “What about it?” Wilcox grabbed an open box of station logoed T-shirts and foam rubber soda can sleeves and carried them out to the van. I tagged after her. “I’m kind of in a hurry here. I’m setting up for a promo outside Lakeside Market. I’m doing an oldies show and giving away some freebies to the customers.”

  “Sounds fun.” I stepped aside as she returned once more to the station. “Lance Jennings had some interesting accusations to make against the professor. I was wondering if you’d heard anything untoward.”

  Violet’s laughter was filled with scorn. “That snot? I dug up dirt Lance Jennings could only dream of,” Violet boasted.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as it’s none of your business. Listen to my radio show.”

  “Did Mason agree to an interview?”

  She pulled a face as she stuffed CDs into a handbag the size of a small country. “Not on the record. But that’s okay. I think I’ve got enough material to go on.”

  “He’s dead. Is it really worth soiling his reputation?”

  “I’m trying to make a living here, Amy. News sells. Dirt sells.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “Tell that to the people he ripped off.” She snorted. “Tell that to his ex-wife!”

  “A friend of mine saw you with Mason at Truckee’s Road Stop.”

  “Good for them.” She pushed past me. “If there’s nothing else?” She held the door open.

  “Was that Frank Duvall I saw leaving a few minutes ago?”

  Violet locked eyes with me. “He’s thinking of running some ads on AM Ruby. I gave him a rate card, and we discussed some options.”

  I wondered what those options were and what all they might have involved. “And Cara Siskin?”

  Her smile was anything but friendly. “My, you are observant, aren’t you?”

  I ignored the barb. “What were the three of you arguing about outside Mason’s trailer yesterday?”

  “Birds and bees,” Violet quipped. She pulled me out the door and set the alarm code before closing it. “Speaking of which, if you ever want to advertise that bird store of yours, give me a call. If not,” she marched to the van, her back to me, “do be a stranger.”

  Determined not to let the station owner get the best of me, I shouted after her, “How well did you know Mason in Texas, Ms. Wilcox?”

  She spun on me, and I saw venom in her gaze. “What are you talking about?”

  I nodded toward the rear of the van. “I noticed
your license plate. You’re from Texas.”

  She threw open the passenger side door and dropped her bag on the seat before replying. “Why are you so concerned about who killed Mason Livingston?”

  I was taken aback. “Because he was my friend. And because he didn’t deserve to die.”

  Violet’s brow flew up. “Didn’t he?” She stomped around the front of the van, climbed in on the driver’s side, started the engine, and drove off toward town.

  20

  “And that’s all she had to say?” Derek tore off a slice of bread and soaked it in olive oil.

  I had finished recounting my conversation with Violet Wilcox. We had opted for dinner at the Lake House restaurant. Located waterside at the marina, it was the most romantic restaurant in town. Thank goodness I’d gotten home in time to take a long shower and wash the stink out of my hair.

  The outside deck was open this time of year. and we had a table at the rail with a view of the lake, park, and campground. The roof of Professor Livingston’s crazy birdhouse on wheels stood out among the sea of tents, camper vans, and motor homes. “The man was unique.”

  “What?” Derek had dressed casually in light brown trousers and a soft white shirt. I had pulled my favorite green dress from the back of my closet. I’d owned it since college.

  I pointed toward the roof of Mason’s trailer.

  “Oh, yeah. Your friend Mason was certainly one of a kind.”

  “But was he a good kind?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Violet said. Why would she make a remark suggesting that he deserved to die?”

  Derek leaned back in his seat. “She was probably just spouting off. She doesn’t sound like the most pleasant or sympathetic woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I suppose.” I tapped the edge of my salad bowl. “Did I tell you that Amber Smith admitted to egging the professor’s trailer?”

  “No. I had heard about the incident, but I didn’t know that.” His countenance darkened. “Some people around here think Mister Mulligan did it.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  Derek shrugged as the waiter set our plates in front of us. “The thing was egged.” Derek squeezed a lemon wedge over his shrimp. I had ordered the bass.