Die, Die Birdie

by J. R. Ripley

  I nodded. “My mother told me about that.”

  He nodded somberly. “Nasty business.” Mr. Flores handed me back my credit card. “Nothing like your murder, ciertamente.” The bell above the door rang and two middle-aged men entered and headed for the power tools. Rosario scooted after them with her broom.

  * * *

  I threw my purchase on the passenger seat and headed across town, past the town square, past the lake, which looked like a jewel in the clear blue sky, and turned up Airport Road. Maybe Jerry Kennedy was certain about Dwayne’s innocence, but I hadn’t made my mind up.

  I turned off onto a lonely rural side street with crumbling blacktop and stopped outside a dreary redbrick house on a large hilly lot. It wasn’t much to look at. But this had to be where Theodore Allen, Dwayne’s uncle, lived. The big Cole’s Trucking semitrailer and cab were parked a short distance from the house.

  I parked my Kia at the bottom of the driveway. My feet crunched up the gravel drive as I approached. The back doors of the trailer hung open. Nothing but a few empty pallets, a pallet mover, an old broom with half its bristles missing, a crumpled old bottle of bleach, a few tarps, and some rope. A battered and muddy blue pickup rested under a tin-roofed, freestanding carport to the right and behind the house.

  What had probably once been a lawn was now a yard of weeds. The nearest neighbors were about six or seven hundred feet away on each side.

  A dog barked halfheartedly as I trudged up the brick steps and rang the bell. I rang again. “Hello?” I tapped on the glass storm door.

  Peeling burgundy paint curled up around the edges of the front door. It opened a crack and a face peered out. “Yeah?” the man rasped. He smelled of tobacco and beer.

  I smiled and met his eyes through the dirty storm door glass. “Mr. Allen?”

  His brow furrowed. He had a dark complexion and his square chin was dotted with gray stubble. “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Amy Simms. I was looking for Dwayne. Is he here?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “His truck’s here.” I turned my head in the direction of the big vehicle.

  “He’s taking a nap.” A gnarled hand gripped a walnut cane with a metal tip.

  I pouted. “Oh, I see.” A fat black Labrador pushed his way between Theo Allen’s legs. “Would you mind if I come in for a minute? I’d like to talk to you.”

  He squinted and I thought I detected mistrust in his eyes, though I couldn’t imagine what made me appear so suspicious.

  “I’m harmless, really.”

  The door pulled open. “You’d better come in, then.”

  “Thank you.” I was hit by a blast of warm air. A compact woodstove burned in the tiny living room. A small, tattered sofa and two navy chairs draped with quilts filled the stifling space. A row of books, mostly old North Carolina history books, rested on a simple wood shelf above the stove. It seemed a bit of a fire hazard, but who was I to mention it?

  I noticed Theo Allen leaned heavily on the cane as he walked to the heater and tossed some pellets in its feeder. “Have a seat.”

  The big dog had flopped down on the sofa, so I settled for one of the chairs.

  “You want something to drink?”

  I hesitated. “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea, I suppose.”

  “Be right back.” He rose rather spryly and disappeared around the corner.

  Dwayne’s uncle was gone several minutes. I considered getting up and exploring, maybe finding which room Dwayne was dozing in and waking him, but the way that big dog kept looking at me told me I’d better remain seated. I love dogs—I’m not sure if they love me.

  Mr. Allen returned with a glass of tea on a tiny saucer for me, then returned to the kitchen for his. “What did you want to talk to Dwayne about?” he asked, settling into his chair and setting his cup on a TV tray to his left.

  “I was wondering if there was anything else he might have remembered or might have seen the night Matt was murdered.” I looked toward the hall where no doubt the bedrooms were. “Do you think he’ll be asleep long?”

  A wan smile passed over the old man’s face. “You never know. The boy keeps all hours. Heard him come in late last night.”

  I nodded. “Tell me, did Dwayne and Matt know one another?”

  Mr. Allen said nothing for a moment. He turned away and sipped his tea.

  As he did, I tried mine. It tasted like dishwater. I settled my cup between my knees. Suddenly, I wasn’t thirsty.

  “I heard they went to school together.” Okay, I was making that part up, but now that I’d thought about it, I’d have to have Mom check into it for me.

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t know.” His fingers wrapped around the handle of the cane. “What’s it matter?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t, I suppose.” I smiled. “I guess I’m just nosy.”

  The old man’s jaw worked side to side.

  I cleared my throat. “I hear you had a pet store in the house I bought from Gertie. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged.

  Dwayne’s uncle wasn’t much of a conversationalist. “Do you know,” I began, “Gertie came by the other day and offered to buy the place back from me. Can you believe it?”

  He leaned closer. “You don’t say?”

  I nodded. “Offered me what I paid for it and then some.”

  Mr. Allen’s lips curled up. “Greedy old biddy. Charged me way too much rent.”

  “Was Esther Pilaster your tenant too?”

  He shook his head. “She moved in after the place was empty.”

  Lucky him. Unlucky me.

  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you. Do you like pets? Is that why you’d gone into the business?”

  “Nah. I mean, I’ve got a dog.” He pointed his cane at the beast, then grabbed a cold pipe from the TV tray and stuffed a wad of tobacco in its bowl. “Drove a truck all my life,” he boasted, “until they retired me.” He sighed. “A man’s got to have something to keep himself busy. No kids. Wife’s dead. Tried joining the town council but realized pretty quick that politics wasn’t for me.”

  “I know what you mean. At least you have your nephew, Dwayne, to help you.”

  “He’s a good boy.” He looked at my cup. “You want me to warm you up?”

  “No, thanks,” I replied hastily. One cup of dishwater was plenty. “I see you’re a history buff too.”

  He looked perplexed. I nodded to the bookshelf. “I noticed your choice of reading material.”

  He frowned. “That was my wife,” he said gruffly. “She liked all that stuff.”

  I set my tea down beside the stove and got up to run my finger along the books. They were all old hardcovers, probably all published before I was born—all related to North Carolina’s history. I pulled down a thick volume covered in charcoal cloth, called North Carolina’s Gold Rush and another titled The Story of North Carolina, Its People and Places.

  He grunted. “Wife was a history teacher.”

  “So was my mother.” I slid the book back in its place. “I guess I’d better be leaving.” I buttoned up my coat. “When Dwayne gets up, would you ask him to give me a call? Or better yet, come by the store if he gets a chance?”

  Mr. Allen pushed himself up from his chair with the aid of his cane. The dog raised his head, then let it fall back down to the sofa cushion. I couldn’t blame him. I was dog tired too.

  I grinned. “So, Mr. Allen, as someone who’s been there and done that, do you have any advice for somebody trying to run a new business in Ruby Lake?”

  He smiled sardonically as I pushed my hands into my mittens. “Yeah.” His tongue darted in and out. “Try another town.”

  25

  I warmed up the van and headed back toward town. The sun was shining and, despite my woes, I couldn’t help but feel good. Until the van lurched to the left toward the cliff, that is. Airport Road is treacherous at the best of times, and now my Kia was acting like it was trying to kill me. I
pulled the wheel hard to the right as a sedan whizzed by me going the other direction.

  The van jumped to the left again, as if determined to plunge over the steep embankment. “No!” I screamed. “What are you trying to do?”

  I know it’s crazy to try to talk a van out of killing itself, but if you’d been in my position, you might have done the same thing yourself.

  The van shook. I was having trouble steering. I spotted a small turnout up ahead. Putting my entire body weight into the effort, I managed to wrestle the wildly swinging steering wheel. The van skidded sideways across the bumpy surface. I screamed some more and didn’t stop until the Kia came to a halt mere inches from the cliff’s edge.

  My breath caught in my throat. I looked down. And down was a long way down.

  A hand rapped at the passenger window. I jumped and the van shook. “You okay in there?” A young woman in a navy parka and a ski cap eyed me anxiously.

  I gulped and nodded. I moved over to the passenger side and climbed down. I assured the young woman once again that I was okay. “I don’t know what happened,” I said. Together, we walked around the vehicle. My left rear tire was completely flat. Worse than flat. It was shredded.

  I groaned. “That’s gonna cost me.”

  The young brunette patted my back. “Be grateful.” I arched my right eyebrow. “It could have cost you your life.”

  The young brunette—her name was Pam—stayed with me until the tow truck arrived.

  “Where to?” the tow operator asked. “Nesmith’s gas station?”

  “Yes.” Zander Nesmith runs the nearest service station, so that made sense. I’d used him before and knew he did good work.

  “No, wait.” I climbed up into the passenger seat of his tow truck. “Take it to LaChance Motors.” They had a service center and could fix me up. And I could do a little snooping.

  The tow truck driver drove me to my destination, unhitched my Kia, and I paid him off. I left the vehicle in the capable hands of the service manager, who told me he’d have a mechanic take a look at the van as soon as he could. I’d explained what had happened and he said it would be best to check the vehicle out for any other damage not visible. “That kind of accident,” he said, scratching the side of his jaw, “you might have messed up your axle or something. We’ll probably need to keep your car overnight. We’re sort of backed up today.”

  Great, I thought as I wandered between rows of used vehicles. More money.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  My eyebrows rose with glee. I was in luck. The big man himself was in. I explained about the accident.

  “At least you weren’t hurt.” Robert LaChance flashed bleached white teeth, a sharp contrast to his tanning-booth-darkened skin. “That’s what counts. You’re going to be needing a rental car, right?” I swear I saw dollar signs flash in his pupils.

  LaChance Motor’s business operations are run out of a double-wide trailer. A wooden stairway led up to a small porch with a couple of those cheap white outdoor chairs you pick up at the local big box. Robert LaChance deftly threw open the sliding glass door and ushered me inside.

  He waved to a redhead occupying a cheap laminate desk near the door. “Any calls?”

  “Just Mac. He wants you to call him back soon as you can.”

  Robert nodded. “Come this way,” he said, “Ms. . . . ?”

  “Amy Simms.”

  I followed him into a small, cramped office with a large oak desk. The desktop was cluttered with papers. “Mac?” I said. “Mac MacDonald, the mayor?” A bottle of red wine sat beside a small flat-screen TV on a narrow table behind the desk.

  He nodded distractedly, his fingers sifting through papers as he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  Robert LaChance rose and left me alone in his office. Over my shoulder, I noticed him whispering in the secretary’s ear. Her tight V-neck white sweater pushed out in all the right directions and a gold sheath skirt rode up over her knees. Were they an item too? She was young enough and pretty enough to be his type. The jerk. I’d have to introduce him to Derek Harlan. They could philander together.

  My eyes drifted over the papers on Robert LaChance’s desk. Mostly car-related things like invoices and warranties, a couple of car-enthusiast magazines—I’d seen Robert driving around town in his flashy old red Ferrari, so I knew he was into cars—and a brochure from one of those quick service food chains.

  “Got it,” Robert said, falling back into his chair, waving a yellow folder. “Tommy tells me you’re going to be needing a vehicle for at least a day?” He raised his brow in question. “Said your tire’s shot and your lug nuts were loose. A couple of the lug bolts were even bent. That’s not good.” He made commiserating sounds, but I was seeing those dollar signs in his eyes again.

  I nodded. Tommy was his service manager. “Hopefully, that’s all I’ll need it for.”

  “Of course.” He wet his thumb, selected some papers, and handed them to me to sign. He picked up a pen and pointed to two lines for initials and one for a signature, then handed me the pen. “A lot of work being done on your store, huh?”

  “Yes, you could say that.” Funny, he didn’t know my name a minute ago but now he knew about my store.

  Robert nodded. “As a fellow business owner,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head, “I know what that’s like. Seems like I’m always pouring money into this business.”

  Yeah, and into his flashy clothes, cars, and expensive wine. While Tiffany, his ex and mother of his child, waited tables in a diner.

  “Have you ever considered selling the place?” He looked at me eagerly.

  “The house?” What kind of a question was that? “No, I mean, I just bought it.” And I couldn’t imagine who’d want it. Except that Gertie Hammer suddenly did.

  The car dealer shrugged. “Still, most businesses fail in their first year, you know.”

  This guy was definitely no Mr. Sunshine. I thought about Dwayne’s uncle, Theodore Allen; he’d only lasted six months. “I’m hoping things pick up in spring and summer.”

  He snatched up a plump cigar from a humidor at the edge of his desk and rolled it between the palms of his hands. “That’s the spirit.” His words sounded phony, but that could simply have been the used-car salesman in him coming out.

  I pushed back the signed papers. “You must be a fan of Bella Bologna.” Bella Bologna was one of those popular upscale Italian restaurant chains that cost a million bucks or more to franchise.

  “Huh?” Robert leaned forward.

  “I couldn’t help noticing the brochure.”

  “Oh, that.” His eyes darted around the desk. When he spotted the glossy brochure, he tapped it with his fingers, then slid it under a pile of paperwork. “A buddy of mine is trying to get me to invest in a place over in Raleigh.”

  “Are you going to?” It was none of my business, but I was curious. Besides, if he could afford to invest in a friend’s business, he could afford to give Tiffany and their child more support.

  Robert LaChance evaded my question as elegantly as any toreador could hope to slip past an angry bull’s horns. “I’ve got a sweet little Corolla for you. Only forty-nine ninety-nine a day.”

  * * *

  To paraphrase the character Elphaba Thropp from Wicked, I was tired of playing by the rules of somebody else’s game. I parked behind Ruby Lake Town Library and ran inside. John Moytoy sat at the reference desk assisting a young woman and child with selecting some early readers. He smiled and winked my way to let me know he’d be with me as soon as he could.

  I worked my way over to the history section. I wanted to learn more about Ruby Lake; specifically, more about the house at 3225 Lake Shore Drive.

  My house.

  Why was Matt Kowalski found dead there? Why had Gertie Hammer sold me the place? Well, I knew the answer to that. It was a piece of junk. A death trap. No pun intended, Matt Kowalski. Why was it attracting squirrels and squ
atters and midnight ghosts?

  “Hey, Amy. What’s with the history book?” John looked at the book in my hand. “I’d have expected to find you in the nature section.” The librarian dressed casually, yet impeccably, in tan pants and a canary-yellow shirt buttoned up to the collar. The slenderest of silver chains wrapped loosely around his neck. He said it was a good luck charm.

  “Hi, John.” John Moytoy is a Native American, Cherokee to be precise. He’s cherubic in body and disposition. He’s also an old classmate of mine. “Moving into a historic old house, I thought I’d try to learn more about it.” I closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and plucked another. “Are you aware of anything interesting or unusual about the old place?”

  John thought for a minute, rubbing his thumbs together like he always did when considering a problem. “Sorry,” he said, giving his head a shake. A lock of jet-black hair spilled over his right eye and he pushed it back into place. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Too bad.” I patted his arm, then pulled off my hat. He smelled of library books and Old Spice, making me feel all warm and cozy. John Moytoy is comfortable with himself and with others. He’s as laid-back as they come and sharper than most.

  He perused the shelves, selected a couple of heavy volumes, and led me over to one of the study alcoves where we sat. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for, Amy?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  I picked up a book on the history of North Carolina and thumbed the pages. The tome included several sections containing old black-and-white photos of buildings and cabins from earlier days.

  “Do you know anything at all about the history of the house? Like who owned it before you?” He peered at me over his glasses. “Who built it?”

  “Gertie Hammer owned it before me,” I said, and I couldn’t help making a sour face as I said it. “I’m not sure who owned it before that.” I thought a moment. “I do remember hearing that the place was nearly a hundred and fifty years old.” Mom said she’d remembered hearing that the house had been built at the end of the Civil War.

  John started rubbing his fingers together again. “You know . . .” He looked off into the distance. His eyes were the color of a brown-headed nuthatch’s crown.