by Clea Simon
“Hey, Pru.” Jane’s brother lumbered in. “It’s Pru, isn’t it? This is Dr. Wachtell.”
I turned toward the stranger—and saw Rose push by him, led by Buster. “’Scuse us,” Genie said, taking up the rear. Wachtell had turned to open one of the kitchenette’s cabinets and didn’t respond. I made to stop them, but Marc put his hand on my arm.
“Let her go,” he said, nodding toward their backs. “I don’t like her hanging around here anyway. Never did.”
“Which one?” I turned and looked down at the short man. I was pretty sure he meant Rose. Old women may not count for much with his type, but black women probably counted less.
“That old hag from across the hall.” Marc walked over to one of the boxes and began picking through it. “She was always hanging on my mother. Bothering her.”
“I thought they were friends.” I didn’t want to get caught up in this. My job was the parrot. Still, I liked the blind woman. More than I liked Marc, at any rate. “She came by to return a book.”
Marc was leaning so far into a box that it muffled what I supposed was a laugh. “Right,” I thought he said. “A book.”
I looked over at the big, battered hardcover. It was true, it had seemed a minor thing, but I’d taken the gesture at face value.
“It was a prop,” he said, as he sat back. “She wanted to nose around. I’ve got to get that key back.”
“Rose has a key?” Jane had a key to her place, I recalled.
But Marc shook his head. “That aide. She’s another one.”
Suddenly aware of the third person in the room, I bit back what I might have said and turned instead to the doctor.
“I’m Pru, Pru Marlowe.” I held out my hand. “Jane Larkin hired me to work with the parrot. I’m an animal behaviorist.” I wasn’t, not quite, but doctors respect degrees.
He turned from the open cabinet, but hesitated before taking my hand. “George, George Wachtell.” We shook, and I waited. Usually men were eager to make my acquaintance. Then again, I’d pretty much forced him into giving me his full name. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t talking.
“So, George.” He wasn’t my doctor, and I saw no reason to offer him the respect I’d give to Doc Sharpe, the vet at County. “What do you make of all this?” I looked up at the tall newcomer. With that tan now fully restored and a touch of gray at his temples he could have been from Central Casting.
“We try to encourage varied socialization at LiveWell. It is true, however, that not all the relationships that form are of the healthiest variety.” He could have been reciting from a script. “Patients confide in me,” he added.
“Yeah, but what do you think?” I crossed my arms.
A dimple appeared in one cheek. “For the most part, I try to remove myself from the squabbles and rivalries that spring up in such close living conditions.”
He might be amused. I was curious. Unlike the good doctor, Genie hadn’t been in any position to hold herself aloof from the residents. That might be partly the difference in rank and income, I thought, as I watched Marc pulling books and knickknacks out of the boxes that Jane had worked so hard to fill.
It also might have been something else. The aide had been hurrying after her charge, but I’d seen how she averted her eyes from the newcomers. Wachtell—George—was a bigwig here. If not her boss, then certainly a boss in the LiveWell hierarchy. Along those lines, Marc might have had more direct contact with the Haitian aide. I wondered who had paid her last bills, and if any kind of severance—not to mention a gratuity—had been included. I also wondered what he was after.
“Ignorant slut!” Randolph’s barking voice startled me. I’d almost forgotten him. “Bugger off.”
“Great job you’re doing.” Marc looked up from another box.
“It’s been three days.” I hate being put on the defensive. “And you’re not exactly giving me time alone with the bird. I was working with him when you and George here came in.”
“Working, huh?” He stood and puffed out his chest. I had at least four inches over him, but he wanted me to know that he was a man. It was a pose Growler would have understood.
I stood, too, and crossed my arms. The same principle I’d considered with the parrot—that the one whose head was higher had dominance—was at play here. “Trying to,” I said, as pointedly as possible. “What are you looking for anyway?”
“You wouldn’t—” He was interrupted by the return of Jane.
“Marc! I spent all morning packing those.” In addition to the books, her brother had unwrapped a little figurine from its protective bubble wrap. “What the hell?”
“What the hell!” Randolph chimed in.
“Sorry,” I shrugged. “We were working on learning new words.”
“They’re gone, Jane. Aren’t they?” Marc didn’t seem to need height to dominate his sister.
“They’re not—oh, Christ. What else have you been doing?” She was looking into the little kitchen area. Only now did I notice that the cabinets had been emptied in a haphazard fashion, cups piled on dishes on the tiny counter.
“I’m sorry,” a deeper voice as George Wachtell emerged from the bathroom. “I’m afraid I’ve contributed to the general disruption.”
Jane colored, just a little, but visible with her pale skin. I didn’t think it was anger. “Doctor!”
He smiled, bringing that dimple back. “I’ve been lax, I know. I’m so sorry for your loss, Jane.”
Marc was quiet. I didn’t know if he was seeing what I was seeing—the grieving daughter in awe of the good doctor, a fact the medical man was well aware of—but he was watching something.
“Thank—thank you.” She flushed more, and actually looked down. It didn’t make me like either of them.
“So what were you doing, messing around in the cabinets?” I butted in. Jane was an adult and not my charge, but there was such a thing as sisterhood. “Looking for a cookie?”
“Looking for the late Mrs. Larkin’s meds, actually.” The smile disappeared, and I swear his voice got deeper. His doctor voice, I figured. “I ran into Marc in the lobby and realized I hadn’t come by to collect her unused medications.” He raised his hands. They were empty. “This is why. It appears I was already too late.”
“I’m not surprised.” Marc was trying to brush newsprint off his hands, using one of a stack of towels. “Jane, do you have anything besides books in those boxes?”
“What? No!” Jane rushed over. “Please, Marc. Those are clean. And, no, the sealed boxes are just books. What were you looking for, anyway?”
“The silver candlesticks.” He said it like it was obvious. Like she should know. “The ones Nana gave her. They’re gone.”
“Oh.” Jane put her hand to her mouth, thinking. “Honestly, Marc, I can’t remember where I saw them last. Julie didn’t take them for Thanksgiving?”
“My wife is not a thief.” The little man leaned forward, his florid cheeks growing dark. “And if you hadn’t given keys to every helper—”
“Now, wait a minute.” It was partly his tone, but the little air quotes he’d made around that last word really bothered me. I’d heard the parrot mimicking Polly—or someone—in protest. “That’s mine! Get your hands off! ”
I also knew what category he’d put me in, before taping it shut. “You come in here, when your sister’s been doing all the work—all the work that the paid aide hasn’t done. You don’t help pack. You don’t clean. Ten minutes later, you’re accusing the staff of—what?—of stealing the family heirlooms?”
That shut him up.
“Well, I’m not sure this is an appropriate conversation to be having. Not here.” Wachtell stepped further into the room. Probably thought his gravitas—if not his charm—would work on me, too. It didn’t. “And comparatively, the cost of some of those medications considerably overwhelms the—”
“You’re not much better—” I had a head of steam going for me now. “Aren’t you a little lax about drugs here? I mean
, I know a cop who—”
“Just a minute!” Marc had caught his breath. “Just because my sister is getting all sentimental about that filthy bird, doesn’t mean you have the—”
“Oh my God!” Jane, her voice raised above ours, interrupted everything. “What’s wrong with Randolph?”
Inside his cage, the parrot was shaking, his wings extended slightly from his side, his feathers puffed up as if by the cold. I grabbed a towel and raced over to the cage. Before I could open its door, his little body jerked once, as the parrot vomited. And then Randolph fell off his perch.
“Do something!” Ever the big sister, in a crisis Jane took charge. In this case, that meant yelling at me as I scooped the bird out of his cage and wrapped him in the towel
“Doctor?” I looked up at Wachtell. I didn’t have great hopes there, but any medical expert in a storm. He shook his head wordlessly, and I turned back to the siblings. “Did your mother have an avian first aid kit?”
They looked at each other. Jane shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. There isn’t much I could do.” I’m not a trained vet tech, and I’m just not as up on my birds as I am on cats and dogs. Not that they had to know this. I looked down: Randolph was breathing and beginning to stir. “I’m going to take him to County. To the animal hospital.”
They nodded—I was in charge now—and parted to let me through as I headed toward the door.
“What’s wrong with Randy?” A woman in a wheelchair was waiting at the elevator. “Is he sick?”
“Seems to be,” I said, cradling the bird, who had begun to move. I needed to keep him warm and still. I certainly didn’t want him getting loose outside the apartment.
“You go ahead.” She motioned me in as the elevator arrived. “He’s more important.”
“Is Randolph sick?” I heard Rose’s voice from down the hall. I didn’t wait to hear the wheelchair-bound resident’s answer. I was too busy thinking through the events of the last few hours. The treats had been sealed. Could they have been bad? I thought of the fast food wrappers. The empty coffee cups. The dust of packing. The missing meds. Hell, even something in the forced hot air that had made this building an overheated solarium. Any of these could have sickened Randolph. He’d been flying free moments before—
That did it. I went through the timeline in my head. When the door to the late Polly Larkin’s apartment had opened. When it had closed. When Rose and Genie had come in, then Jane, Marc, Wachtell…All of them seemed to think nothing of going in and out of the unlocked apartment. All of them had been there when the parrot had done his macabre routine; odds were, they’d heard it before. It was a reach, but I had to consider the possibility. Any one of them could have ducked in at some point. Any one of them could have wanted Randolph to shut up. Any of them could have poisoned the parrot.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hang in there.” It was a silly thing to say to a bird, especially such a still one, as he lay wrapped in a towel on my passenger seat. But as I peeled out of the LiveWell parking lot, I wasn’t thinking of parrot vs. cat, or even animal vs. human. I was thinking that a creature in my care was ill, and that all I wanted to do was get to help as soon as possible.
The options weren’t great. As the elevator descended, I’d raced through them. While there were private vets closer by, County—the combination shelter/animal hospital—still seemed like the best bet. The hospital part was well stocked, and Doc Sharpe, the director, was easily the most experienced vet around. Problem was, County was close to twenty minutes away, even as I drive. I didn’t know if Randolph had it.
“Hang in there, Randolph.” I didn’t know where that came from, it just sounded right. And as I swerved around a minivan, I was gratified to hear an answering squawk.
“Help.” The voice was soft but audible. “Get help.”
“That’s right, Randolph. We’ll be there soon.” Leaf peepers were everywhere, and I had to keep my eyes on the road. Still, the shuffle next to me sounded more like confused bird than convulsion. One more car passed, and I dared a glance. One bright eye stared back up at me, but the parrot was shivering.
“You warm enough?” I’d been afraid to blast the heat. Who knew what spores lived in my radiator? This bird was already in a weakened condition.
“Yah.” It could have been an affirmative. It could have been a senseless squawk. Any sign of life was good. Cheering.
“I’m sorry about the hasty exit.” I found myself just this side of babbling. “And the towel. Wallis would hate that, I know. So undignified. She’s a cat. Does anyone at LiveWell have a cat? Maybe not. ”
“She’s—” Silence. I glanced over, and the little eyes still seemed bright.
“She’s a cat.” I repeated. It wasn’t a useful phrase. However, if Randolph was still interested in mimicking me, he wasn’t that far gone. And by then we didn’t have that far to go. I was driving faster than even my usual, I realized as I careened around a hesitant Volvo onto the exit. We’d be at County in less than a minute. “A cat.”
The only response was a soft whistle, weak and low. We were on small streets now, and at this speed I couldn’t take my eyes off the road, but I needed to check. I reached over. Yes, I felt movement.
“She’s a cat,” I repeated, as much for myself as for Randolph. County. I heard my tires screech as I pulled into the lot.
“She’s—” I slammed on the brakes, reaching for the bird before he could tumble to the floor.
“Hang on, Randolph.” Clutching him to me like a football, I charged from the car. Rammed through the door. “Doc Sharpe?”
“Not—” I thought I heard from the towel-wrapped bird. Could have been “Doc.” Who knew? “She’s not—” At least the bird was still alive.
“Doc?” I pushed past Pammy, the vet’s ditsy assistant, and into the back hallway. “Doc Sharpe?” I didn’t have time to check each examining room and his office. Randolph didn’t have time.
A bald head looked out, eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Doc, I’ve got a sick parrot here. I’m not sure if he inhaled something. Might have eaten something. Might have been—” I paused, catching my breath and holding the parrot in front of me. “Poisoned.”
“Poison.” Randolph’s hoarse voice was loud and clear. “She’s not—” Then the wrapped bird gave strange avian cough and went limp.
***
“Exam room A.” Doc Sharpe ushered me down the hall. I placed the parrot on the table and stood back. The vet was washing his hands, and Randolph wasn’t flying anywhere. “History?”
“The bird seemed fine until about forty-five minutes ago.” Had it been that fast? “Maybe thirty. I’d been letting him fly around the apartment. There were numerous small objects and possible sources of toxicity.” I tried to recall Polly’s room as I’d last seen it, and began listing the dangers. “Possibility of onions, caffeine. Small non-food objects. Also, the heat was on.” Doc Sharpe would understand.
“Okay, then.” I washed up as he opened Randolph’s beak. The vocalizations were a good sign that his airway wasn’t blocked, but I knew he’d be looking for other clues—irritated throat or other mucus membranes—that might give us an indication of what had happened. “No prior issues?”
“No.” I stopped myself. “Some over grooming, but the bird’s owner has recently died and his routine has been changed.”
“Ah, the Larkin bird. I remember.” He was unwrapping the bird and palpating his belly. Now that the towel was off, I could see how pink and exposed his skin was, the beautiful pattern of his plumage interrupted. “Should have insisted on a physical.” I didn’t know if he was talking to me or to himself, so I kept my mouth shut. “Seizures, you say?”
He was talking to me now, so I answered. “Yes, he fell off his perch. He may have vomited.”
“Huh.” Doc Sharpe is a man of few words under the best of circumstances. I waited. He ran a finger under the parrot’s feet. “That’s interesting.”
He looked u
p again. “Come here, Pru. Learn something.” I did. “See how the bird’s feet are relaxed? Not clenched? That lessens the odds the bird has lead poisoning. That’s good. Plus, the belly is firm, but not distended, and the bird seems alert now. There are neutralizing compounds, if we knew what it may have ingested, and I was considering an IV—saline—but hydration has its own dangers. No.” He stared at his diminutive patient. The parrot stared back. “I think not. I think rest and warmth and quiet may do the trick. We’ll keep him here for observation.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to answer. I’d seen this bird collapse. I’d wanted something done. I’m not the vet, though. Hell, I’m not even fully qualified as a behaviorist. “Keep him here?” I choked out.
“Overnight, at least. That way, if it was something from the ventilation system…” He took his hands off the bird, and we both watched, waiting as Randolph flapped his wings, then flipped over and stood up. Craning his head to take in his new surroundings, his sharp eye settled on me and his head bobbed. Or, I thought to myself, Randolph nodded. At this point, anything was possible.
“Okay, then.” Who was I to argue? “I should call his owner.”
“That’s right. Isn’t the son taking the bird?”
“That’s the problem.” I was too tired to explain. “I haven’t had a chance to do much with the bird’s vocabulary. Though he did start talking on the way over. ‘She’s not poison?’” I chuckled despite myself. “Maybe he was trying to clear the daughter’s name.” Or the aide, or the neighbor. It was too much to get into. “Help us identify the hitman.”
Doc Sharpe turned a gimlet eye on me. “Hitman?”
“It’s a long story.” I held out my hand for Randolph to climb onto and rested my other hand gently on his back. This parrot needed rest. So, for that matter, did I. “It’s just—I think there may have been something suspicious about Polly Larkin’s death, and Randolph here keeps saying things that sound, well, incriminating.”
“Pru.” Doc Sharpe doesn’t have a loud voice under any circumstances. Right now, though, it was particularly soft. “I know you lost your mother not long ago. Is going to LiveWell too much?”