Bickering Birds

by Mildred Abbott

  Silas shrugged at Leo. “Sorry. That’s what I mean. I’m not quite as strict about these things as Myrtle. And I’d appreciate it if you keep that aspect of my story from her as well.”

  Leo looked like he was about to argue, but I had a feeling it was more about the birds and less about Myrtle. Which was fine, but he could do so on his own time.

  “Silas, I’m not making any promises about what I will or won’t say, both to Myrtle or the police. But I will consider what you said.”

  For a second, Silas seemed about to argue or push the point, but then he nodded. “Guess that’s all I can expect.” His eyes brightened. “But at least, if you decide not to listen to my request, will you let me know in advance? Especially if you decide to tell Myrtle?”

  I hesitated, barely. “Of course.”

  Leo cast a surprised glance at me, but I ignored it. I was lying. If for some reason I felt I needed to tell Myrtle, there was no way I would tell Silas first. I could explain that to Leo in the Jeep, but it seemed the best course of action to placate Silas.

  Silas took a sip of his wine, and then stood and dusted off his pants. “Thanks for listening to me. And, Fred, I meant what I said. If you need anything at all that can help you figure this out, let me know. Any sort of resources you might be lacking, I’ll get for you. Whatever it takes to clear Myrtle’s name.”

  “Thanks. And let me know if any more details come to you or things you think might help.”

  Watson had fallen asleep on the plush rug that sprawled between the couches, and he gave an annoyed groan as I woke him. Once more as we walked past the closet between the living room and the formal dining room, Watson whined and sniffed around the hardwood floor close to the doorway.

  “I dropped a pan of prime rib the other night on the way back from the dining room. Apparently I didn’t get it all cleaned up as well as I thought I did.” Silas leaned down and ruffled Watson’s fur, then glanced up at me. “I have a couple of scraps left over, if he’d like some. Seems mean to tempt him with such smells and leave him wanting.”

  “No, that’s totally fine. But thank you. I appreciate it. He’s had more than his share of calories today, trust me.” I had to pull Watson’s leash twice to get him to oblige, but with an irritated glare, he followed Leo and me out the door.

  Branson was waiting for me as Watson and I pulled up to my cabin. And showing that he was every bit as stubborn and obstinate as I was, he hadn’t taken shelter in his police cruiser, but sat on one of the log rocking chairs I’d gotten for my front porch, despite the cold. Or maybe, in spite of it.

  Taking a moment to fasten the leash back onto Watson, I mentally told myself to stay calm, keep my temper in check, and play my cards close to the vest. No matter what Branson might say, I wasn’t ready to share the information I learned from Silas simply to prove a point.

  Watson growled as we approached the porch, and Branson stood, his tall, thick mass forming an imposing shadow. “Calm down, Watson. I love that you’re protecting your mama, but I promise, she’s always safe with me.”

  It had been a couple of months since he’d said something similar to Watson. It made me want to go back to that night. Although, I suppose we were about to. He’d arrived at my cabin to tell me to stay out of the case on that occasion as well. This time, though, I didn’t think we were going to end up having grilled cheese sandwiches and chatting at my kitchen table.

  As if proving my point, Branson’s voice was cold when he spoke to me—not unfriendly necessarily, just distant. “Don’t get all riled up, Fred. I’m not here to lecture. Although, would it have killed you to return even one of my calls or texts?”

  “I didn’t check them. So technically, I couldn’t return them.” I managed to make my tone less irritated than I felt.

  To my surprise, he chuckled. “An attempt to ask forgiveness instead of permission?”

  I shrugged as I unlocked the door. “You already denied your permission, and if you recall, I didn’t ask for it.” I opened the door and unhooked Watson’s leash, and he scampered in from the cold.

  “Don’t worry, Fred. I’m not inviting myself inside. It’s clear you would rather me not be here.” Branson took a couple of steps across the porch, then stopped an arm’s length away. I could swear he almost sounded hurt by the fact.

  That annoyed me, and I turned on him. “Can you blame me? When I was looking into things about Declan’s murder at Christmas, you gave me your full support. Even seemed impressed with what I was able to do, but on this one, you’re acting like I’ll mess everything up.”

  “I know that you realize I’m a police officer, Fred. Technically I’m not supposed to share any information with civilians or let them investigate. Even if I want to.”

  “Yes, of course I know that. But I don’t care.” I leveled my gaze on him. The night was bright, but under the porch eaves, we were in shadow. “Your department keeps messing it up. Again. Myrtle didn’t kill Henry. I don’t have proof of that, not yet, but I will.”

  He chuckled, and I nearly bit his head off, but he saved himself by speaking quicker than I could voice my temper aloud. “That’s why I called. If you’d checked your messages. It wasn’t Myrtle.”

  And that dumped an avalanche of snow on the fire of my fury. “What?”

  He stepped a little closer still, his smile softening. “Despite the pin, Myrtle wasn’t the killer. We have someone else in custody.”

  “Who?”

  He sighed. “Fred, you know I can’t….” Another laugh. “Oh, who am I kidding? Paulie Mertz.”

  I took a step back. “Paulie Mertz? That doesn’t make any sense.” Though I remembered he was one of two people on Silas’s list.

  “Now, please don’t claim we’ve got the wrong person again.” He raised a hand. “Let me save you the trouble of telling me that you have some sixth sense about this. I can promise you. We got our guy this time. We received an anonymous call that Paulie had illegal birds in his possession, and sure enough, he did, in the back room of his pet shop. It seems Henry had been threatening to expose him. So not only did we find the killer, we found our poacher. That should make Leo happy.” There was accusation in that last line. But it was gone in an instant. “That’s all I wanted to tell you, Fred.”

  I couldn’t find words. Both for Branson once more giving me details of the case and because this wasn’t right. Just like with Myrtle, I knew Paulie hadn’t done this. Paulie was an example of when my gut had been wrong. Like everyone else, he’d struck me as rather strange and creepy, and desperate to an uncomfortable level. But he helped me when Watson had gotten into something dangerous right before Christmas, and I thought I’d seen past the hurting and desperate man who came across so off-putting. I even thought I might start to like him.

  Branson stiffened. “Well, I guess that’s all I wanted to say. Clearly you’re not ready to move on, and I don’t blame you.” He truly did sound rather hurt. “I am sorry, Fred. I hope we can repair things.” He gave a little nod and then walked off the porch and toward his car.

  Another thought hit me, and I called out to him. “Wait.”

  He looked back hopefully.

  “What about Paulie’s dogs? Flotsam and Jetsam? Do you need someone to take care of them?” Paulie had two corgis, two hyperactive corgis that Watson would most definitely never forgive me if I allowed to come into our house, let alone stay for a while.

  Branson’s shoulders slumped slightly. “No. They’re fine. The veterinarian, Dr. Sallee, is taking care of them.” With another nod and a small wave, Branson disappeared into his car and drove off into the night.

  “I can’t believe you spent all morning baking, the rest of the day with customers, and then come home and bake for yourself?” I stared at the mess strewn over Katie’s kitchen counter. She seemed much more haphazard when baking at home. “You’re a sick, sick woman, Katie Pizzolato.”

  “And don’t I know it!” Katie tore off a bit of sliced ham, and for the twentieth time in
the past half an hour, tossed it to Watson, who was waiting aggressively at her feet. “As soon as you called asking to spend the night, I had to bake. We’re having a slumber party. We need snacks.”

  “Snacks would be popcorn and M&M’s, something easy, not your ham-and-cheese croissants.”

  Katie grimaced. “If you’re going to consume that amount of butter and sugar, you might as well make it worth the calories.” She tore off a bit of sliced cheese and popped it into her mouth. Watson whined in disappointment below her. “Sorry, buddy. I’m not completely selfless. I need some too.” As she layered the ham and cheese and rolled the croissants, she cast more serious glances in my direction. “I’m glad you thought to give me a call, Fred. I imagine you’re right. I doubt Silas had any ill intentions against you, but it’s unsettling with him knowing where you live.”

  I made it about fifteen minutes after Branson left. I’d already changed into my pajamas and had a kettle of tea on the stove, ready to settle down in front of the fire and read, when Silas’s voice on the phone telling me he knew where I lived crept in. The way he’d said it hadn’t sounded threatening in the slightest. But in the middle of a dark woods, as the night grew deeper, and after multiple murders in such a short time, I wasn’t sure if it was my gut speaking to me, or simply irrational fear, but I decided to go with it and called Katie.

  “I’m probably being silly. Plus, according to Branson, it’s all over. They caught the poacher and murderer all in one fell swoop.”

  Moving on to her next croissant, Katie tsked. “Please. You don’t believe that any more than I do. Paulie’s a strange little man, and rather uncomfortable to be around, but he didn’t do this.”

  I agreed, but I was a little desperate for confirmation. “How do you know?”

  “I have no idea.” Katie shrugged, completely unconcerned. “I just do. So do you.”

  That I did. And maybe that was part of why I’d come to Katie’s. For some reason, it seemed a little more dangerous, or something, to have the wrong person in jail for murder as opposed to no one. “Who do you think the murderer is?”

  Katie didn’t look up at me that time, keeping all her attention focused on the pastry. “I don’t know. It sounds like you believe Silas loves Myrtle. And all his actions seem to make sense through that filter. I still don’t think Myrtle did it, but I don’t know. It sounded like Owen kind of gave you the creeps when you overheard him on the phone at the coffee shop this morning.”

  “He did. That’s true. However, I was also completely flustered from making a fool of myself in front of Carla, but there was definitely something there. Though we’ve heard barely any rumors about Owen. Lots of cheating from Alice and Silas, but nothing about Owen.”

  Katie looked at me seriously. “Unless you take Henry at face value. Wasn’t Owen the one he was saying was the poacher? He told Leo he had proof this time.”

  “I thought of that. Could simply be bad timing. To be accused of poaching and then Henry gets killed. Or it could be something more. Henry finally found the real poacher and paid the price.” It made sense, and it didn’t feel wrong either. But neither did it necessarily feel right. “Maybe I should go talk to Owen tomorrow. Although, I don’t know anything about him. It’s not like he owns a store.”

  Katie stilled. “If you find him, I want you to take me with you. Or Leo, or Branson, even Sammy. Somebody. With all the names flying around, and the wrong people getting arrested, something about this feels a little more dangerous this time.”

  “More dangerous? You were the one who stopped an attempted murder a few weeks ago. This feels more dangerous?”

  Katie considered, shrugged, and returned to the pastry. “Yeah, it does.”

  We continued tossing ideas back and forth, though none felt substantial, and ended up talking about Sammy as Katie debated whether she should bring her on full-time or if things would slow down at the bakery after the newness wore off. Soon the heavenly smell of butter, cheese, and bread filled the kitchen. It was almost as comforting as a good book.

  As Katie took the croissants out of the oven to cool, she grinned over at me. “All right, go get into your pajamas, and I’ll put on mine. You can’t have a slumber party in real clothes.”

  “You’re serious? A slumber party? Don’t you have to be up at the crack of dawn to be at the bakery?”

  Katie grimaced at the thought. “Spoilsport. Well, whatever. I want a slumber party. I was thinking of having a Harry Potter movie marathon, but maybe instead we should settle for an episode of something on Netflix. I suppose we should get some sleep.”

  “That does sound fun, how about—”

  She held up her hand, cutting me off. “No, no murder mysteries. We get enough of that in real life. Try again.”

  “But I was thinking—”

  “Nope.” She smiled but narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re cut off. No more thinking about murder, either in Estes or any other place on the television. I made the food; I’ll pick the show.” She headed toward the bedroom to change into her pajamas as she called out over her shoulder, “Oh, I know! We can watch The Great British Bake Off.”

  Not a bad choice. I liked that show, but I couldn’t let Katie get the last word. “Seriously? I talk too much about murders, but you’re allowed to dive into more baking?”

  She didn’t even bother to pop her head out of the bedroom door. “My house, my rules. Now shut up and get in your pajamas. I wish we had a pair for Watson.”

  Katie and I ended up watching three episodes of the baking show. And at nearly an hour a piece, we were up well past midnight. Though I slept on her couch, I didn’t even hear her get up and head off to the bakery. When I finally woke at seven, she was gone, probably for hours and hours. I had no idea how she did it. Although I’d forgotten the luxury of having a doggy door and a dog run for Watson. He’d woken me three times during the night. Two of which were nothing more than him wanting to leave the house. As a result, I was dragging.

  Once home, I made breakfast for Watson and myself, then got ready for the day. After a shower and half a pot of coffee, I almost felt human again. When I got to the bookshop, I’d go upstairs and get a dirty chai and whatever Katie had baked fresh that morning.

  It had been a rough couple of days. I deserved a second breakfast.

  Knowing full well how it would end, I drove past the Cozy Corgi, and on to the next block, to see if Myrtle was in. Nothing more. Simply to check.

  Right.

  There were some stores closed for the season, but the ones that weren’t were already open, including Wings of the Rockies. It was still early enough that there was plenty of parking, so I pulled my Mini Cooper into a spot across the street, attached Watson’s leash, and hopped out.

  As I crossed toward her store, I realized I should be acting like a business owner. I wasn’t a detective. I owned a bookshop. And currently there were at least one or two bakers in the upstairs of that bookshop and absolutely no one where the books were. I needed to hire someone.

  I negated that thought as I opened the doors to Myrtle’s store and allowed Watson to walk in ahead of me. There was no reason to hire someone—I wasn’t always going to be solving a murder. This would be the last one. How many people could die in Estes Park, anyway? At least of murder.

  Myrtle was on a ladder, affixing a copper birdfeeder to one of the ceiling beams. She looked even more like a crane than normal. “Fred. I figured I’d be seeing you today.” She unwound a wire and slid the birdfeeder free. Taking it down, apparently, not putting it up. Twisting slightly, she bent and dangled the birdfeeder from the ladder. “Would you mind getting this for me? As soon as I got up here, I realized it wasn’t one of my smartest ideas. But I was already up.”

  “Of course!” I dropped Watson’s leash and hurried to her, reached up, and took the birdfeeder. It was heavier than it appeared.

  Myrtle made her way down the steps. She seemed a little shaky. After she reached the bottom, she held out her hands for the b
irdfeeder. “Thank you.”

  I sucked in a gasp as Myrtle’s eyes met mine. She’d aged a decade.

  A blush rose to her thin cheeks. “And I thought maybe the mirror was lying. Guess not.”

  I considered telling her she looked fine. But she’d already read my face, and she’d looked in the mirror. The damage was done. “Are you okay?”

  Myrtle laughed weakly and walked to the counter to set the birdfeeder down. She turned back to me, raking her fingers through her silver hair. Instead of its normal product-induced spike, it was a short fuzzy mess. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, with painfully heavy bags. And still she trembled. “One of my brigade was murdered, I was taken in for that murder, and now another member of my brigade has been arrested. One who I don’t think committed the murder.” Her bottom lip quivered. “Which means one of my Feathered Friends is not only a murderer, but is free and willing to let someone else take the fall.”

  It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. I’d anticipated anger or at least irritation when she saw me. I reached for her arm, but stopped short of touching her, letting my hand fall back to my side. “I’m sorry that my turning in the pin caused you problems. Katie said that it wasn’t even yours.”

  She shrugged like it didn’t matter and leaned against the counter. “I don’t blame you for that. It was the right thing to do. If the police had done their job better, they would’ve found the pin. Although, I do know there was a lot of snow up there. So either way, whether by their hand or yours, I would’ve been the natural suspect.”

  The door chimed, and an older man began to walk into the shop.

  Myrtle closed her eyes as if trying to find strength, then leaned around a display of field guides and shook her head. “No, sorry. Not today. At least not right now. You should go shopping somewhere else.”