Birds of a Feather
Feathers and Felonies, Volume 1
Harper Crowley
Published by Harper Crowley, 2020.
Birds of a Feather
Copyright ©2020 Harper Crowley
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the author.
Nor can it be circulated in any form
other than that in which it is published without the written
consent of the author.
Published by Wolf Hollow Press
Edited by Red Adept Editing
Cover by Wolf Hollow Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to locales, events,
business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
http://www.harpercrowley.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Chapter 1
The cold metal keys rattle against each other as I fumble through the heavy ring, finally plucking the largest from the bunch. I jam it into the keyhole on the door and twist it to the left. It doesn’t budge. I try turning it to the right. Still nothing. Seriously? I didn’t drive all night in a car that shouldn’t have made it out of the state just to get locked out.
I pull the key out and promptly drop the whole ring on the ground. “Damn it.” Scooping up the keys, I try the lock again, but it’s still jammed. It’s a good thing I’m not staying here long—Tranquility Falls is just a pit stop, a place to lick my wounds before moving on. This isn’t a place I want to be for very long.
Just as I’m about to chuck the keys at the dirty display windows bracketing the door, it opens.
“Oh sweet Jesus, you’re here.” A flash of cotton-candy-pink curls darts under my arm before the old woman turns to face me. Standing no taller than my shoulders, and with her back stooped with age, she squints at me, her cloudy blue eyes assessing me from atop a field of purple paisley. “I’m Kathy. You must be Wanda’s niece. Shelby, right?”
“No, I’m—”
She cuts me off. “Of course, it’s you. You look just like those pictures Wanda had up on the wall.”
I make a mental note to take those down. I don’t want anyone else recognizing me.
“I didn’t know you were coming this soon, but I’m sure glad you’re here.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I’m sorry, but I’m not Wanda’s niece. I’m—”
“Don’t you worry, dear,” she says, ushering me into the dimly lit store. “I’ve got everything right here for you. Here you go,” she says, pressing yet another key into the palm of my hand. “That’s for the back door. I’m not sure why Wanda always kept the keys separate, but she did. You must be exhausted, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll send Harold over with food later.” And then she’s gone, flouncing out of my life in a sea of purple flowers.
That was strange. Sara had said someone would be here to show me around, but Kathy couldn’t wait to get out of here. This place must be worse than I thought.
I take a deep breath and walk into my aunt’s bookstore. I can do this, I remind myself. I’ve handled worse.
Mismatched, dusty tomes line the bookshelves on each wall and overflow from the tables tucked into the corners. Antique figurines and vases stand sentinel on display cases that create narrow, serpentine paths from one end of the store to the other. A tiny, twelve-inch black-and-white TV plays Green Acres on top of a filing cabinet next to a dusty, wooden bird play stand that looks like a tree. My aunt must have kept that after Marge died. She always was strangely obsessed with that bird. It’s weird, because that monster tried to kill everyone else, including my sister and me.
“Change the damn channel,” a low, throaty voice mutters.
I spin around, my heart pounding. “Hello? Who’s there?” I wonder if Kathy’s husband, Harold, is here. That must be it. But wouldn’t she have told you if there was anyone else here?
From somewhere near the front desk, there’s a hoarse cough, as if its owner smokes a pack of cigarettes a day.
“Hello?” I slowly approach the front desk. “I’m Willa Thompson. I’m helping the owners clean up the place before they sell it.”
“Change the damn channel,” the throaty voice says again.
“Who’s there?” I creep closer.
It’s not the TV. Right now, Green Acres is at the part at the end where everybody laughs before they cut to the credits. Obviously, the voice isn’t a character from the show. None of them would swear, even if it’s a semi-cuss word.
I mince my way past the tree toward the front counter, which is stacked high with paperwork and random odds and ends. I definitely have some cleaning to do before I can sell this place. Oh well, nothing the dumpster I was told is out back won’t solve.
Just as I pass the counter, a flash of white feathers lets out a hellish screech and dives toward me, its steel-gray beak wide open for a taste of my flesh. I cover my face and scramble out of the way, knocking over a towering stack of old Playboy magazines. Oh God. No, it’s not possible. Marge is dead. She has to be by now.
I turn slowly, heart thumping fast and hard against my ribs. No. It can’t be her. On the edge of the table, a raggedy white cockatoo ruffles her feathers, picking at her beak with one deadly talon, as if sharpening it. When she sees me looking at her, the bird cackles, an evil laugh more akin to nails on a chalkboard than anything that should be possible in nature.
“Get the hell out,” the bird rasps.
Marge. No wonder Kathy left in such a hurry. My stomach sinks. It can’t be possible. Marge would be like fifty or sixty years old. Birds don’t live that long, do they?
I back out through the front door, Marge’s maniacal cackling echoing through the room. This bird is the devil incarnate, one who enjoys feasting on mortal flesh, and if I have to guess, age hasn’t tempered her fury one bit.
Outside the bookstore, I fumble for my phone and flick through my recent calls until I find my realtor’s number. Then, with one eye still glued to the door in case the demon bird explodes from within, I press Call and hold the phone to my ear. Marge lets out a muffled scream that rings my ears, even with the door and space between us. Lovely. This is getting better and better.
“Hello?” Tranquility Falls’s leading realtor, Dorothy Dane, answers immediately. I imagine her smoothing her frosted-blond curls and sipping a cup of coffee behind her desk. At least, that’s how her pictures online show her—poised, perfectly coiffed, and caffeinated.
“Hi, Mrs. Dane, it’s me, Willa.” I hesitate, unsure how to lead into asking her why she didn’t tell me the feathery demon was still alive without sounding like I was blaming her. It’s not her fault Marge is too mean to die. That bird probably thrives on fear and pain. She certainly got her pound of flesh from my sister and me when we were kids.
“Oh, hello. How are you settling in? Is the store as darling as I remember? There’s so m
uch potential.”
“Yeah, except for Marge. I didn’t know the bird was still here.” I’m not sure I would have come if I’d known. To be honest, it’s not like I had anywhere else to go, but it would have been nice to have a head’s up, at least.
“Oh,” she says. “I thought you knew.” Her voice drips with fake innocence.
“How? No one told me.” A throbbing headache blossoms behind my eyes, right in rhythm with Marge’s constant screaming. “How am I supposed to find someone to take her? I told you I didn’t want any complications. In and out. I just want to get the shop ready, list it, then be on my way.” I know in my head it won’t be that easy, but I’m desperate. I need easy right now.
“It’s just a momentary setback,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll find someone. Until then, why don’t I come by the shop and see what we have to work with?”
“Sounds good.” I stare at the door again, dreading the thought of going back inside. “Know anyone who wants a bird?”
She laughs. “No, I’m sorry. Good luck, though.”
Yeah, I’ll need it.
After I hang up, I decide that the best chance I have of surviving is by ingesting more caffeine. I rack my brain for the nearest non-gas-station place. Oh yeah, there’s that little place on the corner. Thank God.
I pull out the keys but then figure that if I lock the door, I won’t be able to get it unlocked again, so I leave it. It’s not like anyone would go inside long enough to steal something with Marge screaming like that.
With my mind wondering what the hell I’m going to do with a cockatoo, I round the side of the bookstore and run face-first into a wall. Not an actual wall, I amend to myself, but a warm, rock-hard chest chiseled with pecs and abs and bracketed by thick, muscled arms, bronze skin glowing in the sun as they snap around me to keep me from falling on my rear. Shock, fear, and embarrassment strike all at once. Oh God. Please don’t let me see anything. I can’t handle this right now. I plant my hands on his chest to push away, but it’s too late.
I’m in a hallway. It’s dark, and there’s a flickering light about halfway down. Closed doors line each side, and a slight figure at the other end wavers from side to side. Whoever it is is wearing a hoodie and has something in his hand.
I look down—I can’t help it. I’m holding a gun. Fear sparks through me immediately. I don’t do guns. I hate them.
“Drop the gun!” a gravelly male voice shouts.
The person on the other end raises his hand. Adrenaline rushes through my-his veins. A million scenarios run through my-his head. The perp could drop the gun, or he could raise it and shoot. God, what if he already shot her? That asshole better not have hurt her. I’ll-he’ll kill him.
The part of the vision that remains me wants to scream, shout, do something to convince the figure to drop whatever it is he has in his hand, but it’s like my mouth is frozen. I fight it, even though it’s always like this. I’m a passenger in someone else’s movie. Someone else’s future.
The light on the wall flickers. The guy’s thoughts run through my head. Where are the cops? Damn it. They should be here by now. I swear to God, I’m going to kill them if something happens to her.
The lone figure shifts uneasily from side to side, and I’m so attuned to his every breath that as soon as his fingers twitch on the gun, I see it. I feel it.
“Drop the damn gun,” the man—me?—barks.
He doesn’t. As the person raises his hand slowly, time stops. Blood rushes through my veins, my heart pounds in my chest, and a drop of sweat beads off my brow.
The guy at the end of the hall flinches, as if trying to reach a decision.
The man gives him one last warning, and when the guy’s finger twitches on the trigger, I-he fires the gun.
The echoing retort vibrates up my arm, and the person at the end of the hall crumbles to the ground.
I spring back, dragging a breath of fresh air into my lungs. I blink, desperate to get the darkness out of my vision. That was awful. I can’t... I just...
“Are you all right?” the man I ran into asks. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking down at his feet. Huh. Maybe he’s as socially awkward as I am.
I scrub my hands on my jeans and take another deep breath. “Yeah, I think so.” A sharp breeze picks up, slicing through my soaked shirt. I’m wet. What the heck?
My gaze flies down in horror. A dark-brown stain spreads against my pink T-shirt, clinging to my flesh and outlining my bra. A crumbled coffee cup rests next to the guy’s shoes. That must be what he was looking at. Horror fills me. This guy—the guy who will shoot someone if my vision becomes reality—was holding a coffee cup, and not only did I get on his bad side by spilling it everywhere, but I’m a front runner for a wet T-shirt contest. Today sucks, big time. Coming to Tranquility Falls was definitely a mistake.
“Oh God. I’m so sorry,” I manage to say.
The man scowls down at a similar stain on his faded orange T-shirt. He’s got short dark hair and a nose that bumps just a bit to the side, as if it’s been broken in the past. His wide lips are pursed in a frown as his dark-brown eyes critically take in what happened. Dark stubble lines his jaw. He’d be pretty hot, if I hadn’t just seen him shoot someone.
“It’s fine,” he says, but his tone tells me it’s most definitely not fine.
His gruff voice brings back my vision, and I try to shake the images away, but I can’t. I’m going to have nightmares about this one, I just know it. “It’s all my fault. I should have been paying attention. I just got off the phone with my realtor, and I wasn’t looking where I was going, and...” My voice trails off. I’m not sure if there’s anything else I can say that won’t sound stupid or reveal who I am.
“Realtor, eh?” The guy eyes me speculatively, the coffee fiasco momentarily forgotten. “Are you buying the bookstore? You know those are a dying breed, right? Hell, I can’t believe anyone would want to own one, nowadays. And the lawyers”—he shakes his head in disgust— “someone must have been paying them pretty good to get it moved through probate this quickly. It’s only been a couple months since Wanda died, and the poor woman’s family has just been chomping at the bit to get her money.”
“What are you talking about?” Bristling, I shade my eyes against the sun and glare at him. My sister and I aren’t after my aunt’s money. There won’t be any, especially after we close out her estate and pay the lawyer. It’s got to be done, though, and I’m in the perfect position to take care of it. “I know Wanda’s nieces, and they loved her.” Love isn’t exactly what I felt for my aunt, especially after what happened the last time I visited, but it’s what’s expected, so I say it.
The stranger raises his eyebrows curiously. “You knew Wanda?”
My mind whirls. I’ve got to come up with something, even if it’s a barely plausible story to hide the truth. “Sort of. I’ve heard stories from Sara and Shelby.” It’s only been a couple of months since I changed my name, but Shelby already sounds foreign to me, as if it belonged to someone else. It does. “Shelby’s my best friend.”
“They were Wanda’s nieces, right?” I pause. The way he asks the question tells me he already knows the answer. I’ll have to watch myself so he doesn’t catch me in a lie. Good thing I’m only sticking around to sort the bookstore out.
“Yup.”
When I don’t rush to add more, he bends down and plucks the coffee cup up off the ground. “What are they planning, then?”
I can answer that with confidence. “They asked me to help them clean it up and sell it.” I cast a scowl over my shoulder. “I wasn’t planning on the bird being there, but I bet I can get the animal shelter to take it.”
The man tips his head back and laughs deeply, as if I’d just said the funniest thing in the world. “Good luck. Marge has been there for years. She’s as much an institution in this town as the store itself. Her reputation precedes her. I don’t think you’re going to get any takers.”
I cock my head to the s
ide. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He chuckles. “What’s your name? Larry next door was asking who was going to take care of the store.”
“Willa.” My new name spills off my lips easily. “Willa Thompson. You probably won’t see me that much, though. I don’t plan on staying long. Just a few days, hopefully.” It shouldn’t take that long to clean up a bookstore and find a new home for a bird. “Hopefully, I’ll be out by next week.”
He smirks. “Good luck.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Yeah, well, I’ll see you later. I should probably get started.” With my current track record, I might want to think about skipping the coffee. However, I’m not ready to go back inside the store just yet, not with Psychobird out for my blood. I’ll start on my aunt’s apartment instead.
The guy tosses his coffee cup in a trash can next to the sidewalk. “You do that.” I’m not making any friends here. Not that you want to.
“Uh-huh. Sorry again. Bye.” I spin around and hurry away from him, taking a sharp left around the side of the store, and try to ignore the man’s chuckle. Maybe I should have gotten his name. No, names mean something more than the fly-by-night I have planned. Names mean I care, and that’s not in my plans—not for a long time, if ever.
Chapter 2
It only takes me three tries to find a key on the key ring before remembering that Kathy gave me a separate one for the back door. Because that makes sense. Normal people don’t keep their keys separate. But Aunt Wanda definitely wasn’t normal.
Going through the bookstore would have been easier than marching all the way around back, but Marge is in there. I’ll have to deal with her eventually, just not right now. Maybe later, after she’s eaten a few tourists and isn’t out for my blood.
To call the cramped quarters behind the bookstore an apartment is being generous. A swinging cord over a panel in the ceiling pulls down a ladder that leads into a cramped attic I only ventured into once as a kid. The collection of dust, cobwebs, and a couple of creepy mannequins wearing old, moth-eaten clothes was enough to make me vow never to return.
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