Birds of a Feather

by Harper Crowley

  Nick’s lips thin. “I’m an accountant.” He folds his thick, muscled arms across his chest, as if to emphasize his point. Uh-huh, sure. Right.

  My head starts spinning. There’s too much going on, and I need time to process it. I’ve got to get out of here before I start slipping up.

  “I’m going to, um, head out, if that’s all right.” I back toward the closet with the entrance still propped open.

  “Makes sense. I have a front door, you know.” He smirks. “You could use that. I already know you’re here, so you don’t have to sneak out.”

  My cheeks burn. “Yeah, you’re right. I... uh, I’ll see you later.” I hurry out of his office and through his front door, feeling more closed in and claustrophobic than I did in the tunnel.

  That was close. Next time, you might want to think before diving into unknown tunnels.

  Touché.

  Back in the relative safety of the bookstore, Marge glares at me from her tree stand. She opens her mouth to let out a god-awful squawk but then decides against it and climbs to the top of the tree so she can stare at me, like a vulture waiting for a wounded wildebeest to die before it swoops in to eat the carrion—and I’m the carrion.

  When I don’t do whatever she’s expecting me to do, Marge fluffs up, disgruntled, and climbs over to the metal food bowl on one end of her stand. Then she pulls the bowl out of its holder and chucks it at the floor. Husks from seeds and nuts go flying, as well as some brightly colored little pellets I’m sure I’ll be sweeping up for days. She must be hungry. I would be, too, if that’s what I had to eat all the time.

  “Okay, okay.” I chuckle. “I get it. Just give me a minute.” My stomach grumbles too. “I’ll stop by the café and get us something to tide us over, and then I’ll make a store run. Sound good?”

  I swear Marge bobs her head up and down, as if in agreement. Great, now I’m one of those people who talks to animals and carries on conversations with them as if they really understand what I’m saying. I swear I read somewhere that birds are super smart, so maybe this feathery assassin does understand some of what I’m saying.

  At the café, I order a sandwich with chips for myself and a salad for Marge. Sitting at one of the stools at the bar next to the front counter, I try not to listen in on the conversations around me, but it’s hard, especially when I’m the subject of many of them.

  “Is that her?” a young woman with curly dark hair whispers to the girl sitting across the table from her. I stare at the menu, ignoring them.

  “I think so. She looks like they said.”

  I glance over, and the girl’s companion quickly looks away.

  “What do you think happened?” the first girl murmurs.

  “I don’t know,” her friend whispers. “But I heard she was from the big city.”

  Big city? If they only knew, some vague big city would be tame by comparison.

  “Do you think she killed Sandra?”

  My hands start shaking. This is how it starts. Not again, please not again.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the barista, Maryanne, says. She slides two Styrofoam containers toward me along with a tall disposable coffee cup that’s still steaming from a little hole in the lid.

  “Oh, thanks.” I grab the cup, hiding my embarrassment behind it. “I was just... daydreaming, I guess.” Lame, Willa. Super lame. Now everyone is going to think I’m a murderer who dreams about her crime. Good thing I’ll be gone before I have to worry about winning anyone over.

  At a table near the far end of the bar, an older couple watches me over a pair of open newspapers. They’re not the only ones. Conversation ceases around me. I stand up, and they rustle their newspapers as if they weren’t listening all along. Maryanne hands me a paper bag, and I slip the two cartons of food into it.

  A dozen pairs of eyes follow me out the door, and as soon as I cross the street and enter the safety of the bookstore, my knees almost buckle, and I sag against a table.

  “Whatcha doing?” Marge calls out.

  I stand up. “Nothing.” I better get Marge her food, or she’ll come looking for me, and that feathery little hellion is not something I want crawling around on the floor like a psychopathic toddler with a chainsaw.

  After feeding Marge and eating my own sandwich, I head into the nearest actual city, Traverse City, to pick up some proper bird food and actual groceries. On the way, I try calling Dorothy to see if she’s had a change of heart and would be willing to list the house sooner rather than later, but she doesn’t answer. I leave a message, but my stomach sinks. That doesn’t bode well.

  Once I enter the city limits and feel more anonymous, a lot of my fears and stresses fade away. Nobody knows who I am, and nobody knows what’s happened. I like it that way.

  A trip to a pet store yields more appropriate food for Marge as well as some big, blocky wooden toys that she can use to sharpen her beak rather than using me.

  After that, I hit the grocery store, and I war with the thought of whether I should tell the police about the tunnel. On one hand, it could absolutely be related to the case. Maybe the woman, Sandra, who was trying to break in to the store was really looking for the tunnel but didn’t know where it started. There might be something more valuable in that accountant’s office than there is in the bookstore, and the police might be barking up the wrong tree in terms of looking for evidence. Then again, there’s probably an equally good chance that Sandra had no idea about the passageway.

  That thought sobers me, and I try not to think about it too much. Because if she really was trying to break into the bookstore, and she wasn’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time, then I was only feet away from her—and the person who killed her.

  My fingers tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. It could’ve been me. My mind starts to travel down a dark road of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, but then I see the sign for Tranquility Falls and slow down so I don’t miss my exit. Thank goodness for distractions.

  I glance at the clock on my dashboard. Even after unpacking the groceries and feeding Marge, I’ll still have a long time before it gets dark, and I can’t just sit around all evening. Not if I plan on getting out of here as soon as it’s cleared by the realtor. I’ve got more than enough cleaning and organizing to keep me busy for several weeks, I’m afraid.

  After taking care of Marge and putting away my provisions, I stare at the piles of papers and books in my aunt’s office. I have to tackle them, but I find my mind wandering. If there’s one secret passage, there could be more, and there’s no way I’ll be able to find them all before I go to sleep.

  Sleep. Ha. As if that’ll happen. I pace the hall between the back door and the bookstore. My hands are gritty from dust, and gray streaks mar my jeans. It’s a good thing I don’t get visions from touching objects. If that happened, I’d never get any peace. It’s bad enough that I shy away from touching people because I don’t know what I’ll see.

  All of my jittery energy is good for something, though, because I make it halfway through one side of my aunt’s office before I give up. The lines on the papers are starting to blur together, and it’s getting harder for me to read her scrawling handwriting. I’m not tired, because I can feel the adrenaline just at the edge of my system, waiting for something to happen.

  But by nine o’clock, I decide that I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve been cooped up for too long, and even though I can’t see them, I feel the presence of many eyes watching me. I need to forget, if only for a little while.

  Across the street, the flashing neon lights of the local bar beckon me. I’m not normally one who frequents bars in strange towns, but I need to be around other people right now, people I don’t know. People who are hopefully too drunk to judge me based on what happened this morning.

  Fluffed up on the top branch of her tree, Marge lets out an annoyed beep that sounds an awful lot like the smoke alarm, which she’s been doing every time I walk past her and interrupt her slumber. She is
definitely not a night owl.

  Jonesy’s Bar sits across the street, on the corner of the block. The flickering neon lights blink sporadically, and the J is only half lit, but the small brick building looks clean and well-kept on the outside, and the narrow, half-filled parking lot is illuminated with several well-placed lights. Raucous laughter inside calls to me, tells me that the human contact I seek—human contact that isn’t maybe trying to kill me, that is—is just on the other side of the swinging saloon doors.

  The bar is loud, as most are on Friday nights. Patrons line the counter, and several more dot the scarred wooden tables spread throughout. After the door swings shut behind me, most of the laughter dies down, and all eyes swing toward me.

  This is great. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. It’s not the worst—I have a laundry list of those—but this one is pretty high up there.

  After a few seconds, the bartender, a man in his late fifties whose bald head shines under the florescent lights, jerks his head toward me.

  “I got a seat over here, miss,” he calls, his voice ringing through the quiet of the bar. And just like that, it’s as if I’ve been accepted, at least for a little while. People start to turn away, their voices rising to a more normal, conversational level, and I hurry over to the open seat at the end.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He grunts in response. “What can I get you?”

  “Um, do you have any local beers on tap?” I’m not much of a drinker, but while I’m here, I might as well try the regulars’ stuff.

  He nods.

  “Great. One of those.”

  After he turns away to get my drink, I survey the rest of the people in the bar. Most of them are men, with a group of younger ones flocking around a pool table near an old jukebox blasting classic country music in the back.

  My closest neighbor sits two seats from me, wearing a suit, his red tie loosened around his neck. He smooths back his thinning mousy-brown hair and clears his throat before turning toward me. “Are you new around here?” he asks, flashing what I’m sure he believes is a dashing smile. Newsflash: it’s not.

  “Um, yeah, I just got here.” Dude. Seriously? I shift on the stool, my body readying for flight. I am so not in the mood for this.

  “Gonna hang around long?” the man asks, leaning toward me with a glint in his eyes.

  “Knock it off, Daryl,” a familiar gravelly voice says from the other side of the man. “Leave her alone.”

  “Nick?” I squeak, craning my head around the guy who has been hitting on me.

  On the man’s other side, my new neighbor leans over the bar, cradling a long-necked bottle. He gives me a quick nod before tilting his head back and draining the beer.

  “Aw, come on, man,” Darryl mutters.

  Nick doesn’t even look at him. He just taps the beer bottle on the bar, and the bartender brings him another one.

  “I’m just talking to her.” He turns and looks at me. “You don’t mind, do you, darling?”

  “Sorry, Daryl, but I’m not interested.” I take a quick sip of beer and train my gaze at the shelves full of different taps displayed on the wall.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “If you change your mind, I could show you around Tranquility Falls. This town does have some really beautiful spots.”

  “I’m sure it does.” Just the thought of going into the middle of nowhere with this guy gives me the creeps. “But no, I’m not interested.”

  “See?” Nick says. I swear I detect a hint of laughter in his voice. “I told you to back off.”

  “Whatever,” Daryl says. “Can’t fault a guy for trying.” He smirks, but there’s a cold glint in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before. He slides off of the stool and disappears into the crowd.

  The bartender slides another beer in front of Nick. The jukebox starts to play a song that’s apparently popular, because someone turns up the volume and several drunk patrons start singing along.

  Nick says something, but I can’t hear him, so I slide over to Daryl’s empty seat.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I asked how it was going at the bookstore.” He glances out the window and across the street, as if looking at the store.

  “Oh, you know.” I shrug noncommittally. “I’m getting there.” At the rate I’m going, I’ll be there for years cleaning out my aunt’s things.

  Nick chuckles. “That’s what I figured. I went in there a couple times when Wanda was still alive, and it was pretty bad. I offered to help if she needed anything”—he shrugs—“but she never took me up on it. I think things just got out of hand.”

  “And now I have to clean it all up,” I muse.

  “Yep. Bet you didn’t know what you signed up for when you agreed to help her nieces out, huh?”

  I study Nick out of the corner of my eye. It seems the alcohol has loosened his tongue, and I briefly debate whether or not I should take the opportunity to ask him some questions and try to get more information out of him. But I can feel the warm buzz of the beer hitting me, too, so that’s probably not a good idea.

  “I don’t mind. I’m kind of in between jobs right now, so it’s not a big deal.” I take another long sip of beer while I try to figure out what’s safe to discuss. “It’ll be fine, though.” God, I sound boring.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he says, but it’s obvious from the tone of his voice that he doesn’t believe me. “At the risk of this sounding likes a worse come-on than my friend Daryl’s, what brings you to a place like this?”

  I fight back a weak smile. “It doesn’t look like there are a lot of places to go on a Friday night around here. Besides, I keep thinking about that poor woman behind the bookstore and who killed her. Then my mind starts wondering if they’re going to come back, and I’ll be alone, and”—I grimace—“you get the picture.”

  Nick nods. “You get stuck in your own head. It’s easy enough to do after something traumatic happens.”

  “It sounds like you speak from experience.” The words leave my lips before I think about it, and I clap my hand over my mouth as if I can take them back. I don’t want to get too personal with him or form bonds or relationships with anyone, really. The last one didn’t end so well.

  He snorts. “You could say that.” He takes another sip of beer as if lost in his own memories. I leave him that peace. I have enough demons of my own to contend with.

  “So what do you do when you’re not emptying out abandoned bookstores?” he asks.

  “I used to be a teacher,” I blurt out. Stupid. Willa, you need to think these things through before you say them. I’ve gotten so used to calling myself Willa that it feels like Shelby was another life, but I never thought about making up a fake profession.

  “A teacher, eh?” he asks, his interest piqued.

  Crap. I’m not sure how I’m gonna get out of this one without him telling that I’m lying. “Yeah. I think I just got burned out after a while.” My voice gets stronger as the semi-lie solidifies in my head. “So all this kind of happened at the perfect time. Not my friend’s aunt’s death,” I hurry to add, “but the whole cleaning-out-the-store thing. I sure wasn’t planning on Marge being there, but I’ll figure something out.”

  He raises his beer to me in a toast. “Here’s to figuring stuff out.”

  I clank my glass against his bottle in solidarity and let the warmth of the buzz seep further into me. “Amen to that.”

  As I drink the rest of my beer, I tune out the laughter and voices behind me. Some, I’m sure, are talking about the dead women and me, but I try to ignore it.

  “How’d you meet the sisters?” Nick asks in a neutral tone that puts me on edge for some reason.

  Remember your backstory, Willa. Or at least make it up as you go along. “We, um, we lived on the same block when we were kids. I was an army brat, and we were stationed at the base, but my dad promised me a puppy, and we couldn’t have one on base where we wanted to live, so we ended up looking for a place
to live off base. They were really friendly, and we just clicked. We moved a few years later when my dad was deployed, but we stayed in touch as best we could.” That sounds good. Almost realistic, even. I give myself a mental pat on the back.

  Movement behind me catches my attention as a blustery voice breaks through the din. “Taking my girl, are you, now?” Daryl slings an arm over my shoulder and slides drunkenly into the seat I vacated. I freeze, but no visions fill my head, thank God. I never know when they’re going to hit me. “I lost pool, and now I lost the girl. You always were a dog, Nick. Always stealing the girls.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the acrid scent of beer and sweat wafting off of him. He must have really gotten a workout playing pool. I’ve only played a couple of times, but I don’t remember it being that intense.

  Nick shoots his friend a look, but Daryl is either too drunk or too stupid to notice. I gingerly pick up his arm to remove it, but he tightens his grip. Fear shivers through me.

  Nick stands up and, in one fluid motion, reaches around me and clamps his hand on Daryl’s shoulder, his thick fingers digging into the man’s upper arm. “Let her go, Daryl. She’s not interested.”

  “Why not?” He slurs the words. “Maybe she wants a little fun.”

  I rack my brain for the self-defense moves I learned years ago in college, but aside from kicking him between the legs, I come up blank. Yeah, I am so not prepared for things like this.

  Nick’s lips thin, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. “No, she doesn’t. She’s here to clean out her friend’s aunt’s bookstore. Miss Wanda. Remember her?”

  Daryl freezes, and his hand drops from my shoulder. “Miss Wanda?” His bloodshot brown eyes narrow at me, as if he sees me for the first time as more than just a nameless good time. “What are you doing that for?”

  “It’s like Nick said, I’m helping out Shelby and Sara. They asked me to clean out the place and get it listed for sale.”

  Daryl gulps. Gone is the drunk, desperate man. He’s been replaced by someone who looks stone-cold sober. “Have you found anything yet?”