Die, Die Birdie Read online

  “No!” I cried. That’s it. I was kicking the woman out just as soon as I got this dead body thing sorted out.

  “Turn the lights back on! Turn the lights back on!” Geesh, I’d only wanted her to turn off that lighthouse-like LED flashlight of hers. That thing could burn holes through solid steel. I rubbed my eyes with my fists. What damage had that thing done to my retinas?

  I looked down through watery eyes. The dead man seemed to be looking up at me out of one eye like it was my fault. But I swear, it wasn’t.

  That was when I noticed the sticky red substance clinging to my fingers.

  2

  A sudden pounding on the back door below set both of us off and we screamed in unison. It was nothing to make the church choir proud. But it sure would have set the cat’s hair on end, if I had a cat.

  We looked at each other in wide-eyed fear. Was it the boogeyman? Had Death come knocking on my back door? I struggled to calm my nerves. I cleared my throat. “Maybe you should go see who’s at the door, Esther,” I suggested.

  Esther shook her head adamantly. “Not me, young lady. This is your house. You answer the door.” Esther Pilaster is a small, narrow-shouldered, elflike woman with a hawkish nose, sagging eyelids, and silver hair normally pulled tightly to the back of her head in a four-inch ponytail held in place with an elastic black velvet hair tie. Her gray-blue eyes, topped with wispy white eyebrows, dared me to challenge her.

  The banging picked up again, harder, louder.

  I sighed heavily and pushed the birdfeeder hook out of my path, nudging it closer to the body with my shoe. I shuddered as I looked at the man’s lifeless form. He was slumped on his side, his pale face toward the wall. He wore baggy blue jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt with an unbuttoned brown flannel jacket over top. His wavy black hair was matted on the side facing toward the ceiling, no doubt indicating where he’d been struck. Who was he? Why was he here?

  Why was he dead?

  The banging continued.

  “Don’t touch anything!” I hollered at Esther as I scurried down the dark stairs.

  “Don’t you worry,” Esther shot back. “Wouldn’t touch a thing if you paid me.”

  I tromped down the steps and struggled for the doorknob in the dark. The light from the sliver of moon in the sky did little to help. Finally, I managed to find the doorknob. I twisted and pulled, realizing a moment after I’d opened the door that I just might be letting a murderer back into the store.

  I impulsively swung the door shut again, but a big black boot got in my way.

  “Ouch!”

  I hesitated, squinting into the darkness. “Wh-who are you?” A large, brooding hulk of a man stood on the stoop, clutching something in his left hand. A flash of lightning appeared in the far distance. That meant a storm moving in from the mountains. Bringing snow, or maybe more rain.

  He looked at the dark object in his gloved hand. “I’ve got a delivery for a—” He paused. He pulled one of his brown leather work gloves off using his teeth. He must have done it a hundred times because he did it rather adeptly, like a titmouse nimbly breaking open the shell of a sunflower seed to get to the nut inside.

  His free hand rummaged around in his trouser pockets. A small flashlight attached to a keychain blinked on. “Amy Simms?” I recognized the dark object now as one of those electronic clipboards that drivers carry nowadays.

  I heaved a sigh, felt my trembling subside. I nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said lazily. “Accident out on the interstate.” He traced the weak light across my chest and face. “You okay, miss?”

  “What’s going on down there?” shrieked Esther Pilaster. “How long you expect me to stand around up here all alone with a dead guy?”

  Despite the dimness, I noticed the deliveryman’s bushy eyebrows jerk upwards.

  I forced a weak smile. “We have a bit of a problem.”

  He glanced at the bloodstains on my hand and took a step back, and I didn’t blame him. “Maybe I should come back another time.”

  “No, wait!” I pleaded. I pointed toward the stairs. “There’s been an accident. I think a man is dead.” And the businessperson in me needed those store goods.

  I grabbed him by his jacket. “Follow me.” He had no choice but to trail me up the stairs.

  Esther stood hunched in the corner of the room, as far from the body as she could possibly get. Her nose wrinkled up. “Who’s he?” A billowy, pale yellow cable-knit sweater hung loosely to her hips. A black and red tartan skirt hung just as loosely to her feet. The sweater might have been white once. The entire outfit looked a million years old.

  “Deliveryman,” I said quickly to Esther. I turned to the beefy trucker. There was now a dab of blood on his jacket where I’d grabbed him. I’d have some explaining to do both to him and the police. He wore blue trousers, a matching blue shirt with the name Dwayne stitched above the pocket, and a baggy tan jacket.

  I felt safer just having him there in the room with us. His presence would certainly discourage any murderers who might be lurking in some dark corner of the house, weapon in hand.

  “You see?” I waved to the body on the floor, not that it needed pointing out.

  The driver nodded nervously. “Have you called the police?” He had a white-knuckled grip on his electronic clipboard.

  I shook my head. “I was going to do that when we heard you banging on the door.”

  Dwayne wasn’t looking so good. A bead of sweat ran along his hairline. He backed out of the room and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  “Good idea,” I said. We trooped back down the stairs and waited for the authorities to arrive.

  A small kitchenette, nothing more than a single stainless-steel sink, a compact microwave, and a coffeepot, was set into an alcove in the back right corner. Years ago, the original kitchen had no doubt occupied this space and more, but previous tenants had removed the house’s kitchen to make room for the various businesses that had come and gone in the space before the old house finally came to an ignoble end, sitting mostly vacant and ignored for several months before Mom and I purchased it from Gertrude Hammer.

  I lit a handful of scented beeswax candles and washed my hands in the sink, then filled the glass carafe from the tap. The water ran icy cold this time of year, with spring still several weeks away. I dumped in several scoops of ground coffee, frowned, then dumped in a few more. It looked to be a long, dreary night and I figured we could all use an extra jolt of caffeine.

  Esther took her coffee with two cream packs and three sugars. Dwayne the trucker declined and stood gazing silently out one of the side windows in what had originally been the formal living room.

  I heard what sounded like a car alarm in the distance but knew it was nothing more than a northern mockingbird. As proof of my theory, the car alarm tune morphed into the pleasant what-cheer, what-cheer sound of a northern cardinal, North Carolina’s state bird. The mockingbird is famous for its ability to imitate other birds. The mockingbird is the Rich Little of the bird world.

  The front door rattled with the force of knuckles on wood. “Thank goodness,” I said to no one in particular. “It looks like the police are here.” Flashing blue light from the sedan parked out front illuminated Lake Shore Drive. Through the glass, I noticed the glint of a badge on the brown uniform of the man at the door and quickly opened it. Another officer hung a step back to his left, one foot off the path and in my new flowerbed. Trampling the bulbs I’d so lovingly planted there two weeks ago. I decided to let it go. After all, murder trumps mashed daffodil bulbs.

  “Thank heavens you’re here.” I stepped aside and let the two men in. The burning candles filled the room with a scent reminiscent of wildflower honey.

  The first removed his hat and bounced it nervously against his thigh. Underneath his cap, his crew-cut blond hair stood up in front. He must have been the last man on earth rubbing Brylcreem in his hair and styling it like it was 1960. He
was rather boyish looking, with a fleshy, squat nose, an uneven smattering of freckles, and dark jade eyes.

  And I knew him.

  William Gerald Kennedy.

  I closed my eyes for a moment to collect myself. Third grade was a long time ago. High school was not. Jerry and I had gone out a few times and it had ended badly.

  He squinted and the beginnings of a smile came to his lips. “Amy? Is that you? I heard you were back in town.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked around. “So what exactly have you got going on here?”

  “Hello, Jerry,” I said, trying to keep the bad taste in my mouth that I got when I said his name from spilling out in the tone of my voice. I looked him up and down. Even in uniform, he still looked like the annoying boy I’d grown up with. “I’m opening a new business, Birds and Bees.”

  “Cute. Birds and bees, huh?” he quipped. “What are you selling, sex ed books for twelve-year-olds?”

  His companion snorted.

  My lips turned down. “More like birding supplies, gardening and apiary supplies to support bee colonies and butterfly populations as well as birds.” I quirked up my eyebrow. “But if you need a book on sex ed, I’m sure I could order one for you.”

  The officer shadowing him laughed again and Jerry Kennedy shut him up with an icy look.

  Jerry cleared his throat and I noticed, with satisfaction, quarter-sized red blotches on his cheeks. “You do this all on your own?”

  What was he asking me? Whether I was married or not? Not that he stood a chance with me.

  “With my mother’s and Kim’s help.” Actually, Mom’s twin sister, Betty, had also contributed. Aunt Betty’s a little goofy, kindhearted and thrice married. Her current husband is a retired developer who likes to tell people that the only thing he’s trying to develop these days is his golf game.

  A lopsided grin crossed his face. “Kimberly Christy?”

  I nodded.

  “You two were joined at the hip in high school. Some of us were surprised she didn’t go off to college in Chapel Hill like you did.”

  Kimberly was sharp but not the studying type, and had stuck with the local community college. I’d opted for the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. “So, you’re a police officer now?”

  His smile bloomed. “I’m chief of police,” he boasted. “Been so for going on four years.”

  I suppressed a grimace. There must have been a lack of candidates.

  Jerry rested a hand on my shoulder. “So what’s going on here?” He glanced at his companion, a younger but beefier-looking police officer whose brown eyes darted around the room like a woodpecker watching for a lurking red-shouldered hawk. “A call came in about a dead body?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.” I jerked my head toward the rear of the store. “Upstairs.”

  He smirked. “Not a dead bird, I hope.”

  “A dead man,” I replied stiffly.

  “She killed him,” Esther said ever so helpfully, shaking her coffee cup at me like she was Lady Justice waving her sword in judgment. She had commandeered one of the two walnut rockers in the alcove. Her feet didn’t reach the ground and her lace-up white orthopedic shoes bobbed up and down as she swayed, revealing thin white socks bunched around her ankles. “I found her standing right over him. Then she washed her hands in the sink.” Esther’s eyes bulged out.

  “I had to!” I shot back. “I had blood on them—” I clammed up.

  “See?” Esther’s sharp jaw jutted out. Esther had helped herself to the orchid throw I’d picked up at the American Orchid Society’s former headquarters and botanical garden in Delray Beach, Florida, some years before, draping it tightly over her shoulders. I couldn’t help hoping she didn’t spill coffee all over it.

  I frowned at her and rolled my eyes for Jerry’s benefit. “I did not kill anybody.” I explained my actions. “I don’t even know who the man is, Jerry.”

  “Chief Kennedy,” he said out of the side of his mouth, tapping his badge with his finger.

  “Somebody killed him, all right.” Dwayne stood near the window, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “There’s a poker with blood all over it lying right there beside him.”

  “It’s not a poker, it’s a—”

  “Who are you, exactly?” demanded Chief Kennedy, cutting me off and looking past me.

  “Dwayne Rogers. I work for Cole’s Trucking.” He picked up the electronic clipboard he’d set atop one of the near-empty shelves. “I was making a delivery.” He sighed. “Wish I’d stayed home now.” He twisted toward the window—like a rooster seeking freedom—the fingertips of his gloves sticking out of his jacket pockets like chicken combs.

  “What’s with all the candles?” Chief Kennedy inquired. “This is a criminal investigation, not some romantic soirée. Can’t we get some lights on?”

  “There seems to be a problem with the electric,” I replied.

  “Officer Sutton will check out your fuse box while we go check out this body of yours.”

  “It isn’t my body.”

  “Well, let’s go see just whose body it is.” Jerry extended his hand toward the stairs. He glanced at my boarder. “Ms. Pilaster, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Esther answered. “I’m innocent, Chief.” She turned her eyes on me. Gee, could she be more obvious?

  With introductions and pleasantries finished, we marched upstairs, me in the lead, Jerry Kennedy close behind. He stood in the open doorway and took in the scene, then approached the body slowly, crouching beside it.

  I joined him, much as I loathed squatting so close to a dead man. Or Jerry.

  “Don’t touch anything,” cautioned the chief. The birdfeeder hook and prime candidate for murder weapon lay at his feet.

  “Not in a million years,” I grumbled.

  “Her fingerprints are all over it!”

  I looked over Jerry Kennedy’s shoulder to see Esther peering accusingly at me. She was in full Esther the Pester mode.

  I pursed my lips. “Of course my fingerprints are all over it.” I rose. “It’s my hook. Plus, like I said before we came upstairs, I kicked the hook with my foot in the dark and picked it up.”

  I glared at my renter. “I didn’t know what it was.” I folded my arms across my chest. “And I did not swing it at anybody.” Not that I wasn’t in the mood to just then.

  Esther’s gray-blue eyes honed in on me. “She was standing right here in this room, in the dark, with that thing in her hand when I came in.”

  “You already said that, Esther,” I said sourly. “Where’s my mother, by the way?” I was surprised all the commotion hadn’t brought her down. Was she asleep?

  “Went to the movies with that friend of hers, Cheryl Harper.” Esther coughed uncontrollably. Esther was a reformed smoker. At least that’s what she told me. There were times I swear I could smell cigarette smoke coming from behind her apartment door. “I saw them when they were heading out.”

  I’ll bet she saw. Esther saw everything. So why didn’t she see who killed this stranger in my house? Or had she?

  Maybe she murdered him herself. A crazed lone spinster who lures unsuspecting men up to her apartment, then clobbers them when they try in vain to leave as they realize she doesn’t have the beautiful young daughter she’d no doubt enticed them with . . .

  If Esther went to jail, I wouldn’t have to evict her.

  The good news was that with Mom at the movies, at least she didn’t have to deal with all this. And if she’d been home at the time of the murder, she might have been a victim too. A frisson ran up my spine as the thought struck my heart.

  Jerry’s fingers played a march along the textured grip of his pistol. He stood and I heard his knees crackle. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come down to the station, Ms. Simms.”

  “Ms. Simms?” I blubbered, wiping my sweaty palms against my slacks. When had I started sweating? “What are you talking about? You know me, Jerry. I didn’t kill anybody!” Though I might later, a
fter he was gone.

  He held out a fleshy palm. “Now, now. You may not want to say anything until you’ve had a chance to speak with your attorney.”

  Officer Sutton appeared in the doorway. “I found the circuit breaker box in a downstairs closet in the back room. Breaker was tripped.”

  Tripped or turned off on purpose? I wondered.

  Chief Kennedy scratched the side of his nose. “Any sign of a break-in?”

  Sutton shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I found the front door unlocked when I arrived,” I explained.

  Jerry Kennedy looked bemused. “You always leave your front door unlocked when you’re away from the premises, Amy? I mean, I know this is a small town and all, but still . . .”

  I frowned. “I’m pretty sure I locked it.” I shook my head. “Or at least I think I did.” I looked at my tenant. “Esther might have come in through the front, though I’ve told her a thousand times not to, and forgotten to lock it.”

  “Did not!” Esther snapped.

  “Might have!” I snapped back.

  Chief Kennedy stuck his hand up like a stop sign and nodded to his companion. “Officer Sutton, you’d better read Ms. Simms her rights.”

  “But, Jerry—Chief Kennedy—” I began.

  He held up his hand once again. “Not another word.” He turned to Officer Sutton. “Take Ms. Simms down to the squad car and see she gets to the station, Dan. I’ll be along as soon as I can. Sure hope the ME gets here soon.” He pulled at his watch. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night. Got any more of that coffee?”

  “Please, help yourself,” I said, hoping he caught the unveiled sarcasm, as Officer Sutton took me by the elbow and led me from the storeroom. “And help yourself to the Girl Scout cookies too!”

  I heard him thank me even as we disappeared down the stairs. The joke was on Jerry; I didn’t have any cookies.

  3

  I stared glumly at my reflection in the restroom mirror. My just beyond shoulder-length chestnut brown hair was frizzled and flat. My baby blues were ringed with dark circles that made me look like a raccoon, and my face was pale as an albino ghost’s. Most of my lipstick had been wiped away because I have a nervous habit of licking my lips repeatedly when nervous. I pulled a tube of Parisian Passion from my purse and made a halfhearted attempt to freshen up.