Parrots Prove Deadly (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain it to Wallis, but one thing I was sure of: Randolph was coming home with me. Going back to LiveWell wasn’t an option. I still had no idea what had sickened him, and with Jane continuing to pack, the possibility of dust or other pollutants being stirred up made the apartment unsafe. Nor had I completely dismissed the possibility that the parrot had been poisoned. Even if not—or not intentionally—there was too much hostility in the air, between Genie and Marc Larkin, for one poor parrot to be left safely in an empty apartment.

Doc Sharpe, at least, had been relieved. “Thanks,” he had sighed, showing more emotion than I could recall seeing from the old New Englander.

“No problem.” I made a mental note to follow up. Either he was overwhelmed—and I needed to insist on helping him out—or something else was going on. He was too good an ally to lose.

This was not the time, though. Between the parrot, the raccoon, and the aspersions on my honesty, I had my hands full. Literally, for a few moments, as I carried the big bird out to my car. Randolph had been strangely quiet as I transferred him to a borrowed carrier, and I had time to think about what he’d said back in the dispensary. It was probably nothing. For all I knew, the reason Doc Sharpe had looked so tired was because he’d been listening to that bird all day. I couldn’t recall him ever telling anyone, particularly an animal, to “shut up.” Stranger things happened, though, especially when everyone was busy and creatures were squeezed into tight quarters.

Speaking of quarters, I realized I needed to get going. My car was warm with the engine running, the soft patter of rain on the roof slightly soporific. But it was also of a vintage where I didn’t want to think about what fumes might be leaking in. I’d already battered my own brain cells with enough substances. I really didn’t need to sicken Randolph, too.

Still, there were legalities as well as logistics to consider. Jane wanted the parrot retrained; she’d originally suggested I take Randolph. But I’d been accused of pet-stealing before, I wanted to make sure I had explicit permission—and that I was covered for any liabilities.

Those potential liabilities included one very self-motivated tabby, of course. That’s where the logistics came in. Being able to communicate with Wallis gave me a leg up. She knew what I did for a living, how I earned the food and firewood that kept us warm and comfortable. However, that understanding went both ways: Just because she could hear me did not mean she was any less a cat. If anything, I was less willing—or able—to try any kind of “training” on her. And as often as I’d been party to her thoughts, I knew how she considered birds, or any prey animals. It was kind of funny, really, how being able to communicate with animals made me less prone to anthropomorphize them. Wallis was a cat, all cat, and Randolph, for all his size and language skill, was a bird.

Wallis, well, I’d deal with her when I got home. For now, I fished out the notebook with Jane’s contact info and dialed her cell. At the very least, I needed to keep her informed.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded even more tired than usual. Too late, I remembered she’d been at the hospital today. Might still be there, for all I knew.

“Jane? This is Pru, Pru Marlowe. Am I catching you at a bad time?” I asked for form’s sake. I had no idea what I’d do if she said yes.

“No.” A woman like her never did. “But—” she paused in a rare moment of self protection, “I’m on my way home now. Did you need me to come by LiveWell?”

“No, not at all.” This made things easier, and I decided on a tack. “I’m actually calling with good news. Randolph is doing fine. The vet has released him.”

“Oh, that’s great.” Her voice sounded anything but happy, and I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or simply fatigued. “Do I have to pick him up?” Fatigued.

“No, I have him. In fact,” I drew out the word, to make it sound like I had only now come up with the idea. “I was wondering how you would feel about me taking him home for a few days. I hadn’t wanted to disrupt his habits, but since he was already removed to the hospital, I figured it might be easier.”

“That would be great,” she said, with the most enthusiasm I had heard yet. She hadn’t even let me get through my other reasons. “That would be perfect,” she said again. “I’ll be back at LiveWell tomorrow, if you need me.”

“That’s fine. There is one thing, though.” I tried to sound more casual than I felt. “I don’t think it will really be a problem. I have a large house, and Randolph is a large bird. But you should know, I have a cat.”

“Oh.” Poor little Jane had sounded so relieved before that I was somewhat taken aback. Then I thought again of where she’d been.

“I’m sure it will be fine.” I crossed my fingers. “How did the meeting go?”

A sigh so big I could almost feel it provided the answer. That was my cue to express sympathy and hang up, but I waited. Not out of fellow feeling; I save that for the animals, the ones that can’t defend themselves. But because any discussion of old Polly Larkin’s last days might provide some insight into how she had died. Not that I got any details, only another sigh and what might have been a sob.

“That bad?” I said, trying to prime the pump. “I’m sorry,” I added, belatedly.

“Thanks.” The word came between sniffs. “It was pretty awful. I’d
said
I didn’t want an autopsy, every time they’d asked.” More sobs, but I was intrigued now. It was interesting to hear that someone besides me had had questions.

When the sobs seemed to have subsided, I tried again. “I am sorry, but they must have had their reasons…” Nothing. “When my mother passed, I said ‘no autopsy,’ too.”

“I guess I should count myself lucky.” Jane continued on as if I hadn’t spoken. “All they talked about were the blood tests. I mean, I knew they were saying she had too many prescriptions. They were talking about her like she was some kind of a junkie. Calling her a ‘drug seeker.’ But they didn’t know Mother. She was the opposite of a drug seeker. She never wanted to be ‘all fuddled up,’ she always said.”

I smiled. Knowing Randolph, I bet old Polly hadn’t used the word “fuddled.”

That thought almost made me miss what Jane came up with next, though. “But the tests proved it. They showed there was nothing in her system, even though that wasn’t what her care sheet called for.”

That supported what Genie had said. Polly had pain meds, but she wasn’t taking them—at least not the night she died. Then again, old and infirm, she might not have had a choice.

“Could she—do they think that was why she got up at night? Maybe someone had forgotten, and she wanted to get her pills?” Chronic pain could drive even the most feeble old woman from her bed.

“I don’t know.” Jane sounded worn out. “They didn’t say. Just that her doctor—Dr. Wachtell—was to be cautioned on overprescribing narcotics, even when requested. But the tests cleared it all up. She wasn’t—wait, ‘death is not viewed as caused by an overuse or misuse of medication.’” That last bit sounded like she was quoting. In other words, I translated, the doctor was getting off.

“At least it’s over,” she said, with another ear-busting sigh. She was self comforting, like a cat who purrs when injured.

“They didn’t say anything else?” I was pushing her, and I knew it could backfire. Jane Larkin had no more fight in her, though.

“Nothing.” Another pause. “I can pick up the ashes anytime, I gather.”

That was my cue. And as much as I didn’t want it, I found myself mouthing the words. “Do you want me to go with you? I’ve done this before,” I said. What the hell. Maybe I’d be able to learn something.

“No, no.” I should have known Jane Larkin would never impose. “But if you could take Mother’s bird for a few days, it would be a relief.”

“Not a problem.” I hoped it wouldn’t be, and as we rang off, I had to admire the woman. Somehow, she’d managed to make my request, the one I was a little hesitant to ask for, into a favor I was granting her. It was like passive aggression in reverse. It was also, I realized, a sign of just how manipulative the long-suffering daughter probably could be, when she wanted to be.

Maybe, I wondered, some of that fatigue I heard in her voice sprang from relief. After all, the doctors had talked about both how many drugs the old woman had been prescribed—and how few were in her system. But, at least from what Jane was telling me, they hadn’t asked where those drugs had gone.

Chapter Twenty-three

Randolph was so quiet on the drive home that twice I pulled over and checked under the cover. Both times he turned his head to look at me, and I had the uncanny sensation that he was thinking about his situation, too. Not to mention what he might have overheard.

I decided to leave him in the car, briefly, while I scoped out the situation. I’d toyed with the idea of sneaking Randolph in. My old house is big enough, I could have put him in one of the warmer rooms upstairs without much notice. But Wallis had already demonstrated an uncanny ability to open doors.

Better, I decided, to brazen it out. If nothing else, it was well past lunchtime. I’d left Wallis’ breakfast eggs for her, and she had a bowl of kibble, too. But cats are social eaters, just like humans, and if I was going to eat, she’d want to as well. Better to scarf something quickly, and then deal with introducing the parrot.

“
Parrot? ”
Wallis greeted me at the door, eyes narrowed in concentration, the tip of her tail lashing back and forth.
“Lunch? ”

“Wallis, I hate it when you do that.” Hunger was making me cranky, although having one’s mind read—as Wallis can—is never comfortable. That was the other reason I’d decided not to try to keep the parrot a secret. “Randolph is…a client. You know that.”

I led the way into the kitchen, where I immediately began shredding roast turkey slices into a dish.

“
That’s cold.
”
Wallis sniffed at the dish and sat back down. I stared at her. Cats’ senses can dull as they age, same as with any of us, and warmth intensifies aroma. Still, I had the feeling I was being toyed with.

Wallis cocked her head.

“What?” I asked. It wasn’t my most genteel tone, but I had already had a full day, and I had a recently hospitalized parrot waiting in my car.

“
Oh, bring him in.
”
Wallis walked to the window and jumped neatly up, as if mocking my speculation about her age. Her eyes were on the trees outside, scanning them for movement I couldn’t see, but her thoughts, I knew, were on the carrier in the car.
“This will be interesting.
”

“Okay, Wallis. But remember: Randolph, the parrot, is in my care. He’s important to me. To us.”

She simply flicked her tail, and I watched her for a moment until our silence was broken by the rumbling of my stomach. Damn, it was after two. I rolled up a turkey slice and ate it in two bites.

“That’s a bird, too.
” The voice was so soft I could have mistaken it for my own thought.
“Doesn’t it taste good? Now, warm…
” That last bit decided it.

“Wallis.” I approached the window. “Let’s not make this difficult.”

“
Forget it.
” She jumped down and sauntered down the hall­way, before I could pick her up and bodily remove her.
“I’ll interrogate the witness later.
”

***

She was taunting me, I knew that. But she was a feline, with all the instincts of a small house tiger. I waited until I saw her walk through my living room, out to the old covered porch that serves as a sunroom behind the house. Only then did I go out to the car, to retrieve Randolph.

“You okay in there?” The car had cooled more quickly than I’d expected, and the parrot who glared at me when I lifted the cover had fluffed up his feathers to stay warm. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Asshole.” I deserved that, and hurried the bird into the reasonably warm house. Without pausing to look for Wallis, I ascended the stairs, choosing the room that had been my childhood bedroom, in the sunny front of the house, and placing the cage on my old desk. Closing the door carefully behind me, I removed the cover. Randolph started hopping around, checking out the room. I moved the carrier so he could see out the window. It was a lovely view, but mentally I cursed myself.

“I know that’s not the most spacious cage, Randolph. I’m sorry.” I hadn’t thought this far ahead. A cat could just roam free. But even if I wanted to deal with the mess, I didn’t like the idea of letting the parrot have total freedom here. The cage might not be much of a barrier, but anything that would stand, however briefly, between him and Wallis was a good thing.

“Look,” I tried to catch those beady black eyes. “I’ll see if I can get your cage tomorrow. Jane will be back at her mother’s place then, packing everything up.”

“Hand’s off.” Randolph punctuated his words with a sharp whistle. “Stop that. That’s mine.”

“Yes, it is yours.” For argument’s sake, I decided to assume the bird was making some sense, if only acknowledging Jane’s name—or the mental image I had unwittingly conjured of the LiveWell suite.

“Stop that!” The bird was getting louder, agitated. Well, it was to be expected in an unfamiliar environment, especially one that probably smelled of cat. “Bugger off.”

The assorted whistles and squeaks died down as I covered the cage once more. Better the parrot be sensory deprived than hurt himself against the bars of the cage. Besides, he’d made me wonder: Jane had been cleaning up her mother’s apartment for days before Dr. Wachtell had stopped by to find those drugs missing. She had also, clearly, been a frequent visitor in her mother’s final days. Despite her protestations, I had to wonder where she really stood on her mother’s prescriptions. And if downtrodden little Jane Larkin had been, even before her mother’s death, a secret beneficiary.

Chapter Twenty-four

I made sure the bedroom door clicked shut when I left the parrot. Not that this would necessarily stop Wallis from getting in, but it would, I hoped, signal my very strong desire that she not disturb the parrot during what I trusted would be a brief stay. If I could have, I’d have stayed around, maybe had another talk with my tabby housemate. But the afternoon was getting on, and I was beginning to feel a bit guilty about my other charge.

As I drove back to the shelter, however, I had a realization. That raccoon was healthy. We were keeping him locked up illegally. I needed to let him go. In the interest of not getting him poisoned—or whatever other horrible fate Jerry Gaffney and his inbred brood could conjure up—I’d drive him farther away than Albert had. There was preservation land a few miles out of town that would be perfect. The young male would be at a disadvantage, landing in unknown territory. But that was the lot of young male animals everywhere. Better he should wrangle one of his peers than a Gaffney. Another raccoon would at least fight by the rules.

The only question, really, was whether to involve Albert in my decision. True, he was the animal control officer for Beauville. And he’d managed to trap and remove the poor animal. But as I pulled up to the new brick building that housed the shelter, I rather thought I wouldn’t. It’s not that Albert is that much into following rules. He is, however, both a coward and a guy. Whether he was afraid of crossing Jerry Gaffney or would simply spill it all the first time they ran into each other at Happy’s, I didn’t want to deal.

“Hey, Albert.” I swung into the shelter office with a sense of purpose. I wanted to get the raccoon and get out. Not only was Albert a possible hindrance, but the fact that Jim Creighton might be around—the police station was right next door—was another complication I’d rather avoid.

“Pru! Glad you’re here.” Albert started to get up from behind his desk, and I sped up. But even though the whiskered man wasn’t built for speed, he had the edge on me: the door to the cage area was pretty much right behind his desk. I stopped and waited, arms crossed.

“Yes?” I’d already started tapping one toe. With a specimen like Albert, there’s no point to subtlety.

“Were you, uh, going back to see Rocky?”

I cocked my head, wondering if there were any new developments. “You have any other animal back there?”

“No, Pru.” He turned back toward his desk and started to shuffle through some papers. “But something came in. Wait, here it is!”

He turned toward me, holding out a piece of stationery. I reached for it, expecting some state update, maybe on rabies or nuisance animal removal. As soon as I saw the letterhead in that too-bright green—“Evergreen Hills: Your Home in the Pines”—I knew this was worse. Sure enough, it was from Jerry Gaffney. In his position as property manager of Evergreen Hills, he was following up with the request for a rabies test on the animal removed from the premises. For the safety of the homeowners, the legal counsel of Evergreen Hills was insisting…blah, blah, blah. It took two paragraphs to get to the point: they wanted that raccoon dead, and they wanted proof.

“When did this come in?” I admit, I crumpled the letter a little bit as I gestured with it. Albert’s filing system left something to be desired, and his trash can would be an easy shot. He looked down and muttered something as he shuffled. “Did you read it, Albert?”

“I had to.” His fumbling produced an envelope with something green stuck to it. “It was one of those special deliveries. They made me sign.”

“Great.” I took the envelope, and looked at it. Registered mail, addressed to Albert in his role as Animal Control Officer, Town of Beauville. I tossed it back on the desk and pulled up the guest chair. We’d had the raccoon in here for four days. If he were a dog, we could simply observe him for another six and let him go. Rabies shows up within ten days in domestic animals. Probably in raccoons, too, but there was no proof of that. The research hadn’t been done, probably because nobody had bothered to spend the money on it. Raccoons were just pests. Nuisance animals, easier to kill than to get to know. Unless I could come up with something, the raccoon was screwed.

“It’s what we’re supposed to do anyway.” Albert didn’t dare look me in the eye, and for a moment, I was glad. It would have been easy to acquiesce. To just do it.
Outside, the rain had started again, and I could hear it pound down on the roof, the perfect accompaniment to my mood.

“Up, up! Dry branch, dry.
”

“Excuse me?” I turned toward Albert, who blinked back.

“Up on the branch. Climb!
”
There was an urgency to the voice. “
Up!
”

“Sorry.” I shook my head. This wasn’t a human reaction to rain. “Did you bring Frank in today?”

“Nuh uh. He didn’t want to leave his cage.” Albert shook his head. Of course not. Why would a sensible animal want to leave a safe place on a stormy day? A sensible animal who had a steady supply of food, and probably a good cache of purloined treats as well. Which made me wonder if there was another reason for the pressing need in that voice.

“Albert, did you feed the raccoon today?” That voice was coming from somewhere.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Sure did.”

The double, no triple, assurance was what did it. “No, you didn’t.” As much as I didn’t want to see the doomed animal, I would be damned if he’d go hungry. Albert didn’t dare contradict me as I went for the door to the cage room.

I opened it in time to hear a soft thud, and a grunt of what might have been frustration.

“Hello?” Turning on the light, I tried to mentally apologize. Raccoons have excellent night vision, but I needed to find the kibble. I needn’t have worried. As I approached the cage, I saw the lithe animal scrambling at the far wall. It wasn’t hunger bothering the young animal, though. As the young male turned—I got a distinct sense of anxiety—I saw he wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he was peering at the far end of the cage, really a pen on the cement floor, which had a small puddle in it.

“Great.” I looked around, hoping to see an incompletely closed window. No such luck. The leak seemed to be welling up slowly from the base of the wall. I did some quick calculations: this was an external wall, so it wasn’t likely that the water came from a pipe. No, it seemed that our new shelter, which shared a space with Creighton’s office, was as permeable as a sieve.

“Up! Up!
”
I turned from the small puddle, which was already growing visibly against the painted cement floor, to the panicked animal pacing by it.
“Up!
”
Animals understand floods. They know about rain and rising water. This raccoon wanted to climb, as high as he could, to find a safe place to sleep. Except that the bars of his cage didn’t allow for much of a foothold, and even his dexterous little pads couldn’t grip anything that would hold him above the cold, increasingly damp floor.

“Hang on.” I looked around me for something, anything, the raccoon would climb on. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be what he wanted: a tree with some good, yawning branches that would allow him to get safely above ground. Anything, though, would be better than nothing.

Then I saw it: a pile of packing cases, doubtless left to rot once whatever was inside had been removed. Heavy cardboard, they would melt into mush if the water reached it. But maybe, if the rain stopped, the leak would recede. I found myself cursing the town under my breath. Beauville, its shoddy workmanship, and its deference to yuppies. All of them played into my creative invective as I carried two of the boxes over to the raccoon’s pen. Randolph would have been proud of me, I thought, as I unlatched the pen door and pushed in first one, and then the other, reaching to toss the smaller one on top to roughly approximate a rocky hillside.

It wasn’t an immediate success. The raccoon drew back, frightened by the movement, and as he neared the puddle, I saw him recoil further. He wasn’t that big to begin with and the stress was clearly taking its toll. Already, I thought, his fur had lost some of its luster.

“You need some dinner.” I remembered my initial reason for being there and, gate latched, went to find the kibble. I overfilled the bowl, unsure when I’d get back next and slid it into the enclosure, waiting. A healthy animal, a hungry one, he should have caught the smell right away. I held my breath, wondering how he’d acknowledge the food: would it be “grubs”? “Eggs”? Instead, I got nothing. The scared beast simply shrank back further, his tail nearly in the puddle.

“Come on, guy, you’ve got to eat.” I found my own stomach tensing up. “Hungry?”

This is what I hate about wildlife rehab. Too often, it doesn’t work. Whatever we think of them, wild animals are actually more fragile than we know. Fear, anxiety—any of these things can keep an animal from ignoring its own survival instincts. My presence—that water—could be viewed as enough of a threat that the raccoon would starve, rather than eat. In my first practicum, doing emergency work with raptors that had misjudged skyscrapers and electric wires, I’d seen birds drop dead of heart failure, die of pure fear. All of us had.

“Kibble….” I did what I could. I tried to conjure up images of fat and juicy beetles, of acorns, half-rotted and fragrant. Of a clutch of robin’s eggs—and then of the young birds themselves. Nothing. The raccoon was staring at me, and I could sense his heart beating faster.

Images were getting me nowhere. Scent, that was key. If I could get the young male close to the dish, then maybe the smell of the kibble would trigger his hunger. But how? He was wedged so far against the far side that I could almost feel the bars pressing through his fur. I knew Albert would have an answer. Over in the corner, propped up against the wall, was the long-handled net that he’d probably used to capture the animal.

I couldn’t see poking him. He was already so freaked out. Instead, I slowly opened the door. Crouching down low, so as to be as unintimidating as possible, I began to push the bowl closer. “Come on,” I kept my voice low, just a gentle, reassuring sound. “Aren’t you hungry? Don’t you want to eat?”

I knew he wouldn’t speak English. He was a raccoon, not Wallis. But if I could just conjure up the emotions, the intent of my words, maybe something would come through. Something would spur him on. I crawled into the pen, pushed the bowl toward him. Tried to visualize a nest of eggs, the sweet, juicy taste of something fresh and warm. Biting down. Tasting. I pushed the bowl a bit closer.

“No! No! NO!
”

“Ow!” I jerked back so fast, I hit the opened door behind me. Suddenly, we were one: the feeling of cage, of trapped. Of sheer panic like lightning between us. Only as it faded, I realized who I was—and what had happened.

Scurrying out of the cage, I locked it behind me, and stepped under the light to examine my hand. It was bleeding, blood welling out of a small puncture wound at the base of my thumb. I had gone too far. In my effort to reach the raccoon with my own particular gift, I had forgotten the basic training of my profession. A wild animal is just that: wild. And a wild animal, when cornered, will strike out, no matter how kind your intentions may be.

“I’m sorry.” I was talking to the raccoon now, even as I washed my hand in the utility sink. “I really am.” I pressed a clean paper towel to the wound, which was starting to throb—along with my conscience. I’d not only gotten too close, I’d thought about eating, about biting—any message that had gotten through might have been that I was the predator. That I was looking for some smaller animal to eat.

This was my fault, entirely, and yet what I had just done had sealed the poor creature’s fate. Before, the raccoon had simply been a nuisance animal, the request for a rabies test just a mean-spirited attempt to assert human control over what had once been a wild environment. But now the raccoon had bitten someone—bitten me—and the prescribed regimen was clear. He would have to be tested for rabies now. Killed, and his head sent to the state lab. Or else I would have to get the painful series of shots that were the only way to prevent the disease from dragging me down.

“I’m just—I’m so sorry.” I forced myself to look at the beast who was both my attacker and the innocent victim of my own foolishness. At the far end of the cage, he looked up at me. For a moment, we held each other’s gaze as he brought his paws together. Those amazingly agile little hands clasped each other, and I could almost believe that he was feeling my pain, recognizing my hand as something like his. In his eyes, beyond the fear, was something else—something sad and lost.

“
Hurt?
”
It was just a flash, a memory of a littermate taken, or a parent killed. I just nodded. And then, to my surprise, the raccoon began to eat.

My own sigh surprised me. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. But as I watched the bear-like creature hunch over the bowl of kibble, I relaxed. Picking at the pieces, one by one, he examined them, and then as his hunger kicked in, he began to gorge, sticking his snout deep into the bowl.

“Don’t rush.” I sat on the floor, exhausted. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

My own words caught me up. What was I doing? This animal was doomed. I had condemned him, only moments before.

“Pru? Everything okay?” As Albert opened the door, I shoved my wounded hand in my pocket. The decision was made before I even spoke.

“Everything’s fine, Albert.” I called back. “I’m just spending some quality time with Rocky back here. I think he’s going to be just fine.”