Parrots Prove Deadly (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

I don’t know why I was surprised to see Wachtell when Buster and I got back to LiveWell. He had duties here, and it sounded like the EMTs had taken Rose to a competent medical facility. Still, I paused when I saw his white-coated back, joking again with Nancy. Maybe it was the laughter, after all that had happened.

She must have said something, because he turned to greet me with a smile. I nodded back, unwilling to fake happiness this morning. I was being unfair; I knew that. As the staff gerontologist at an assisted living residence, he undoubtedly had a lot of mornings like this one. Maybe a day that started with a sick resident carted off to the hospital was one of the good ones. Still, I was unsettled. Partly, I realized as Buster led me forward, that was because I wasn’t sure how to greet him.

“Help! ”
Buster barked once, her voice loud in the nearly empty reception area.

“Enough!” I used my command voice, low and stern, and reinforced it with a gesture, holding my hand out flat to signal “stop.” I understood her impulse: she must have recognized the white coat, if not the man. This was not the place, though, and I didn’t want her to get into bad habits under my care.

“So that’s where it went.” Wachtell turned from me to the shepherd mix. “We were wondering.”

“Genie was busy, so I took Buster for
her
walk,” I explained. I could feel Buster’s tension—the desire to bark again, to alert the doctor—but the only sound she admitted was a low whine. “Good dog,” I said to her, to reinforce what seemed a great effort of will. To Wachtell, I did a version of the same. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

I wasn’t, not really. For starters, I wasn’t sure how to ask what I wanted to know. Wachtell would be only too glad to suspect Genie, or any aide. I almost did myself. What I needed was an honest account of who might have been in her room either overnight or early this morning. Someone had been, I was pretty sure. In truth, though, all I had to go on was what I’d picked up from Buster.

“I was hoping you could tell me about Rose.” I started with the basics. “And what her prognosis is.”

The doctor raised that famous eyebrow of his. “I don’t believe you’re family, Miss—ah—Pru.”

“No, but I am a friend.” I was using the same tone as I’d used with Buster, low and firm. “And I am helping care for her service animal.”

He nodded. “She’s over at Berkshire General. It’s too soon to tell, but I did get a call from the admitting M.D. It seems that perhaps she took a few too many of her sleeping drugs.”

“Rose?” This wasn’t making sense. Even forgetting her objection to medication, the woman I’d seen last night was half asleep before she’d even undressed. The reality of what he’d said sank in. “An overdose? How is that possible? You were checking her medications only hours before.”

“That’s what we’ll have to look into.” He looked down at Buster.
“Help! ”
the whine picked up. “She had an aide with her last night—and this morning, too.”

I didn’t like what he was implying. “Was anyone else with her?” Wachtell only shrugged.

“Nancy?”

The blonde shook her head. “I worked till eight, and there were no visitors. There’s nothing on the overnight log, either. Except for you, Miss.” She looked at me, and Wachtell turned back toward me as well, that eyebrow raised again.

“Well, that’s interesting.” He paused, letting the implications sink in, before throwing me a lifeline. “Of course, seeing as how the medications are administered by the aides, I’m afraid we’re going to have to do a little in-house investigation.”

I was right about one thing. Wachtell was going to blame Genie. Maybe I should have been grateful.

I wasn’t. “I’m going to visit Rose,” I said. “See what I can find out.” At the mention of her person’s name, Buster’s tail thumped on the carpet.

“You think maybe she meant self harm?” That smile again. “I don’t know if she was competent enough for that.”

“I’ll talk to her.” I didn’t like him talking about her in the past tense. “I’d like to take Buster to see her.” A visit would do them both good, I was sure. Besides, with the two of them together, I’d have a better chance of piecing together the events of the night. “Once she’s receiving visitors.”

“I’m sure Nancy can find out for you.” He turned to walk away. “Oh, and since you’ve already formed such a bond with the dog, maybe you’ll continue to take care of it while Mrs. Danziger is indisposed?”

I nodded. I wanted to say something about billing, about fees for services rendered. That was the kind of language he’d understand. But I knew he’d simply have the costs passed along to Rose, and from all I’d heard, she had enough to deal with right now anyway. Raising Buster’s harness, I prepared to lead her back to Rose’s apartment. I had to think through what to do with her—and with Randolph—and the quiet, empty room seemed like the best alternative.

“Miss—Pru.” I turned. Wachtell was looking at me quizzically. “What did you do to your hand?”

Of course, I had my right hand on the harness, and not only was it bandaged, but I was holding it gingerly, the result of the continuing soreness.

“Oh, an accident.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Occupational hazard.”

“An animal bite?” He was a little too perceptive for my taste. I didn’t respond. “You should have that looked at, you know.” He nodded at my wrapping. Done the night before, in a bourbon haze, it hadn’t weathered the night well. “Such things can turn septic. Or worse.”

“Thanks,” I said, not meaning it. I was relieved when he didn’t offer to do the honors.

Chapter Thirty-five

“Hello, Randolph.” I opened the door to Rose’s apartment to find the parrot looking at me, head slightly tilted. “Hello.”

“Bugger off.” With one scaly foot, he brushed something off his beak in what looked for all the world like a rude gesture. So much for new behavior.

In the vague hope that some mild aversion training might help and partly, to be honest, because I was bushed, I ignored the bird, instead heading straight for Rose’s armchair. Buster, whose halter I’d released as soon as we were inside, padded around, whining softly. I knew how she felt.

“I’ll bring her back, Buster.” Even as I said it, I wondered if I was lying. “Or I’ll bring you to her, I promise.” That I would—even if it was to say goodbye to a corpse. Animals understand death, better than most humans. To not give Buster a chance to say farewell would be cruel. It was the meantime, though, that was the problem.

“Buster, would you be okay if I left you here?” I looked around the unit. It was small, too small for a big dog. Buster was used to working, and even if Rose wasn’t much of an athlete her minor needs—getting up, going to the bathroom, going to meals—kept her dog focused. Without Rose, Buster would quickly go stir crazy. “Just for a day or two?”

She whined, coming back from the neatly made bed to lie at my feet.
“Protect? ”
No, this dog needed a job.

“Let me find out what’s going on with Rose. Okay?” I reached to pet that strong back and mentally added another item to my list. Maybe this would work out: I could visit with Rose, or at least talk to her doctors, and start the rabies shots. Berkshire General was big enough that I could probably lie. Say I’d been bitten in the wild, that the animal had escaped. There’d be a report to fill out, but I didn’t care about that, as long as Doc Sharpe didn’t get dragged in.

Randolph, however, was another problem. I wondered about his brief transformation. Earlier, he’d been all sweetness and light, his usual round of abuse replaced by inane, but inoffensive chatter. Had he been cowed by Rose’s illness? I knew too well what the scene must have been like. Genie, increasingly agitated, trying to wake an unresponsive Rose. Then the EMTs charging in with their gear, their radios squawking. The parrot’s cage had undoubtedly been covered through all of this, but that would have been worse—hearing, unable to see.

“Guilt
.”
Wallis’ words came back to me, but I shook them off. Somehow, according to my tabby, the parrot had felt implicated in Polly’s death. Maybe he actually had been, luring her out of bed late at night. Here, though, I couldn’t see how that would apply. There was no way Randolph had sickened Rose. He certainly couldn’t have given her an overdose of her pain meds—or prompted anyone else to.

“Randolph?” The idea was just too tempting, and I’ve learned these days that when a thought pops into my head sometimes its because somebody—some animal—suggested it. “You didn’t tell anyone—” No, it made no sense. “Did you hear something? Something you can tell me about Rose? About Rose here, last night?”

I didn’t know how to make myself understood. The concepts were too complex—transferring thoughts of Polly to her neighbor. Of noises to actions, of time past to time now. The big bird shifted on his perch and looked at me, though, and I had the damnedest feeling he was trying to figure out what I was asking.
“Guilt
.”
Was that Wallis’ voice reverberating in my head or was it something coming from Randolph?

“Hello?” His voice was soft, quizzical. “Hello?”

“What did you hear, Randolph? What can you tell me?”

“Bugger off! Stop that! That’s mine! Hands off.” Out of nowhere, Randolph’s mood changed. Suddenly, he was flapping those large wings, hitting the sides of his cage in his frenzy. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

“Randolph, calm down!” I jumped up to cover the cage. An agitated bird could hurt himself, and I didn’t need another complication to this day. “Randolph, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Once covered, the parrot settled down, whistling and muttering curses under his breath. I was doing the same. Despite living with this so-called gift for more than a year already, I was no closer to understanding its implications. Clearly, what I had done had agitated Randolph, but I had no idea how. Perhaps the intensity of my thoughts had been painful somehow, like a probing spike in that round gray head. Maybe I had awakened memories of Polly, and the loss of his longtime companion. Maybe there were simply underlying issues that I didn’t understand. I hadn’t examined that bare patch on the parrot’s breast for a day or two. It had seemed to be getting better, but I had a sinking feeling that the next time I looked, it would be plucked raw again.

“Bugger all.” He was settling down, his voice softer. “Ignorant slut.”

“Oh, hell!” I grabbed my coat, glancing at the clock as I did so. “Sorry, Randolph, Buster, I’ve got to run.” I’d totally lost track of time. Growler, I knew, would forgive me. Tracy Horlick, however, would be wanting an explanation.

Chapter Thirty-six

“I was wondering what happened to you.” Twenty minutes later, I was at the Horlick house, facing a heavier than usual barrage of smoke. “Expected to hear you’d been found dead. Eaten by your cats.”

“One cat.” I did my best to smile. I was, after all, forty-five minutes late. “I’m sorry. My Saturday schedule is a little different.” Old lady Horlick had only recently decided to hire me through the weekend, and I was wondering if the extra five bucks per visit were worth it.

“Whatever.” She flicked her ash into the bushes at the side of the door and picked a stray thread of tobacco from her lip. “It’s not like I have all day, you know.”

I nodded, afraid to say anything. The fact that Tracy Horlick was still in the faded yellow housecoat that she usually greeted me in made me doubt that she had any pressing engagements that morning. “Is Bitsy ready to go?” I managed an upbeat note at the thought of the bichon.

“Huh.” Another drag. “Like you care.” Without waiting for a reply to that one, she turned. Hearing the familiar scrambling sound, I reached in the door for Growler’s lead, but his mistress’ claw-like hand came down on it first.

“I hear they’ve had some excitement over at the old-age home.” Her eyes, small and mean, focused in on me. She was exacting her toll for my lateness. “You involved with any of that?”

I shook my head reflexively, impressed as usual by the speed of gossip in this small community. “I’m just helping retrain a parrot,” I offered, sounding as neutral as I could.

“Retrain a parrot. Ha!” Her squawk of a laugh would have startled Randolph. “Funny what the kids do with their money, isn’t it? And I hear they came into quite a bit of it, too, after parking their own mother in that place to die.”

I couldn’t smile. Just couldn’t. But I kept my mouth closed as she handed me the lead and I snapped it on the little white dog’s collar. Tracy Horlick was a mean gossip, like some people were mean drunks. I didn’t know how much she knew, and how much was her just chumming the water—knowing the bloody bits drew best.

Growler seemed strangely uninterested when I told him what was going on. I had thought the little dog, as social as he was, would at least be interested in Buster. In truth, I had thought he might have some tips for me, some ideas as to how I could get the guide dog to tell me more.

“What do you care, walker lady? ”
The little dog huffed and puffed as we trotted up the sidewalk. Growler depended on our daily walks for more than exercise or bathroom breaks. Locked in the Horlick basement or backyard most of the day, this was his one chance to catch up on the neighborhood goings-on.
“Huh
,”
I overheard a brief analysis of another dog’s urine.
“
Butch was eating the cat’s food again
.”

“But Growler,” I had waited until the little dog had made his own mark on the corner birch and was growing a little tired. “I do care. Buster might be the only witness to what happened. The only one who saw anything.”

“Huh!
”
The bichon kicked at the ground, his way of dismissing anything as so much trash.
“Like you’d understand, anyway. Completely misses the point…
.”
Muttering to himself, he turned and started home.
“
Doesn’t see what’s right in front of her. Stupid bitch
.”

As I fell in line behind the fluffy little creature, I mentally kicked myself. I should have known. Growler had picked up, from me, that Buster was female. Still, the little dog hadn’t expressed such a virulently misogynistic thought in quite a while. As we walked silently back to his home, I also considered the effects of my tardiness. Who knew what Tracy Horlick had put him through?

I didn’t think it was mercy that kept Tracy Horlick silent as I delivered the dog back into her care. I heard voices in the back of the house, and I figured she was getting her gossip fix for the day. That was fine by me. I drove a few blocks off and stopped by the side of the road. It had been a full day, and it wasn’t yet noon. What I wanted was to go home and sleep off the rest of the hangover. What I needed was more coffee.

What I did, however, was make a phone call. Poor Rose had been in worse shape than me when they’d taken her away, and I’d left two animals in her empty apartment. There were service-animal groups in the area thar would undoubtedly take Buster if Rose was permanently incapacitated—or worse—but that was a last resort. Before I made plans for either animal, I needed to find out what was up with the old lady.

“Berkshire General.” Calling the hospital made me think of my own mother. She’d had hospice care at home, at the end. We’d made our share of trips, though, and I remembered the drill.

“Patient information. I’m calling about Rose Danziger. She would have been brought in from LiveWell Assisted Living this morning.”

“Just one moment please.” Saccharine strings filled the space as I waited. Through my windshield, I could see a bit of sun. Despite everything, this was shaping up to be a nice day. “Are you a relative?” The voice was back.

“I’m her niece,” I lied. “I’m the only family in the area.” In for a penny, in for a pound. The music came back and two songs later, I heard a different voice—male—on the line.

“I gather you’re asking for Rose Danziger?”

I was, I assured him, to which I got more hemming and hawing.

“She’s still being evaluated,” he said eventually. “Is there a number we can reach you at?”

There’d be hell to pay if any real family turned up, but it was too late to worry about that. I gave him my cell and thanked him, for not questioning me further, if nothing else.

When my phone rang, less than a minute later, I was still parked. The car was warm, and I’d been drifting off. The sound shocked me upright, however, and I answered with a gasp.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Pru, are you all right?” It was Albert, not the hospital. “I didn’t wake you or anything, did I?”

“It’s almost noon, Al.” Being caught out made me grumpy. “What’s up?” I was expecting some tale of woe. A skunked dog that he didn’t want to deal with. Another newcomer who couldn’t figure out how to squirrel-proof his attic.

“It’s that raccoon.” Of course. He sounded almost guilty, as if at some level he did recognize that this was his job.

“That condo association send another letter?” I stretched. “’Cause I’m on my way to talking to the man in charge.”

“No, it’s the raccoon—the actual raccoon, Pru.” Damn, he sounded glum. I waited. “I think something’s wrong with him. He’s not eating, and, well, he just looks bad.”

I kicked myself. I hadn’t been back to check on the poor creature. Sure, I’d given him some boxes to climb on, to get him out of the puddle and provide a bit of stimulation. Still, a cage was no place for a wild animal.

“I think maybe he’s sick, Pru.” Albert was still talking, although his voice had sunk so low I had to strain to hear it. “You know, like those condo guys said.”

Rabies. Hell. I didn’t want to hear it.

“That’s one idea, Albert, but there are a lot of other possibilities, too.” I scrambled for excuses, for a reason to delay. Luckily, Albert provided one.

“I don’t know, Pru. I think we should, you know, do the test.” Euthanize the animal, he meant. “I was hoping you’d, uh, you know, help me?”

He wanted me to do the dirty work. I didn’t know if he was squeamish about administering the injection or simply afraid of the animal. After a second, I realized it didn’t matter; he’d given me my edge.

“I understand, Albert. This isn’t a one-person job.” I was improvising. “Look, I’m really busy right now, but I’ll be by as soon as I can.” He started to protest. “By the end of the day, okay?”

He grumbled at that, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. There was an awkward moment when I almost asked if he could put his ferret on the line. That I couldn’t find an excuse for, though, so I let him go. Sitting in my car, the day suddenly looked less bright. With even Albert pushing for euthanasia, that raccoon was running out of options. I needed a consult with someone I could trust, so I did the sensible thing: I drove home.