Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

Carla, who’s been silent up to now, chuckles. “Would you look at that? He just pooped.”

Max laughs.

Miss Mona leans over to look at Rio. “He is beautiful, Andie. And I’ll bet you very, very expensive. It’s mighty . . . unusual to have a parrot for a pet. I never met a parrot owner before, you know. I’m sure it’s going to be real interesting too.”

The vise that took hold around my forehead when I first saw the bird—Rio—squeezes harder. I’d thought I’d be leaving my troubles behind in the Big Apple. Instead, I seem to be attracting new ones here faster than my little black dress does lint.

I mean, think about it. First, I agree to work for Miss Mona, trouble if anything. Then, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona decide I’m a paper doll in need of a makeover. Next, Max the Magnificent and his gemstone ignorance blindsides me. And that’s when things really get . . . what did Miss Mona call it? Oh yeah. Interesting.

Right.

Can we agree that finding a dead ruby vendor in the vault is trouble? Big trouble.

Someone somewhere must be laughing. But it sure isn’t me. My heart aches for Mr. Pak. Plus there’s a Mrs. Pak in Thailand, one who’ll mourn the loss of a truly nice man.

And what am I supposed to do with a screaming, molting, pooping machine?

I’m in trouble all right.

Which fact permeates every corner of my being when Officer Donald comes out of the vault, locks his gaze with mine, and heads right for me, a piece of paper—yeah, another troublesome piece of paper in less than five minutes—in hand. “Any idea, Miss Andie, why this dead fellow would have your name and the address of the network in his hand?”

Dorothy’s tornado seems to have lost its way. Instead of Kansas, it’s decided to strike Kentucky this time. And instead of a cute little mutt named Toto, it’s decided to pick me up, spin-cycle me to bits, and then spit me out in the middle of yet another episode of The Twilight Zone .

And right into trouble with the law.

I gotta get a life. For real.

Oh, wait. That’s what I thought I was doing when I came back home. Where did I go wrong?

7 00

The next morning, when the alarm clock goes off, I force one eye open a crack, reach a hand out from under the comfy down comforter, and smack the beeping bully silent. But for some strange reason, the alarm screams again a second later.

My head pounds in response. “Why . . . ? Why today?”

After the day I had yesterday, I don’t want to wake up, much less deal with a dysfunctional alarm clock. Miss Mona had said I didn’t have to do today’s show, but after everything that went wrong during that disaster of a launch, I don’t think it’s in my best interest—or the network’s—for me to pull a no-show. I do need sleep, though, before I can face that camera—and the whole wide world—again.

What Max the Magnificent does is his business.

The relentless alarm continues to rattle my brain. “Aaarrgh!”

There’s no two ways about it. I have to do something about that noise. Inch by inch, I drag my exhausted body upright, and rub my eyes to clear them of their early morning sleep fog. And then I notice that the clock isn’t beeping at all. But the screams haven’t let up one bit.

“What on earth—” I tap my forehead between my brows. “Ugh. Rio!” I wish he was a nightmare. If he were, now that I’m awake, he’d just— poof! —disappear.

No such luck.

“Pipe down! It’s too early for this. Go back to sleep.”

A wild batting of his wings against the cage bars accompanies another barrage of shrieks. I slump down onto the bed again, my back against the padded headboard. Sure, he’s a beautiful animal, but I can’t stand his racket, and I don’t know a thing about birds. What does one do with a parrot for a pet?

At the very least, I know he needs water, so it’s good I refilled his bowl before I went to sleep last night.

I shudder. What a night . . . day! Donald Clark— Chief Donald Clark—raked me over the interrogatory coals until late into the night. If nothing else, he’s thorough and determined.

In that whole time he never let his eyes drift away from my face. “And you say you didn’t come up with some kinda plan to have him meet you here at the network?” he asked me for what must’ve been the thousandth time.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Donald!” Aunt Weeby finally burst out. “The girl’s told you and told you she doesn’t know a thing about this here Pak man’s trip to Louisville. If she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know, and it doesn’t make no never mind how many times you ask or how many different ways you ask it. Why, I’m about ready to swing my purse at your fat head and give you what-for. Ten thirty came and waved us good-bye, and you’re still asking her the same ol’ thing. I’m tired, she’s tired, and we want to go home.”

He slapped his hands against his thighs, then stood. “Well, Miz Weeby. It might not hurt if you looked at it from where I stand. Your niece comes to town, and next I know, I have me a dead Thai in Miss Mona’s vault.”

Aunt Weeby waved. “Coincidence, Donald, dear. The one doesn’t have a thing to do with the other.”

“Beggin’ pardon, ma’am,” he said, dogged and unfazed by her scolding. “The victim brought Andrea Adams a mighty pricey present, and he even had her name and address on a note in his hand. That to me doesn’t spell no coincidence.” By then, I’d had it. Aunt Weeby was right. I was tired. And the chief’s questions felt a gnat’s hair away from police harassment. Plus Aunt Weeby needed to rest. With what little oomph I had left, I pushed myself to my feet. “Chief Clark?”

Once I had everyone’s attention, I went on. “Can I make a couple of points clear here?” He nods, and I go on. “When Julie got to Mr. Pak, and even when you and your officers checked him out, he was still warm and the blood wet.” Oh yeah. I grossed myself out when I thought of that, but the thought of jail time grossed me—freaked me—more. “So if we use even as little logic as a pigeon in Central Park boasts of, we all know I couldn’t have hurt Mr. Pak.”

He brought heavy silver brows close over the bridge of his nose. “And how would your city pigeon and I know that?”

“I have what might be the world’s best, tight-as-a-two-sizes-small-shoe alibi. I was in front of a camera—live, you know?—in plain view of millions of America’s shopping-crazed women.”

He pushed his square jaw out. “Who’s to say you didn’t kill him before you went on to start up with your show?”

“I didn’t have time.” I tugged on a bunch of hair slicked into the updo. “This took about forty-five minutes to cook up, and then I went straight to makeup. You can check with the hairdresser, Cecelia, and Allison, the makeup girl. I was on time for my show too. All that doesn’t leave much time for me to kill Mr. Pak and stick him in the vault.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How about after the show? When you stomped off the set all by yourself?”

“I wasn’t out of sight of the rest of the staff for more than five minutes. I don’t know a thing about killing, but I’m sure it must take more than five minutes to kill someone and stash him away in a vault.”

Julie, whom the chief had held hostage too, stood. She looked as pooped as I felt. With a shaky hand, she wiped her eyes, and started for the bathroom door.

“Where d’you think you’re heading, Julie?” the chief roared. “I’m not done here.”

“You’re done with me,” Julie answered. “And you’re done with Andie. She’s right. She had no time to kill that man, and what’s worse, you know it. Just because you don’t have a quick answer doesn’t mean you can force one out of where there isn’t one.”