Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

Probably. Mr. Pak dealt with Mogok Valley rubies. And he’s the only connection I have to Myanmar.

Why? Why? Why?

Why would he come to see me? Why did he bring me an invitation to Myanmar? Why did someone kill him? Why did they stick him in our vault—or kill him there? Why did someone shoot at us? And to top it all off, why did Mr. Pak bless me with a loudmouth bird?

Back home in Louisville, I’m faced with the reality of parrot ownership. The first thing I hear when I walk into Aunt Weeby’s house is that mind-altering “Squawk! Shriek, shriek!”

I will my heart to return to its normal sluggish pace, then, “Shut up, Rio!”

A couple more shrieks and a squawk follow, and finally the clump-clump of Aunt Weeby’s cast makes its way across the upstairs. “Is that you, sugarplum?”

“Sure is!” I grin as she clumps downstairs. When I get my welcome-home hug, I wink. “And how many other late-night visitors do you get?”

“Pshaw! Mona wanders in whenever the fancy strikes her, the girls from the church’s benevolence group all have keys—”

“They all have keys? When did you start locking doors?” She tightens her pale pink chenille robe wrapped around her petite frame. “Since Mona’s become a pain about it in the last few months. C’mon, Andie. Tell me. Do you honest-to-goodness think a lock’s gonna stop one a’ them agents a’ Satan if they want to break in and rob me blind?”

“You do have a point. Where there’s an evil will, there’s always way more than one single way.”

“Amen. And that’s why them locks are a waste of time—to good folks, that is. I have to remember to carry a key, remember what key chain I put it on, remember where I put the key chain . . . it’s too much bother. And for what? All of this”—she waves toward the beautiful parlor and foyer— “means nothing before our Father. It’s only what we’ve gone and done for him that counts.”

“I know that.” The locked/unlocked door argument was making me dizzy. “So do you lock or do you not?”

“When I remember.”

“I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d lock. There’s no reason to invite the wackos in.”

“Maybe and maybe not. Remember that girl the rapist from Atlanta kidnapped after he killed a bunch of folks at his trial? She read to him from The Purpose-Driven Life . He didn’t kill her.”

“But he didn’t repent either. He’s back in trouble for . . .” What was it he did? I know I heard it on the news one day. “Oh, I don’t remember. It’s late, we had the weirdest trip, I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.”

“Weird? You had a weird trip? How weird is weird?”

I groan. “I should’ve known better than to say a thing. There’s plenty of time tomorrow—”

“Now you just hold them wild horses there, sugarplum. I get me a call from Mona telling me you and that boy Max are sleeping together in front of everyone and their great-grand-nanny in some airport, then you come home and tell me the trip was weird. Don’t you think that calls for a little explaining here?”

I’m gonna kill Miss Mona. Boss or no boss.

“Fine. If you’re going to grill me, at least let me make myself a cup of cocoa. I’m going to need it.”

I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, then hook my arm through hers and head to the kitchen. She sits at her favorite end of the ancient farm table that has been in the family for more than a century and a half. I take a pan from a cupboard, splash a generous amount of milk in it, take out the Ghirardelli cocoa—oh yeah!—add sugar, and mix it all together.

The gas stove gives me the willies to light, but I brave fumes and potential obliteration and plunk the pan on the burner. A quick swipe of the counter where the cocoa dust landed, and— “What are you waiting for?” Aunt Weeby demands. “You’ve been putzing around this kitchen, plumb giving me heartburn from the anxiety, and you still don’t say a word. You’re like to give a body a conniption fit, you’re so contrary.”

About that pot calling the kettle black . . . ?

“I seem to remember telling you I needed a cup of cocoa.”

Worry creases her forehead. “That tells me, sugarplum, that something’s gone very, very bad.”

The stool Aunt Weeby likes to use while chopping veggies by the sink offers me a good look into the saucepan, so I perch there and face my aunt. “I don’t even want to talk about it. I know it’s going to worry you, and that’s not so cool. You do crazy stuff when you’re worried.”

“If you didn’t go doing stuff that worries me in the first place, I wouldn’t have to be doing crazy stuff to take care of you.”

“Sure. Blame it on the victim.”

“Victim? I don’t see you as any downtrod doormat.”

“I shouldn’t have used that word.” True, but I also know she’s going to find out everything that went on in Myanmar. It’ll go easier on me if I’m the one who does the telling. “But it does sorta fit this case.”

I go ahead and fill her in on the details of our trip. Then I notice the silence. “What’s with Rio? In the short time I’ve known him he’s never been quiet this long. He nearly cost me my hearing when I walked in.”

“That’s on account of you woke the poor baby up.” She preens. “You see, Andie, I’ve decided to become an expert on sit . . . p-sit. . . . Oh, phooey! It’s a long formal name for them Sun Conures like that Rio of yours . . . psittacines! That’s it. Anyway, they’re right fascinating, let me tell you.”

My aunt, the parrot expert. Oh-kay. See the consequences of world travel?

“Very well, Madam Expert. Tell me why that loudbox is suddenly so silent.”

“I got him a cage cover.”

“A cage cover.”

“That’s right. Parrots like to sleep in cozy, dark places, you see. So I had Mona’s Edwina drive me to a pet supermarket. Did you know such places exist? You’d never believe all the things they sell there. Anyway, Edwina drove Rio and me to the pet place, and I got him his very own little cozy cover.”

The idea of a bird under a tea cozy doesn’t quite cut it. What’s worse, the idea of Aunt Weeby turned loose on the greater Louisville population, accompanied by that hearing aid’s best friend, is not a thing of beauty.

“How did you get Rio to the pet place? You didn’t lug that cage around, did you?”

“’Course not, Andie. That cage’s almost as big as I am. I got myself on that there World Wide Web, and I ordered us a little ol’ travel case. It’s the sweetest thing! You’re just plumb gonna love it. Rio looks adorable inside.”

My head throbs like a hammered thumb. “What you’re trying to tell me is that they sell cage cozies at that place you went to.”

“That’s it! And the cage cover almost matches our travel case. It’s got all the same colors and the same black piping on the seams. Only problem’s that the cage cover has cute little parrots all over, but the travel case—can you believe this?—is covered with cats! I’m telling you, it’s an outrage.”

My mind conjures the image of Rio entering the drooly mouth of a big ol’ meowser. Aunt Weeby’s all outraged on the bird’s behalf while all I see is a tasty feline snack. And I’m the bird’s lucky owner. What’s wrong with this picture?

“Why are we talking about the dumb bird?” I ask.

“Why, Andie! Rio’s not dumb. He’s already talking to me.”

Imagine that conversation. What did I get myself into when I moved back to Louisville?

“Fine, he’s not dumb, and he beats Oprah at repartee. Can I finish my cocoa and go to bed?”

She crosses her arms. “Only after you’ve gone and told me every last little detail about that sleeping together you and Max did.”