“It has possibilities. How are you going to get this accursed murderess arrested for her vile deeds? Please don’t say you’re going after her alone.”
“Not me. I’m not one of those half-wit heroines who runs into the empty house looking for the killer. When I get off work, I’ll go check the lock on Peggy’s door. If it’s a Tandy, I’ll call Detective Gilbert. Even if isn’t, I’ll call him.
But that brand will make my case stronger.
“Gilbert can get a search warrant and check Melanie’s apartment for lock-picking tools and SCBA gear. He can get those Cinderella shoes and probably other evidence I can’t think of. He’ll have the murderer of Mr. Davies and Page Turner and Peggy will go free.”
“Helen, you’re more romantic than Melanie. You really do believe in happy endings,” Sarah said.
Helen went back to her cash register. The clock hands continued to crawl. At three p.m., the letter carrier brought in the store mail. She handed the big stack to Helen and said, “There’s a package for you.”
Helen never got mail. But the package definitely had her name on it. It looked like a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. There was no return address. Helen did not like this.
Dr. Rich could be sending her something, or Gabriel. Neither one would give her a pleasant present. She shook the box. It sounded harmless. She held it up to her ear. No ticking.
Here goes, she thought. She pulled off the brown paper, then lifted the lid.
What she saw inside made her gag.
It was a dead parrot.
Chapter 28
Helen gathered her courage and looked again. The green feathers were too bright. That color was not found in nature.
It wasn’t a dead parrot. It was a Styrofoam bird covered with dyed green feathers. Helen could breathe again. Pete was OK. She saw she’d been clutching the counter for support. Gayle was standing next to her, looking worried.
“What’s wrong, Helen?” she said. “Are you sick again?”
“Someone sent me this weird thing,” Helen said.
Gayle looked in the box. “Is that a dead bird? No, it’s a fake. But it looks dead. That’s horrible. There’s a note in the box. It looks weird, too.”
The letters were cut out of magazines and newspapers and pasted to plain white paper. The note said,
“‘Cold gaze of mortality’?” Gayle said. “What does that mean?”
“Someone’s going to kill Pete the parrot,” Helen said.
“Should I call the cops? What sicko wrote that?”
“I have a good idea. I’ve got to go home. Someone may hurt Pete.”
“Go on. I’ll cover for you,” Gayle said, but Helen was already running out of the store. If her investigating led to Pete’s death, she’d never forgive herself. Peggy would never forgive her, either. Peggy might give up if anything happened to Pete.
Helen couldn’t bear the thought. She came to a street corner and was held up by the world’s longest red light.
Twice, she tried to dash across. Twice, cars nearly ran her down. Angry drivers honked at her. One man leaned out the window and yelled, “Are you trying to get killed, lady?”
I’m trying to stop a death, she thought. She willed herself to take deep breaths until the light finally changed.
Pete will be OK, she told herself. He’s with Margery.
She’s tough and smart.
She’s seventy-six years old. What chance did an old woman have if a killer surprised her? Helen redoubled her running efforts. She tripped on an uneven sidewalk and fell forward, landing on both hands. Her palms were scraped, but nothing felt broken. She wasted no more time looking for potential damage. Helen ran.
She could see the turquoise Coronado sign on the ice-cream-white building. She could hear the rattling air conditioners. Best of all, she heard a parrot squawk. She hoped it was Pete and not one of the wild birds in the palm trees.
Helen knocked on Margery’s door.
Silence.
“Margery! Margery, are you home?” She hammered her fists until the jalousie glass rattled and her knuckles were raw.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Never had bad-tempered words sounded so good. Her landlady opened the door. She’d clearly been asleep. One side of her hair was flattened, her red lipstick was smeared, and there were sheet wrinkles in her skin.
“Where’s Pete?” Helen said.
“Asleep, too, for a change. That’s how I finally got some shut-eye.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. His cage is right over—”
But his cage wasn’t there. Only the stand and a scattered pile of seed remained. “Where’d he go?” Margery said, bewildered. “How the heck did someone get into my place and steal that parrot?”
Helen looked at the door lock. “Lock picks. You have a Tandy DE345 lock. The killer picked it and took Pete. It’s Melanie. She killed Page Turner. She kidnapped Pete to make me stop looking for her. She says she’ll kill him. She has a cat. A big mean Siamese. He’ll tear Pete to pieces, if she doesn’t.”
“Oh, Lord, if anything happens to Pete, Peggy will kill both of us,” Margery said, then looked at Helen. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know,” Helen said.
“Do you know where this Melanie lives?”
“No, but I know how to find her. Where’s your phone book?”
Helen called the Mr. Goodtooth Clinic. “Melanie has left for the day,” the receptionist said.
Melanie took the afternoon off for a little bird-napping, Helen thought.
“Do you have her home phone? This is Page Turners bookstore. We’re trying to get in touch with her.”
“Page Turners! I know she’s been wanting a book signing at your store. She’ll be so disappointed she missed your call. Melanie left early to go to a wedding at the Tree of Life Baptist church. You need her home phone? She may still be at home getting dressed. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you called.”
“Could I have her address also?” Helen said. “We want to send her our author-information packet.”
The receptionist obligingly gave out Melanie’s address and phone number.
“I’ll drive you there,” Margery said. She had miraculously put herself back together during that short phone call.
They made it in ten minutes, with Margery breaking the speed limit. Melanie lived in a spectacularly ugly 1970s apartment complex. Helen expected the
“That’s her building—two-twelve,” Margery said. “She’s in apartment A on the first floor.”
Even from the parking lot, Helen could hear outraged squawking and cat yowls.
“Pete!” Helen said. “Pete’s in trouble. Those aren’t his usual squawks.”
Margery rang the doorbell and yelled, “Melanie, it’s your aunt Purdy. Are you home?”
“Aunt who?”
“That’s in case the neighbors are watching,” Margery said. “Nobody’s home. Can you pick a lock?”
“No, but I can break a window.” Helen grabbed a big rock out of the planter and smashed one of the slitlike
