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.”
“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.”
I’d hoped she’d forget. Then again, Aunt Weeby has a mind like a fox trap.
“It’s no big deal.” I take my now-empty cocoa cup to the sink. “Every armchair at the airport was taken, so we both sat on a sofa. While I slept, I must’ve slipped sideways, and neither one of us noticed that I landed on his shoulder.”
“You landed on his shoulder?”
“Must be. ’Fraid I can’t tell you more than that. I was sleeping.”
“That’s it?”
“Sorry to disappoint. And now I get to go to bed.”
“Mm-hmm. You’ll need all the rest you can get, sugarplum.”
“I . . . will?”
“Uh-huh! Why, you’re going to be mighty busy, girl. What with your show and all that sleeping on Max’s shoulder and all that investigating you’re gonna be doing, that is.”
I ignore the sinkholes in Aunt Weeby’s words. “Investigating?”
“Sure, Andie. No one’s figured out yet why that dead guy wound up dead in our vault. Someone’s gotta do it. I figure you’re snoopy enough. That’s all it should take, some good ol’ fashioned snooping on your part. I’d do it, but I got me a cast and a bird to hold me back some.”
Okay. Help me here. Do I accept the compliment to my abilities or do I yelp at the insult? After a nanosecond’s thought, I decide to do neither.
“I bet you’re gonna tell me what I should do.” Why am I wasting breath? This is Aunt Weeby. She tells everyone what they should do.
“There’s only one thing to do. You’re gonna have to sniff out every last little thing there is to know about everyone who works out at that TV shopping network Mona’s got herself.”
Now there’s an appealing prospect. Stick my nose where it doesn’t belong to alienate my co-workers. “And how do you want me to do that without landing behind bars?”
“Easy, sugarplum! You just chat them up at work, ask all kindsa them subtle questions they do on TV, and maybe get a look inside their handbags. You know what they say about women’s handbags, right?”
They have something to say about handbags? “No, Aunt Weeby. I don’t know what they say about women’s handbags. But I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me.”
“I don’t rightly know about any dying, but I can most certainly tell you about pocketbooks. They always say you can know all about a woman by the stuff she stashes in her purse.”
What’s in mine? Gum wrappers, a brush, my favorite Copper Rose lip gloss, my checkbook, wallet, sunglasses, a hair scrunchy, keys. That’s it. Pretty boring. And then I remember the no-man’s-land at the bottom, the flotsam that litters the lining. Receipts, the four-inch spiral-bound notebook I fondly think of as my brain . . .
Okay. Maybe “they” are onto something. There’s just one minor detail. “How do you expect me to get into these handbags?”
She stands and smacks her fists on her hips. “What? Do I have to do everything for you?” After an indignant sniff, she sails out the kitchen doorway. “You figure it out.”
Did I tell you I’m squeamish about sneaking around? No? Well, I’m telling you now. I mean, I do have the urge to snoop, but not the guts. That’s why there’s no way I’m diving into other women’s handbags. Dead ruby vendor or not.
No way.
