The gun stayed up as I smiled and held out my right hand. The bullet, which would have made a hole in it had I not slipped on something wet, pinged off the bar of the cage behind me and took off the head of the parrot in mid “monk.”
“Cut it out,” I shouted, backing away, trying to make myself heard over the animals, which had gone wild from the noise, my fear, and the feeling of sudden death.
The second shot took a piece of the ear of the German shepherd, who was nowhere near me. Anne or Laura Olson was now crying and shooting, her eyes full of tears and her finger not knowing what it was clicking off. I took the three or four steps toward her, grabbed her hand, and pulled the gun away. The one-eared shepherd managed to get its snout out and sink his teeth into Olson’s pants. I pulled away hearing the tear and feeling the tug. The noise shivered through me as I reached behind the woman, opened the door, and pushed her through. I followed her and slammed the door closed behind us. It was better but not perfect.
“You’re going to kill me now,” she sobbed. “That’s what I get. I’ve never hurt anyone or anything in my life and this is what I get.”
I considered reminding her that she had just sent a bird to parrot heaven and created a funny-looking dog, but I let it pass. Instead I led her to the small operating room, where I found what looked like a clean cup and filled it with water for her.
She took the water in two hands and downed it in the same number of gulps.
“You’re not going to kill me,” she said, looking up at me from the one chair in the room. “If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t give me water, unless you’re some kind of sadist or you plan to torture me for some sick reason, or you want me to tell you something I don’t know, or …”
“You want some more water?”
She shook her head no and went silent. Her right hand came up automatically to brush back her hair. I took the cup and touched her hand.
“I was drunk the other night,” she said.
“I didn’t notice,” I answered. “You want your gun back, without bullets?”
“It was Roy’s. I got it out of his office. I don’t know much about guns,” she said.
“I wouldn’t know it by the way you were mowing down pets in … I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology,” she said with dignity, finding a handkerchief in the pocket of her slacks. “I didn’t love Roy Olson.”
Since I hadn’t asked, I nodded in sympathy.
“He was a friend of my father’s back in Washington. It just happened. I’d been through a divorce and Roy was there and going to California and I wanted out. It was a mistake. Have you ever made a mistake?”
“Never,” I said. “Did you make a mistake with Bass?”
The shudder was real. “He’s a … a … one of those things with no sex.”
“Politician,” I helped.
“No … you’re joking.”
“I hope so,” I agreed. “What do you know about the dog?”
“He had a black Scottie when we came here,” she said, looking up at me and taking my hand. “But I never thought it was, what’s his name, Fala. I still don’t understand. Why?”
“That’s what I want to find out. Do you know a friend of your husband’s named Martin something?”
She stood up and seemed to be trembling a little more. “You think this Martin killed Roy.”
“Or Bass, or both,” I said.
“You didn’t do it, then,” she said, stepping toward me.
“That’s how we started this conversation. I didn’t do it. All I want to do is find the dog. To do that, I might have to find out who killed your husband.”
“Could you come back to the house with me for a while,” she said, holding my hand. “I … I don’t want to be alone in there, where he was killed. Whoever did it might come back. I thought it was …”
She put her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder.
“You have a bad habit of not finishing your sentences,” I said, putting the gun on a nearby table so I could hold onto her and keep from toppling over.
“I wasn’t completely drunk the other night,” she said. Her hair was in my nose. It was dark, clean, and smelted like some flower I couldn’t place. “I don’t see people, go anywhere. My husband never even wanted to make love.” Her head came back and her mouth was inches from mine.
“I’ve got to find a dog,” I said.
“You can come up to the house for a little while,” she said, touching my cheek.
“Well,” I said, “maybe for a little while.”
This time no dripping water fell on our heads. She pushed me back gently onto the operating table, where my head hit the gun. I moved the gun and made room for her. With a dead parrot in the next room, we did something like making love on an animal examining table.
When we were finished, which was not long after we started, she put on her underpants, bra, slacks, sweater, and gun, and I put on her husband’s suit.
“We’ll get another one of Roy’s suits for you at the house,” she said, smiling and touching my nose.
“Is your name really Anne?” I said.
“Laura Anne,” she answered.
“I’ve got a phone call to make,” I said.
She kissed me and told me to go ahead and make the call from the clinic and then come up to the house, where she would have a surprise waiting for me.
“I’m not up to another surprise right now,” I said with a stupid grin.
“We’ll see,” she said, backing out of the door.
I called Mrs. Plaut’s, praying to the ghosts of dead parrots that she would not answer the phone. My prayers went unanswered.
“Yes?” she asked the phone in that voice that made it seem as if she couldn’t understand how any human sound could come from a machine.
“It’s me, Mrs. Plaut, Toby Peters.”
“Yes,” she said reasonably.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she repeated.
“Good, please get Gunther on the phone,” I said, dropping my voice only slightly from the level I used to threaten boxers who were safely busy in a ring a stadium away.
“Is anyone there?” Mrs. Plaut said, making it clear she had heard nothing of my end of the conversation.
“Gunther Wherthman,” I screamed.
“Mr. Wortman,” she said, “will you please answer this madman. I can make no sense of him.”
“Can I help?” came Gunther’s voice.
“Thank God,” I sighed. “Gunther, I won’t be able to make it back for dinner.”
“That is most unfortunate, Toby. I am preparing a buttery quiche and have purchased several bottles of Lucky Lager beer which, as I recall, you are fond of.”
“The fact is,” I said, feeling guilty, “I may not make it back to the boarding house at all tonight.”
“May I ask,” he said, pausing to frame his question with dignity, “if it is a business situation or a young lady.”
“It’s business and the lady isn’t exactly young, but neither am I.”
“The quiche will hold till tomorrow,” said Gunther. “In fact, my aunt who taught me the recipe believed that it tasted best on the second day. Take care of yourself, Toby.”
The hole in my pants, or rather Olson’s pants, was large enough to shove a dead parrot through, but the thought didn’t appeal to me. I thought of getting a veterinarian for the shepherd with the missing ear, but the resident vet was dead. Laura Anne Olson might have a suggestion. The dog and I weren’t exactly friends, but I’d been in his position enough times to know how it feels.
I trotted up the pathway to the house and stopped short. There was a car parked at the door, a car I had seen parked in front of Jane Poslik’s apartment earlier that day. If it was Mrs. Olson’s car, I had a few questions about her travels. If it wasn’t, then she might be inside with a visitor she at least wanted to meet. I tried the front
