Birds of a Feather Read online

  “Stay back,” he says roughly. “What’s going on?”

  “I was... I was showing my realtor the bookstore and found this”—I gesture at the woman on the ground—“and then I-I-I...” I grimace. “Sorry, I suck at explaining things.”

  The ghost of a sympathetic frown touches the guy’s lips. “It’s okay. Most people aren’t used to seeing dead bodies.”

  “And you are?” I blurt out before my mind warns me that it’s a bad idea to ask questions I’m not sure I want the answers to, especially given what I saw the last time I bumped into this guy. He seems way too calm.

  He purses his lips, all traces of sympathy gone. “Did you call 911?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I told Dorothy—she’s my realtor—to.” I grimace, remembering the retching noises coming from the apartment.

  The barest flicker of emotion crosses his face, but by the time I recognize it as annoyance, it’s gone, replaced once again by a cool, impenetrable façade.

  Coffee Guy—I mean Nick—helps me to my feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket with his other hand. “Wait here. I’ll go check on Dorothy and call it in if she hasn’t yet.”

  My gaze flies to the dead body. “You’re leaving me here?” God, I sound like a wuss.

  He nods. “Yeah. Stay with the body and make sure no one else gets anywhere near it. This is a crime scene.” His voice reminds me of one of those police procedurals with aptly timed theme music and a roguishly handsome detective.

  With one last searing glance at the body, Nick disappears inside the bookstore. I shift uneasily from side to side, trying to look anywhere but at the body behind the dumpster. The wind rustles through the alley behind the bookstore, and a couple of pieces of paper flutter in front of my feet. I glance down at them, perilously close to my shoes. My shoes that I’m going to have to burn because of the red streaks and splotches and—bile rises in my throat again. Oh God.

  I take a deep breath. You can do this. Seriously. It’s a dead body. You’ve watched enough TV shows to know that the hero never freaks out about the dead. They get a grip and figure it out. This isn’t your first dead body. But it is. At least, it’s the first dead body I’ve seen in the flesh, per se. Visions are different. But no less real.

  “Yeah, I know the drill.” Nick’s gravelly voice echoes from the open door to the bookstore. “We won’t touch anything. I know, I know.” Nick stomps through the doorway, shading his eyes from the sun. He mutters a few more things before striding toward me and gesturing at the body. “Do you know who that is?”

  I shake my head. “How would I? I just got here yesterday, remember?” Maybe he doesn’t remember. I run through our calamitous meeting in my mind. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I actually told him.

  He grunts something unintelligible that sounds suspiciously like a swear word.

  “How’s Dorothy?” I ask. I’ve got to keep my mind off of the body.

  “The realtor?” Nick jerks his head toward the bookstore.

  I nod.

  “She’s fine,” he says.

  In the distance, the harsh burst of police sirens makes me jump. They grow closer, and I swallow a lump in my throat, my palms growing clammy. Instantly, I’m thrust into a memory of another cop car, far away from here. Oh God, it’s happening again. What if they find out who I am?

  Nick watches me curiously. “Is everything okay?”

  I pace away from the body and hug my arms to my chest. It’s not particularly cold out, but there’s a chill descending over the scene that I can feel. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.

  Dorothy staggers from the bookstore, wiping her hands on her thighs. Her face is pale, her lips pinched. “Oh, poor Sandra,” she moans, her eyes growing glossy with tears.

  “You know her?” Nick’s attention immediately turns to her, and my shoulders sag, relieved he’s not focusing on me anymore. That is, until Dorothy’s words sink in.

  “Oh, dear, yes,” the realtor says. “Sandra Munich. She used to be married to Frank at the pawn shop.” Then a strange, almost curious look crosses her face. “But what was she doing here?” Dorothy directs the question at me, as if I somehow know the answer.

  I shrug. I have no idea. I didn’t even know her name before Dorothy told me. I’m also positive I’ve never seen the dead woman before. I may have occasional visions of the future, something only known by a couple of people, but I don’t know everything. Not by a long shot.

  “Maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time?” I ask, my voice weak and hesitant.

  Nick peers all around the body. “With that?” he asks, pointing at something next to the body. It’s a little black cloth case, not much larger than a wallet. The zipper is open, and a couple of thin metal rods are strewn around on the ground.

  “What’s that?” The thin metal pieces almost look like the tools dental hygienists use to clean teeth.

  “It’s a lockpicking kit,” Nick says. “Probably a cheap set she picked up off of Amazon, by the looks of it.”

  I gulp. I almost don’t want to ask, because I know the answer, but I ask anyway. I blame it on the shock of finding a dead body outside my back door. “What do you think she was doing with the lockpicking kit?”

  Nick slants a dubious look at me, one that says I can’t possibly be that stupid.

  Newsflash: I might actually be that stupid.

  “Why do you think she had a lockpick set outside your back door?” he asks, eyeing the body.

  “She was going to break into the bookstore, wasn’t she?” I back up a step until I bump into my car, the fear of the words greater now that they’re spoken out loud. Nick reaches for me, but I shrink away, not willing to risk reliving the moment from yesterday. I’ve had enough shock for one day.

  A flash of hurt crosses his eyes, followed by suspicion. “Do you know any reason why someone would try to break into the bookstore?” He cocks his head to the side, as if considering the question himself.

  I shake my head. “No. If somebody wanted to break in, why wouldn’t they have done that when the place was vacant? They had a lot of opportunity before I got here.”

  He grunts in some sort of caveman-type response. Before I can say something else, two patrol cars, which probably amounts to the majority of the Tranquility Falls police force, pull to a stop behind my car.

  Nick directs Dorothy and me to step even farther away from the body before leaving to go talk to the cops. And honestly, I’ll let him take over the whole deal if he wants. The last time I dealt with law enforcement didn’t end so well for me. If I can keep from getting thrown in jail this time, I’ll be ahead of the bell curve.

  Half an hour later, a small group of people gathers in the alley, watching the cops and the medical examiners investigate the scene. I shift from side to side, jumpy from the glances that keep getting cast my way. I want to get out of here. I have to—I can feel my anxiety crawling under my skin—but I can’t. I’m trapped.

  “Are you sure you don’t know Ms. Munich?” a bored beat cop asks me for the eleventh time. I can’t remember his name, and I hope I never see him again to have to recall it. I hate cops.

  “I’m positive.” It’s all I can do to keep from snapping at him. I’m exhausted, I’m starving, and I’m severely under-caffeinated. It’s a dangerous combination. “Like I said, I got here yesterday. I have no idea who anybody is, except for my neighbor.” I point at Nick, who is talking to another police officer. “That’s it. I’m here to help my friends sell their aunt’s shop. After that, I’m out of here.” My words ring with a type of finality that sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Uh-huh,” the cop says.

  For some reason, I don’t think he believes me. Just watch. As soon as I can get this place cleaned out and listed, I’ll be out of here. I’m not exactly sure where I’m going to go, but anywhere would be better than a place where cops are already looking at me.

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts last night?” He
’s checking my alibi, and the crappy thing is that I don’t have one.

  “Only if you count Marge. But if a psychopathic cockatoo isn’t your idea of a reliable witness, then no.”

  Dorothy waves goodbye to the police officer she’s been talking to and starts to walk away. Crap. I have to catch her before she leaves.

  “I’m sorry, officer, but do you mind if I talk to Dorothy?”

  He opens his mouth as if to object.

  “Just about listing the bookstore. Nothing else, I swear.”

  The other woman pretends not to see me other than flashing a quick glance in my direction. As she darts down the alley toward her car, I hurry after her.

  “Dorothy, wait up.” I’m out of breath by the time I catch up to her. Man, that woman can really move in heels. I can barely walk in tennis shoes, so I don’t know how she does it.

  She whirls around. “What?” Her shoulders slump in relief. “Oh, it’s you. Are you finished talking to the cops already? I, um, need to get back to the office. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

  “What about the bookstore? When are you going to list it?” I hate the note of desperation in my voice, but I can’t quite get rid of it. Besides, I am desperate. I’m desperate to get out of here, even though the future is so uncertain. Any place has to be better than a bookstore with a half-wild pet and a dead body outside the back door.

  “What? Oh, that. I, um, well.” She pauses until the light flashes in her eyes then straightens her shoulders.

  Uh-oh. She’s on to something.

  “I certainly can’t list a house where someone was just murdered.” As if feeling emboldened, her lip curls into the faint semblance of a disgusted sneer. “You can’t possibly be worried about that now.”

  My stomach sinks. Um, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m worried about. Sure, I feel bad about the dead person, but finding a body outside my back door—I will not say murdered. I will not say murdered—kinda makes me want to get out of town even more.

  “Actually,” I say, shifting from side to side. I have to find a nice way to put this. “I kind of have a deadline to meet back home. You know how that is.” I force what probably looks like a wobbly, pathetic smile to my face in the hopes that she’ll understand.

  “Well,” Dorothy says, her lips pursing in a frown. “There simply isn’t anything I can do until the police have solved this heinous crime. No one will want to buy a house where someone was murdered. No one.”

  “But she wasn’t murdered in the house,” I say, my voice raising enough to make the nearest cop turn his head.

  “Shhh.” Dorothy presses a finger to her lips. “I know that, and you know that, but the average buyer won’t care. Sure, you might get some real strange folks who want to look at the house, but anyone local, anyone serious, will be scared off.”

  Crap. In my mind, I see my timeline stretching longer and longer. There’s got to be another way.

  One of the police officers trots up to us. “Ma’am,” he says, “do you have any idea why anyone would try to break into the bookstore?”

  I shake my head quickly. From the corner of my eye, I see Dorothy stride away, taking advantage of the distraction. Great. With my luck, I’ll have to find another realtor. I think there are only two offices in town, so hopefully, the other one will be more willing to work with me. “No, I’m sorry. Like I said, I just got here yesterday. I haven’t had much time to look around, but I don’t think there’s a lot in there that anyone would actually want. Mostly old books and other junk.”

  The cop studies me for a few seconds, as if he doesn’t believe me. “I’m sure you’re right, but there has to be a reason why someone would try to break into the bookstore. Would you mind if we took a look around? There might be something that stands out to us that you might not have noticed.” He shrugs. “Now, you said you had permission from the family to sell the bookstore. Do you think they would mind us looking around? Should we contact”—he consults a small notepad—“Shelby or Sara Williams?”

  That’s one way to blow my cover quickly. “There’s no need for that. They’ve pretty much given me free rein to do whatever I need to get the place sold. If you want to go and search it, be my guest.” I wave my arm at the bookstore. Please believe me. Please believe me.

  “We will. Do you have their numbers? We’ll need to contact them anyway regarding the property.”

  I gulp. “I have Sara’s.” I rattle off my sister’s number, and he writes it down.

  “Thanks.” With a nod, the police officer strides toward the other cops. They talk to each other for a few minutes before heading inside. Hopefully, they will be able to find something and get this solved quickly so that I can get things back on track.

  I pull out my phone, dialing my sister’s number by memory. I need to tell her what’s going on—she’ll freak out if she finds out from someone else.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Shelby? Thank God you called.”

  I wince at my sister’s use of my old name. “Willa,” I say. “My name is Willa.” I honestly never want to hear “Shelby” again, especially after what happened in Oregon.

  Sara snorts. “Whatever. How’s it going in Tranquility Falls?”

  I hesitate but then decide I might as well tell the truth because she’ll hear about it eventually, anyway. “Not so good, actually. Not only is that damn bird still alive, but this morning when I was showing the bookstore to the realtor, we found—”

  I am saved from having to figure out a delicate way of saying “a dead body” when someone shouts from inside the bookstore. The two cops who went in to search the shop come rushing out, one clutching his hand to his chest. Blood drips on the pavement, leaving a trail from the door.

  My stomach sinks. “I’ve got to go. I think Marge just attacked the cops.” I hurry toward them. This could be bad. I know Marge isn’t my favorite animal in the world, but I don’t want anything to happen to her.

  “Cops?” my sister squawks.

  “I’ll call you later.” I hang up the phone before she can respond and rush over to where the cops are standing. “Are you all right?” Maybe if I play dumb, the cops won’t come after me for assault or something. I’m not sure how this works, but I doubt they’ll take too kindly to being attacked. I didn’t even think about warning them. There’s too much going on.

  “What the hell is that thing?” he asks, a scowl tight across his face.

  “Um, that’s Marge. She belonged to my—I mean the previous bookstore owner.” Watch yourself. Don’t screw this up.

  “Uh-huh, sure,” he says, skepticism thick in his voice. “Can you, you know, do something about it until we finish our preliminary search?”

  Ha! If it were only that easy. “I, um, don’t really know how to deal with birds all that well.”

  The cop grimaces. “You want me to call animal control?”

  I think back to the phone call I had with the animal shelter about Marge. “No, just give me a minute.” I’ll figure something out.

  From inside the bookstore, Marge screeches, the sound probably loud enough to be heard for miles. There has to be some way to bribe the bird to let the police search for clues. Wait—I haven’t been up front since yesterday. I bet she’s hungry. Guilt floods me. This is why I don’t have any pets. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another living creature. I can’t even keep a cactus alive.

  “Just give me a second. I’m going to run to the café and grab something for her to eat.”

  The police officer agrees somewhat dubiously to the delay, and I hurry down the street to the little café I drove past yesterday. In the back of my mind, I seem to remember my aunt feeding Marge from a canister of food, but the bird also enjoyed eating whatever my aunt ate. God, I hope this works.

  Latte Love Café sits on the corner of the block, just past a vintage-clothing store. Decorated in soft browns and creams, it has chocolate-colored booths lining the far wall and metal bistro tables spread out in the middle.
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  The barista, a twenty-something blonde with a perky smile and a dusting of freckles over her nose, asks me for my order. Questions flit across her face, and immediately, I can tell she’s heard about me. My stomach sinks. Everyone has probably heard about me by now, either from Dorothy or the people watching the cops work the crime scene behind the store.

  I ask the barista, whose name tag reads Maryanne, for a few seconds to think and study the menu. Meaningful Mocha. Lovely Latte. Groovy Green Tea. Easy-Does-It Espresso. Some of the names are familiar, along with the list of flavors and menu substitutions.

  I order the Easy-Does-It Espresso and a cranberry muffin then wait patiently to the side while the barista prepares my order. If I’m picking up something for the bird, I might as well get some caffeine for me too. Hopefully, I can keep from spilling it on anyone this time.

  A young African-American man comes from the kitchen in the back. He whispers something to Maryanne, and they both glance in my direction. They’re trying to look inconspicuous, but they’re not that good at it.

  After he goes back into the kitchen, Maryanne finishes my latte and bags the muffin before pasting a brave smile on her face. “Here you go,” she says, handing them to me. Then she tilts her head to the side, as if realizing for the first time who I am. “Are you the girl who’s running the bookstore?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s me. I’m helping out Shelby and Sara because they couldn’t get the time off of work.” This time, the lie falls more easily from my lips. I’m not sure whether or not I like that. I know that I have to lie right now, but that doesn’t mean it feels good.

  “Is it true you found a body behind the bookstore?” Her voice takes on a conspiratorial tone.

  “Um, I have to go.” I scoop up the coffee and muffin and hurry out the door, feeling both Maryanne’s eyes and probably those of every patron in the café drilling holes into my back.

  I head to the back of the bookstore and hold up my goods to the police officers.

  “This isn’t the time for a coffee break,” the one who Marge bit says dryly.