Free Parrots Prove Deadly by Clea Simon

resentful bichon frise, Growler had a pronounced antipathy to females of any species. I’d met his human, the walking horror known as Tracy Horlick, so I knew why. I did what I could to alleviate a borderline abusive situation, and in return he trusted me—as much as he could trust anyone. In return, I found myself putting my faith in the little white puffball—more than in most humans. More than most animals, to be honest. His keen nose and acute observations had gotten me out of jams before. Much as I love Wallis, she’s got her predispositions. At times its good to look at things from a radically different—a canine—perspective, and a walk with Growler could often clear my head.
    My brief search for Wallis had made me a little late. As I pulled up to the curb by the Horlick house, I saw his mistress in the doorway, waiting for me. Dressed in her usual housecoat, still in last night’s makeup at nine a.m., she resembled nothing so much as the gossips of my childhood. Women like Tracy Horlick had made my mother’s life miserable, after my father left. All hate and wrinkles, she wouldn’t have been one of the females who’d lured him from hearth and home, but she could have been one of many who blamed my mother for losing him. As if husbands could be misplaced through carelessness or some other moral failing.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Horlick.” I knew better than to ask my client how she was. Instead, I hoped to make a quick exit, with the dog. “Lovely weather today.”
    “If you like fall.” She flicked an ash from her cigarette. I watched it fade on the concrete walk and kept coming. “And things dying.”
    “Nonsense.” I’d learned to affect a certain deafness in regard to Growler’s human. “Lovely out.” I stepped up as if to enter the house, but she blocked the way. “Is Bitsy ready?” I even managed a smile.
    “I hear you’re mixed up with the dead again.” One thing Tracy Horlick did have going for her was the finest tuned ear for gossip in all of Beauville. Somehow, between her bridge club, the beauty salon that lacquered her hair every week, and the convenience store where she bought her cigarettes by the case, she managed to know everybody’s business. Even, to my dismay, a good deal of mine. “Over at that new place?”
    I nodded, hoping to make this quick. “LiveWell,” I acknowledged.
    She snorted, smoke coming out of her nostrils. “What a ripoff. You know what they want for a place there?”
    I didn’t, though it was mildly interesting that she’d looked into it.
    “Four grand. A month!” She waggled her cigarette for emphasis. “For a studio!”
    “Well, that probably includes nursing care, meals, and such.” Good thing she’d never moved to the city. This house was in one of the older developments. Not as spacious as my mother’s place—or as expensive to heat, I’d bet—but old enough so that her late husband, or, hell, maybe her parents, had probably paid off the mortgage years before.
    “Someone’s making money off that place.” She paused to pick a piece of tobacco from her tongue. Behind her, a muffled bark rang out.
    “Sounds like Bitsy is ready for his walkies!” I put my best effort into it, and got a sour look in return. “Look, I don’t know anything about the economics of LiveWell,” I reverted to my normal voice. “I’m just helping retrain a parrot.”
    “Huh.” Tracy Horlick wasn’t mollified, but she must have figured that she wouldn’t get anything else out of me because she turned and went inside. I reached in the door for the lead and a moment later Growler came bounding out of the basement. Snapping the lead onto his collar, I nodded toward the house and we hit the road.
    “She lock you in there all night?” During the summer, I knew Growler had been left in the tiny backyard. I wasn’t sure this was an improvement.
    “It’s dry. ”With a grunt, the bichon let me know he wasn’t in the mood for pity. “ And there’s prey.