Free Parrots Prove Deadly by Clea Simon Page A

” He added. I looked down and as those button eyes stared up, I got a sense of mice burrowing in. Looking for a safe place to spend the winter…
    “Huh! ” He turned and pulled me toward a small elm. I got a whiff of Lars, an overweight beagle, and something else—something golden and brown. “Roberto. ” Growler filled in the name. “And you’re getting off the topic, walker lady. ”
    He was right. The image of the mice, their whiskered faces staring up at me, had sparked something. The raccoon—of course! I would have to deal with Jerry, though I wasn’t sure yet how. In the meantime, I thought about poison. Tracy Horlick wasn’t ever going to win prizes for her humane treatment of animals, and I needed to warn Growler of the consequences of eating anything he caught.
    “Got it. ” The ease with which the small dog read my mind jolted me. I’d thought I had to direct my thoughts to be understood. “No, not really. ”His gruff voice answered my unspoken question. “Thanks, though. ”
    It was unnerving, and as I tried to shake it off I let the little dog wander. “Hmm…Gus, that kidney problem is getting bad… ” The idea that the bichon was letting me eavesdrop as a way to apologize for listening in on my thoughts was making me a little crazy. I needed to get ahead of it.
    “Look, Growler?” I didn’t stop walking. That would have been rude. I did, however, speak out loud. “Can we try to keep our communication conversational? You know, like we ask each other things? Not just listen in?”
    “Huh! ” I tried to take the dog’s brisk chuff and not the fact that he stopped to urinate on a tree as my answer. A moment later, he gave me more. “ So, are you going to ask me? ”
    He’d caught me off guard. I’d been looking forward to consulting with the wise little dog about a number of things: the parrot, mostly. But I’d thought Growler might also have some insight into the raccoon situation, particularly after that revelation about the basement. Maybe, even, he could give me a clue about communicating with that sphinx of a guide dog.
    “Stupid bitch… ” I knew he meant in a technical way. Growler is not fond of any females. He’d picked up that “Buster” was female, but that didn’t surprise me. Wallis had already taught me that animals get clues from us that we aren’t aware of. They have to; for them, more often than not, knowing who and what you’re dealing with can mean survival.
    “Speaking of that raccoon…” Might as well start with the problem uppermost in my mind.
    “Mating season? ” Growler’s ears stood up.
    “What? No.” That would be in the winter. Then I heard what he’d responded to: a car, much newer than my own, pulling around the corner.
    “Hey, Pru.” Creighton rolled down the window of his cruiser. “Got a minute?”
    I looked down at Growler. He looked up at me, silently. “Thanks for the warning,” I muttered as I walked us both over to the curb.
    “How’d you find me?” I leaned in. This felt wrong somehow. I like to keep the day and night parts of my life as separate as possible.
    My nighttime buddy only smiled. “Good morning to you, too.”
    Okay, so I was being about as pleasant as Tracy Horlick. I nodded, waiting.
    “Look, I know Mrs. Horlick is one of your regulars, and when I drove by, I saw your car there.” He looked back at the corner. It was true; Growler was a little dog and our walks didn’t usually take us too far. “I wanted to ask you something.”
    “I’m here.” I was also getting intense waves of interest from the dog by my side. Interest in our discussion—or in Jim Creighton. I didn’t know which. Creighton is a sexy man.
    “You went out to that new condo complex late yesterday. Evergreen Hills, the one right by the town line.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond. “I was wondering what brought you there.”
    “And you care, why?” Creighton had startled me, showing up in the wrong context like