Free Plumage by Nancy Springer Page A

Sassy that she ought to take time to think about this. Come up with a plan. Formulate some options.
    The feather paused where it was and bobbed on the air like the blip on the monitor of somebody working up to a heart attack.
    â€œUm, okay, okay!” Options, what options? Sassy swallowed hard, swallowing her dithers, and walked after it.
    â€œLook,” Racquel told the police detective, “I just know her to have coffee with her.”
    â€œMa’am, that’s not what the other maids said.” The cop was a no-neck flat-faced man who spoke with a ponderous show of respect but probably knew that any self-respecting woman hates to be called “ma’am.” Racquel, of course, knew himself not to be a self-respecting woman and he was trying not to sweat or let fear show in his face or his taut body. The shaky hands were the hardest to control. Damn, he was scared. What might happen to him if he got taken in, searched, what might happen if he went to jail … no. Don’t think about it.
    â€œâ€¦ hung around with you a lot,” the police officer was saying.
    â€œFor God’s sake,” Racquel said, “maybe she just went away for a few days.”
    â€œFor nine days so far? Without calling in to work? Without stopping her mail or canceling her dental appointment? Without telling her landlady, without telling anybody? Did she tell you she was going on a trip?”
    Racquel did not answer. He did not know what to answer. It seemed out of the question to try to explain to the officer that Sassy had gone on a little jaunt through the mirror after a stray parakeet.
    â€œOn a trip, you think? With two tote bags? Which is what she was carrying when she was last seen, heading in here.” The policeman paused to slowly scan PLUMAGE’s racks of feather-trimmed gowns with half-lidded eyes, showing no expression. “At 11 P . M . of the evening of February 27,” he resumed.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Racquel said.
    â€œI think you do.” The cop suddenly looked him straight in the face, and Racquel could not help flinching. “Aren’t you usually closed at that time of night?”
    â€œUsually. Maybe I stayed late—”
    â€œYeah, yeah, to do the books or something. I think I’ll have a look around, if that’s quite all right with you.”
    â€œIt’s not all right. Do you have a warrant?”
    â€œThis shop is open to the public, ma’am. I don’t need a warrant.” The cop headed for the back room.
    â€œIf you stay in the public area.” Racquel didn’t know why he was arguing. His black-boy upbringing was kicking in, making him mad, making him stupid.
    â€œI can come back with a warrant, if you like,” the cop said. “For your arrest.”
    It probably wasn’t true. But the possibility that it was made Racquel sweat, he couldn’t think of what to say, and the cop was already through the door into the office/storage area, where Racquel had stowed Sassy’s tote bags, figuring she’d be back for them sometime. Hoping she’d be back. Kind of worried about her, but couldn’t think of anything he could do about it.
    The cop had already found the totes as Racquel strode in. Racquel perched on the edge of the desk so as not to squash his bustle, glad he was wearing his crimson shantung with the cutaway back and the hackle-trimmed band collar; hackles always gave him confidence, and he knew his bare shoulder blades made him look sexy. He watched the policeman kneel and root through the totes, find Sassy’s wallet, look in it for ID and grunt with satisfaction as he stood up.
    â€œStill say she wasn’t here?” he asked, shooting a hard look at Racquel.
    â€œI just said I wouldn’t know.”
    â€œAnd I said I think you do know. I think you better come down to the station with me.”
    Racquel crossed his legs to draw attention to his gold strappy sandals