Excerpt of my mystery The Parrot Told Me, where the witness is a talking bird!

“Are you my baby bird?”  The question was pronounced in a silky smooth Southern voice.  The voice made a ripple of unease slip down her spine.

              Camille turned a page and concentrated on the printed words.

              “Hey, Bud.”  The voice insisted, this time deeper and masculine, accompanied by a loud ringing and the discordant sound of metal against metal.  “Where are you?” he demanded.

              “Hey, Simon,” Camille called back, closing her book.  Camille stood and slowly stretched.  Through the kitchen door, she could see her newest roommate pacing.  Simon was a trifle scruffy, his silver gray feathers ruffled and battered, but improving.  His red tail feathers would stay stubby and bent until he went through a molt and grew back new plumage to replace the old, but he had begun to gain weight, and he no longer flared with alarm when someone passed through the doorway.

              Camille shook her head and slipped across the room.

              “How about a little music?” she asked, switching on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.  The sound filtered from the speakers, crystal clear, lovely. 

              The pacing stopped; the clang of the bell was silenced as the sensitive creature bent his head to absorb the comfort of the sound, his figure reflected in the dark glass of the window.  A bird that loved classical music.  How unique.

              Camille took her seat again, choosing a magazine from the stack on the top of the trunk.  She flipped open the glossy pages, too distracted to concentrate on her novel.  There was something inherently splendid about sitting in the half-light, the vanilla scented air rushing on warm drafts, the music washing over her like a salve.

              “What the hell?”  This time the voice was different, feminine, an edge of fear, spooky. The voice of a dead woman.

              Camille caught her breath and froze.

              “Just here for a visit.”  The voice returned an octave lower, a man with no accent, smooth.

              “Look, I don’t want to discuss it.”  The first voice again, but different.  She didn’t sound scared anymore, but cautious maybe.

              “Baby.”  The man’s voice almost crooned.

              Then there was a long pause, a pregnant silence filled only by the music. 

              “Let me go! Get away from me!”  It was the female voice again, but higher and edgier, now really afraid.  “No, stop!” Wild panic in that tone.

              The cacophony of sounds that followed showed signs of the furious struggle: pounding steps, slamming doors, an unearthly howl, a bird voice of fury as the music shut off, then a few seconds of silence before the next track began.

              Camille stumbled to her feet, the magazine sliding to the floor unheeded.  Her heart was hammering in her ears as the noise ceased, an insistent clanging melting into silence.  She reached back to the sofa for support and forced herself to breathe slowly.

              “Oh, poor bird,” the lonely creature crooned, once again in his raspy parrot voice.  “Poor Simon.”

              With her hand at her chest, sheltering her stuttering heart, she leaned forward and looked in the dining room again.  Simon was in the back of his cage, perched at his favorite spot, huddled against the walls.  His left foot was raised, his long parrot claws gently massaging his own neck.  A parrot’s self comfort.

 

The Parrot Told Me