CHAPTER

eight

WHEN I TRIED to open up shop, I dropped the keys twice in my occupied mental state with Helen’s death. Had the janitor already left before she died, or had he hidden away when the paramedics arrived on the scene?

Nicola showed up a few minutes after opening time and found me fumbling with my keys. “You all right, Mimi?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Up early, that’s all.” I didn’t tell her I’d gotten out of bed to go investigating at my sister’s elementary school.

Finally, I unlocked the door, and we entered. Nicola flipped on the lights while I turned the sign over to “OPEN.” Marshmallow staked out his usual sunny spot while we readied the place for upcoming customers.

Before long, a Lady Godiva lookalike came in with a covered cage. “Dr. Exi told me about this store.”

I could hear a few chirps from the cage and did a double-take at the fabric draped over it.

“I covered the cage because the harsh sunlight hurts Pavarotti’s eyes.”

“Of course,” I said, giving her a polite nod.

Nicola gave me a panicked look and whispered, “I don’t do feathers.”

Addressing the woman, I said, “You want his wings trimmed, right?”

“Exactly.” She uncovered his cage with care and revealed a gray cockatiel with a lemon-colored head. “Can’t have Pavarotti hurting himself when he soars around the house.”

I flashed the woman a brilliant smile. Hopefully, my time with Dr. Exi and my additional YouTube research would translate to actual physical skill.

“I’ll wait right here,” the woman said as she sat on the pleather bench and took out a thick novel.

In the back room with Pavarotti, I placed the cage down on the grooming table and brought out my scissors. Better be conservative with the cutting, I thought. First, though, I needed to capture the bird to hold him still.

I lifted the cage door open and snuck several fingers in. He almost nipped them off. Then Pavarotti hopped to the other side of his perch.

Perhaps I hadn’t thought this through when I’d agreed to Dr. Exi’s request. Just then, I felt some soft fur brush against my legs.

Pavarotti started flapping his wings and moving around the cage. I looked down to find Marshmallow at my feet, his blue eyes riveted on the feathered creature.

“This is a pet bird,” I said. “Quit scaring it.”

“Why? Cat got its tongue?” He meowed out a chuckle, and Pavarotti cocked his head at Marshmallow.

Marshmallow froze. “I think little Tweety understood me.”

“You can speak to birds, too?”

Marshmallow twitched his nose. “I’ve never tried to before . . . because it would have been bad manners to talk with my mouth full.”

I cleared my throat. “Can you help me out right now?”

Marshmallow focused on the cockatiel and let out a low warning rumble.

The bird stiffened and stayed still.

“What’d you tell Pavarotti?” I asked.

“I let him know that he should stay put when a human holds sharp scissors near his body and that he should let you do your work.”

“Er, thanks. I would have described it in gentler terms.” My hand crept toward the cockatiel. “So he won’t mind if I bring him out? I don’t want him to be scared of you, either.”

“That’s all right,” Marshmallow said. “I told him I’m vegetarian.”

“You’re not—”

“He doesn’t need to know that.”

With a now obedient bird, I took Pavarotti out of the cage and extended his wings with care. Making sure not to clip too high, I murmured, “This is like cutting hair. It won’t hurt a bit.”

Marshmallow translated my words to the bird with a soft purr.

I snipped a few feathers, making sure to trim only the primary ones, those giving the bird extra boost during flight. After all, I wanted Pavarotti to still be able to glide for safety’s sake.

After making sure I’d done the best job I could, I placed him back in his cage. Then I brought Pavarotti back out to his owner, who remained invested in her heavy tome. I had to tap her shoulder to get her attention.

She looked up and admired her bird. “His plumage looks stunning. I know it’s a simple task, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. Best to leave the trimming to a professional, I thought.”

“Thanks for coming in. Nicola will ring you up at the register.”

“I’ll be sure to tell all my avian owner friends about Hollywoof,” she said.

“Wonderful.” I handed her a stack of business cards. The more animals at my shop, the better.

The rest of the morning involved a few pooch baths, which Nicola and I split between us. Then we closed up shop for lunch. I took out my brown bag while Nicola hurried to make it to a voiceover audition.

I wondered if Alice was enjoying her surprise strawberry cheesecake this very minute. As if through some mystical sister connection, my cell phone rang, and her caller ID flashed on the display.

“What a treat,” Alice said when I picked up. “I can’t believe you made a special trip to the Cheesecake Factory for me.”

“You can thank Detective Brown,” I said, pulling my own chicken salad sandwich out of my bag.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice held a hint of worry.

“He came to see me.” I played with the plastic wrap on top of my sandwich, not having the appetite to open it yet. “Told me you were the last person to see Helen alive.”

“What?” My sister’s voice quavered. “Does he think . . .”

“Were you really the last one to see her? I talked to the janitor, Richard, and I know he went into Helen’s classroom. Do you know anything about that?”

Alice sucked in her breath. “The broken glass.”

“Excuse me?”

“When I dropped off the ginger chews, Helen had just finished sweeping up some glass. Said she’d broken a bulb earlier while changing it, and there were still some missed shards.”

“Isn’t that something the janitor should’ve fully taken care of?” I paused, remembering the man’s slow hauling of the flags and his stumbling steps. “How old is he anyway?”

“Almost seventy,” Alice said. “But he’s not ready to retire yet. Loves feeling purposeful.”

I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite. “One last thing. I didn’t see his car late Friday afternoon, but I did notice the flags were still up. Richard—”

“Always remembers to put up and take them down,” Alice finished in a hushed voice. “And he doesn’t have a car. He uses the bus for transportation.”

So Richard could’ve been on campus at that hour. But then why hadn’t he gone to see what the fuss was about when the paramedics arrived? I wondered if Detective Brown knew about Richard’s strange behavior . . .