The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(23)
Author: Karen White
“Not really,” I said, walking into the cold air that persisted inside the antiques store throughout the year, regardless of the outdoor temperature. I no longer believed Mimi’s claim that it was an air-conditioning problem.
“I heard you have a date with Michael on Thursday. I thought you might have mentioned it by now.”
His abrupt change of topic left me stumbling for words. I glanced behind Beau to where I could see Christopher speaking with two middle-aged women at the desk in the rear of the store. “I, uh . . .”
“So you’ve decided to help me.”
I looked at him in surprise. “I told you I was in.”
“Actually, you texted me. And ‘I’m in’ is an incomplete answer. I’ve been waiting for you to elaborate. But I guess a date with Michael means you’re all in.”
I hadn’t considered until just then that by helping Sam and Sunny, I’d also have to do a lot of lying to Beau. And I was a terrible liar. I’d learned that the first time I’d told my dad I was going to bed early, only to find him waiting in the backyard after I’d shimmied myself out of my window and climbed down a drainpipe.
“I guess it does. How did you find out about the date?”
He slid his backpack off his shoulder and rested it on the floor. “Trevor. I ran into him here, at the store, and he mentioned that he was looking for a mace key chain for you for your dinner with Michael at Commander’s. He’s a great information resource.”
“Yeah, well, I need to tell him to be more discreet. I was going to tell you myself afterward, but only if I had any information to share.”
“Uh-huh. The mere fact that you have a date with Michael should have been worthy of a mention.” He glanced over at Christopher, who was still talking with the same customers. “Wait here while I go in the back room and get the stuff I need. I’ll be right back.”
I found myself watching Christopher and the two women. One of them was sobbing into a handkerchief and the other was holding her hand. On the desk between them sat a gold birdcage inside of which perched a small blue parrot preening its wings. Eventually the women stood, and Christopher rounded the corner of his desk. He picked up the cage and carried it with him as he escorted the women to the door. Beau returned, and we both stayed back as I lowered my eyes, uncomfortable witnessing the grief of a stranger.
“I am so very sorry for your loss,” Christopher said, his voice gentle. “I do promise to speak with Mrs. Ryan on your behalf, but as I mentioned, she’s on hiatus right now. Her skills are in high demand, and they do take a toll on her well-being, as you can imagine. I have your information, and I promise to be in touch as soon as she is able to resume her work.”
“Thank you,” one of the women said. I looked up to see Christopher handing the birdcage to the woman who’d been sobbing into a wadded-up handkerchief.
Red and swollen eyes met mine briefly as she took the cage, giving me the chance to see her better. She appeared to be somewhere in her mid-sixties, but her slender figure and stiff spine lent her an air of dignity. Her natural light blond hair was cut in an attractive bob and streaked with sparkling strands of pure platinum. The fingers that held the birdcage were devoid of polish or rings except for a cushion-set solitaire sapphire ring worn on her right hand. I knew even before I looked that she’d be wearing tasteful Ferragamo flats on her feet. She reminded me of the well-heeled women I saw when strolling through Saks or any of the other high-end stores at the Canal Place mall. I had neither the desire nor the money to shop there, but I’d attended a few movies at the theater on the third floor and would sometimes cut through the beauty department at Saks to see if I could be tempted into buying my own tube of lipstick. So far, I hadn’t.
I glanced over at her slightly younger companion, similar enough in appearance that the two women had to be sisters, although this woman wore large, dangling earrings and her platinum hair was worn long down her back, a purple silk headband holding her hair from her face. It matched her purple tunic with yellow embroidered dragons and the gladiator sandals that exposed black-painted toenails.
“Thank you, Mr. Benoit,” the younger woman said, offering her hand to Christopher. “I apologize for the tears, but I’m sure you can understand. It’s been eight long years, and this is our last option.”
Christopher nodded solemnly. “I do understand, Mrs. Meggison. I will let Mrs. Ryan know.”
Mrs. Meggison took hold of Christopher’s hand and squeezed, giving him a warm smile. “I know you will. And please call me Honey,” she drawled. “Everyone does. Mrs. Meggison was my mother-in-law.”
Christopher smiled. “Of course.” He opened the door. “I hope to see y’all soon.”
“Us, too,” Honey said, stepping past her sister and out onto the sidewalk. “Good-bye for now.”
The older woman held out her hand to Christopher in a formal handshake and didn’t invite him to call her by her given name. “Mrs. Wenzel,” he said, shaking her outstretched hand. “Until then.”
As she turned to leave, I had an up-close view of the pocket-sized bird, with its azure feathers and striking cobalt wing tips like the markings on a commercial jet. It had stopped preening and was now fixated on Beau, its head twitching from side to side as if it were trying to form a question. It opened its yellow beak and let out a shrill squawk, its round black eyes staring unblinkingly at Beau.
Mrs. Wenzel stopped and pressed her hand against her chest while lifting the cage to eye level. “Well, my goodness. That’s the first sound I’ve ever heard him make.”
I couldn’t pretend anymore that I hadn’t been listening. “But don’t all parrots talk?”
All eyes turned to me, including those of Honey, who remained just outside the doorway.
“Not necessarily,” Honey said. “This is a parrotlet. Just like their larger relatives, parrotlets are certainly capable of talking if their owners take the time to teach them. Except we’ve only had Zeus for eight years.” She raised her handkerchief to her nose and sniffed. “We acquired him from our younger brother, Mark, after he . . . disappeared. Zeus hasn’t made so much as a peep ever since.”
“That’s fascinating,” I said, ignoring cautioning looks from Christopher and Beau. I seemed to have inherited my novelist dad’s dogged determination to get to the bottom of a story, and despite my years in the South and tutelage from Melanie and my two Southern grandmothers, that determination had not been softened in any way. It came in handy when I dealt with contractors and suppliers.