Parrots Prove Deadly by Clea Simon Page B

that the towel was off, I could see how pink and exposed his skin was, the beautiful pattern of his plumage interrupted. “Should have insisted on a physical.” I didn’t know if he was talking to me or to himself, so I kept my mouth shut. “Seizures, you say?”
    He was talking to me now, so I answered. “Yes, he fell off his perch. He may have vomited.”
    “Huh.” Doc Sharpe is a man of few words under the best of circumstances. I waited. He ran a finger under the parrot’s feet. “That’s interesting.”
    He looked up again. “Come here, Pru. Learn something.” I did. “See how the bird’s feet are relaxed? Not clenched? That lessens the odds the bird has lead poisoning. That’s good. Plus, the belly is firm, but not distended, and the bird seems alert now. There are neutralizing compounds, if we knew what it may have ingested, and I was considering an IV—saline—but hydration has its own dangers. No.” He stared at his diminutive patient. The parrot stared back. “I think not. I think rest and warmth and quiet may do the trick. We’ll keep him here for observation.”
    I nodded, not trusting myself to answer. I’d seen this bird collapse. I’d wanted something done. I’m not the vet, though. Hell, I’m not even fully qualified as a behaviorist. “Keep him here?” I choked out.
    “Overnight, at least. That way, if it was something from the ventilation system…” He took his hands off the bird, and we both watched, waiting as Randolph flapped his wings, then flipped over and stood up. Craning his head to take in his new surroundings, his sharp eye settled on me and his head bobbed. Or, I thought to myself, Randolph nodded. At this point, anything was possible.
    “Okay, then.” Who was I to argue? “I should call his owner.”
    “That’s right. Isn’t the son taking the bird?”
    “That’s the problem.” I was too tired to explain. “I haven’t had a chance to do much with the bird’s vocabulary. Though he did start talking on the way over. ‘She’s not poison?’” I chuckled despite myself. “Maybe he was trying to clear the daughter’s name.” Or the aide, or the neighbor. It was too much to get into. “Help us identify the hitman.”
    Doc Sharpe turned a gimlet eye on me. “Hitman?”
    “It’s a long story.” I held out my hand for Randolph to climb onto and rested my other hand gently on his back. This parrot needed rest. So, for that matter, did I. “It’s just—I think there may have been something suspicious about Polly Larkin’s death, and Randolph here keeps saying things that sound, well, incriminating.”
    “Pru.” Doc Sharpe doesn’t have a loud voice under any circumstances. Right now, though, it was particularly soft. “I know you lost your mother not long ago. Is going to LiveWell too much?”
    “No, I’m sorry. I’m tired.” I walked up to the door and waited while the good vet opened it, basically forcing him to lead me to the cage room. “It’s just that some of the things that bird says are uncanny.”
    “African grays can be like that.” He couldn’t have been more noncommittal as he put down bedding and found a cuttlebone and water dish. “Their gift for mimicry is astounding.”
    “Yeah.” I knew I should leave it at that. Doc Sharpe was not only an ally, he was the source of much of my income. “He just sounds so—”
    “Doc? You there? Doc?” I was saved by a strawberry blonde interruption. Pammy had barged in with a whine loud enough to make dogs howl.
    “What is it, Pammy?” The vet was either used to her or beginning to lose his hearing.
    “The Lucknows have been waiting.” Her emphasis on the last word made it clear that the scheduled clients weren’t the ones most discomfited. “I don’t know what to tell them.”
    Doc Sharpe was patience personified. “Tell them, we’ve had an emergency, Pammy. Tell them I’ll be with them as soon as I’m able.”
    She clucked her disapproval, and I turned toward Randolph,