Murders of a Feather, page 29
She finished off the last of the chips and crumpled the bag. “So, the lecture starts at six, followed by a short Q and A. It’s over by eight. Why don’t you meet us there? Count it toward your New Year’s resolutions.”
I was about to protest that I had too much to do but then realized that most nights I simply sacked out on the sofa with my dog, poured a glass of wine, and watched HGTV.
“Okay,” I promised her. “It’s a date.”
Chapter Two
I got to the community center a little late, thanks to a last-minute email from a client confused about his kitty’s insulin dosage. I’d been to the center a few times, once to cheer on a client with a performing parrot. The large, paved lot next to the center, one of the newer buildings in town, was filled with cars tonight, forcing me to park at the far end.
Despite our recent December snowstorm, the main entrance was newly shoveled, with fresh sand spread about for added traction. Once inside the double glass doors, I followed the signs for the home-organizing lecture. The designated room proved easy to find and held a much larger audience than I expected. At the podium, a speaker discussed wood versus laminate cabinets. Mari had promised to save me a place, so once I caught a glimpse of her curly Afro in the front row, I attempted to join her. No such luck. The speaker paused, frowned at me, then pointed to the few empty seats near the back. I chose the closest aisle, slipped off my backpack and winter coat, and piled them on the seat next to me.
Behind me a man with a pink muffler around his neck scribbled in a pocket notebook.
The topic seemed to be drawers. I didn’t know the speaker’s name, but she’d dressed very professionally in a black pantsuit and white shirt. A striking green necklace made of large beads in differing shades drew attention to her attractive face. Her abundant brown hair with salon-bleached blond streaks was sleekly contained in a French braid. She radiated confidence.
As I tried to concentrate on her presentation, my body temperature went from comfortably warm to boiling hot. The room air smelled stuffy, full of people. Someone must have turned the heat up because my forehead quickly beaded up with sweat. In a hurry to leave my apartment, I’d neglected to layer, so I had nothing on under my heavy wool sweater except underwear. With sweat rolling down my back and sliding down my front, it became hard to concentrate on organizing your drawers.
While the lecturer continued discussing different drawer liner options, I scanned the room. Along the right wall was a beverage area. My salvation, in the form of a large iced-water dispenser, beckoned. As quietly as possible I stood up, reminding myself to grab a few extra napkins for damage control. Maybe I could casually stuff them down my bra?
“And we have a volunteer,” the lecturer said loudly. “The blond woman in the back. Let’s give her a hand.”
I frantically searched for another blond but soon realized the applause was for me.
Dabbing delicately at my face with my sleeve, I slowly walked down the center aisle and stood next to her.
“So tell us,” the lecturer said, pausing and raising her palm toward me like I was a game show prize. “What is your name?”
“Kate,” I answered.
“Tell us, Kate, what do you use to line your dresser drawers?”
Instead of making something up, I told the truth. “I’m not sure. Some kind of wrapping paper, I think? It was in the drawers when I moved in.”
The look of disgust on her face could have earned an Academy Award. “You put your clean clothes on top of someone else’s…used…drawer liner? Did you wipe it off first?”
This time I lied and said, “Yes.”
I don’t think she believed me. When I searched for a bit of sympathy from the audience, only Mari managed a smile.
The presenter paused dramatically, then sighed. “I think Kate here needs our help.” A ripple of laughter rose from the mostly female audience, some of whom I recognized as my clients. I tried to slink away, but the organizer said, “Just a moment, Kate.”
She took a step toward me, then picked something off my shoulder and held it up like a dead bug. “What is this?”
Trapped with the evidence dangling in front of me, I straightened my back, stared her in the eye, and replied in a loud voice, “Dog hair.”
More peals of merriment from the audience. Someone with a braying laugh sounded particularly amused.
With a cluck of her tongue, she wrapped the fur in a Kleenex fished out of her jacket pocket and announced, “You, my dear, don’t just need help; you need an intervention.”
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Acknowledgments
This writing year turned out to have many unexpected adventures for Dr. Kate and me. Instead of looking out at the desert while working, I found myself gazing at a lake. Ospreys flew by, fishing with deadly precision. Ducks performed stylized mating rituals, and sleek otters swam past at sunset each night. An industrious crow and his friends caught my attention one afternoon as I stared out the window hoping for plot inspiration—and were incorporated into this book. Is it simply a coincidence that a cluster of crows is called “a murder”?
Thanks are due to my editors, Diane DiBiase and Beth Deveny, and the staff at Sourcebooks for all their hard work. My critique group, as always, was invaluable with their suggestions—Betty Webb, Arthur Kerns, Charlie Pyeatte, Sharon Magee, Ruth Barmore, and Donis Casey. As always, the help and moral support from my husband, Dr. Jonathan Grant, has been immeasurable. Living with a writer can be a challenge.
About the Author
A practicing veterinarian for more than twenty years, Eileen Brady lives in Arizona with her husband, two daughters, and an assortment of furry friends.
She can be reached at eileenbradymysteries@gmail.com.
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Eileen Brady, Murders of a Feather
