PARROT ON A LIMB
The Gist:
Former K-9 officer and private investigator Quinn McKay accepts a temporary job as a handyman and herder to the mysterious guitar maker, Tracy Huddleston-Gardner, until he can reconcile with his girlfriend, who is studying in Canada. Quinn feels the magical, bucolic charms of the Ojai Valley will soothe some of his troubled past. That is, until he learns his girlfriend, Francesca, has disappeared.
Equally unnerving to Quinn is the appearance of a man’s dismembered arm in the foyer of Tracy’s house. Her rival luthiery competitor is missing. Evidence mounts against her. Despite her pleas that she is innocent, he knows that Tracy is keeping secrets, even ones that would clear her of all suspicion, but why? And what dangerous secret is her eleven-year-old daughter hiding? To help speed up the investigation so he can look for Francesca and help Tracy, Quinn is pulled reluctantly into conducting his own private investigation, one that leads him into an animal rights organization in which letter writing campaigns and protests may be as commonplace as kidnapping and murder.
Appealing to readers who enjoy quirky humor and a suspenseful story, PARROT ON A LIMB blends magical realism with the traditional private investigator tale.
Lori Wolf is also the author of GOTHIC DOO-WOP. She teaches English at Los Angeles Pierce College and lives in southern California.
Excerpt:
A breeze rippled long strands of grass, whistled through broad leaves of live oaks. Patches of clover and red alfalfa blended in with grasses. Bees buzzed around lupines bordering a chain-link gate. Barbed wire looped over its top.
Quinn McKay opened the gate around the three-acre flat field, wishing it belonged to him and not his landlord. The pasture smelled peaceful, sweet, fresh, familiar, like spring, the way it should. Birds—brown ones—wrens probably—peeped and fluttered around shady oaks, battle-scarred by the elements, but strong and protective nonetheless. Despite his displeasure with city life, the city did retain some importance for Quinn, which enticed him even more toward the embrace of Oak View, just a few minutes away from downtown Ojai. Although he had planned to stay in the Ojai Valley for only a month at the most, he wanted some urban familiarities, such as markets and bookstores, to remind himself that he still belonged to the human race.
Quinn knelt to examine dark soil, breathing in its rich moistness. He watched some of it sift through wide fingers and fall to the ground. He turned his hand over to shake off the rest. Judging from the thick forage and the excellent results of the previous week’s soil test, the Barbados flock would graze on good quality pasture once it arrived. Too bad he wouldn’t be around long enough to see it.
Even so, Quinn believed this would be a good temporary job; the outdoors, hard work, and sweat always cleared minds. Mr. Jennings had echoed that same thought two Sundays ago. Andy Jennings, the previous sheepherder and handyman, had decided to retire to Las Vegas, instead of accompanying the owner, Tracy Huddleston-Gardner, and her daughter, Melody, to their new larger property less than five miles away from the old one. “Too old for taking care of this place.” Andy Jennings told Quinn over lemonade on the back porch. “Sheep, God love ‘em, they’ll make you old and your bones ache.”
Quinn said, “Other things will make you old, too, Mr. Jennings.” He had downed his drink without stopping to ease the cold, tart sting.
Quinn headed back toward the gate. Something twisted his foot. He knelt down to pick up a flat rock, heavier than it appeared. Shiny black, the rock sat in the palm of his hand. His palm grew warm, warmer, scalding. He dropped the rock, shaking his hand in a useless attempt to cool it. On the ground the rock glowed red like molten lava.
“Buddy, I should really charge you megabucks for this job.” Curly Bukowski tossed a hammer on the ground, stood, wiped his brow. Sweat stuck to his white t-shirt, outlining tight pecs. His thick, black hair, angular face. and commercial smile made him seem better suited for life on TV instead of one spent with tool belts and lumber. Stacks of plywood—long planks, rectangular boards—stood a few feet away. Old wood and debris from the former sheep barn spilled from a nearby dumpster. “This is hard work. On a Sunday, too. And the smell—I swear nobody ever cleaned this place.”
Quinn smiled wryly. “Tracy’s paying you well.”
“Man. I thought you were my best friend.”
“Call it payback for all the times I covered for you when you were supposed to have been at baseball practice instead of at Lisa Yarrow’s house.” Regardless of the sentiment, Quinn’s voice was always a low growl.
Curly grinned, his green eyes as mischievous as a ten-year-old ogling a porno magazine for the first time. “I was helping her with geometry. She couldn’t keep the names of those triangles straight.”
“No wonder she dumped you... Curly.”
Curly threw a flannel shirt lying on the ground at Quinn, smacking him in the face.
They laughed. For more than half of Quinn’s life, Curly had remained his closest friend. They lived across the street from each other in Santa Maria, participated in 4-H together, played in Little League and high school baseball together. He was the pitcher~ Quinn, the catcher. Even though college life separated them physically, it had never erased their fraternity of friendship. When Quinn first mentioned that he needed a place to stay in the Ojai Valley until he patched things up with his girlfriend, Curly had talked Tracy into hiring him and letting him live in the guesthouse.
Quinn brought Curly and himself a bottle of beer from the old-fashioned cooler on the back porch of his guesthouse. Its motor ran constantly. but Quinn couldn’t bring himself to unplug it. The friends leaned against one of the wide oak trunks on the property. Leaves and branches sheltered them from the heat and afternoon wind.
“Buddy, are you sure you want to stay here?” Curly paused to suppress a belch. “If the guesthouse is as rundown as this barn, you’ll be seeing a lot of me and my men here.”
Quinn shrugged. It mattered little to him.
Curly raised his half-full bottle in an apparent toast. “Hello, dream car— ‘71 Mach I. Courtesy of Tracy Huddleston-Gardner and the Pomona PD.” He paused awkwardly. “Oh, man. Sorry. Quinn.”
“It’s okay.” He puts his hand on Curly’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s a blessing. How many people can leave a job they hate?” He glanced down at the two fingers of his right hand: then scrutinized the stub of his middle finger. its flesh curiously rounded at the top like a melting ice cream cone or a well- used eraser at the top of a pencil: and finally, his missing index finger and thumb.
On March 15. 2000. Quinn, a private investigator, had been investigating internal thefts at the Home Depot in Pomona. He was working undercover in the shipping and handling division and was quietly gathering evidence against three employees and a delivery driver. On this day, the Pomona Police Department burst into the store warehouse and began arresting the individuals involved without issuing them their Miranda rights. When Quinn tried to show two of the arresting officers, Jones and Hernandez, a copy of the private investigator’s license folded up in his wallet, they wrestled him against a table saw used to cut customers’ lumber. In the scuffle, the saw was inadvertently turned on, and the blade severed his right thumb and index finger and tore through most of his middle finger. Due to extensive tissue and tendon damage, doctors could reattach none of the three fingers. Without the full use of his trigger finger, firing a revolver was no option: he lacked the necessary control to handle the weapon with his left hand. The truth was, the accident gave him a legitimate reason to finally leave his job, a job responsibility, and not enjoyment, forced him to accept. In an out-of-court settlement months later, the police department awarded Quinn fifty thousand dollars. His attorney took forty percent of that. The perpetrators had never made it to trial and the officers resumed their duty, scot-free and shameless.
Quinn tilted the bottle to his mouth. Cold liquid stole his breath for a moment. “I’m a private citizen,” he mumbled. “I can finally live the life I want.”
Curly shook his head. “With sheep and a dog.”
“You can’t take the farm out of the boy.”
“No, but the farm can be sold or abandoned.”
Quinn smiled. “I love your sentimentality.”
“Tell my wife next time you see her. I’m still in the shithouse for forgetting Valentine’s Day.”
They turned around when they heard barking. Floyd, a Border collie, inched his way toward a squirrel nibbling on something, nuts or seeds probably. He glanced at Quinn, at the squirrel, then back at Quinn again, waiting for those sacred words: “Walk in.” The dog snuck in closer, closer.
“That’ll do, Floyd.” Quinn said.
“Crazy mutt,” Curly said. After living in a rural location for twenty years, he had experienced enough pets to steer him away from anything that barked, purred, neighed, clucked, oinked, or bayed.
Floyd’s bark echoed a bird’s shrill whistle. The squirrel scaled the tree, scurrying into a tangle of leaves and branches. One day he’d drive that squirrel right into the sheep pen across from the barn, If it moved, and it wasn’t a person. it belonged in a pen. Floyd wagged his tail and rubbed his body against Quinn’s leg.
“Quiet little dog,” Curly said, kneeling and reaching to pet him. Floyd, however, ignored the overture, with an abrupt jerk of his head.
Along with the temporary job and guesthouse. Quinn had acquired Floyd from Andy Jennings. All herding dogs needed constant activity, and retirement life had no place for a six-year-old, fully trained Border collie.
Floyd sat and barked, looking at this replacement handler expectantly. He lived to work. He dreamed of sheep—Barbados rams, ewes, and lambs— hundreds of them—old and young: black, brown, and white: shorn and unshorn. He’d fetch these sheep, herd them down the grassy slope toward Andy, who stood at the white gate, his crook in his hand: ‘Steady, steady. Lie down. Wait. Walk in.” The flock would then enter the pen, two by two, as though they were boarding Noah’s Ark. Andy would praise him with words, a loving tone, pets and pats. Floyd dreamed the same thing every night: fresh pasture, obedient sheep, a master who was still his master.
One month without sheep. The dog cocked his head and narrowed his small, dark eyes at Quinn, who had resumed talking to Curly. The color of his eyes matched the mud on the white fur of his front legs and chest. The rest of his body and face were black, except for a white spoon-shaped mask running from the top of his head to his muzzle.
“That’ll do.” Quinn pointed at the tree.
Floyd ran toward it, his long, silky coat glistening in the sun. He lay under the tree, resting his head between his front paws. A loud sigh. Boredom. One last bark for payback.
“Hey, buddy, I’m gonna start loading up now. Me and my men will finish framing by Thursday. I’ll order drywall for the inside tomorrow morning,” Curly said. “Thanks for the beer.”
“When do you think you’ll have the new barn ready for the sheep?” Quinn asked.
“Probably ten or twelve more days. Depends.”
“On what?”
“Surprises.”
They headed toward the long dirt driveway where Curly had backed his truck, which, to Quinn, seemed as long as a small RV.
After a minute, Curly spoke: “Speaking of surprises, have you told Tracy yet that you’ve never herded sheep before?”
“I won’t be here long enough to learn how.” If things didn’t go well with his girlfriend in two weeks, he might need to herd permanently. He hoped not.
“Tracy’s gonna kill me when she finds out you’re not sticking around.” A pause. “Your nose has gotten longer. Pinocchio.”
“Curly, lying was the only way I got this job. How can a seven-fingered handyman be useful?”
Curly nodded. “You do have a point. But aren’t PIs always supposed to tell the truth?”
“I’m no longer one of them.”
“Once a PI, always a PI.”
“How do you know?”
“A man is his job.”
Quinn cringed. If that remark were true, he’d give failure multiple connotations.
As Curly opened the truck bed, a patrol car pulled into the driveway. He swore under his breath. Quinn’s breath grew shallow.
A Hispanic man in a suit approached them. Everything about this man seemed angular and precise—his erect posture, his jaw line, even his short nose. A stockier man with red hair followed. His lumbering strides and broad, poorly healed broken nose reminded Quinn of a man whose high school days of football games or wrestling matches still cheered as loudly in his subconscious as they did in a stadium or a gym. A few inches shorter than the Hispanic man, this man also wore a suit, also dark blue—only his tie swirled in loud blue and red stripes. Both men were in their late thirties. From their belts hung pagers and service revolvers.
“Good afternoon.” the Hispanic man said. “Brian Bukowski. I appreciate the fine work you did on my back porch last week.”
Curly grinned, propping a foot on his rear bumper above the Bush/Cheney 2000 sticker. “Who owns the white Ford F-150 parked by the mailbox on Elm?”
Quinn inched forward. “I do.” he said.
The man flipped open his identification—Detective Ed Libro, Robbery/ Homicide Division of the Ojai Valley Police Department. Libro introduced his partner, Tom Rennault, who shook his hand. Quinn’s neck and back tightened. Except for those who had tarnished their badges, cops are similar to a national fraternity: get one in trouble and they’d be searching for anything with which to trouble you. Alpha Protect and Serve.
Rennault spoke: “Well. Quinn, your vehicle is parked more than three feet away from the curb.”
“What are you talking about? There’s no curb. This is a dirt road.” Quinn said.
“Parking regulations still apply. License and registration. please.” Constant observation weighted Libro’s dark eyes; the world was a suspicious place. Before he became a cop fifteen years ago, he had never believed this, but everyone lied or refused to accept responsibility for his actions. Often, he wished he could view the world differently, with a smile or a kind description. It was the least he could do as a father: even so, laws created order, and order, in turn, created harmony. A click then a flick of a ballpoint pen. “Are you new to the area?” he asked Quinn.
Curly smiled. “Ed. Tom, give the man a break. He just moved in last week.”
“Mr. Bukowski, if law enforcement gave everyone a break, criminal violations would run rampant. Your license, sir?”
“But you lock up thieves and murderers. Real criminals.” Rennault chuckled. “Not even Mel’s Lock & Key can get ‘em out by the time we’re through.” Levity released his stress, especially after working with Libro for six years. Although Rennault liked his partner, Libro never left home without his emotional badge.
Once the ticket was issued, the detectives told Quinn and Curly to have a nice evening and then backed down the driveway, using hand signals for a u- turn.
Quinn stared at the yellow slip in his hand.
“Welcome to the neighborhood, buddy,” Curly said. They said goodbye, and he jumped into his truck and sped down the driveway.
Immediately, the sun’s rays brightened and intensified. Quinn started for the guesthouse, but stopped when he noticed white smoke billowing from the yellow receipt. A corner of the slip sparked, caught fire. It blackened and crumpled in his hand. When the flame singed a fingertip, he threw the paper on the ground, where it continued to burn. After the receipt had blackened, it disappeared, without leaving ashes.
