The Cockatiel Cautioned: Another Fine-Feathered Mystery

By Rachael Rawlings

"Someone is watching. The thought came unbidden into her mind, but once planted, refused to be budged. It was suddenly not just a suspicion, but a fact. Someone is watching me. And dead men don't tell." 
 
Hope's life changed forever when she lost her father to a prolonged illness. Her move to Florida, to the little town of Fort Myers Beach, seemed like the perfect way to start over. Hope loves the warmth, the beach and fantastic sunsets, and her new avian friend, Blossom, a young cockatiel who has also been rehomed.

But the charming Inn where she begins her new job is harboring its own secrets. By moving in and taking over the position of housekeeper, Hope begins to realize that someone doesn't want her there.
Hope wants to remain aloof, to embrace her independence, but the family that owns the Inn persists in drawing her into their circle, all except the prickly Lincoln who has his own suspicions about her.

Hope knows that she can't continue on her own, and is aware that she needs help to face up to whoever is terrorizing the Inn and the family. But history seems to be repeating itself, and the threats are becoming more and more terrifying. Hope must either run or turn and fight for her new life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Enigma House Press
• Release date: Jun 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393001041

Book preview

Chapter One

It had been four weeks , three days, and fifteen hours since she had seen her father lowered into the ground. Sometimes she could go a whole ten minutes without thinking of it, but that wasn’t often. Rather, it leapt up at her in the oddest of places, the sight of a single Coke can on the table, the sound of a commercial on the television she had heard literally hundreds of times at his bedside, the smell of bleach and sweat.

It crept up on her in dreams when she wished, just once, that the face she recalled was the gentle visage of the teacher he had once been, the long fingered hands that had caressed piano keys with such grace, the shined shoes that signaled they were leaving for church in the morning.

Stop it, she whispered into the silence, her mind reviewing the shadows of the dream, the one where she stood at his bedside, hands outstretched, trying to block the descending blackness that she knew would take him from her. She sat up in bed and pulled the rough hotel sheets up around her shoulders. Dammit, how long will I have to go through this? she muttered knuckling the dampness from her eyes. She sat for a few long minutes forcing deep breaths, calming and hoping her racing heart would settle. She pushed the limp hair off her cheek and finally rose from the bed, her practical oversized tee shirt clinging to her damp skin. It was no use returning to bed. Sleep would elude her for the rest of the night, and if it did creep in, she was too fearful of what dreams it might bring. Buried alive like before? Racing down the hallways of the hospital searching each room for him? Standing at the empty bedside? The dreams had only spiraled darker from there.

She peeled off her clothing and flicked on the bright light in the bathroom. The tile was cold against her feet, and she quickly turned on the hot water. She watched as the steam crept from beneath the stiff curtain around the tub, and she tested the water with her fingers. Hot, just like she liked it.

As she stepped under the spray, she envisioned it washing off the dream, as though it was washing the dirt of the grave away. It had been almost a month since the funeral, and she could still smell the odor of freshly turned earth and spring rain.

Pulling herself back to the present, she took the small flat slab of hotel soap and rubbed it between her palms, the harsh scent of the lather covering the phantom smell of mud. She hastily soaped herself and rinsed the pale suds away, switching off the water and pulling the towel from the rack with one impatient jerk. Her life had revolved around him for the last twenty-odd years; she’d be damned if it will continue to revolve around his death after he was gone. Her loss was just too sharp, and if not stifled, it would slice too deeply. She might never heal, forever aching with the loss.

She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, frowning at the way her clothes hung loosely on her frame. Five more pounds and she’d be twiggy, she thought darkly. She made a face in the fogged mirror and flipped the towel to twist her hair into a towel turban atop her head.

Teeth brushed, a little powder and blush, some warm socks, and she was ready to repack her things. All her scant belongings fit into the oversized bag that doubled as her purse. The rest of her possessions were packed in the trunk of the rental car, and what didn’t fit was stacked in organized and categorized boxes in a storage unit back in Indiana, miles away. A whole life boxed and shipped.

Kelly had been appalled when she had first heard of the move.

What about me? Her best friend had wailed in alarm. What about us? What will I do without you?

You have Tom, the kids. Dammit, Kelly, you have a life. Now I need to find mine.

The argument had escalated until insults were bandied about, phrases like selfish bitch and rotten cow, which had caused them to stare at one another until they simultaneously dissolved into torrents of laughter and a few tears. That was true love, Hope realized. The ability to be really angry, really scared, and still let go.

In the end, Kelly had held Hope’s chilled hand at the funeral, packed her things when the old house boasted the new ‘sold’ sign out front, and seen her off on the windy April morning. Kelly’s compact little family unit had waved from the driveway, a sticky toddler clinging to her jeans and baby cradled in her arms, standing at attention, reminding Hope of all the things she didn’t have.

And that’s what I want, Hope thought grimly, the American dream.

When the sun rose in a splash of golds and pinks, gilding the clouds and sending streaks of crimson across the horizon, Hope finished brushing her hair, taming it into a low ponytail, and grabbed her single suitcase. She checked out of her room and stuffed the bag into the back seat along with her fichus plant named Harry and her favorite novels stacked in an open box.

She had been behind the wheel for hours when the fatigue began to set in. Last night, she had meandered through the last of the greening landscape of southern Kentucky and into Tennessee without noticing the change. She had been past the bumper to bumper traffic and bright lights of Atlanta before she stopped. Now it was all catching up with her. She shook her head wearily. She needed to rest. Her sleep hadn’t been good the night before, and now she was paying the price. To drive on would be neither safe no wise. She needed a break before her eyes closed, and she slipped off the road, taking some poor soul with her. Up ahead she saw an exit from the highway, and was pleased to see signs for a McDonald’s and Dairy Queen. Good. She would stop there, get a soft drink, walk a little while, and be back on the road in an hour. From here, she would complete the last of the drive through Southern Georgia, and would hit the Florida line a few hours later. The rest of the trip would continue over the flat lands, dotted with palm trees, the heat so intense you could slice it.

The Dairy Queen was situated in the center of the nameless little town, conveniently located, she thought, with a little grocery store on one side and a line of small framed houses on the other. She was surprised at how crowded the restaurant was. It seemed this was a favorite for the locals which was, she admitted, reassuring. She went up to the counter and ordered a cheeseburger and soft drink and forced herself to consume half, the cool liquid soothing as it went down her dry throat. It wasn't that the food was bad. She just had no appetite.

Out the window, she could see the sunshine wash over the land, although the temperature was still cool. It was late April, and the weather was warmer than home, but still not as nice as it would be when she got to the beach.

Home. Now that was a sad word, she thought glumly, her mind automatically sketching the tidy frame house, the low limbed oak trees sheltering the wide back deck. She shook her head slowly and a sigh escaped.

She saw a flurry of activity in one of the front yards a few houses down from the busy restaurant and was glad of the distraction. It was a good place to have a yard sale, if not the best time of year. But they had a healthy crowd, it appeared, folks rummaging through boxes mounded with discarded clothes and looking over tables of unwanted dishes and containers, chipped pottery and empty vases. She liked the distraction of people watching while she sipped at her soft drink.

When she finished eating, she rose and dropped her burger wrapper in the can. Holding her cup in one hand, she went out the door, enjoying the heat of the sun on her face. She strolled into the parking lot, remembering her promise to herself to have a walk before she resumed the trip. It was either the grocery or the yard sale. And since she had no appetite, she wandered down the cracked sidewalk to the tidy patch of yard out front of the yellow sided house.

She wasn’t interested in what they had to sell. There was a playpen, a little beat up and filled with stuffed animals that had been abandoned by their child. There were boxes of puzzles and games, Barbie dolls, and plastic dump trucks. The past owners of these treasures were apparently a trio of preteen kids, all totally enthralled with handheld games, and paying no attention to the sale of their old belongings.

On one table was a little cage Hope thought was empty until she heard a skittering from within. She looked into the cage and saw a bird hunched over on a perch, one dark eye, like a polished stone, peering between the bars. A towel had been cast over half the cage to cut down on the breeze, but Hope wondered if it wasn’t too cold for the bird to be outside.

When she leaned down, it moved hesitantly toward her. She put one hand to the cage moving very slowly so as to not scare the bird.

She’s a good bird, a hard-edged voice said from behind her. The woman was wearing a tank top, despite the chill, and had a cigarette balanced between her thin lips. My daughter insisted she wanted one, but as soon as she got that damn phone, she forgot about this thing. Haven’t had it but a few months. The woman shook her head, a brown ponytail threaded with a few grey strands of hair, bobbed when she moved. I’ll take 30 for the bird and the cage.

Hope stared at her. Obviously, her interest had been taken wrong. She wasn’t looking for any more responsibility in her life. And she certainly was in no condition to get a pet. She looked at the bird in the cage. It had approached the bars and was leaning against them, tufts of downy feathers escaping the bars. As she watched, it lowered its head until she could see a little spray of long feathers. She cautiously put her finger in between the bars and touched its head, feeling the frailty and warmth of the little creature. It stood very still, letting her gently pet its head, finally putting its head to the side and looking at her with one shining dark eye.

I’ve got some seed you can take with you. That’s all you need. The woman stalked off, and Hope stared in her direction. She hadn’t said she was buying the bird. She hadn’t said anything. But now she realized she was in a real quandary. The bird was looking at her with an intensity, an intelligence, that was much too sharp for a creature so small. It seemed like it wanted her. It needed her. Her tender heart seemed to quicken in her chest. She couldn’t just leave the poor thing with this family who didn’t care for it. The woman was back with a plastic bag in just a few minutes.

Name’s Blossom. She’s still young yet. She thrust the bag at Hope. Thirty’s a good deal. They go for seventy-five or more at the flea market.

Hope looked at the bird. A stiff breeze pulled at the towel. The world seemed to narrow until it was just her. Just her and the bird and the sun and the breeze and the trip to Florida. Do you take checks?

Hope sat in the car with her new companion on the seat next to her shaking her head at her own foolish sentiment. She had taken the cage directly to the car and used the automatic unlock, listening to the satisfying beep of electronics. Her old car hadn’t had the feature, and it still amused her. She had opened the passenger door and pulled out the seat belt to strap the cage in place, unsure of the plan. The bird had made no comment, not a single peep, but watched her with the same patience, the same strange awareness. The cage was a cotton candy pink, a simple rectangular form, but seemed too little for the bird. And the bird, well, that was another mystery. It wasn’t a parakeet, she knew. Her mind skimmed the information she knew about pet birds. Not a parakeet, no, she decided it was a cockatiel. She had seen them in the pet stores, she was sure, occasionally riding around on someone’s shoulder. This one was a girl, according to the woman at the yard sale. And her name was Blossom. Her bird.

Hello Blossom, she said to the bird, her voice pitched low and soft, and bent to study the occupant of the little cage. I guess you’re not an it, she corrected herself aloud. You’re a she. You’re a little girl. The bird was huddled by the side of the cage, and Hope wondered if she was afraid of the change, the car, the seat belt. It’s alright, she said softly. No matter what happens now, I’ll take care of you.

Hope realized she truthfully didn’t know how to do that. She had a cousin that had kept birds. They had been parakeets, and that had been years ago. But she knew you needed to give them fresh food and water. Birds needed care. She sighed and switched on the car. What now? Immediate heat, but it was on low. Maybe that would be good enough.

The bird had soft grey and white feathers, speckled in a scalloped pattern down her back and on her wings. Her little face was mostly white with pale orange patches on her cheeks. Her tail was the same pale grey, and it would have been long except it looked like the feathers had been crushed at some point or another because they were uneven now. In the center, exactly, was a single white feather, as though someone had deliberately decorated her.

You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, she crooned softly to the bird. Blossom cocked her head and looked toward Hope. Her crest, which had lain tight against the top of her head, suddenly popped up in a spray of feathers, some grey, some white.

So how do you feel about Florida? Hope asked and then smiled a little sadly. That’s where we’re going to start our new life.

Fort Myers Beach was situated on a slender jut of land, Estero Island, rising from the Gulf of Mexico. Like many of the other barrier islands in the region, it had the dubious reputation for a tourist haven in the winter when it’s endless summer months attracted snow birds, and a no man’s land when the heat of summer spread its fiery fingers over the beaches and nearly abandoned sidewalks. The stalwart natives, many of them transplants from the northern states themselves, weathered it all.

In the early summer heat, a few brave folks still lingered in the rental houses, trudging down sandy sidewalks with toddler in tow to make sloppy sandcastles and race up and down the beach. Some of the children tossed balls while the others chased sea birds, the younger ones screeching gleefully as the gulls took flight.

Hope sat on a bench, her bare toes buried in the sand. The rental car was parked behind her, hidden by a fringe of tough beach loving weeds and grasses. The surf and bird calls serenaded her as she raised her face to the wind. Next to her was the little pink cage, the bird perched comfortably, her feathers ruffled in the brisk breeze. In response to her fellow feathered beach combers, she emitted an occasional tweet in greeting.

Hope had driven around the island twice, pleased by the tidy streets lined with houses, most raised on stilts to avoid storm surges on the bay side. On the opposite side of the main street that traversed the island, Estero Boulevard, there were houses large and small set side by side flanked by giant hotels with sweeping views of the Gulf. The tourist shops were mostly grouped at one end of the island in an area called Times Square, where the stores were clustered with open air restaurants, ice cream and fudge eateries, and high end boutiques. There were a few other shops dotting the road that led to the far side of the beach where the hotels became larger and more elaborate. Past some grand houses with their smooth stucco faces colored in earth tones, Estero Boulevard, snaked over yet another causeway to link up to the rest of the Islands like pearls on a string.

Hope had turned her car around just after the far bridge, and driven back down the seven-mile length of the island toward the commercial section again. At the pier, she pulled over into a parking space next to a tropical colored beach shop, studying the lighted windows where she could see a scattering of souvenirs such as shiny keychains, shell night-lights, and tee shirts. She glanced across the street and saw clusters of teens and a smattering of families settling in at an ice cream parlor. Just around the curve of the shop was an open area where a street performer was busy doing surprisingly slick magic tricks. The little square was well lit with glittering colored lights and music leaked from the restaurants where the atmosphere of a carnival reigned. She sat at the wheel of the car, deciding if she should join the throng of after dinner strollers. She tapped her steering wheel nervously with her fingers. So much change was hard to adjust to. After a few more minutes, she slid the car back into traffic, halting frequently as pedestrians walked boldly across the sandy street. The rest of the commercial district included one small grocery with supplies, several nice restaurants, a multitude of churches, and places to rent bikes or other water sport equipment. Hope knew what was over the tall arch of the causeway. On the Florida mainland, she had seen still more shops, brightly lit, more restaurants teaming with patrons, and a multitude of boat docks with advertising for deep sea fishing and dolphin or shelling tours. Farther along, a lone putt-putt golf course, filled with concrete zoo animals and fake waterfalls, graced the corner. As evening came, it was merrily lit with multicolored strings of lights that outlined the parameter of the grounds and the buildings within. But Hope didn’t want the buzz of activity, so she turned away from the commercial district and drove toward relative calm of the residential area. She had continued past the busier beach accesses and settled on one about halfway down the island’s length. At this little lot, there were no other cars parked, and Hope had eagerly crossed the wooden slope that separated the street side lot to the open expanse of beach. Now as she sat on the bench to the right of the wooden access, she felt as though Indiana was a million miles away. She glanced away from the mesmerizing rush of the ocean to rummage in her purse for the slip of paper she had clung to for the last few weeks. The address was written on a tiny post-it note, the same piece of paper she had received from Kelly’s husband, Tom, on the day of the funeral. With all the confusion after her father’s death, closing the house, transferring most of the financial statements to her father’s best friend, and the final packing, she was amazed she still had it.

When Tom had suggested, quite spontaneously, that Hope get away from the city for a while, she had been surprised and touched. Somehow, he had seen through some of the determined stoicism on her face, gauged the desperation she was feeling, and offered a way out.

Hope, I don’t want you to make any decisions now, but I had an idea. My little sister has a friend whose family owns and manages a beachside bed and breakfast place down in Florida. He bent and pressed the note into her palm, his warm fingers closing over her chilled ones. They are looking for someone to help out. Just light housework, cooking. They asked Jenny because they knew she might want something once she graduates in the spring, but she’s already found a position. He paused, his eyes scanning Hope’s face. I thought it might be a good time for you to get away from here.

Hope had nodded and pocketed the note, her face still stiff from holding back the tears. But that night, locked in her gingham and lace childhood bedroom, she had made her decision.

Shaking her head in silent dismay, she pulled herself back to the present and stood on the still warm sand. Moving stiffly, she gathered her shoes, slipped her fingers into the loop of wire on the top of the cage, and strolled to the car. It would be getting dark soon, the dusk already creeping between the beach houses in mauve shadows. She needed to get to the Inn before the sun set. She knew they were expecting her to arrive soon.

We’re or our way to our new house, she told the little bird as she strapped the cage back in the passenger seat. This is going to be the start of our new life. She forced confidence in her voice she didn’t feel and then laughed a little at herself. But if that was what it took to keep her focused, caring for the bird, then she would take it.

The car roared smoothly to life and Hope paused to switch the radio station. On the trip to the beach, the cockatiel had seemed to enjoy the sound of the music from the car’s unimpressive sound system. She would tweet on occasion, and music even seemed to excite her into a funny sideways shuffle dance that made Hope smile. Now the radio station seemed to have lost its strength. Music hissed and stuttered. Hope snapped off the noise and shoved the car in reverse, suddenly anxious to be off.

As her headlights swung in a great arch toward the beach, a heavy dark figure rose from just beyond the boardwalk. It seemed to hover there, too close, too still, and then it moved toward her in an agitated jerky motion.

Hope’s heart slammed into her chest, her breath catching with a start. Damn it, she muttered, stepping on the gas too hard. The tires spun on the sandy soil, then caught and thrust her back until she slammed her foot on the break. She sucked in an angry sob and looked back toward the beach.

The horizon was empty, a blank canvas of deeper purples and dusty indigo. A slice of red, like a scarlet blade, parted the sea and sky.

But no one was there. No one.

Chapter Two

The Inn was an oddity for the island, an older home with fanciful peaked towers and gables topped with chipped gingerbread. It was perched on a strange little outcropping on the lip of the island, the building blocked from the park and nature preserve just beyond the thick cluster of palms, the pull and sigh of the ocean just out the back door. Traditional beach grasses swayed in the breeze and wild bunches of tropical plantings crowded the pathway to the door. The windows were mostly empty and dark on the upper floors.

It had been easy to find. Hope had followed her GPS past the marina and turned off before she reached the park. Now she sat looking at the house, wondering why she was feeling so jumpy. The dim interior was intimidating, and she was little spooked after her encounter on the beach. She switched the car engine off and sat behind the wheel listening to the tick of the