We’ll Always Have Parrots ml-5

  We’ll Always Have Parrots

  ( Meg Langslow - 5 )

  Donna Andrews

  Meg Langslow knew the fan convention for her actor-boyfriend's hit television series was going to be the ultimate in weird. But she came along because she figured Michael could use an occasional dose of sanity-and because it was an inspired place to sell her hand-crafted weapons. And so far, she was dealing pretty well with the costumed fans camped outside, the batch of escaped parrots and monkeys frolicking throughout the hotel...and the minefield of egos lurking behind the show's success.

  But soon after Meg goes head-to-head with egomaniacal series star Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones, the "Queen B" turns up brutally murdered. Now, with Michael in the running as prime suspect, Meg will go up against an all-star cast of not-even-innocent parties, hidden identities, and buried motives. And she'll cross swords with a deviously obsessed murderer determined to write her out of this picture for good.

  Praise for Donna Andrews’s Meg Langslow Mysteries

  We’ll Always Have Parrots

  “I can’t say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it.”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

  “If you long for more ‘fun’ mysteries, à la Janet Evanovich, you’ll love Donna Andrews’s Meg Langslow series.”

  —The Charlotte Observer

  “There’s a smile on every page and at least one chuckle per chapter.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

  “At the top of the list…A fearless protagonist, remarkable supporting characters, lively action, and a keen wit.”

  —Library Journal

  “What a lighthearted gem of a juggling act…With her trademark witty dialogue and fine sense of the ridiculous, Andrews keeps all her balls in the air with skill and verve.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Genuinely fascinating. A better-than-average entry in a consistently entertaining…series.”

  —Booklist

  Murder with Puffins

  “Muddy trails, old secrets, and plenty of homespun humor.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “The well-realized island atmosphere, the puffin lore, and the ubiquitous birders only add to the fun.”

  —Denver Post

  “Andrews’s tale of two puffins has much to recommend it, and will leave readers cawing for another adventure featuring the appealing Meg and Michael.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The puffin angle proves very amusing…An enjoyable flight of fancy.”

  —Booklist

  Murder with Peacocks

  “The first novel is so clever, funny, and original that lots of wannabe authors will throw up their hands in envy and get jobs in a coffee shop.”

  —Contra Costa Times

  “Loquacious dialogue, persistent humor…A fun, breezy read.”

  —Library Journal

  “Half Jane Austen, half battery acid…[W]ill leave you helpless with heartless laughter…Andrews combines murder and madcap hilarity with a cast of eccentric odd-balls in a small Southern town.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Andrews’s debut provides plenty of laughs for readers who like their mysteries on the cozy side.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Chapter 1

  I woke up when Michael began screaming in the bathroom.

  I pried open one eye and saw that it was 5:45. A.M.

  “Michael,” I called.

  He probably couldn’t hear me, given the volume of noise he was producing.

  “Damn the man,” I muttered, pulling the pillow over my head.

  The racket from the bathroom changed to a loud gurgle, and while the hotel’s meager pillow might be adequate for sleeping—just barely—it couldn’t muffle the sounds of a classically trained stage actor, diligently performing his morning vocal exercises. And gargling repeatedly with a variety of concoctions, to counteract the effects of a bad head cold.

  I’d have bet that the alternating doses of salt water, dissolved baby aspirin, and Listerine did more to irritate his throat than soothe it. But I knew better than to say so. In the several years we’d been together, I’d learned that things went more smoothly if I didn’t try to argue with Michael about the various strange superstitions and crank health notions he shared with his theater friends.

  I shoved the pillow aside, leaned over, and groped on the floor by the side of the bed until I found the program book I’d dropped there last night.

  “Welcome to the Jungles of Amblyopia!” proclaimed the headline. I paused to look at the group photo below. Michael looked dashing despite the corny costume—a black velvet wizard’s robe, covered with phony magical symbols and allowed to fall open to show that he was shirtless beneath. Of course, maybe I was biased. Maybe to an unprejudiced eye Michael looked just as ill-at-ease as the rest of the cast of Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle—the low-budget TV show that had catapulted him to sudden cult fame.

  And brought us to this rather run-down hotel in suburban Northern Virginia, where the Friends of Amblyopia—the show’s fan club—had organized their first East Coast convention. For the next three days Michael and his co-stars would endure an endless round of panels, banquets, and autograph sessions.

  He’d tried to weasel out of it by claiming a conflict with his other career—his real career—as a drama professor at a small but prestigious Virginia college. But unfortunately his contract required attending a certain number of publicity events for the show—and everyone had to be at this particular convention on direct orders from Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones, the aging B-movie actress who played Queen Porfiria and, more to the point, owned the production company. Apparently attendance had been embarrassingly low the last time they’d held a convention with only the QB, as the cast and crew usually called her. To her face, people pretended that QB stood for “Queen Bee,” but even she wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the obvious, slightly longer alternative to the second word. Since she never objected to being called the QB, I suspected she secretly relished the substitution.

  So it was really the QB’s fault that Michael had awakened me this early. I liked that thought. Much more satisfactory to blame her for the loss of my beauty sleep.

  I was already resigned to losing my identity for the weekend. Instead of Meg Langslow, blacksmith, I’d be Meg, she’s-with-Michael. Meg, can-we-add-one-more-to-the-dinner-reservation. Meg, who should disappear gracefully when the swooning fans show up.

  “It would be different if we were married,” Michael said the last time we’d done one of these events. Reasons for tying the knot popped into our conversations with increasing frequency these days.

  “True,” I said. “But as a reason to commit matrimony, I’d put that only slightly above filing a joint tax return, and way below your offer to elope even if both mothers threw tantrums at being deprived of the wedding of the millennium.”

  And even if being married would make it easier for the convention organizers to recall my existence, it wouldn’t change the way Michael’s more devoted female fans hated me. But at least if I got enough sleep to look my best, “If only she didn’t exist!” wouldn’t automatically be followed by “What in the world does he see in her?”

  I rubbed my eyes and flipped through the program to the Friday schedule. Aha. Michael had a 9 A.M. “spotlight”—a solo appearance on the main stage. Obviously he was in pre-performance mode. He’d spend an hour or so doing vocal exercises and another hour fussing with his hair and clothes. Normally this would leave him an hour to sit around making himself nervous, but I suspected today he’d spend that hou
r self-medicating for the cold. Applying nose drops and contemplating their effect. Sampling various cough lozenges. Dabbing lotion on the red, raw patches that appear on the cheeks and around the nostrils after several days of diligent nose-blowing.

  Poor Michael. I could hear him cough—or was it only another vocal exercise? I made a mental note to see that he spent as much time as possible breathing on the QB. After all, thanks to her insistence that he attend, dozens of fans would probably go home with Michael’s cold.

  Some of them already had it, apparently. I heard a muffled sneeze from the balcony. I got out of bed and peered out through a tiny crack in the curtains. Yes, the fans were still there. They had figured out who was in what room shortly after the celebrity guests arrived, and had learned that if they could get up enough nerve to cross the two-foot gap that separated the various balconies, they could roam at will up and down the outside of the hotel and camp on the stars’ balconies. We were only on the second floor, which meant that so far the ones who fell hadn’t badly injured themselves, and obviously neither hotel management nor the convention organizers would do anything. Despite my calls to both the previous evening, the crowd on our balcony had grown overnight. Presumably they’d disperse when the panels began and they had a legitimate chance to see their idols.

  I wondered what they thought of Michael’s vocal exercises. Surely they could hear them. I also wondered, uncharitably, whether anybody was camped on the QB’s balcony, next to ours. I’d bet not, but since I didn’t dare go out to peek, I’d never know. I took a perverse pride in the fact that our balcony was brim full of bodies. I almost felt sorry for them—the weather had turned damp and uncomfortably cool in the night, and since the hotel only had two stories, the balcony had no roof to shelter them from the steady drizzle. They huddled together, wet and bedraggled, like a crowd of refugees.

  Of course, my sympathy wasn’t profound enough that I felt obliged to play Lady Bountiful, and make coffee for them in the room’s minuscule coffee machine. After all, no one had forced them to sleep on our balcony, and they’d dry off quickly enough when the August sun came out.

  I brewed some coffee for the two of us instead, and sat in the room’s easy chair, studying the program while I sipped and waited for the caffeine to take effect. It wasn’t working rapidly. Even the arrival of room service with breakfast didn’t rouse me from my torpor. By the time Michael finished his vocal exercises and began rummaging through his suitcases, I found myself drifting off. Maybe I should just slip back in bed for a few more winks until—

  I heard another shriek. Why had Michael started his vocal exercises again?

  I opened my eyes and glared at the bathroom door.

  Then blinked in surprise. Michael stood in front of the dresser, looking toward the closed bathroom door with obvious alarm.

  Chapter 2

  We heard another ghastly shriek from the bathroom.

  “What the hell is that?” Michael asked.

  “Beats me,” I said. “I thought it was you, doing your exercises again.”

  “I don’t sound like that,” he said.

  Another shriek.

  “Do I?” he asked, sounding less confident.

  “Exactly like that,” I said. “So if you’re not doing it—”

  “I’ll call the front desk,” Michael said, picking up the phone. “They need to—”

  “Fat lot of good they’ll do,” I said. I was already stalking toward the bathroom, weapon in hand. Sword in hand, to be precise. Ever since I’d expanded my professional blacksmithing repertory to include making weapons, I’d realized how useful it was having a sword around the house. I can think of few things more satisfying to hold than a well-balanced sword when I’m investigating suspicious noises in the night, greeting persistent door-to-door salesmen, or making a point with annoying and demanding relatives.

  “I wish you’d stop doing that,” Michael said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “Don’t worry; I won’t hurt anyone,” I muttered. “It’s not even sharpened. What does the front desk say?”

  “They haven’t answered yet,” Michael said, dropping the receiver. “Dammit, let me do that.”

  We reached the bathroom, and I held the sword ready while Michael kicked the door open.

  “Who’s there!” he shouted.

  Our intruder yodeled in response.

  Michael stepped closer.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said.

  I could tell from his suddenly relaxed posture that whatever he’d seen posed no threat, so I peered into the bathroom.

  A large gray parrot perched on the edge of the vanity.

  “Where the hell did that thing come from?” Michael said.

  As if in response, the parrot laughed maniacally and preened itself, revealing bright red tail feathers.

  “Good question,” I said. The bathroom didn’t even have a window—only a ventilation grate, and Michael tested it to find it firmly bolted in place.

  The parrot leaped off the vanity with a flutter of wings and walked over to the room service cart.

  “We want a shrubbery,” it announced. It looked up at the cart, then ducked its head under the tablecloth and disappeared.

  “Bingo,” Michael said. “It came with breakfast.”

  “I don’t recall seeing fricassee of parrot on the menu,” I said. “And it looks underdone to me.”

  “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” the parrot said, poking its head out from under the cart.

  “At least it’s a reasonably amusing parrot,” Michael said. “I mean, a parrot who can quote Monty Python—”

  “—Is no more likely to be house trained than any other parrot,” I said, picking up the phone. “I’m going to call—hello?”

  “Hello? This is the reception desk,” a woman’s voice said, on the phone. “Is anyone there?”

  “I’ll see if I can catch him,” Michael said.

  “This is room 207,” I said. “Room service brought us a parrot along with our meal.”

  “Only one parrot?” the woman said.

  “Only the one parrot, yes,” I said. “But we didn’t order any parrots at all. Could you please have someone come up right away to remove it?”

  “I’m afraid we’re giving priority to people with multiple parrots,” the woman said. “We’ll put you on the waiting list, and I expect we’ll get to your parrot sometime later today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  I was so taken aback that I couldn’t immediately speak. The woman at the reception desk took that for a no, wished me a good morning, and hung up.

  “The nerve,” I said, slamming the phone down.

  “What did they say?” Michael asked.

  He’d begun to chase the parrot around the room. The parrot was enjoying this, if the maniacal laugh was anything to go by. Michael wasn’t. The parrot was either unwilling or unable to fly, but he could travel very fast on foot, his huge beak and hunched-forward posture making him look rather like Groucho Marx.

  “They seemed to think I was joking,” I said.

  “It is a little unbelievable,” Michael said.

  “They could still be polite,” I said. I rummaged through my tote bag until I found the digital camera. I was supposed to take pictures of the convention so my nephew Kevin, who ran Michael’s official fan website, would have new material to post. Meg Langslow, girl reporter. I took several close-ups of the parrot, and several shots of Michael chasing it, which I suspected he wouldn’t let Kevin post.

  “There,” I said. “I’ve got proof, in case they think we’re kidding. I think I’ll stop by the manager’s office a little later. Recommend some remedial training in customer service for that desk clerk.”

  “Good idea,” Michael said. He sounded a little breathless.

  “Do you think you should tire yourself out so close to going on stage?” I asked. I had moved to the window to snap a few pictures of the fans huddled on our balcony. />
  “Probably not,” he said, sitting down on the bed and shaking his head. “I don’t think I can catch him, at least not without getting all sweaty just before I go on. How much time do I have, anyway?”

  “Um…about fifteen minutes,” I said, as I began to throw on my clothes. “Wasn’t someone from the committee coming to escort you down?”

  “They’re supposed to,” Michael said. “What if they forgot and the stupid alarm clock in this room is slow and I’m already late?”

  “Or maybe it’s fast and you’re just very early. God, I hope we’re early,” I added, grabbing a comb. Humidity is not kind to my hair. Overnight, the long, dark mane of which I was usually so proud had turned into a giant tumbleweed.

  “Maybe we should go on downstairs?” Michael murmured.

  But we both knew better than to venture out unescorted. Apart from the problem of lurking fans, the hotel was a sprawling maze, with at least a dozen wings added at various times in different styles, though none of them were more than two stories. Apparently, management had recently begun to renumber all the rooms, but then abandoned the project in mid-stream, so in many cases there were two rooms with the same number, distinguishable only by whether the number plate was old brass or new plastic.

  At least when Michael and I arrived at our room, it was empty. I’d already heard several tales of people who entered their rooms to find them already occupied by other guests.

  None of the floor plans posted in the hallways approximated reality, and even the bellhops got lost from time to time. So although the meeting rooms where the convention would take place were only one floor and a few corridors away, we could easily spend an hour getting lost if we tried to find them ourselves. Better to wait for our escort than end up in the kitchens again.

  Michael was tying his shoes, and looking a little wild-eyed. I’d seen him less rattled before going on stage to play the lead in Richard III. Must be the cold.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Who’s there?” the parrot called, in a surprisingly pleasant baritone.