Boys Life

Lezander’s the night in March the unknown man had been murdered. The green parrot had died that night, and the blue one had come away cursing in German when “Beautiful Dreamer” was played on the piano. Mrs. Lezander played the piano. Mrs. Lezander knew “Beautiful Dreamer.”
    Was it possible, then, that when Miss Blue Glass had played that song, her parrot remembered something that was said-or cursed and shouted in the German language-while Mrs. Lezander had been playing it? And why would Mrs. Lezander be playing a piano while somebody was shouting and curs-
    Yes, I thought. Yes.
    I saw the light.
    Mrs. Lezander had been playing the piano-that song, “Beautiful Dreamer”-to cover up the shouts and cursing. Only both parrots had been in that room, in the bird cages there. But it seemed unlikely that anybody would be hollering and cursing right over her shoulder, didn’t it?
    I remembered Dr. Lezander’s voice, rising up through the air vent from his basement office. Calling Dad and me to come down. He had known we would hear him clearly through the vent, which was why he hadn’t come upstairs. Had he feared, on that night in March, that the noise of shouting might be heard outside the house, and that was why Mrs. Lezander had been playing the first song that came to mind as the two parrots listened and remembered?
    Had Dr. Lezander beaten that unknown man with a crackerknocker in the basement, and strangled him as the parrots listened? Maybe it had taken almost all night, the noises of violence making both parrots thrash against their cages? Then when the deed was done Dr. Lezander and his big horsey wife had carted the naked body out to that unknown man’s car, parked in the barn? And either one of them had driven to Saxon’s Lake, while the other had followed in their own car? But they hadn’t realized that a green feather had whirled out of a bird cage and wound up in the folds of a coat or the depths of a pocket? And since both the Lezanders were allergic to milk, they weren’t on the dairy’s delivery list and they didn’t know what time Dad would be on Route Ten?
    Who knows?
    Hannaford?
    Maybe it had been like that. Maybe.
    Or maybe not.
    It sure would’ve made a good Hardy Boys mystery. But all I had was a feather from a dead parrot and a halfway-sewn quilt that seemed a little ragged at the seams. The German cursing, for instance. Dr. Lezander was Dutch, not German. And who was the unknown man? What possible link could a man with the tattoo of a winged skull on his shoulder have with Zephyr’s veterinarian? Ragged, ragged seams.
    Still… there was the green feather, “Beautiful Dreamer,” and Who Knows?
    Knows what? That, it seemed to me, was the key to this dark engine.
    I told my parents none of this. When I was ready, I would; I wasn’t, so I didn’t. But I was convinced now more than ever that a stranger lived among us.

XXVIII – Mr. Moultry’s Castle
    TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, THE TELEPHONE RANG AND MOM answered it. Dad was stock-clerking at Big Paul’s Pantry. Mom said, “Hello?” and found herself talking to Mr. Charles Damaronde. Mr. Damaronde was calling to invite our family to a reception for the Lady at the Bruton Recreation Center, where the civil rights museum had been completed and was set to open on December 26. The reception was on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and it was going to be a casual occasion. Mom asked me if I wanted to go, and I said yes. She didn’t have to ask Dad, knowing he wouldn’t go, and anyway he had to work on Christmas Eve because big boxes of canned eggnog and pressed turkey slices were backing up on the loading dock.
    Dad didn’t try to stop us from going. He didn’t say a word when Mom told him. He just nodded, his eyes somewhere distant. The big boulder at Saxon’s Lake, I guessed. So on Christmas Eve morning Mom drove Dad to work in the pickup truck, and when time to get ready for the reception rolled around, Mom suggested that I wear a white shirt and a tie even though Mr. Damaronde had said to come casual. She put on a nice dress, and we set off for Bruton.
    One of the interesting things about living in south Alabama is that, though there might be a cold snap in October and maybe even a snow flurry or two in November, Christmas is usually warm. Not summertime warm, of course, but a return to Indian summer. This year was no exception. The sweater I had on was aptly named; I was sweating in it by the time we got to the