Parrot Blues by Judith van Gieson

Author:Judith van Gieson [Gieson, Judith Van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780060177065
Publisher: HarperTorch
Published: 1995-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

10

TERRANCE LIVED ON Cristobal Road in a big house in the high Heights, not far from the wind goddess’s canyon in distance but below the piñon and juniper line, which placed him in another life zone. It was noon by the time we got there. Not much grew under its own power on Terrance’s property, and he hadn’t done anything to change that. His yard didn’t have xeriscaping. It had no scaping. Terrance wasn’t a man to notice what grew around him. His house had a big view—too big for me. I like looking into forever when I’m on a hike, but I’d rather think of home as a nest, not an aerie. Too much of what you see from the Heights is blowing dust. Terrance had a trophy house in the style I call California modern, an architectural statement, but of what? It looked like a curved-wall house and a flat-wall house had gotten split up somewhere and slapped together on Cristobal Road.

A white Saturn was parked in the circular driveway. The black Jaguar was not in sight. The garage door was closed. PROTECTED BY ABC SECURITY decals were in the windows. The brown ABC logo had the charred look of a brand. The massive front door that must have been hand carved and imported from Colonial Mexico stood ajar. The Kid carried Perigee on his shoulder, and the bird seemed to recognize his surroundings. His eyes were bright, and he gurgled happily. Maybe he was anticipating a reunion with his mate. I pushed the front door all the way open, and we stepped into the hall. “Hel-loooo,” the bird called into the long, empty corridor. I thought the sound of Perigee would bring my client running, but the only response we got was the red eye of the alarm system clicking on when it spotted us. The system tracked our path throughout the house but the alarm never sounded, or it had already sounded and rung until it ran out.

“You there, Terrance?” I yelled, but he didn’t answer.

We began searching for my client. The rooms in Terrance’s house were enormous, and there were plenty of them. On our right we saw a restaurant-sized stainless steel kitchen. The remains of breakfast—a glass, a mug, a bowl, a bottle of milk and a container of juice—were on the counter. Across the hall was a workout room with metal machines that resembled the skeletons of prehistoric animals. Maybe somebody rode them for exercise; I didn’t believe it was Terrance Lewellen. We passed a study with a wall-to-wall entertainment center, a leather Eames chair and an ottoman. A classic red, black and white Navajo rug lay on the floor. The red light of an answering machine beeped three times. The end table was loaded with remotes. This, I figured, was where Terrance got his exercise.

The hall opened into a vast two-story living room. The beehive kiva fireplace was terraced with shelves for displaying a collector’s art. Hopi kachinas danced in place on the God shelf.

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