Karma's a Killer Read Free Page B

twenty-one-year-old gaze wandering to my boyfriend’s well-muscled behind. Not that I blamed her; Michael’s backside was impressive when viewed from any angle. But that particular backside was mine. All mine.
    Tiffany pulled out a nail file and started sharpening her claws. “Your booth is next door.” Her bored vocal tone telegraphed her thoughts: Dismissed.
    For once, I took the high road. I showed my teeth in a fake submissive grin and backed away to check out the rest of the vendors.
    Serenity Yoga’s booth stuck out like the answer to an IQ test question: “What doesn’t belong here?” The vendors surrounding my table were all animal-related. Pete’s Pets was on one side, Precious Life Wildlife Center on the other. The rest of the booths showcased an assortment of animal organizations ranging from dog training centers to pet daycares to do-it-yourself dog washes. Brightly colored banners, sparkly leashes, and a smorgasbord of dog treats all vied for human and canine attention. Somehow I didn’t think I’d be getting a run on my booth.
    The dog walkers were still meandering their way around Green Lake, so after I covered my empty table space with informational flyers and freshly printed class schedules, I did a little wandering myself, next door to visit Precious Life Wildlife Center.
    A tiny, seventy-something woman organized educational materials at her table. A large black crow tilted his head and watched me curiously from a cage on the chair behind her.
    I smiled and waved at him. “Hi buddy.”
    The woman glanced up, then returned to organizing her flyers. “That there’s Blackie.”
    Upon hearing his name, the crow walked to the edge of his cage and cawed. The woman made clicking noises with her tongue, reached into her pocket, and produced a peanut. “You want this, baby?” She gave him the peanut and turned to face me.
    â€œI think he likes you.” She smiled and wiped her hands on her tunic. “Any friend of Blackie’s is a friend of mine.”
    On a good day I barely topped five-foot-three, but I still had to look down to meet the wiry woman’s gaze. A flower-print blouse and pink polyester pants peeked out from under her blue medical tunic. Her paper-thin skin seemed fragile, and her face sported more wrinkles than a Shar Pei puppy. But her smile—especially when she talked to that bird—radiated an almost childlike humor.
    She held out a red, swollen hand. “I’m Judith Ferguson. Nice to meet you.”
    I hesitated before squeezing it, afraid I might hurt her.
    â€œDon’t worry hon, you won’t break me. The chemicals I use are hard on my hands. Old age ain’t any easier.” She smiled. “But I manage just fine.” She gave my hand a firm shake. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
    â€œOh, sorry. Kate Davidson.”
    â€œWell, Kate Davidson, it’s nice to meet you.” She picked up the crow’s cage and carefully set it on the table.
    I leaned down and stared through the bars.
    â€œHe’s gorgeous.”
    I’d never paid much attention to crows. Up close, Blackie was much bigger than I would have imagined, and the word “black” didn’t come close to describing the color of his dark, glossy, almost iridescent feathers. What surprised me the most about him, though, were his eyes. They sparkled with keen intelligence and what I swore was a dry sense of humor.
    I reached my hand toward the cage.
    â€œCan I touch him?”
    â€œGo ahead. He won’t bite.”
    I poked my index finger through the bars and stroked Blackie’s soft feathers. “He’s amazing,” I said. “I’ve never known anyone with a pet crow.”
    Judith’s expression grew stern. “You still don’t. Blackie’s not a pet. He’s a patient.”
    I flinched, surprised by her suddenly brusque tone. “I’m sorry.