The Money Bird (An Animals in Focus Mystery) Read Free

and between various grandkids and granddogs racing around the lake and grounds, it gets a bit congested for training. I’d been out a couple of times in June to photograph birds, but was always early enough to be long gone before summer fun started. It was a beautiful place, but across the road a crop of McMansions was springing up with alarming speed, and Tom feared it was just a matter of time before Heron Acres felt the weight of bulldozer treads.
    To the west was another expanse of semi-wild ground owned by the Treasures on Earth Spiritual Renewal Center, brainchild of one Regis Moneypenny. Tom and I had speculated on whether it was the man’s real name and decided it wasn’t. Whoever he was, he had attracted a well-heeled congregation, or clientele, or whatever they called themselves. The collection of Lincolns, Beemers, Lexuses, Caddies, Mercedes, and one bright red Jag I had seen in the center’s landscaped lot attested to that.
    One of the vehicles had apparently strayed onto Tappen Road by mistake. There was nothing but corn on one side and Guernsey cows on the other between where we stood and the dead end a half mile farther on, so no reason for anyone to drive down there unless they were lost. The curvaceous metal body crept toward us like a giant black beetle, the tinted windows watching like so many eyes. I expected one of them to open and reveal a human being in need of directions, but the sedan kept moving, barely, until it passed us. Then it slowly accelerated, making scuttling sounds in the gravel, headlights igniting as the car turned east onto Cedar Canyons Road.
    We looked at each other and shrugged in unison. “Creepy,” I said.
    Tom removed the empty bowl from Drake’s crate and shut the door. “Our turn. Can I buy you some supper?” And darned if the man didn’t wink at me just as I turned away.
    I suppressed the little tingle in my belly, walked to my van, and fished my cell phone from under a bag of desiccated liver in my tote bag. The number was ringing by the time I got back to Tom. He raised his eyebrows, and I answered his unspoken question. “Jo Stevens.”
    When I finished the call, I shoved my cell phone into my pocket and said, “I need to get home. Jay’s been locked up since mid-afternoon.”
    “So how ’bout I grab something on the way and meet you there?”
    It was after eight and I hadn’t been planning to eat more than some fruit when I got home. Fruit surrounded by Edy’s ice cream. As usual, hunger and hormones won the day, or evening, and Tom and I set out separately for the same destination.
    four

    Jay met me at the door. As I watched his bum wriggle and the light dance through his eyes, I remembered some know-it-all telling me at my last photo club meeting that bob-tailed dogs can’t express their emotions as well as their tailed brethren. I recommended she spend a few minutes with an Australian Shepherd and then get back to me. As if he’d read my mind, which I wouldn’t doubt for a nanosecond, Jay stood smack in front of me and bared his incisors in a goofy grin, his hips still doing the hula.
    I shoved some magazines aside and set my camera case on the kitchen table. Then I straddled my dog, wrapped my arms around his neck, and smooched the silky top of his head. It’s not a maneuver I’d recommend except for dogs and people who absolutely trust one another, but we qualify. After a few seconds we disengaged and crossed the room. “Out we go,” I said, flipping the deadbolt and pulling the back door open. The sensor picked up Jay’s movement and lights came on in the backyard. I’d had several new ones installed, all triggered by motion detectors and backed up with batteries, after I was attacked by a gun-toting intruder last spring. Granted, it was hardly a case of random violence, and was unlikely ever to happen again, but the lights still made me feel safer. The lights, and the new touch-pad locks that let me do away with the key under the geranium