“Arsenic.  He must have found some pest control mix—no telling what kind or vintage—living in that old place.  Oh, he’s fine now.  Just add this tonic to his water, until it’s used up, and he should be fine.  The Admiral is truly remarkable.”
        “My word,” was all Peg could manage.
        The Admiral stepped gracefully onto her offered arm.  When she drew him closer, he burrowed his gleaming peacock blue head against her neck as she stroked his back.  The macaw snuggled, much like a child in need of comfort.  However, his inquisitive nature reasserted itself when Peg let him ride home, perched on the back of the passenger seat, where he could observe the passing scene.
  
As was their custom, at nine o’clock on Friday mornings, the “girls” were seated around the old, round oak table in the clubhouse.  The blended aromas of freshly brewed coffee and apple strudel were enticing.
        “Okay,” began the fair, pleasant-faced Doreen.  “Here we go.  A real Who-Done-It game.  Victim—Bradley Pearce.  Murdered.  That’s straight from the police, via Dan, my Tom’s nephew.  ‘Arsenic, ingested over a long period of time’—that’s the method.  We have to assume his prior ailments were genuine.”
        “Oh, yes,” Peg said.  “That’s why he had The Admiral.”
        “Did that wretched bird croak too?” Adelaide asked in her nasal whine.  “Didn’t you take him to the vet?”
        “Now, now,” soothed Doreen, patting Adelaide’s thin arm.  “Be nice.”  She turned to Peg. 
        “Did he die, too?”
        “No, he’s fine,” Peg said.  “The vet gave me a tonic for him”
        “A tonic, indeed!  Who in their right mind would have such a creature?  Ugh!” snapped Adelaide.
        Claire, the newest member of the group, looked confused, so Doreen explained.  “The Admiral is a macaw.  He belonged to Mr. Pearce, the old gentleman who passed away.  Mr. Pearce was a retired sea captain.  You know they always have a parrot.”
        “Filthy beast,” Adelaide interjected.  “Filthy rich beast!”
        “I don’t agree,” Peg said.  “The Admiral is a real help to Bradley.  Trained to fetch and carry, he can also turn switches on and off.  He alerted Bradley when any bell or alarm rang, since Bradley seldom wore his hearing aid.”  Peg grimaced.  “Oh dear.  I keep changing tenses.  I can’t get used to him being gone.”
        “Well, who wants bird poop all over?” Adelaide persisted.
        “No.  Not so.  The Admiral is housebroken, like a cat.  He’s very clean,” Peg said.  “And affectionate.”
        “Imagine that,” murmured Dee Dee.
        “Next, you’ll tell us he has personality!” Adelaide said.
        “I’d call it character,” Peg said, her eyes twinkling.  “Of which he is also an excellent judge.”
        Choking down a giggle, Doreen said, “Now, haven’t we just gotten sidetracked?  Let’s examine the suspects.  First, the lawyer.”
        Dee Dee’s round, always rosy cheeks flamed.  “Frank Phillips does have a questionable reputation.  Decorates his office with bimbos, the messy divorce, fancy sports car, always taking trips.”
        Peg said, “Family retainer for donkey’s years.  Old Beswick (Beeswax) Pearce died almost ten years ago, daughter Bernice five years ago, and now her twin, Bradley.”
        “Has anyone audited the estate in all that time?  Could it have been looted over the years?” asked Claire.
        “Until probate, or tax inquiries that require an audit, we may never know.  Frank has the financial records,” Peg said.  “We need evidence.  Frank visited Bradley more often than seemed necessary.  They weren’t friends.  Frank had been Beeswax’s lawyer.”
        “Ah ha!” Doreen said.  “Opportunity, and an obvious motive.”
        “Wait,” said Claire.  “Wouldn’t some kind of financial review have been necessary before building this mobile home park?”
        “She has a point,” Dee Dee said.
        “Okay,” said Doreen.  “Back to business.  Let’s not get bogged down in unknown financials.  The lawyer is one suspect.  Next is Peg.”  
  
Dee Dee choked on a swallow of coffee.  Dead silence ensued.
        Picking up the gauntlet, Peg said, “Peg ‘did for’ Bradley the past five years.  His will gave her authority over The Admiral, named sole heir to the Pearce fortune.  Bradley didn’t find people trustworthy.  He provided a generous allowance, free rein in running the park and the estate, with the proviso that Peg live on the premises.
        “Motive—position, power, wealth.  Opportunity—some food preparation and shopping.  Method is obvious.” Peg chuckled.
        “Guilty!” said Adelaide, slapping the table.
        “Airtight case,” Doreen added.  “Except, of course, Peg didn’t know what was in the will, and Bradley had been digesting poison for longer than five years.”
        Rising to refill her cup, Claire said, “Some background would be helpful to those who don’t have the whole picture.”  
  
“Sure thing,” Peg said.  “The mobile home park was built on the estate grounds by Bernice after Beewax’s demise.  The restored Victorian mansion, near the crossroads, was the main house.  The stables became the clubhouse.  Barrister Phillips does the lawyer things, CPA Browning, the books and taxes, and Hinkley Real Estate manages the park.
        “Beswick, the father of Bradley and Bernice, didn’t see eye-to-eye with his son.  Bradley left home and eventually became a sea captain.  Bernice stayed and kept house for her father.  She never married.”
        “Good heavens, Peg!” Adelaide said as if she were about to explode.  “That’s the biggest piece of whitewash I’ve ever heard!  That old rapscallion was a terror.  He threw Bradley out when he couldn’t cow him.  He held Bernice in lifelong bondage, chasing away suitors.  And when the older girl got pregnant, he threw her out.  My family lived just down the road.  We got it all first hand.”
        “Good gracious,” Claire said.  “A period soap opera!”
        “But,” Peg said, with a sidelong glance at Adelaide, “Bernice worked for years on the house.  I found letters and bills, and journals telling how she had authentically restored everything. She even went to Europe to buy antiques, furnishings, fabrics and wall coverings.  I think she spent all that money—his money—to get back at Beeswax.  He thought she cared about the house, but her journals indicate otherwise.
        “Even with a large income from investments, she built the park as a way to make the estate self-sufficient.  It was also her way of thumbing her nose at Beeswax.  A fearful snob, he fancied himself as the laird of the manor.  He would have hated to have a ‘trailer park’ on the estate.”
        “Good for her.  Imagine a lifetime spent in a culturally sanctioned hell,” Claire said.
        “Though she was bitter, because he’d left her to the mercies of Beeswax, when Bradley became old and ill, Bernice started a campaign to bring him home.  Her journals made that very clear,” Peg said.     
Discussion was suspended as the girls helped themselves to Doreen’s strudel, a fragrant concoction of apples, spice, lemon and raisins, in airy layers of pastry.
        “Have to see your hand through the dough for it to be right,” Doreen said, with an air of self-satisfaction.
        Adelaide sighed.  “Heavenly.”
        “On with the game,” said Dee Dee.  “What about the older daughter?  An automatic suspect.”
        “Ah yes,” Peg said.  “She left and had a baby girl.  Didn’t marry.  Became a prostitute.  Bernice snuck money to her.  There are records.  She also

tried to set up funds for education and support, but failed.  It wasn’t easy working around the vindictive, tightwad Beeswax.  Then there’s mention that the sister died, but nothing about what happened to the baby.”
        Everyone sat absorbing this information until suddenly Doreen said, “We would love to see the house, Peg.  Could we, now that you’re in charge?”          Peg’s friendly gray eyes smiled.  “Certainly.  Bernice did a grand job.  It deserves to be appreciated.  How about nine a.m., Monday?”
        “Great,” Claire said to Peg.  “But how about this now middle-aged granddaughter?  You ever meet her?”
        “To be honest,” Peg said, “she’s nasty, vicious, angry and vindictive.  And determined that a parrot and an old servant aren’t going to get what is rightfully hers.”
        “Whew!” wheezed Adelaide.  “That’s to the point.  Sounds like Beeswax’s genes are alive and well.”
        “She has an equally unpleasant lawyer,” Peg said.  “But the twins got some of those genes, too.  They set up cast iron legacies.  Unbreakable.  Even The Admiral’s death wouldn’t help.”
        “Wait a minute,” said Dee Dee.  “Where is this person from?”
        “Chicago, I think,” Peg replied.
        “Ah ha!  She did it!” Dee Dee blurted.
  
Everyone stared at her.  
        Leaning forward, she said in a conspiratorial tone, “The day Bradley died, I saw a car parked in front of my place.  I got the license number.  Neighborhood Watch says we should.  I snuck outside with my key ring flashlight.”
        “In the daytime?” asked Adelaide.
        “No, silly.  At night.  It was still there after I watched the late movie.  Next day, there was a nasty mess of cigarettes in my roses and a soggy map of Illinois.”  Dee paused triumphantly.  She rarely said so much at one time.
        “Well, well,” Peg mused.  “Maybe that explains why so many things were out of place in the big house.  As if someone had searched it.  I found two of The Admiral’s feathers on the floor.  But, there’s a problem.  Bradley died from a slow poisoning.  How could she have done that if she only came on the scene recently?”
        “One final dose?” Adelaide suggested.
        “Not according to the coroner,” Doreen replied.  “Shoot! I wonder if Jessica Fletcher or Matlock hit so many dead ends.”
        “Wait a minute,” Claire said.  “What if she sent him cookies or candy regularly?”  
  
Doreen’s cell phone played a musical trill.  After a brief conversation, she said, “It’s hers! Dan ran the plate.”
        “Some evidence,” Peg said.  “It proves she was here before he died.”  She waited for the girls to fork up the last of the strudel.  “As to sending goodies, he never mentioned receiving anything, and I found no trace of any packaging.  I’m sure I would have heard about it since I was here most of the time.”
        “Well, so much for the Who-Done-It-Game,” Adelaide said.
        “Okay,” Peg said.  “We’ll meet Monday morning at the manse, at nine.”  
  
Peg was a few minutes late, but rushed up the steps in a state of excitement.  “Know what I found?  Death certificates for the older sister and infant daughter!  They were in his personal papers.  Bradley must have hunted them down.”
        “Cooks the pretender’s goose,” a smug Adelaide said.
        “Then let’s see the house,” said Doreen.  As they entered the vestibule, Doreen pointed.  “Look, an elephant’s foot umbrella stand.”
        “Uglee!” said Adelaide.
        “Bradley sent Bernice that and many other curiosities from around the world.  Each item has its own wonderful story.  But Bradley was more than an old sailor.  He liked the idea of tweaking old Beeswax, too.  He liked the idea of strangers sleeping in the manor.  He wanted to make it an inn and call it ‘The Admiral’s Berth’.”
        “It would be enchanting,” Claire said.  “Just look at this place.  Elegant, close to town.  Charming.  It can’t miss.”
        “Considering the place has upgraded plumbing, electric everything, even internet modems, you could say he looked ahead,” Peg said.  
  
As the tour continued, The Admiral flew ahead of them, his rainbow colors flashing.  The high ceilings allowed him plenty of room for flight.  After a graceful curve, he settled on a tall perch, set in a wide box of sand in the front hall.
        “He’s gorgeous,” Dee Dee said.
        In response, The Admiral bowed his head and winked.
        “Humph!” Adelaide snorted.  The Admiral leaned toward her face with a wicked gleam in his eye.  Adelaide jerked back in terror.
        Doreen choked back a snigger.
        “Is this where he stays?” asked Claire.
        “Yes,” Peg said.  “He refused to stay in Bradley’s room.”  
  
Sometime later they entered the master bedroom.  Claire gasped.  The furniture, massive and dark, presented an intimidating atmosphere, reinforced by the vividly-colored demonic Malaysian masks adorning the walls.  Every post, support, and available surface of the teak furniture sported intricately carved gargoyles, demons and imps.  The ivory Oriental carpet offered the only soft touch; a brass sextant and telescope, the only cheerful note.  The brilliant green wallpaper seemed neutral compared to the garishness of it all.
        “Smart bird,” Doreen said.  “I wouldn’t sleep in this room either.”
        “Once you get used to it,” Peg said, “it’s rather interesting.  Bradley told me about the masks.  Each one has an identity, history and function.”
        “I’ll just bet,” said Adelaide.
        “Well,” Claire said.  “Our game may not have been futile after all.  Here is our murderer.”  She slapped her hand against the wall.  That got everyone’s attention.
        “I can see that it’s gaudy,” Doreen said.  “But Washington’s Mt. Vernon’s interior is done in bright colors, and I don’t think it ever killed anyone.”
        “I’ve only read about it and have seen pictures, but I’m pretty sure this is ‘Paris Green’,” Claire said.  “A pigment made with arsenic, before anyone realized that living with it was far more deadly than asbestos or lead could ever be.  It was used in paints and wall coverings, particularly in France.  And didn’t you say, Peg, Bernice went to Europe to get antiques and other ‘authentic’ things?”  
  
“Oh boy,” Adelaide said.  “Do you think she knew?  Is she a suspect?”
        “You did say she was bitter about Bradley leaving her to Beeswax’s mercies,” said Doreen.
        A heavy silence spread through the group.
        “Mercy, indeed,” Peg whispered.
        “You have some decorating to do, Peg,” said Dee Dee. 
  
  
                     About The Author  
  
        P. (Patricia) M. Kendrick lives in Hemet, CA, but travels around the country in her work.  Travelling exposes her to new territory, people and experiences, from which she draws her material.
        Her Masters thesis was a novel.  In 2006 and 2007, magazines published four illustrated nonfiction articles.  Previously, she has had six poems published, two that earned awards.  In 2006, a non-fiction article she wrote won an award in the Kay Snow Willamette Writers’ Contest.
        She is currently nearing completion of a non-fiction/fiction novel, based on a thoroughbred horse.  As a professional artist, she will illustrate it with black and white drawings. 
        “Writing and painting are my avocations,” she says, “even though the desired perfection is never achieved.”
 
 
                                  Copyright © Patricia Kendrick