Revenge of the Killer Flamingos Read online

  Reader Raves for MJ’s Dys-Daze

  “Witty, quirky, whimsical, smart, and fun to read! The perfect antidote for a dull day.”

  Denise Stout, Amazon reviewer

  “I didn’t know a story about murder could be so fun! MJ was a fantastic protagonist. I absolutely loved the way Burroughs wrote about her dys-brain, and just the fact that this is a mystery with disability representation at all. MJ’s narrative voice is hilarious, and it helps the reader ride right along with her as she concocts and enacts her master plan for solving the crime. She reads like a very realistic person with ADD, and we always need more representation of neurodivergent people across all scopes of fiction.”

  Madison Lessard, Goodreads Reviewer

  “Revenge of the Killer Flamingos will keep you reading long into the night. You will not want to put this book down until you finish.”

  Laura C, Netgalley Reviewer

  “I laughed my guts out. I want more. MJ entranced me, I felt as if I were inside her head with her. I’m not a dog person but Miss Taz is utterly adorable!”

  Gloriamarie Amaltifano, Goodreads Reviewer

  Also by Patricia Burroughs

  From Book View Café:

  * * *

  La Desperada

  Shadow Conspiracy III, Clockwork Souls

  From Story Spring Publishing:

  The Fury Triad

  This Crumbling Pageant, Volume One

  The Dead Shall Live, Volume Two

  Coming in 2020:

  Untune the Sky, Volume Three

  * * *

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  And please help others find and enjoy these books by leaving brief reviews or ratings!

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  In the beginning

  was Cherry

  and she’s been here for me

  ever since.

  This one’s for you, Big Sister.

  1

  Ha! I’m not late. I’m early.

  Three minutes early.

  Clara had warned me that tardiness would not be tolerated, and I’d just rolled my eyes. Okay, in my head, I rolled my eyes. Wait, that would be true whether I were referring to physically rolling them [which I was not, as is my point] or figuratively [which I was, which is my point].

  Never mind.

  So, my point? She just assumed I’d be late.

  But I was early.

  By three minutes.

  Yes, I have issues with time.

  Yes, we sort of have a history with time issues, Clara and me.

  But all I needed to do was answer the phone and play receptionist, and for some reason she treated it like me filing our income tax or something.

  Well, we have history there, too.

  My real job is acting. You’ve probably seen me in crowd scenes, doing award-worthy gigs as extras, and on occasion even featured extras with real lines like, “Your coffee, Mr. Drysdale.”

  When the jobs are thin on the ground around North Carolina, which they tend to be way too much of the time, I do temp work. Which means I can handle a receptionist’s desk without dire threats and warnings. Seriously.

  I just wasn’t usually allowed to do them in the family business.

  Today Clara had a dental emergency. She was in misery. But it didn’t stop her from giving me orders, wincing at every word and pressing her palm to her jaw.

  The servants’ stairs were even colder than usual. I scampered down to what had once been the grand parlor and was now both reception and showroom for An Event to Remember.

  I started the fire in the oversized fireplace with a minimum of fuss, called, “Bonjour, mon chére,” to my great-great-great-grandmama hanging high over the heavily carved mantle, then made the circuit around the room turning on every lamp on every table.

  As was tradition, the last to be lit were the Tiffany library lamps on the library table Momma dragged in here when she turned the most infamous plantation home in North Carolina commercial.

  I had just enough time before the antique clock on the mantel chimed the hour to place my elegant gold-tipped fountain pen in front of me on the old games table that served as a receptionist desk, along with my shisa dogs on each front corner, one aiming its ferocious open mouth at the door to protect against evil spirits and the other keeping its mouth slammed shut to hold the good spirits in.

  Our dad was stationed in Okinawa for three years of my impressionable youth and shisa dogs impressed me. I have never been without this pair since. They give a sense of continuity in a life filled with temporary jobs.

  I drew in fresh evergreen scents wafting from the Christmas tree and—yep, there was gingerbread in the air. Desirée and her staff must have come in and begun the day’s holiday baking. Juniper and gingerbread. If only I had some Darjeeling tea.

  Boxes of glass ornaments were stacked on the tree skirt along with rolls of wire ribbon and enough baby angels, cardinals, and glass icicles to crush me with memories of our Grandmama’s trees.

  I don’t ever have Christmas trees, just this big tree. There’s no room in my rooms upstairs. No tree will ever match Grandmama’s, so I don’t even try. Go ahead. Tell Clara I said so. It’s not like I haven’t on one or seventy-twelve occasions.

  I flipped on the sound system and thought about Clara and her really horribly swollen gum and winced. She wasn’t going to feel up to decorating, and yet—an event planner’s parlor-showroom is a testament to said event planner’s talent.

  I could at least get it started.

  Okay, so lights went first so I grabbed the first string. Then you plug it in so you can actually see the lights and know what you’re doing.

  This really wasn’t all that complicated.

  Oh yeah, then you plug the next string into the first string.

  And that’s where things started going horribly wrong.

  The old heavy doorbell chime bonged in the back of the house and I froze.

  During the business day we have the door set up to bong anytime somebody enters or leaves via the front door.

  This was not good.

  But when the front door opened and it wasn’t Clara, I almost broke out into song along with the Beatles [I think the song on the radio was by the Beatles, la, la, la, la, wonderful Christmastime? Something like that. Or was it—?]

  “What now?” Mary Sue Ellen stood over me and judged. She’s a woman of few words and the gravitas to make them count.

  “Christmas lights,” I answered nonchalantly, tugging at the tangle, that had somehow reached out and ensnared me by an elbow and its opposite shoulder, both of which were supposed to do their part by keeping all those loops nice and—

  Well, curses.

  Mary Sue Ellen had been the meanest teacher at Pisgah Cove High when Desirée and I and all our gang were there. I’m so glad nobody told me she’d still be standing over me passing judgment when I was all grown up and in my own home, to boot.

  I stood up and spread my arms and spun. “See? I’m the tree.”

  “Don’t. Move.” At least it was Mary Sue Ellen, her gray bowl haircut hidden under an ancient wool hat, instead of Desirée who was coming to my rescue. Mary Sue Ellen might sniff, but Desirée would mock.

  Desirée strode through the open French doors from the foyer and hooted with laughter.

  Told you.

  “It’s this sweater coat,” I grumbled. “They just snagged onto it like goat head stickers.” We all wear layers in the winter, such as winter is in Pisgah Cove, North Carolina. Even during mild winters you just can’t heat this big old house worth a flip
, and this wasn’t a mild winter. “Love your hat!”

  Desirée yanked her red chef’s hat off her head and slid it across my table, exposing her side fades and twisted mini-Mohawk. “You’re not going to distract me.” She whipped her iPhone out of her pocket.

  Mary Sue Ellen drew back and opened her eyes wide as if to get a better focus through her scratched glasses. “My word.” She was one of Desirée’s neighbors and kind of got sucked into our events business by being a pair of willing hands: willing to work and willing to get paid. She was kind of like a sous chef to Desirée’s baking, but that’s not what it’s called. I forget. Plus, Mary Sue Ellen had the green thumb to keep all the plants in the conservatory going, piling them into the public areas with such abandon it sometimes appeared we lived in the tropics.

  “I can’t believe it’s this cold. This isn’t Alaska.” Desirée said as she began circling me. “It’s not as if we have snow to make it worth the coats and mufflers,”

  “I hope you’re figuring out how to untangle me.” I didn’t trust her. “This reminds me of when you started studying your living room walls, right before you ripped everything out down to the bare floors and started over.”

  “Orange walls.” Mary Sue Ellen’s opinion of said orange walls was clear.

  “You know,” Desirée said doubtfully, “I think we’re going to have to cut her out.”

  “Y’all are handy. I’m sure you can get them loose.” I began tweaking at the lights, especially the ones jabbing into me. “Oh! A star! If we only had a star. I don’t see the star,” I grumbled, but spotted a little white puff sticking out of a deep side pocket on one of Mary Sue Ellen’s shoulder bags. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Desirée tugged it out. It was.

  I put the red Santa hat on top of my head, gave it a jaunty tug askew, and began posing.

  “Never waste an Instagram moment!” Desirée chirped.

  Mary Sue Ellen just shook her head but evidently got into the spirit. “The tree?”

  “Ooops!” I spread my arms back out, cocked my hip this way and that way, rolled my eyes, made jazz hands, while both of them began snapping pictures on their smart phones. Couldn’t help it. Brenda Lee was dancing around the Christmas tree. You try and stand still when that song is on.

  Especially when you’re a Christmas tree.

  Mary Sue Ellen was getting a bit too up close and personal for my liking. “I thought women your age weren’t allowed to be tech-savvy.”

  She ignored me. Of course she did.

  I bent closer to Mary Sue Ellen and pursed my lips in for a juicy kiss. Listened for the clicky sounds.

  “Wait. What are you doing with your arms?” Desirée planted a fist on her hip. “The tree died.”

  “Yeah, well, this tree isn’t going to have an up-skirt shot, thank you very much.” I huffed and continued holding my skirt close.

  “It’s art.” Mary Sue Ellen uncurled her body from an impossible position for most anybody on earth unless they’ve been teaching yoga since the 1960s.

  Which reminded me. “Ooops! I missed yoga again.”

  “Since when is that a newsflash?” Desirée asked. “And get that stuff off so we can get this tree decorated. I can’t believe Clara told you to do it.”

  “Or answer phones,” Mary Sue Ellen added.

  “I am a professional temp,” I huffed. “I know how to answer phones.” Note that I didn’t admit to anything about the lights. “If you’d seen her jaw…” I shuddered.

  “No details.” Mary Sue Ellen took a few more pics.

  “Ditto.” Her head buried in her iPhone, Desirée was already posting some online.

  I chose to remain silent and began struggling with the lights again. It wasn’t really all that hard to just keep ooching them down my body until they were a tangle on the floor and I could step out of them.

  I shoved the tangle into my backpack to hide the evidence. “Oh, no! Miss Taz!”

  Taz popped her big Chihuahua eyes and ears out of the top of my backpack and squeaked a little yawn. [She squeaks when she yawns. Adorable!]

  I dumped the lights on the desk and picked her up to cuddle against my neck. “Did I almost bury you in twinkles?” I gave her a loud smooch on the cheek and she side-eyed me and gave me a half-lick on mine. “I thought she was upstairs taking her third nap of the day while shedding on my pillow.”

  Finally realizing there were more people to worship at her feet, Taz burst into the wild wiggles that were part of the inspiration for her name. I held her with both hands and controlled her wiggling self all the way down to the floor then let go. She took off barking her welcome and running back and forth, pausing only briefly to alternate between licking Desirée’s fingers and licking Mary Sue Ellen’s shoes. [We have never figured out what she likes so much about Mary Sue Ellen’s shoes.]

  “Is you wearing a new sweater, baby?” Desirée reached down to scratch Taz her neck.

  “A girl can never have too many sweaters.”

  “She still shivers.” Mary Sue Ellen used the toe of her shoe to rub Taz’s belly.

  I raised the lights high and made a pronouncement. “No lights.” Then I stuffed them in a trash bag. “Executive decision. They are ecologically irresponsible in a time of global warming.”

  “Oh, that’ll work.” Mary Sue Ellen, ever the skeptic.

  “You know, we should have cocoa and cookies,” Desirée mused, taking a box of ornaments and placing them on the tree with a precision I could never match. “Except every single batch of today’s tidbits are required for the Women’s Club Tea tonight and I can’t stay even an extra minute to bake more.”

  I sighed mournfully.

  The thought of gingerbread and tea had been so divine.

  “I’ve had two meetings at my house in the past ten days and had to call at the last minute and get others to bring cookies from their own stash. If I bake at home, Marco and the kids eat them all.”

  “As long as you get the Event orders done, you’re golden.” I gleefully placed ornaments willy and nilly, because it makes no difference where I put them.

  Clara will rearrange them for color distribution and spatial symmetry.

  Just as she will Desirée’s already-perfectly placed angels.

  Mary Sue Ellen was placing icicles on like they were her words. One. At. A. Time.

  And then Elvis started singing “Blue Christmas.” Wonderful.

  What would call more attention to it? Turning it off quickly or letting it play?

  Maybe they wouldn’t think of it.

  And suddenly they were both looking at me. Thinking of it.

  And I knew I hadn’t dodged this bullet.

  “There is no reason for you to have a blue Christmas,” Desirée said with great authority, as if laying down the law to one of her kids. “And I simply won’t have you alone with Clara out of town while our house is overflowing with Christmas cheer.”

  “She speaks truth.” Mary Sue Ellen added a slow, single nod.

  “I have the greatest idea!” I sprang to the door and struck a pose.

  I summoned my inner Vanna White and presented the door with a warmly vapid smile. “What’s the last letter remaining in the puzzle? It’s a J! And can I solve the puzzle? Yes! I can! Just pass through this door and keep going, and maybe you’ll be out of something-shot when Clara gets back and sees the tree!”

  “She didn’t tell you to—” Desirée sputtered. “Of course she didn’t tell you to decorate the tree!”

  I smiled sweetly as they both started grabbing up their things.

  With haste.

  You haven’t met Clara.

  And Clara after dental work? Oh. Wait. “What if the dentist gives her laughing gas? This could be epic!”

  I was alone in the parlor with Grandmama again. “Come on, baby doll.”

  Miss Taz followed me to the fireplace where I fluffed her velvet pillow [lace trimmed organza in spring, gingham in summer, corduroy in autumn; Clara has a thi
ng about seasonal decorating, but I already said that].

  Never mind.

  Suddenly they were back, Desirée running like the state-ranked sprinter she was not that many years ago and Mary Sue Ellen proving that yoga and breath control don’t necessarily make you speedy. But then, her age. Which I don’t actually know. And certainly am not going to ask.

  But—the frantic energy coming off them in waves?

  Sent Miss Taz into a tizzy and my pulse speeding, and I joined them at the front corner window that gives a clear view of a pretty big section of lawn between the house and the road.

  Dead grass, this time of year. Even Clara hasn’t come up with a cure for straw-colored grass, but never fear, the front portico is decorated within an inch of all of our lives.

  Tastefully.

  Clara is always tasteful.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” Desirée demanded.

  “Bet your bottom.”

  “What guy?” I joined them at the front window and peered through the lace curtains. A deep covered porch surrounds three sides of the old house, and the Event office takes up about a third of the ground floor.

  A male form was striding up the front walk.

  Mary Sue Ellen grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the window before I could see more. “What guy?” I demanded.

  “It’s him—outside—the guy! The lawyer! Who has been on TV all weekend!”

  “That awful ‘Hire me, I’m the sledgehammer, I’ll crush your opposition in court? Bang-bang!’ commercials guy? What does he want Clara to do, cater an ambulance chase?”

  “No, it’s about that professor up at Ashe U—”

  Mary Sue Ellen aimed me toward the receptionist’s desk. “Sit!”

  I spread my hands in question.

  “He’s coming here,” Desirée hissed, “and we’re going to the kitchen.”