Chapter 7 - THE VOICE SNOW REMEMBEREDThe prescription was not written for me.
It belonged to Nathaniel.
The medication was ordinarily used under strict medical supervision.
Dr. Hale claimed he prescribed it after Nathaniel complained of anxiety.
Detective Cross asked why the bottle was hidden beside my place setting.
Neither man answered.
The doctor’s bag remained closed.
Police obtained an emergency warrant after the labeled bottle connected him to the scene.
Inside the bag were routine medical tools.
A stethoscope.
Blood-pressure cuff.
Prescription pad.
And a prepared letter certifying that I had experienced progressive cognitive decline.
The letter was dated the following morning.
After my birthday.
After the threatened event.
I read it.
The document described confusion, agitation, and inability to manage financial affairs.
I had never been examined for those conditions.
Dr. Hale looked at the detective.
“It was a draft.”
“Based on what examination?”
“Family observations.”
“Whose?”
“Nathaniel’s.”
My grandson stood.
“My grandmother has become suspicious.”
I almost laughed.
“There are two bottles beside my cake and a false medical report in the doctor’s bag.”
“You’re proving my point.”
Clara stared at him.
“How?”
“She is creating a murder investigation from a parrot’s words.”
Snow stretched his neck toward Nathaniel.
Then the bird spoke in a low male voice.
“After the toast, call me.”
Dr. Hale’s face tightened.
Snow changed to Nathaniel’s voice.
“Come before the candles.”
Then came the three-note ringtone.
The parrot had preserved more than words.
He preserved sequence.
Ringtone.
Nathaniel’s voice.
Doctor’s voice.
The plan had been discussed during a call near Snow.
“Where was the bird this afternoon?” Detective Cross asked.
Clara answered.
“In the conservatory.”
Nathaniel frequently used the adjoining terrace for business calls.
The glass doors were often open.
The detective requested his phone.
His attorney had not yet arrived.
Nathaniel refused consent.
Again, his right.
Again, informative.
Snow climbed from Clara’s hand to the back of a chair.
“Forty million,” he said.
Nathaniel looked at the bird.
“Shut up.”
Snow flapped his wings.
“Forty million by Friday!”
The phrase came in an unfamiliar male voice.
Then Nathaniel’s:
“I need the trust.”
Detective Cross wrote it down.
I looked at my grandson.
“What happens Friday?”
“Nothing.”
“What requires forty million dollars?”
“Grandmother, don’t.”
“What did you do?”
He closed his eyes.
Rebecca whispered, “His company is failing.”
Nathaniel turned toward her.
“You know nothing about my company.”
“I know you asked me to mortgage my house.”
Clara stared at her brother.
“You told us the company had record profits.”
“It does.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No. It has debt.”
Snow clicked his beak.
“Forty million by Friday.”
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The parrot had not simply exposed a threat.
He had exposed a motive.
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