Cockatiels at Seven

Praise For Donna Andrews
And Her Meg Langslow Mysteries

COCKATIELS AT SEVEN

“Suspense, laughter and a whole passel of good clean fun.”

—Publishers Weekly

“More fun than seven cocktails—and a lot safer, too.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“The plot, in true ‘You Can’t Take It With You’ fashion, involves plenty of snakes, as well as the titular cockatiels and assorted exotic birds. The author has a fine sense of pacing and a droll . . . sense of humor. This is character-driven fiction, and Andrews maintains the action within the confines and sensibilities of her town-and-gown setting.”

—The State
(Columbia, SC)

THE PENGUIN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

“Deliciously daffy.”

—Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Andrews always leavens the mayhem with laughs. So march yourself down to the bookstore or library and check out
The Penguin Who Knew Too Much
.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Andrews’ eighth Meg-centric mystery moves along like the best beach reads.”

—Entertainment Weekly

MORE
. . .

“The level-headed, unflappable Meg takes it all in stride . . . This eighth cozy in the series makes the most of humorous situations, zany relatives, and lovable characters.”

—Booklist

NO NEST FOR THE WICKET

“Fun, lively, charming.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Andrews strikes just the right balance between comedy and suspense to keep the reader laughing and on the edge of one’s seat . . . Fans of this series will no doubt enjoy this installment, while new readers . . . will be headed to the bookstore for the earlier books.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
(4 stars)

“Any day when I start reading about Meg is cause for delight. Ending the book makes me yearn for more than one per year. Hint.”

—Deadly Pleasures

“As usual, Andrews is a reliable source for those who like their murder with plenty of mayhem.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Andrews’s talent for the lovably loony makes this series a winner; to miss it would be a cardinal sin.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

OWLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL

“A loony, utterly delightful affair.”

—Booklist

“It’s a hoot . . . a supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Death by yard sale epitomizes the ‘everyday people’ humor that Andrews does so well . . . for readers who prefer their mysteries light . . . Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich.”

—Rocky Mountain News

“Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story . . . . This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader, and enjoy another visit to Meg’s anything-but-ordinary world.”

—Romantic Times
(starred review)

WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARROTS

“Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us
We’ll Always Have Parrots
. . . to help us survive February.”

—Washington Times

“Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews’ gift for deadpan comedy.”

—Denver Post

“Always heavy on the humor, Andrews’ most recent Meg Langslow outing is her most over-the-top adventure to date.”

—Booklist

“I can’t say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it.”

—Deadly Pleasures

“Hilarious . . . another winner . . . keeps you turning pages.”

—Mystery Lovers News

CROUCHING BUZZARD, LEAPING LOON

“If you long for more ‘fun’ mysteries, à la Janet Evanovich, you’ll love Donna Andrews’s Meg Langslow series.”

—Charlotte Observer

“There’s a smile on every page and at least one chuckle per chapter.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This may be the funniest installment of Andrews’ wonderfully wacky series yet. It takes a deft hand to make slapstick or physical comedy appealing, yet Andrews masterfully manages it (the climax will have you in stitches.)”

—Romantic Times

REVENGE OF THE WROUGHT-IRON FLAMINGOS

“At the top of the list . . . a fearless protagonist, remarkable supporting characters, lively action and a keen wit.”

—Library Journal

“What a light-hearted gem of a juggling act . . . with her trademark witty dialogue and fine sense of the ridiculous, Andrews keeps all her balls in the air with skill and verve.”

—Publishers Weekly

MURDER WITH PUFFINS

“Muddy trails, old secrets, and plenty of homespun humor.”

—St. Petersburg Times

“The well-realized island atmosphere, the puffi n lore, and the ubiquitous birders only add to the fun.”

—Denver Post

MURDER WITH PEACOCKS

“The first novel is so clever, funny, and original that lots of wannabe authors will throw up their hands in envy and get jobs in a coffee shop.”

—Contra Costa Times

“Loquacious dialogue, persistent humor . . . a fun, breezy read.”

—Library Journal

“Half Jane Austen, half battery acid . . . will leave you helpless with heartless laughter . . . Andrews combines murder and madcap hilarity with a cast of eccentric oddballs in a small Southern town.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Andrews’s debut provides plenty of laughs for readers who like their mysteries on the cozy side.”

—Publishers Weekly

St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
DONNA ANDREWS
Cockatiels at Seven
The Penguin Who Knew Too Much
No Nest for the Wicket
Owls Well That Ends Well
We’ll Always Have Parrots
Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon
Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos
Murder with Puffins
Murder with Peacocks

Donna Andrews

St. Martin’s Paperbacks

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

COCKATIELS AT SEVEN

Copyright © 2008 by Donna Andrews.

Excerpt from
Swan for the Money
copyright © 2009 by Donna Andrews.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2008013626

ISBN: 0-312-37716-9

EAN: 978-0-312-37716-8

Printed in the United States of America

Minotaur hardcover edition / July 2008

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2009

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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Authors are apt to compare their books to children—and like children, books often require a small village’s worth of people to bring them into existence. I’d like to thank . . .

All the folks at St. Martin’s Minotaur, who publish the book to begin with, and then work diligently to get it into readers’ hands. I owe a debt of gratitude to Andrew Martin, Pete Wolverton, Hector DeJean, Lauren Manzella, Toni Plummer, and especially my editor, Ruth Cavin, who plucked Meg’s first adventure out of the entries to that year’s Malice Domestic/St. Martin’s Press Best First Traditional Mystery contest and said “Yes!”

My agent, Ellen Geiger, and the staff of the Frances Goldin Literary Agency, who take care of the business side of things so I can focus on the writing; to the staff at Curtis-Brown, especially Dave Barbor, who helps make Meg international.

My name twin, Donna Andrews of Maryland, who graciously offered to help with the proofing.

My writing group, the Rector Lane Irregulars, for many evenings of critique, cheerleading, and friendship: Carla Coupe, Ellen Crosby, Laura Durham, Peggy
Hanson, Val Patterson, Noreen Wald, and Sandi Wilson. And the other friends who read drafts, listen to me brainstorm, and generally provide moral support: Kathy Deligianis, Suzanne Frisbee, David Niemi, Dina Willner, and all the Teabuds.

The friends who let me borrow their canine friends: Barb Goffman for Scout, Suzanne Frisbee for Paris and Julie, and Tracey Young and Bill Sommers for the inimitable Spike.

My family, for being not nearly as much like Meg’s family as most people think. And especially my nephews, Aidan Jay Andrews and Liam Stuart Andrews, who helped inspire Timmy and even let me borrow Kiki.

“Meg, are you busy?” Dad asked.

I didn’t turn around. The iron rod heating in my forge was approaching white hot, which meant it was the perfect temperature for working. So instead of answering, I gripped the rod with my tongs, pulled it out, slapped it onto the anvil with a satisfying clang, and began hammering one end into a point. Okay, I confess, I showboated a bit, just to emphasize how very busy I was. I worked faster than I normally would, with just a little flourish as I turned the rod, left, right, left, right, over and over, shaping the point. Then I moved an inch and a half back and began shaping and narrowing another area.

When I’d done as much as I could without heating the metal again, I plunged the rod abruptly into the water bucket, sending up a cloud of faintly acrid steam. I closed my eyes as I breathed in the familiar, strangely soothing odor. Or maybe it wasn’t the odor I found soothing. When you’re feeling annoyed, whacking things with a two-pound hammer works infinitely better than counting to ten.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m busy.” I turned to see both Dad
and Dr. Blake standing in the doorway of the barn where I’d set up my smithy. Technically, I was allowed to call Dr. Blake “Grandpa” now that the DNA tests had proved he was Dad’s long-lost father, but that would take some getting used to, so for the moment I went to great lengths not to call him anything at all.

I pulled the iron rod out of the bucket, held it up and sighted along the shaft. The end I’d been working on had now taken on a shape like a rough spear point. I smiled at the smooth, flat surfaces, with just enough faint dimpling to prove that they had been hammered on a forge rather than poured in some factory. Nice work, if I did say so myself. And a good start on having a productive Monday morning.

“That’s not finished, is it?” Dr. Blake asked.

My mellow mood evaporated.

“No, of course not,” I said.

“What is it?” he asked. “Some kind of primitive boar spear?”

“A towel rod. This is only step one of a five-or six-step process. When it’s finished, it will look like this.”

I strode over to the section of the barn where I stored completed work and picked up a towel rod made of a single iron bar hammered into a graceful curve with a curling leaf on each end.

“The part that looks like a spear point is what I’m going to turn into the leaf on this end,” I said.

“Oh, I understand,” Blake said, in a falsely hearty tone that suggested he didn’t understand at all.

“She sold a pair of those to the governor!” Dad said.

“Lieutenant governor, actually,” I said. “And it was his wife doing the shopping.”

“Nice,” Blake said. I suppressed a sigh. I could tell he was trying, but since my work had nothing to do with zoology or the preservation of endangered species, his own particular obsessions, he was having a hard time.

“Still,” Blake went on. “Think of all the time you could save if you could find a way to automate some of those steps. You could make ten times as many iron doodads in the same time. And more cheaply, I expect.”