The Real MacAw (15 page)

At the back of the file, he even had a page of notes on where to send his exposé. The
Caerphilly Clarion
was there, of course, but he’d also been researching which reporters on the Richmond and Washington papers would be most likely to take an interest in a juicy small-town scandal.

I definitely needed a copy of the article, too.

As I was mechanically feeding the pages into the copier, I spotted a framed photo on the desk—the only one I’d seen so far. Not surprising. If he was juggling multiple girlfriends, making it look as if he didn’t care much for photos kept him from getting flack about not displaying theirs.

The desk photo turned out to be a group shot. At first I thought it was a group of big-game hunters standing over their latest kill. Then I realized that the hunters were Parker, Clarence, Grandfather, and Caroline Willner. They were standing over a lioness, each holding up a newborn cub.

I peered at Parker. He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and tight, faded jeans. I still couldn’t understand why so many women were chasing him. He was handsome enough, with nice features and a good head of dark curly hair. I wasn’t a fan of earrings on men, but I supposed some women might be. His goatee made him look a little saturnine, but it wasn’t unflattering. He could stand to lose five or ten pounds, but that put him way ahead of most people in their late thirties. Not my type, but I could understand someone finding him attractive. Just not quite so many someones—that was what puzzled me. He must have been a real charmer in person.

I made sure I had a decent copy of all the pages of the contract and the article and stuffed them into my tote. While I was at it, I made two copies of the animal rescue information. Then I returned his original files to the file cabinet.

As I was returning the “Animal Rescue” file to its hanging folder, a thought struck me. I went to the other end of the alphabet and found Parker’s will. It was brief and to the point, leaving his entire estate to several animal welfare organizations. It didn’t shed any light on his murder, but at least Clarence’s job as executor would probably be relatively easy.

I realized that I’d been poking around Parker’s house for some time and still hadn’t completed my commission for Clarence. I moved on to the back bedroom, where Parker slept. The bed was a full bed with a vintage headboard that matched the bureau and dresser. Not a king-sized bed with satin sheets or whatever was considered the height of bachelor decor these days. The tops of the dresser and the bureau were almost bare, and the drawers were impeccably organized and not overfull.

Not at all the stereotypical playboy lair I’d been expecting. I apologized silently to Parker and opened the closet.

Where I quickly realized that Clarence was right about one thing. The black-and-white Hawaiian shirt probably was the closest thing in Parker’s wardrobe to a somber funeral suit. He had loads of T-shirts, many of them for animal welfare organizations or liberal causes. He had enough jeans to outfit a regiment. The dozen or so brightly colored Hawaiian shirts were clearly a central piece of his wardrobe.

I found two sports jackets, neither of them suitable. One was pale blue seersucker that probably hadn’t been all that presentable thirty or forty years ago when it was new. The other was a threadbare brown wool jacket that appeared to have had several dozen holes gnawed in it, ranging from pencil eraser up to golf-ball size. Moths or teething puppies? Possibly a little of both. I had the feeling he kept these jackets, along with the two astoundingly ugly ties slung over a hook on the back of his closet door, so when he went someplace that required a coat and tie he could comply while making the rule-makers feel very, very sorry they’d insisted.

Nothing here to gladden Maudie Morton’s heart. I pulled out my notebook and began jotting down Parker’s shirt, coat, and pants sizes.

Then an idea struck me. Clearly Parker had no use for coats and ties in his current life, but had that always been the case?

Back to the files. In a section labeled “Employment Records” I found a neat, chronological list of the jobs he’d held between his graduation from college and five years ago, when he’d inherited the furniture store from his aunt. Most of them were office jobs, in sales or marketing. He’d have had to wear a suit for those. But had he ditched the business clothes when he came into his inheritance?

I continued poking through the files until I came across a section I thought I remembered spotting—one marked “Household Inventory.” The first folder in the section, marked “Attic,” contained a three-page list of boxes and items he’d stored there.

I ran my fingers down the list. Business records. Camping gear. Christmas decorations. All neatly listed in alphabetical order, with notations like “A5” or “F1” that corresponded to the markings on a neat floor plan of the attic.

Strange. I didn’t often meet people who made me feel unorganized. I was liking Parker more and more. If I’d gotten to know him, would I have seen past his rather louche exterior to the man who nurtured kittens and kept a perfect filing system?

I continued down the list. Aha. “Clothing, Business.” According to this list, he had a garment bag containing business clothing in section F8, which would be the far corner, ahead and to my right after I climbed the attic stairs, which looked to be in the middle of the attic. Which probably meant …

Yes, back out in the hallway I looked up and saw a trapdoor in the ceiling, with a hanging cord that indicated that there was probably a set of pull-down stairs.

The ceilings were ten feet high, so I had to drag a chair in from the kitchen to reach the cord. But neither a gentle tug nor a couple of sharp ones worked. I could see that there was a latch holding the door closed.

Strange. Unless he was afraid of monsters creeping down from the attic, the latch would seem to serve no purpose.

Slightly irritated, I pulled the chair back into the kitchen and looked around until I found a four-foot stepping stool.

And when I flipped the latch, the pull-down stairs lurched down a foot or so, almost hitting me on the head.

Okay, so that explained the latch.

I felt strangely triumphant. My files might not be as perfect as Parker’s, but in my world, as soon as the stairs malfunctioned, I’d have made an entry in my notebook: “Have attic stairs repaired/replaced.” And, at least prechildren, the booby trap would have been fixed long before anyone got beaned by it. No way it would have been broken long enough to warrant the latch.

I pulled the stairs the rest of the way down, tucked my purse in my tote so I’d only have the one thing to carry, and marched up feeling much less intimidated by Parker.

The attic wasn’t overcrowded, thank goodness. A modest number of boxes, bins, and bits of furniture, arranged in neat, orderly rows on plain pine floorboards. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling probably wouldn’t have given much light, but I didn’t bother to turn it on. Enough rich, golden, afternoon sunshine made it past the ivy around the two dormer windows to let me see quite well.

For an attic, it was downright charming. If I’d owned the bungalow, I’d have given serious thought to turning the attic into living space.

I spotted two garment bags at the far end of the attic and strolled toward them.

The first garment bag held a tuxedo. Mother, who was a connoisseur of formalwear, could probably have pinpointed its age within a year or two. Judging from the waist size, I suspected that Parker had been a beanpole when he wore it, probably to his high school prom.

The other bag held three reasonably presentable suits and two starched, laundered white dress shirts, all sized much more like the clothes in Parker’s closet downstairs. The suit pants would probably be a little snug in the waist, but Parker was past minding, and doubtless Maudie could cope. I picked out the most subdued of the suits, a dark gray wool, and added both of the shirts.

Holding the hangers high, so the pants wouldn’t trail on the floor—although it seemed commendably dust-free for an attic—I turned and headed for the stairs, stopping along the way to read the detailed labels on some of the boxes.

I paused by two boxes marked “Family Memorabilia.” Should I peek in to see what I could learn about his family? I found a nail for the hangers and was kneeling beside the boxes when I heard a noise downstairs.

“Who’s there?” I called. “Clarence?”

No answer. Odd.

I stood up and headed for the stairs. I couldn’t remember if I’d left the front door open. If I had, perhaps some curiosity seeker had come by and was poking about downstairs.

Before I could reach the stairs, they slammed up into the ceiling with a bang. I raced over to them and tried to push them down again, without any luck. Clearly whoever had closed the stairs had also turned the latch.

I was trapped.

Chapter 13

“Hey! I’m still up here!” I called.

I could hear someone moving about downstairs. They had to have heard me.

I pulled out my cell phone and called 911. Debbie Anne answered almost immediately.

“I need help,” I said, softly but distinctly. “Someone locked me in the attic of Parker Blair’s house, and they’re downstairs.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Rummaging around. Stealing something. How should I know—I’m locked up here. Just send someone, quick.”

“Already on their way. Stay on the phone till someone gets there.”

“Roger.”

Still holding the phone, I lay down and put my ear to the floorboards. I heard a faint squeak, like a door opening, but I couldn’t quite tell if it was coming from the office or the bedroom.

I suddenly found myself wondering if the intruder was planning more than just theft. If they set the house on fire, for example, I’d be in real trouble.

No, I wouldn’t. I got up and walked, as silently as I could, to one of the dormer windows. If it opened, I could crawl out onto the roof. I could hang from the edge and let myself drop and one of the overgrown azaleas or boxwoods would break my fall. Even better, I could crawl down the ivy that was growing so thickly up the walls. I slipped the latch so I could try opening the window.

“Meg? Are you all right?” Debbie Anne.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Sammy’s about two minutes away, and the chief’s a minute or two behind him. They’re coming without sirens, so they can catch the intruder if possible.”

The window slid up easily. No danger of being trapped in the attic.

Through the open window I heard a familiar squeak.

“I think they’re going to be too late,” I said, picking up the phone again. “I just heard the screen door open.”

A car started outside, and roared off almost immediately.

“They’re leaving,” I said.

“They? Are there more than one?”

“How do I know?” I said. “I can’t even see the car for all the shrubbery. He, she, or they just drove off in a hurry.”

“I’ll tell the chief.”

I returned to the stairway and occupied myself trying to see if I could stick something through the opening of the trapdoor and dislodge the latch. It didn’t take long to realize that if I hadn’t had my cell phone I’d have been stuck with crawling down the ivy.

And I was definitely stuck for the time being, I took out my camera and the pages I’d copied from Parker’s files. It only took a few minutes to photograph the pages of the contract and the article and e-mail them off to Cousin Festus.

I was pondering whether to call Michael or wait until I could report that I’d been safely rescued when I heard footsteps downstairs.

“It’s us, Meg,” Sammy called. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“We’re searching the house first,” he said.

“Okay.”

I was sitting cross-legged beside the trapdoor, crossing off a few completed items in my notebook when the trapdoor lurched open slightly.

“Blast!” the chief exclaimed.

“Did it hit you?” I asked. I peered down. He was frowning at the stairway, but he didn’t appear to be nursing any wounds.

“It would have if I didn’t have good reflexes,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Annoyed, but fine.”

He pulled the ladder the rest of the way down and came marching up. I collected the suit and shirts from the nail where I’d parked them.

“And just what were you doing up here?” he asked, when he reached the top of the stairs.

“Finding some burial clothes for Parker.” I held up the hangers. “For some reason, Maudie objects to having one of her clients in a Hawaiian shirt at the viewing.”

“I haven’t even released the body yet,” he said. “I probably won’t for days.”

“You know Maudie. So Clarence asked me to come over and see if I could find something more suitable.”

“In the attic?”

“That’s where I found these.” I held up the clothes again. “He only had more Hawaiian shirts in the closet. But his household inventory showed that he stored his old business clothes in the attic. I was about to bring these down when someone closed and latched the door.”

“You have no idea who?”

I shook my head and pointed to the dormers. He picked his way through the boxes to stare out of each one.

“Drat,” he said, after the second. “No, you can’t see a thing from up here. And you heard nothing?”

“Random noises.” I shook my head. “Nothing that gave me a clue to who was down here.”

“Did you snoop through the whole house before coming up here?” he asked.

He’d probably have Horace fingerprinting the place before long. Honesty was probably the best policy.

“Yes,” I said. “I asked Clarence, and he gave his okay. Though I didn’t search the cellar, assuming there is one. I figured it was the last place to look for clothes.”

“Good,” he said. “Come down and tell me if you see anything missing or rearranged.”

“Can you give me a minute?” I said. “I need to let Michael know I’ll be late.”

Michael probably wouldn’t worry for hours yet, but I wanted to hear his voice. And look, just for a few seconds, at the picture of the boys that appeared whenever I turned on my cell phone.