The Real MacAw (5 page)

They had completely opposite notions of how to carry off their self-appointed roles of chief mourner.

Vivian was dressed entirely in black and gray, and her tailored black wool pants were certainly not what I would have put on for tending dozens of animals. She was impeccably groomed and made-up. She strode about with her head held bravely high, looking quite dignified when she wasn’t tripping over the furniture or the animals. Occasionally she would sweep up one of the animals, sigh, and clutch it to her chest, as if its presence brought back bittersweet memories of Parker. The abundance of animal hair of every conceivable color on her black mohair sweater seemed to indicate she’d been clutching quite a lot of animals. But clearly not a single tear was going to be allowed to sully the perfection of her makeup. I hadn’t yet spotted her doing anything useful, like feeding, walking, or cleaning up after the animals, but perhaps making the animals feel wanted was also an important task.

I liked Louise’s style better. She was wearing ragged jeans and a faded sweatshirt, and didn’t appear to have combed her hair before she came over. She was a lot more efficient with the animals in spite of the fact that tears were running down her cheeks all the while. Never more than one or two tears at a time, which gave the impression that instead of actively sobbing she was bravely holding her sorrow in check, making what we saw merely the accidental spillover from a vast reservoir of tears. It certainly made you want to avoid upsetting her.

Which was probably why she was doing one of the prime jobs: feeding baby animals. She looked like a modern-day Pietà, bending dolefully over each kitten or puppy in her lap. Some of the other Corsicans watched over her and kept her supplied with baby animals to feed. I hoped they had a plan for what to do with her when all the baby animals were full. Or were there enough puppies and kittens that the first ones would be hungry again by the time she finished with the last? Looking around, I didn’t discount the possibility.

What worried me was the fact that neither Vivian nor Louise seemed to take the slightest notice of what the other was doing. Were both aware of having a rival and studiously ignoring her? Or was some kind of confrontation brewing? I hoped not. Or if it was, I hoped I could be far, far away when it happened.

Rob, on the other hand, appeared eager to capture any fireworks on the little pocket video camera he’d gotten for Christmas. He moved among the volunteers, ostensibly filming them all, but he seemed to pay particular attention to Vivian and Louise.

Or maybe just Vivian. Was he interested in her as a woman, or only as the most likely source of drama that he could film? I could probably figure it out if I stayed around a little while. But if Rob was trying to capture Vivian on the rebound, I’d find out soon enough.

I decided it was high time I checked on the boys. Or at least used them as an excuse to get away from the barn, where any minute now someone might suggest that I use my newfound maternal skills on an orphaned beagle. I waved farewell to the Corsicans and headed back to the house, where I ran into the chief packing up to leave.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, as courteously as if I’d served him a gourmet dinner instead of merely staying out of his way while he interviewed a few witnesses.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I hope the investigation goes well.”

He peered at me over his glasses for a few moments, frowning slightly.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Get some rest, Meg,” he said. “You look done in.”

I nodded. He frowned at me for a few more moments, then shook his head, as if doubting I’d follow his advice, wished me a good morning, and left.

Perhaps I should have reassured him that I had every intention of following his advice.

I detoured through the kitchen and stayed long enough to restore it to some semblance of order. Rob had accused me of becoming a neatnik since the babies were born, which was ridiculous. If anything my housekeeping standards had plummeted. But I’d also quickly learned that it was much easier to
keep up
than to
catch up
. The dirty diapers alone would bury us in a few days if we didn’t keep after them. So I made time for a little triage in the kitchen, lulled by the peaceful silence I could hear over the nursery monitor.

I got carried away, and it was nearly eight before I finished in the kitchen. For once, I’d done more than triage. The pale gray countertops and white-painted cabinets gleamed and the countertops and the heavy oak table contained only the things that were supposed to live there. I took a long, satisfied look. I even thought of running upstairs for my camera to take a few shots. It might be weeks before the room looked this good again.

I was pushing the button to start the dishwasher when Rob sidled in.

“Um … Meg? Could you help us with something? Just for a minute?”

Chapter 4

“Help you with what?” I turned around and tried not to frown as I waited to hear more. Evidently I failed.

“See!” he exclaimed. “That’s exactly what you need to do to him. Give him that stern, maternal look.”

I wasn’t sure I liked that thought.

“Who are we talking about?”

“The guy who’s here to take the animals away,” he said.

“Rob, you’re a lawyer. Can’t you deal with him?”

“He’s got an official order and everything.”

I was opening my mouth to say something harsh—something that would probably have included the words “grow up.” But I reminded myself that there was a reason Rob made his living as a designer of bizarre computer games rather than in the legal system.

“I told him he needed to talk to the owner of the property first,” Rob said. “I’ve set the stage—all you have to do is waltz in and squelch him.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Rob raced out. I followed at a more sedate pace, putting on my sternest, most businesslike manner.

“I still don’t see why the Corsicans can’t fend him off themselves,” I muttered.

A small panel truck had backed up to the barn door. Its back doors were open and a ramp led up from the ground to the body of the truck.

But nothing was being loaded. The barn doors were closed, and I could see Corsicans peering from most of the barn windows. Rob stood in front of the barn door, arms folded, looking very stern now that he had me to back him up.

The driver of the truck was sitting on the truck bed beside the ramp. He was a lanky young man who looked barely old enough to drive, in a uniform clearly intended for someone several inches shorter and at least a hundred pounds heavier. He looked up when I approached, and scrambled to his feet.

My appearance on the scene was greeted with cheers from the Corsicans.

“Are you the owner?” the driver asked.

“Of this property, yes,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“I have this paper,” he said.

The Corsicans had begun chanting, “Hell, no! We won’t go!”

I turned to Rob.

“Please ask your fellow members of the committee to refrain from any action that would exacerbate the situation,” I told him.

“Um … okay.” He took a few steps closer to the barn, and then stage whispered, “Hey! Meg says shut up.”

Not precisely what I had in mind for him to do. I could have done that myself.

I turned back to the kid in uniform. He handed me a sheet of paper.

It was on stationery from the mayor’s office. The heading read “EXECUTIVE ORDER!!!”—not only in all caps but in boldface, in type several sizes larger than the body of the document.

It was barely light, and yet already the mayor had not only found out about the animal shelter burglary, but had presumably rousted several hapless civil servants out of their beds—one to fetch the animals and one to type this document. He hadn’t done it himself. The lack of typos and spelling and grammar errors was a dead giveaway. But whoever had typed it could do nothing about his ghastly style.

I had to read the text two times to realize that underneath all the bombast and persiflage was an order directing that the animals should return to the shelter. I had a brief, improbable vision of the animals gathering around to read the proclamation, and then forming an orderly procession to march back to town and surrender themselves. Under other circumstances, I might have found the whole thing funny. Of course, presumably the mayor was aware that even if the animals could read his order, they weren’t likely to comply, so he’d sent this kid to collect them. I recognized the uniform he was wearing now—the little logo on the pocket said, “Caerphilly County Solid Waste Department.”

“You work at the county dump,” I said. “You’re not taking the animals to the dump, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Back to the animal shelter. All three of the shelter employees quit this morning, so the mayor sent me.”

“Quit or got fired?” I asked.

“Quit,” the kid said, with the ghost of a grin. “He called them up before dawn and told them to come out here to collect the animals or he’d fire them, and they all up and quit before he could do it.”

Interesting. The animal shelter was technically owned by the county, but the county board allowed the town council to handle day-to-day operations. They did that with most of the county facilities located within the town limits because otherwise the council members had almost nothing to do, and spent way too much energy tweaking town parking zone restrictions and speed limits. But the county ran the dump directly.

So the mayor was giving orders to county employees. Did that mean he and the county manager were working together on the animal shelter problem? Or had the mayor simply given an order whose authority the kid hadn’t thought to question. I could see either happening. Not something I could find out from the kid, who looked as if doing anything more complicated than loading trash might be an intellectual leap. No sense giving him a hard time. But I couldn’t let him take the animals. Inspiration struck.

“Well, this seems to be in order,” I said.

Shouts of “No! No!” “Traitor!” and a few more rounds of “Hell, no! We won’t go!” from the barn.

“Just one more thing,” I said. Why not? It worked for Colombo; why not for me? “I have to call someone to clear this. Won’t take long.”

The kid had clearly learned to exercise patience in the face of bureaucracy. He leaned against the side of his truck and folded his arms to wait. Realizing that I might be up to something useful, the Corsicans in the barn shut up again.

I walked around to the side of the house to a point where I could see the front yard. As I’d suspected, the chief’s car was no longer parked on the road near our front walk.

So I called the police station. The nonemergency number. Debbie Anne, the stalwart police dispatcher, answered both, so it wasn’t as if I’d get a slower response than on 911. And even in an emergency, I often called the regular number. Less stressful for Debbie Anne.

“Hey, Meg,” she said. “How are you holding up with that whole menagerie in your barn?”

“Reasonably well,” I said. “The Corsicans are here in force to take care of them. The animals are the reason I’m calling. Could I talk to the chief?”

“Is it urgent?” she asked. “Because you know how he gets when he’s on a case.”

“This could be related to his case,” I said. “I don’t know yet. And while I’m not positive he’d find it urgent, it’s definitely time-sensitive.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I should be getting back to town with those animals,” the kid called out. It was a token protest, with no real sense of urgency behind it. I returned to the barn door. He was slumped back onto the tailgate of the truck.

“This won’t take long,” I told him.

He sighed as if he’d heard that before.

“Ms. Langslow?” The chief. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Thanks for taking my call,” I said. “I just wanted you to know that the mayor sent someone down here to collect the animals and take them back to the shelter.”

“Poor creatures,” he said.

“And before I let him take them, I thought I’d check to see if you still wanted them held as evidence.”

“The animals? Evidence in the murder? Or in some other crime that certain people are blasted lucky we don’t have the time to investigate right now?”

“If you’re finished with the animals, he can take them back to the shelter. I think they have some itchy trigger fingers down there. Or itchy lethal injection fingers. But if you still want them held as evidence…”

The chief finally got it.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “No, you mustn’t let him take the animals. They’re evidence, all right.”

“Let me put you on speaker.” I punched the correct button and walked over until the kid was within earshot.

“To repeat,” the chief said, his voice loud and distinct. “I do not want those animals moved! They are material evidence in at least one felony, and I want them to stay right where they are until I release them. If anyone really wants to incur a charge of interfering with a police investigation—”

“No, no,” the kid said, sitting up straight for the first time since I’d seen him. “We’re good. I’ll go back and tell them. No rush.”

He was backing away as if afraid the chief would come through the phone at him. The chief tended to have that effect on people. Even people who didn’t know him. The kid began fumbling to load the ramp back into the truck, and Rob jumped to help him.

“Ms. Langslow?”

I turned the speaker off.

“Was there anything else?” the chief asked.

The kid had started his truck, and was lurching down our dirt driveway back to the road. I waved at the Corsicans and headed back for the house.

“Thanks,” I said to the chief. “You’ve got him on the run.”

“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to figure out what to do with those confounded animals,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of killing them either, but do you realize how hard it’s going to be finding homes for all of them?”

“I’ll get the Corsicans to start working on that.” I glanced back, decided I was safely out of earshot of anyone at the barn, and continued. “That’s the Committee Opposed to the Ruthless Slaughter of Innocent Captive Animals.”