The Real MacAw (6 page)

“Yes, I’m aware of them,” the chief said. “Were they all involved in planning the shelter burglary, do you think, or was that your grandfather’s pet project?”

I winced.

“No idea,” I said. “Since I’m not a Corsican.”

“A pity you’re not,” the chief said. “I expect you’d have talked them out of this nonsense. Well, with any luck, by the time I have resources to divert to the burglary, some of the saner county board members will have persuaded the mayor and the county manager that pressing charges would be a PR disaster. Right now I’m focusing on Parker Blair’s murder. So how many of these so-called Corsicans knew about the plans for the burglary, do you think? Apart from the actual burglars, who alibi each other rather convincingly.”

“No idea,” I said. “From what I’ve overheard, I think the burglary plan was an open secret throughout the organization.”

“Drat,” he said.

“Of course, a lot of them could be just pretending,” I said. “To look like they’re part of the inner circle. And I doubt if too many people knew exactly where they were planning to meet Parker.”

“Which would be relevant if he’d been killed at the rendezvous spot, but he wasn’t.”

“Where was he killed? And how? I haven’t—”

I stopped myself. On the other end of the call, the chief was silent. I mentally kicked myself. Clearly that question had crossed some kind of boundary.

Then the chief sighed.

“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow,” he said. “He was shot at relatively close range, apparently through the open driver’s side window of his truck. Which was still parked behind his furniture store. He might not have been found till morning, except that the truck’s lights were on, and one of the neighbors called to complain that they were shining in her windows.”

“And that location doesn’t help your investigation one little bit, does it?” I said. “All the Corsicans would have expected him to be involved in the burglary, because he’s one of the few members with a truck big enough to haul away all the animals. And anyone who guessed he was involved could also guess that sometime that evening he’d show up in the parking lot behind his store to pick up his truck.”

“It’s also possible that his murder had nothing to do with the Corsicans,” the chief said. “His store’s only two blocks from the bus station, you know.”

“Ah,” I said. To an outsider, of course, the chief’s words would have made no sense, but locals all knew—and newly arrived students soon figured out—that the few blocks around the bus station were the closest thing Caerphilly had to a high-crime, low-rent district. During his years on the Baltimore PD, the chief had seen plenty of neighborhoods that made Caerphilly’s worst look like Beverly Hills, so it was amusing that he’d started referring to places near the bus station with the same vague dismay as the rest of the town.

“Of course you’re right,” he said. “The Corsicans are prime suspects. Which is unfortunate, since now I have to check alibis on every single blessed one of them. Doing one alibi is time consuming; can you imagine how much work it’s going to be doing dozens?”

I made a sympathetic noise.

“Speaking of dozens,” he went on. “It was nice of you to figure out a way to save the animals, but you do realize that now you’re stuck with the whole kit and caboodle for the time being?”

“I don’t see a way out of that,” I said, with a sigh. “Do you?”

A small pause.

“I hereby authorize you to deputize additional concerned citizens to assist you in preserving the evidence from the animal shelter.” Did I detect a note of amusement in his voice?

“Will that hold up in court?” I asked.

“Shouldn’t need to,” he said. “I grant you, there probably are wretches who’d try to take kittens and puppies away from decent homes on a point of law and put ’em back in a shelter. And if you wanted to suggest a certain local elected official is curiously indifferent to the welfare of those kittens and puppies, I wouldn’t give you much of an argument. But even Mayor Pruitt’s not stupid enough to try and take the animals back once someone’s adopted them. Makes for bad campaign publicity, crying children asking why he took away Fluffy or Fido. So if you and the Corsicans can get those animals into loving homes, for heaven’s sake, do it, quick.”

“Roger,” I said. “And thanks.”

“You know those kittens that were trying to climb my trousers? They spoken for?”

I blinked in surprise.

“Not that I know of. Do you want one?”

“No, but our pastor’s wife lost her cat to old age a few months ago. One of those little rascals put me in mind of him. White, with a black spot over one eye like a patch. Spitting image of old Pirate.”

“I know the kitten you mean. Shall I hold it for you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way—but let me get my wife on it. Maybe she can bring the pastor’s wife over to help, and you could haul out the kittens and let her see Pirate the second.”

“It’s a plan.”

I felt better when I hung up. The massive job of finding homes for all the animals was underway. Okay, it was only one animal. One down—maybe—and who knew how many to go. But still—a start.

I stuck my phone in my pocket and headed for the house.

The kitchen had already begun to revert to its usual state of entropy. Rose Noire was there, making sandwiches by the dozens. Which made sense. The Corsicans had crawled out of bed before dawn to come down here and help with the animals. No one could reasonably expect them to have packed lunches while they were at it, and even though it was only eight thirty, lunchtime would come all too soon.

But seeing the sandwiches piling up made me feel more tired than ever. Or was it the thought that in an hour or so, even I would have a hard time believing that the kitchen had once been tidy.

Rose Noire looked up, saw my face, and jumped to a conclusion.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “CORSICA will reimburse you for the food and—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “There’s just one thing.”

“Yes?”

She was standing with a ham and cheese sandwich half made, clasping the mustard knife with both hands.

“I don’t suppose we could ask any of the Corsicans to do a little cleaning in the living room,” I said. “Just the animal fur and whatever.”

“I think everyone’s pretty much got their hands full with the animals,” Rose Noire said. “But don’t worry. I’ll try to come back in and help you later.”

Help me? Help
me
? That wasn’t exactly what I expected to hear. What I thought I had a right to hear. I wanted to hear, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.” The Corsicans had brought the animals here without asking our permission. If they’d checked with me first, I probably would have said yes, but I’d have steered them to the barn, not the living room. Much as I sympathized with the plight of the animals, I didn’t think cleaning out the mess they’d made in our living room was exactly my responsibility.

Of course, fat chance getting Rose Noire to understand that. She was clearly in her Joan of Arc mode, head held high, eyes blazing, passionately sharing the suffering of the lost and abandoned animals of the world. Cleaning dung and fur out of our living room was low on her priority list.

I understood. But I also knew that I’d been up since about 2:00
A.M.
and I was already at the ragged edge of exhaustion. I counted to ten and choked back several biting things that I’d probably regret later.

“Maybe you could talk to the rest of the Corsicans and see if anyone would like to take a break from tending the animals to do a bit of cleaning,” I said finally. “Because I don’t have the time or energy to do it anytime soon, and the longer it waits, the nastier it’s going to get. God help us if Mother sees it like that.”

I strode out of the kitchen and headed upstairs to check on the twins. If neither of them needed feeding or changing, maybe now would be a good time to pump their next meal. And then start a load of diapers. And then—

“Meg?”

I paused halfway up the stairs and glanced down to see Rose Noire staring up at me with an astonished look on her face and her mouth hanging open.

“Yes?” I said.

I watched as a series of expressions flitted across her face. Shock, outrage, and then a look of intense sympathy and compassion.

“Of course,” she said. “You do look exhausted. You should get some rest.”

“Thank you.” I turned to continue up the stairs.

“After all,” she called after me, “we have a murder to deal with. I’m sure that’s going to take a lot of your time.”

I paused for a second. I considered saying that with two infants on my hands, not to mention assorted family members and guests underfoot, it was extremely unlikely that I was going to get involved in any murder investigation, especially not a murder at the other side of the county of someone I hardly knew.

But that would only start an argument. I murmured thanks and continued upstairs.

After all, before I disavowed any interest in the murder, I should make triple sure none of my family or friends was involved. I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew knocking off someone who was in the middle of committing an animal rescue, however bizarre and misguided. Then again, I didn’t know that much about Parker, apart from the fact that he had a reputation as a small-town Romeo. What else did he do when he wasn’t rescuing animals? Maybe I’d try to find out tomorrow.

Or maybe I should just mind my own business.

So should I go back to nap on the recliner in the boys’ room, or collapse into my own bed for a change?

I had just reached the top of the stairs and was hovering between the two alternatives when the nursery door opened and Michael stepped out with a twin on each shoulder.

“You’re already up!” Michael exclaimed. “Here, if you can take one of the boys, I’ll go downstairs and start breakfast.”

So much for catching up on my sleep.

Chapter 5

“More blueberry pancakes?”

I shook my head. More pancakes was an impossibility, because so far I hadn’t had any. I couldn’t quite face breakfast yet. I envied Josh and Jamie, who were happily playing in their crib across the kitchen and could eat and sleep on their own schedules.

I gulped more of my coffee. Decaf coffee, of course, since I didn’t want to caffeinate the twins, so any effect it had would be purely psychological.

“More blueberry pancakes, Timmy?” Michael asked.

Timmy, our five-year-old houseguest, nodded enthusiastically.

“What’s he doing here?” my grandfather asked, pointing a fork dripping with maple syrup at Timmy.

“Eating breakfast,” Michael said. “Don’t mind him,” he added to Timmy, who was looking suddenly anxious. “He’s just cranky before he’s had enough coffee.”

“Am not,” Grandfather growled.

“Are too.” Michael grabbed the coffeepot and refilled Grandfather’s cup with the real stuff. I tried not to drool.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Grandfather said. “What’s he doing here? Don’t you two have enough on your hands already?”

“Timmy’s mother’s in the army,” I began.

“Drafting women now, are they?” Grandfather muttered. “What’s the world coming to?”

“She joined up to take advantage of the educational benefits,” I said. “Try the coffee.”

I hoped he’d drop the subject. Too much talk about his absent mother’s whereabouts upset Timmy. For that matter, her absence wasn’t a happy subject with me. I had sympathized when my friend Karen decided to leave her job in Caerphilly College’s Human Resources department—a dead-end job with a miserably controlling boss. In fact, I’d encouraged her to quit. But her decision to join the army came as rather a shock. Hadn’t it occurred to her that she might be deployed somewhere where she couldn’t easily take her son?

“She doesn’t have family?” Grandfather asked.

“No,” I said. “And not a lot of friends who could care for a five-year-old.”

“And Timmy likes it here,” Michael said. “And we like him.”

Timmy’s anxious expression gave way to his usual sunny smile.

“Which reminds me,” Michael added, looking at me. “Timmy has a T-Ball game today.”

“On a Friday? I thought they were always on Saturdays.”

“Yes, but it’s rained the last two Saturdays, so they’re trying to catch up by holding one today. Can you…?”

“Sure,” I said. I took out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and flipped to today’s page.

“One
P.M.
at Peter Pruitt Park,” Michael said.

I nodded and scribbled.

“What about the animals?” Grandfather asked.

“The Corsicans are looking after the animals, remember?” I said. “I have Timmy and the twins.”

“Where is the mother, anyway? Off in the desert somewhere, I suppose, or some remote mountainous part of Afghanistan.”

“Germany,” I said. “Wiesbaden. Lovely, safe place. On the Rhine. They have wine festivals there.”

At least Karen wasn’t in a combat zone. Not at the moment, anyway. We were hoping to get word soon that her posting in Germany would be fairly long term, which would mean Timmy could join her. In the meantime, thanks to my brother, Rob, she wasn’t going to miss too many of those precious childhood moments.

“Look this way, Timmy!” Rob said. He was once again wielding his new little video camera—a marvelous bit of technology, simple enough for a mechanical klutz like Rob to use and small enough to fit in his pocket. Which meant no one was safe from his quest to capture every single significant or picturesque moment in all our lives.

Timmy grinned, displaying three very large blueberries stuck, with suspicious regularity, in his front teeth. He and Rob both dissolved with laughter.

Timmy was currently Rob’s favorite video subject. He had days of footage of the boys, of course, separately, together, and with every willing member of the family. But since at four months the boys’ repertoire consisted of eating, sleeping, crying, having their diapers changed, making cute faces, and being played with by family members, even as doting an uncle as Rob eventually became restless for new subjects. Timmy’s arrival several weeks ago had been a godsend.

“Come on, Timmy,” Rob said. “Let’s go film some of the animals.”