The Real MacAw (20 page)

“And Chauncy is sending over some boxes.”

Chauncy, I assumed, was the Shiffley in charge of the small family-run moving company.

“I don’t suppose we could get the use of Parker’s truck for some of this,” Caroline said.

“I already asked,” Ms. Ellie said. “The chief says it’s still part of his crime scene.”

“Understandable,” I said.

“I just better not see him clearing out the police station with it,” Ms. Ellie grumbled. “Meg, there’s just one more thing.”

I braced myself. I hated that particular phrase, and I had a sinking feeling I knew what was coming.

“We need a place to put the books,” she said. “Right now we’re just going to box them up, of course. We have to get through emptying the library first. We won’t even have time to think about reopening for days—maybe weeks. Not until we either find a new building or fix things so we can get back into the old one.”

Weeks might be conservative. If the whole issue had to go through the law courts, we were talking months or years.

“Can we use your sheds? And maybe the hay loft in your barn?”

“We’ll have the animals out in a few days’ time,” Caroline said. “Then you can use the whole barn.”

“I don’t suppose you could check with Mother and Dad,” I suggested. “They have a barn, too. And I can’t think of anything Dad would rather have in his backyard than a library.”

“I can,” Ms. Ellie said. “He already offered to let the chief use his barn for the temporary police station.”

I sighed. I hoped Dad and Chief Burke would both survive the proximity.

“Apparently barn space is at a premium right now,” Ms. Ellie said. “Not many people have barns that they don’t use for farming.”

“True,” I said. “Well, then
mi casa es su casa
. Or should that be
mi casa es su biblioteca
?”

“I’d like to make a suggestion,” Randall said. “An offer, I guess. A lot of people are going to be pretty unhappy if the county doesn’t have a library open. Kids’ grades could suffer, people on fixed incomes would have no access to books. If Meg and Michael will agree to host the county’s books in their library till we can get past this situation, I’d be willing to build those shelves we’ve been talking about at the cost of the materials. How about it?”

They all looked at me.

“I’ll have to talk to Michael,” I said.

“Good.” Caroline and Ms. Ellie looked optimistic. Randall seemed to consider it a done deal—had he already talked to Michael? Or did he just know how much Michael coveted the dream library for which Randall had already drawn up plans?

They all took their leave shortly after that. I went out to the barn—which was locked up tight. As I unlocked the door, I made a mental note to thank Rose Noire. I picked up my laptop and a couple of files from my desk, relocked the barn, and took my papers back to the kitchen. Then I fixed myself another cup of tea. Randall’s offer had driven sleep even farther away.

I spent the next hour or so poring over our family budget and the Shiffley Construction Company’s proposal for our library. Could we afford the library buildout, even at Randall’s generous terms? Could we live with ourselves if we passed up the chance?

And wouldn’t building out the library be an excellent way to celebrate Michael’s tenure? Which wasn’t official yet, of course. It wouldn’t be official for another month, but it was as close to a certainty as anything could be in the tangled world of academia. So shouldn’t I jump at this chance to celebrate his academic success with a library worthy of a tenured professor? A tenured professor and quite possibly, in a few years, a department chairman, since by this fall he would be one of only three tenured faculty members in the newly formed drama department. And the other two were in their sixties and had already come up with a plan for each of them to serve as department chair for a year or two and then retire, leaving Michael in place as their natural successor. Our prospects were rosy.

But right now the bank account wasn’t.

And just how long would Ms. Ellie and her books be occupying our library after Randall Shiffley built it out? At the county meeting, Festus had told us to prepare for the battle to last months if not several years. Several years of not being able to use part of our own house?

Of course, that would also mean several years of having wonderfully convenient access to a much bigger library than Michael and I could ever hope to assemble. We already were having bedtime story hour for the boys in the hope that they’d form the same love of reading we had. Everyone always said that the best way to turn children into readers was to surround them with books and adults who considered reading an important part of their lives. What better way to do that than have a library on the premises?

And better in the house than in the barn. I hoped to resume my blacksmithing soon, and I shuddered at the idea of lighting my forge and starting to hammer sparks out of hot iron in a building filled to the rafters with highly inflammable paper. And I could just imagine the conflicts. “Meg,” Ms. Ellie would call out. “Can you stop making such a racket? We’re trying to have the children’s story hour.” No, the house was the optimal place for what we’d already promised to do. If only we could afford the buildout.

I alternated between dreams of glory and financial fretting for far longer than I should. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, facedown on the family budget.

Chapter 16

Something woke me up. I started and almost knocked my chair over. I was in the kitchen. Apparently I’d fallen asleep over my tea. I touched my teacup. It was room temperature. My budget files were still on the table. A few of the papers from the idea file for our library renovation had fallen on the floor.

I glanced at the clock: 2:00
A.M.
Past time for the next feeding. Had I been awakened by one of the babies crying?

I got up and went over to the kitchen counter and made sure the volume on the baby monitor was up. Yes, it was, and I could hear only silence, and the occasional soft not-quite snore from Michael. He’d probably done the last feeding or two and fallen asleep in the recliner. I must have been exhausted to have slept through the wailing, even if Michael had turned the monitor off on the nursery end. So what had awakened me?

I ventured out into the hallway. It was empty and silent. So was the living room when I looked inside. But someone had been there. A vase had been knocked off a bookshelf near the door and lay in shards on the floor. Not a vase I particularly liked. I could easily live without it, except that the aunt who given it to us last Christmas would probably notice that it wasn’t there the next time she visited. Should I make a big fuss over how upset I was? No, always the chance she’d send a replacement. Best say nothing. Let her assume I’d moved it to one of the guest rooms. I gave the jagged fragments a wide berth and explored further.

The macaw’s cage had been knocked on its side. I went over and peered down at it. The macaw was standing up and looking alarmed but did not, thank goodness, say anything. I righted the cage and adjusted the cover. I heard a soft squawk and a flutter of feathers. I peered in again to see that the macaw was sitting on its perch, head tucked under its wing. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I could see no other damage in the living room. No other new damage—the rug really would have to go to the cleaners. I’d let Mother figure out what to do about the sofas and the gnawed-on end table.

Nothing missing, and no damage. But someone had been here. What were they trying to do? And had they succeeded? Or had they knocked over the vase and fled first?

I went back into the hall and turned on the light there. Only then did I notice that the front door was ajar.

I backed up as far from the door as I could while still keeping it in sight and pulled out my cell phone to call Michael.

“’Lo?” He sounded still asleep.

“I think we may have had a prowler,” I said in a low voice. “Are the babies okay?”

“They’re fine.” He suddenly sounded a lot more awake. “I’ll be right down. Call 911.”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone still here, but the front door’s open and some stuff in the living room’s been knocked over. And I’d rather stay on the line with you till you get down here.”

“Roger.”

I inched over to the umbrella stand to grab a stout walking stick that we kept there for my grandfather to use if the urge to hike hit him while he was visiting.

Then I returned to the living room, though I kept my eye on the front door until Michael appeared. And by that time I’d already found how the intruder had entered.

“Look.” I pointed to one of the front windows. “Someone cut the glass and unlatched this window.”

“We need a security system,” Michael said. “This far out in the country. I’m calling 911.”

“Until I saw the glass, I was hoping it was just something else silly the Corsicans were up to.”

He came over to inspect the glass, already dialing.

“Hello, Debbie Anne,” Michael said. “Yes—I think we’ve had a burglar.”

I returned to the hallway, opened the door and peered out.

“Careful,” Michael said. “What if someone’s still out there? What if—”

“It’s Grandfather.” I threw the door open and raced out. “I think he’s hurt.”

Grandfather was lying facedown at the foot of the porch steps, his tall, angular form crumpled into an awkward heap.

“Send an ambulance, too,” Michael said on the phone.

“I’ll check his pulse,” I said, dropping to Grandfather’s side.

It was weak but steady. Was his breathing a little shallow? Or was I just a little panicked?

I could hear Michael talking to Debbie Anne. I reported my findings to Michael, who relayed them to her. I put my hand on Grandfather’s forehead. He didn’t seem to be overly warm. I wasn’t sure if that mattered.

There was something damp and sticky on his temple. I pulled away my hand to look at it. Was that blood? Hard to tell in the moonlight.

“Turn on the porch light,” I said.

“No, we have no idea when,” Michael was saying. He reached back inside for the light switch.

I scrambled around to Grandfather’s other side and flopped down on my stomach so I could get my head on his level and look at his face.

“She says not to move him,” Michael said.

“I’m not,” I said. “I want to see if his eyes are open, and if he seems to have hit his head. Tell Debbie Anne you’ve got to hang up. I want you to call Dad.”

“She already did,” Michael said. “He’s on his way.”

Grandfather’s eyes were closed. A small trickle of blood ran down the left side of his face. Even though the porch light wasn’t that bright, I could see well enough to know it was blood. I brushed a lock of his hair aside and saw a wound on his temple.

“He’s bleeding,” I said.

“He must have hit his head,” Michael said. “Meg can see blood.”

“I don’t think he hit his head,” I said. “I think someone hit him. Angle of the wound,” I added, answering Michael’s raised eyebrow. “And no, I’m not sure. That’s Dad’s specialty. I just think it looks suspicious.”

Michael nodded and relayed my suspicions to Debbie Anne.

I took Grandfather’s hand.

“You’re going to be all right,” I said, in my calmest voice. “Dad and the ambulance are on their way.”

Did he squeeze my hand? Or did I only imagine it?

Michael put his hand on my shoulder.

We stayed like that for what seemed like hours. When the ambulance finally arrived, I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or hurt at how quickly they ordered us aside.

Dad arrived a minute or so after the ambulance. He and the EMTs were grimfaced. They started an IV. Someone mentioned a blow to the head, so apparently I was right. I began to hear words like concussion and subdural hematoma.

“I can keep an eye on things down here,” Michael said. “Why don’t you stay with the kids. Josh ate about an hour ago, and Jamie should be ready any minute.”

I wondered if he was reading my mind. I realized that what I wanted most was to retreat upstairs, pick up one of the boys, and focus on him, blotting out of my mind the picture of Grandfather lying on the front walk.

I spent what was left of the night in the recliner, holding one or another of the twins, waiting for Dad to call and tell us if Grandfather was going to make it.

Chapter 17

“How is he?” I demanded.

It was shortly after dawn on Sunday morning. I had just deposited the boys in the spare crib we kept in the kitchen and was making some decaf when Dad and the chief strolled in, followed by Michael, who had answered the doorbell.

“He’s unconscious,” Dad said. “But stable.”

“Define stable.” I sat down, and Michael took over with the coffee.

“His vital signs are good,” Dad said. “In fact, they’re excellent for his age. He’s only got a mild concussion. I just wish he’d regain consciousness.”

Dad slumped into a kitchen chair.

“Don’t worry,” I said, patting Dad’s shoulder. “He’s much too hardheaded to be killed that way. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Dad sighed, nodded, and squeezed my hand.

“And while we’re waiting for Dr. Blake to regain consciousness,” the chief said, “I’d like to interview you and Michael about what happened last night.”

“I didn’t see much,” I said.

“Whatever you can remember.”

I nodded. Through the kitchen window, I could see Horace and Sammy searching the yard. Presumably they’d finished with the living room, which would now be coated liberally with at least three different colors of fingerprint powder.

“And Horace isn’t going to have much luck with the forensics, is he?” I asked. “How many hundreds of people have been in our living room the last two days, or tromped through our yard last night?”

“Which is why I’m going to be relying a lot more on witness statements,” the chief said.

“Subtly hinted,” I said. “Let’s go find a quiet place so I can give mine. You probably already thought of this, but the guy who was driving the church bus was here till the bitter end, ferrying people to their cars. You might ask him what he saw.”