The Real MacAw (3 page)

“Dr. Blake, Dr. Langslow, Dr. Rutledge, and Mr. Langslow.” The chief had taken out his notepad and was scribbling in it. “Dr. Blake, was there anyone else with you?”

“No,” Grandfather said. “Damn! I guess I should take back some of the harsh things I’ve been saying about Parker for the last couple of hours, when I thought he was just being feckless.”

“Sammy,” the chief said. “Round them up and keep them in the kitchen.” He looked at me. “If that’s acceptable.”

I nodded.

“Or you can use the library, if you like,” I said. “Or both.”

“Keep them in the kitchen, Sammy.” The chief glanced down at his notebook and appeared to be studying something. “I’ll just talk to them here. Now, Dr. Blake. Where—”

He stopped and glanced down. One of the kittens was loose and had begun climbing the crisply pressed left leg of his uniform trousers as if it were a tree. He blinked, then forced his eyes back to Grandfather.

“Dr. Blake, where were you for the last couple of hours?”

“It wasn’t just an accident, was it?” Grandfather asked. “Someone knocked him off.”

The chief nodded. He winced as the kitten’s razor-sharp little claws dug into his skin. The chief shook his leg slightly in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. The kitten thought this was fun, and scrambled a little higher.

“And you want to know if we have alibis,” Grandfather said. He glowered for a moment. Clearly he was reluctant to admit what they’d been up to. Understandable, but this was not the time to clam up.

“Clarence, Rob, James, and I were all together,” Grandfather said finally. He glared at the chief as if daring him to ask where.

I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out as quietly as I could.

“During what time period?” the chief asked.

Another kitten had joined its brother or sister in scaling the chief’s pants leg.

“Since about ten o’clock,” Grandfather said. “We were supposed to meet Parker at midnight at the intersection of Little Creek Road and the Clay County Road.”

“By the old churchyard?”

Grandfather nodded.

“We got there about five minutes to midnight, and stayed until maybe one forty-five
A.M.
”

The chief was trying to shoo the kittens—three of them by now—off his trouser legs without looking at them. I suddenly realized why. He was trying not to look at the kittens because if he took notice of them, he might have to deal with the whole shelter burglary thing. And right now he didn’t want to do that. Maybe he was in sympathy with Grandfather’s protest, or maybe he just felt the murder was more important and didn’t want to be sidetracked.

I decided to help him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Rose Noire’s new kittens aren’t very well trained yet.”

“Trained?” Grandfather snorted at the thought. “You can’t train cats.”

“You can make sure they know that climbing on people is not acceptable,” I said as I plucked one of the kittens off. “And you could help me with this. I’ve only got two hands.”

We finished plucking the kittens off the chief and returned them to the large cardboard box where they belonged.

As I stood up from depositing the kittens, I jarred the macaw’s cage. The tarp that had been partly covering it fell all the way off.

“Hiya, babe!” the macaw squawked. “How’s about it? Just you and me.”

“Put a lid on it, bird,” I said.

The macaw responded with several rude remarks in language so blue they’d probably have bleeped the entire sentence on network television.

I stood staring at the macaw for a few moments, speechless.

When I looked around, everyone else in the room was also speechless and staring.

“Do that again, featherbrain, and I’ll wash your beak out with soap,” I said.

The bird responded with another string of off-color insults.

“No crackers for you, Polly.” I pulled the cover over the macaw’s cage. I could hear him muttering a few more four-letter words as he settled down for a nap. At least I hoped the cover would have that effect.

The chief—who always apologized if, under extreme provocation, he uttered the occasional “hell” or “damn” in front of a lady—was frowning severely at the shrouded cage.

“He’s new here,” I said. “And not staying.”

“I should hope not.” He glanced around the living room and shuddered. Mother would probably shudder, too, if she saw the room in its current state.

“I think I will take you up on that offer of the library,” the chief said. “Assuming it’s empty.”

“Of animals? Yes,” I said. “And it’s going to stay that way,” I added, looking pointedly at my grandfather.

“Could you send Clarence down to the kitchen when he’s finished babysitting?” the chief asked.

I nodded.

“Now, if you don’t mind, Dr. Blake.”

Grandfather and the chief disappeared into the long hall that led to our library.

I tried to shove some of the cats and dogs into crates and cages but gave up after a few minutes.

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” I said. “And sleeping cats, too.”

At least until I could task someone else with waking them up to crate them. I went upstairs to the nursery.

I peered in to see a heartwarming domestic scene. Michael, in boxer shorts and a tattered Caerphilly College T-shirt, was sprawled on the recliner, half-asleep, feeding Josh.

Heartwarming wasn’t exactly what I’d call the vision of Clarence in his full leather and denim biker’s outfit stretched out on the moss-green rug with Jamie sleeping on his well-padded stomach, but it was rather entertaining. I hoped Michael had captured the scene on the digital camera that he’d taken to carrying everywhere since the boys arrived. Yes, the camera was lying on the arm of the recliner.

Clarence looked up when I entered, his face anxious.

“The chief’s not here about the animals,” I said.

“It’s Parker, isn’t it?” he said. “Did he wreck the truck, or did some jealous husband catch up with him? Is he just injured or…?”

“He’s dead.” I reached down to take Jamie. “You’re very quick to assume that Parker met a violent end. Why is that?”

“Obviously you didn’t know him.” Clarence was trying to loosen the death grip Jamie had on one of the many chains dangling from his vest. “Parker was passionate about animal welfare. He’d never just blow off an animal rescue mission. So something serious must have happened. And the chief wouldn’t be coming here in the middle of the night if he’d died in his sleep, or just had an accident.”

Jamie woke up enough to release his grip, fussed a little, and dozed off again.

“Speaking of the chief,” I said. “He’d like you to go down and wait in the kitchen with Dad and Rob and Deputy Sammy.”

Clarence nodded.

I eased Jamie into his crib.

“If you could stop by the living room on your way and make sure all the animals are secured, I’d appreciate it,” I said to Clarence. “I’d really like them out in the barn, but just having them caged or crated would do for now.”

He nodded again and went downstairs.

“All the animals?” Michael said, opening one eye. “You mean there really is a herd of animals downstairs?”

“You couldn’t hear them?”

“I was hoping maybe it was your grandfather watching some kind of animal video on the big-screen TV with the sound cranked up. How many dogs and cats?”

“I didn’t count.”

He winced.

“Only half a dozen guinea pigs and hamsters, though,” I said. “And only one macaw.”

“What did they do—rob a pet store?”

“Not a bad guess.” I explained about the animal shelter.

He shook his head.

“I don’t like the change in policy, either, but aren’t they overreacting a little?” he said. “They couldn’t just picket the place?”

I shrugged. It was too late—or maybe too early—to get into a discussion about why my relatives did what they did.

“Well, I don’t want to kick the animals out if there’s no place else for them tonight, but we can’t keep them here indefinitely,” he said. “Not even out in our barn. You’re going to want to get back to your blacksmithing eventually.”

“I already want to get back to it,” I said. “But I think it will still be a while before I have the time. And—”

I interrupted myself with a gigantic yawn.

“Go to bed,” he said. “That’s what I plan to do when I finish feeding Josh. If the animals aren’t in the barn by breakfast time, I’ll lay down the law to everyone. Meanwhile, let’s both get some sleep.”

“I will,” I said. “As soon as I pump some more milk for the boys’ next meal.”

Unfortunately, by the time I finished that, Jamie was hungry again. And by the time I’d fed him, I was wide awake. Dog-tired, but wide awake.

It was 5:00
A.M.
The smart thing to do would be to lie down, and rest even if I couldn’t sleep.

Instead, I went downstairs to see what was happening.

Chapter 3

Dad, Clarence, and my cousin Rose Noire were in the living room, tending animals. Grandfather and the Afghan hound were sitting on the sofa, supervising. The others were sitting on the rug, either because their tasks required it or because all the chairs were already occupied by sleeping dogs and cats. No one appeared to have made much headway toward moving the animals to the barn.

Why wasn’t Dad racing to the scene of the crime? He was an avid mystery buff with a two-book-a-day crime novel habit. Normally he’d be driving the chief crazy, trying to get involved in the investigation, instead of peacefully tending animals.

Maybe having someone he knew and liked as the victim made it more real and a lot less fun.

“How’s it going?” I was leaning against the archway to the front hall, hoping to signal that I wasn’t staying long enough to help.

“The chief should be finished questioning Rob soon,” Dad said. “Come on, Tinkerbell.” Tinkerbell? He was attaching a leash to the largest of the dogs. An Irish wolfhound, from the look of it. Was Dad taking it out for a walk or going for a ride? Both seemed possible. I winced as Tinkerbell’s unclipped nails clicked on the oak floor on their way down the hallway to the kitchen. I loved the redecorating Mother had done for us, especially the living room and hall, which were filled with Arts and Crafts–style oak furniture, oriental rugs on the newly polished oak floors, and upholstery in a beautiful shade of turquoise that Mother insisted on calling cerulean. But if I was going to flinch every time a child or an animal threatened to mar the perfection of our decor, maybe we should have waited.

Or maybe having the animals here—briefly—would be a good thing. Maybe we’d feel better when we got the first nicks and stains over with. Like getting past the first scratch on a new car.

Of course, there was a difference between getting a scratch on your new car and driving it through a barbed-wire fence into a bramble bush.

“I’ve checked out all the animals,” Clarence said. “None are any the worse for their ordeal.” Clarence seemed to be applying an ointment to a dog with oozing skin sores. Or maybe it was the ointment that was oozing. Either way, I wished he’d do it someplace other than our living room. Or at least put down newspapers to protect the rug.

Rose Noire was flitting about, spritzing something from an atomizer. Probably a blend of essential oils custom-designed to soothe the animals’ nerves and boost their immune systems. I only wished she’d find something to spritz that didn’t make quite so many of the cats sneeze. Her normally exuberant mane of hair was pulled back into a loose braid. Was she adopting a new personal style, or had she merely decided that the braid was more practical for today’s animal tending?

“I’m sure the animals will all be much happier and calmer once they’ve settled in,” she said, with a final flourish of her atomizer. Two of the cats sneezed again, violently. One sprayed the mirror over the mantel, which could easily be washed. The other aimed at a nearby patch of the wall that Mother’s crew had painted four times before she decided “dove wing” was the perfect color. I had a feeling “dove wing with accents of cat snot” wouldn’t be allowed to stay.

“I’m sure they will.” I stepped into the room and began looking for a carrier for the sneezing cats. “The problem is that they shouldn’t be settling in here in the living room. Couldn’t you find the key to the barn?”

They all looked crestfallen—except Grandfather, who simply shrugged, and brushed another handful of Afghan fur off his shirt and onto the rug.

“I’m sorry,” Rose Noire said. “We have the key, but there just always seems to be something else more urgent.” Her urgent task of the moment seemed to be teaching several kittens to chase a bit of string.

“You need more help,” I said. I was vastly proud of myself for having said “you” instead of “we.”

“We’re bringing in more Corsicans to help,” Grandfather said, waving his hand grandly, as if he had an infinite number of Corsicans at his disposal, along with Sardinians, Sicilians, and perhaps even a few surviving Etruscans.

“Corsicans?” I echoed. “What do you need Corsicans for? Do they have some kind of national expertise at fostering animals?” I probably sounded a bit hostile, but I had good reason. We’d only recently gotten rid of a Spanish houseguest who’d come for a few days to see a college drama production and ended up staying nearly four months. I wasn’t eager to see any more European visitors showing up in need of lodging.

“No, that’s what we call ourselves,” Dad announced. “Corsicans. Members of the Committee Opposed to the Ruthless Slaughter of Innocent Captive Animals. CORSICA.”

“It’s a new organization,” Clarence explained. “Formed in the wake of the town manager’s inhumane new policy.”

I was willing to bet they’d spent at least as much time working on their catchy acronym as they had on formulating their plan to combat the new shelter policy. Possibly more, if burgling the shelter was all they’d come up with.

“Invite as many Corsicans as you want, then,” I said. “As long as they’re not expecting bed and board.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’s probably one of them now,” Rose Noire said, leaping up to race to the door. “And about time, too. I started calling over an hour ago!”