“So whatever they were looking for isn’t small,” the chief said. “Can you tell if anything was taken?”
“Hard to tell,” Vern said. “Like I said, nothing’s messed up. Pretty darn clean and tidy everywhere. I expect we’re going to have to get some people from the church to look things over to be sure.”
I sighed and closed my eyes. Given how much time I’d been spending at Trinity, I was sure I’d be one of the people asked to help look things over. I hoped tomorrow would do.
“And a lot of easy pickings just left there,” Vern went on. “Stuff that you’d expect any petty thief would snatch right up. Computers, a nice camera. Bottles of communion wine. None of that touched.”
“So our intruder was looking for something in particular,” the chief said.
“But about the only thing missing is the parrot,” Vern said.
“Parrot?” the chief echoed.
“The one the minister had in her office,” Vern explained.
“He’s a toucan,” I said. “And he’s not missing. He’s just not here.”
“He’s completely missing, cage and all,” Vern said.
“Because I took him home last night, after the murder,” I said. “I figured we had enough to worry about here without him underfoot.”
“I remember you said you were doing that,” the chief said. “So let’s not worry about the toucan,” he added, turning back to Vern.
“Uh, yeah. Hang on a sec.” Vern looked embarrassed. He pulled out his radio. “Debbie Ann? Can you cancel the BOLO on the parrot?”
Chapter 22
“You put out a BOLO on the bird?” I asked. From the expression on the chief’s face, I could tell he’d been about to ask the same question, although perhaps not in the same mild tone I’d used.
“I figured the bird was here during the murder,” Vern explained. “Maybe the killer realized he’d left a witness behind and came back to silence the parrot.”
“And it would have been an ingenious theory, if the bird actually was a parrot,” the chief said, in a much more gracious tone that I’d have expected.
A thought hit me.
“Chief—actually it is a pretty ingenious theory. Vern thought the bird was a parrot—so do more than half the people who’ve seen him in Robyn’s office. What if the killer thought so, too? Because if he thought Nimitz was a parrot, maybe he’s worried that Nimitz could repeat something that would identify him.”
The chief frowned, as if considering the idea and not altogether liking it. Vern had perked up at my suggestion and was watching the chief’s face.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” the chief said. “Where is the bird now?”
“At the moment, he’s in our barn,” I said. “But should you feel the need to inspect him, you’ll probably need to go out to the Caerphilly Zoo. Because that’s where I’m taking him first thing tomorrow morning. Or should I say later this morning?”
“No, tomorrow’s good,” Vern said. “Still five minutes of twelve.”
“First thing tomorrow morning, then,” I said. “And I’m going to tell as many people as possible that the miserable bird is out at the zoo. Because whoever was searching the church fired two shots at me, and if the bird really was what the shooter was looking for, I do not want him showing up at our house.”
“I don’t suppose you want him showing up at your grandfather’s zoo, either,” the chief pointed out.
“Not really,” I said. “But unlike our house, the zoo has a state-of-the-art security system.”
The chief nodded.
A brilliant light suddenly flooded the parking lot—evidently the fire department had gotten the first of its floodlights working.
“Go show them which way to aim the lights,” the chief told Vern.
Another fire engine was entering the parking lot, with several other cars behind it—including Rob’s sleek little blue convertible. I waved at the new arrivals.
Rob parked his car at the far end of the parking lot, the better to prevent his fellow first responders from sideswiping it in the excitement of their arrival. He might actually appreciate my taking the convertible out of harm’s way. Michael got out, already dressed in his bulky gear, and loped over to us. Behind him, I could see more firemen arriving, and a flatbed truck from the Shiffley Construction Company, loaded with more portable lights, was turning into the parking lot.
“Your chariot awaits, milady.” Michael handed me Rob’s keys, gave me a quick kiss, and hurried over to where the other firemen were setting up another light.
“I’m finished with the van,” Horace said. “You could actually take that if you want.”
I explained my plan of dropping off the Twinmobile for repair, and the chief promised to arrange it. Horace helped me gather all the baseball gear, shake out the million little cubes of glass, pack everything in the baseball bags, and stow those in Rob’s car—in the passenger seat, since the convertible’s trunk space was so minuscule as to be nonexistent for all practical purposes. The donation and recycling boxes would have to wait.
“Oh, we’re going to have to keep your clock for the time being,” Horace said.
“My clock?”
“The one that was in this box.” Horace was pointed to the box of stuff I’d be taking to Dr. Womble. “One of the bullets ended up embedded in it. We’ll give it back when we’re finished with it.”
“Actually, it’s Dr. Womble’s clock,” I said. “And since he left it behind when he retired and has been doing without it for at least five years, I don’t think he’ll mind if you keep it as long as you need to.”
“That’s good,” Horace said. “’Cause it’s pretty much toast, that clock.”
“Do you think you can fit that box in as well?” I asked. “I want to take it to Dr. Womble tomorrow.”
“Sure.” Horace hefted the box and managed to wedge it in the convertible’s passenger seat along with the baseball bags.
As he was doing so, a sudden blinding light flooded the entire parking lot. A helicopter hovered overhead, shining its spotlights down on the crime scene. Strange that I hadn’t noticed the noise of its arrival. Then again, the firemen and the construction workers were making such a racket that the helicopter hadn’t stood out all that much. And the increased light revealed that not all the police vehicles in the parking lot were from Caerphilly. Evidently the chief had called for reinforcements from nearby jurisdictions.
Several Shiffleys who trained tracking dogs had arrived and were unloading their charges—a mixed crew of Labradors and bloodhounds. I wasn’t sure I understood just how the dogs were supposed to figure out which of the many human scents that might be found in the church was the intruder. I had visions of the dogs leading their handlers unerringly to the homes of the various vestry members. Perhaps I should warn Mother.
The chief and Randall Shiffley were standing by the chief’s car, looking up at the helicopter, their hands shading their eyes against the light. It looked like an outtake from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
“FBI, you think?” Randall asked.
“More likely the State Police,” the chief replied.
I decided to assume the arrival of the helicopter would turn out to be the high point of the evening. I climbed into Rob’s convertible, shoved one of the baseball bags aside so I could reach the gearshift, and headed for home.
I had to admit I was a little anxious about parking Rob’s car in the shed he’d fixed up to keep it in. By way of distraction, I contemplated what an eyesore it was. All the other sheds that had littered our yard when we first bought the house had either been fixed up, torn down, or hauled away. Granted the shed was in as unobtrusive a spot as possible, but still—an eyesore. Rob’s idea was that no one would look for an expensive convertible in such a run-down building. Tonight, it occurred to me that if anyone were looking for a good place to hide from the police—or to lurk while keeping an eye on our house for someone to return—the shed would seem perfect. Maybe I cou
ld get Rob to allow a little cleanup by pointing that out.
Tomorrow. Tonight I had to brave the shed to park the convertible.
But not alone. Before driving out there, I stopped at the back door to let the dogs out.
Tinkerbell, Rob’s Irish wolfhound, bounded joyfully over and gave me several sloppy doggy kisses before scampering off to a discreet corner to pee. Spike trotted out and stared accusingly at me for a few moments as if to ask what I’d done with the boys—Josh and Jamie were the twin lights of his life, and he only tolerated Michael and me because he’d learned from experience that biting us upset the boys. Then he sat down on the porch and stared up at the sky as if hoping the boys would return by helicopter.
“I was hoping for a little canine protection service,” I muttered as I got back in the convertible and drove it to the shed. But I reminded myself that if there had been anyone in there—or anywhere else in the yard—the dogs would be all over him. On at least one occasion, Tinkerbell’s strenuous efforts to make a new friend had so terrified a would-be burglar that he’d panicked and fled, leaving behind a full kit of lockpicks, glass cutters, and other housebreaking tools that Dad had found fascinating to play with. And Spike had a long history of chasing away intruders, although his zeal was made less helpful by the fact that his definition of intruders included quite a few people we actually wanted to visit us for the purpose of delivering things, fixing things, or just having dinner with us.
The dogs followed me back inside and accepted treats in return for their bodyguard duties. Then they disappeared. I could hear Tinkerbell’s toenails clacking down the hall to the living room, where she liked to sleep in front of the fireplace, even in the hottest days of August when it contained nothing but a large arrangement of dried flowers. Spike headed upstairs to wait in Jamie’s room. He normally started the night sleeping with Jamie, who tended to fade much earlier in the evening than his brother. At some point in the wee small hours, Spike would trot across the hall to finish the night with Josh, who liked to sleep until noon on days when he didn’t have to get up for school.
Alas, Spike would be waiting in vain tonight.
The house was very quiet. Rose Noire was on a camping trip with several like-minded herb fanciers who wanted to gather something or other under a full moon. And for once we had no other visiting relatives staying with us. Not only had the shooter tried to kill me, he’d also ruined one of the few chances Michael and I had had lately for a quiet romantic evening together.
Although I couldn’t manage to stay awake long enough to work up a good head of resentment over that.
I woke briefly when Michael returned home at around 3:00 A.M. I wanted to ask him if they’d caught the shooter, but by the time I was awake enough to string a coherent sentence together, he was fast asleep.
So I lapsed back into slumber myself.
Chapter 23
Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny.
Or so I deduced when I woke up, at eight thirty, grateful that we’d installed blackout shades in the master bedroom. I’d have joined Michael in sleeping even later but, although my notebook was tucked away out of sight in my purse, my to-do list kept nudging me awake.
I dressed quietly and slipped out into the hallway.
“Grrrrrr.”
Spike was waiting for me. He didn’t actually snap at my ankle—clearly he was mellowing a bit, or maybe just slowing down. But he did fix me with a baleful stare, and I realized he was missing the twins.
“Sorry,” I said. “They’re having a sleepover. They’ll be back in a few hours.”
My words didn’t seem to mollify him, but he followed at my heels down to the kitchen, allowed me to let him out into the yard, and then deigned to accept a bowl of dog food. Tinkerbell was visibly more grateful for her visit outdoors and her food.
Since Rose Noire wasn’t back, I let the chickens out into the yard and scattered some feed for them. Although the llamas watched me with the intense interest they always showed in human activity, I decided they could wait for their grain until Michael was up. Though they did like apples and carrots as treats, so I sliced up a few for them while I was preparing the toucan’s meal.
The toucan.
As I watched him eat his fruit—from a safe distance, so he wouldn’t splatter me with juice in his enthusiasm—I considered my options. I could just show up at Grandfather’s zoo with the toucan and pretend I thought people dropped off random birds at their aviary all the time. Probably not a great idea. Then again, if I asked Grandfather to take the bird in, there was a chance he’d say no, since toucans were neither endangered nor particularly fierce, two qualities that tended to endear creatures to him.
Still, if I played my cards right, I could get him to cooperate. Perhaps I should just pretend we’d already discussed the toucan and he’d already agreed to foster it. Yes, that was the ticket.
So I pulled out my phone and called him.
“What now?” he said when he picked up. Was I the latest in a string of annoying callers, or was he under the erroneous impression that this was the new phone etiquette?
“And good morning to you, too,” I said. “Are you at the zoo? I need to bring you the toucan. If you’re not there, I can just drop it off with Manoj—he’s still the head aviary keeper, right?”
“Yes—fine young man. I plan to promote him when something opens up. But what’s this about a toucan? We already have a pair—we don’t need any more toucans.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “Because you don’t get to keep this one, remember? He’s the one that belongs to Robyn’s parishioner, who’s going to want his bird back when the Harry S. Truman returns from wherever it’s currently traveling. But with Robyn down for the count, the toucan’s in danger of being neglected. He needs expert care—and where better than at a zoo! Didn’t we already discuss this?”
“We’re not an avian boarding facility,” Grandfather protested. “We can’t just take in every stray pigeon that some do-gooder wants us to take care of. Clarence boards animals at his veterinary clinic—why not ask him to take the bird?”
“Well, that was my first idea,” I improvised. “But Mother said she knew you would be willing to take the bird in, seeing how everyone else in town was doing their bit to help Robyn.” Grandfather wasn’t afraid of anything on two or four legs, but he did try to avoid crossing Mother. “And Cordelia said if you wouldn’t do it, she’d pick up the tab for boarding at Clarence’s,” I added, hoping to make productive use of the perennial sniping between Grandfather and Cordelia.
“Nonsense,” Grandfather said. “There’s no need for her to pay for anything. Stupid idea.”
I made a mental note to tell Mother and Cordelia what they were supposed to have said, just in case it ever came up.
“When shall I tell Manoj to expect you?” Grandfather asked.
“I can head over with the bird now.”
“I’ll be in the small mammal house,” he said. “Awaiting the birth. Got to run.”
“Birth of what?” But he’d already hung up.
Well, I’d find out when I got there.
Assuming I ever got there. With the Twinmobile in having its window replaced, I was left with my ancient blue Honda, which still ran reasonably well, in spite of being nearly old enough to vote, thanks to Osgood Shiffley’s expert (though not inexpensive) care. But the Honda’s interior space was limited, and there was no way I could fit the toucan’s capacious cage in it.
So I transferred the toucan to the dog carrier we kept for Spike’s visits to Clarence. Fortunately for the toucan, the carrier was much larger than you’d normally use for an eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball, because we’d found the larger the carrier, the fewer times we got bitten during the process of stuffing Spike into it.
The toucan clearly wasn’t crazy about leaving his usual home, and I was wary of that huge, powerful bill, but unlike Spike, he confined his protests to squawking and pooping copiously.
“It’s onl
y for the ride,” I told him, as I stuffed a few orange slices into the carrier to placate him. “And you’ll love what’s waiting for you at the other end.” At least I hoped he would. I made another mental note to warn Grandfather and Manoj that like many caged birds the toucan might not have had much experience with his own species.
Then I turned to look at the empty cage. What if whoever had ransacked Trinity figured out that the toucan had moved here? And didn’t get word that he’d moved on to the zoo? I didn’t much like the notion of Mr. Hagley’s killer rummaging through our barn, and maybe even invading the house.
So with the toucan carrier in tow, I went into my office, turned on my laptop, and typed out a notice in very large, bold letters: DO NOT CALL THE POLICE TO REPORT THE TOUCAN MISSING! HE IS NOW HOUSED AT THE CAERPHILLY ZOO!
I printed out two copies. I taped one over the toucan’s cage and the other on the main barn door. Then I laid down a tarp in the back of my car, in case Nimitz still had a reserve supply of poop, loaded the carrier in, tucked the box of stuff for Dr. Womble in the trunk, and headed for the zoo.
Evidently Grandfather’s initial reluctance to take in the toucan had turned into enthusiasm. When I arrived at the zoo, I found two uniformed keepers waiting for me just inside the entrance. I recognized the slight but energetic one as Manoj. Both keepers came scurrying out to the car.
“Welcome, Meg!” Manoj said. “Axel, get the … dog carrier?”
“The toucan’s cage wouldn’t fit in the car,” I said. “And I figured he wouldn’t need it here anyway.”
“No, we have a splendid habitat waiting for him.”
Axel, who was burly and blond and almost a head taller than Manoj, picked up Nimitz’s carrier as if it was a matchbox and headed into the zoo with it. Manoj and I fell into step behind him.
“By the way,” I said. “I have no idea if he’s ever encountered another toucan in his life. I assume you’re not just going to turn him out in the habitat with the other toucans—”
Toucan Keep a Secret Page 14