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!”
I glanced at my watch. No, I hadn’t been mistaken earlier. It was only a little past five in the morning.
“You were calling people at four A.M.?” I exclaimed. “How many of them blessed you out for waking them?”
“They were all thrilled at the chance to be of use,” Dad said. “Everyone wanted to help with the mission, of course, but we had to keep the numbers down. For security.”
“And now that the word is getting out, I’m sure we’ll be simply flooded with volunteers,” Rose Noire called from the hallway.
“Swell,” I muttered. And when the volunteers grew thirsty, hungry, or needed a bathroom?
“Caroline!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “Come in! You’re the first one here!”
My spirits rose a little. I liked Caroline Willner, the elderly owner of a wildlife refuge a few counties away. Even better, she had more common sense than anyone in the room—possibly more than everyone in the room combined—and was one of the few people in the world who could give my grandfather orders and actually get him to follow them.
“Welcome,” I said, as Caroline sailed into the room like a small, plump, gray-haired whirlwind.
“Meg! I can’t believe these idiots brought all those animals here—and you so busy with the twins. But we’ll take them off your hands, no problem. Monty! You old goat! What are you doing sitting on your duff goofing off when there’s work to be done?”
“I am not goofing off!” Grandfather said, holding his head high with wounded dignity. “I am endeavoring to come up with a plan of action.”
“Well, any plan has to start with getting the livestock out of Meg’s living room,” Caroline said. “Let’s get cracking on that, and then you can do your endeavoring out in the barn.”
Under Caroline’s direction, things started moving, and the pace picked up rapidly, as other Corsican volunteers trickled in. By 7:00 A.M., we had fifteen volunteers out in the barn, working with the animals.
Well, actually only twelve working with the animals. I took my big coffeemaker out to the barn and showed Thirteen how to use it, then gave Fourteen and Fifteen some cash and sent them to town for provisions, human and animal.
“This would be a lot easier if you’d left all the stalls here,” Grandfather complained as he surveyed the interior of the barn.
“No, it wouldn’t,” I said. “The old stalls were literally falling down from neglect. They wouldn’t have been safe for the animals.”
“I suppose it will have to do.” He strode off and began giving orders that contradicted everything Caroline had planned. I decided to stay out of the ensuing verbal donnybrook.
Instead, I drifted over to my workspace. Mother might be proud of t
he redecorating she’d done in the house, but I thought I’d done a rather nice job on the renovation of the barn—with help from the Shiffley Construction Company, of course. The former tack room was now my office, and right outside we’d torn down some ramshackle stalls to create a storage room for supplies on one side and a forge area on the other. I twined my fingers through the metal grate that separated me from the forge—an ingenious suggestion from Randall Shiffley, that allowed me to spread out into the main part of the barn if I wanted to, and then lock up my expensive work tools safely when I was finished.
Evidently today would not be the day I unlocked the grate and fired up my forge. Though I should do that soon. The longer my pregnancy-induced sabbatical lasted, the more I fretted that my muscles would atrophy and I’d lose all those skills and instincts I’d built up over fifteen years of blacksmithing.
I gazed wistfully at my anvil and imagined myself working at it. Actually, I imagined myself hammering fiercely at a stubborn bit of metal that gradually yielded to the force of my blows.
Always a bad sign when I started fantasizing about smashing things with my hammer instead of envisioning new designs. I sighed, and turned away from the grate.
We’d left a few stalls at the other end of the barn, with the idea that eventually we might want a few cows, or even horses for the boys. The rest of the space had been roughly finished into a huge open area that had already proven invaluable for rained-out family picnics, the annual plant sale held by Mother’s garden club, and rehearsals of plays that Michael and his drama department students were directing.
Unfortunately, it was also perfect for housing the refugee animals. I hoped the Corsicans didn’t use that as an excuse to procrastinate about finding them permanent homes.
I couldn’t help eyeing the Corsicans suspiciously. Most of them were probably harmless animal lovers—well-meaning people who were doing their best to help out in a difficult situation. But from conversations I overheard, I got the impression that the plan to burgle the animal shelter was pretty widely known among the group. Which meant that any number of them would have known Parker Blair would be making that dramatic midnight rendezvous in the graveyard.
If I were the chief, I’d consider the Corsicans prime suspects.
Assuming he knew they all had advance knowledge of the burglary. Did he? Should I tell him?
I felt a sudden qualm. Why was I plotting ways to rat out the Corsicans? Was I just feeling resentment because they’d filled my house with animals and animal by-products?
No. The burglary plot could easily have something to do with the murder. And odds were they wouldn’t be very forthcoming with the chief about it, and that meant he might not get some vital piece of information that would solve Parker’s murder.
So I’d keep my eyes and ears open. Try to figure out what the chief knew, and what the Corsicans ought to be telling him and weren’t.
I’d have to do it carefully. The chief could be touchy if he thought anyone was trying to tell him how to do his job. And rightfully so, since he had nearly two decades of experience solving homicides with the Baltimore police department. But he also got very touchy if he thought you knew some critical piece of information and didn’t tell him.
Besides, I didn’t want to get the Corsicans in any more trouble than I had to. Their hearts were in the right place, even if their brains appeared to have gone AWOL.
So since it would be a lot easier to suggest that he investigate the Corsicans if one of them actually did something suspicious—and a lot easier on my conscience—I tried to keep a careful eye on them. And I was beginning to notice a curious dynamic among the volunteers.
None of the Corsicans seemed particularly cheerful, which was understandable under the circumstances. One of their own had fallen, and the fate of the rescued animals was up in the air.
But there was a woman sitting at one end of the barn, near the stalls, whom they all seemed to treat with special deference, as if recognizing that she had a superior claim to grief.
And at the other end of the barn, right outside my forge, another woman was receiving the same tender, kid-glove handling.
Were they Parker’s relatives? Particular friends? Or might Parker’s life contain a love triangle that had a great deal more to do with his murder than the animal shelter?
I needed to ask someone who knew Parker. Someone trustworthy, or at least someone whose foibles and biases I knew. I looked around for Grandfather and the other ringleaders. They weren’t anywhere to be seen. Had they gone away and deserted their fellow Corsicans? Then I noticed that the door to my office was ajar. I could have sworn I’d asked Caroline and Rose Noire to keep both the forge and the office locked, at least as long as so many people were coming and going.
I peered in. Rob, Clarence, and Caroline were all there, tending some of the orphaned puppies in the relative comfort of my office chairs.
“What’s with all the kittens and puppies?” Caroline was saying. “Where are the mothers?”
“According to the shelter records, they’ve had a rash of litters being dumped on them,” Clarence said. “Litters of kittens and puppies that haven’t even been weaned yet. What kind of person does that to poor, helpless creatures?”
“Same people who can’t be bothered to spay or neuter.” Caroline glanced up and saw me. “Meg! How are the twins?”
“They’re fine,” I said. “They’re upstairs with Michael.” I decided not to mention that thanks to the middle-of-the-night interruption, both the twins and their parents had slept far less than we needed and would be cranky today. I’d save that bit of information until I needed to induce guilt.
“So tell me about Parker Blair,” I said. “I know he owned Caerphilly Fine Furniture, but that’s about all I know.”
“He’s a founding member of CORSICA,” Rob said.
“And a big supporter of a lot of environmental and animal welfare causes,” Clarence added.
The two of them returned to the puppies as if this were all anyone needed to know about Parker.
“He arrived on the local scene about five years ago,” Caroline said. “His aunt Emmaline died and left him the furniture store. I don’t know what he did before, but I suspect it was something in sales or business. The shop was pretty moribund when he arrived, and he’s revived it considerably.”
I nodded. Clearly Caroline had a better idea of what constituted a biography. I hadn’t met Parker, and I usually left my furniture shopping to Mother, who had started a small decorating business, and now actually had a few clients who weren’t also relatives. But I knew where Parker’s store was. So far Mother hadn’t found much to like in it, but lately she had begun doing an occasional tour of inspection, which probably meant he was successfully appealing to a more affluent market.
“Was he married?” I asked.
“Parker?” Rob fell back into his chair and dissolved with laughter. The puppy he was holding seemed to think he had caused this, and began wriggling, wagging his tail, and yipping with joy as he jumped up to lick Rob’s face.
“Seriously involved with anyone?” I asked. Rob’s laughter continued, and Clarence was visibly suppressing a smile.
“Involved with a lot of women, but none of it all that serious,” Clarence said. “Not on his part, anyway. He was a free spirit.”
“He was a no-good letch with the morals of a tomcat,” Caroline said. “Damn! Give me that towel—this one’s piddling on me again.”
“But very kind to animals,” Clarence said, handing Caroline a towel. Not one of our towels, I was relieved to see.
“And the jerk used it to the hilt,” Caroline said. “I don’t mean that he wasn’t kind to animals. He was, and he did a lot of good work. But let a pretty girl walk into the room, and suddenly he’s Mother Teresa and Dr. Doolittle, all rolled into one, bending tenderly over a sick kitten as if only he could save it.”
“Yeah, he was a little sleazy with women,” Clarence said. “But I’ve seen him stay up
all night with a sick dog. He even let himself get stuck with taking care of any iguanas that got turned in to the shelter, which is definitely above and beyond.”
“Why above and beyond?” Rob asked. “Iguanas are cool—I’ve been thinking about getting one.”
“Don’t,” Clarence said. “They’re too much work. There’s no such thing as iguana chow—you have to chop just the right mixture of fresh fruits and vegetables for them every day, and make sure they get enough sunlight and mist their skin to keep it healthy or they don’t thrive.”
“What happens when they don’t thrive?” Rob asked.
“Getting back to Parker,” I said. “He was good at feeding and misting iguanas? Is that important?”
I thought I was asking if iguana husbandry could possibly have had anything to do with Parker’s murder. But Clarence took my question at face value.
“Not only good at it,” Clarence said. “He was willing to do it, in spite of the fact that iguanas are the most unrewarding creatures on earth to foster. The ones turned in to the shelter can get up to five or six feet long, aggressive as hell, and like most reptiles, about as affectionate as the rocks they’re sitting on.”
“Yes, Parker was a good volunteer,” Caroline said. “I’ll give him that. He never shirked when there was something that needed doing with the animals. I just wish the bastard had learned to keep his pants zipped, that’s all. Sorry—I hate to speak ill of the dead, especially someone who’s not even cold in his grave yet—”
“Not even in his grave yet,” Rob put in. “Probably just down at the morgue.”
“But if you want the honest truth,” Caroline went on, “he was a letch.”
“So it wouldn’t surprise you to know that two of the Corsican volunteers are carrying on a dueling widow act?” I asked.
The three of them looked at me and blinked.
“Good Lord,” Caroline said. “Which two?”
“I bet Vivian is one of them,” Clarence said.
“That’s just a rumor,” Rob said. “I don’t actually believe it.”
The Real Macaw Page 3