What were they up to?
The thought continued to nag at me for the rest of the game and all the way home. Michael was out in the barn helping with the animals, so I dropped Timmy and the boys with him and went back to the house to grab what I needed to run my errands.
And maybe one of my errands should be stopping somewhere to learn a little more information about what was going on in town. But where? Bothering the chief for information was definitely out, but if I ran into Horace, I could probably get a few tidbits about the murder investigation. Ms. Ellie, at the library, kept her finger on the pulse of local politics, and could probably hazard a guess at what Mayor Pruitt and Terence Mann had been arguing about. But I wasn’t sure anyone could answer the most nagging question—whether Parker Blair’s murder had anything to do with any of this. For that—
“Earth to Meg?”
Chapter 7
I glanced up to see Caroline Willner looking at me with a concerned frown on her face. No wonder. I was standing in the pantry doorway with my stack of fabric grocery bags in my hand, staring into space.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking. Sleep deprivation meets information overload. How’s everything out in the barn?”
“Fine, as long as someone sensible’s there to keep them organized.” Clearly from her tone, Caroline considered herself the number one if not the only person to fill the sensible post. “Can I ask you a question or two? About something I can’t seem to get a straight answer on from any of the Corsicans?”
“Sure.” I dumped my empty bags on one of the kitchen chairs and sat down myself. Even if Caroline’s question was a short and simple one, my feet were tired.
“You could use some tea,” she said. She grabbed two cups from the cupboard.
“You don’t have to bother,” I said. “I could do that.”
“Sit,” she said. “And give me the straight scoop on this Mayor Pruitt.”
“I’d call him a weasel, if that wasn’t an insult to any self-respecting mustelid. What about him?”
Caroline popped two cups of cold water into the microwave and punched a few buttons before answering.
“I’ve been talking to Randall Shiffley today,” she said finally.
“What’s Randall doing here?” Since Randall owned and ran the Shiffley Construction Company, we usually only saw him when something needed repairing or renovating. Just hearing his name made me want to go and make sure the family checkbook was still safely stowed in my desk, and that the stubs didn’t show any more five-figure bites out of our savings.
“Doing a few repairs that your father thought we needed for the safety and comfort of the animals,” Caroline said. “Don’t worry,” she added, seeing from my expression that I already was. “I think you’ll find they’re all improvements, and if you don’t agree, Randall can undo them.”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t trust Dad’s judgment, but if Caroline and Randall thought these were improvements, they probably were. And then Caroline added the final note of reassurance.
“And CORSICA’s paying, of course. Anyway, since he got here this morning, Randall Shiffley’s been telling me some pretty shocking things about Mayor Pruitt. Should I take them with a grain of salt?”
I sighed.
“Yes, but only a grain,” I said. “Randall’s a Shiffley, and the mayor’s a Pruitt. Randall would almost rather cut out his tongue than say something nice about a Pruitt. Not that I can imagine the mayor doing anything worth praising. Keep in mind, of course, that I’m not precisely a neutral observer. I’ve had a few run-ins with the Pruitts myself.”
“The Pruitts and Shiffleys are feuding then?” Caroline looked as if she would enjoy a nice, juicy bit of gossip. “Kind of a Montague and Capulet thing?”
“I’d have said Hatfields and McCoys, but you get the general idea,” I said. “The Shiffleys are old Caerphilly. Their ancestors settled the area, and some of them are living on and farming land that’s been in their family since before the Revolution. The Pruitts were carpetbaggers—came in just after the Civil War and built factories and mansions. In some places, a hundred and fifty years would qualify you as a native, but not in this part of Virginia. To the Shiffleys, the Pruitts are still Not from Around Here.”
The microwave dinged.
“And yet a Pruitt got elected mayor,” she said, as she popped tea bags into our steaming cups.
“Of the town,” I said. “Half the town council are Pruitts, if it comes to that. Pruitts or political allies of the Pruitts. Town politics are dominated by the Pruitts and the college, which was founded by a Pruitt. It’s different in the county. That’s dominated by farmers.”
“Ah,” she said. “That explains why the town’s so progrowth while the county’s doggedly against it.”
“We here in the county prefer to think of ourselves as propreservation,” I said.
“Makes it hard for the two to work together, I should think,” she said.
“Almost impossible,” I said. “The town’s governed by an elected town council headed by the mayor. They don’t really have much jurisdiction over anything except town ordinances, but they meet at least twice a week and issue no end of press releases and proclamations that everyone generally ignores. The county is governed by an elected county board, most of them working farmers or people who come from farm families. They meet once or twice a month, make all the important decisions pretty efficiently, and delegate carrying them out to the county manager.”
“This county manager,” she said.
“Terence Mann,” I said. “He’s new. Here about six months. And even before the animal shelter fiasco broke, I wouldn’t have bet on his staying around much longer.”
“You can’t blame him for the financial problems,” she said. “Not something he had any control over.”
“And not limited to Caerphilly,” I said. “I don’t think people blame him for the problem, however unhappy they are about some of his proposed solutions. No, what’s got people in the county grumbling is that he seems to be getting along way too well with the Pruitts. And in case you hadn’t already figured it out, in the same way that the town council is dominated by the Pruitts and their friends, the county board is mainly the Shiffleys and their friends.”
“Okay,” she said. “Now I understand what Clarence was suggesting at our last Corsican meeting.”
“Was this the meeting when you finalized your plans for the burglary?” I asked. “I’m still wondering why you didn’t help out.”
“Had a fund-raiser in Charlottesville that night,” she said. “Or I would have. According to Clarence, the animal shelter belongs to the county?”
“I assume it does,” I said. “Given how small a population the town and county have, it doesn’t make sense to have separate facilities. There’s one school system, one library system. The chief is both chief of the town police and the deputy sheriff of the county, since the elected sheriff is older than Grandfather and a lot less active.”
“So if it’s a county shelter, why’s the town running it?”
“The county lets the town run most of the facilities that fall within the town limits,” I said. “Keeps the town council busy and out of mischief.”
“Okay, it’s making more sense,” she said. “Right now, we have to deal with both the mayor and the county manager because the shelter belongs to the county but it’s in the town. And we could cut the mayor out entirely if we found new premises for the shelter. Premises outside the town limits.”
“Our barn is not a viable option for that,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” she said. “I was thinking of someplace out at your grandfather’s zoo. But don’t mention that to him yet. I will, when I have all my ducks in a row.”
“Of course not.” The thought of Caroline railroading my grandfather into turning a part of his beloved zoo into an animal shelter charmed me.
“Of course, we want to get the county board to issue a strong no-kill policy before we
let them have the animals back,” Caroline said. “What’s the best way to get that done?”
“Talk to Randall Shiffley,” I suggested. “He could enlist the rest of his family.”
“Hmm.” Caroline’s eyes showed a familiar fund-raiser’s gleam. “Big animal lovers, are they?”
I pondered the question. I rather thought the Shiffleys did love animals, but with a love that was tempered by the pragmatic realism of the working farmer. A love that couldn’t afford to get too sentimental about turkeys who’d be going to market for Thanksgiving. That could appreciate the beauty of a Virginia whitetail deer without losing a taste for venison. Left to their own devices, I wasn’t at all sure that the men and women of the county board would stand fast on the no-kill shelter policy. Too many of them had had to sell off their herds in lean years or put down ailing animals when they could no longer afford even Clarence’s low fees and lenient terms. I could see them, however reluctantly, agreeing to the change in shelter policy.
But having the town try to ram the policy change down their throats? Properly handled, that was exactly the thing that would make the board members dig in their heels like so many mules.
“Some of them are big animal lovers,” I finally said aloud. “But all of them are big Pruitt haters. Get Randall to talk to them, and make sure he knows this is a chance to spite the mayor and his family. That should do the trick.”
“Excellent,” Caroline said. “As always, you’re more help than any three normal people put together.”
She drained her teacup and strode briskly out the back door.
“What do you mean by ‘normal people’?” I asked, but she was out of earshot.
Still brooding over her comment, I finished my own tea and put both mugs on the counter at the base of the mountain of dirty dishes that wouldn’t yet fit into the dishwasher. I realized it was four o’clock, and I needed to hurry if I wanted to beat the Friday after-work shoppers to the grocery store. I grabbed my purse and the stack of totes and headed for the front door.
Which was standing open to allow Rob and several other Corsicans to carry the macaw’s enormous cage through it. I was waiting with reasonable patience for the path to be clear when I realized something was wrong.
“I think you’ve got that backwards,” I said. “The cage should be going out to the barn, not coming into our living room.”
Chapter 8
My objection had no effect on the Corsicans lugging the cage.
“Dad says we need to bring the macaw back inside the house,” Rob said. He seemed to welcome an excuse to abandon his comrades to struggle with their burden. “He’s a bad influence.”
“Dad? I wouldn’t say that. Just a little obsessive sometimes.”
“The bird,” Rob said. “He’s picking up bad habits.”
“I’ve heard his current vocabulary,” I said. “I can’t imagine anything he’d pick up from the Corsicans that wouldn’t be an improvement.”
“He’s learning to bark, growl, hiss, caterwaul, and howl,” Rob said. “Gets the other animals riled up. We had to move two Persian cats and a Pekingese into one of the sheds before they had a nervous breakdown. And every time he makes a noise like an animal in agony, all the Corsicans have to come running to check it out. He’s driving every other creature in the barn crazy, two- and four-legged alike. So Dad said bring him back into the house for a little bit, until we can find another place to keep him.”
“Why not move him to one of the sheds?”
“Dunno.” Rob shrugged. “Dad’s back; ask him.”
He followed the cage into the living room. I went outside and looked around for Dad.
I spotted him in the backyard. He and Randall Shiffley were standing by one of the larger and more dilapidated of our dozen or so sheds, apparently discussing some renovations. I strolled over to join them.
“Please tell me you don’t have to do much work to make this shed macaw-worthy,” I said.
“Needs a new roof.” Randall thumped the lowest part of the roof. Several shingles and a lot of little wood splinters rattled down as if in emphasis.
“It needs a lot more than that,” I replied. “We’re not even sure we want to keep that one.”
“No, it’s not the best of your sheds,” Randall said. “You’re probably eventually going to want to tear it down, but for right now, it only needs a new roof for you to keep the macaw in it.”
“And if after that you still don’t want it, Randall can put it on his big truck and move it to our farm,” Dad said.
“Move it anywhere you like.” Was Randall just being accommodating, or did he, like me, have some idea of exactly how Mother would greet the arrival of a dilapidated shed on the grounds of the farm she was trying to transform into a picture perfect weekend haven?
“Okay, if that’s what it takes to get the macaw out of our living room, then do it,” I said. “How soon can you start?”
“Heading out to get the supplies now,” Randall said. “If they have everything I need in stock at the hardware store, maybe today. If they have to order anything, it’ll be Monday before they can get it in.”
Not what I wanted to hear, but then another night or two with the macaw in the living room wouldn’t kill us. Especially if we kept the cover on his cage.
“Keep me posted.” I nodded to Randall and headed back to the house. Dad trotted along after me.
“So how was your day?” he asked.
“Busy,” I said. “And not over yet. But okay.” And then, since he was obviously dying for me to ask, I added, “How was yours?”
“Difficult,” he said. “This is going to be a tough case to solve.”
“I’m sure the chief is up to it,” I said.
“And poor Horace.” Dad shook his head. “He had to go all over that grisly crime scene, and he hardly found any usable evidence.”
Dad sounded remarkable cheerful about Horace’s ordeal.
“I thought Parker was shot at close range in the cab of his truck,” I said. “You’re not saying it left no traces?”
“More than traces,” Dad said. “The cab was horrible. But the range wasn’t quite that close. Not close enough to guarantee blood spatter on the suspect’s clothing. Not that we’ve got enough evidence against anyone to make it worth testing their clothing.”
I winced at the “we” and hoped he wasn’t annoying the chief too badly.
“How do you know?” I said. “About the range?”
“Well, Smoot is out of town, you know,” Dad said.
I shook my head. Dr. Smoot, the acting medical examiner, was already on thin ice with the chief. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been out of town when needed.
“No, I didn’t know. Was the chief irritated or relieved?”
“A little of both, I think,” he said. “So the chief had me do a preliminary examination of the body. And a good thing, too, since I discovered something important.”
Apparently he and Horace were feeling competitive today, which at least partially explained his glee over Horace’s supposed failure to uncover any evidence.
“Congratulations,” I said.
Dad frowned, and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. The yard was peaceful and empty, except for a border collie chivvying three sheep around the corner of the house.
“Of course I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he began.
And, of course, he would, if I just waited.
“The shot may have been fired from a slight distance,” he said finally. “Making Horace’s life difficult. But before his death, Parker appears to have struggled with his killer in some fashion. Or possibly quarreled. Because— Remember, you have to keep this to yourself.”
I nodded. I was watching the border collie, which appeared to be herding the sheep toward our barn. He didn’t seem to be accompanied by a human shepherd.
“The killer appears to have taken a trophy!” Dad announced.
He seemed to find this fascinating. I
didn’t.
“Yuck,” I said. “I do not want to know about missing body parts, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, no!” he said. “Nothing like that. You know how Parker always wore an earring in one ear?”
“I hardly knew the man.” I mentally applauded as the border collie deftly steered the sheep away from our rosebushes. “So I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Well, he did. It was a ruby. Or maybe just a sparkly red stone that looked like a ruby. I suppose that’s trendy, earrings on men?”
“It was at one time.” I shifted position so I could continue watching the border collie, which had succeeded in driving the sheep through the barn door. “It still could be. I’m not exactly up on trendy. Dad, were there sheep at the animal shelter?”
“No, only domestic animals. Why?”
“Then what’s he doing?” I pointed to the border collie, which had popped out of the barn door, minus his flock. “He just herded three sheep into our barn.”
“Yes, I saw that,” Dad said. “Good technique. They look like Seth’s sheep. Maybe the Corsicans borrowed some to keep the border collie happy.”
“Maybe,” I said. He was probably right that the sheep belonged to Seth Early, our across-the-street neighbor. But I wasn’t sure I believed that Seth would willingly lend a trio of his prized Lincoln sheep just to keep a rescue dog happy. I suspected the border collie was doing a little unauthorized herding.
But that was the Corsicans’ problem, not mine.
“Getting back to Parker,” I said. “So he normally wore an earring. Is this important?”
“I suppose he thought the earring made him look rather piratical,” Dad said. “And of course he could never have foreseen that it would be a clue in his murder!”
“No,” I agreed. “I don’t suppose he was expecting to be murdered. Most people aren’t. But even if the earring’s missing, it isn’t necessarily a clue. They fall off, you know, and sometimes people forget to put them on.”
The Real Macaw Page 7