“It’s not just missing—it was ripped out with enough force to tear the earlobe!”
I winced and had to consciously stop myself from touching my own earlobes. In the last several months I’d given up wearing earrings except on special occasions, to avoid the very real danger that the boys would innocently do the same thing to me.
“Poor guy,” I said.
“Of course, word will get out once we have the funeral,” Dad said. “Maudie Morton can make the ear look fine, of course, but people will notice that his earring’s missing.”
“The chief probably won’t release the body for a few days,” I said. “Maybe they’ll find the earring by then.”
“If they do, it’ll be evidence,” Dad said.
“Buy another one,” I said. “Or tell people he couldn’t be buried with it because he was leaving it to someone in his will.”
“He was only in his late thirties,” Dad said. “With no dependents. I’d be surprised if he had a will.”
“Then get Clarence to say Parker told him he wanted his earring sent to his elderly mother in Dubuque, or wherever he’s from.”
Was he trying to make this difficult?
“He grew up here, and his mother died years ago.”
“Or that he wanted it sold so the proceeds could be donated to some animal welfare organization,” I went on.
“That might work,” Dad said.
“Of course, there’s always the option of having a closed casket,” I suggested. “If he was shot in the head—”
“The neck, actually.”
“If he was shot anywhere that Maudie would have to cover up a bullet hole for the viewing, maybe you should go for the closed casket.”
“You don’t think people will be disappointed, not being able to say good-bye?” Dad asked.
“I think they’ll manage to say good-bye without a viewing,” I said. “And think of the enjoyment everyone will have, looking solemn and intoning ‘Of course, it had to be a closed casket.’”
“Good point,” he said. “And it really would be easier.”
I turned toward my car again.
“Of course,” he added, to my back, “it would be even better if the earring were found.”
And clearly he thought I was the one to do it.
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” I said. “Speaking of keeping eyes open—here comes the border collie with four more sheep. He’s got to be getting them from Seth Early’s pasture. Could you check it out? See if anyone knows he’s doing it?”
“Can do!” Dad said. “Happy hunting!” He sounded cheerful again.
As he bustled off toward the barn, I found myself thinking that people were taking Parker’s death quite philosophically. With the exception of the two ex-girlfriends, I hadn’t seen anyone genuinely overcome with grief—and who knew how well the ex-girlfriends’ grief would survive the discovery of each other’s existence? Everyone said what a shame about poor Parker and how much he’d done for animals. A few people were honest enough to call him a letch. I hadn’t yet met anyone whose reaction was anything like “You know, some people didn’t approve of him, but damn! I’m going to miss him!”
“Poor guy,” I said aloud.
And then I, too, forgot about him for the next several hours. By the time I reached the grocery store it was jammed with shoppers. When I finally got home, I grabbed provisions from Rose Noire’s sandwich mountain and retreated to the nursery to spend some time with the twins. Downstairs, I could hear people coming and going, calling for Dad, Clarence, Grandfather, Rose Noire. Calling for me, occasionally, and I hope being told that I had a few other things on my plate.
I kept track of what was going on out in the barn through the nursery windows. I’m not really good at staying uninvolved, but I was trying.
Over the course of the afternoon, the border collie escorted ninety-seven sheep from Seth Early’s pasture into our barn before they figured out how to secure the barn door and the pasture gate so he couldn’t open them. Probably not ninety-seven unique sheep. The Corsicans took them back in batches when they had a chance, and as the day wore on the newly arriving sheep began looking distinctly cross and footsore. On the positive side, Seth was so impressed with the dog’s skill and initiative that he put in a bid to adopt him when the chief’s embargo was lifted. I made use of the chief’s permission to deputize, and sent a very tired but happy border collie across the road to his new permanent home.
By bedtime things were remarkably quiet.
“In fact, it’s too quiet,” I told Michael as we were feeding the twins at about 8:00 P.M. In what had become a regular Friday night ritual, we had brought the boys to our room and were playing Mozart as we fed them. Rose Noire assured us that this would stimulate their intelligence and creativity. If it did that, fine; for now all I cared about was that it seemed to make them calmer and happier, though I was more than half convinced that their good humor during the weekly concert was a direct result of our more relaxed mood.
“Too quiet—you mean the Mozart? I can turn the volume up a bit if you like. Or are you suggesting we shouldn’t have sent Spike off to your parents’ house while the animals are here?”
“I think giving Spike a break from the animals was a brilliant idea, and talking Mother and Father into taking him in was a masterful stroke of diplomacy,” I said. “I meant everything’s too quiet. The animals. The Corsicans. Dad hasn’t dropped by for hours to share his latest theory of the crime and nag me into helping him solve it.”
“Maybe the chief has solved it.”
“We’d have heard.”
“Well, then it looks as if Mommy’s going to have to help the chief crack the case,” Michael said to Jamie. He followed this up by blowing a gentle raspberry on Jamie’s stomach, a trick both boys adored. Jamie crowed, and waved his hands and legs furiously.
“See?” Michael said. “Jamie approves.”
“He probably doesn’t realize that by trying to solve the murder, Mommy would be making herself a target for a killer who might still have possession of the murder weapon,” I said.
Michael’s face fell.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “You shouldn’t do anything that might put you in harm’s way.”
Now if I could just get Dad to see it that way.
Around midnight, when I was up feeding Josh, I heard a noise from the backyard. Or maybe from the barn. I couldn’t see anything from the side windows, so I hefted Josh to one shoulder and ventured downstairs.
My first thought was to go out and check on the barn myself. But by the time I got downstairs, I’d remembered what I’d said to Michael a few hours before. Someone had shot Parker, with a gun that had yet to be recovered. I hadn’t known Parker well and hadn’t seen the crime scene, but my imagination was perfectly able to invent a gruesome image of the blood-spattered windshield Dad had mentioned. As I stood there in the kitchen, with the sleeping baby on my shoulder, that image kept flashing into my mind and made me draw my hand back from the doorknob.
So I flipped on all the outdoor lights instead. We’d had them installed as a security measure, a series of floodlights mounted all around the house and the barn. With them on, the yard might be brighter at high noon, but only a little. I stood in the darkened kitchen, peering out at the barn, trying to catch a glimpse of a prowler, two- or four-legged.
After about five minutes, the barn door opened and Clarence peered out, shading his eyes against the glare from the spotlights.
“Hello?” he called. “Anyone there?”
I moved to the back door and opened it, still staying in the shadows.
“It’s me,” I called, as softly as I could and still be heard across the barnyard.
Clarence opened the door a little more and trudged across the yard, fighting yawns.
“What’s up?” he asked, when he reached the back steps.
“I heard some noise,” I said. “Was that what woke you?”
“No,” he said. “
I can sleep through the animal noise pretty easily. It was that spotlight shining through the window that woke me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I thought there might be something wrong. A prowler, maybe.”
“I’ll check the perimeter,” he said, suddenly sounding a lot less sleepy.
I pulled up a chair and sat just inside the doorway, keeping an eye on the barn door as Clarence disappeared around one corner of the barn. It seemed to take forever, but by the clock it was only ten minutes before he reappeared around the other side. He marched back in front of the barn door and lifted his arms and shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, as if to ask, “What next?”
I opened the back door.
“Thanks for checking,” I called. “Probably nothing. Good night. And lock the barn door.”
Clarence trudged back to the kitchen door. Now that the danger of a prowler seemed past, he was yawning again.
“I can’t,” he said. “Some of the Corsicans are coming early tomorrow morning to help with the animals.”
“More like later this morning,” I said. “Can’t they just knock?”
“I’m a heavy sleeper,” he said. “But I’ll put my sleeping bag right in front of the door, where a prowler can’t help but wake me.”
As dragged out as he looked, I wasn’t sure a herd of elephants would wake him. But at least I could make sure all the house doors were locked. Just because Clarence didn’t find anything didn’t mean there hadn’t been someone or something prowling around the barn. Or even in the barn, if Clarence truly was a heavy sleeper.
I made my rounds, checking all the doors and windows. Then I carried Josh upstairs. I peeked in on Timmy, who appeared to have more stuffed animals than he’d had the night before. Closer inspection showed that the new additions were real, not stuffed. And what looked like a fur rug beside his bed would probably turn out to be Tinkerbell, the Irish wolfhound.
I would worry about that in the morning. I made my way quietly to the nursery and carefully settled Josh in his crib—although I figured my care was overkill, since he’d slept through his entire trip downstairs, my conversation with Clarence, my examination of all the ground floor doors and windows, the return trip upstairs, and my stop in Timmy’s room.
The second his body touched the crib sheet, he woke up and began screaming bloody murder, awakening Michael and Jamie, who had been fast asleep in the recliner. It was a while before any of us got back to sleep.
Chapter 9
Saturday dawned crisp and clear—the sort of perfect spring morning that makes most people eager to leap out of bed and greet the day.
Of course most people hadn’t spent several predawn hours pacing the nursery floor with wailing infants, and eventually driving doggedly up and down the road hoping the kids would fall asleep before their chauffeur did.
“Dad tells me some babies go through a phase when they won’t sleep unless you’re not just holding them but walking around with them,” I reported over breakfast.
“Or driving them around the neighborhood,” Michael added, with a yawn. “How long a phase?”
“I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure we wanted to know.”
Michael nodded.
“But he’ll check them out today, just to make sure they’re okay,” I added.
Most of the time it was a blessing to have a highly qualified doctor willing and even eager to make a house call whenever I was worried about the boys’ health. And the boys’ arrival had reenergized Dad’s interest in keeping up with new developments in pediatrics. I did hope the boys would take Dad’s zeal in stride, as my sister, Pam, and I had, and not react as Rob had, by complaining that growing up he felt like a guinea pig.
“When did he have in mind?” Michael asked. “Remember, I’m taking the boys to Timmy’s baseball game today.”
“I thought his game was yesterday,” I said. “I’m sure I remember taking him to participate in something that vaguely resembled baseball.”
“Makeup game, remember?” Michael said.
“Oh, right,” I said. “So today’s the regularly scheduled game.”
“Yes, so if your father’s coming over specifically to see the boys—”
“He’ll be out in the barn with the animals all day,” I said. “Unless he gets sucked into the murder investigation again, but I doubt that. I gather there’s not a lot of medical uncertainty about how Parker Blair died. So you can just take them out to the barn when convenient. And if you’re cool with minding the boys, I’m going to catch up on all those overdue tasks from my notebook. Anything else on our agenda?”
“Only that your mother wanted to invite a few people to dinner, since Caroline and your grandfather are here.”
“Our house or theirs?”
“She was a bit vague on the subject—”
“Which means she’s planning to have it here.” I winced at the thought.
“That’s what I figured. So I convinced her that it was better to have it at their house, to avoid the possibility that your father and the other Corsicans would badger the dinner guests to adopt some of the animals.”
“You are a genius,” I said.
“Are we going now?” Timmy appeared in the doorway, dressed in his Red Sox uniform.
I’d let Michael deal with the fact that Timmy had put on his pants inside out and was wearing his cleats on the wrong feet.
“Shall I get Josh and Jamie ready?” I asked.
“I got them dressed while you were in the shower,” he said. “And the diaper bag is waiting in the foyer.”
Not for the first time, I gave thanks that Michael was not only capable of taking care of small children but absolutely matter-of-fact about doing it.
And we’d made it to another Saturday morning. Our usual weekend routine was for Michael to spend lots of time with the boys so I could have a little of what he liked to call “me time.” I didn’t always tell Michael what I did with my me time. He seemed to enjoy imagining me having massages, manicures, and facials before settling in the sunroom to eat bonbons and read a mystery cover to cover. And maybe one of these days I’d do a few of those things. To date, I’d spent my me time doing errands, catching up on neglected household chores, and napping. It was heavenly.
“Great,” I said. “Call me if you need me.”
I headed for my office in the barn. I had a few phone calls to make and e-mails to send before I started my errands.
Sending the e-mails took twice as long as it should, due to the distractions of a litter of puppies playing at my feet while a trio of kittens attempted to attack my fingers whenever I typed. I decided that unless I wanted people to think I was calling from the animal shelter—which come to think of it, I was—it would be easier to make the phone calls somewhere else. Anywhere else.
I left the barn, declining half a dozen requests for assistance as tactfully as possible, and strode outside.
I was just in time to wave good-bye as Michael finished stashing all three boys in the Twinmobile and drove off to Timmy’s T-Ball game. I felt a brief pang of guilt that I’d left him to do it all by himself. But Michael made it look so easy that I sometimes forgot to volunteer help.
I’d pitch in later. Right now, I was running on too little sleep, and too many people were demanding things from me. I was beyond cranky and ready to take it out on someone. Not the boys, who were, as Rob was fond of saying, functioning as designed. But everyone else—
A walk. That was what I needed. It was a beautiful, mild day, perfect for a nice, calming walk. Once I felt better, I could stop somewhere out of sight and hearing of the barn and make my calls with the cell phone before starting my errands.
I set off at a brisk pace.
Ever since Michael and I had moved into our house, I realized that the surrounding countryside was an incredible source of stress relief.
Not our yard. That was part of the stress. Our several acres were pocked with tiny, ramshackle sheds and outbuildings that would eventually have to be removed at g
reat expense or repaired at even greater expense. Seeing Randall’s workmen beginning to prepare the roof of the future macaw shed for reshingling didn’t improve my mood, especially after one of them stared at the shed, shook his head and muttered, “Lipstick on a pig.”
And the landscaping consisted mostly of overgrown shrubbery that had been there when we bought the house, plus a few bare, weedy areas where we’d succeeded in hacking away moribund bushes but hadn’t yet filled the space with anything better. Rose Noire had started off with great plans for beautiful, maintenance-free plantings of deer-resistant native plants—which was why we’d hacked out the old bushes in the first place. But by the time we’d finished our first round of machete work, she was too immersed in her organic herb business to carry through with her plans.
Why couldn’t Mother turn her attention to the exterior of the house instead of nagging us to redecorate inside? Even the pool, which had been such a delight last summer, was a source of stress at the moment—when I looked at it, I didn’t see a relaxing haven or a convenient source of the exercise I needed to finish regaining my old shape. All I could think of was the need to fence it in before the twins began crawling.
But long-distance walks calmed me. Through Seth Early’s pasture across the road, to the top of the hill where, surrounded by his placid, friendly sheep I could sit on a familiar rock outcropping and gaze down at our house. The distance seemed to soften the edges and help me forget all the chores that swarmed into my mind up close. Or down to Caerphilly Creek, to listen to the water babble and check on the eagles’ nest.
Or when time was short, as it was now, I could walk just over the hill to commune with our llamas and gaze down on the edge of my parents’ farm. Dad was letting Rose Noire use the field next to our property for her herbs, and had leased the rest of the fields to an organic farmer who was raising buffalo, belted Galloway cows, and free-range chickens. My spirits always rose when I gazed across the gently waving fields of herbs and saw the majestic bison peacefully grazing, or ambling slowly toward the creek. And it was April already, which meant that any day now we’d start seeing the buffalo calves. And surely by now some of Rose Noire’s herbs would be beginning to bloom and perfume the hillside.
The Real Macaw Page 8