I put the kittens back in what was normally Spike’s pen and now appeared to be serving as a cattery.
“Clarence, could you come to the house and look at the macaw?” I asked.
“Why?” He looked anxious. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Long story,” I said. “And I’d rather you just look at him first.”
Clarence bustled toward the house so fast I could barely keep up with him. When he reached our living room, he examined the macaw with infinite care. The claws. The beak. The eyes. The inside of the mouth. Under the tail. The macaw bore it all stoically, without saying anything.
“Seems healthy enough,” Clarence said. “Not much of a talker, though, is she? Where did you get her?”
“She came with the rest of the animals from the shelter, remember?”
“Impossible,” he said. “The macaw from the shelter was a male blue hyacinth macaw. This is a female blue-and-yellow. Completely different species, not to mention the wrong sex. Although I suppose a layperson can’t easily discern the gender.”
“Not without getting a lot more familiar with the macaw than I ever want to be,” I said.
“Hyacinths are endangered in the wild and very expensive as pets,” Clarence went on. “Blue-and-yellows are common both in the wild and in captivity.”
“You’re positive it was a hyacinth macaw you got from the shelter?” I asked. “Is there any possibility that you could have been mistaken—given the bad light and all the commotion?”
“I’m positive,” Clarence said. “Because it wasn’t just any hyacinth macaw. It was Parker’s. He loved that bird.”
I pondered this for a few moments.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I give up. Why did Parker dump his beloved, expensive hyacinth macaw in an animal shelter that had just changed its no-kill policy?”
“He didn’t. We had one of the Corsicans take the macaw to the shelter, claiming she’d found it in her backyard. The shelter would have had to keep it for a reasonable period to see if the owner claimed it, so the hyacinth was in no danger.”
“And just what was the point of this whole maneuver?”
“To reconnoiter,” he said. “Get the lay of the land, and so forth.”
“But you’re the shelter’s vet,” I said. “You must have been there a hundred times.”
Clarence’s face fell.
“Apparently I’m not very good at reconnoitering. When I tried to draw a floor plan of the building, it made no sense at all, and I couldn’t remember a thing about the locks and stuff. So we sent in Millie with the macaw. She can walk through someone’s house in five minutes and then draw you a floor plan to scale. And as it turns out, we didn’t even need her floor plan, because they left her alone in the office long enough for her to borrow a spare key.”
“Useful skill,” I said. “Just what does Millie do when she’s not volunteering for CORSICA? I gather she’s not a seasoned burglar, or you would have recruited her for the caper.”
“She’s a real-estate agent.”
Okay, that made sense.
“Getting back to the macaws,” I said. “If this isn’t Parker’s macaw, whose is it?”
Clarence studied the macaw for a few seconds. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Hello, Jerry? Clarence Rutledge here. How is Martha Washington doing today? No, but could you check on her now?”
He tapped his fingers on the table as he waited for Jerry to report.
“Martha Washington is a blue-and-yellow macaw?” I asked.
He nodded and held the phone away from his mouth.
“Lives in the breakfast room at the Caerphilly Inn,” he said. “They have her trained to say genteel things like ‘More tea, madam?’ and ‘Have a lovely day, ducks.’ He used his falsetto and a plummy English accent as he imitated the macaw. “Only blue-and-yellow in my practice,” he went on in his normal voice, “and I haven’t heard of any others in the county, either. What’s that Jerry? That’s great. Give her a grape for me.”
“Ask him if they could use another one,” I said, low enough so Jerry shouldn’t be able to hear me.
Clarence frowned in puzzlement.
“We’ve got to get rid of her—er, find a home for her sooner or later,” I said.
He nodded.
“By the way, Jer, remember that conversation we had about Martha’s feather plucking? Loneliness, yes. They’re accustomed to living in flocks, you know. Well, I may have found a companion for her. Yes, another blue-and-yellow who is probably going to be available for adoption. I’m looking for a good home, and I thought of the inn, and poor lonely Martha. No, a first-quality specimen, quite healthy, but the owner … left her behind. That’s right. If you’re interested, I’ll put you first on the waiting list.”
He and Jerry exchanged a few more pleasantries and hung up.
“One more animal that’s going to be safe,” he said.
“And one more unsolved mystery,” I said. “Can you keep your ears open for any rumors of lost or stolen macaws?”
He nodded.
“But you realize,” he said, “that whoever did this macaw swapping probably bought this macaw somewhere for that purpose.”
“Yes,” I said. “I also realize that whoever bought that macaw viciously attacked my grandfather. So much as I’m sure we’re both tempted to start calling pet stores and tropical bird breeders—”
“Understood,” he said. “I’m here if the chief needs me, but I’m not going to get in his way. Incidentally, I’m planning to do most of my clinic hours in your barn this week. Lets me keep a closer eye on the animals, and while I’m at it, I can make sure a whole lot of devoted animal lovers get a chance to fall in love with the refugee animals.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “By the way, don’t tell anyone else about the macaw swapping. No use letting the thief know we’re onto him.” Clarence nodded. “Well, I’m off to help with the evacuation.”
“I’m probably going to close down in a few minutes and go to town to help out,” he said. “I didn’t want to cut my Sunday clinic hours out entirely, but it’s been slow as molasses.”
“Everyone’s in town packing,” I said. “See you there.”
Though I decided that before I returned to the library, I should drop by and tell the chief what I’d learned about the macaws. I thought dropping by would be better than calling because the macaw swapping would take a lot of explaining, and it’s harder to usher a visitor out the door than hang up on an annoying caller.
The roads into town were better than they had been in the morning. Apparently everyone had arrived, and the steady line of trucks heading out of town showed that they were making progress.
Traffic wasn’t as bad downtown, either. As I passed the college athletic stadium, I realized why—the parking lot was filled, and a motley fleet of church buses, city buses, and private vans shuttled people to and from their cars. As long as you detoured around the town square, you could travel normally.
Fortunately, the police station was on a side street. Its parking lot was almost filled, but I found a space at the far end. As I trudged toward the station, I saw Sammy Wendell bouncing a hand truck loaded with three cardboard boxes down the side steps.
“Hey, Meg,” he said. “If you’re coming to see the chief, I should warn you—now’s not a great time.”
“I gather you’re clearing out the police station?”
He nodded.
“Some of the other deputies are relocating our prisoners,” he said. “The Clay County sheriff has agreed to take them for the short term. Horace is helping me move the stuff from the chief’s office over to your parents’ barn. The chief’s pretty cranky about the whole thing.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “Instead of being out solving Parker Blair’s murder, his officers are having to pretend they’re movers. If it helps, I have some possibly useful information. Maybe that would cheer him up a little.”
“I
sure hope so.” Sammy continued bumping his hand truck down the steps.
Inside, two other deputies and the chief’s wife, Minerva, were packing stuff into boxes. The chief stood with arms folded, glowering. He looked up, and seeing me didn’t improve his mood.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He didn’t look as if he wanted to help me. He looked as if he wanted to chew someone out. But Minerva and the deputies were working as hard as they could on something that clearly wasn’t their fault, and the only other candidate hadn’t done anything to deserve it either. Yet.
“I have some information,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s related to the assault on my grandfather or the murder or both—”
“Been out snooping, have you?” he snapped. “Blast it all—”
“Henry!” his wife snapped.
I almost turned and left. Not that I was afraid of him—I can hold my own in a verbal brawl. But I could see he was in a foul humor, and his snapping at me made me realize that my own temper was rather frayed. Getting into an argument with him wouldn’t do anyone any good. I took a deep breath and reminded myself to count to ten before replying.
And then a vision of the chief with the kittens crawling up his trousers sprang into my mind. At any other time I’d probably have burst into laughter, which would really have set him off. It didn’t quite have that effect now, but it did take the edge off my anger.
“No.” I had no trouble keeping my voice calm. “I was just having a conversation with Mother, and she said something that seemed significant. I thought I’d come and report it instead of using it to go out snooping. If you want to hear it. Clearly you’re busy and—”
“Come into my office.” He turned on his heel and began stomping down the box-lined hallway. “What’s left of my office,” he said over his shoulder. “While I still have an office at all.”
“Henry,” Minerva called after him, in a warning tone. “Be gracious. She’s trying to help.”
The chief’s desk was still there, but most of the contents of his shelves were gone. As were his chair and the two worn but comfortable chairs in which he normally seated his visitors.
“The book boxes aren’t too uncomfortable.” Under the circumstances, his tone almost counted as gracious. I sat down on a book box. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, visibly schooling himself to be patient.
“I think I may know why someone broke into our house and attacked Grandfather. They were trying to steal the macaw.”
“And he prevented them?” the chief said. “At too high a cost, if you ask me.”
“No, he failed to prevent the theft,” I said. “The thief took the macaw that came from the shelter, and left behind a substitute macaw.”
“Now that is—” He broke off, closed his mouth and frowned at me. I wondered if, like me, he counted to ten to avoid saying something he’d regret. It felt more like twenty by the time he finished, unless he’d trained himself to count very slowly. Then he started again.
“And you know this because…?”
“Mother noticed they were slightly different colors.” I repeated much of our conversation about the Prussian blue and turquoise macaws.
He pondered for a minute or so. The fact that he hadn’t chewed me out was encouraging.
“No offense,” he said finally. “But is there any chance your mother could be mistaken?”
“About as much chance as you being mistaken about a question of Baltimore geography.” The chief, who had grown up in Baltimore and spent several decades on its police force, nodded in acknowledgment.
“But apart from knowing that Mother’s absolutely reliable on color, I asked Clarence,” I said. “He’d been so busy with the other animals that he hadn’t noticed, but he confirmed that the macaw now in our living room is a common blue-and-yellow macaw. The one they took from the animal shelter was a rare, expensive, hyacinth macaw—”
“Are you trying to tell me that someone broke into your house and swapped macaws because the bird from a shelter was some kind of priceless rare parrot?”
“No—” I began.
“Because that makes even less sense than most of what’s been going on around here the last few days. They could simply show up and volunteer to adopt the bird for free.”
“Whoever did it wasn’t stealing the macaw because it was valuable,” I said. “It was, but that’s irrelevant. They were stealing it because it belonged to Parker Blair.”
Now I had his attention.
“What was it doing in the shelter, then?”
“Someone pretended to have found it in their yard and turned it in at the shelter as a ruse for doing some preburglary reconnoitering.”
He closed his eyes and growled slightly.
“I have no idea if the reconnoitering was essential,” I said. “Maybe the Corsicans just liked the drama of it all. The plan was that Parker would just take back his bird when they turned the other animals over to him.”
“It’s starting to make a little sense,” he said. “But why would the killer—assuming it was the killer—want to steal the bird? You’re not suggesting the killer was after the bird all the time? And struck too soon, before Parker had regained possession of it?”
“No, stealing the bird didn’t become essential until after the murder,” I said. “The macaw talks, remember?”
“I remember,” he said. “All too well. Filthy-mouthed bird.”
“It’s not the bird’s fault,” I said. “He has no idea what he’s saying. An African gray parrot might—there are people who claim that they’ve taught African grays not just to repeat sounds but to use language. Some of them have linguistic skills equal to that of a three- or four-year-old child, and—”
“But this is a macaw, not a parrot,” he said. He didn’t quite come out and say “Stick to the point, dammit!” but I got the message. I was starting to sound like Dad.
“A macaw’s a kind of parrot,” I said. “I gather from what Clarence has said that they’re not the best at talking and mimicking other sounds, but not too shabby, either. The killer must be afraid the macaw would repeat something that would give us a clue to his identity.”
“Something the macaw overheard?” He sounded dubious. “Like someone plotting to kill Mr. Blair?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Usually parrots only repeat things they hear over and over again. The smarter the parrot, the less repetition, but most of the time it still takes some repetition. Sometimes, though, a parrot can pick up something after hearing it just once if it’s said with enough emotion. So even if you don’t swear a lot, if you shout out a four-letter word when you hit your thumb with a hammer, the parrot finds that interesting and exciting and tends to remember it.”
“I don’t think that can explain away that macaw’s unfortunate vocabulary,” the chief said.
“No, that’s obviously the result of long-term eavesdropping, or maybe even a dedicated effort to corrupt the poor bird. But if the macaw overheard something that made Parker particularly mad, sad, glad, or whatever…”
An image sprang up in my mind: Mayor Pruitt delivering one of his infamous red-faced rants to Parker Blair with a Prussian blue macaw lurking in the background, absorbing every word and repeating a few particularly vehement threats. The chief was frowning, as if completing a similar image.
“Interesting,” he said finally. “Of course, it would seem a lot more relevant if we’d found the bird at the crime scene. Since we know that the bird was either at the shelter or in the possession of your grandfather and his accomplices for the entire period during which the murder occurred, it can’t possibly be a witness.”
He paused for a moment and frowned as if a sudden disturbing thought had occurred to him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t believe I’m seriously discussing the possibility that a macaw could be a witness to a murder,” he said. “Do you have any idea what the DA would say if I even suggested it?”
I
had a brief but vivid picture of the macaw sitting in the witness box at the Caerphilly courthouse, cocking his head as the DA tried to interrogate him.
“Not as a witness,” I said. “And lucky for him, too, because I’ve seen Judge Jane hand out contempt of court sentences for language nowhere near as foul as his. But even though he wasn’t there when the murder happened, he could have overheard—and learned to repeat—something that would give you a clue. An argument between Parker and the killer for example.”
“Or an argument between Mr. Blair and a completely innocent party,” the chief said. “Even if we had the macaw, we’d have no way of knowing if anything it said was relevant.”
“The killer must think the macaw knows something,” I said. “Something worth the risk of burgling our house.”
“And worth assaulting your grandfather.” He scribbled a few lines in his notebook. “I’ll keep it in mind if—when we apprehend your grandfather’s assailant. You seem rather knowledgeable about parrots.”
“Only what I’ve overheard from Dad,” I said. “He took an interest in parrots a few years back. He could tell you a lot more about it.”
“Yes,” the chief said, sounding tired. “I’m sure he could.”
“Or Clarence,” I suggested. He nodded. Clarence was slightly less likely to give him a two-hour dissertation on the curious habits of the hyacinth macaw—but only slightly.
The chief nodded and scribbled some more. He didn’t look particularly happy with the information I’d brought him.
“So to solve the murder,” he said finally. “All I have to do is find a miserable talking bird and listen to it until it tells me who did it?”
“That might work,” I said. “If the killer is right that the macaw says something significant. But—”
“And if I can even figure out what that significant thing is. Could be difficult. I’ve interrogated a lot of jailbirds and stool pigeons in my time, but never an actual bird.” He was peering over his glasses at me. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I suspected not.
The Real Macaw Page 19