The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

floor, tussling.
    “I was feeding the boys,” I said. “What the hell are you and all these animals doing here?”
    Dad looked uncomfortable. His eyes scanned the room as if seeking a safe place to set down the beagles, though I suspected he was merely avoiding meeting my eyes.
    “We won’t be here long,” said a voice behind me.
    The tall, lanky form of my grandfather appeared in the hall. He was carrying two Limoges soup tureens full of water.
    “If you were thinking of giving those to the dogs, think again,” I said. “They belong to Mother, who will eviscerate you if you break them.”
    “Oh,” he said. “They were just stuck on a high shelf in the pantry—I thought they were things you didn’t use much.”
    “We don’t use them much, mainly because they’re expensive antiques that Mother lent us for that big christening party we threw last weekend,” I said. “And they were on a high shelf in the pantry to keep them as safe as possible until we got a chance to return them. I can show you some crockery you can use, but first I want to know what all these animals are doing here.”
    “It’s no use,” came another voice. “The window’s too small.”
    I turned to see the enormous leather-clad form of Clarence Rutledge, the local veterinarian. Since Grandfather was an avid animal welfare activist and Dad a sucker for anything on four legs, the menagerie in our living room was beginning to make a little more sense. But only a little.
    “You were trying to break into the barn, I suppose.” They all looked a little startled at what I assumed was a correct guess. “We keep it locked, since all my expensive blacksmithing equipment is out there. But I might be persuaded to unlock it, if somebody could just tell me what the hell is going on.”
    They all exchanged looks. One of the beagles Dad was still holding began peeing on him. He rushed to deposit the offender on a nest of newspapers in a corner.
    I fixed my gaze on Grandfather.
    “It’s all Parker’s fault,” he said. “If he’d showed up on time, we never would have come here. I’m going to call him again.”
    As if that had explained everything, he stumped over to our living room phone.
    “Want to use this?” My father held out his beloved iPhone.
    “No, I want a real phone,” Grandfather said. He began dialing a number from memory.
    I looked at Clarence.
    “It’s a matter of life or death!” he exclaimed. He clasped his hands as if pleading for mercy, clenching them so hard that the tattooed ferrets on his burly forearms writhed.
    I looked at Dad. The weather was mild, not warm, and yet his bald head glistened. Nerves, probably. A trickle of sweat began running down his face, and he dabbed at it absentmindedly with the puppy.
    “Just why is our living room filled with dogs, cats, puppies, kittens, hamsters, guinea pigs, and parrots?”
    “Only the one parrot,” he said. “A macaw, actually—very interesting species.”
    “Hiya, babe!” the macaw said.
    “Whatever,” I said. “Why are they here?”
    “It’s because of that new county manager,” Dad said.
    “Horrible man,” Clarence muttered.
    “You mean Terence Mann?” I asked.
    “Dammit, Parker, answer your bloody phone!” Grandfather snarled into the receiver.
    “Hey, Clarence!” My brother, Rob, bounced into the room. “There’s a window open on the second story of the barn! So if you can help me haul the ladder over, we can— Oh. Hi, Meg.”
    “Hi,” I said. “What’s your version?”
    “My version?” Rob looked guilty for a moment. He fiddled with the black knit cap that concealed his shaggy blond hair, then his face cleared. “I was helping Dad and Granddad.”
    “Helping them do what?”
    “Foil the new county manager,” Dad repeated. “That Mann fellow. He’s cutting the budget right and left.”
    “Probably because the town of Caerphilly will go bankrupt if he doesn’t,” I said.
    “And most of his cuts we can understand, no matter how much we hate them,” Clarence said. “Cutting back on the library hours.”
    “And the free clinic hours,” Dad added.
    “Postponing the teachers’ raises,” Rob said.
    “But then he decided that the town animal shelter was too expensive,” Grandfather said. “So he said the town could no longer afford for it to be a no-kill shelter.”
    “Can he do that?” I asked.
    “Well, in the long run, probably not,” Clarence said. “Public opinion is against it, about four to one. But we