The Real Macaw(10)

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?”