The Real Macaw(11)

“Same people who can’t be bothered to spay or neuter.” Caroline glanced up and saw me. “Meg! How are the twins?”

“They’re fine,” I said. “They’re upstairs with Michael.” I decided not to mention that thanks to the middle-of-the-night interruption, both the twins and their parents had slept far less than we needed and would be cranky today. I’d save that bit of information until I needed to induce guilt.

“So tell me about Parker Blair,” I said. “I know he owned Caerphilly Fine Furniture, but that’s about all I know.”

“He’s a founding member of CORSICA,” Rob said.

“And a big supporter of a lot of environmental and animal welfare causes,” Clarence added.

The two of them returned to the puppies as if this were all anyone needed to know about Parker.

“He arrived on the local scene about five years ago,” Caroline said. “His aunt Emmaline died and left him the furniture store. I don’t know what he did before, but I suspect it was something in sales or business. The shop was pretty moribund when he arrived, and he’s revived it considerably.”

I nodded. Clearly Caroline had a better idea of what constituted a biography. I hadn’t met Parker, and I usually left my furniture shopping to Mother, who had started a small decorating business, and now actually had a few clients who weren’t also relatives. But I knew where Parker’s store was. So far Mother hadn’t found much to like in it, but lately she had begun doing an occasional tour of inspection, which probably meant he was successfully appealing to a more affluent market.

“Was he married?” I asked.

“Parker?” Rob fell back into his chair and dissolved with laughter. The puppy he was holding seemed to think he had caused this, and began wriggling, wagging his tail, and yipping with joy as he jumped up to lick Rob’s face.

“Seriously involved with anyone?” I asked. Rob’s laughter continued, and Clarence was visibly suppressing a smile.

“Involved with a lot of women, but none of it all that serious,” Clarence said. “Not on his part, anyway. He was a free spirit.”

“He was a no-good letch with the morals of a tomcat,” Caroline said. “Damn! Give me that towel—this one’s piddling on me again.”

“But very kind to animals,” Clarence said, handing Caroline a towel. Not one of our towels, I was relieved to see.

“And the jerk used it to the hilt,” Caroline said. “I don’t mean that he wasn’t kind to animals. He was, and he did a lot of good work. But let a pretty girl walk into the room, and suddenly he’s Mother Teresa and Dr. Doolittle, all rolled into one, bending tenderly over a sick kitten as if only he could save it.”

“Yeah, he was a little sleazy with women,” Clarence said. “But I’ve seen him stay up all night with a sick dog. He even let himself get stuck with taking care of any iguanas that got turned in to the shelter, which is definitely above and beyond.”

“Why above and beyond?” Rob asked. “Iguanas are cool—I’ve been thinking about getting one.”

“Don’t,” Clarence said. “They’re too much work. There’s no such thing as iguana chow—you have to chop just the right mixture of fresh fruits and vegetables for them every day, and make sure they get enough sunlight and mist their skin to keep it healthy or they don’t thrive.”

“What happens when they don’t thrive?” Rob asked.

“Getting back to Parker,” I said. “He was good at feeding and misting iguanas? Is that important?”

I thought I was asking if iguana husbandry could possibly have had anything to do with Parker’s murder. But Clarence took my question at face value.

“Not only good at it,” Clarence said. “He was willing to do it, in spite of the fact that iguanas are the most unrewarding creatures on earth to foster. The ones turned in to the shelter can get up to five or six feet long, aggressive as hell, and like most reptiles, about as affectionate as the rocks they’re sitting on.”

“Yes, Parker was a good volunteer,” Caroline said. “I’ll give him that. He never shirked when there was something that needed doing with the animals. I just wish the bastard had learned to keep his pants zipped, that’s all. Sorry—I hate to speak ill of the dead, especially someone who’s not even cold in his grave yet—”

“Not even in his grave yet,” Rob put in. “Probably just down at the morgue.”

“But if you want the honest truth,” Caroline went on, “he was a letch.”