The Real Macaw(43)

I didn’t miss not getting to know Parker the womanizer. But I wouldn’t have minded meeting the Parker who lived in this curiously appealing old-fashioned house, and I knew for sure that the Parker who’d written this article was a major loss to the whole town.

At the back of the file, he even had a page of notes on where to send his exposé. The Caerphilly Clarion was there, of course, but he’d also been researching which reporters on the Richmond and Washington papers would be most likely to take an interest in a juicy small-town scandal.

I definitely needed a copy of the article, too.

As I was mechanically feeding the pages into the copier, I spotted a framed photo on the desk—the only one I’d seen so far. Not surprising. If he was juggling multiple girlfriends, making it look as if he didn’t care much for photos kept him from getting flack about not displaying theirs.

The desk photo turned out to be a group shot. At first I thought it was a group of big-game hunters standing over their latest kill. Then I realized that the hunters were Parker, Clarence, Grandfather, and Caroline Willner. They were standing over a lioness, each holding up a newborn cub.

I peered at Parker. He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and tight, faded jeans. I still couldn’t understand why so many women were chasing him. He was handsome enough, with nice features and a good head of dark curly hair. I wasn’t a fan of earrings on men, but I supposed some women might be. His goatee made him look a little saturnine, but it wasn’t unflattering. He could stand to lose five or ten pounds, but that put him way ahead of most people in their late thirties. Not my type, but I could understand someone finding him attractive. Just not quite so many someones—that was what puzzled me. He must have been a real charmer in person.

I made sure I had a decent copy of all the pages of the contract and the article and stuffed them into my tote. While I was at it, I made two copies of the animal rescue information. Then I returned his original files to the file cabinet.

As I was returning the “Animal Rescue” file to its hanging folder, a thought struck me. I went to the other end of the alphabet and found Parker’s will. It was brief and to the point, leaving his entire estate to several animal welfare organizations. It didn’t shed any light on his murder, but at least Clarence’s job as executor would probably be relatively easy.

I realized that I’d been poking around Parker’s house for some time and still hadn’t completed my commission for Clarence. I moved on to the back bedroom, where Parker slept. The bed was a full bed with a vintage headboard that matched the bureau and dresser. Not a king-sized bed with satin sheets or whatever was considered the height of bachelor decor these days. The tops of the dresser and the bureau were almost bare, and the drawers were impeccably organized and not overfull.

Not at all the stereotypical playboy lair I’d been expecting. I apologized silently to Parker and opened the closet.

Where I quickly realized that Clarence was right about one thing. The black-and-white Hawaiian shirt probably was the closest thing in Parker’s wardrobe to a somber funeral suit. He had loads of T-shirts, many of them for animal welfare organizations or liberal causes. He had enough jeans to outfit a regiment. The dozen or so brightly colored Hawaiian shirts were clearly a central piece of his wardrobe.

I found two sports jackets, neither of them suitable. One was pale blue seersucker that probably hadn’t been all that presentable thirty or forty years ago when it was new. The other was a threadbare brown wool jacket that appeared to have had several dozen holes gnawed in it, ranging from pencil eraser up to golf-ball size. Moths or teething puppies? Possibly a little of both. I had the feeling he kept these jackets, along with the two astoundingly ugly ties slung over a hook on the back of his closet door, so when he went someplace that required a coat and tie he could comply while making the rule-makers feel very, very sorry they’d insisted.

Nothing here to gladden Maudie Morton’s heart. I pulled out my notebook and began jotting down Parker’s shirt, coat, and pants sizes.

Then an idea struck me. Clearly Parker had no use for coats and ties in his current life, but had that always been the case?

Back to the files. In a section labeled “Employment Records” I found a neat, chronological list of the jobs he’d held between his graduation from college and five years ago, when he’d inherited the furniture store from his aunt. Most of them were office jobs, in sales or marketing. He’d have had to wear a suit for those. But had he ditched the business clothes when he came into his inheritance?

I continued poking through the files until I came across a section I thought I remembered spotting—one marked “Household Inventory.” The first folder in the section, marked “Attic,” contained a three-page list of boxes and items he’d stored there.