The Real Macaw(8)

“Well, I don’t want to kick the animals out if there’s no place else for them tonight, but we can’t keep them here indefinitely,” he said. “Not even out in our barn. You’re going to want to get back to your blacksmithing eventually.”

“I already want to get back to it,” I said. “But I think it will still be a while before I have the time. And—”

I interrupted myself with a gigantic yawn.

“Go to bed,” he said. “That’s what I plan to do when I finish feeding Josh. If the animals aren’t in the barn by breakfast time, I’ll lay down the law to everyone. Meanwhile, let’s both get some sleep.”

“I will,” I said. “As soon as I pump some more milk for the boys’ next meal.”

Unfortunately, by the time I finished that, Jamie was hungry again. And by the time I’d fed him, I was wide awake. Dog-tired, but wide awake.

It was 5:00 A.M. The smart thing to do would be to lie down, and rest even if I couldn’t sleep.

Instead, I went downstairs to see what was happening.





Chapter 3




Dad, Clarence, and my cousin Rose Noire were in the living room, tending animals. Grandfather and the Afghan hound were sitting on the sofa, supervising. The others were sitting on the rug, either because their tasks required it or because all the chairs were already occupied by sleeping dogs and cats. No one appeared to have made much headway toward moving the animals to the barn.

Why wasn’t Dad racing to the scene of the crime? He was an avid mystery buff with a two-book-a-day crime novel habit. Normally he’d be driving the chief crazy, trying to get involved in the investigation, instead of peacefully tending animals.

Maybe having someone he knew and liked as the victim made it more real and a lot less fun.

“How’s it going?” I was leaning against the archway to the front hall, hoping to signal that I wasn’t staying long enough to help.

“The chief should be finished questioning Rob soon,” Dad said. “Come on, Tinkerbell.” Tinkerbell? He was attaching a leash to the largest of the dogs. An Irish wolfhound, from the look of it. Was Dad taking it out for a walk or going for a ride? Both seemed possible. I winced as Tinkerbell’s unclipped nails clicked on the oak floor on their way down the hallway to the kitchen. I loved the redecorating Mother had done for us, especially the living room and hall, which were filled with Arts and Crafts–style oak furniture, oriental rugs on the newly polished oak floors, and upholstery in a beautiful shade of turquoise that Mother insisted on calling cerulean. But if I was going to flinch every time a child or an animal threatened to mar the perfection of our decor, maybe we should have waited.

Or maybe having the animals here—briefly—would be a good thing. Maybe we’d feel better when we got the first nicks and stains over with. Like getting past the first scratch on a new car.

Of course, there was a difference between getting a scratch on your new car and driving it through a barbed-wire fence into a bramble bush.

“I’ve checked out all the animals,” Clarence said. “None are any the worse for their ordeal.” Clarence seemed to be applying an ointment to a dog with oozing skin sores. Or maybe it was the ointment that was oozing. Either way, I wished he’d do it someplace other than our living room. Or at least put down newspapers to protect the rug.

Rose Noire was flitting about, spritzing something from an atomizer. Probably a blend of essential oils custom-designed to soothe the animals’ nerves and boost their immune systems. I only wished she’d find something to spritz that didn’t make quite so many of the cats sneeze. Her normally exuberant mane of hair was pulled back into a loose braid. Was she adopting a new personal style, or had she merely decided that the braid was more practical for today’s animal tending?

“I’m sure the animals will all be much happier and calmer once they’ve settled in,” she said, with a final flourish of her atomizer. Two of the cats sneezed again, violently. One sprayed the mirror over the mantel, which could easily be washed. The other aimed at a nearby patch of the wall that Mother’s crew had painted four times before she decided “dove wing” was the perfect color. I had a feeling “dove wing with accents of cat snot” wouldn’t be allowed to stay.

“I’m sure they will.” I stepped into the room and began looking for a carrier for the sneezing cats. “The problem is that they shouldn’t be settling in here in the living room. Couldn’t you find the key to the barn?”

They all looked crestfallen—except Grandfather, who simply shrugged, and brushed another handful of Afghan fur off his shirt and onto the rug.