The Real Macaw(80)

Then I went back into the antechamber, unfolded the luggage carrier, and wheeled it into position beside the ficus.

As I did, I caught a glimpse of something. There were papers in the in-basket. And the top one had a sticky note on it saying, “Louise—can you get him to sign this? R.”

Was this Louise’s desk?

I flipped through the top few papers in the in-basket. All of them addressed to Louise or Ms. Dietz. There were even a couple of interoffice envelopes addressed to Louise Dietz, room 301.

The out-box contained only one thing—an envelope addressed to Mayor Pruitt. I picked it up. It was sealed but I could easily see that it contained four loose keys.

Yes, this was Louise’s desk. And it looked as abandoned as Terence Mann’s desk. She’d cleared out her desk and was turning in her keys. What did—

Just then the door to the inner office slammed open.

“Louise! Where the hell— You’re not Louise!”

“Haven’t seen her. It’s Sunday, remember?”

“I called to say I needed her to come in today. Where the hell is she?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe she’s not coming in today,” I said. “In fact, maybe she’s not coming in at all. Looks as if she’s cleared off her desk.”

He frowned, then shook his head vigorously.

“No, can’t be,” he said. “They didn’t start all that nonsense about moving out until this morning. Her desk was like that when I dropped by around eleven last night to pick up some papers.”

Pick up some papers, my eye. Eleven o’clock would have been when he was debriefing his spies. I looked past him into his private office. I couldn’t see much, though I got an impression of ornate mahogany furniture in a space so large it echoed in spite of burgundy velvet upholstery. Was that the room where the macaw snatching and the assault on Grandfather were planned?

And what about Louise? When I’d heard about the mayor’s spies, I’d assumed Louise might be one of them. Against her will, of course, but she was desperate to keep her job. But apparently she’d made it back here and cleaned out her desk before the spies arrived.

What if she hadn’t cleaned out her desk at all? What if the mayor had done away with her and cleaned out her desk to make it look as if she’d fled?

Okay, probably too melodramatic. But maybe I should ask the chief to find Louise and make sure she was safe.

“She’s probably asked the cleaning crew to give it an extra polish or something,” the mayor was saying.

I pulled open the top drawer. It contained a stapler and a few pencils.

“I don’t think so.” I tried the next drawer. A few papers. “If she wanted the cleaners to polish it, she could just have put all her personal things in the drawers. She’s cleared out.”

“Damnation,” he said. “She is in on it!”

He turned as if to go back to his office.

I squatted down and gave the ficus an experimental tug. Yes, it was going to be a bear to lift. A gentleman would have seen me fumbling at the plant and asked if I needed help. I wasn’t expecting such an offer from the mayor.

“What are you doing with that tree?” he asked.

“County board’s recalling all the county-owned plants.” I wiggled the ficus a little closer to the luggage carrier. No sense carrying it any farther than I had to.

The mayor responded with a burst of foul language.

I fixed him with my frostiest stare and, in what Rob called my Mother voice, said, “I beg your pardon. If you’re trying to talk to me, please do so in a civil manner.”

He responded with another torrent of obscenity. I turned my back on him and prepared to hoist the plant.

But wait. Was it really wise to turn your back on someone so angry—someone whose office floor was littered with broken crockery? Someone I suspected of being involved in Parker’s death and the attack on Grandfather?

I turned back just in time to dodge a flying vase. It smashed against the wall beside the ficus.

“Assault,” I said, in the most annoyingly cheerful tone I could manage. “It will count as battery if you hit me, so I’d put that bookend down if I were you.”

Instead, he lobbed it at me. I caught it, easily.

My temper flared.

“And your aim’s pretty bad, too.” I tossed the bookend in my hand a couple of times, getting a sense of its weight and balance. “Mine, on the other hand, is pretty good. Doorknob,” I added, and threw the bookend at it, using my best fastball. Wonder of wonders, I hit the doorknob squarely.

He paled, backed a few steps away, and reached into his pocket for something.

Should I run? What if he pulled out a gun? Was this the time to mention that the garden club ladies knew I was up here and would call the police if I didn’t return soon?