The Real Macaw(84)

As I walked, I fretted over what I’d learned—and how very much we still didn’t know. If things were normal, I might have been able to shove the whole thing out of my mind. I’d have reminded myself that the chief, a very smart man and a seasoned homicide investigator, was on the case. And that I had two four-month-old sons at home who needed me a lot more than any investigation did.

But things weren’t normal. How much of his time could the chief spend on the murder case, and how much was he being pulled away to referee squabbles like the one between the mayor and me? For that matter, how much time had he and his officers spent packing up the police station when they needed to be working on their investigation? And next there’d be the unpacking, and then the inefficiencies and delays that always happen when you’re working out of a different space—even a perfect space, which Mother and Dad’s barn most certainly was not. And who knew what would be happening in town tomorrow when the workweek began and the lender found out that instead of paying the interest on its loan, Caerphilly was sticking them with a collection of well-used buildings full of ghastly oil paintings?

If I could think of anything that might help, I’d have done it, even if it got me in trouble with the chief for interfering. But try as I might, I came up empty.

The sun was setting. Part of me wanted to go home and cocoon with the twins. And part of me wanted to stay in town, help with the evacuation, and keep my ears open for stray bits of information that might prove useful.

I decided to compromise. I’d return to the library, do a little bit of packing or maybe only offer to haul a few boxes in my car. Then I’d drop by to pay a brief visit to Grandfather on my way home.

So after phoning home to make sure Timmy and the twins were doing okay with Michael, I headed back to the library.

Around nine in the evening, I was still doggedly packing books when I got a call from Dad.

“Meg? Are you still in town?”

“Unfortunately.” I stood up and winced. “I got caught up in the library packing, but we’re nearly finished.”

“Could you give me a ride home?” he asked. “I’m still helping out at the police station. Your brother could take me, but he has to head out now, and I was rather hoping to stop by the hospital one more time.”

“Of course,” I said. “Want me to pick you up now?”

“No, the chief can drop me off when we finish up here. Your grandfather’s in room 242—I’ll meet you there.”

“Roger.”

I felt a pang of guilt. I’d meant to drop by the hospital hours ago. And for all my complaining about how the twins tied me down, I realized I was missing them terribly after a day spent running around without them.

I hunted out Ms. Ellie and apologized for not staying till the bitter end. Then I drove the few blocks over to the hospital.

It might have been faster to walk. I had to pass by the town hall on my way, and the crowds and traffic were worse than ever. In fact, about halfway through the slow crawl around the town square, I turned off on a side street and began picking my way through the less crowded outskirts of town. Taking the long way round would probably save time, and the longest route I could possibly imagine would only take me twenty or thirty blocks out of my way.

My detour led me past the bus station and nearby, the dark building that held Parker Blair’s furniture store. I found myself thinking how remarkably close it was to the town hall. It would have been easy for Louise, Mayor Pruitt, Terence Mann, or anyone else working late at the town hall to slip away long enough to kill Parker and then return without anyone being the wiser. Given the elevator’s snail-like pace, one of them could easily stretch a supposed trip to the basement vending machine area to fifteen or twenty minutes. And that was assuming there was anyone around keeping close enough tabs that they had to explain their absence.

And the whole bus station area seemed short on both pedestrians and streetlights. Not hard to imagine Parker’s killer skulking along these rather run-down sidewalks without being spotted.

A pity Mayor Pruitt hadn’t included this part of town in the ruinously expensive beautification campaign. Of course, why would he? None of his family owned property here.

I almost hoped the mayor turned out to be the killer. The tabloids would love it—“Town Elects Psycho Killer as Mayor!”—but it would certainly make the recall campaign much easier.

The hospital and its parking lot were reassuringly bright by comparison. I realized my shoulders were tense and hunched. I didn’t normally stress out that much about driving through the bus station area—after all, I’d lived for many years outside Washington, D.C., and driven through neighborhoods that made the worst block in Caerphilly look like a garden spot.