The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

now—the little logo on the pocket said, “Caerphilly County Solid Waste Department.”
    “You work at the county dump,” I said. “You’re not taking the animals to the dump, are you?”
    “No, ma’am,” he said. “Back to the animal shelter. All three of the shelter employees quit this morning, so the mayor sent me.”
    “Quit or got fired?” I asked.
    “Quit,” the kid said, with the ghost of a grin. “He called them up before dawn and told them to come out here to collect the animals or he’d fire them, and they all up and quit before he could do it.”
    Interesting. The animal shelter was technically owned by the county, but the county board allowed the town council to handle day-to-day operations. They did that with most of the county facilities located within the town limits because otherwise the council members had almost nothing to do, and spent way too much energy tweaking town parking zone restrictions and speed limits. But the county ran the dump directly.
    So the mayor was giving orders to county employees. Did that mean he and the county manager were working together on the animal shelter problem? Or had the mayor simply given an order whose authority the kid hadn’t thought to question. I could see either happening. Not something I could find out from the kid, who looked as if doing anything more complicated than loading trash might be an intellectual leap. No sense giving him a hard time. But I couldn’t let him take the animals. Inspiration struck.
    “Well, this seems to be in order,” I said.
    Shouts of “No! No!” “Traitor!” and a few more rounds of “Hell, no! We won’t go!” from the barn.
    “Just one more thing,” I said. Why not? It worked for Colombo; why not for me? “I have to call someone to clear this. Won’t take long.”
    The kid had clearly learned to exercise patience in the face of bureaucracy. He leaned against the side of his truck and folded his arms to wait. Realizing that I might be up to something useful, the Corsicans in the barn shut up again.
    I walked around to the side of the house to a point where I could see the front yard. As I’d suspected, the chief’s car was no longer parked on the road near our front walk.
    So I called the police station. The nonemergency number. Debbie Anne, the stalwart police dispatcher, answered both, so it wasn’t as if I’d get a slower response than on 911. And even in an emergency, I often called the regular number. Less stressful for Debbie Anne.
    “Hey, Meg,” she said. “How are you holding up with that whole menagerie in your barn?”
    “Reasonably well,” I said. “The Corsicans are here in force to take care of them. The animals are the reason I’m calling. Could I talk to the chief?”
    “Is it urgent?” she asked. “Because you know how he gets when he’s on a case.”
    “This could be related to his case,” I said. “I don’t know yet. And while I’m not positive he’d find it urgent, it’s definitely time-sensitive.”
    “Okay,” she said.
    “I should be getting back to town with those animals,” the kid called out. It was a token protest, with no real sense of urgency behind it. I returned to the barn door. He was slumped back onto the tailgate of the truck.
    “This won’t take long,” I told him.
    He sighed as if he’d heard that before.
    “Ms. Langslow?” The chief. “Is there something I can do for you?”
    “Thanks for taking my call,” I said. “I just wanted you to know that the mayor sent someone down here to collect the animals and take them back to the shelter.”
    “Poor creatures,” he said.
    “And before I let him take them, I thought I’d check to see if you still wanted them held as evidence.”
    “The animals? Evidence in the murder? Or in some other crime that certain people are blasted lucky we don’t have the time to investigate right now?”
    “If you’re finished with the animals, he can take them back to the shelter. I think they have some itchy trigger fingers down there. Or itchy lethal injection fingers. But if you still want them held as evidence…”
    The chief finally got it.
    “Oh, I see,” he said. “No, you mustn’t let him take the animals. They’re evidence, all right.”
    “Let me put you on speaker.” I punched the correct button and walked over until the kid was within earshot.
    “To repeat,” the chief said, his voice loud and distinct. “I do not want those animals moved! They are material evidence in at