The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

single blessed one of them. Doing one alibi is time consuming; can you imagine how much work it’s going to be doing dozens?”
    I made a sympathetic noise.
    “Speaking of dozens,” he went on. “It was nice of you to figure out a way to save the animals, but you do realize that now you’re stuck with the whole kit and caboodle for the time being?”
    “I don’t see a way out of that,” I said, with a sigh. “Do you?”
    A small pause.
    “I hereby authorize you to deputize additional concerned citizens to assist you in preserving the evidence from the animal shelter.” Did I detect a note of amusement in his voice?
    “Will that hold up in court?” I asked.
    “Shouldn’t need to,” he said. “I grant you, there probably are wretches who’d try to take kittens and puppies away from decent homes on a point of law and put ’em back in a shelter. And if you wanted to suggest a certain local elected official is curiously indifferent to the welfare of those kittens and puppies, I wouldn’t give you much of an argument. But even Mayor Pruitt’s not stupid enough to try and take the animals back once someone’s adopted them. Makes for bad campaign publicity, crying children asking why he took away Fluffy or Fido. So if you and the Corsicans can get those animals into loving homes, for heaven’s sake, do it, quick.”
    “Roger,” I said. “And thanks.”
    “You know those kittens that were trying to climb my trousers? They spoken for?”
    I blinked in surprise.
    “Not that I know of. Do you want one?”
    “No, but our pastor’s wife lost her cat to old age a few months ago. One of those little rascals put me in mind of him. White, with a black spot over one eye like a patch. Spitting image of old Pirate.”
    “I know the kitten you mean. Shall I hold it for you?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way—but let me get my wife on it. Maybe she can bring the pastor’s wife over to help, and you could haul out the kittens and let her see Pirate the second.”
    “It’s a plan.”
    I felt better when I hung up. The massive job of finding homes for all the animals was underway. Okay, it was only one animal. One down—maybe—and who knew how many to go. But still—a start.
    I stuck my phone in my pocket and headed for the house.
    The kitchen had already begun to revert to its usual state of entropy. Rose Noire was there, making sandwiches by the dozens. Which made sense. The Corsicans had crawled out of bed before dawn to come down here and help with the animals. No one could reasonably expect them to have packed lunches while they were at it, and even though it was only eight thirty, lunchtime would come all too soon.
    But seeing the sandwiches piling up made me feel more tired than ever. Or was it the thought that in an hour or so, even I would have a hard time believing that the kitchen had once been tidy.
    Rose Noire looked up, saw my face, and jumped to a conclusion.
    “Don’t worry,” she said. “CORSICA will reimburse you for the food and—”
    “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “There’s just one thing.”
    “Yes?”
    She was standing with a ham and cheese sandwich half made, clasping the mustard knife with both hands.
    “I don’t suppose we could ask any of the Corsicans to do a little cleaning in the living room,” I said. “Just the animal fur and whatever.”
    “I think everyone’s pretty much got their hands full with the animals,” Rose Noire said. “But don’t worry. I’ll try to come back in and help you later.”
    Help me? Help me ? That wasn’t exactly what I expected to hear. What I thought I had a right to hear. I wanted to hear, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.” The Corsicans had brought the animals here without asking our permission. If they’d checked with me first, I probably would have said yes, but I’d have steered them to the barn, not the living room. Much as I sympathized with the plight of the animals, I didn’t think cleaning out the mess they’d made in our living room was exactly my responsibility.
    Of course, fat chance getting Rose Noire to understand that. She was clearly in her Joan of Arc mode, head held high, eyes blazing, passionately sharing the suffering of the lost and abandoned animals of the world. Cleaning dung and fur out of our living room was low on her priority list.
    I understood. But I also knew that I’d been up since about 2:00 A.M. and I was already at the ragged edge of exhaustion. I