The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

amused, and guilt-trip a few of the Corsicans into giving me a hand with the twins,” Michael said.
    I thought of pointing out how difficult it would be, sticking to a plan with the twins on your hands, an ancillary kindergartener underfoot, the barn filled with stolen animals, and a murder investigation underway. But he already knew that.
    And for the moment, the Corsicans did seem to have the animal care well in hand. During the interval between breakfast and my departure for Timmy’s ball game, they only interrupted me about four or five times an hour, which meant that I had more than enough time to handle my few chores: feeding, burping, washing, and dressing the twins; gathering up four times as many dishes as usual and putting as many of them as possible into the dishwasher; dumping all the towels and other washable linens soiled by the animals by the washer; rolling up a small piddled-on area rug so I could drop it at the carpet cleaners, chivvying Timmy into his uniform and then loading him, his T-Ball gear, the babies, and all their accoutrements into the Twinmobile, as Michael and I called the used minivan we’d acquired to handle our suddenly expanded family.
    On my way to the ballfield I passed more than the usual number of cars heading out toward our house on our relatively peaceful country road. More Corsicans volunteering to help out, I hoped. Or maybe even aspiring pet owners coming to view the selection.
    “Meg,” Timmy asked. “Where did all those puppies come from?”
    He wasn’t really asking that question, was he? I decided to answer him more literally.
    “From the animal shelter.”
    “But how did they all fit?” he asked. “It’s not that big.”
    “They didn’t fit very well,” I said. “So—”
    “Is that why the nasty mayor was going to kill them all?”
    Glancing in the rearview mirror, I could see that his normally cheerful face was frowning thunderously. Mayor Pruitt had lost another future voter.
    And I saw no reason not to tell him the truth.
    “That’s pretty much the reason,” I said. “Not enough space, and also feeding all those animals costs a lot of money.”
    “But they’re safe now with you and Michael, right? You won’t let him have them back.”
    I winced.
    “Yes,” I said. “They’re safe. The Corsicans will take care of them until they find permanent homes.”
    But what would the Corsicans do if the crisis turned into a siege?
    Not something I could solve right now. We turned into the parking lot and my worry over the future was pushed aside by the immediate challenge of getting all three small boys safely to the field.
    I made sure that Timmy’s uniform was on properly and that he had all his equipment, and released him in the direction of the rest of his team. Then I wheeled the double baby carriage over to a place beside the bleachers and parked myself and my well-stocked, two-ton diaper bag on the metal bench. I nodded to several mothers I knew slightly, but in the few weeks Timmy had been with us, I’d been too busy with the twins to spend much time getting to know the parents of his classmates and teammates. I started to feel guilty about that, and squelched the impulse mercilessly. Feeling guilty about letting down Timmy was Karen’s job. My job was feeling guilty about letting down the twins.
    Out on the field, the coach and various parents who’d volunteered or been drafted as assistant coaches were herding the Caerphilly Red Sox toward their bench. Someone had applied generous daubs of eye black to all the players’ cheeks, making them look more than ever like a small but savage tribe about to go on the warpath.
    I peered down at my own small savages. Josh was fast asleep. Jamie was awake, and happily watching a small, faceted toy, rather like a miniature disco ball, that hung from the roof of the carriage, twirling and glittering in the slightest breeze. Rob’s contribution. Clearly I should pay more attention to Rob’s notions of how to amuse the twins.
    Odds were both boys would want something soon, and probably simultaneously, but for now, I could bask in the pleasantly warm April air and relax.
    Or maybe not. Over on the Red Sox bench, Timmy and one of his teammates had begun hitting each other on the helmet with their bats and giggling uproariously. Where was the bench coach? And for that matter, where was the other kid’s mother?
    I should do something. But the bench was a good ten feet away from the bleachers. I looked