The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

was tall, a little over six feet, but gave the impression of being taller—partly because he was rail thin and narrow shouldered, and partly because he had a slight, habitual stoop, as if he spent far too much time courteously bending down to listen attentively to much shorter people. He had the sort of face most people called handsome mainly because it was symmetrical and you couldn’t put your finger on anything in particular that was wrong with any of the features.
    He was stooping even more than usual to reach down to Mayor Pruitt’s level. Why, I have no idea—considering how red the mayor’s face was, and how wildly he was waving his arms, he was probably shouting loud enough for Mann to hear him without stooping. In fact, stooping probably put Mann much closer to the mayor’s bellows than I’d care to be.
    And even from the bleachers I could tell that the mayor wasn’t using language you’d want five- and six-year-olds to hear. Someone should go over and tell him to clean it up in front of the kids.
    I was standing up to do it myself when the Red Sox coach dashed over and shooed them off the field. The mayor ignored him, but Mann began loping off the field almost before the coach arrived. To keep haranguing him, the mayor had to scurry in his wake, like a ping-pong ball chasing a praying mantis.
    “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” one of the mothers said. Several others tittered.
    Francine shot a quick glance in their direction and then fixed her eyes on the field. Her face looked grim, but I had to admire her presence of mind. I’d have been tempted to confront the two gossiping mothers if they’d said something like that about my husband.
    Then again, maybe she wasn’t angry at them. Maybe she was at least a little upset with her husband. I had a feeling she wasn’t just annoyed because his inattentiveness had contributed to the melee on the field.
    I patted her arm.
    “Don’t let it get to you,” I said, softly enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
    She glanced up and smiled, briefly.
    “I’m used to it,” she said, in a similarly quiet tone. “Of course, this whole shelter thing is making it worse than ever.” She pronounced shelter more like “shelteh,” causing me to mishear it, just for a second, as “sheltie,” and spend a few anxious moments racking my brain to recall if we had a sheltie at the house, or if there had been some kind of sheltie-related incident in town. Clearly I had dogs and cats on the brain.
    “It’ll blow over,” I said.
    “I doubt it,” she said. “I’ve even thought of taking some kind of speech lessons so I blend in more. Do you think maybe your husband would know someone at the drama department who could teach me how to speak more like the locals?”
    “Probably,” I said. “But why would you want to? A lot of people pay good money to get rid of southern accents—why would you want to learn one? Especially since in a year or two—”
    I was about to say that in a year or two, they’d probably move someplace else when her husband took another job. Probably not a tactful thing to say. What if she was hoping they’d settle down and lead the rest of their lives in Caerphilly? Or what if she was thinking, like many of the locals, that her husband might not last a few more months in his job, let alone another year or two?
    “In a year or two, people will stop noticing your accent so much,” I went on, changing my course. “They won’t pretend to think of you as a native—I’ve lived in Caerphilly for years now, and they have yet to forget that I’m not from around here. To some locals, you’re an outsider for life if all four of your grandparents weren’t born in Caerphilly County. Don’t sweat it.”
    “I just wish—” she began.
    But whatever she was intending to say was drowned out by an abrupt howl from Josh. I began digging through the diaper bag.
    “Hell of a set of lungs on that kid,” one of the mothers said. She sounded cross and superior, as if to imply that as infants, her darlings had always asked softly and politely for their meals.
    “Just stop your ears for a second,” I said. “I’ll take care of him.” Jamie joined in.
    “Can you handle both at once?” Francine asked.
    “Not easily,” I said. “Would you mind doing one?”
    “I’d love to!”
    I handed her Josh and a bottle, and picked up Jamie to do the honors with him.
    “You’re not breastfeeding!” one of the mothers exclaimed. “Don’t you