The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

elected mayor,” she said, as she popped tea bags into our steaming cups.
    “Of the town,” I said. “Half the town council are Pruitts, if it comes to that. Pruitts or political allies of the Pruitts. Town politics are dominated by the Pruitts and the college, which was founded by a Pruitt. It’s different in the county. That’s dominated by farmers.”
    “Ah,” she said. “That explains why the town’s so progrowth while the county’s doggedly against it.”
    “We here in the county prefer to think of ourselves as propreservation,” I said.
    “Makes it hard for the two to work together, I should think,” she said.
    “Almost impossible,” I said. “The town’s governed by an elected town council headed by the mayor. They don’t really have much jurisdiction over anything except town ordinances, but they meet at least twice a week and issue no end of press releases and proclamations that everyone generally ignores. The county is governed by an elected county board, most of them working farmers or people who come from farm families. They meet once or twice a month, make all the important decisions pretty efficiently, and delegate carrying them out to the county manager.”
    “This county manager,” she said.
    “Terence Mann,” I said. “He’s new. Here about six months. And even before the animal shelter fiasco broke, I wouldn’t have bet on his staying around much longer.”
    “You can’t blame him for the financial problems,” she said. “Not something he had any control over.”
    “And not limited to Caerphilly,” I said. “I don’t think people blame him for the problem, however unhappy they are about some of his proposed solutions. No, what’s got people in the county grumbling is that he seems to be getting along way too well with the Pruitts. And in case you hadn’t already figured it out, in the same way that the town council is dominated by the Pruitts and their friends, the county board is mainly the Shiffleys and their friends.”
    “Okay,” she said. “Now I understand what Clarence was suggesting at our last Corsican meeting.”
    “Was this the meeting when you finalized your plans for the burglary?” I asked. “I’m still wondering why you didn’t help out.”
    “Had a fund-raiser in Charlottesville that night,” she said. “Or I would have. According to Clarence, the animal shelter belongs to the county?”
    “I assume it does,” I said. “Given how small a population the town and county have, it doesn’t make sense to have separate facilities. There’s one school system, one library system. The chief is both chief of the town police and the deputy sheriff of the county, since the elected sheriff is older than Grandfather and a lot less active.”
    “So if it’s a county shelter, why’s the town running it?”
    “The county lets the town run most of the facilities that fall within the town limits,” I said. “Keeps the town council busy and out of mischief.”
    “Okay, it’s making more sense,” she said. “Right now, we have to deal with both the mayor and the county manager because the shelter belongs to the county but it’s in the town. And we could cut the mayor out entirely if we found new premises for the shelter. Premises outside the town limits.”
    “Our barn is not a viable option for that,” I said.
    “No, it’s not,” she said. “I was thinking of someplace out at your grandfather’s zoo. But don’t mention that to him yet. I will, when I have all my ducks in a row.”
    “Of course not.” The thought of Caroline railroading my grandfather into turning a part of his beloved zoo into an animal shelter charmed me.
    “Of course, we want to get the county board to issue a strong no-kill policy before we let them have the animals back,” Caroline said. “What’s the best way to get that done?”
    “Talk to Randall Shiffley,” I suggested. “He could enlist the rest of his family.”
    “Hmm.” Caroline’s eyes showed a familiar fund-raiser’s gleam. “Big animal lovers, are they?”
    I pondered the question. I rather thought the Shiffleys did love animals, but with a love that was tempered by the pragmatic realism of the working farmer. A love that couldn’t afford to get too sentimental about turkeys who’d be going to market for Thanksgiving. That could appreciate the beauty of a Virginia whitetail deer without losing a taste for venison. Left to their own devices, I wasn’t at all sure that the men and women