The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

in.”
    Not what I wanted to hear, but then another night or two with the macaw in the living room wouldn’t kill us. Especially if we kept the cover on his cage.
    “Keep me posted.” I nodded to Randall and headed back to the house. Dad trotted along after me.
    “So how was your day?” he asked.
    “Busy,” I said. “And not over yet. But okay.” And then, since he was obviously dying for me to ask, I added, “How was yours?”
    “Difficult,” he said. “This is going to be a tough case to solve.”
    “I’m sure the chief is up to it,” I said.
    “And poor Horace.” Dad shook his head. “He had to go all over that grisly crime scene, and he hardly found any usable evidence.”
    Dad sounded remarkable cheerful about Horace’s ordeal.
    “I thought Parker was shot at close range in the cab of his truck,” I said. “You’re not saying it left no traces?”
    “More than traces,” Dad said. “The cab was horrible. But the range wasn’t quite that close. Not close enough to guarantee blood spatter on the suspect’s clothing. Not that we’ve got enough evidence against anyone to make it worth testing their clothing.”
    I winced at the “we” and hoped he wasn’t annoying the chief too badly.
    “How do you know?” I said. “About the range?”
    “Well, Smoot is out of town, you know,” Dad said.
    I shook my head. Dr. Smoot, the acting medical examiner, was already on thin ice with the chief. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been out of town when needed.
    “No, I didn’t know. Was the chief irritated or relieved?”
    “A little of both, I think,” he said. “So the chief had me do a preliminary examination of the body. And a good thing, too, since I discovered something important.”
    Apparently he and Horace were feeling competitive today, which at least partially explained his glee over Horace’s supposed failure to uncover any evidence.
    “Congratulations,” I said.
    Dad frowned, and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. The yard was peaceful and empty, except for a border collie chivvying three sheep around the corner of the house.
    “Of course I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he began.
    And, of course, he would, if I just waited.
    “The shot may have been fired from a slight distance,” he said finally. “Making Horace’s life difficult. But before his death, Parker appears to have struggled with his killer in some fashion. Or possibly quarreled. Because— Remember, you have to keep this to yourself.”
    I nodded. I was watching the border collie, which appeared to be herding the sheep toward our barn. He didn’t seem to be accompanied by a human shepherd.
    “The killer appears to have taken a trophy!” Dad announced.
    He seemed to find this fascinating. I didn’t.
    “Yuck,” I said. “I do not want to know about missing body parts, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Oh, no!” he said. “Nothing like that. You know how Parker always wore an earring in one ear?”
    “I hardly knew the man.” I mentally applauded as the border collie deftly steered the sheep away from our rosebushes. “So I’ll have to take your word for it.”
    “Well, he did. It was a ruby. Or maybe just a sparkly red stone that looked like a ruby. I suppose that’s trendy, earrings on men?”
    “It was at one time.” I shifted position so I could continue watching the border collie, which had succeeded in driving the sheep through the barn door. “It still could be. I’m not exactly up on trendy. Dad, were there sheep at the animal shelter?”
    “No, only domestic animals. Why?”
    “Then what’s he doing?” I pointed to the border collie, which had popped out of the barn door, minus his flock. “He just herded three sheep into our barn.”
    “Yes, I saw that,” Dad said. “Good technique. They look like Seth’s sheep. Maybe the Corsicans borrowed some to keep the border collie happy.”
    “Maybe,” I said. He was probably right that the sheep belonged to Seth Early, our across-the-street neighbor. But I wasn’t sure I believed that Seth would willingly lend a trio of his prized Lincoln sheep just to keep a rescue dog happy. I suspected the border collie was doing a little unauthorized herding.
    But that was the Corsicans’ problem, not mine.
    “Getting back to Parker,” I said. “So he normally wore an earring. Is this important?”
    “I suppose he thought the earring made him look rather piratical,” Dad said. “And of course he could