The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

never have foreseen that it would be a clue in his murder!”
    “No,” I agreed. “I don’t suppose he was expecting to be murdered. Most people aren’t. But even if the earring’s missing, it isn’t necessarily a clue. They fall off, you know, and sometimes people forget to put them on.”
    “It’s not just missing—it was ripped out with enough force to tear the earlobe!”
    I winced and had to consciously stop myself from touching my own earlobes. In the last several months I’d given up wearing earrings except on special occasions, to avoid the very real danger that the boys would innocently do the same thing to me.
    “Poor guy,” I said.
    “Of course, word will get out once we have the funeral,” Dad said. “Maudie Morton can make the ear look fine, of course, but people will notice that his earring’s missing.”
    “The chief probably won’t release the body for a few days,” I said. “Maybe they’ll find the earring by then.”
    “If they do, it’ll be evidence,” Dad said.
    “Buy another one,” I said. “Or tell people he couldn’t be buried with it because he was leaving it to someone in his will.”
    “He was only in his late thirties,” Dad said. “With no dependents. I’d be surprised if he had a will.”
    “Then get Clarence to say Parker told him he wanted his earring sent to his elderly mother in Dubuque, or wherever he’s from.”
    Was he trying to make this difficult?
    “He grew up here, and his mother died years ago.”
    “Or that he wanted it sold so the proceeds could be donated to some animal welfare organization,” I went on.
    “That might work,” Dad said.
    “Of course, there’s always the option of having a closed casket,” I suggested. “If he was shot in the head—”
    “The neck, actually.”
    “If he was shot anywhere that Maudie would have to cover up a bullet hole for the viewing, maybe you should go for the closed casket.”
    “You don’t think people will be disappointed, not being able to say good-bye?” Dad asked.
    “I think they’ll manage to say good-bye without a viewing,” I said. “And think of the enjoyment everyone will have, looking solemn and intoning ‘Of course, it had to be a closed casket.’”
    “Good point,” he said. “And it really would be easier.”
    I turned toward my car again.
    “Of course,” he added, to my back, “it would be even better if the earring were found.”
    And clearly he thought I was the one to do it.
    “I’ll keep my eyes open,” I said. “Speaking of keeping eyes open—here comes the border collie with four more sheep. He’s got to be getting them from Seth Early’s pasture. Could you check it out? See if anyone knows he’s doing it?”
    “Can do!” Dad said. “Happy hunting!” He sounded cheerful again.
    As he bustled off toward the barn, I found myself thinking that people were taking Parker’s death quite philosophically. With the exception of the two ex-girlfriends, I hadn’t seen anyone genuinely overcome with grief—and who knew how well the ex-girlfriends’ grief would survive the discovery of each other’s existence? Everyone said what a shame about poor Parker and how much he’d done for animals. A few people were honest enough to call him a letch. I hadn’t yet met anyone whose reaction was anything like “You know, some people didn’t approve of him, but damn! I’m going to miss him!”
    “Poor guy,” I said aloud.
    And then I, too, forgot about him for the next several hours. By the time I reached the grocery store it was jammed with shoppers. When I finally got home, I grabbed provisions from Rose Noire’s sandwich mountain and retreated to the nursery to spend some time with the twins. Downstairs, I could hear people coming and going, calling for Dad, Clarence, Grandfather, Rose Noire. Calling for me, occasionally, and I hope being told that I had a few other things on my plate.
    I kept track of what was going on out in the barn through the nursery windows. I’m not really good at staying uninvolved, but I was trying.
    Over the course of the afternoon, the border collie escorted ninety-seven sheep from Seth Early’s pasture into our barn before they figured out how to secure the barn door and the pasture gate so he couldn’t open them. Probably not ninety-seven unique sheep. The Corsicans took them back in batches when they had a chance, and as the day wore on the newly arriving sheep began looking distinctly cross and footsore. On the