The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

exaggerated shrug, as if to ask, “What next?”
    I opened the back door.
    “Thanks for checking,” I called. “Probably nothing. Good night. And lock the barn door.”
    Clarence trudged back to the kitchen door. Now that the danger of a prowler seemed past, he was yawning again.
    “I can’t,” he said. “Some of the Corsicans are coming early tomorrow morning to help with the animals.”
    “More like later this morning,” I said. “Can’t they just knock?”
    “I’m a heavy sleeper,” he said. “But I’ll put my sleeping bag right in front of the door, where a prowler can’t help but wake me.”
    As dragged out as he looked, I wasn’t sure a herd of elephants would wake him. But at least I could make sure all the house doors were locked. Just because Clarence didn’t find anything didn’t mean there hadn’t been someone or something prowling around the barn. Or even in the barn, if Clarence truly was a heavy sleeper.
    I made my rounds, checking all the doors and windows. Then I carried Josh upstairs. I peeked in on Timmy, who appeared to have more stuffed animals than he’d had the night before. Closer inspection showed that the new additions were real, not stuffed. And what looked like a fur rug beside his bed would probably turn out to be Tinkerbell, the Irish wolfhound.
    I would worry about that in the morning. I made my way quietly to the nursery and carefully settled Josh in his crib—although I figured my care was overkill, since he’d slept through his entire trip downstairs, my conversation with Clarence, my examination of all the ground floor doors and windows, the return trip upstairs, and my stop in Timmy’s room.
    The second his body touched the crib sheet, he woke up and began screaming bloody murder, awakening Michael and Jamie, who had been fast asleep in the recliner. It was a while before any of us got back to sleep.

Chapter 9
    Saturday dawned crisp and clear—the sort of perfect spring morning that makes most people eager to leap out of bed and greet the day.
    Of course most people hadn’t spent several predawn hours pacing the nursery floor with wailing infants, and eventually driving doggedly up and down the road hoping the kids would fall asleep before their chauffeur did.
    “Dad tells me some babies go through a phase when they won’t sleep unless you’re not just holding them but walking around with them,” I reported over breakfast.
    “Or driving them around the neighborhood,” Michael added, with a yawn. “How long a phase?”
    “I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure we wanted to know.”
    Michael nodded.
    “But he’ll check them out today, just to make sure they’re okay,” I added.
    Most of the time it was a blessing to have a highly qualified doctor willing and even eager to make a house call whenever I was worried about the boys’ health. And the boys’ arrival had reenergized Dad’s interest in keeping up with new developments in pediatrics. I did hope the boys would take Dad’s zeal in stride, as my sister, Pam, and I had, and not react as Rob had, by complaining that growing up he felt like a guinea pig.
    “When did he have in mind?” Michael asked. “Remember, I’m taking the boys to Timmy’s baseball game today.”
    “I thought his game was yesterday,” I said. “I’m sure I remember taking him to participate in something that vaguely resembled baseball.”
    “Makeup game, remember?” Michael said.
    “Oh, right,” I said. “So today’s the regularly scheduled game.”
    “Yes, so if your father’s coming over specifically to see the boys—”
    “He’ll be out in the barn with the animals all day,” I said. “Unless he gets sucked into the murder investigation again, but I doubt that. I gather there’s not a lot of medical uncertainty about how Parker Blair died. So you can just take them out to the barn when convenient. And if you’re cool with minding the boys, I’m going to catch up on all those overdue tasks from my notebook. Anything else on our agenda?”
    “Only that your mother wanted to invite a few people to dinner, since Caroline and your grandfather are here.”
    “Our house or theirs?”
    “She was a bit vague on the subject—”
    “Which means she’s planning to have it here.” I winced at the thought.
    “That’s what I figured. So I convinced her that it was better to have it at their house, to avoid the possibility that your father and the other Corsicans would badger the dinner guests to adopt