The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

few seconds, and then began sliding one key off.
    Interesting. Clarence was Parker’s executor, and had a key to his house, and yet he didn’t exactly seem heartbroken over his friend’s murder. Did that make him a more plausible suspect?
    Not to me. And not to anyone who really knew Clarence.
    Except, perhaps, the chief. After all, in his years of police work, he’d probably seen more than one friendship that had soured into homicide.
    Perhaps that was the reason for the curious formality with which the chief treated everyone when he was in the midst of an investigation. Perhaps it was his way of reminding everyone—including himself—that we were, for the time being, not his friends and neighbors but so many witness and suspects.
    Sad that anyone ever had to do that. Sad, but necessary.
    I shoved these thoughts aside and took the key from Clarence.
    “Back soon,” I said.
    But as I turned to go I realized I was about to do something sneaky, and maybe I didn’t have to.
    “I gather you and Parker were good friends?” I leaned against the barn door as casually as I could.
    “You mean, because he made me executor?” Clarence said. “Surprised me when he asked. We mostly knew each other from our animal welfare work. Of course, once he asked, I realized I probably knew him better than anyone else in town.”
    “So you didn’t know what else he was interested in?”
    “Animal welfare, and his store and … well, his social life was pretty active.” Clarence was blushing slightly. And he was no prude, which meant Parker’s social life really must have been very active indeed.
    “Randall seems to think Parker was investigating some kind of Pruitt sneakiness related to the town beautification project,” I said.
    “Randall does have a bit of a bee in his bonnet about the Pruitts,” Clarence said.
    “This time he might be onto something,” I said. “Apparently the mayor talked the county into backing a loan for the beautification project. And the payments on that loan are what’s behind the whole county budget crisis.”
    “That’s … ridiculous,” he said.
    “You think Randall’s got it wrong?” I asked.
    “No,” Clarence said. The puppy finished with the bottle, and Clarence cradled it to him as if it needed protection from something. “Randall’s probably right. To think that they were about to kill this little guy and his brothers and sisters, just to pay for a bunch of stupid cobblestones and pretentious gas lamps.”
    “So while I’m fetching a suit for Parker’s funeral, do you mind if I poke around a bit to see if I can find any evidence of this investigation Randall thinks Parker was conducting?”
    “Mind? I think it’s a great idea. Poke all you like; we’ll hold down the fort here.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “I’m taking off now.”
    I didn’t set off for another hour. First, I made a pit stop, pumped some milk, called Michael to check on the boys, and gathered some snooping equipment. Just because my visit was okay with Clarence didn’t mean the chief would be happy about it. But I figured as long as I took him anything I found, he couldn’t be that mad. And what would be the harm if I took a few photos of anything that might turn out to be useful in fighting the proposed golf course? So, in addition to a tote large enough to hold file folders, I took along my little digital camera and a couple of spare batteries. By a little past noon, I was on my way.

Chapter 12
    Parker had lived in Goose Neck, a neighborhood Michael and I had kept a close eye on back when we were house hunting. The houses dated from the twenties and thirties, all relatively small but charming and set far back on fairly large lots full of mature trees and shrubs. They were originally built by people coming off the farm to work at the Pruitt mills and the other businesses in the town, and most of them were still owned by descendents of their original owners. Try as we might over several years, Michael and I never saw a single “for sale” sign in the whole neighborhood, or found even one listing in our Realtor’s database. I finally realized that when people in Goose Neck wanted to sell their houses, they didn’t put up a sign or call a real-estate agent. They put out the word among their family and friends. Mother would approve.
    The house was hidden behind towering hedges and shaded by several enormous cherry and oak trees. It was a squat red-brick bungalow, fronted by a small but