The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

high, so I had to drag a chair in from the kitchen to reach the cord. But neither a gentle tug nor a couple of sharp ones worked. I could see that there was a latch holding the door closed.
    Strange. Unless he was afraid of monsters creeping down from the attic, the latch would seem to serve no purpose.
    Slightly irritated, I pulled the chair back into the kitchen and looked around until I found a four-foot stepping stool.
    And when I flipped the latch, the pull-down stairs lurched down a foot or so, almost hitting me on the head.
    Okay, so that explained the latch.
    I felt strangely triumphant. My files might not be as perfect as Parker’s, but in my world, as soon as the stairs malfunctioned, I’d have made an entry in my notebook: “Have attic stairs repaired/replaced.” And, at least prechildren, the booby trap would have been fixed long before anyone got beaned by it. No way it would have been broken long enough to warrant the latch.
    I pulled the stairs the rest of the way down, tucked my purse in my tote so I’d only have the one thing to carry, and marched up feeling much less intimidated by Parker.
    The attic wasn’t overcrowded, thank goodness. A modest number of boxes, bins, and bits of furniture, arranged in neat, orderly rows on plain pine floorboards. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling probably wouldn’t have given much light, but I didn’t bother to turn it on. Enough rich, golden, afternoon sunshine made it past the ivy around the two dormer windows to let me see quite well.
    For an attic, it was downright charming. If I’d owned the bungalow, I’d have given serious thought to turning the attic into living space.
    I spotted two garment bags at the far end of the attic and strolled toward them.
    The first garment bag held a tuxedo. Mother, who was a connoisseur of formalwear, could probably have pinpointed its age within a year or two. Judging from the waist size, I suspected that Parker had been a beanpole when he wore it, probably to his high school prom.
    The other bag held three reasonably presentable suits and two starched, laundered white dress shirts, all sized much more like the clothes in Parker’s closet downstairs. The suit pants would probably be a little snug in the waist, but Parker was past minding, and doubtless Maudie could cope. I picked out the most subdued of the suits, a dark gray wool, and added both of the shirts.
    Holding the hangers high, so the pants wouldn’t trail on the floor—although it seemed commendably dust-free for an attic—I turned and headed for the stairs, stopping along the way to read the detailed labels on some of the boxes.
    I paused by two boxes marked “Family Memorabilia.” Should I peek in to see what I could learn about his family? I found a nail for the hangers and was kneeling beside the boxes when I heard a noise downstairs.
    “Who’s there?” I called. “Clarence?”
    No answer. Odd.
    I stood up and headed for the stairs. I couldn’t remember if I’d left the front door open. If I had, perhaps some curiosity seeker had come by and was poking about downstairs.
    Before I could reach the stairs, they slammed up into the ceiling with a bang. I raced over to them and tried to push them down again, without any luck. Clearly whoever had closed the stairs had also turned the latch.
    I was trapped.

Chapter 13
    “Hey! I’m still up here!” I called.
    I could hear someone moving about downstairs. They had to have heard me.
    I pulled out my cell phone and called 911. Debbie Anne answered almost immediately.
    “I need help,” I said, softly but distinctly. “Someone locked me in the attic of Parker Blair’s house, and they’re downstairs.”
    “Doing what?” she asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Rummaging around. Stealing something. How should I know—I’m locked up here. Just send someone, quick.”
    “Already on their way. Stay on the phone till someone gets there.”
    “Roger.”
    Still holding the phone, I lay down and put my ear to the floorboards. I heard a faint squeak, like a door opening, but I couldn’t quite tell if it was coming from the office or the bedroom.
    I suddenly found myself wondering if the intruder was planning more than just theft. If they set the house on fire, for example, I’d be in real trouble.
    No, I wouldn’t. I got up and walked, as silently as I could, to one of the dormer windows. If it opened, I could crawl out onto the roof. I could hang from the edge and let myself drop and