The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

we had. Everyone always said that the best way to turn children into readers was to surround them with books and adults who considered reading an important part of their lives. What better way to do that than have a library on the premises?
    And better in the house than in the barn. I hoped to resume my blacksmithing soon, and I shuddered at the idea of lighting my forge and starting to hammer sparks out of hot iron in a building filled to the rafters with highly inflammable paper. And I could just imagine the conflicts. “Meg,” Ms. Ellie would call out. “Can you stop making such a racket? We’re trying to have the children’s story hour.” No, the house was the optimal place for what we’d already promised to do. If only we could afford the buildout.
    I alternated between dreams of glory and financial fretting for far longer than I should. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, facedown on the family budget.

Chapter 16
    Something woke me up. I started and almost knocked my chair over. I was in the kitchen. Apparently I’d fallen asleep over my tea. I touched my teacup. It was room temperature. My budget files were still on the table. A few of the papers from the idea file for our library renovation had fallen on the floor.
    I glanced at the clock: 2:00 A.M. Past time for the next feeding. Had I been awakened by one of the babies crying?
    I got up and went over to the kitchen counter and made sure the volume on the baby monitor was up. Yes, it was, and I could hear only silence, and the occasional soft not-quite snore from Michael. He’d probably done the last feeding or two and fallen asleep in the recliner. I must have been exhausted to have slept through the wailing, even if Michael had turned the monitor off on the nursery end. So what had awakened me?
    I ventured out into the hallway. It was empty and silent. So was the living room when I looked inside. But someone had been there. A vase had been knocked off a bookshelf near the door and lay in shards on the floor. Not a vase I particularly liked. I could easily live without it, except that the aunt who given it to us last Christmas would probably notice that it wasn’t there the next time she visited. Should I make a big fuss over how upset I was? No, always the chance she’d send a replacement. Best say nothing. Let her assume I’d moved it to one of the guest rooms. I gave the jagged fragments a wide berth and explored further.
    The macaw’s cage had been knocked on its side. I went over and peered down at it. The macaw was standing up and looking alarmed but did not, thank goodness, say anything. I righted the cage and adjusted the cover. I heard a soft squawk and a flutter of feathers. I peered in again to see that the macaw was sitting on its perch, head tucked under its wing. I breathed a sigh of relief.
    I could see no other damage in the living room. No other new damage—the rug really would have to go to the cleaners. I’d let Mother figure out what to do about the sofas and the gnawed-on end table.
    Nothing missing, and no damage. But someone had been here. What were they trying to do? And had they succeeded? Or had they knocked over the vase and fled first?
    I went back into the hall and turned on the light there. Only then did I notice that the front door was ajar.
    I backed up as far from the door as I could while still keeping it in sight and pulled out my cell phone to call Michael.
    “’Lo?” He sounded still asleep.
    “I think we may have had a prowler,” I said in a low voice. “Are the babies okay?”
    “They’re fine.” He suddenly sounded a lot more awake. “I’ll be right down. Call 911.”
    “I’m not sure,” I said. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone still here, but the front door’s open and some stuff in the living room’s been knocked over. And I’d rather stay on the line with you till you get down here.”
    “Roger.”
    I inched over to the umbrella stand to grab a stout walking stick that we kept there for my grandfather to use if the urge to hike hit him while he was visiting.
    Then I returned to the living room, though I kept my eye on the front door until Michael appeared. And by that time I’d already found how the intruder had entered.
    “Look.” I pointed to one of the front windows. “Someone cut the glass and unlatched this window.”
    “We need a security system,” Michael said. “This far out in the country. I’m calling 911.”
    “Until I saw the glass, I was hoping it was