The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

just something else silly the Corsicans were up to.”
    He came over to inspect the glass, already dialing.
    “Hello, Debbie Anne,” Michael said. “Yes—I think we’ve had a burglar.”
    I returned to the hallway, opened the door and peered out.
    “Careful,” Michael said. “What if someone’s still out there? What if—”
    “It’s Grandfather.” I threw the door open and raced out. “I think he’s hurt.”
    Grandfather was lying facedown at the foot of the porch steps, his tall, angular form crumpled into an awkward heap.
    “Send an ambulance, too,” Michael said on the phone.
    “I’ll check his pulse,” I said, dropping to Grandfather’s side.
    It was weak but steady. Was his breathing a little shallow? Or was I just a little panicked?
    I could hear Michael talking to Debbie Anne. I reported my findings to Michael, who relayed them to her. I put my hand on Grandfather’s forehead. He didn’t seem to be overly warm. I wasn’t sure if that mattered.
    There was something damp and sticky on his temple. I pulled away my hand to look at it. Was that blood? Hard to tell in the moonlight.
    “Turn on the porch light,” I said.
    “No, we have no idea when,” Michael was saying. He reached back inside for the light switch.
    I scrambled around to Grandfather’s other side and flopped down on my stomach so I could get my head on his level and look at his face.
    “She says not to move him,” Michael said.
    “I’m not,” I said. “I want to see if his eyes are open, and if he seems to have hit his head. Tell Debbie Anne you’ve got to hang up. I want you to call Dad.”
    “She already did,” Michael said. “He’s on his way.”
    Grandfather’s eyes were closed. A small trickle of blood ran down the left side of his face. Even though the porch light wasn’t that bright, I could see well enough to know it was blood. I brushed a lock of his hair aside and saw a wound on his temple.
    “He’s bleeding,” I said.
    “He must have hit his head,” Michael said. “Meg can see blood.”
    “I don’t think he hit his head,” I said. “I think someone hit him. Angle of the wound,” I added, answering Michael’s raised eyebrow. “And no, I’m not sure. That’s Dad’s specialty. I just think it looks suspicious.”
    Michael nodded and relayed my suspicions to Debbie Anne.
    I took Grandfather’s hand.
    “You’re going to be all right,” I said, in my calmest voice. “Dad and the ambulance are on their way.”
    Did he squeeze my hand? Or did I only imagine it?
    Michael put his hand on my shoulder.
    We stayed like that for what seemed like hours. When the ambulance finally arrived, I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or hurt at how quickly they ordered us aside.
    Dad arrived a minute or so after the ambulance. He and the EMTs were grimfaced. They started an IV. Someone mentioned a blow to the head, so apparently I was right. I began to hear words like concussion and subdural hematoma.
    “I can keep an eye on things down here,” Michael said. “Why don’t you stay with the kids. Josh ate about an hour ago, and Jamie should be ready any minute.”
    I wondered if he was reading my mind. I realized that what I wanted most was to retreat upstairs, pick up one of the boys, and focus on him, blotting out of my mind the picture of Grandfather lying on the front walk.
    I spent what was left of the night in the recliner, holding one or another of the twins, waiting for Dad to call and tell us if Grandfather was going to make it.

Chapter 17
    “How is he?” I demanded.
    It was shortly after dawn on Sunday morning. I had just deposited the boys in the spare crib we kept in the kitchen and was making some decaf when Dad and the chief strolled in, followed by Michael, who had answered the doorbell.
    “He’s unconscious,” Dad said. “But stable.”
    “Define stable.” I sat down, and Michael took over with the coffee.
    “His vital signs are good,” Dad said. “In fact, they’re excellent for his age. He’s only got a mild concussion. I just wish he’d regain consciousness.”
    Dad slumped into a kitchen chair.
    “Don’t worry,” I said, patting Dad’s shoulder. “He’s much too hardheaded to be killed that way. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
    Dad sighed, nodded, and squeezed my hand.
    “And while we’re waiting for Dr. Blake to regain consciousness,” the chief said, “I’d like to interview you and Michael about what happened last night.”
    “I didn’t see