The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

right outfit for anything, including a plant rescue mission.
    Timmy bounded down the stairs dressed in clothes that looked as if they’d escaped my last roundup of dirty laundry. Mother raised an eyebrow, but I could see no reason to make him put on clean clothes when he’d probably be covered with dust after half an hour of packing at the library, so I led the way to the car. My old car—I’d leave the Twinmobile for Michael, in case he wanted to take the boys anywhere. As I pulled out of our driveway in my tiny Toyota—well, tiny compared to the minivan—I felt a brief surge of guilty pleasure at how free and unencumbered I was.
    “Can we stop at the ice cream store?” Timmy asked.
    “And the card shop,” Mother said. “I want to get a card for your grandfather.”
    Okay, so much for unencumbered. And the thought of Grandfather lying unconscious in the hospital washed away the last shreds of pleasure.
    “Ice cream and get-well cards coming up,” I said.
    At least I had plenty to distract me. When we got near town, we ran into something rarely seen in Caerphilly, especially on a Sunday: a traffic jam. So many cars, trucks, and even buses were heading into town that I thought we’d never get a chance to pull out of our country road onto the main highway.
    But after a few moments, a farmer in a truck slowed to a stop and cheerfully waved me onto the highway. In fact, the entire crowd was strangely cheerful about the traffic. Perhaps because we all had something concrete and manageable to do. We couldn’t solve the county’s budget or legal problems, but packing and moving were things we all knew how to do.
    “Wow,” Timmy said. “Where did they all come from?”
    “All the churches sent out calls for help last night and this morning at their services,” Mother said. “Not just to their own congregations, but to nearby counties.”
    And apparently the volunteers had come by the busload. As I made my way through town I saw buses from as far away as Henrico County and Manassas. When we finally reached the town square, I saw various groups gathering under impromptu banners and signs to form work teams. Along with the church groups I spotted uniformed Scout troops and delegations from the nearby Lions, Elks, and Rotary clubs. And to top it off, Mother had sent her all-points bulletin to the Hollingsworth family, who could be expected to answer her call in the dozens if not hundreds. I saw several knots of faces I usually saw only at funerals and family reunions.
    I dropped Mother off near one flock of cousins and drove on toward the library.
    From the difficulty we had parking anywhere nearby, I deduced that helping at the library was a popular choice.
    Ms. Ellie, looking determined, if slightly harried, met us at the door.
    “Welcome,” she said. “Timmy, would you like to help pack the children’s section?”
    He nodded vigorously and trotted toward the familiar sunny alcove.
    “They’re a bit slow back there, but they’re having fun,” Ms. Ellie said. “And I think it’s doing a lot to ease their anxiety about where all their beloved books are going. How’s your grandfather?”
    “Stable,” I said. “Don’t ask me what that means. Dad’s worried, but not frantic.”
    A Shiffley cousin wheeling in a four-foot-high stack of moving boxes appeared in the doorway. We both stepped aside into the corridor that led to Ms. Ellie’s office.
    “And they have no clue who did it?” she asked.
    “No,” I said. “And no idea whether or not it has anything to do with Parker’s murder or the county meeting.”
    “I’m sure it has something to do with both,” she said. “They must be connected. But what happened at the meeting to suddenly make someone want to attack your grandfather?”
    I’d been chewing on the same question for hours.
    “I don’t think it’s something that happened at the meeting,” I said. “I think it’s something that was going to happen after the meeting. The committees, for example. Several of them were organized to dig out information that someone might not want found.”
    “Good point.”
    “So which of the committees did Grandfather volunteer for last night?” I asked. “Maybe that would tell us what’s got his attacker running scared.”
    “I don’t remember that he volunteered for any of them,” Ms. Ellie said. “Your grandfather’s better at giving orders than volunteering.”
    “Are you sure? Can you ask whoever’s keeping the