The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

sensed she wouldn’t appreciate that.
    “Home would be Boston?” I asked instead.
    “Near there,” she said with a fleeting smile. “Worcester.”
    At least I assumed that was what she meant. Sounded more like “Woosteh” in her accent.
    We packed in silence for a few moments. Suddenly Francine dropped the rather large book she was packing.
    “It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d just admit that maybe he was partly to blame,” she said, in an undertone. “Not wholly to blame—the county board were fooled, too. And not even mostly to blame—that would be the mayor. But it did happen on his watch.”
    “Oh, dear,” I said.
    “And it’s ridiculous to go blaming a dead man,” she said.
    Now that was interesting.
    “He blames Parker Blair?”
    “He keeps saying everything would have been all right if Mr. Blair had stayed out of it,” she said. “And that’s ridiculous.”
    Not only ridiculous, but highly suspicious. When had Terence Mann started blaming Parker for the problems that had eventually lost him his job? Before or after the murder?
    I didn’t dare ask Francine, though. No matter how innocently I tried to ask it, she’d guess that I was asking if her husband had a motive for murder. I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound as if I suspected her husband, though I kept trying for another ten or fifteen minutes as we packed in silence.
    I heard a soft dinging sound coming from somewhere nearby.
    “Oh, that’s my phone,” Francine said. She got up and scrambled to the end of the aisle, where she had left her purse.
    She answered it, and after a few murmured words, she shut the phone and put it back into her purse.
    “I’ve got to run,” she said. “See you later.”
    My own phone chimed. I scrambled to pull it out of my pocket. Was something up?
    It was Rob.
    “Meg? Are you with Dad?”
    “No, I’m breaking the no cell phone rule at the library.”
    “Damn. Do you know where he is? We sort of need him here.”
    “Need him? Why? Rob, if there’s a medical emergency, call 911.”
    “There’s something wrong with one of the cats,” Rob said. “I paged Clarence ten minutes ago, and he hasn’t answered, so I thought maybe Dad could help, but he isn’t answering either, and—”
    “What do you mean, ‘something wrong’?”
    “I can’t see any wounds or anything, but he’s howling in agony. You can probably hear it from there. Wait, I’ll hold the phone closer to him.”
    Yes, I heard it. A prolonged “rrrrowl!” It did indeed sound like a cat in agony.
    “Rob, which cat?”
    “The fat yellow striped one. He’s just lying there in his crate, looking at me and howling horribly.”
    “Rob, he’s a she, and she’s not fat, she’s pregnant. She’s probably about to give birth.”
    “Oh, my God!”
    Maybe I should have broken the news more gently. I could hear Rob beginning to hyperventilate.
    “Calm down,” I said.
    “What should I do? Where’s Dad? Why doesn’t Clarence answer?”
    “Aren’t any of the other Corsicans there?”
    I knew even as I was asking that of course there weren’t. Any of the other Corsicans would have known in an instant what was going on. And since Rob had been known to faint at the possibility of blood, he wasn’t exactly the best choice for a feline midwife.
    “Fix her a box with something soft in it,” I said. “A blanket or a towel—not any of mine, please. Put it someplace quiet, like my office. She’ll probably do just fine until Clarence gets there.”
    “But she sounds as if she’s in agony.”
    Only Rob.
    “She is in agony,” I said. “It’s called labor pains. She has my sympathy, but all she needs from you right now is a clean, safe, quiet place to get on with it.”
    “Okay,” he said. “But can you come back and help? You’ve been through this—you’ll know what to do.”
    “Roger.” I hung up. Then I stretched and looked at my watch. Odds were that by the time I got there, someone else would have taken pity on Rob and sent him to boil water or something. But it was probably time to collect Timmy and head home for some lunch.
    Timmy was already provided for. Ms. Ellie had ordered in pizzas for her helpers, and a festive, if impromptu, party was in progress. Timmy didn’t look happy when I beckoned for him to go.
    “You’re welcome to stay and have some pizza,” Ms. Ellie said.
    “I need to check on the twins,” I said. To be perfectly accurate, I also wanted to pump some more milk