The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

who is probably going to be available for adoption. I’m looking for a good home, and I thought of the inn, and poor lonely Martha. No, a first-quality specimen, quite healthy, but the owner … left her behind. That’s right. If you’re interested, I’ll put you first on the waiting list.”
    He and Jerry exchanged a few more pleasantries and hung up.
    “One more animal that’s going to be safe,” he said.
    “And one more unsolved mystery,” I said. “Can you keep your ears open for any rumors of lost or stolen macaws?”
    He nodded.
    “But you realize,” he said, “that whoever did this macaw swapping probably bought this macaw somewhere for that purpose.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I also realize that whoever bought that macaw viciously attacked my grandfather. So much as I’m sure we’re both tempted to start calling pet stores and tropical bird breeders—”
    “Understood,” he said. “I’m here if the chief needs me, but I’m not going to get in his way. Incidentally, I’m planning to do most of my clinic hours in your barn this week. Lets me keep a closer eye on the animals, and while I’m at it, I can make sure a whole lot of devoted animal lovers get a chance to fall in love with the refugee animals.”
    “Good thinking,” I said. “By the way, don’t tell anyone else about the macaw swapping. No use letting the thief know we’re onto him.” Clarence nodded. “Well, I’m off to help with the evacuation.”
    “I’m probably going to close down in a few minutes and go to town to help out,” he said. “I didn’t want to cut my Sunday clinic hours out entirely, but it’s been slow as molasses.”
    “Everyone’s in town packing,” I said. “See you there.”
    Though I decided that before I returned to the library, I should drop by and tell the chief what I’d learned about the macaws. I thought dropping by would be better than calling because the macaw swapping would take a lot of explaining, and it’s harder to usher a visitor out the door than hang up on an annoying caller.
    The roads into town were better than they had been in the morning. Apparently everyone had arrived, and the steady line of trucks heading out of town showed that they were making progress.
    Traffic wasn’t as bad downtown, either. As I passed the college athletic stadium, I realized why—the parking lot was filled, and a motley fleet of church buses, city buses, and private vans shuttled people to and from their cars. As long as you detoured around the town square, you could travel normally.
    Fortunately, the police station was on a side street. Its parking lot was almost filled, but I found a space at the far end. As I trudged toward the station, I saw Sammy Wendell bouncing a hand truck loaded with three cardboard boxes down the side steps.
    “Hey, Meg,” he said. “If you’re coming to see the chief, I should warn you—now’s not a great time.”
    “I gather you’re clearing out the police station?”
    He nodded.
    “Some of the other deputies are relocating our prisoners,” he said. “The Clay County sheriff has agreed to take them for the short term. Horace is helping me move the stuff from the chief’s office over to your parents’ barn. The chief’s pretty cranky about the whole thing.”
    “I don’t blame him,” I said. “Instead of being out solving Parker Blair’s murder, his officers are having to pretend they’re movers. If it helps, I have some possibly useful information. Maybe that would cheer him up a little.”
    “I sure hope so.” Sammy continued bumping his hand truck down the steps.
    Inside, two other deputies and the chief’s wife, Minerva, were packing stuff into boxes. The chief stood with arms folded, glowering. He looked up, and seeing me didn’t improve his mood.
    “Can I help you?” he asked.
    He didn’t look as if he wanted to help me. He looked as if he wanted to chew someone out. But Minerva and the deputies were working as hard as they could on something that clearly wasn’t their fault, and the only other candidate hadn’t done anything to deserve it either. Yet.
    “I have some information,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s related to the assault on my grandfather or the murder or both—”
    “Been out snooping, have you?” he snapped. “Blast it all—”
    “Henry!” his wife snapped.
    I almost turned and left. Not that I was afraid of him—I can hold my own in a verbal brawl. But I could see he was in a foul humor, and his