The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

Filthy-mouthed bird.”
    “It’s not the bird’s fault,” I said. “He has no idea what he’s saying. An African gray parrot might—there are people who claim that they’ve taught African grays not just to repeat sounds but to use language. Some of them have linguistic skills equal to that of a three- or four-year-old child, and—”
    “But this is a macaw, not a parrot,” he said. He didn’t quite come out and say “Stick to the point, dammit!” but I got the message. I was starting to sound like Dad.
    “A macaw’s a kind of parrot,” I said. “I gather from what Clarence has said that they’re not the best at talking and mimicking other sounds, but not too shabby, either. The killer must be afraid the macaw would repeat something that would give us a clue to his identity.”
    “Something the macaw overheard?” He sounded dubious. “Like someone plotting to kill Mr. Blair?”
    “Maybe,” I said. “Usually parrots only repeat things they hear over and over again. The smarter the parrot, the less repetition, but most of the time it still takes some repetition. Sometimes, though, a parrot can pick up something after hearing it just once if it’s said with enough emotion. So even if you don’t swear a lot, if you shout out a four-letter word when you hit your thumb with a hammer, the parrot finds that interesting and exciting and tends to remember it.”
    “I don’t think that can explain away that macaw’s unfortunate vocabulary,” the chief said.
    “No, that’s obviously the result of long-term eavesdropping, or maybe even a dedicated effort to corrupt the poor bird. But if the macaw overheard something that made Parker particularly mad, sad, glad, or whatever…”
    An image sprang up in my mind: Mayor Pruitt delivering one of his infamous red-faced rants to Parker Blair with a Prussian blue macaw lurking in the background, absorbing every word and repeating a few particularly vehement threats. The chief was frowning, as if completing a similar image.
    “Interesting,” he said finally. “Of course, it would seem a lot more relevant if we’d found the bird at the crime scene. Since we know that the bird was either at the shelter or in the possession of your grandfather and his accomplices for the entire period during which the murder occurred, it can’t possibly be a witness.”
    He paused for a moment and frowned as if a sudden disturbing thought had occurred to him.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “I can’t believe I’m seriously discussing the possibility that a macaw could be a witness to a murder,” he said. “Do you have any idea what the DA would say if I even suggested it?”
    I had a brief but vivid picture of the macaw sitting in the witness box at the Caerphilly courthouse, cocking his head as the DA tried to interrogate him.
    “Not as a witness,” I said. “And lucky for him, too, because I’ve seen Judge Jane hand out contempt of court sentences for language nowhere near as foul as his. But even though he wasn’t there when the murder happened, he could have overheard—and learned to repeat—something that would give you a clue. An argument between Parker and the killer for example.”
    “Or an argument between Mr. Blair and a completely innocent party,” the chief said. “Even if we had the macaw, we’d have no way of knowing if anything it said was relevant.”
    “The killer must think the macaw knows something,” I said. “Something worth the risk of burgling our house.”
    “And worth assaulting your grandfather.” He scribbled a few lines in his notebook. “I’ll keep it in mind if—when we apprehend your grandfather’s assailant. You seem rather knowledgeable about parrots.”
    “Only what I’ve overheard from Dad,” I said. “He took an interest in parrots a few years back. He could tell you a lot more about it.”
    “Yes,” the chief said, sounding tired. “I’m sure he could.”
    “Or Clarence,” I suggested. He nodded. Clarence was slightly less likely to give him a two-hour dissertation on the curious habits of the hyacinth macaw—but only slightly.
    The chief nodded and scribbled some more. He didn’t look particularly happy with the information I’d brought him.
    “So to solve the murder,” he said finally. “All I have to do is find a miserable talking bird and listen to it until it tells me who did it?”
    “That might work,” I said. “If the killer is right that the macaw says something significant.