The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

But—”
    “And if I can even figure out what that significant thing is. Could be difficult. I’ve interrogated a lot of jailbirds and stool pigeons in my time, but never an actual bird.” He was peering over his glasses at me. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I suspected not.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I haven’t really explained what I meant. Maybe you don’t need to listen to the macaw at all, or even find it. Maybe all you need to do is figure out who bought the blue-and-yellow macaw that they left behind in place of Parker’s bird.”
    He looked surprised.
    “Lot of birds in the world,” he said.
    “But not a lot of macaws in this part of the world,” I countered. “There’s only one blue-and-yellow macaw in Clarence’s practice, and he’s already confirmed that it’s safe and sound in its usual cage at the Caerphilly Inn.”
    The chief smiled slightly at this news.
    “So the killer had to acquire a blue-and-yellow macaw in the last forty-eight hours,” the chief said. “Are they hard to find?”
    “Not as hard as hyacinth macaws,” I said. “Or maybe the killer would have replaced Parker’s macaw with the right kind, and we’d never have known the difference. But I can’t imagine even blue-and-yellows are that common. I’ve never seen one here in town at Giving Paws, and for a small-town pet store they have a reasonably diverse stock.”
    “It would be pretty stupid of the killer to buy it locally anyway,” he said.
    “True,” I said. “And also pretty impossible to drive more than a few hours and still get back in time to commit the burglary, to say nothing of being seen carrying on with his normal life, whatever that is. There can’t be that many places within reasonable driving distance that sell macaws.”
    “You haven’t started checking it out?” he said. “Interrogated a few pet shop owners?”
    “No,” I said. “And I told Clarence not to, either. And I told both him and Mother not to tell anyone about the macaw swapping.”
    He nodded.
    “I think I’ll give him a call.” He stood up, signaling that we were through. “See if he knows some of the places that might have macaws.”
    “And make sure he knows that it’s your job to go snooping, not his.” I stood up, too.
    He paused with his hand halfway to the phone and looked up at me.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    “For bringing you this information or for not going out and trying to find the source of the macaw myself?”
    “Yes.” He picked up the phone and began dialing.
    On my way out, I pitched in by carrying a box of files out to the truck that Sammy was loading. I decided to leave my car in the parking lot and walk the few blocks to the town hall to help Mother and the garden club ladies. After all, helping them would give me an excuse for prowling around the town hall. I had no idea what I hoped to find—the Pruitts hadn’t stayed in power for decades by leaving incriminating evidence lying around where the casual passer-by could spot it. But the town hall was where my prime suspect hung out. I felt drawn there.

Chapter 20
    I found a cluster of elderly lavender-hatted ladies in a huddle in front of the town hall. They had several rows of potted plants lined up on the sidewalk and were looking up and down the street as if awaiting transportation. Or maybe as if they feared plantnappers might strike before the transportation arrived.
    “Oh, look!” one of them exclaimed as I drew near. “It’s Meg! I’m sure she can manage.”
    They all turned and beamed at me. I sighed, and wished, just for a moment, that I’d gone back to the library. Or maybe home.
    “What’s up?” I asked, as I drew up beside their temporary sidewalk jungle.
    “Some of the plants that need to be rescued are a bit too much for us to manage,” one said.
    “Mother told me.” I spotted a folding luggage carrier and nodded at it. “Mind if I use that?”
    “Of course!” several of them exclaimed, and almost knocked each other down in their haste to deliver it to me.
    “So what do you want me to fetch?” I turned to one garden lady who was holding a clipboard with some papers on it. What was it about a clipboard that made its holder look as if she were in charge, or at least knew what she was doing?
    “There’s a large peace lily in room 201,” she said.
    “A peace lily?” I repeated.
    “Spathiphyllum floribundum,” one garden lady said, as if that explained everything.
    “Like this,” several of