The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

hurry up and get well so he can keep the mayor from seizing all the animals and exterminating them. If you ask me that’s a lot more likely to jump-start him than telling him everything’s fine.”
    “But Meg—” he began.
    “Gotta run,” I said, as the chief stepped off the elevator. “I’ll let you know later how my plan works.”
    Horace followed the chief off the elevator. The two of them glanced at me. Horace waved. The chief nodded, as if to dismiss me. Horace stuck his hand into the doorway to hold the elevator.
    I can take a hint. I shoved the cell phone back in my pocket, reclaimed the peace lily, and trundled it onto the elevator.
    “Thanks,” I said as the elevator door slowly closed. “Have fun.”
    Back on the sidewalk, the ladies treated me like a conquering hero, and fussed over the plant as if they suspected Terence Mann of dousing it with Roundup and boiling water.
    “What took you so long?” the lady with the clipboard asked. “We were frantic with worry!”
    “I was just having a little talk with our former county manager,” I said.
    “Former!” several garden ladies exclaimed. Apparently this morning’s board action wasn’t yet widely known. The ladies began coagulating into small groups on the sidewalk, voicing their vehement approval, discussing the significance of Mann’s departure, and hotly debating what the county’s next move should be. A posse of overalls-clad Shiffleys lugging file cabinets put down their loads to join in the discussion. Participatory democracy at work. Good. The county needed more of that.
    I folded up the luggage carrier and marched back into the town hall to confront the mayor.

Chapter 21
    I stepped out of the elevator on the third floor. Same layout as on the second floor: mahogany double doors directly ahead, and the hallway stretching out on either side. The doors to room 301 were closed, but clearly the room wasn’t empty. I could hear the mayor’s voice ranting, slightly muffled by the intervening walls. I couldn’t understand everything he said, but I could catch enough to tell that he was probably voicing his opinion of the evacuation.
    I could also tell that if we found the missing foulmouthed macaw, the mayor could teach it a thing or two.
    I knocked on the double doors. And after about fifteen seconds, when no one came to greet me or sang out “Come in!” I cautiously opened one door and peered in.
    The mayor did have an anteroom. The shouting was coming from a closed door to my right—apparently his private office.
    I stepped inside and felt a muffled crunch beneath my feet. I looked down and saw that the carpet near the door was littered with bits of broken glass and china. From the larger pieces, I could tell that at least three breakables had met untimely ends here—a white china vase, a green glass vase, and a glass tumbler. Though from the amount of broken glass underfoot I suspected that another item or two had contributed to the debris without leaving any shards large enough to reveal their shape. There were a couple of new-looking dents on the walls on either side of the mahogany double doors and on the doors themselves.
    Apart from the broken crockery, the room looked a lot like the county manager’s office. Not as many bookcases and file cabinets, and taking their place were several clusters of guest chairs flanked with end tables bearing neatly fanned selections of magazines. But the furniture, drapes, and carpets were in the same tasteful yet bland style. The desk was as impersonally empty as Terence Mann’s. The phone, the in- and out-baskets, and the computer monitor and keyboard suggested that someone could work there if needed, but clearly no one currently did—there were no personal touches, and no other supplies—no pens, pencils, stapler, paper clips, notebooks, while-you-were-out pads, or any of the things you’d usually find on the top of an occupied desk. Even Parker’s desk had had a few of the usual items, neatly arranged and squared with the edges of the desk. Clearly the mayor preferred to keep his support staff at a distance.
    The hostage ficus was in front of one of the two windows that flanked the vacant secretary’s desk. The other window was filled with a large spider plant, almost the twin of the one I’d seen walking through the lobby downstairs.
    Between them, spoiling an otherwise perfectly good wall, was another ghastly oil painting. This one showed a pudgy-faced Pruitt in a