The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

“At least until that confounded mortgage company shows up on Monday.”
    “Littering,” the mayor said, pointing to some dirt that had spilled out of the fallen ficus’s pot. “And assault on a public official.”
    “Put him down for assault and battery,” I said. “You saw him knock me down, right? He’s also been throwing vases and bookends at me and the other people who’ve tried to collect the plants.” I pointed to the shards of crockery at their feet.
    “She’s lying!” the mayor shouted. “Arrest her! Arrest her!”
    “I’m not arresting anyone,” the chief said. “Not on your orders.”
    He reached into his pocket and took out something. A badge. He held it in his hand for a few seconds, looking at it. No, not looking at it. More like looking inward while his eyes were on it. Then he took a step forward.
    The mayor stepped back hastily.
    The chief opened his hand to give the mayor his badge.
    “I hereby offer you my resignation,” he said.
    “I’m not accepting it,” the mayor said. He backed a few more steps away.
    “Let me rephrase that,” the chief said. “I quit. Effective immediately.”
    He put the badge down on Louise’s desk and took a step back. The mayor stared at the polished gold shield as if he expected it to turn into a rattlesnake.
    “Sammy?” The chief’s eyes were still on the mayor.
    Sammy, who had been staring in openmouthed astonishment, blinked once or twice and then snapped to attention.
    “Yes, sir!” he said.
    “Go call Debbie Anne and give her the news,” the chief said.
    “Yes, sir!” Sammy saluted and dashed out.
    The mayor recovered his voice and uttered a few obscenities.
    “I’ll thank you to mind your language,” the chief snapped.
    “I don’t need you to teach me manners!” the mayor shouted.
    “You darn well need someone to,” the chief said. “A public official should have more respect for himself and the citizens.”
    I had the feeling the chief had wanted to say something like that for years.
    The chief turned to me.
    “That’s a mighty big plant,” he said. “Let me help you with it.”
    “I’ve got a luggage carrier,” I said.
    We both glanced down at the crumpled metal frame.
    “But I don’t think it’s going to work very well,” I went on. “I’d appreciate the help.”
    “You can’t do this!” the mayor shrieked.
    “I just did,” the chief said. “Let’s lift with our knees, not our backs,” he added to me. I suppressed a chuckle at the thought of how many times his wife had probably told him the same thing.
    “Don’t abandon me!” the mayor wailed.
    “One. Two. Three. Lift!” the chief said.
    The mayor continued to shriek threats and pleas as we lugged the plant out of his office and down the hallway. Halfway to the elevator, the shouts were replaced by thuds, the occasional sound of breaking glass, and more bursts of language nearly as blue as the macaw’s. The chief frowned and his jaw muscle twitched a little.
    I kept thinking that I should say something, but I couldn’t think what, so I saved my wind for hauling. By the time we got the ficus down to the part of the sidewalk where the garden club ladies were staging the plants, I was profoundly glad the chief had offered to help. I could have done it myself, but I’d have regretted it for days—in fact I probably still would.
    A small knot of lavender-hatted ladies greeted our arrival with cheers.
    “Excellent!” one said. “You braved the lion’s den.”
    “Not without cost,” I muttered. “I’m afraid your luggage cart is a goner. And there’s a big spider plant in the third-floor elevator lobby that needs to be brought down.”
    “I’ll go!” Several ladies began dashing up the courthouse steps.
    “Let’s just label this so we know where it came from,” another lady said.
    She slapped an adhesive label on the pot and, with a triumphant flourish, wrote “Mayor’s Office” on it in elegant printing that could almost pass for calligraphy.
    “Now all we have to do is get them in the truck,” one of the ladies said. The others began rolling up their sleeves and looking determined.
    Who had chosen this crew to tackle the town hall’s plants, anyway? Not a one of them was over five foot two or under seventy.
    The chief and I exchanged looks.
    “Let us help you with that,” he said. “Meg, you get in the truck. I’ll lift them in and you can shove them into place.”
    The garden club ladies didn’t argue much. In fact,