The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

animals,” Clarence said. “None are any the worse for their ordeal.” Clarence seemed to be applying an ointment to a dog with oozing skin sores. Or maybe it was the ointment that was oozing. Either way, I wished he’d do it someplace other than our living room. Or at least put down newspapers to protect the rug.
    Rose Noire was flitting about, spritzing something from an atomizer. Probably a blend of essential oils custom-designed to soothe the animals’ nerves and boost their immune systems. I only wished she’d find something to spritz that didn’t make quite so many of the cats sneeze. Her normally exuberant mane of hair was pulled back into a loose braid. Was she adopting a new personal style, or had she merely decided that the braid was more practical for today’s animal tending?
    “I’m sure the animals will all be much happier and calmer once they’ve settled in,” she said, with a final flourish of her atomizer. Two of the cats sneezed again, violently. One sprayed the mirror over the mantel, which could easily be washed. The other aimed at a nearby patch of the wall that Mother’s crew had painted four times before she decided “dove wing” was the perfect color. I had a feeling “dove wing with accents of cat snot” wouldn’t be allowed to stay.
    “I’m sure they will.” I stepped into the room and began looking for a carrier for the sneezing cats. “The problem is that they shouldn’t be settling in here in the living room. Couldn’t you find the key to the barn?”
    They all looked crestfallen—except Grandfather, who simply shrugged, and brushed another handful of Afghan fur off his shirt and onto the rug.
    “I’m sorry,” Rose Noire said. “We have the key, but there just always seems to be something else more urgent.” Her urgent task of the moment seemed to be teaching several kittens to chase a bit of string.
    “You need more help,” I said. I was vastly proud of myself for having said “you” instead of “we.”
    “We’re bringing in more Corsicans to help,” Grandfather said, waving his hand grandly, as if he had an infinite number of Corsicans at his disposal, along with Sardinians, Sicilians, and perhaps even a few surviving Etruscans.
    “Corsicans?” I echoed. “What do you need Corsicans for? Do they have some kind of national expertise at fostering animals?” I probably sounded a bit hostile, but I had good reason. We’d only recently gotten rid of a Spanish houseguest who’d come for a few days to see a college drama production and ended up staying nearly four months. I wasn’t eager to see any more European visitors showing up in need of lodging.
    “No, that’s what we call ourselves,” Dad announced. “Corsicans. Members of the Committee Opposed to the Ruthless Slaughter of Innocent Captive Animals. CORSICA.”
    “It’s a new organization,” Clarence explained. “Formed in the wake of the town manager’s inhumane new policy.”
    I was willing to bet they’d spent at least as much time working on their catchy acronym as they had on formulating their plan to combat the new shelter policy. Possibly more, if burgling the shelter was all they’d come up with.
    “Invite as many Corsicans as you want, then,” I said. “As long as they’re not expecting bed and board.”
    The doorbell rang.
    “That’s probably one of them now,” Rose Noire said, leaping up to race to the door. “And about time, too. I started calling over an hour ago!”
    I glanced at my watch. No, I hadn’t been mistaken earlier. It was only a little past five in the morning.
    “You were calling people at four A.M. ?” I exclaimed. “How many of them blessed you out for waking them?”
    “They were all thrilled at the chance to be of use,” Dad said. “Everyone wanted to help with the mission, of course, but we had to keep the numbers down. For security.”
    “And now that the word is getting out, I’m sure we’ll be simply flooded with volunteers,” Rose Noire called from the hallway.
    “Swell,” I muttered. And when the volunteers grew thirsty, hungry, or needed a bathroom?
    “Caroline!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “Come in! You’re the first one here!”
    My spirits rose a little. I liked Caroline Willner, the elderly owner of a wildlife refuge a few counties away. Even better, she had more common sense than anyone in the room—possibly more than everyone in the room combined—and was one of the few people in the world who could give my grandfather