The Real MacAw (22 page)

We stood in silence for a few moments.

“Are we seriously considering the possibility that one of our elected officials is a cold-blooded murderer?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I think he’s capable. And if he thought Parker Blair and your grandfather were trying to expose him for the crook he is, he’d sure as hell have motivation. Watch your back. We don’t want him going after you next.”

The mayor’s round red face popped into my mind. When I’d first come to Caerphilly, I’d considered him a comic figure. The prototypical sleazy small town politician. Then I’d realized there was nothing comic about him at all. His was the latest in a long line of Pruitts who’d lived well at the expense of the citizens of Caerphilly, and the idea that he might be about to lose control of the goose that had been providing them with so many golden eggs for a century and a half—that might well turn him homicidal.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “But it’s not as if he has it in for me particularly.”

“He knows you,” she said. “He knows you’ve helped the chief out a time or two. And he knows you won’t take the attack on your grandfather lightly.”

I nodded.

“So maybe I’ll stay here for a while where there are plenty of witnesses,” I said. “What can I do?”

“Fiction’s pretty well taken care of,” she said. “A bit too well. But we could really use someone to work on the nonfiction. Everything except the cookbook section, which is also pretty well covered.”

As I made my way to the stairs, I could see what she meant. The fiction shelves, particularly the genre sections, were filled with happy people, and some aisles sounded less like work crews than book club meetings.

“You’ve never read
The Man in the High Castle
? Don’t pack it; check it out before Ms. Ellie shuts down the computers.”

“You know, that’s an idea. Maybe we should just all check out as many books as we’re allowed to. Just for the time being.”

“Is this a new Terry Pratchett, or just a British edition of an old title?”

“What do you mean, she’s overrated? When was the last time you actually read anything by Christie?”

“Oh, man! They have half a dozen P. G. Wodehouses that I haven’t read yet!”

Upstairs it was a lot quieter. With the exception of a group of avid foodies drooling over the cookbooks they were packing over in the 640s, the aisles were largely empty.

I grabbed a stack of boxes—provided, I noticed, by Shiffley Movers—and begin with the 000s, computer science. I was itching to be out doing something else. Something to help foil the mayor’s scheme. Something to help Chief Burke solve the murder. Or something to help Grandfather recover. Trouble was, I had no idea what to do on any of those fronts. But packing didn’t exactly occupy my whole brain, so I planned to pack until I thought of something better to do.

After half an hour, a couple of employees from Rob’s computer gaming company showed up eager to help with the computer books, so I moved over to the 100s (philosophy), where I labored alone for about an hour.

I was just starting on metaphysics (110) when a familiar face peered down my aisle.

“Can I help?”

Francine Mann.

Chapter 18

I had to give Francine credit for nerve. Though I couldn’t help wondering what I should deduce from the fact that she was spending part of her Sunday helping to pack the library. Was it a sign that Terence Mann was in sympathy with feelings in the county? Or evidence of a rift in the Mann household?

“Ms. Ellie can use all the help she can get,” I said. “Though I think they’re having more fun down in the cooking section.”

“I think all the chatter is coming from the paranormal shelves,” she said, as she began assembling a box from the stack at the end of the aisle. “By the way, I was sorry to hear about your grandfather. Is there any more news?”

“Still unconscious, but his signs are stable,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

“If there’s anything we can do for him or you, please let me know,” she said. “All of us down at the hospital, I mean.”

It was a curious clarification. Did she think I’d spurn good wishes and a rather conventional offer of help if it came from her and her husband? I hoped that wasn’t indicative of how people had been treating her.

“Terence won’t be staying on as county manager,” she said, as if reading my thoughts.

“He’s resigning?”

“He probably should,” she said. “Before they fire him. They called him on the carpet before an emergency meeting of the county board this morning. He’s been there for hours.”

Rather useless, if you asked me, but no doubt the board members who had been so nervous at last night’s meeting were thrilled to take it out on someone.

“How are you doing?” I asked. I suppose I should have said “I’m so sorry” or “How terrible” or something of the sort, but it wouldn’t have been sincere, and she probably would have realized that.

“I just want the whole thing over with,” she said. “If they’re going to fire him, I wish they’d just do it. I’m going down to the town hall to pick him up in a couple of hours, and if he hasn’t resigned by then…”

She shook her head and applied herself to the shelves.

I nodded, and searched for something else I could honestly say.

“This has been tough on you,” I said finally.

She nodded.

“I have no idea what’s ahead,” she said. “I’ll probably be staying on at the hospital for the time being. Assuming they’re okay with it. We need the income. It takes a while to get a job at Terence’s level. Of course, when he does get a new job, it will require moving. And right now it’s up in the air whether I’ll be moving with him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. This time I could say that, no matter what I felt about her husband.

“Or maybe I should just leave now,” she said. “It’s not as if the medical staff ever really accepted or supported me. In fact, they undercut me every chance they get, all because I tried to make a few minor changes in how things have always been done.”

I could understand. I’d had a few run-ins myself with “that’s how we’ve always done it.”

“I could just go home,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly, and I looked up with alarm at the intensity of emotion she’d packed into those five words. She was holding the shelf in front of her as if afraid she’d fall, and biting her lip to keep it from trembling. My first impulse was to give her a comforting hug, and with anyone else I’d have done it, but I was afraid it would shatter the fragile composure she was visibly struggling to regain, and I sensed she wouldn’t appreciate that.

“Home would be Boston?” I asked instead.

“Near there,” she said with a fleeting smile. “Worcester.”

At least I assumed that was what she meant. Sounded more like “Woosteh” in her accent.

We packed in silence for a few moments. Suddenly Francine dropped the rather large book she was packing.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d just admit that maybe he was partly to blame,” she said, in an undertone. “Not wholly to blame—the county board were fooled, too. And not even mostly to blame—that would be the mayor. But it did happen on his watch.”

“Oh, dear,” I said.

“And it’s ridiculous to go blaming a dead man,” she said.

Now that was interesting.

“He blames Parker Blair?”

“He keeps saying everything would have been all right if Mr. Blair had stayed out of it,” she said. “And that’s ridiculous.”

Not only ridiculous, but highly suspicious. When had Terence Mann started blaming Parker for the problems that had eventually lost him his job? Before or after the murder?

I didn’t dare ask Francine, though. No matter how innocently I tried to ask it, she’d guess that I was asking if her husband had a motive for murder. I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound as if I suspected her husband, though I kept trying for another ten or fifteen minutes as we packed in silence.

I heard a soft dinging sound coming from somewhere nearby.

“Oh, that’s my phone,” Francine said. She got up and scrambled to the end of the aisle, where she had left her purse.

She answered it, and after a few murmured words, she shut the phone and put it back into her purse.

“I’ve got to run,” she said. “See you later.”

My own phone chimed. I scrambled to pull it out of my pocket. Was something up?

It was Rob.

“Meg? Are you with Dad?”

“No, I’m breaking the no cell phone rule at the library.”

“Damn. Do you know where he is? We sort of need him here.”

“Need him? Why? Rob, if there’s a medical emergency, call 911.”

“There’s something wrong with one of the cats,” Rob said. “I paged Clarence ten minutes ago, and he hasn’t answered, so I thought maybe Dad could help, but he isn’t answering either, and—”

“What do you mean, ‘something wrong’?”

“I can’t see any wounds or anything, but he’s howling in agony. You can probably hear it from there. Wait, I’ll hold the phone closer to him.”

Yes, I heard it. A prolonged “rrrrowl!” It did indeed sound like a cat in agony.

“Rob, which cat?”

“The fat yellow striped one. He’s just lying there in his crate, looking at me and howling horribly.”

“Rob, he’s a she, and she’s not fat, she’s pregnant. She’s probably about to give birth.”

“Oh, my God!”

Maybe I should have broken the news more gently. I could hear Rob beginning to hyperventilate.

“Calm down,” I said.

“What should I do? Where’s Dad? Why doesn’t Clarence answer?”

“Aren’t any of the other Corsicans there?”

I knew even as I was asking that of course there weren’t. Any of the other Corsicans would have known in an instant what was going on. And since Rob had been known to faint at the possibility of blood, he wasn’t exactly the best choice for a feline midwife.

“Fix her a box with something soft in it,” I said. “A blanket or a towel—not any of mine, please. Put it someplace quiet, like my office. She’ll probably do just fine until Clarence gets there.”

“But she sounds as if she’s in agony.”

Only Rob.

“She
is
in agony,” I said. “It’s called labor pains. She has my sympathy, but all she needs from you right now is a clean, safe, quiet place to get on with it.”

“Okay,” he said. “But can you come back and help? You’ve been through this—you’ll know what to do.”

“Roger.” I hung up. Then I stretched and looked at my watch. Odds were that by the time I got there, someone else would have taken pity on Rob and sent him to boil water or something. But it was probably time to collect Timmy and head home for some lunch.

Timmy was already provided for. Ms. Ellie had ordered in pizzas for her helpers, and a festive, if impromptu, party was in progress. Timmy didn’t look happy when I beckoned for him to go.

“You’re welcome to stay and have some pizza,” Ms. Ellie said.

“I need to check on the twins,” I said. To be perfectly accurate, I also wanted to pump some more milk for them in a place less crowded than the library, but I wasn’t fond of announcing that fact in public.

“Let him stay and help,” Ms. Ellie said. “I can drop him off this afternoon.”

Timmy beamed at the chance.

“Fine with me,” I said.

I grabbed a slice of the pizza to eat in the car on the way. I had plenty of time—the trip took longer than usual, because the town streets were still choked. Though there were fewer cars and buses bringing in volunteers and more vans and trucks hauling boxes out of town. If I’d had any doubt where the various town and county offices were located, I had only to glance down the street to see which ones had clusters of boxes and furniture on the sidewalk in front of them. The lavender-hatted garden ladies running in and out with potted plants in their purple-gloved hands were another dead giveaway.

While I was waiting for a volunteer to back a very large truck into a very small space at the town hall loading dock, I pulled out my cell phone and called Chief Burke.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Langslow?” he asked.

“I wanted to share something I heard,” I said. “Terence Mann has been blaming Parker Blair for his problems.”

“According to whom?”

“Mrs. Mann, who was down at the library packing books with me a little while ago.”

“Now that is interesting,” he said. “Did you find out anything else?”

“I thought of asking her if he’d started blaming Parker only in the last day or so or if he was already mad at him before the murder,” I said. “But I figured if I did, she’d know I suspected her husband of murder, and besides, you’d probably rather ask that yourself.”

“Good call,” he said.

“But she did volunteer that when her husband gets a new job—when, not if, because she’s expecting the county to fire him any day now—she may or may not be leaving with him.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, but it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What does she know that is suddenly making her want out of a marriage that seemed, up to now, pretty solid? But I figured that’s also something you’d rather find out for yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For the information and for your commendable self-restraint.”

He didn’t say “uncharacteristic self-restraint,” so I decided to accept that as a compliment.

The truck pulled out, freeing up the road ahead of me.

“Got to go,” I said. “Good luck.”

Halfway home, it occurred to me to wonder where all the visiting Hollingsworths were lunching. Not, I hoped, with us. To my relief, Mother had only invited a select few out to the house—a mere two dozen—and someone had had the sense to drop by the Caerphilly Market for provisions.

They all took turns trooping upstairs to inspect the twins, and out to the barn to view the animals, including an ever-increasing number of kittens from the yellow tabby. A fine time was had by all with the possible exception of Rob, who had recovered from his panic over the feline blessed event, but was now wandering around the house looking under chair cushions and in wastebaskets and drawers and behind pieces of furniture.

“Hasn’t anyone seen my video camera?” he kept wailing. “The most exciting thing to happen in this town since the Civil War, and I’m missing all of it!”