"Whoever did it wasn't stealing the macaw because it was valuable," I said. "It was, but that's irrelevant. They were stealing it because it belonged to Parker Blair."

Now I had his attention.

"What was it doing in the shelter, then?"

"Someone pretended to have found it in their yard and turned it in at the shelter as a ruse for doing some preburglary reconnoitering."

He closed his eyes and growled slightly.

"I have no idea if the reconnoitering was essential," I said. "Maybe the Corsicans just liked the drama of it all. The plan was that Parker would just take back his bird when they turned the other animals over to him."

"It's starting to make a little sense," he said. "But why would the killer-assuming it was the killer-want to steal the bird? You're not suggesting the killer was after the bird all the time? And struck too soon, before Parker had regained possession of it?"

"No, stealing the bird didn't become essential until after the murder," I said. "The macaw talks, remember?"

"I remember," he said. "All too well. Filthy-mouthed bird."

"It's not the bird's fault," I said. "He has no idea what he's saying. An African gray parrot might-there are people who claim that they've taught African grays not just to repeat sounds but to use language. Some of them have linguistic skills equal to that of a three- or four-year-old child, and-"

"But this is a macaw, not a parrot," he said. He didn't quite come out and say "Stick to the point, dammit!" but I got the message. I was starting to sound like Dad.

"A macaw's a kind of parrot," I said. "I gather from what Clarence has said that they're not the best at talking and mimicking other sounds, but not too shabby, either. The killer must be afraid the macaw would repeat something that would give us a clue to his identity."

"Something the macaw overheard?" He sounded dubious. "Like someone plotting to kill Mr. Blair?"

"Maybe," I said. "Usually parrots only repeat things they hear over and over again. The smarter the parrot, the less repetition, but most of the time it still takes some repetition. Sometimes, though, a parrot can pick up something after hearing it just once if it's said with enough emotion. So even if you don't swear a lot, if you shout out a four-letter word when you hit your thumb with a hammer, the parrot finds that interesting and exciting and tends to remember it."

"I don't think that can explain away that macaw's unfortunate vocabulary," the chief said.

"No, that's obviously the result of long-term eavesdropping, or maybe even a dedicated effort to corrupt the poor bird. But if the macaw overheard something that made Parker particularly mad, sad, glad, or whatever..."

An image sprang up in my mind: Mayor Pruitt delivering one of his infamous red-faced rants to Parker Blair with a Prussian blue macaw lurking in the background, absorbing every word and repeating a few particularly vehement threats. The chief was frowning, as if completing a similar image.

"Interesting," he said finally. "Of course, it would seem a lot more relevant if we'd found the bird at the crime scene. Since we know that the bird was either at the shelter or in the possession of your grandfather and his accomplices for the entire period during which the murder occurred, it can't possibly be a witness."

He paused for a moment and frowned as if a sudden disturbing thought had occurred to him.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I can't believe I'm seriously discussing the possibility that a macaw could be a witness to a murder," he said. "Do you have any idea what the DA would say if I even suggested it?"

I had a brief but vivid picture of the macaw sitting in the witness box at the Caerphilly courthouse, cocking his head as the DA tried to interrogate him.

"Not as a witness," I said. "And lucky for him, too, because I've seen Judge Jane hand out contempt of court sentences for language nowhere near as foul as his. But even though he wasn't there when the murder happened, he could have overheard-and learned to repeat-something that would give you a clue. An argument between Parker and the killer for example."

"Or an argument between Mr. Blair and a completely innocent party," the chief said. "Even if we had the macaw, we'd have no way of knowing if anything it said was relevant."

"The killer must think the macaw knows something," I said. "Something worth the risk of burgling our house."

"And worth assaulting your grandfather." He scribbled a few lines in his notebook. "I'll keep it in mind if-when we apprehend your grandfather's assailant. You seem rather knowledgeable about parrots."

"Only what I've overheard from Dad," I said. "He took an interest in parrots a few years back. He could tell you a lot more about it."

"Yes," the chief said, sounding tired. "I'm sure he could."

"Or Clarence," I suggested. He nodded. Clarence was slightly less likely to give him a two-hour dissertation on the curious habits of the hyacinth macaw-but only slightly.

The chief nodded and scribbled some more. He didn't look particularly happy with the information I'd brought him.

"So to solve the murder," he said finally. "All I have to do is find a miserable talking bird and listen to it until it tells me who did it?"

"That might work," I said. "If the killer is right that the macaw says something significant. 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 them exclaimed, shoving forward a pot containing a peace lily.

I knew what a peace lily looked like, but I was surprised to hear that one had gotten so large that a pair of the abler garden ladies couldn't carry it, especially since they had the sturdy luggage carrier to help them.

I inspected the nearby peace lily. It looked healthy enough, but around the size I'd expect a peace lily to be. Not at all unmanageable. I could see them looking at it and, no doubt, realizing what I was thinking.

"Only bigger," one of them said after a few moments.

"Oh, yes!" another said. "Much bigger."

"Much!" Several others chimed in.

"Enormous!"

"Yes, it should be quite a well-grown specimen," the lady with the clipboard said. "And there's also a large Ficus benjamina in room 301. And if you see any other potted plants that we've forgotten, just snag them while you're there."

I was pretty sure now that the problem wasn't the size of the plants but their location.

"Okay," I said. "Rooms 201, 301. Peace lily, ficus, anything else that's green."

"Excellent!" the clipboard lady said. She handed me a pair of purple gardening gloves. Not a bad idea if I was going to be doing manual labor, so I put them on, to the delight of the garden club ladies.

I folded up the luggage carrier and tucked it under my arm. Coming back with the plants, I could use the handicapped access ramp, but for now it was shorter to climb the marble steps, and easier to carry the folded luggage cart than drag it.

When I reached the top of the steps, I glanced down and saw them all clustered together, staring anxiously up at me as if I were going into battle. I stopped in the lobby at the building directory to see what perils awaited me in 201 and 301.

Aha. Room 201 was the county manager's office.

Room 301 was the office of the mayor.

"Wonderful," I muttered.

"What's that?" chirped a cheerful voice behind me.

I glanced around and saw what looked, at first, like a giant ambulatory spider plant, creeping slowly along the marble floor of the lobby. Closer inspection revealed that the top of the plant was suspended from a purple gardening glove. Presumably one of the shorter garden club ladies was hidden beneath the impressively thick curtain of trailing fronds with baby spider plants at their ends.

"Can I help you with that?" I asked.

"Oh, no," the voice said, and the plant rustled and quivered as if the hidden garden lady was shaking her head vigorously. "I'm doing fine. Carry on! Good luck!"

Good luck? Did she think I'd need it?

I pressed the elevator button and watched as she crept away. As I stepped into the elevator, I found myself thinking it was a pity Rob wasn't here with his little video camera.

When I stepped out of the elevator, I saw, directly ahead of me, a set of stout mahogany double doors with "201" stenciled on them in gold leaf and an old-fashioned Gothic typeface. A brass plaque on the wall beside the doors read "Office of the County Manager." The right door was ajar. Odd that it would be open on a Sunday. Of course, this was no normal Sunday.

I peered in.

I'd expected an antechamber with a secretary, but apparently the county manager didn't quite rate that. Still, it was a largish office, decorated in the same neutral colors and conservative style you found throughout the town hall. And like many other public spaces in the county, the room's walls were blighted by hideous, oversized oil paintings illustrating scenes from Caerphilly's history and geography, painted in the thirties and forties by a Pruitt with artistic ambitions and no discernible talent.

The painting I could see from the doorway showed a group of townspeople with pudgy Pruitt faces and stiff-ruffed early seventeenth-century costumes, being fawned over by several dozen obsequious, scantily clad Indians. Clearly a figment of the artist's imagination rather than a genuine historical scene. Neck ruffs had been passe for decades by the time the town was founded, and the Pruitts hadn't showed up until the late 1800s. Of course, the ruffs did hide the fact that the artist hadn't the slightest idea of how to paint the human neck. Thanks to the ruffs, the townspeople looked fairly normal-normal for Pruitts, anyway-but the Indians all looked as if someone had pounded their heads a little way into their bodies.

I'd have replaced that horror with something more to my taste on day one. Was it significant that none of our recent county managers had?

I took a step into the room and saw Terence Mann standing beside a bookcase, gazing at its contents. His back was to me.

The enemy. Okay, not the major enemy, and probably not one we'd be stuck with in the long term if the opinions expressed at last night's meeting were anything to go by. Still, however satisfying it might be to bash him in absentia, apparently none of the garden club members could bring themselves to confront him in person.

I found I was rather looking forward to it. I took a deep, calming breath and knocked on the half-open door.

"Come in." The look on his face when he turned around was anything but welcoming. Not quite fear, perhaps, but definitely a lot of anxiety.

And then, after he'd studied me for a few seconds, his long, bland face relaxed. Now he just looked melancholy.