The Real MacAw by Donna Andrews

cleaning out the mess they’d made in our living room was exactly my responsibility.
    Of course, fat chance getting Rose Noire to understand that. She was clearly in her Joan of Arc mode, head held high, eyes blazing, passionately sharing the suffering of the lost and abandoned animals of the world. Cleaning dung and fur out of our living room was low on her priority list.
    I understood. But I also knew that I’d been up since about 2:00 A.M. and I was already at the ragged edge of exhaustion. I counted to ten and choked back several biting things that I’d probably regret later.
    “Maybe you could talk to the rest of the Corsicans and see if anyone would like to take a break from tending the animals to do a bit of cleaning,” I said finally. “Because I don’t have the time or energy to do it anytime soon, and the longer it waits, the nastier it’s going to get. God help us if Mother sees it like that.”
    I strode out of the kitchen and headed upstairs to check on the twins. If neither of them needed feeding or changing, maybe now would be a good time to pump their next meal. And then start a load of diapers. And then—
    “Meg?”
    I paused halfway up the stairs and glanced down to see Rose Noire staring up at me with an astonished look on her face and her mouth hanging open.
    “Yes?” I said.
    I watched as a series of expressions flitted across her face. Shock, outrage, and then a look of intense sympathy and compassion.
    “Of course,” she said. “You do look exhausted. You should get some rest.”
    “Thank you.” I turned to continue up the stairs.
    “After all,” she called after me, “we have a murder to deal with. I’m sure that’s going to take a lot of your time.”
    I paused for a second. I considered saying that with two infants on my hands, not to mention assorted family members and guests underfoot, it was extremely unlikely that I was going to get involved in any murder investigation, especially not a murder at the other side of the county of someone I hardly knew.
    But that would only start an argument. I murmured thanks and continued upstairs.
    After all, before I disavowed any interest in the murder, I should make triple sure none of my family or friends was involved. I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew knocking off someone who was in the middle of committing an animal rescue, however bizarre and misguided. Then again, I didn’t know that much about Parker, apart from the fact that he had a reputation as a small-town Romeo. What else did he do when he wasn’t rescuing animals? Maybe I’d try to find out tomorrow.
    Or maybe I should just mind my own business.
    So should I go back to nap on the recliner in the boys’ room, or collapse into my own bed for a change?
    I had just reached the top of the stairs and was hovering between the two alternatives when the nursery door opened and Michael stepped out with a twin on each shoulder.
    “You’re already up!” Michael exclaimed. “Here, if you can take one of the boys, I’ll go downstairs and start breakfast.”
    So much for catching up on my sleep.

Chapter 5
    “More blueberry pancakes?”
    I shook my head. More pancakes was an impossibility, because so far I hadn’t had any. I couldn’t quite face breakfast yet. I envied Josh and Jamie, who were happily playing in their crib across the kitchen and could eat and sleep on their own schedules.
    I gulped more of my coffee. Decaf coffee, of course, since I didn’t want to caffeinate the twins, so any effect it had would be purely psychological.
    “More blueberry pancakes, Timmy?” Michael asked.
    Timmy, our five-year-old houseguest, nodded enthusiastically.
    “What’s he doing here?” my grandfather asked, pointing a fork dripping with maple syrup at Timmy.
    “Eating breakfast,” Michael said. “Don’t mind him,” he added to Timmy, who was looking suddenly anxious. “He’s just cranky before he’s had enough coffee.”
    “Am not,” Grandfather growled.
    “Are too.”