The Real MacAw by Donna Andrews Page B

make Lenny Bruce blush.”
    “I know,” I said. “I met the macaw last night, remember?”
    “I don’t want Timmy picking up any bad habits from the damned bird.” Michael was already working to reform his own vocabulary, not that he’d ever been as bad as the macaw.
    “For that matter, we don’t want the boys to hear too much of him,” I said.
    “No way the macaw is staying long enough for the boys to be influenced,” Michael said. “Or any of the other animals.”
    “I agree,” I said. “No matter what Dad and Grandfather may think.”
    But I was relieved to hear that Michael was so adamant, since he was a sucker for stray animals himself. Only a month ago he’d brought home a half-blind elderly rescue llama that brought our herd to four. Of course the llamas stayed out in their pasture, and throwing out feed for four wasn’t that much more work than feeding three, but still.
    “So,” I said. “What’s our schedule for the day? Apart from T-Ball at one?”
    I flourished my notebook. Michael reached into his pocket, pulled out his small Day-Timer notebook and flipped it open.
    “My Friday afternoon class ends at two thirty,” he said. “Do you want me to come back home and pitch in with the childcare, or do the grocery shopping?”
    “I’d love to do the grocery shopping,” I said. “And I freely warn you that I feel that way because with all these animals underfoot, things will be crazy around here.”
    “My plan is to use the animals to keep Timmy amused, and guilt-trip a few of the Corsicans into giving me a hand with the twins,” Michael said.
    I thought of pointing out how difficult it would be, sticking to a plan with the twins on your hands, an ancillary kindergartener underfoot, the barn filled with stolen animals, and a murder investigation underway. But he already knew that.
    And for the moment, the Corsicans did seem to have the animal care well in hand. During the interval between breakfast and my departure for Timmy’s ball game, they only interrupted me about four or five times an hour, which meant that I had more than enough time to handle my few chores: feeding, burping, washing, and dressing the twins; gathering up four times as many dishes as usual and putting as many of them as possible into the dishwasher; dumping all the towels and other washable linens soiled by the animals by the washer; rolling up a small piddled-on area rug so I could drop it at the carpet cleaners, chivvying Timmy into his uniform and then loading him, his T-Ball gear, the babies, and all their accoutrements into the Twinmobile, as Michael and I called the used minivan we’d acquired to handle our suddenly expanded family.
    On my way to the ballfield I passed more than the usual number of cars heading out toward our house on our relatively peaceful country road. More Corsicans volunteering to help out, I hoped. Or maybe even aspiring pet owners coming to view the selection.
    “Meg,” Timmy asked. “Where did all those puppies come from?”
    He wasn’t really asking that question, was he? I decided to answer him more literally.
    “From the animal shelter.”
    “But how did they all fit?” he asked. “It’s not that big.”
    “They didn’t fit very well,” I said. “So—”
    “Is that why the nasty mayor was going to kill them all?”
    Glancing in the rearview mirror, I could see that his normally cheerful face was frowning thunderously. Mayor Pruitt had lost another future voter.
    And I saw no reason not to tell him the truth.
    “That’s pretty much the reason,” I said. “Not enough space, and also feeding all those animals costs a lot of money.”
    “But they’re safe now with you and Michael, right? You won’t let him have them back.”
    I winced.
    “Yes,” I said. “They’re safe. The Corsicans will take care of them until they find permanent homes.”
    But what would the Corsicans do if the crisis turned into a siege?
    Not something I could solve right now. We turned into