“You put out a BOLO on the bird?” I asked. From the expression on the chief’s face, I could tell he’d been about to ask the same question, although perhaps not in the same mild tone I’d used.
“I figured the bird was here during the murder,” Vern explained. “Maybe the killer realized he’d left a witness behind and came back to silence the parrot.”
“And it would have been an ingenious theory, if the bird actually was a parrot,” the chief said, in a much more gracious tone that I’d have expected.
A thought hit me.
“Chief—actually it is a pretty ingenious theory. Vern thought the bird was a parrot—so do more than half the people who’ve seen him in Robyn’s office. What if the killer thought so, too? Because if he thought Nimitz was a parrot, maybe he’s worried that Nimitz could repeat something that would identify him.”
The chief frowned, as if considering the idea and not altogether liking it. Vern had perked up at my suggestion and was watching the chief’s face.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” the chief said. “Where is the bird now?”
“At the moment, he’s in our barn,” I said. “But should you feel the need to inspect him, you’ll probably need to go out to the Caerphilly Zoo. Because that’s where I’m taking him first thing tomorrow morning. Or should I say later this morning?”
“No, tomorrow’s good,” Vern said. “Still five minutes of twelve.”
“First thing tomorrow morning, then,” I said. “And I’m going to tell as many people as possible that the miserable bird is out at the zoo. Because whoever was searching the church fired two shots at me, and if the bird really was what the shooter was looking for, I do not want him showing up at our house.”
“I don’t suppose you want him showing up at your grandfather’s zoo, either,” the chief pointed out.
“Not really,” I said. “But unlike our house, the zoo has a state-of-the-art security system.”
The chief nodded.
A brilliant light suddenly flooded the parking lot—evidently the fire department had gotten the first of its floodlights working.
“Go show them which way to aim the lights,” the chief told Vern.
Another fire engine was entering the parking lot, with several other cars behind it—including Rob’s sleek little blue convertible. I waved at the new arrivals.
Rob parked his car at the far end of the parking lot, the better to prevent his fellow first responders from sideswiping it in the excitement of their arrival. He might actually appreciate my taking the convertible out of harm’s way. Michael got out, already dressed in his bulky gear, and loped over to us. Behind him, I could see more firemen arriving, and a flatbed truck from the Shiffley Construction Company, loaded with more portable lights, was turning into the parking lot.
“Your chariot awaits, milady.” Michael handed me Rob’s keys, gave me a quick kiss, and hurried over to where the other firemen were setting up another light.
“I’m finished with the van,” Horace said. “You could actually take that if you want.”
I explained my plan of dropping off the Twinmobile for repair, and the chief promised to arrange it. Horace helped me gather all the baseball gear, shake out the million little cubes of glass, pack everything in the baseball bags, and stow those in Rob’s car—in the passenger seat, since the convertible’s trunk space was so minuscule as to be nonexistent for all practical purposes. The donation and recycling boxes would have to wait.
“Oh, we’re going to have to keep your clock for the time being,” Horace said.
“My clock?”
“The one that was in this box.” Horace was pointed to the box of stuff I’d be taking to Dr. Womble. “One of the bullets ended up embedded in it. We’ll give it back when we’re finished with it.”
“Actually, it’s Dr. Womble’s clock,” I said. “And since he left it behind when he retired and has been doing without it for at least five years, I don’t think he’ll mind if you keep it as long as you need to.”
“That’s good,” Horace said. “’Cause it’s pretty much toast, that clock.”
“Do you think you can fit that box in as well?” I asked. “I want to take it to Dr. Womble tomorrow.”
“Sure.” Horace hefted the box and managed to wedge it in the convertible’s passenger seat along with the baseball bags.
As he was doing so, a sudden blinding light flooded the entire parking lot. A helicopter hovered overhead, shining its spotlights down on the crime scene. Strange that I hadn’t noticed the noise of its arrival. Then again, the firemen and the construction workers were making such a racket that the helicopter hadn’t stood out all that much. And the increased light revealed that not all the police vehicles in the parking lot were from Caerphilly. Evidently the chief had called for reinforcements from nearby jurisdictions.
Several Shiffleys who trained tracking dogs had arrived and were unloading their charges—a mixed crew of Labradors and bloodhounds. I wasn’t sure I understood just how the dogs were supposed to figure out which of the many human scents that might be found in the church was the intruder. I had visions of the dogs leading their handlers unerringly to the homes of the various vestry members. Perhaps I should warn Mother.
The chief and Randall Shiffley were standing by the chief’s car, looking up at the helicopter, their hands shading their eyes against the light. It looked like an outtake from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
“FBI, you think?” Randall asked.
“More likely the State Police,” the chief replied.
I decided to assume the arrival of the helicopter would turn out to be the high point of the evening. I climbed into Rob’s convertible, shoved one of the baseball bags aside so I could reach the gearshift, and headed for home.
I had to admit I was a little anxious about parking Rob’s car in the shed he’d fixed up to keep it in. By way of distraction, I contemplated what an eyesore it was. All the other sheds that had littered our yard when we first bought the house had either been fixed up, torn down, or hauled away. Granted the shed was in as unobtrusive a spot as possible, but still—an eyesore. Rob’s idea was that no one would look for an expensive convertible in such a run-down building. Tonight, it occurred to me that if anyone were looking for a good place to hide from the police—or to lurk while keeping an eye on our house for someone to return—the shed would seem perfect. Maybe I could get Rob to allow a little cleanup by pointing that out.
Tomorrow. Tonight I had to brave the shed to park the convertible.
But not alone. Before driving out there, I stopped at the back door to let the dogs out.
Tinkerbell, Rob’s Irish wolfhound, bounded joyfully over and gave me several sloppy doggy kisses before scampering off to a discreet corner to pee. Spike trotted out and stared accusingly at me for a few moments as if to ask what I’d done with the boys—Josh and Jamie were the twin lights of his life, and he only tolerated Michael and me because he’d learned from experience that biting us upset the boys. Then he sat down on the porch and stared up at the sky as if hoping the boys would return by helicopter.
“I was hoping for a little canine protection service,” I muttered as I got back in the convertible and drove it to the shed. But I reminded myself that if there had been anyone in there—or anywhere else in the yard—the dogs would be all over him. On at least one occasion, Tinkerbell’s strenuous efforts to make a new friend had so terrified a would-be burglar that he’d panicked and fled, leaving behind a full kit of lockpicks, glass cutters, and other housebreaking tools that Dad had found fascinating to play with. And Spike had a long history of chasing away intruders, although his zeal was made less helpful by the fact that his definition of intruders included quite a few people we actually wanted to visit us for the purpose of delivering things, fixing things, or just having dinner with us.
The dogs followed me back inside and accepted treats in return for their bodyguard duties. Then they disappeared. I could hear Tinkerbell’s toenails clacking down the hall to the living room, where she liked to sleep in front of the fireplace, even in the hottest days of August when it contained nothing but a large arrangement of dried flowers. Spike headed upstairs to wait in Jamie’s room. He normally started the night sleeping with Jamie, who tended to fade much earlier in the evening than his brother. At some point in the wee small hours, Spike would trot across the hall to finish the night with Josh, who liked to sleep until noon on days when he didn’t have to get up for school.
Alas, Spike would be waiting in vain tonight.
The house was very quiet. Rose Noire was on a camping trip with several like-minded herb fanciers who wanted to gather something or other under a full moon. And for once we had no other visiting relatives staying with us. Not only had the shooter tried to kill me, he’d also ruined one of the few chances Michael and I had had lately for a quiet romantic evening together.
Although I couldn’t manage to stay awake long enough to work up a good head of resentment over that.
I woke briefly when Michael returned home at around 3:00 A.M. I wanted to ask him if they’d caught the shooter, but by the time I was awake enough to string a coherent sentence together, he was fast asleep.
So I lapsed back into slumber myself.