Read The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery for Free Online Page B

rather than in the legal system.
    “I told him he needed to talk to the owner of the property first,” Rob said. “I’ve set the stage—all you have to do is waltz in and squelch him.”
    “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    Rob raced out. I followed at a more sedate pace, putting on my sternest, most businesslike manner.
    “I still don’t see why the Corsicans can’t fend him off themselves,” I muttered.
    A small panel truck had backed up to the barn door. Its back doors were open and a ramp led up from the ground to the body of the truck.
    But nothing was being loaded. The barn doors were closed, and I could see Corsicans peering from most of the barn windows. Rob stood in front of the barn door, arms folded, looking very stern now that he had me to back him up.
    The driver of the truck was sitting on the truck bed beside the ramp. He was a lanky young man who looked barely old enough to drive, in a uniform clearly intended for someone several inches shorter and at least a hundred pounds heavier. He looked up when I approached, and scrambled to his feet.
    My appearance on the scene was greeted with cheers from the Corsicans.
    “Are you the owner?” the driver asked.
    “Of this property, yes,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
    “I have this paper,” he said.
    The Corsicans had begun chanting, “Hell, no! We won’t go!”
    I turned to Rob.
    “Please ask your fellow members of the committee to refrain from any action that would exacerbate the situation,” I told him.
    “Um … okay.” He took a few steps closer to the barn, and then stage whispered, “Hey! Meg says shut up.”
    Not precisely what I had in mind for him to do. I could have done that myself.
    I turned back to the kid in uniform. He handed me a sheet of paper.
    It was on stationery from the mayor’s office. The heading read “EXECUTIVE ORDER!!!”—not only in all caps but in boldface, in type several sizes larger than the body of the document.
    It was barely light, and yet already the mayor had not only found out about the animal shelter burglary, but had presumably rousted several hapless civil servants out of their beds—one to fetch the animals and one to type this document. He hadn’t done it himself. The lack of typos and spelling and grammar errors was a dead giveaway. But whoever had typed it could do nothing about his ghastly style.
    I had to read the text two times to realize that underneath all the bombast and persiflage was an order directing that the animals should return to the shelter. I had a brief, improbable vision of the animals gathering around to read the proclamation, and then forming an orderly procession to march back to town and surrender themselves. Under other circumstances, I might have found the whole thing funny. Of course, presumably the mayor was aware that even if the animals could read his order, they weren’t likely to comply, so he’d sent this kid to collect them. I recognized the uniform he was wearing now—the little logo on the pocket said, “Caerphilly County Solid Waste Department.”
    “You work at the county dump,” I said. “You’re not taking the animals to the dump, are you?”
    “No, ma’am,” he said. “Back to the animal shelter. All three of the shelter employees quit this morning, so the mayor sent me.”
    “Quit or got fired?” I asked.
    “Quit,” the kid said, with the ghost of a grin. “He called them up before dawn and told them to come out here to collect the animals or he’d fire them, and they all up and quit before he could do it.”
    Interesting. The animal shelter was technically owned by the county, but the county board allowed the town council to handle day-to-day operations. They did that with most of the county facilities located within the town limits because otherwise the council members had almost nothing to do, and spent way too much energy tweaking town parking zone restrictions and speed limits. But the county ran the dump