The Real Macaw (Meg Langslow Series #13)by Donna Andrews
Meg juggles twins, murder, and a back-talking bird in the next side-splittingly funny installment in the award-winning, New York Times bestselling series
During a 2am feeding for her four-month-old twins, Meg Langslow hears an odd noise and goes downstairs to find her living room filled with dozens of animals—cats, dogs, hamsters, gerbils,/p>/i>
Meg juggles twins, murder, and a back-talking bird in the next side-splittingly funny installment in the award-winning, New York Times bestselling series
During a 2am feeding for her four-month-old twins, Meg Langslow hears an odd noise and goes downstairs to find her living room filled with dozens of animals—cats, dogs, hamsters, gerbils, rabbits, guinea pigs, and a stunningly foul-mouthed macaw. She soon learns that financial woes have caused the local animal shelter to repeal its no-kill policy.
Her kindhearted father, her zoologist grandfather, and other like-minded citizens have stolen all the shelter's animals, both as a gesture of protest and to protect them until the hated policy can be repealed. But the volunteer who was to transport the animals to new homes has been murdered. Was it the victim's tangled love life that drove someone to murder? Or the dark secrets behind local politics? And will Meg ever succeed in finding homes for all the animals that have landed in her life?
Full of the hilarious shenanigans – avian as well as human – that have come to surround Meg and her eccentric band of friends and family, the latest from the one and only Donna Andrews will have you laughing until the very last page: it's The Real Macaw!
“If you long for more fun mysteries, a la Janet Evanovich, you'll love Donna Andrews's Meg Langslow series.” Charlotte Observer
“A long-running series that gets better all the time. A fine blend of academic satire, screwball comedy, and murder.” Booklist
“Six Geese A-Slaying produces at least one chuckle--and sometimes a guffaw--per page. Joy to the world, indeed.” Richmond Times-Dispatch
Caerphilly, Va., goes bust, leaving its detritus all over Meg Langslow's property.
It's a tribute to the wacky world created in Meg's first 11 adventures (Stork Raving Mad,2010, etc.) that when she hears animal noises downstairs during a 2 a.m. feeding of her infant twins, it never occurs to either her or the reader that they represent anything dangerous or criminal. Indeed, the menagerie ensconced in her living room—enough animals for Noah, it seems—has been brought there by her physician father, her irascible grandfather and their fellow members of the Committee Opposed to the Ruthless Slaughter of Innocent Captive Animals (CORSICA). Now that financial pressures have forced the town's animal shelter to revisit its no-kill policy, CORSICA stalwarts have liberated its inmates and brought them all to Meg's. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. Under the dubious leadership of Mayor Pruitt, Caerphilly has run up a ruinous debt secured by the town's public buildings. Now the faceless (but Pruitt-friendly) bank is poised to foreclose, seizing both the town's assets and, under the law of eminent domain, the farms belonging to Meg's family and her neighbors. It's enough to make you forget the murder of Parker Blair, whose plan to start placing all those animals in good homes was cut short by a bullet. But figuring out whodunit doesn't look half as hard as pulling Caerphilly back from the brink of financial disaster.
Surprisingly, Andrews, sobering up measurably after her curtain-raiser, spends most of her time and energy solving Parker's murder, leaving his hometown's troubles to recede almost of their own accord in an undeservedly upbeat epilogue.
Read an Excerpt
The Real Macaw
By Donna Andrews
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2011 Donna Andrew
All rights reserved.
"Stop!" I hissed. "Bad dog! Don't you dare bite me!"
Spike, aka the Small Evil One, froze with his tiny, sharp teeth a few inches from my ankle. He looked up and growled slightly.
From one of the cribs across the room I heard another of the faint, cranky whimpers I'd detected over the baby monitor. Jamie always woke up slowly and fussed softly for a few minutes, which gave us a fighting chance of getting to the nursery to feed him before he revved up to cry so loudly that he woke his twin brother. Josh never bothered with any kind of warning, going from fast asleep to wailing like a banshee in two seconds or less.
"I mean it," I said to Spike. "No more treats. No more sleeping in your basket here in the nursery. If you bite me again, you're out of here. Back to the barn."
Do animals understand our words or do they just pick up meaning from our tone of voice? Either way, Spike got the message.
He sniffed at my ankle. Pretending to recognize my scent, he wagged his tail perfunctorily. Then he trotted back to his basket, turned around the regulation three times, curled up, and appeared to fall asleep.
I tiptoed over to Jamie's crib in time to pick him up and shove the bottle in his mouth a split second before he began shrieking.
I settled down in the recliner and leaned back slightly. Not for the first time, I felt a surge of gratitude to my grandfather, who had given us the recliner and helped me fight off all Mother's attempts to banish it as an eyesore from the nursery she had decorated so elegantly in soft tones of lavender and moss green.
Eventually, Jamie finished his milk and fell asleep. I gazed down at him with maternal affection — and maybe just a guilty hint of gratitude that he and his noisier brother were, for the moment, both fast asleep and not demanding anything of me.
I pondered whether to get up, put him in his crib, and go back to bed, or whether it would be just as efficient to doze here until Josh woke up for his next bottle. If I dozed here, I could turn off the baby monitor and make sure Michael got a full night's sleep, so he'd be well rested for teaching his Friday classes.
Or should I rouse myself to pump some milk for the boys' next meal? I glanced at the clock — a little after 2:00 A.M. Dozing was winning when an unfamiliar noise woke me up.
It was a dog barking. And not Spike's bark, either. At eight and a half pounds, Spike tried his best, but could never have produced the deep basso "woof!" I'd just heard.
Or had I just imagined it? I wriggled upright and stared over at Spike.
He was sitting up and looking at me.
"Did you hear anything?" I whispered.
He cocked his head, almost as if he understood.
We both listened in silence for a moment. Well, almost silence. I could still hear the faint, almost restful sounds of the white noise machine we ran at night to minimize the chances of some stray sound waking up the boys.
Just as I was about to relax back into the recliner, I heard another noise. This time it sounded more like a cat meowing.
Spike lifted his head and growled slightly.
"Shush," I said.
There was a time when shushing Spike would have egged him on. But almost as soon as we'd brought the twins home, he had appointed himself their watchdog and guardian. His self-assigned duties — barking whenever he thought they needed anything, and then biting anyone who showed up to take care of their needs — were made all the more strenuous by the fact that in spite of our efforts, the boys maintained completely opposite sleep schedules, so there was nearly always at least one twin awake and requiring Spike's attention. After four months, like Michael and me, he'd learned to grab every second of sleep he could.
He curled back up on the lavender and moss-green cushion in his bed and appeared to doze off. He looked so innocent when asleep. An adorable eight-and-a-half-pound furball. What would happen when the boys started crawling, and mistook him for a stuffed animal?
I'd worry about that later.
I sat up carefully to avoid waking Jamie, and managed to deposit him, still sleeping, on the soft, lavender flannel sheet in his crib. I glanced over to make sure Josh was still snoozing in his own little moss-green nest. Then I tiptoed over to the nursery door, opened it, and listened.
I could hear rustling sounds that weren't coming from the white noise machine. Soft whines. An occasional bark. Meows. Cat hisses.
Probably only someone in the living room watching Animal Planet on the big-screen TV and being inconsiderate about the volume. Most likely my brother Rob, and it was just that sort of behavior that had inspired us to get the white noise machine.
But white noise wouldn't keep the growing commotion downstairs from waking Michael, who had to work tomorrow. Or five-year-old Timmy, our newly acquired long-term houseguest, who needed to be up early for kindergarten.
Unless of course Timmy was downstairs with Rob, watching television on a school night again.
Definitely a dog, and not Spike, and it sounded a little too immediate to be coming from the television. Had Rob, miffed that Spike had deserted him for the twins, acquired a new four-legged friend? Or perhaps the local burglars were celebrating Bring Your Dog to Work Day.
I turned the monitor back on, slipped out of the nursery, and closed the door behind me. Now that I didn't have the white noise machine to mask it, I could hear rather a lot of animal noises. A few barks and yelps. And an occasional howl that sounded more like a cat. Definitely not burglars, unless they'd stopped in midcrime to watch Animal Planet. Time to go downstairs and see what was up. I didn't exactly tiptoe, but I moved as quietly as possible. If someone had smuggled in a contraband menagerie, I wanted to catch them red-handed.
I stopped long enough to peek into the guest room that had become, for the time being, Timmy's room. He was fast asleep with his stuffed black cat clutched under one chubby arm. Under any other circumstances, I'd have been tempted to fetch the digital camera and take a photo I could e- mail to his mother to prove that yes, he'd settled in fine and was enjoying his stay. And maybe ask again if she knew just how long that stay would be. But that could wait. I shut his door to keep out the increasing din and crept downstairs to track the din to its source.
No dogs festooning the tall oak staircase or lurking in the front hall. I even glanced up at the double-height ceiling, because my first martial arts teacher had railed about how most people never looked up and were thus remarkably easy to ambush from above. No dogs or cats perched on the exposed beams, and no bats or ninjas hanging from the chandelier.
I stopped outside the wide archway to the living room, reached inside to flip on the light switch, and stepped into the room.
"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed.
The room was entirely filled with animals.
A dozen or so dogs, ranging in size from terriers to something not much smaller than a horse, were in the middle of the floor, lapping up water from several serving dishes from my best china set. Bevies of cats were perched on the oak mantel and on the tops of the bookshelves, some gobbling cat food from antique china dishes while others spit and hissed at the dogs and uttered unearthly howling noises. One irritable-faced Persian was hawking strenuously, apparently trying to launch a hairball at our wedding photo.
Several rows of crates and animal carriers were ranged up and down both sides of the room, some empty, while in others I could see eyes and noses of dogs and cats peering out at their liberated brethren and perhaps wondering when their turn for the food and drink would come.
A tiny black kitten was licking the oriental rug — had we spilled milk there or did he just like the taste of rug?
A Siamese cat had ventured down from the mantel and sat atop a leather photo album on our coffee table, fixedly eyeing a cage in which a small brown hamster was running frantically in his wheel, as if hoping that he could propel the cage away from the cat with enough effort. Several less anxious hamsters and guinea pigs gazed down from cages perched on other bits of furniture.
On our new sofa, an Afghan hound sprawled with careless elegance, like a model artfully posing for a photographer, its white fur vivid against the deep turquoise fabric.
"Hiya, babe! How's about it?"
A bright blue parrot was fluttering in a cage just inside the door. I eyed him sternly, and he responded with a wolf whistle.
"Meg! Uh ... what are you doing awake at this hour?"
My father had popped up from behind the sofa. He was holding a small beagle puppy in each hand. The two puppies were struggling to get at each other, and from the soprano growling that erupted from behind the sofa, I suspected there were other juvenile beagles still on the floor, tussling.
"I was feeding the boys," I said. "What the hell are you and all these animals doing here?"
Dad looked uncomfortable. His eyes scanned the room as if seeking a safe place to set down the beagles, though I suspected he was merely avoiding meeting my eyes.
"We won't be here long," said a voice behind me.
The tall, lanky form of my grandfather appeared in the hall. He was carrying two Limoges soup tureens full of water.
"If you were thinking of giving those to the dogs, think again," I said. "They belong to Mother, who will eviscerate you if you break them."
"Oh," he said. "They were just stuck on a high shelf in the pantry — I thought they were things you didn't use much."
"We don't use them much, mainly because they're expensive antiques that Mother lent us for that big christening party we threw last weekend," I said. "And they were on a high shelf in the pantry to keep them as safe as possible until we got a chance to return them. I can show you some crockery you can use, but first I want to know what all these animals are doing here."
"It's no use," came another voice. "The window's too small."
I turned to see the enormous leather-clad form of Clarence Rutledge, the local veterinarian. Since Grandfather was an avid animal welfare activist and Dad a sucker for anything on four legs, the menagerie in our living room was beginning to make a little more sense. But only a little.
"You were trying to break into the barn, I suppose." They all looked a little startled at what I assumed was a correct guess. "We keep it locked, since all my expensive blacksmithing equipment is out there. But I might be persuaded to unlock it, if somebody could just tell me what the hell is going on."
They all exchanged looks. One of the beagles Dad was still holding began peeing on him. He rushed to deposit the offender on a nest of newspapers in a corner.
I fixed my gaze on Grandfather.
"It's all Parker's fault," he said. "If he'd showed up on time, we never would have come here. I'm going to call him again."
As if that had explained everything, he stumped over to our living room phone.
"Want to use this?" My father held out his beloved iPhone.
"No, I want a real phone," Grandfather said. He began dialing a number from memory.
I looked at Clarence.
"It's a matter of life or death!" he exclaimed. He clasped his hands as if pleading for mercy, clenching them so hard that the tattooed ferrets on his burly forearms writhed.
I looked at Dad. The weather was mild, not warm, and yet his bald head glistened. Nerves, probably. A trickle of sweat began running down his face, and he dabbed at it absentmindedly with the puppy.
"Just why is our living room filled with dogs, cats, puppies, kittens, hamsters, guinea pigs, and parrots?"
"Only the one parrot," he said. "A macaw, actually — very interesting species."
"Hiya, babe!" the macaw said.
"Whatever," I said. "Why are they here?"
"It's because of that new county manager," Dad said.
"Horrible man," Clarence muttered.
"You mean Terence Mann?" I asked.
"Dammit, Parker, answer your bloody phone!" Grandfather snarled into the receiver.
"Hey, Clarence!" My brother, Rob, bounced into the room. "There's a window open on the second story of the barn! So if you can help me haul the ladder over, we can — Oh. Hi, Meg."
"Hi," I said. "What's your version?"
"My version?" Rob looked guilty for a moment. He fiddled with the black knit cap that concealed his shaggy blond hair, then his face cleared. "I was helping Dad and Granddad."
"Helping them do what?"
"Foil the new county manager," Dad repeated. "That Mann fellow. He's cutting the budget right and left."
"Probably because the town of Caerphilly will go bankrupt if he doesn't," I said.
"And most of his cuts we can understand, no matter how much we hate them," Clarence said. "Cutting back on the library hours."
"And the free clinic hours," Dad added.
"Postponing the teachers' raises," Rob said.
"But then he decided that the town animal shelter was too expensive," Grandfather said. "So he said the town could no longer afford for it to be a no-kill shelter."
"Can he do that?" I asked.
"Well, in the long run, probably not," Clarence said. "Public opinion is against it, about four to one. But we were afraid that some of the animals might be harmed before we could convince him to reverse his policy."
"So you adopted all of the animals from the shelter?" I asked.
"No, actually we burgled the place and stole them," Rob said.
"Wonderful," I said. "Our living room isn't just filled with animals. It's filled with stolen animals."
"Rescued animals," Grandfather said.
A burglary. Well, at least that explained why all four of them were dressed completely in black. Individually, none of them looked particularly odd, but anyone who saw the four of them skulking about together in their inky garb would be instantly suspicious.
"Did you really think you could get away with it?" I asked aloud.
"We don't care if we get away with it," Grandfather said, striking his noblest pose.
"Once the animals are safely out of his clutches, we don't care what happens to us," Dad said, following suit.
"And we knew Mann would quickly figure out that prosecuting us wouldn't do him much good in the eyes of the public," the more practical Clarence added.
I looked around. Okay, the animals were refugees. They might have been saved from an untimely death. Of course, that didn't make it any less annoying to see them lying on, shedding on, and in a few cases, chewing or peeing on our rugs and furniture. At least, thanks to the child gates we'd recently put up in all the doorways in case the boys started crawling early, the livestock weren't free to roam the whole house.
"The problem is that they're not safely out of his clutches," I said. "What now? Were you planning on hiding them in our barn until you change the county manager's mind?"
"We weren't going to bring them here at all." Dad plopped down on the sofa with a sigh. The Afghan hound scrambled over to put its head in his lap. The patch of upholstery it had vacated was covered with so much shed fur that it looked like tweed. "We'd arranged to have them taken to new permanent or foster homes outside the county," Dad went on.
"Outside the state, in fact," Grandfather said. "Parker Blair made the arrangements."
"He has that big truck he uses to make deliveries from his furniture store," Dad explained.
"We were going to meet Parker at midnight down by the haunted graveyard, load all the animals on his truck, and there you have it!" Rob exclaimed. "Like The Great Escape, with poodles."
"Unfortunately, Parker hasn't shown up," Grandfather said. "I've been leaving messages for nearly two hours now. Not sure what the holdup is, but as soon as he gets here, we can load the animals and have them out of your hair. But in the meantime —"
"Shhh!" Clarence hissed. He was peering out one of our front windows. "It's the cops!"
Everyone froze — even the animals, who seemed to sense danger.
I strolled over to the window and looked out.
"It's only Chief Burke," I said.
"Oh, no!" Dad wailed.
"We're lost," Clarence muttered.
"Get rid of him," my grandfather said.
The chief was getting out of his car. I hadn't heard a siren, but I could see that he had the little portable flashing light stuck on his dashboard.
"If he were just calling to see the babies, maybe I could." I glanced at my watch. "But the chief doesn't usually make social calls at two thirty in the morning."
Excerpted from The Real Macaw by Donna Andrews. Copyright © 2011 Donna Andrew. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Meet the Author
Donna Andrews is the author of the Meg Langslow mysteries, including Stork Raving Mad and Swan for the Money. She has won the Agatha, Anthony, and Barry awards, a Romantic Times award for best first novel, and two Lefty and two Toby Bromberg Awards for funniest mystery. When not writing fiction, Andrews is a self-confessed nerd, rarely found away from her computer, unless she's messing in the garden. She lives in Reston, Virginia.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Four months ago Meg Langslow gave birth to twin boys. Her sons are on different sleep cycles so she feels sleep deprived. Thus during a graveyard feeding, she assumes she is hallucinating when she hears assorted animal noises downstairs. She looks only to find a horde in her home. She asks her father, grandfather and other animal lovers what is going on; they explain the formerly no kill shelter they rescued the animals from was going to murderer them due to a lack of funds. They were brought to Meg's living room because the transporter Parker Blair failed to show up. Police Chief Burke arrives at Meg's home to find out why her zoologist grandfather kept calling Parker who he explains was murdered. Meg promises to stay out of the investigation though she has a history of involvement (see Stork Raving Mad). She becomes upset when Mayor Pruitt wants to seize her house and other homes under eminent domain to sell to a developer in order to pay off the finance company that upgrades the Pruitt section of town. He used county buildings as collateral and the firm is ready to take possession. Someone attacks Meg's grandfather and a blue macaw is replaced by another macaw. Meg assumes the assaults are linked to the Parker homicide. She begins to ask questions while helping the county by letting them using her barn to house the library, but almost gets killed for her efforts. Donna Andrews has written another laugh out loud cozy. The heroine deals with the twins and her husband who remains in the background with relative but sleepy ease; she handles the animal kingdom guests with calm. However, her dad and granddad are over the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains with their caring lunacy encouraged by the eccentric Caerphilly townsfolk. The whodunit is fun to follow as Meg investigates, but it is the jocularity that makes the Langslow amateur sleuths super. Harriet Klausner
Loved it! Donna Andrews always delivers. I love the character growth with Meg & Michael and the entire supporting cast. This one hits all the right notes for mystery and fun. Curl up and enjoy!
It was good to follow Meg after the birth of her sons. I love Donna Andrews!
I have really enjoyed all the books in this series by Donna Andrews. Very entertaining.
I loved this and now I'm dying to try another book in the series. The characters were just great, varied personalities, a lot of humor, and of course animals. As if being a mom to twins wasn't enough, Meg's got another child to take care of and now a houseful of stolen furry and feathered 'property'. Nothing else could go wrong, except a murder and attack on one of her own. Can she juggle baseball games, feedings, a zoo in her home and solving the case? And did I mention the crooked politician threatening the towns very life as well as their home? I could not put this one down. The action didn't stop, the suspense kept me guessing till the very end and I never saw it coming. A masterful mystery.