Read Online The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery by Donna Andrews - Free Book Online

the parking lot and my worry over the future was pushed aside by the immediate challenge of getting all three small boys safely to the field.
    I made sure that Timmy’s uniform was on properly and that he had all his equipment, and released him in the direction of the rest of his team. Then I wheeled the double baby carriage over to a place beside the bleachers and parked myself and my well-stocked, two-ton diaper bag on the metal bench. I nodded to several mothers I knew slightly, but in the few weeks Timmy had been with us, I’d been too busy with the twins to spend much time getting to know the parents of his classmates and teammates. I started to feel guilty about that, and squelched the impulse mercilessly. Feeling guilty about letting down Timmy was Karen’s job. My job was feeling guilty about letting down the twins.
    Out on the field, the coach and various parents who’d volunteered or been drafted as assistant coaches were herding the Caerphilly Red Sox toward their bench. Someone had applied generous daubs of eye black to all the players’ cheeks, making them look more than ever like a small but savage tribe about to go on the warpath.
    I peered down at my own small savages. Josh was fast asleep. Jamie was awake, and happily watching a small, faceted toy, rather like a miniature disco ball, that hung from the roof of the carriage, twirling and glittering in the slightest breeze. Rob’s contribution. Clearly I should pay more attention to Rob’s notions of how to amuse the twins.
    Odds were both boys would want something soon, and probably simultaneously, but for now, I could bask in the pleasantly warm April air and relax.
    Or maybe not. Over on the Red Sox bench, Timmy and one of his teammates had begun hitting each other on the helmet with their bats and giggling uproariously. Where was the bench coach? And for that matter, where was the other kid’s mother?
    I should do something. But the bench was a good ten feet away from the bleachers. I looked around and spotted someone I knew from the pediatrician’s office.
    “Could you keep an eye on my twins for a second?” I asked her.
    She nodded, and I strode over to the bench and grabbed the end of the other kid’s bat just as he was about to pound Timmy’s helmet.
    “Stop that,” I said.
    “We’re wearing helmets,” the other kid said. “It’s not going to hurt anything.”
    He pulled at the bat, trying free it.
    “Bats against the fence unless you’re actually batting.” I was quoting one of the few T-Ball rules I’d learned so far. I pulled a little harder and gained possession of the bat. “You, too,” I said, holding out my hand to Timmy, who promptly surrendered his blunt instrument. He wasn’t a bad child, just a little easily misled.
    I hooked the bats into the chain-link fence behind home plate and returned to my seat by the baby carriage.
    “Thanks,” I said to my temporary babysitter.
    “You’re welcome,” she said. “You saved me the trouble of walking over there. That was one of my monsters trying to bludgeon your kid.”
    I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but fortunately I didn’t have to. She was soon immersed in a conversation with two other mothers about logistics for a birthday party. A birthday party to which Timmy hadn’t been invited. Maybe I should start working to improve his social life.
    The Caerphilly Red Sox took the field. Timmy was playing the pitcher’s position. Of course since in T-Ball the kids whacked a stationary ball set atop an overgrown golf tee, “pitcher” was a purely honorary title for an additional infielder. I smiled and waved, in case he was watching. The Clay County Yankees’ coach hauled out the tee, placed a ball on it, and began coaxing the first batter to take his place at the plate.
    “Hello, Meg.”
    I turned and smiled.
    “Hello, Francine,” I said. I tried to make my smile warmer than usual, since I was looking at the one parent on the bleachers who probably felt even