The Penguin Who Knew Too Much (6 page)

I started toward the pasture to look for Dad, but as I was passing the back door, the front doorbell rang.

“What now?” I muttered, but I trudged up the back steps, through the kitchen, and down the hall to answer it.

On my way, I ran into Rose Noire, heading upstairs.

“Meg, if it's okay, I’m going to borrow some of your clothes to wear while I take care of the animals.”

I glanced up. No, the ankle-length India print skirt wasn’t practical for chasing after camels, and if I owned anything as beautiful as her turquoise blouse, I wouldn’t take it within a mile of the penguins.

Of course, the skirt and blouse weren’t exactly suitable for helping us move in, either, but I’d already decided that last night's herb-smudging ceremony was Rose Noire's major contribution to our move. If she was busy with the animals, she wouldn’t be trying to fix the house's feng shui in the middle of the move—for that, I’d happily sacrifice any number of clothes.

“Plenty of old T-shirts and sweats in the closet,” I said. “But I have no idea what box my nicer clothes are packed in, so if you’re not careful, I might steal your blouse and skirt for the party.”

“It's a deal!”

But the skirt would probably be too short on me, so I still needed to find the box soon to have something other than jeans and a T-shirt to wear for my own wedding.

Not something I needed to worry about just yet.

I put on my polite hostess face before opening the door. After all, maybe it wasn’t another Friend of the Caerphilly Zoo looking to foist yet another animal on us. Maybe this time it would be someone dropping by to help with the animals. Take a few home.

Not that I was holding my breath.

I swung open the door and saw a tall, slightly stooped elderly man standing on the doorstep with his back to me. He looked as if he had dressed for a safari—olive green cargo pants, muddy hiking boots, a brown shirt, and a khaki fishing vest, its dozen pockets bulging with unidentified bits of gear. He had a pith helmet tucked under his left hand, and had probably just taken it off—his untidy white mane had a bad case of hat hair. He kept looking down at something he was shuffling in his hands, and then glancing up at the landscape. An odd figure, but he didn’t seem to be carrying or leading any stray animals, so my welcoming expression grew a bit more sincere. I cleared my throat, in case he hadn’t noticed the door opening.

And then he turned around and my jaw dropped. I’d seen that craggy, deeply tanned face before. Of course, so had anyone who had habitually watched
National Geographic
specials over the last four decades, to say nothing of the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet. What possible reason could a world-famous zoologist and conservationist have for showing up on our doorstep?

“Montgomery Blake,” he said, sticking out a gnarled, weather-beaten hand. “You must be Meg Langslow.”

So it really was him, or a damned good impersonator. Still
tongue-tied with surprise, I shook the offered hand, and my star-struck awe gave way to irritation as I realized that Blake was one of those men who saw shaking hands as a contact sport. I reacted the way I usually do. Blacksmithing has made my hands a good deal stronger than most women's, so I returned his death grip, with interest. I noted with some satisfaction the wince he couldn’t entirely hide, and then immediately felt guilty. Blake must be at least ninety. I should be marveling that he still had so much strength, not getting sucked into some macho competition.

“You have a firm grip for a woman,” he said.

Considering what I’d tried to do to his hand, that was a little like saying that King Kong was tall for a chimp. And what was I supposed to answer: “Thanks—you’re pretty strong yourself for a senior citizen”?

I settled for “Thanks.”

“I like that in a woman,” he said. “Must be the blacksmithing.”

I suppose some people would have been flattered at the notion that someone so famous was taking an interest in them. It only made me nervous.

“Here,” he said, shoving forward the wad of papers he was now holding in his left hand. A bunch of envelopes and flyers. I took them and glanced at them, puzzled, until I realized that he’d just handed me our mail. Which he’d apparently been studying while waiting for me to answer the doorbell.

“How come that jerk's got you on his mailing list?” he asked, his finger stabbing at one of the flyers. “Surely you’re not even thinking of voting for him. His environmental record's unspeakable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I have a chance to study our mail,” I said. The nerve of the man! If I’d been caught going through someone's mailbox, I’d have been mortally embarrassed— and here Blake was hectoring me about the contents of mine. I
took a deep breath and kept my voice neutral. “Can I help you with something?”

“Is Dr. Langslow here?” he asked. “They told me over at the farmhouse that he might be.”

“He's in the backyard with the hyenas.”

“You have pet hyenas?” he asked.

“I hope not,” I said, and led the way through the house.

Chapter 9

We found Dad and Eric in the kitchen. Dad was wringing out a damp cloth. Evidently he’d already met our new guest—he greeted Dr. Blake with enthusiasm.

“Blake!” he exclaimed. “Come to help with the animals? Splendid! You can see to the hyenas while I take care of my patient.”

To Blake's credit, he didn’t balk—just followed Dad out into the yard and strode over to the hyena cage while Dad helped Dr. Smoot into a nearby lawn chair and applied the hot compress he’d brought from the kitchen.

“Ah!” Blake said, with satisfaction, circling the cage to inspect its occupants.
“Crocuta crocuta!”

“What's that?” Eric asked. Ever alert to sources of entertainment, he had tagged along at Blake's heels.

“The spotted hyena,” Blake said, in his best on-camera voice. “Their scientific name is
Crocuta crocuta
. Three reasonably good specimens here. A trifle underweight, but we’ll soon have them back on a proper nutritional program.”

“Stand back from the cage, Eric!” I said. “We don’t want you becoming part of the hyenas’ nutritional program.”

“Would they really eat me?” Eric asked. He sounded a bit nervous—perhaps because all three hyenas were staring intently at him.

“Oh, yes!” Blake exclaimed. “They’re quite efficient predators.”

“There now,” Dad was saying to Dr. Smoot. “What's the trouble?”

“In the wild, of course, they prey mostly on the larger herd animals,” Blake went on. “But they’re opportunistic feeders.” “Vampires,” Dr. Smoot said.

“Nonsense!” Blake exclaimed. “Hyenas aren’t vampires, or even pure scavengers. True predators. Intelligent ones.”

“I meant in the basement,” Dr. Smoot said.

“Are there vampires in the basement?” Eric echoed.

“There are no vampires in our basement,” I said. “Only police.”

“Yes, why are the police in your—,” Blake began.

“That's where my claustrophobia started,” Dr. Smoot broke in, sounding rather cross at having his confession interrupted. “With my big brothers doing their vampire thing in the basement.”

“Their what?” Blake asked, frowning.

I didn’t say anything, since I was busy banishing the image that had appeared in my mind: a cluster of Smoots dangling upside down from the rafters of our basement, their oversized suits hanging down in soft, pendulous folds.

“Their vampire thing?” Dad echoed.

“For Halloween,” Smoot said. “They would dress up in long black capes with bloody fangs, and hide in the cellar, and when they heard smaller kids walking by, they’d burst through the cellar doors shrieking, to terrify them. Doors just like that!” he added, pointing to our harmlessly rusting cellar doors.

“Wow,” Eric said, in that uncertain voice he often used when even he could tell that grown-ups were behaving weirdly.

“Why are the police in your basement?” Blake asked, after a moment.

“Horrible,” Smoot muttered.

“We’ve had a murder there,” Dad said.

“No we haven’t,” I said. “Someone buried the body there, but
I’m sure he was murdered someplace else. Which reminds me— Dad, Chief Burke wondered if you could give him the benefit of your medical knowledge. Since, um... “

I glanced at Dr. Smoot, who was still sitting in our lawn chair muttering “Horrible! Horrible!” at random intervals.

“Oh, right!” Dad said. “No problem. Someone keep an eye on Smoot while I’m gone.”

The hyenas, true to their reputation as efficient, intelligent predators, had already given up watching Eric to concentrate on Smoot. Fortunately he had his back to them and didn’t seem bothered.

“So whose body is buried in your basement?” Blake asked.

“They haven’t finished digging him up yet,” I replied, and then I cast around for a way to change the subject. “So is it true that hyenas have an instinct for spotting the weakest members of a herd and targeting them?”

“All predators do,” he said, glancing at Smoot. “Even the human ones. Especially the human ones. We should probably move them someplace quieter,” he added, looking back at the hyenas. “Having people around is apt to upset them.”

“And vice versa,” I said. “Maybe we could put them at the far end of the yard, behind some of the outbuildings.”

“I’ll need some help moving them,” he said.

“Michael's down at the pasture with the llamas,” I offered, pointing out the direction.

“That would be Professor Waterston?” Blake asked. “Your fiance?”

My suspicions came back full force. It wasn’t that I wondered how he knew these details—if he and Dad had both been spending a lot of time at the Caerphilly Zoo, Dad had probably told him all about us. But most people just nod, smile, and forget details like that. Why had he remembered them?

“That's right,” I said aloud. “Why don’t you take the camels down there, and I’ll look for the Shiffleys.” “The what?”

“Shiffleys,” I said. “Two-legged predators of the genus
Contractor.”

Blake chuckled, and went to collect the camels. Eric came out of the kitchen with a glass of lemonade and handed it to Dr. Smoot. Thoughtful of him—lemonade or hot tea, depending on the season, was Mother's remedy for anything that might be upsetting us, so even members of my family who didn’t like either beverage instinctively tried to pour them into anyone around us who seemed upset.

“Keep an eye on Dr. Smoot,” I told him. “I’m going to find the Shiffleys.”

I strolled around to the front of the house to look for the Shif-fleys’ truck. I found Randall Shiffley squatting beside a cage that had appeared on our front lawn.

“What's in this one?” I asked as I squatted to check it out.

“Some kind of short-tailed rats,” he said, with mild distaste.

“Well, rodents of some kind,” I said, peering at the occupants of the cage. To me, they looked more like overgrown hamsters with slightly mold-tinged fur, and they were peacefully nibbling on some peaches. “Did you see who left them?”

“Nope,” Randall said. “ ‘Nother hit-and-run animal dump.”

“Speaking of which, could you and Vern help us move the hyenas?”

Randall did a brief double take, then resumed his usual look of imperturbability.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Soon as Vern gets back.”

“Where's he gone?” I asked. Not, I hoped, to Flugleman's just yet, since we might not have come to the end of the animal arrivals.

“Walking off a fit of temper. He’ll be fine when he gets back. Leastways I hope so.” “What's he mad at?”

“Me,” Randall said. “I said something he took the wrong way. He's touchy these days.”

I stared at him in astonishment. What could possibly have happened to undermine both Randall's normally calm manner and the Shiffleys’ impenetrable facade of family unity?

“Yikes,” I said. “What's he so touchy about? I wouldn’t want to put my foot in my mouth.”

Normally Randall wouldn’t have told me. Of course, normally he wouldn’t even have said as much as he already had. And even now, he frowned for a few moments before speaking.

“You heard about Charlie's problem?” he asked.

I pondered that for a moment. Like my family, the Shiffleys were a large and colorful clan, so I wasn’t at all sure who Charlie was, much less what medical, moral, legal, psychiatric, or other woes had befallen him.

“Which one is Charlie?” I asked finally.

“Vern's middle boy. If you haven’t heard anything about it—”

“Then you’re in luck; you can tell me the real story, before I hear any unfair and distorted rumors.”

Randall chuckled as if to say that he knew exactly what I was doing, but he launched into his story.

“That Lanahan fellow from the zoo has filed charges against Charlie. For supposedly shooting one of his fancy gazelles.”

“And Charlie didn’t shoot it?”

“Well, yeah, he did, but it wasn’t his fault. Damned thing had gotten out of the zoo and was just wandering around the woods like an ordinary deer.”

“I see.”

“It wasn’t Charlie's fault!” Randall said, almost shouting. “It
was hunting season—crossbow season—and Charlie had a permit, and he was hunting on his daddy's land, and it's not like he was careless.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Did you say crossbow?”

Chapter 10

“Yes, Charlie's good with a crossbow,” Randall said, with a touch of pride. “Takes more skill than hunting with a rifle.”

“I’m sure it does.” I was trying to push away the memory of Patrick Lanahan's body, still half buried in our basement, with a crossbow bolt sticking out of the chest.

“He could see it was a deer,” Randall went on. “He didn’t know till he shot it that it was one of Lanahan's fancy imported ones. Little bitty thing about fifteen, sixteen inches tall.”

And Charlie had mistaken it for a full-grown deer? Maybe Lanahan was right to be suspicious.

“What did he do?” I asked aloud.

“Came and told his daddy and me, and we took the carcass over to Lanahan. Tried to apologize and make restitution, even though the confounded thing was trespassing at the time. Lanahan behaved like a total jackass.”

“He didn’t understand that it was an accident?”

“Lanahan insisted it wasn’t—he said Charlie must have made a hole in the fence and lured it out. Which was pretty damned stupid. Why would he deliberately shoot a scrawny runt like that? We’re not trophy hunters. We hunt to put meat on the table.”