Murder With Puffins

by Donna Andrews

  I heard a car engine outside. Probably another caller heading for our doorbell.

  I crawled out of the sleeping bag and stumbled over to the window. I rubbed my eyes, opened them, and found myself staring into the pale, heart-shaped face of one of our resident barn owls, sitting on its favorite perch, a dead branch in the oak tree just outside our window. Apparently I’d interrupted its bedtime snackthe tail of an unfortunate field mouse dangled from its mouth.

  “Ick,” I said. “Are you trying to put me off spaghetti for good?”

  The owl stared at me for a few seconds, and then twitched its head. The tail disappeared.

  “That branch has got to go,” I said, to no one in particular. Certainly not to the owl, who wasn’t likely to give up his customary feeding station simply because I objected to having our front porch whitewashed with owl droppings and sprinkled with leftover rodent parts every night. Perhaps I could delegate the branch removal to one of the many uncles and cousins who kept asking what they could do to help, assuming I found one who could be trusted with sharp implements.

  Just then our latest caller rang the bell, and I emptied the bucket out the window, still staring at the owl.

  No screams or curses this time. Only a very familiar voice.

  “Meg? It’s me, Dad.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed.

  “I brought doughnuts.”

  I stuck my head out of the window, startling the owl into flight. A very wet Dad stood on our doorstep. Water beaded on his shiny bald head, and he was trying, with his chin, to brush several ice cubes off the stack of boxes in his arms.

  “I’ll be right down.” I said.

  I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed down the hall for a quick visit to the bathroom. But when I was still ten feet away, a bathrobe-clad man carrying a bulging shaving bag emerged from the last bedroom on the right, waggled his fingers at me cheerfully, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  The only bathroom on this floor. Chalk it up to lack of caffeine, but I was so irritated it took me a few seconds to realize that I had no idea who the heck the man in the bathrobe was.

  Yet another visiting relative, obviously. But no one I recognized. I thought I knew all the relatives who’d invited themselves to stay at the house. I racked my brain to figure out which aunt or cousin might have brought a new husband or boyfriend along.

  Meanwhile, I headed for the third floor bathroom. I reminded myself that this was a temporary inconvenience. First on our long list of remodeling projects was creating a real master bedroom suite with a private connecting bath. And we weren’t inviting any more houseguests until we’d solved the bathroom shortage.

  Just then I heard the strains of Puccini’s “Un Bel Di Verdremo” wafting down from the third floor, which meant that Mrs. Fenniman, another visiting relative, had taken possession of the bathroom for her usual long and tuneful ablutions. I went downstairs instead.

  I followed voices to the kitchen. Apparently someone else had let Dad in. He’d put on water for coffee and was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, sharing his doughnuts with my brother, Rob, and a petite middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar—although it was hard to tell, because she was wearing a set of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with the fake nose and mustache.

  “Morning,” I said.

  The bathroom off the kitchen was, of course, occupied. But since it was only a half bath, turnover should be faster than upstairs. I stationed myself by the door.

  “Morning, Meg,” Dad said, raising a cloud of powdered sugar as he waved at me. “You remember your mother’s cousin, Emma. From Wichita.”

  “Kansas?” I asked.

  Emma nodded, and raised her Groucho mask briefly so I could see her face. She wasn’t wet, so I deduced she’d come in with one of the family instead of ringing the bell.

  “Mother said her relatives were coming from all over for the yard sale,” I said. “But Kansas?”

  Whatever Emma started to say was drowned out by the loud thud and subsequent howl of agony from the bathroom.

  “Claude!” Cousin Emma shrieked, and leaped toward the closed door.

  “I brought my medical bag,” Dad said. Though semiretired, Dad kept his state medical license current so he could treat family, friends, and victims of interesting accidents—like the one happening behind the bathroom door. Though once angry curses and loud thuds replaced the howls, I deduced it wasn’t a serious one.

  “See if you can open the door,” I called to the bathroom’s unlucky occupant.

  The downstairs half bath was tucked under the stairs, in a space that should have remained a closet. We called it the quarter bath. Most people avoided bumping their heads on the four-foot ceiling over the toilet, but unless they were very short, they usually hit the five and a half foot ceiling over the sink when they straightened up after washing their hands. The fact that you couldn’t sit down without bumping your knees against the sink was another strike against it. No wonder Michael, at six-four, refused to use this bathroom. I had trouble enough myself at five-ten.

  Rob ambled over and gave the bathroom doorknob a sharp tug, which not only opened the door but tore it completely off its hinges, revealing a small, plump, middle-aged man crouched inside.

  “Oops,” Rob said.

  “This is my husband, Claude,” Emma said.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. Claude nodded. He was also wearing a Groucho mask. Was this some peculiar Kansas custom?

  I noticed that Claude was clutching his trousers closed with one hand. He probably didn’t have elbow room to zip them up, since the bathroom was slightly under three feet wide. I turned away to make polite conversation with Emma while Dad and Rob pried Claude out and exclaimed over his bruises.

  “All the way from Kansas,” I said.

  “Well, we didn’t come just for the yard sale,” Emma said. “But since we were here …”

  “Emma does love a good yard sale,” Claude said, limping over to collapse beside the doughnut box.

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “What should I do with this,” Rob said, holding the door toward me.

  “For now, shut it behind me,” I said, as I ran in.

  “It’s going to be splendid!” I heard Dad say outside.

  I looked at the bags under my eyes and my Bride of Frankenstein mane and thought maybe I should borrow Emma’s Groucho disguise.

  “But why in October?” I heard her saying outside. “I mean, luckily you have the weather for it this weekend, after all those weeks of rain, but isn’t it rather late in the season?”

  The loud flush of the ancient toilet drowned out much of Dad’s reply, but I gathered that he was telling Emma and Claude about Edwina Sprocket’s clutter. I washed my hands without bonking my head for a change and then, after dragging my fingers uselessly through my hair, I gave up.

  “But, of course, everyone knows that a multifamily yard sale’s a much bigger draw,” Dad was saying as I heaved the detached door out of my way and set it carefully beside the doorway. “So a few of the family decided to join in and make it a bigger event.”

  “I think seventeen is more than a few, Dad,” I said, plunking myself on the floor beside the doughnut boxes.

  “You have seventeen other people participating?” Emma exclaimed.

  “Seventeen other households,” I corrected. “Heaven knows how many people that means. And that’s just the family. We also have thirteen of Michael’s friends and colleagues from Caerphilly College selling their stuff.”

  “Goodness,” Emma exclaimed. “It must be enormous!”

  “Two acres’ worth,” I said, gesturing toward the back yard.

  “My,” Emma said. “How exciting!”

  She went over to the kitchen window and peered out.

  “Now, Emma,” Claude said, with a nervous laugh. “You know we can only take so much on the plane.”

  “There’s always UPS,” Emma said.

  “Go out and take a clo
ser look if you like,” Dad said. “But don’t go inside the fence. The security’s still active.”

  “If it’s all right,” Emma said.

  She hurried outside, followed by an anxious Claude.

  I sighed, and rubbed my aching forehead.

  “What’s wrong, Meg?” Dad asked.

  “I know I should be happy that she’s so excited,” I said. “The more people who show up with a cheerful, acquisitive attitude, the more stuff we’ll unload.”

  “And the more money you’ll make,” Rob said.

  “I don’t care about the money,” I said. “I just want all the stuff gone. And I can’t believe anyone would want to buy any of that junk.”

  “Junk!” Dad exclaimed. “You have a wonderful collection out there. I can’t understand why you’re selling most of it.”

  “No one can,” Rob said. “Just ignore her, she’s been like this for weeks.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Grouchy,” Rob said.

  “I prefer to think that I’ve achieved a more enlightened and detached attitude toward material possessions,” I said.

  “Grouchy,” Rob repeated, nodding. “You don’t want her coming over to your house right now. First she starts cleaning the place up”

  “And you’re complaining?” I exclaimed.

  “But then she starts trying to throw your stuff away or take it for the yard sale. It’s seriously annoying.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I admit I’ve been grouchy. It’s probably just that I’ve been spending too much time dealing with stuff. I’m down on stuff. I’ll get over it after the yard sale.”

  “Probably,” Rob said. “I remember one time I had the flu after I’d been eating too much pizza and”

  “Rob,” I said. “No one wants to hear this.”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s just that for a couple of weeks, I didn’t even want to look at a pizza, much less eat one. And you know how I love pizza. You’ll get over it.”

  Just then we heard a loud crashing noise from above.

  “Someone forgot he was in a hammock?” Rob suggested.

  “Sounds more like someone taking the back stairs,” I said.

  Sure enough, Cousin Bernie stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later, looking indignant and slightly worse for wear.

  “Did you know there are three steps missing right in the middle of those stairs?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s why there’s that board nailed across the doorway with the KEEP OUT sign on it.”

  “Someone could kill themselves on that thing,” he muttered. He walked over to the quarter bath and absently reached out to yank on the nearby doorknob, bringing the loose door down on top of himself.

  “I’ve got my bag,” Dad exclaimed, as he and Rob leaped to Bernie’s assistance. Dad liked nothing quite as much as the chance to patch up an accident victim, so he was looking quite cheerful.

  He also looked different. Obviously I needed caffeine if it took me this long to notice that he was wearing a peculiar brown garment made of damp feathers. Though I was probably responsible for the damp part.

  “What is that you’re wearing?” I asked, as he and Rob struggled with the door.

  “My costume,” Dad said. He picked up a wad of feathers lying on the floor beside him and jammed it over his head. “I’m a great horned owl,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the plumage that hid his mouth.

  Apparently Rob and Dad had been working at cross purposes. Without Dad’s involvement, Rob finally heaved the door off Cousin Bernie. Bernie popped up, saw Dad, closed his eyes, and lay down again.

  “Concussion,” he muttered. “I must have a concussion.”

  “Oh, dear,” Dad said. “I hope not. Open your eyes and let me see your pupils.”

  “Are you going straight from the sale to an early Halloween party?” I asked, as Dad fished a small light out of his bag.

  “Meg!” Dad exclaimed. “The yard sale. Remember how we decided, with Halloween coming up so soon, to make it more fun by offering a discount to anyone in costume?”

  “She forgot,” Rob said, as Dad shone the light in Bernie’s eyes.

  “It’s on all the posters,” Dad said. “The pupils look fine. How many feathers am I holding up?”

  Bernie shut his eyes again and moaned.

  “Here,” Rob said. He reached into a grocery bag at his side and handed me a Groucho mask.

  I remembered Dad suggesting the costume discount, but I didn’t recall agreeing to it. But what would be the point of complaining? It was on all the posters. Dad would knowhe’ d made and distributed the posters; one of the few yard sale chores I’d successfully delegated. I put on the mask. The day was bound to bring moments when I failed to keep a polite, friendly expression on my face. Maybe the mask wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Where’s the nearest working bathroom?” Cousin Bernie said, popping his eyes open and scrambling to his feet.

  “Second floor,” I said. “That way!” I said, throwing myself in front of the door to the unsafe back stairs. Cousin Bernie whirled and ran out toward the front hall.

  “Good luck,” I muttered. I glanced over to see that Rob had plopped a slouch hat and a blond fright wig on his head and was beaming happily.

  “You do realize that Harpo never speaks,” I said.

  He beeped his bicycle horn at me and batted his eyes. Okay, not a bad resemblance, which was pretty odd, since my tall, blond Adonis brother was always considered the best looking in the family and Harpo was—well, Harpo.

  “All the SPOOR members will be in costume, each as a different kind of owl,” Dad said. SPOOR—Stop Poisoning Our Owls and Raptors, a local conservation group—was Dad’s new ruling passion.

  “So we’ll have a whole gaggle of owls,” Rob said.

  “A parliament of owls,” Dad corrected. “You only use gaggle for geese.”

  “It’s too dark to see much yet,” Groucho Emma exclaimed, returning to the kitchen. “But it’s going to be simply marvelous.”

  Groucho Claude, who followed her in, looked less enchanted. Groucho Meg knew just how he felt.

  “A parliament of owls … a murmuration of starlings,” Dad went on. Collective nouns were one of his many hobbies. “A muster of storks …”

  “Morning,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see the man who had beaten me to the upstairs bathroom earlier, now clad in jeans and a dark sweater. He strolled over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Then he looked at Rob and Dad, sitting on the floor beside the doughnuts. Rob beeped his horn.

  “An exaltation of larks,” Dad recited. “An unkindness of ravens …”

  The man frowned slightly, and strolled back out.

  “And, of course, a murder of crows,” Dad said. “I’ve always liked that one.”

  “You would,” I said. “Who was that man, anyway?”

  “I have no idea,” Dad said. The feathers rustled slightly as he shook his head. “Not one of your friends from up here?”

  “I’ve never seen him before,” I said. “I thought he was a relative I’d never met.”

  “He’s not family,” Emma put in. “His eyes are too close together.”

  “He’s a Sprocket,” Rob said, through a mouthful of doughnut.

  “Oh, God; not another one,” I said.

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  “Move,” I said. “You’re blocking my shot.”

  The cow chewed her cud and gazed at me with placid bovine calm.

  “Go away!” I ran toward her, waving my arms wildly, only to pull up short before I ran into her. She was bigger than me. Half a ton at least. Maybe three quarters.

  I turned my croquet mallet around and prodded her black-and-white flank with the handle. Not hard
—I didn’t want to hurt her. I just wanted her to move.

  She turned her head slightly to see what I was doing.

  I prodded harder. She watched with mild interest.

  “Hamburger!” I shouted. “Flank steak! Filet mignon!”

  She ignored me.

  Of course, those words held no menace for her. Mr. Shiffley, her owner, was a dairy farmer.

  I walked a few yards away, feet squelching in the mud. I could see why the cow insisted on lounging where she was. The evergreen tree overhead protected her from the March drizzle, and she’d claimed the only high ground in sight.

  I glanced down. My croquet ball was sinking into the mud. Did Extreme Croquet rules allow me to pull it out? Probably not.

  The little two-way radio in my pocket crackled.

  “Meg—turn!” my brother, Rob, said.

  “Roger,” I said. The cow still lay in front of—or possibly on—the wicket, but I had to move before the mud ate my ball. Didn’t mud that ate things count as quicksand? I set down the radio and whacked my ball. It bounced off the cow’s flank. She didn’t seem to mind. She had closed her eyes and was chewing more slowly, with an expression of vacuous ecstasy.

  “Done,” I said, grabbing the radio before it sank. “I need a cow removal here at wicket nine.”

  “Which one is that?” Rob asked.

  “The one by the bog.”

  “Which bog?”

  “The one just beside the briar patch. Near the steep hill with the icy stream at the bottom.”

  “Oh, that bog,” Rob said. “Be right over.”

  I pocketed the radio and smiled menacingly at the cow. “Be afraid,” I said. “Be very afraid.”

  She ignored me.

  I leaned against a tree and waited. The radio crackled occasionally as Rob notified the scattered players of their turns and they reported when they’d finished.

  In the distance, I heard a high-pitched cackle of laughter that meant my team captain, Mrs. Fenniman, had made a difficult shot. Or, more likely, had just roqueted some unlucky opponent, which she told me was the technical term for whacking someone’s ball into the next county. Annoying in any croquet game, but downright maddening in Extreme Croquet, where the whole point was to make the playing field as rugged as possible. On this field, being roqueted could mean half an hour’s detour through even boggier portions of the cow pasture.