“Could it have been Lee?” Stanley asked.
“That’s it,” he said. “A Miss Lee.”
Stanley and I looked at each other.
“Well, it makes sense Cordelia wouldn’t want to contact him directly,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “If Annabel’s attitude is anything to go by, Dr. Blake would have been the last person Cordelia wanted to see.”
I applied myself to the last bits of my meal. Eventually everyone—even the boys—gravitated to the end of the table where Dad and Grandfather were plotting their expedition. Rose Noire slipped a bowl of organic chocolate walnut ice cream in front of me, and I closed my eyes, the better to enjoy it.
“Meg?” I opened my eyes to see that my husband, Michael, had sat down at the picnic table opposite me. The boys climbed up and sat, one on either side of him. Natalie was hovering behind them, her black-clad shoulders slightly hunched, making her look more like a buzzard than a crow. Mother was right—we would need to work on her confidence and posture this summer. Like so many tall girls, she tended to slouch. Nothing a summer of intense exposure to Mother’s tall-is-beautiful philosophy couldn’t cure.
“What’s wrong?” I asked aloud.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “But the boys want to know if they can go on the camping trip with Grandfather.”
“I don’t mind,” Natalie said. “And I think the emu roundup sounds pretty cool.”
“We were talking about a camping trip later this summer,” Michael said. “Why not just go now, with the rest of the family? Tomorrow’s the first day of my break—let’s do it!”
They all stared at me, eagerly. The boys seemed to be holding their breath.
“Why not?” I said.
“We’re going camping! We’re going camping!” The boys began running around yelling at the top of their lungs. Natalie was following in their wake, and looked as if only the grave responsibility of her position as babysitter was keeping her from shouting “We’re going camping!” along with them.
“Of course, that’s assuming we find a campground,” Dad said, joining us at the table. “The closest one seems to be almost as far away from Riverton as Caerphilly is.”
“I have an idea.” I pulled out my phone. “Stanley, do you have Annabel’s phone number?”
“I do.” He took out his phone and began tapping on it. “She tends not to answer it, though.”
“She can’t answer at all if I don’t call,” I said.
He read me the number and I dialed. After four rings, Annabel’s brisk, no-nonsense message told me the number I reached and ordered me to leave a message.
“Miss Lee,” I said. “This is Meg Langslow. I was—”
“What’s the verdict?” Annabel’s live voice interrupted me in mid-message.
“It’s a go,” I said. “Mr. Denton will be back tomorrow to start working on the case.”
“Good,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
“I have more news,” I said. “Good news, I think. Stanley saw what he thought was an emu while we were leaving town.”
“Yes, we have feral emus running amok around here,” she said. “Cordelia had me write your grandfather, suggesting that he do a rescue on them instead of running off to Africa or Australia or some such place. Never heard back.”
“You will soon,” I said. “When we mentioned seeing the emu, it reminded him that he’d been intending to do something about your problem. He’s organizing a roundup now.”
“Hmph,” Annabel said. “Probably feels guilty that he ignored our problem while your grandmother was alive.”
“Very likely,” I said. “But at least it will get done.”
“And where are you planning to put them when you get them rounded up?” she asked. “We haven’t got the sanctuary set up. The bank that repossessed the land’s being difficult, and so’s the town council.”
“He has a friend who runs a sanctuary,” I said. “She can probably take them, at least in the short term. Though I have no idea if she wants a whole herd of ratites for the long haul, so if you like, I’ll see if I can get Grandfather fired up about your proposed sanctuary. Nothing he likes more than browbeating governments and financial institutions that are standing in the way of environmental progress and animal welfare.”
“Ha!” she snorted. “He just likes browbeating people, period. Cordelia had his number, all right.”
I was opening my mouth to defend Grandfather and thought better of it. After all, we needed her cooperation. Besides, she wasn’t saying anything about Grandfather that I hadn’t said to myself in moments of exasperation. And if anyone had grounds for ongoing exasperation with him, surely Cordelia and Annabel did. I decided to change the subject slightly.
“Speaking of the roundup,” I said. “He’s having trouble finding a campground nearby.”
“Campground?”
“He wants to get the roundup done with maximum efficiency, so he and his team are planning to camp nearby until they finish. Do you know anyone who would rent them a field for however many days it will take?”
Silence. At least thirty seconds of silence. I was just about to ask if Annabel was still there when she spoke up.
“We own the field in back of the house,” she said. “Well, now I own it. I suppose I could let you camp there. How many people are we talking about?”
I looked up from the phone. Grandfather and Dad were sitting at the other picnic table, and already three people I recognized as avid local SPOOR members were sitting with them. Maps and notepads were starting to cover the table. Grandfather was shouting into his cell phone.
“Yes, a full camera crew,” he was saying. “And how soon can you get the editing trailer down there?”
I shut my eyes for a moment. Apparently Grandfather was also going to film the emu roundup for another of his popular Animals in Peril documentaries.
“Meg?” Annabel sounded impatient.
“I have no idea how many people,” I said. “Dozens.”
“Dozens?”
I had a feeling she was about to rescind the invitation.
“Dozens,” I said. “And you might not want them in your backyard. Grandfather’s crews tend to get a little rowdy around the campfire after a hard day of rescuing. Your neighbors will hate it.”
“The only neighbor close enough to that field to be bothered is Theo Weaver, and I damn well hope they make his life a misery,” she said. “Blake can bring a whole damned army if he likes. But they can’t use my toilet. Got to draw the line somewhere.”
“I’ll tell him he’ll need port-a-potties,” I said.
“There’s a side road leading to the field,” she said. “About a quarter of a mile beyond my gate. Have them use that. I don’t want a whole mob tromping through the yard.”
“I’ll pass that along,” I said. “Oh, and Michael and the boys and I are probably going to come down, too. And their summer babysitter, Natalie—my sister Pam’s next-to-youngest. The kids are all excited about going camping with Great-Grandpa. I’d love for them to meet you while we’re there. If that’s okay with you.”
Another silence. Not quite so long this time. Still, I wondered if Annabel’s curiosity about her cousin’s grandchildren would outweigh her reclusiveness. And her already clearly expressed distaste for her cousin’s seducer.
“I’ll think about it. As long as it’s just a few of you. And I don’t want to meet Blake.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “We should be down sometime in the next day or so. I’ll let you know.”
“Fine,” she said. “Good-bye.”
I looked back at the table where Dad and Grandfather and the rest of the troops were studying their maps.
“Good news,” I said. “I’ve found you a place to camp.”
Chapter 8
Michael and I headed down to Riverton first thing the next morning. Luckily, we’d been considering a camping trip, and I had already gathered most of the equipment and supplies we�
��d need. With the camping checklist in my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, it only took an hour or so after dinner to gather the remaining items and pack them in the Twinmobile, our sturdy minivan.
If anyone had asked Why the rush? I’d have told them that we only had two weeks before Michael’s summer session began. But that wasn’t my real reason for haste. I wanted to be there as a buffer between the rest of the rescuers and Annabel. Particularly between Grandfather and Annabel. Even those of us who loved him dearly often found Grandfather exasperating. And Annabel had already shown clear signs of animosity toward him—obviously resenting what he had done to her cousin. Even if Grandfather was savvy enough to steer clear of her, I couldn’t be sure that the rest of the campers would, and I suspected Annabel did not suffer fools gladly.
And this gathering could get rather large. In addition to the film crew—Grandfather never passed up the chance to document his exploits for the television audience—there would be the usual motley assortment of volunteers who always showed up when he put out the call, drawn both by their eagerness to serve the environment and their desire to be seen doing so on one of Grandfather’s specials.
As we pulled into Riverton at a little past eleven o’clock Wednesday morning, I was already planning how I’d handle it. I was driving—partly to prove that my hand didn’t hurt that badly and partly so I could feel no guilt at abandoning Michael to set up camp and tend the boys while I headed over to charm—or at least distract—Cousin Annabel. Probably a good idea not to spring the boys on her just yet. Not until we’d found something very active for them to do, to drain off all the extra energy they’d built up on the ride. And I’d be there to ease any anxiety she felt as the other campers trickled in, swelling our small beachhead into the full camp.
So I wasn’t thrilled when I turned the Twinmobile onto the dirt road that led to our borrowed campground and realized—
“Blast!” I exclaimed. “We’re not the first.”
“How can you tell?” Michael was sitting back in the third row, with Josh, and probably hadn’t spotted the telltale clues.
“Because there’s already a sign over the road up ahead,” I called back. “Saying Welcome to Camp Emu.”
Someone had hung the sign between the last two trees before the lane left the woods for the open field. So when I drove under it, I found myself in the midst of an already thriving camp. Cars, vans, pickups, trailers, and RVs were everywhere, and I could see at least half-a-dozen tents already set up, with more in progress.
“Meg!” A man I recognized as a longtime SPOOR member raced up to my window. He was wearing an orange safety vest, a hard hat, and an armband with the word STAFF printed on it. I rolled my window down.
“I see we’re not quite the first,” I said.
“Oh, no!” he said. “Some of us have been here since dawn! Your grandfather is saving a spot for your tent near his.”
Since I wasn’t sure how restful it would be, camping near Grandfather, I was about to protest that we didn’t want any special treatment, but—
“See the mess tent? The big tent just to the left of that first port-a-pottie? Your spot’s right behind it.”
After a moment of consideration, I decided that proximity to the food and bathrooms was worth being near the noise and drama that always accompanied Grandfather, so I thanked the volunteer and drove on toward where Grandfather’s familiar battered Airstream was parked in a nice shady spot, midway between the mess tent and the area where a truck was delivering more port-a-potties, along with a shower trailer and a huge water tank.
The tents and trailers belonging to Grandfather’s staff, including the film crew, were clustered together to the left of the Airstream. I headed for the area at the right, where I recognized Dad’s tent, with Tinkerbell, Rob’s Irish Wolfhound, lying in front as if on guard. Inside I could see that Dad had begun setting up his equipment so the tent could double as a field medical station. Nearby was a space with a hand-lettered sign in the middle of it proclaiming THIS SPOT RESERVED FOR THE WATERSTON FAMILY.
“We’re here,” I said.
“Give your hand a rest,” Michael said. “The boys and Natalie can help me set up our tent.”
“Good idea.” I could imagine how much help the boys would be but managed to keep a straight face. “Then I’ll go over to see how Annabel’s taking the invasion.”
I hopped out and came around to the passenger side to haul out the dog crate containing Spike. I’d have preferred leaving him at home, but the boys insisted, and it turned out everyone who’d be willing to feed and walk him was coming on the expedition anyway.
“Meg! Michael! Welcome!”
Dad and several of his fellow SPOOR members bounced up to greet us and quickly began helping to unload the van.
“Mommy! Playhouse!”
Jamie was tugging at the hem of my shirt. I looked up and saw that Josh was trying to drag Natalie over to a nearby vehicle that looked like an old-fashioned gypsy caravan, straight out of a movie.
It was set on tall wheels and towered over the drab tents and cars nearby. Every inch of its surface was painted or decorated with gilded carvings. Painted lions and tigers stalked along the sides, while cranes and flamingos flanked the windows and a peacock with tail outspread graced the door.
“Mommy! Go see!” Jamie whined.
“Let’s make sure whoever owns the caravan wants company,” I said. I turned Jamie over to Natalie and walked up to the caravan. I noticed that while it had the shafts you’d use to hitch a horse up to it, it also had a contraption to allow the caravan to be towed behind a car if needed.
The two shutters that formed the top half of the door flew open, narrowly missing me, and my old friend Caroline Willner peered out.
“Meg! Welcome! How do you like my new toy?” she crowed. “Isn’t it splendid?”
“I love it,” I said. “And the boys are dying to come inside.”
“Bring them in!”
I beckoned to Natalie and the boys, who raced over. Within minutes, the boys were bouncing on the built-in divan at the back of the wagon. It probably served as Caroline’s bed at night, but now it was piled high with brightly covered scarves and pillows and had a small table in front of it that held a plate of fruit and cheese.
“Do you mind if I leave Natalie and the boys with you for a bit?” I said. “I want to check in with our hostess.”
“I thought this was Monty’s shindig,” Caroline said.
“The lady who’s letting us camp in her field,” I elaborated. “I’m not sure she realized quite what an army Grandfather would be bringing.”
“Never does anything quietly, your grandfather,” she said. “They’re fine here, and if I get tired I can tell your niece to drag them away. Come back later, and I’ll give you the tour. You’d be amazed how much hidden storage my carpenter managed to fit into this thing,” she added, as she followed me to the door. “Don’t worry. Along with the storage, my carpenter was under orders to make everything nearly impossible to break or hurt yourself on.”
“Good,” I said. “The boys will be the acid test of how well he succeeded. How in the world did you all get here so fast?”
“Well, we were already planning an expedition,” she said. “Not quite such a big one, of course. Just a follow-up on the Toad Wars.”
“The what?”
“The Toad Wars. That’s what the brigade calls that expedition to southwest Virginia two years ago, where we managed to stop a strip mine and save that new species of toads.”
“The poisonous ones that they’re going to name after Grandfather?” I asked.
“Turns out they’re not poisonous after all,” she said. “Only foul-tasting, so he’s not interested. He’s going to arrange to have them named after me. Anaxyrus willneri instead of Anaxyrus blakei.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks,” She beamed—clearly she had no prejudice against the nonlethal toads. “So we were planning to go down and
shoot the final segment: your grandfather standing and gloating over having saved all those verdant hills, and some more footage of the toads. We were gearing up for that when you came along with the emu rescue, which sounded much more interesting to him, so the camera crew just headed here instead of Abingdon.”
“That explains you and the camera crew,” I said. “But where is he going to get provisions for this crowd?”
“One of our stalwart volunteers runs a catering company.” She pointed toward the mess tent, where a twenty-five-foot truck was carefully maneuvering into position, with another truck just beyond, waiting its turn. “He doesn’t do it for free, of course, but he’s willing to drop everything and get a crew out to wherever we’re filming.”
“In return for a few well-placed shots of his trucks on the show, I assume.”
“Exactly. Well, I’d better go keep the boys from tearing my caravan apart.”
She began climbing up into the caravan. I was turning to leave when a blond Valkyrie in a white shirt and khaki shorts bustled up to me, wielding a clipboard.
“Have you signed your releases yet?” she asked.
“Releases? Oh, right—”
“Dr. Blake plans to develop a documentary about the emu roundup,” she said, and she began to recite a spiel warning me that anyone who refused to sign their photo release would be escorted to the gate and—
“I get it, I get it,” I said, as soon as I could interrupt her. “Give me four of the forms and I’ll turn them in later today. Dr. Blake’s my grandfather and I know the drill.” In fact, I’d done her job a time or two, and hoped I’d managed to be less annoying.
“I see.” She was studying me with a slight frown, as if not quite sure I measured up to the exalted position of Dr. Blake’s granddaughter. I got the feeling that she was trying to look down her nose at me. She was nearly six feet tall, with an elegant if slightly aquiline nose, and I suspected she got a lot of practice looking down it at most women and quite a few men. But since I was five foot ten in bare feet and had chosen to wear thick-soled clogs today, she had to look me eye to eye. It seemed to throw her off her game.
The Good, the Bad, and the Emus Page 6