Rob sighed heavily and got to his feet.
“I thought you, at least, would be supportive of my self-improvement efforts,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you know where Dad is?” “Of course! I’ll show you.”
He set out at a brisk pace—unusual for the normally languid Rob. And he glanced back over his shoulder at the house once or twice. I deduced that Mother must have a grueling list of tasks for her minions to perform.
After a few minutes we arrived at the former cow pond, which now housed our duck population and the visiting penguins. If I hadn’t known the way, I could easily have found it by following the happy trillings and honkings of the penguins as they rediscovered the joys of a life aquatic. I hoped the weather stayed cool enough for them to stay outside—at least until we figured out how to rig up an air conditioner for their coop.
Dad had brought a lawn chair with him and was sitting just outside the fence, watching the penguins frolic. Rob threw himself down on the grass nearby. Eric and Spike were standing by the edge of the fence, so Spike could growl menacingly at the penguins at close quarters. The penguins mostly ignored him.
“So, you’re shirking Mother's furniture-rearrangement detail, too,” I said, plopping down beside them.
“I think your mother has plenty of help for that,” Dad said.
“I’m also shirking Dr. Blake's animal-care detail,” Rob said. “He said something about worming the hyenas this morning.”
“The hyenas?” Dad said. “Are you sure?”
“That's what he said.” Rob shrugged.
“I can’t imagine why he thinks that's needed,” Dad said. “You’re sure that's what he said?” “Maybe it was a joke,” I suggested.
“Sounded serious to me,” Rob said. “Maybe I’m mixed up about what he's doing, but it was something to do with the hyenas, at any rate. That's why I’m out here. I want nothing to do with the damned hyenas.”
“I haven’t seen any sign of worms,” Dad muttered.
“Maybe he's done tests,” I said. “Can’t you tell from their dung?”
“Fat chance getting any dung,” Rob said. “With that silly woman from the garden store cleaning up after the animals every five minutes.”
“I think he's overreacting,” Dad said. “The poor things are unsettled. They’re in a new, unfamiliar environment. They’re not getting as much exercise as they need in that temporary cage.”
“And they’re short of sleep, as anyone staying at our house last night could tell you,” I put in.
“I know those hyenas a great deal better than he does, and I don’t think there's anything wrong with them that a return to a suitable environment wouldn’t cure,” Dad said. “Blake should be out working on that, not underfoot upsetting the animals with unnecessary medical procedures.”
“Well, what are his qualifications, anyway?” I asked. “Is he a vet?”
“He's a world-famous zoologist,” Dad said.
“Are we really sure?” I asked, as a sudden thought hit me. “Do you know where he got his degree from? I mean, is he really a trained zoologist, or does he just play one on TV?”
“Oh, dear,” Dad said. “You know, I’ve never checked on that. What if he's like those radio psychologists? You know, the ones who give advice even though they aren’t really therapists.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll look him up.”
“Google him,” Rob said with a shrug.
“I would have already,” I said. “But we packed our computers up a few days ago, and Kevin won’t be here to set them up again until tomorrow. But I’ll stop by the library sometime today and do it.”
“It's easy to see who the real sleuth is,” Dad said, beaming at me. “It never occurred to me that he might not be the real thing. And this could explain the murder—what if Patrick found out that Blake was a phony!”
“And Blake killed him to cover up—that's possible,” I said. “But let's not jump to conclusions. We don’t yet know that he's a phony.”
“We don’t know he isn’t,” Dad said.
“I think we’d know if he was,” I said. “Remember, he's a human gadfly, always on TV denouncing some corporation for its rotten environmental record.”
“I happen to agree with him on most of those issues.” Dad looked stern.
“So do I, but not everyone does,” I said. “And as famous as he is, don’t you think someone would have outed him if he was a phony? But I want to see just what his background is.”
Including whether he’d ever been suspected of knocking off anyone for cruelty to animals.
“Meanwhile, there's something else I need to do,” I went on. “We can’t just sit around waiting for Blake to rescue the zoo.”
“Especially if he turns out to be a fraud,” Dad muttered. Blake must really have gotten to him.
“So,” I said. “You’re pretty familiar with the Caerphilly Zoo, right? What kind of animals they have and all that?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Very familiar. I’m over there all the time.”
“Great,” I said, pulling out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. “Let's make a list.”
“A list? Why?”
“So we’ll know what to expect over the next few days, if we can’t get the fate of the zoo straightened out. What animals people are going to try to dump on us. And how many.”
After a long pause, I looked up from my notebook.
“Well, there are eight or nine penguins.”
“Thirteen, actually. Count them.”
“If you can get them to stand still long enough,” Rob said, waving at the pond where the penguins were busily diving in, swimming around, climbing out, chasing each other around, and then diving in again.
“I’m also aware of how many llamas, camels, hyenas, lemurs, acouchis, and sloths we have,” I said. “Let's concentrate on animals who aren’t here yet.”
“Oh, dear,” Dad said.
He frowned as if concentrating deeply. I tapped my pen impatiently against the notebook. “That's tough,” Dad said.
I knew perfectly well that what was stumping him was not the number and identity of the animals at the zoo. He’d been spending an inordinate amount of time there in the past few months. He probably knew not only what animals Lanahan had, but all their names, nicknames, medical histories, and favorite foods. What he couldn’t decide was whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing to tell me the full extent of the menagerie that might be headed our way.
“Tell you what,” I said, snapping my notebook shut. “You think about it. Scribble down a list and get back to me later today.”
“Roger!” Dad said, suddenly cheerful again. He hurried off.
“Wouldn’t count on getting that list anytime soon,” Rob said with a snicker.
“Want to bet?”
Chapter 19
Rob accompanied me back to the house. I was relieved to see that Blake and his foul-smelling concoction were gone, and Michael and Rose Noire had begun fixing breakfast. Michael was frying bacon and sausage while Rose Noire was slicing up a small mountain of apples, peaches, pears, grapes, and melons into a fruit salad.
“So what other wildlife are we expecting?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, plucking a few slices of bacon from the plate where they were draining. “Dad wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”
“Oh, dear,” Michael said. “I have a bad feeling about that. He must know the answer would upset you. I could try to pry it out of him if you like.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “There's more than one way to skin a cat.”
“Oh, Meg,” Rose Noire said, closing her eyes in horror. “That's such a horrible, violent expression. I do wish you wouldn’t use it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It's only an old saying. No actual cats will be skinned during the course of today's wildlife-rescue activities. Or for that matter, in the murder investigation. Not by me, at any rate. After all, I probably
won’t have much time to worry about it until after we finish the unpacking.”
“Division of labor,” Michael said. “You work on the murder and a new home for the animals. I’ll see to the unpacking. We don’t want to delay... the party or anything.”
“I can’t leave you to handle the unpacking all by yourself,” I protested.
“All by myself? You mean the two dozen of your relatives who are already here will be leaving soon, instead of being joined by dozens more? Damn. I was looking forward to bossing them all around.”
“You’re right,” I said. “You see to the unpacking. I’ll worry about murder and the menagerie. Is Chief Burke around today?”
“He's appropriated our dining room for his command center,” Michael said.
I snagged a slice of toast and went to the dining room. The door was open, and I could see Chief Burke sitting in one of our folding chairs, frowning down at some papers on the card table that served as his desk. When he didn’t look up after a few moments, I knocked on the door frame.
“What now?” he grumbled.
“May I interrupt you for just a minute or two?” I asked.
His eyes flicked up at me, though he didn’t raise his head. I could see he was trying to give the impression of being much too busy to waste any time on me.
“I want to visit the Caerphilly Zoo,” I said.
At that, he lifted his head and sat back.
“Why? You must have at least half the animals here already. Just wait a day or two and you’ll probably have the whole collection.”
He laughed heartily at this. I tried to laugh along, but I wasn’t sure my effort looked authentic.
“Well, that's why I want to visit the zoo,” I said, as the chief's chuckles subsided. “Dad seems to have extended an open invitation to anyone who's fostering any of the zoo's animals that if they get fed up, they can come over and dump the animals on us. And I need to know just how many animals that might eventually be. And even more important, what kind of animals.”
“Your father can’t tell you?”
“He seems to be having trouble remembering.”
“You ever consider that it might be a deliberate case of amnesia,” the chief said, trying to suppress a grin. “Like maybe he doesn’t want you to know how bad it could get around here.”
“I’m positive it's deliberate,” I said. “He thinks if I know how bad it could get, it will make me madder. And it probably will, for a few minutes, but in the long term, the more I know about how many of what kind of animal we might get stuck with, the better I can cope.”
“And visiting an empty zoo will help you cope?”
“An empty zoo full of carefully labeled pens and cages. If I take an inventory, at least I can figure out what animals were there.”
“How were you planning to get in?” the chief asked. “I got Mr. Thorndyke from the bank to let me in yesterday afternoon, but he's locked up again and gone off to his beach house for the long weekend.”
“If Lanahan's gazelles can get out and wander over to the Shif-fleys’ woods, I’m sure I can figure out a way in,” I said. “Unless you have an objection.”
I took the chief's growl for grudging permission.
“Speaking of which, Randall Shiffley sounds pretty worried about his nephew,” I said. “Have you really arrested Charlie Shif-fley for killing that gazelle?”
“It wasn’t a gazelle, it was something called a dik-dik,” the chief said, frowning again. “Looks a lot like a deer, only they don’t get more than a foot and a half high. And no, I haven’t arrested Charles. Recommended that they take him in for an eye exam, if he couldn’t tell that thing wasn’t a full-sized deer, but arrest him? No. Not from want of nagging from Patrick Lanahan, but I don’t take orders from anyone on how to do my job. He told me last week that if I didn’t arrest the boy he was going to file a civil suit against the Shiffleys, and I told him to go right ahead, and good luck finding some kind of evidence to show the jury, because my officers sure can’t.”
“Then I guess the Shiffleys aren’t too upset about Lanahan's death. No Lanahan, no civil suit.”
The chief scowled.
“Not that it's any of my business, of course,” I added.
“Have fun at the zoo,” the chief said, and bowed his head over his papers. And then as I was leaving the room, he spoke again.
“And in case you haven’t read the papers this morning, we haven’t yet revealed how Dr. Lanahan died. So I’d appreciate your continued silence about it.”
Did I detect a faint note of gratitude in his tone?
“Can do,” I said.
The chief returned to his papers. I assumed I was dismissed.
Chapter 20
I emerged from the dining room to find Eric waiting in the hall. “Aunt Meg, can I come with you to the zoo?” “It's not open,” I said. “But you’re going.”
“Yes, but I’m going to snoop, not to see the animals. The animals are all here, remember?”
“Can’t I snoop too? We could be like the Hardy Boys!”
I sighed. Apparently Dad was having an influence on Eric, too.
“Tell your grandmother where you’re going,” I said.
“I could just tell Grandpa.”
“Grandpa will forget five minutes after you tell him,” I said. “Tell Grandmother. And hurry back.”
I was hoping he’d get distracted and lose interest, but by the time I’d fetched my purse, car keys, and a few other oddments I might need, he was back, leading Spike. I was about to protest that we didn’t need Spike, but then I stopped myself. Eric was spending a lot of time with Spike. Bonding with him. Was there a possibility he’d bond so well that he’d want to take Spike home with him?
The idea cheered me up enormously. When Eric began singing “Old MacDonald's Farm” on the way to the zoo, I joined in with enthusiasm.
We’d gotten as far as “Old MacDonald had some sloths” and were arguing amiably over what noise the sloths made when we emerged from a small stretch of woods and spotted the entrance to the zoo. It wasn’t deserted, as I’d expected—in fact, there was a small group of people milling around in front of it. I stopped the car to figure out what was happening before going any closer.
“You said the zoo was closed,” Eric said in an accusing tone. “I did and it is,” I said. “I have no idea who they are and why they’re here.”
But as I watched them, I realized why. Two dozen men and women had gathered in a rough semicircle in front of the zoo gate, carrying picket signs. Most were young and clad in jeans and dark green T-shirts with the words “Save Our Beasts!!” printed on the front. They were looking up at one young man who was standing on a bench with his back to the road, making a speech. He had long dark hair, a ragged beard, and wildly flashing eyes, making him look rather like a modern-day John the Baptist, or possibly a sixties radical made young again. The back of his T-shirt even had a picture of a clenched fist, the well-known logo of the Black Panther movement.
When I began driving closer, however, I realized that the fist was a paw, covered with grizzled fur and sporting long claws. Several rank-and-file protesters turned to whisper to each other, and I could see that the backs of their T-shirts bore the same logo. Then they began waving their signs up and down. I could see that the message on one side was “Animals Are People Too!” with “Let My Creatures Go!” on the reverse.
Rose Noire didn’t seem to be among them, so either she belonged to another, rival animal-rights group or she’d made the ultimate sacrifice, passing up an opportunity for a protest to help us move. Or perhaps she felt, as I did, that it was a little strange to have a protest twenty miles from town, outside an empty zoo with no audience other than random passersby—and right now, Eric and I were the only onlookers, apart from a young man who was documenting the event with a bulky, old-fashioned Beta video camera parked on his shoulder.
I recognized the cameraman as one of Michael's film students, using the predictably function
al but obsolete equipment available from the college. I decided he might not appreciate my interrupting his work by waving or saying hello.
My arrival seemed to spur the demonstrators on to new enthusiasm. As their leader continued to harangue them, they interrupted him more frequently with shouts and cheers.
“Aunt Meg, why are they all so upset?” Eric asked.
“They don’t believe in zoos,” I explained. “They want us to turn all the animals loose.”
“Even the hyenas?” Eric asked, wide-eyed.
“Especially the hyenas.”
I parked by the side of the road, as if we’d come to watch the festivities—but far enough away that the film student would have a hard time getting us in his picture. I wondered if the demonstrators would leave anytime soon so I could get into the zoo without being seen, much less filmed.
“Is this a protest rally?” Eric asked after a minute.
“Yes. Why?”
“So this is what Mom and Dad used to do when they were in college?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Only the ones your parents were in were much larger. And for...different causes.”
I had been about to say more important causes—war, racism, and civil liberties—but that wasn’t fair. Cruelty to animals was arguably just as important a cause. And while I had a feeling I’d probably disagree with many of the odder beliefs held by members of Save Our Beasts, what little I’d found out about Patrick Lanahan made me think that perhaps if he were still alive I might be inclined to join their protest.
The whole business of farming out wild animals to untrained volunteers, for example. Was the man a complete idiot, or did he realize what a bad idea this was—for animals and humans alike—and not care?
Of course, if I were going to start an animal-rights group, I think I’d have worked a little harder on the name. Did they enjoy being called the SOBs?
Just then, the film student hoisted the camera off his shoulder and waved to the protesters. He turned and began walking toward a small nest of cars parked a little farther along the road. The protesters took his departure as an at-ease command. They put down their signs, and most of them sat down cross-legged on the grass in front of the zoo. A couple of them pulled out picnic baskets and began passing out water and sandwiches.
The Penguin Who Knew Too Much Page 9