Owl Be Home for Christmas

by Donna Andrews

  As we drew near the freight elevator, he clutched my arm and pointed.

  “See that!

  “That’s the door to the main lobby,” I said. “Comes out by the guest elevators.”

  “No, on the top of the doorframe. It’s a doorstop. I didn’t see it until just now. This must be where I came in.”

  Yes, there was a rubber doorstop on top of the doorframe—rather inconspicuously.

  “Glad we figured that out,” I said as I used my key card to let us into the lobby.

  “See you,” he said as he trudged across the lobby. I refrained from wishing him a Merry Christmas. No sense rubbing his nose in his plight.

  After that, the afternoon wore on at a snail’s pace. The afternoon panels ran an hour and a half instead of the mere hour of the morning ones, so I was able to catch the end of a one o’clock panel in which Dr. Hirano, the elderly and distinguished Japanese owl expert, and Dr. Bateman, a grizzled British scientist with a mellifluous voice, gave a joint presentation on the several new owl species they’d recently discovered—Dr. Hirano’s finds were in the jungles of the Philippines, while Dr. Bateman and his team had been prowling the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula. I began to revise my opinion of the ornithologists as bespectacled sedentary souls. They were mostly bespectacled, actually, but I was beginning to realize why it had been so difficult to convince them that the blizzard was sufficient reason to cancel the midnight owling expeditions we’d originally planned. And having dealt with kraits, cobras, and camels in the course of their expeditions, the two adventurous scientists seemed to take Dr. Frogmore’s sarcastic comments from the back row in their stride.

  At two thirty, Grandfather’s latest presentation went well—it was less about science than about effective techniques of explaining scientific information to influential nonscientists such as legislators and bureaucrats. And he, too, ignored Dr. Frogmore’s sniping with such sublime composure that I started to wonder if perhaps it was time to take him in for a hearing test.

  The four o’clock panel, moderated by Dr. Craine, was about reverse sexual dimorphism in owls. Much as I liked Dr. Craine, I decided I could live without spending an hour and a quarter listening to a panel of ornithologists debating their various theories about why female owls tended to be larger than the males. I spent the time going over the banquet plans with Ekaterina instead, which meant that I missed the moment when Dr. Craine told Frogmore that if he interrupted her panelists one more time she’d physically kick him out of the room. Although Rose Noire told me all about it, her voice full of outrage because Ben Green was one of the panelists being interrupted. With any luck, given all the cell phones in the room, there would eventually be video.

  Technically, there were also roundtable discussions going on in the Lafayette Room during these panels, but by now even the attendees who were supposed to lead these discussions had given up pretending they were going to happen. I wasn’t sure whether this indicated that the panels Grandfather had arranged were of such compelling interest that no one wanted to miss one, or whether the community, despite its fussing and fighting, preferred to stay together in a single noisy group. Either way, it was a relief not to see the forlorn faces of neglected discussion leaders peering out of the doorway of the Lafayette Room. I made a note to remind Grandfather of this next year.

  Dr. Craine’s panel ended at five thirty, giving the attendees half an hour’s break before the banquet began. Most of the attendees either headed off to their rooms to change into something fancier or hit the bar to get a head start on the evening’s celebration.

  Grandfather followed me to the ballroom to inspect the decorations. Thanks to the popularity of the Harry Potter books and movies, a wide variety of owl merchandise was available, so on each of the tables the circle of poinsettias was now crowned with an intricately painted resin replica of Hedwig, Harry’s owl. Toy owls and paper owl banners had been added to the existing Christmas decorations without entirely spoiling their effect. I hoped that either the various owls we were displaying were depicted with a reasonable degree of scientific accuracy or the scientists would be too cheerful to complain about any shortcomings. And the huge full-colored posters of various owls had been provided by Grandfather, so I had no worries that they would offend any of the attendees. Although I had given orders to ensure that the barred owl poster had been hung in as inconspicuous a place as possible—in the corner where a giant Christmas tree obscured at least half of it, and completely across the room from the beleaguered spotted owl.

  The owls must not have been too bad. Grandfather strolled around the room and nodded with pleasure.

  “Yes, I think it looks fine.” He was beaming with particular satisfaction at the poster of the great horned owl, which I’d hung as close to his table as possible, since it was his favorite.

  “Why am I not at the head table?”

  Chapter 10

  We turned to find that Dr. Frogmore had picked up a paper I’d left on Grandfather’s table, containing a list of people assigned to it.

  “There is no head table,” Grandfather said. “That’s my table. I invited Dr. Hirano to sit with me because we haven’t had a chance to talk for a couple of years, and Dr. Arai so he could translate. And the rest of my table’s for my family. Most of the tables are open, except for a few groups of people who have asked to be seated together.”

  “Nonsense,” Frogmore complained. “You’ve got to have a head table for a banquet. And I should be at it.” He was patting his pockets as if looking for a pen. If he tried to change the table roster, I’d smack his pen out of his hand.

  “Fine—that’s the head table.” Grandfather pointed to the table next to ours. “Why don’t you take charge of it? Invite whomever you like.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Frogmore snarled.

  “Ekaterina!” Grandfather waved his arms to catch her attention and she joined us, wearing what I thought of as her locked-and-loaded smile—utterly pleasant, but not taking it for granted that pleasant would continue to be relevant.

  “That’s the head table.” Grandfather pointed again. “Dr. Frogmore’s sitting there. And whoever else he invites. Make sure they get served first. With the best of everything.”

  “Of course, Dr. Blake.”

  “Meg, can you get someone to run off a sign. Two signs. One that says ‘head table’ and another that says ‘Dr. Blake’s family table’?”

  “No problem.” I ostentatiously made an entry in my notebook.

  “Hmph.” Frogmore frowned at us all and strode away. His expression suggested that he wasn’t yet sure if he’d won or if Grandfather was making fun of him.

  “Every table will be getting exactly the same excellent food.” Ekaterina sounded a little annoyed. “Do you want me to do something special for the new head table? Complementary wine, perhaps?”

  “Don’t be daft.” Grandfather snorted slightly. “Just give Frogmore first crack at what we’re all getting. That should shut him up.”

  “And have your staff treat him with exquisite politeness,” I added.

  “I will instruct the waitstaff to address him frequently by name,” she said. “It will make him feel important. And I’ll make sure Raoul is assigned to his table. Raoul can be very deferential.”

  “Raoul can be downright obsequious,” I said. “Frogmore will eat it up.”

  We smiled at each other and she dashed off.

  I checked the guest list for Grandfather’s table, to make sure no one had tampered with it. We’d fended off Frogmore, but his minion could still be skulking around, plotting to interfere with Grandfather’s plans. No, everything looked fine. DR. J. MONTGOMERY BLAKE. DR. ETSUJI HIRANO. DR. HIRO ARAI. DR. AND MRS. JAMES LANGSLOW. DR. MICHAEL WATERSTON. MS. MEG LANGSLOW. MS. ROSE NOIRE KEENAN.

  “If I hold another owl conference anytime soon, I’m going to ban him,” Grandfather said. “Gives me indigestion, having to be polite to him.”

  “So glad you’re not trying, then,” I murmured.


  “What was that?”

  “I said no need, just warn me and I’ll lose his registration form.”

  Grandfather nodded and strode off.

  Had I taken care of everything? I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the page about the banquet as I went back into the Gathering Area. Rose Noire and Melissa were sitting behind the registration/information table, having what looked to be a lively conversation as they folded something. Aha—the programs. Luckily, according to my notebook, they were the only outstanding banquet item.

  “We’ll have them all folded in about ten minutes,” Rose Noire said as I drew near. “And then we can put them at the tables.”

  “Any chance one of you could find the wherewithal to make a couple of signs?” Rose Noire nodded, so I explained about the two signs and she dashed off toward the business center.

  I sat down and took over her share of the folding.

  “I almost didn’t come because of him,” Melissa said. “Almost backed out of volunteering when I saw his name on the program.”

  “Frogmore?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I was afraid just seeing him would send me back into the same dark place I was in after Buckthorn rejected me. But you know what? It’s been strangely freeing, seeing him here. He’s still got power—but not as much as he used to. Not as much as he thinks he has. The world’s moving on, and he’s not.”

  “So your feelings toward him are mellowing?”

  “Hell, no.” She gave a snort of laughter. “I still hate him. But now I realize—everybody hates him. I’m completely normal. That’s strangely empowering.”

  “A relief to know I’m normal, too.”

  Rose Noire came back with the signs. If I’d been making them, I wouldn’t have added flying cartoon owls to the top corners and cute mice scampering along the bottom—especially since, as any of the owl experts would be delighted to explain, the wise owls would be looking at the adorable little mice as hors d’oeuvres. But I try never to complain when people do me a favor, so I thanked her and dashed in to put the signs in place before heading back to the cottage to dress.

  As I crossed the President’s Garden, I couldn’t help thinking how odd it was going to be, dressing up in our elegant finery with the blizzard still raging. Although raging was hardly the right word. The wind had died down—a good thing; we didn’t need huge drifts piling up. At any given moment that you looked out the windows, all you saw were snowflakes. Snowflakes so tiny and delicate that you could hardly imagine them causing a problem. But they’d been coming down steadily for a little over twenty-four hours now, and showed no signs of stopping. And I remembered a conversation I’d had once with a friend, Judge Jane Shiffley.

  “Big snow, little snow; little snow, big snow,” she’d said.

  I must have looked puzzled—I certainly was puzzled, since this sounded like nonsense, and Judge Jane’s pronouncements usually reflected in equal measure both her keen legal mind and her down-to-earth country woman’s common sense.

  “Old folk saying,” she explained. “If you’re getting big wet flakes, it’s probably too close to freezing, the snow will melt, and you won’t get that much accumulation. But when it’s really cold, you’re more apt to get small, dry flakes, so watch out! Those tiny, determined little flakes are a lot more likely to add up to a big accumulation.”

  Determined little flakes, yes. In fact, inexorable, I thought, as I looked up toward the sky and saw nothing but thousands of them drifting down toward me.

  In the cottage, Michael, already in his tuxedo, was sitting on one of the sofas while the boys gave his dress shoes a vigorous polish. A polish that probably wouldn’t survive our trip across the icy courtyard, but the boys were having fun.

  Horace, now happily released from the warm, wet washcloth therapy, was sitting on the sofa in a set of borrowed sweats, flipping through a pile of DVDs.

  “You’re welcome to come to the banquet if you like,” I told him. “No problem squeezing in another chair. And the black tie is optional—Michael’s just wearing it because he’s appearing onstage.”

  “The boys and I have already ordered from room service,” he said. “And we’re going to wallow in Christmas movies—Ekaterina’s got a great selection. Scrooged, Bad Santa, Die Hard, Elf, Gremlins, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, The Nightmare Before Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life, Home Alone…”

  “You’ll be watching from now until next Christmas,” I said. “No Love Actually?”

  “I didn’t think the boys would like it.” Horace probably had a point.

  “Is it inappropriate?” Josh asked, with keen interest.

  “Not that I remember,” I said. “You’re welcome to watch it if you like, but it’s mostly about grown-ups falling in love and proposing to each other. There is a subplot about a kid your age who has a crush on a girl.”

  “Ick,” Josh said, in a perfunctory tone. He and Jamie returned to their polishing.

  “If you need us, use this.” Michael was handing Horace a walkie-talkie.

  I ran into the bedroom and threw on my outfit—a long black knit dress that draped over my body, rather than clinging to it, a red velvet jacket in case the ballroom got chilly, and a pair of low-heeled shoes that felt dressy to me, although Mother had been known to sigh whenever she saw them. I didn’t care. If I was going to be running errands for Grandfather and interference for all the warring ornithologists, I didn’t want to be tottering around on heels.

  I didn’t even want to think about crossing the icy courtyard in heels. Even in my flats, it was nice to be able to hold on to Michael’s arm as I did so.

  “Cheer up,” he said as we stepped into the lobby and shook the snow off ourselves. “Two days down, one to go.”

  “They won’t all leave tomorrow, you know.”

  “But after the last panel, they’ll be mostly Ekaterina’s problem, not yours,” he countered. “Oh, I know you’ll want to help her, but you’ll be helping—not in charge.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  “Are they going to mistake me for one of their own?” Michael was glancing down at his name tag, which identified him as DR. MICHAEL WATERSTON, CAERPHILLY COLLEGE.

  “You might be too well dressed for an ornithologist. And can you hold your own in a conversation about the conservation status of the barking owl and the chocolate boobook?”

  “I’ll just nod a lot,” he said. “And sip my drink. Assuming I ever get a drink.” The pre-banquet cash bar had been set up in the Gathering Area, and the scientists were lining up in droves to patronize it. The hum—no, make that the roar—of conversation almost drowned out the Christmas carols playing over the room’s speakers.

  Ekaterina appeared.

  “The people in owl costumes want me to let them into the ballroom now,” she said. “Is that permitted?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Probably a good idea to let them check out the stage. Reduces the chances that they will fall off of it. Shall I come and shepherd them?”

  “That would be most appreciated.”

  I left Michael explaining to two scientists that no, his Ph.D. was in the dramatic arts, and followed Ekaterina down the corridor to where the group of faux owls was waiting. Or should I call them a parliament?—which, as Dad was so fond of explaining, was the proper name for a group of owls.

  There were nine of them: Dad, the five other die-hard SPOOR members who were willing to be snowbound in the hotel for several days to give their performance, and three conference attendees who’d been recruited for either their singing ability or their willingness to get up on stage and demonstrate their lack thereof to the whole conference. All of them were costumed as various species of owl. I only recognized a few, but I’d learned not to ask which species if I didn’t have half an hour free to listen to the costume’s wearer extoll its incredible accuracy.

  Dad, appearing as a great horned owl, was passin
g out Santa hats, and Rose Noire, the barn owl, was dashing about with safety pins and hairpins, anchoring the hats so they wouldn’t fall off during the simple but vigorous choreography that usually accompanied SPOOR’s songs.

  “Okay,” Dad said. “Let’s go check out the stage, and then we’ll take our places backstage to wait until everyone’s seated.”

  They set off—jingling all the way. Apparently along with the Santa hats, Dad had persuaded them to don anklets studded with sleigh bells. Some of them seemed to be enjoying this, stamping their feet with enthusiasm as they made their way through the ballroom. Others—quite possibly the last-minute recruits—appeared to be regretting the life choices that had brought them to this moment.

  I gave them fifteen minutes to familiarize themselves with the stage. Then I shooed them backstage and had the waitstaff open the doors to let in the crowd. I stood near the podium and watched as the more agile of the scientists bounded into the room to claim the best tables for themselves, while the rest followed at a more sensible pace and colonized the remaining tables. Next year—if there was a next year—we’d assign tables beforehand. Though I noticed that nearly all of the attendees were cheerful and cooperative about switching seats so couples and groups could be seated together. Some of the attendees had dressed up for the occasion, with long dresses for the women and suits or even black tie for the men, while others came in the same track suits or jeans and T-shirts they’d worn to the conference—and none of them seemed to care if their tablemates were over- or underdressed.

  Our table, of course, was very elegant, with all the men in suits—even, to my astonishment, Grandfather—while Mother, Rose Noire, and I wore long dresses. Granted, Rose Noire’s dress was a long gauzy one she also wore for the nicer sort of picnic, but still—we looked festive.

  The only trouble spot in the room was the head table, which wasn’t filling up very fast. Dr. Frogmore and Dr. Czerny sat there, beaming proudly, until it became obvious that every table other than their own was going to be filled.

  “Bloody hell.” I glanced over to see Nils Lindquist standing by my side. “Someone’s got to sit with the wretched man or he’ll be even harder to be around than he already is. Come on, Ben. Ornithology expects every man to do his duty.”