“Of course not!” Manoj looked slightly shocked. “We will keep him in quarantine until Clarence has given him a clean bill of health. And then we will introduce him gradually to the other toucans, under careful observation. Don’t worry—we have lots of experience with integrating new individuals into existing flocks. Even individuals who haven’t been properly socialized with their own species.”
“Good,” I said. “Not that I ever doubted you, but keep in mind that for the last couple of days I’ve been dealing with people who don’t even know that toucans can’t talk.”
“Seriously?” Manoj looked even more shocked at that notion.
“Yes, which brings me to something that I probably should mention—at least one of the clueless people who thinks toucans can talk might be gunning for this one. Quite literally.”
I explained about the bird’s presence at Trinity during the murder, and last night’s shooting at the church.
“So I’m not bringing him here just because you guys will be better at taking care of him—although that’s certainly very important,” I said in conclusion. “There’s also the fact that you have much better security here than Michael and I could ever provide.”
“You really think the toucan could be in danger?”
I nodded.
“Never fear!” Manoj drew himself up to his full height. “We will protect him!”
“No one gets through us to the bird,” Axel commented over his shoulder.
“Excellent,” I said. “I suppose I should confess to Grandfather that I’m bringing him a marked toucan.”
“You will find him in the Small Mammal House,” Manoj said. “Awaiting the birth.”
He hurried to catch up with Axel and fuss over the toucan before I could ask “what birth?”
Only one way to find out. I headed toward the Small Mammal House.
I made my way through the crowds of tourists—of course it was Saturday now, and apparently a reasonably large number of people had decided to weekend in Caerphilly. Randall would doubtless be pleased, since tourism was rapidly becoming a significant source of income for both the town and its businesses—although I suspected this morning he was probably worrying about the possibility that the dramatic police response to the shooting at Trinity would discourage vacationers. Was I more cynical to think it was just as likely to encourage them?
I strolled into the Small Mammal House. Nothing much seemed to be going on out in the public areas.
As usual, the meerkats had drawn the biggest crowd, partly because they’d cornered the market on cute and partly because unlike many of the other animals they didn’t spent the majority of their days hiding in the farthest corner of their habitat.
A couple of cat lovers were cooing baby talk to the sand cat, who was lying on a branch gazing out through the glass with his ears laid back and the tip of his tail twitching, as if to express his disapproval of their undignified way of addressing him. I’d always gotten the impression that in spite of being the size of an ordinary house cat—and a fairly small house cat at that—the sand cat resented being relegated to the Small Mammal House and felt it would be much more suitable to his feline dignity if he were housed with his larger relatives in the Big Cat House.
A couple of teenagers were tapping on the glass of the lesser Madagascar hedgehog tenrec’s habitat and wondering loudly why the stupid animal wouldn’t come out and show himself. I thought of pointing out to them the large sign announcing that the habitat’s occupant was not on display today—it was right beside the sign telling people not to tap on the glass. But I reminded myself how strong an advocate Grandfather was of learning by doing and left them to figure it out for themselves. If they were lucky, they’d grasp the importance of reading the signs before they got to the Big Cat House or the Bear Cave.
None of the animals on display looked pregnant, much less in the throes of labor, so I went over to the door marked STAFF ONLY! DO NOT ENTER! I punched the access code into the keypad, slipped in, and slammed the door behind me before any of the tourists noticed what I was up to and tried to enter on my heels.
Normally the staff-only sections of the zoo were fairly quiet except during the feeding-time frenzy. But I could see at least a dozen staff members racing up and down the corridor or gathered in a clump at its far end. As I proceeded down the corridor I could see they were all staring through what looked like a picture window, except that it gave a view not of the outside world but into a room with a sign over its door that read CLINIC AND NURSERY.
“Is this where the blessed event is taking place?” I asked a passing staff member.
“In the clinic,” she said. “Nothing visible yet, but if all goes well, they’ll bring the pups to the window for us to see.”
She dashed off as if on some urgent obstetric mission. Annoying that she couldn’t have just said what kind of new arrivals they were expecting. Still, pups did narrow the field a bit. If it was the ill-tempered sand cat’s mate giving birth, she’d have said kittens. Pups could mean wolves—Grandfather was particularly fond of wolves. But wolf litters weren’t that rare at the zoo, so no matter how pleased Grandfather was at the birth of more tiny predators, the rest of the staff wouldn’t get this worked up. And besides, the wolves didn’t live in the Small Mammal House. The meerkats did, and I seemed to recall that their offspring were also called pups—but like his wolves Grandfather’s meerkats were remarkably good at producing litters. No one made this much fuss over them.
I had just decided to break down and ask someone what we were expecting when Grandfather burst out of the clinic/nursery door, dressed in pale blue surgical scrubs.
“Victory!” he shouted. “We now have two healthy Screaming Hairy Armadillo pups!”
“Seriously?” I muttered.
Chapter 24
“Ar-ma-dil-lo! Ar-ma-dil-lo!”
Some of the assembled staff members were merely cheering and thumping each other on the back while others had formed an impromptu conga line, shuffling up and down the corridors chanting “Ar-ma-dil-lo!” over and over again. And everyone seemed to be congratulating Grandfather as if he were the proud new father.
“Clarence is going to bring them to the window,” Grandfather announced.
I almost got trampled in the rush to the window. Fortunately, most of the assembled staff were relatively short—did Grandfather have a hiring bias in favor of people he could loom over?—so I was easily able to peer over people’s heads.
Clarence Rutledge, also in scrubs and gloves, was holding up a dollhouse-sized armadillo. It didn’t look particularly hairy, but then a lot of mammals—including humans—tended to be born without their full complement of hair or fur. I couldn’t hear any screaming, but maybe the glass was soundproofed.
“Isn’t he cute?” one staffer cooed.
Well, yes, he was. Baby animals usually were. I made a mental note to check on the way out to see what the newborns would grow up to look like. I had a feeling cute was a transient phase for Screaming Hairy Armadillo pups.
“He’s adorable!” a staffer exclaimed.
“He or she,” another staffer said.
“Has Dr. Blake said which?”
“He says it could be a few weeks before we can tell.”
I left them to coo over the tiny, wriggling pup and strolled over to where Grandfather was basking in the armadillo’s reflected glory.
“I dropped the toucan off with Manoj,” I said. “I know it’s not as exciting as a brace of brand-new Screaming Hairy Armadillos, but the toucan can use your help.” I explained the possibility that Mr. Hagley’s killer might be after Nimitz.
“I need to schedule another series of wildlife lectures,” Grandfather said.
Someone who didn’t know the way his mind worked might have taken that for a non sequitur.
“That would be nice,” I said. “But your lecture would mostly attract people who already know a fair amount about birds and animals. Including the fact that toucans can’t talk. I
doubt if Caerphilly’s criminal population would have much interest. So if you’re hoping the person who’s gunning for the toucan would show up and learn that the bird can’t squeal on him, I rather doubt it.”
“Good point.” He sighed. “Well, I need to make a few phone calls. I want to get in a little extra help on the security side of things.”
“Calling in the Brigade?” I asked. Blake’s Brigade, as we all called it, was a loosely organized but fanatically loyal group of volunteers who could always be counted on to drop everything and come when Grandfather called for their help.
“Not a bad idea,” Grandfather said. “Although I think the first thing I’m going to do is call Randall to see if he can lend me a few of his more capable cousins.”
“Good grief. Well, if you insist on bringing armed Shiffleys into the picture, make sure they know that not everyone who comes galumphing through the woods will be a bad guy. Last night’s shooting brought the out-of-town law enforcement swarming like mosquitoes to a picnic.”
“I’m sure Randall will brief them.” Grandfather waved one hand dismissively.
Yes, Randall would brief them, if I had anything to say about it.
I returned to the public area of the Small Mammal House. The surly teenagers had joined the crowd around the meerkats, although their faces showed that they clearly considered it beneath them to gaze at anything so ostentatiously cute.
I hunted down the Screaming Hairy Armadillo habitat. There were three of them there, trundling around like small tanks. They weren’t really all that hairy, except by comparison to other armadillos—I could see only thin wisps of hair sticking out between the plates of their shells. I wondered if whoever had designed creatures for the Star Wars movies had been thinking about Screaming Hairy Armadillos the day they’d come up with Yoda.
I checked the time. Nine thirty. Which meant the chief was probably even now meeting with James Donovan, the law professor, P. Jefferson Blair’s friend. By the time I went into town, found a parking space within hiking distance of the law school, and made my way to Donovan’s office, the chief would probably be finished with him.
While I was driving into town, I could hear my phone, which I’d stowed inside my purse, pinging with messages—five of them in quick succession. Was some crisis going on? When I had to stop at a stop sign on the outskirts of town, I dug into my purse for the phone and scanned it.
No crises. Just everyone I knew texting me.
Mason’s mother informed me that she was on her way to deliver the boys.
Mother texted that she was heading over to our house with Cordelia.
Michael reported the boys’ safe return and reminded me that we needed to order more grain for the llamas.
Osgood Shiffley had replaced my window and would be dropping off the car by noon.
And Dad wanted to know when we were going to visit Ragnar.
I texted “OK” or “thanks!” to everyone but Dad. He got “later” instead.
Then I continued my journey to the end of the campus where the law school had its quarters.
Professor Donovan’s office was in the main law school building, affectionately known as Nameless Hall. It had originally been called the Nathaniel J. Pruitt Building, after a local judge so conservative that he was rumored to have called Calvin Coolidge a “damned revolutionary.” But after the downfall and disgrace of the Pruitt family the college had decided the building needed a new name. Since it also needed a major overhaul, the college had offered the renaming rights to the distinguished alumnus who provided the bulk of the money for the renovations. Unfortunately the donor had died before announcing his choice of names, and his highly litigious family had been squabbling over the issue ever since.
Nowadays, unofficially renaming the building had become a traditional prank among Caerphilly College students. As I climbed the impressive stone stairway to the front door, I wasn’t surprised to see that, as usual, the blank space on the building’s façade where the bronze name plaque had been removed was covered with a painted sign. Today, I noted with approval, it was the ATTICUS FINCH SCHOOL OF JUSTICE.
Over my years as a Caerphilly College faculty spouse I’d developed a certain ability to interpret all sorts of subtle clues to a faculty member’s status. In addition to being in the main law school building, James Donovan’s office was conveniently located, decently sized, and blessed with one of the limited number of windows. I deduced that while Donovan wasn’t likely to be named dean of the law school anytime soon, he was probably tenured and well regarded.
His door was open about a foot, and I didn’t see the chief inside, so I knocked.
“Come in,” he called out. But he looked slightly surprised when I entered. Maybe he was expecting a student—although it was Saturday. I’d gotten the impression that any faculty member found in his or her office on a Saturday was seeking peace and quiet, not interaction with students.
Donovan looked to be in his forties or early fifties, with thinning sandy hair. He stood up when I entered, revealing that he was almost as tall as Michael’s six four, though he was so lanky that he gave the impression of being even taller.
“Meg Langslow.” I held out my hand. “Has Chief Burke already talked to you? He said it would be okay to for me to drop by after he did.”
“He just left,” Donovan said as he shook my hand. “You’re with the police?” He didn’t seem hostile or upset—just puzzled. He waved me to one of his guest chairs.
“With Trinity Episcopal,” I explained. “Running errands for Reverend Robyn Smith, who’s out on maternity leave.”
“How can I help you, then?”
I probably should have just come right out and asked what he wanted done with Blair’s ashes, but what harm would it do to see if I could get him talking?
“We were told to contact you,” I said. “I gather you were a good friend of Paul Blair’s—or P. Jefferson Blair. Not sure what you knew him as.”
“I knew him as Paul when we went to college together,” Donovan said. “And retrained myself to call him Jeff when he showed up again to start a new life. Which would have been a lot easier in any town other than Caerphilly, but that was Jeff.”
“Stubborn?”
“Impractical.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Apart from impractical, what was he like?”
Donovan leaned back and took a deep breath.
“He was a nice guy,” he said. “And also he was an idiot. Book smart, of course, but no common sense. No street smarts. Archie van der Lynden and Fitz Marshall got their hooks into him freshman year. Dazzled him with their money and their social connections. Got him into their fraternity.”
“What did they get out of it?” I asked.
“Passing grades.” Donovan snorted. “Neither one of them would have lasted a semester without Jeff’s help. He tutored them, wrote their papers. I kept hoping Jeff would see through them, but they hung on till junior year, with him still fetching and carrying for them. And then Archie recruited him for his mother’s plot to cheat the insurance company. You heard about that, I gather.”
I nodded.
“They told him it was a prank, of course. Just another part of the entertainment. And if you ask me, he believed them. The judge and the jury agreed, which was why he got such a light sentence. Of course, it helped that the gun he was carrying wasn’t even loaded. They gave him the minimum—five years. Still, it almost killed his poor mother, and it certainly derailed his career.”
“He still managed to become a professor,” I pointed out.
“Adjunct professor,” Donovan said. “The indentured servants of the academic world. And teaching English literature to freshmen wasn’t ever what he had in mind. He was originally planning to go to law school, you know. That’s how we met—both doing the pre-law track. He wanted to go into some kind of socially responsible legal work—become a public defender, or take on big environmental cases. He had to give that up, of course. The Virginia Bar doesn�
��t have a hard and fast rule against admitting convicted felons, but they certainly don’t make it easy. And Caerphilly’s law school wouldn’t take him. Maybe they would have if Mrs. Van der Lynden was still around to pressure them—that’s how he got back into the college, of course. But she died before he finished his bachelor’s degree. So he studied his options, decided the English Department would be the path of least resistance, and got on with his life. At least for a little while.”
“The police report said he had an accident while cleaning his gun,” I said.
“Yeah, right.” Donovan rolled his eyes. “No one really believed that. No one who knew him, anyway. He’d never seemed to have the slightest interest in guns—in fact, if anything, I’d have thought he was pretty much against them after the New Year’s Eve gun battle he lived through out at the Van der Lynden castle. Everyone figured he’d lost heart and decided to end it all.”
“Including you?”
He shrugged slightly and seemed lost in thought. I waited as patiently as I could manage.
“At the time I kind of wondered if maybe it was something from the jewel robbery coming back to haunt him,” he said finally. “What if one of the real robbers thought he knew something and came back to try to get it out of him? Or just wanted to take revenge and shot him? I did a little research, but as far as I could figure out, both of the real robbers would still have been in prison at the time. So I figured I was just being paranoid. He decided to end it all, went out and bought a gun, and did it.”
I nodded. I wondered if it had occurred to him that even if the robbers themselves were still in prison, they could have friends and allies on the outside. If Chief Burke had been in charge, he would definitely have checked to see if Blair had actually bought the gun—had the police in 2000 done that? And even if he had bought a gun, had he done so to end his life—or to defend it?
“Did he ever say anything about getting threats?” I asked.
“Not exactly.” He frowned. “He had chronic insomnia, and sometimes when he looked particularly haggard, I’d ask what the trouble was, and he’d say it was his past coming back to haunt him. I always assumed he just meant his conscience was bothering him, or the old memories, but after his death I did sometimes wonder if it wasn’t just a mental thing. If maybe someone from the past was bothering him. No way to find out now.”
Toucan Keep a Secret Page 15
