Toucan Keep a Secret

by Donna Andrews

  “Let me have the phone, sir.” Aida Butler had arrived on the scene. I felt relief wash over me. Could an ambulance be far behind?

  After a few annoying protests, Mr. Sedlak surrendered the phone.

  “Meg’s here, and she can’t talk yet, but if I had to make a guess, I’d say someone hit her with Mace or pepper spray. There’s an older lady in the hallway who seems to have been affected as well.”

  “That would be Mrs. Washington.” The chief had arrived. “And once she recovers from the effects of what I suspect is her own pepper spray—”

  I nodded vigorously to indicate that he’d got it right.

  “—I am looking forward to having a very interesting conversation with her.”

  Chapter 35

  Happy as I’d been to see—well, hear—Aida and the chief arrive, I was delighted when Horace and eventually Dad showed up to offer what relief they could for my pepper spray pain. And Mrs. Washington’s pain, too, but I was perhaps understandably less sympathetic to her sufferings. The skin of her face and one hand were mottled with red splotches, presumably from the pepper spray. I hoped mine didn’t look quite as bad. Or if it did, that it was a short-term side effect.

  Once I could talk again, it didn’t take long to explain to the chief what had happened, and within a few minutes I was on my way home. Under my own steam. Dad offered to drive me, but didn’t object too strenuously when I suggested that he should stay to keep an eye on Mrs. Washington. Either she had gotten a bigger dose of the pepper spray than I had or she was more sensitive to it, and she wasn’t recovering as quickly.

  “Or maybe she’s pretending to be more affected by it,” I suggested. “To delay talking to the chief.”

  Dad nodded solemnly. I could tell he was perfectly happy to stay on at the police station, and delighted at the prospect of using the need to monitor Mrs. Washington’s recovery to eavesdrop on the chief’s interrogation of her.

  “And after we finish down here, I’m going back to Ragnar’s to work on the reenactment,” he added. “We’re hoping to have our first run-through this evening. If you want to come along…”

  “I think I should rest.” I exaggerated my hoarseness slightly, to make sure he didn’t try to talk me into it.

  On the way home, I turned on the college radio station, which was having its usual Saturday all-day classic rock marathon, and tried to chill a bit by tapping my feet—well, the foot that wasn’t on the gas pedal—to Bon Jovi and The Rolling Stones. Singing along would have been a more effective pick-me-up, but my throat wasn’t yet recovered enough from the pepper spray.

  I’d expected to find Michael and the four boys at our house—which wouldn’t have been all that restful, but it would have made a nice change from shackled thugs and pepper spray. Instead, I found my grandmother Cordelia sitting on one of the overstuffed blue couches in our living room, sipping a margarita and using Tinkerbell as a footstool. Also a nice change, but not one I’d anticipated.

  “What happened to your face?” Cordelia held up a green glass pitcher. “And shall I pour you a margarita? You look as if you could use one.”

  I accepted a margarita and sipped it as I explained about Mrs. Washington and the pepper spray. And then all the rest of my day. Cordelia made a good audience.

  “I know I should just enjoy the peace and quiet,” I said when I’d finished my tale. “But where are Michael and the boys?”

  “They’ve gone out to Ragnar’s house,” Cordelia said. “Your father has decided that his reenactment of the jewel robbery needs a more seasoned hand at the helm.”

  “Michael’s going to direct the reenactment?”

  “Yes.” She appeared to be trying not to laugh. “And all four boys were quite mutinous that your father had left them out.”

  I nodded. Yes, they would be. Both Josh and Jamie had already played children’s roles in several local or college productions and considered themselves stars in training. I wasn’t sure either Mason or Adam had any theatrical ambitions, but if the twins were doing something, the other two Horsemen wouldn’t want to be left out.

  “Michael and I tried to explain that it was a grown-up party, so there really weren’t any children’s roles, to which Josh replied that they could play short grown-ups. So Michael took them along.”

  And there was also the fact that Dad’s reenactment was just the sort of lunacy Michael liked to aid and abet.

  “Oh, and Spike went with them,” Cordelia added.

  “Spike? Does he get a part, too?”

  “Apparently he will be representing Mrs. Van der Lynden’s Pekingese.” Cordelia sipped the last of her margarita and studied the pitcher for a moment before shaking her head slightly. “Though I have no idea if her dog played an active part in the events of the robbery or if his is merely a cameo role. Anyway, you’ll have some peace and quiet for a while. And I should head out. If your father is going to spend the whole evening out at Ragnar’s, I think I should go over to distract your mother. Assuming you’ll be okay here.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “With any luck all the weird red splotches from the pepper spray will have faded by the time the boys get home.”

  “I’ll let myself out then.” Cordelia gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and left. Her firm, brisk footsteps moved from the porch to the walkway. Then her car started, and its sound gradually disappeared into the distance.

  I kept my eyes closed and took another sip of the margarita. Michael and the boys would be fine out at Ragnar’s. They’d probably have a blast. They wouldn’t starve—Ragnar had an excellent cook and was a firm believer that people—especially small but growing boys—should be fed with great regularity. Maybe I should just sit back, finish my margarita, and relax for a while.

  That, of course, was the moment my phone rang. I picked it up and saw that Grandfather was calling, so I answered it.

  “I might need you to come and take your toucan back,” he said without any preamble.

  “He’s not my toucan, and why can’t he just stay there?” I tried to keep my tone light.

  “We had a security incident this afternoon. Someone tried to cut a hole in the fence. Might have gotten in if not for the hyenas.”

  “The hyenas?” I could feel my margarita glow vanishing. “What did they have to do with it? Isn’t the toucan in the aviary?”

  “We have a part of the fence where the security cameras keep going down—not sure yet if it’s human vandalism or rodents chewing the wires. So I moved the hyenas and the wolves into habitats at that end of the zoo. If they start raising a racket, security goes to check the fence.”

  Grandfather sounded proud of his hyenas’ success. I wondered briefly if he’d set it up so intruders actually ended up among the wolves or hyenas, rather than merely near them. Surely even Grandfather would have more sense. Then again, maybe not. I decided I didn’t want to know right now.

  “So with a little improvisation, the security system worked,” I said aloud. “I still don’t see why you want to throw the toucan out.”

  “It’s for his own good,” Grandfather said. “What if the intruder tries again? Say at feeding time, when the wolves and hyenas might be a little distracted?”

  “Why don’t you take the toucans off display and hide them someplace else in the zoo,” I suggested. “The Big Cat House or the Bear Cave. People tend to avoid poking around and opening random doors in those buildings.”

  “I don’t need to hide all the toucans,” he said. “Just the one they’re after.”

  “Oh, and you think someone so clueless he doesn’t even know that toucans don’t talk can tell one toucan from another? Do you really want any of your regular resident toucans to take the fall for Nimitz?”

  A short silence.

  “I suppose you could have a point,” Grandfather said.

  It took an effort, but I repressed the urge to utter some variation on “duh!” or “I told you so.”

  “Well,” he went on. “Since you refuse to take
responsibility for the danger in which you’ve placed our entire toucan population, I suppose I’ll have to take protective action.” With that he hung up—and a good thing, too, since it removed the temptation to actually utter one of the snarky replies that sprang into my head.

  “Chill,” I told myself. “He’s only doing this because he’s worried about the toucan.”

  Still, he’d broken my mellow mood. The fact that someone was prowling around the zoo, presumably looking for the toucan, could mean that whoever had taken a shot at me was targeting the zoo now, right?

  Of course if that was the case, it would also mean that whoever had taken a shot at me was not locked up.

  But the chief had both Bart Hempel and Mrs. Washington in custody. And seemed confident that one or the other of them would turn out to be responsible for all our recent unfortunate events. The attempted break-in at the zoo would probably turn out to be another contingent of rogue Goths bent on kidnapping some of the bats.

  Yeah, but for the time being, I didn’t feel like being all alone in the house. I wanted company. Preferably that of Michael and the boys.

  I picked up the margarita pitcher, carried it out to the kitchen, and put it in the refrigerator for later. Then I grabbed my purse and headed for my car.

  Before I took off, I detoured to the barn to grab my traveling blacksmith’s kit—a sturdy canvas bag containing the tools I might need to do minor repairs to Ragnar’s ironwork, including the damaged railings in the gazebo. Not that I expected to repair the gazebo tonight. But odds were it would take several days for Ragnar and Dad to work out their plans for the reenactment. Which meant I might be dashing out there on short notice more than once. If I had my tools with me, at least I had the chance of getting some useful work done in the process.

  In fact, if Dad tried to suck me into taking a major role in his reenactment planning, it might be a good thing to come prepared to work. So I added a portable LED work light to the tools in the back of the Twinmobile.

  I deliberately took a route toward Ragnar’s that would not take me past Trinity. If more exciting events were unfolding at the church, I’d let other people discover them. I also detoured around the police station. Unfortunately, that detour led me close enough to Mrs. Washington’s street to see flashing lights and several police vehicles outside her bungalow. No doubt the chief was searching it. I hoped I’d hear all the details later tonight. Or maybe in the morning. Not only the hows and whys of Mr. Hagley’s murder, but also what had happened to the jewels. I found myself wondering how many people would greet the news of Mrs. Washington’s arrest with some variation on either “But she seemed like such a nice lady” or “It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch, isn’t it?”

  Still, the search seemed to suggest that perhaps the chief was close to wrapping up the case. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention that to Dad, in case it spoiled his plans for the reenactment.

  It was a beautiful clear night, with a nearly full moon. I found myself thinking that I could almost repair the gazebo by moonlight alone.

  But I’d rather be at home. Maybe I could convince Dad to knock off early so his reenactors could get their beauty sleep. Michael and I could put the Four Horsemen to bed, then stay up and watch an old movie. Something black-and-white and sophisticated. We were still working our way through the latest Film Noir Classics DVD collection.

  As I approached Ragnar’s house, I could see that nearly every window was ablaze with light. I drove past the steps and into the parking lot, which was almost completely full. From the number of vehicles that were far from new and in bad repair, I suspected Michael had recruited some of his drama students to the cause.

  Normally I’d have rung the doorbell and taken the elevator up, but I could see activity on the front terrace, and loud music was blaring out into the night—Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” Should I break the news to the reenactors that their soundtrack was a few decades off? First I had to get in, and if things were this lively in the house, I wasn’t at all sure Ragnar would notice the doorbell. So I walked around to the marble stairs and began climbing.

  All the giant chess pieces were gone, and the steps were back to the impressively stark, bare look I remembered from Mrs. Winkleson’s day.

  When I reached the terrace at the top of the stairs, I found the drama department out in full force. Several women students wearing maid costumes were at one end of the terrace practicing balancing trays of hors d’oeuvres or champagne flutes. Quite a few men in tuxedos and women in ball gowns were clustered near the entrance. Several of the ones I knew—or who knew I was their professor’s wife—waved.

  Near the top of the stairs a young man dressed all in black was leaning against one of the enormous planters, smoking a cigarette. I recognized him as Roddy, one of Michael’s star pupils.

  “Hey, Meg,” he said. “Michael’s inside.”

  “Are you one of the real robbers or the gentlemen robbers?” I asked.

  “Real, of course.” He put down his cigarette, reached up, and tugged on what I’d taken for a black knit cap, revealing it as a ski mask with which he covered his face. “Pretty awesome, isn’t it?”

  Nearby another black-clad man was striding up and down, his ski mask already deployed, talking softly to himself. Presumably another of the real jewel thieves.

  “Evan’s working on his motivation,” Roddy said.

  “Isn’t he always?” I murmured. Roddy nodded and chuckled. He was the sort of performer who could go from laughing over a card game in the dressing room one minute to tearing at your heartstrings on stage as Macbeth without turning a hair. Evan, by contrast, couldn’t get through a one-line walk-on part as a footman without knowing his character’s complete psychiatric diagnosis. He auditioned well, but directors rarely cast him twice. Giving him a leading role in the reenactment was probably a kindness on Michael’s part.

  As we watched, Evan stalked furtively up and down the terrace, now pausing dramatically to look around as if searching for the source of a noise, now drawing himself up to his full height, now assuming a menacing crouch and scowling as if an enemy stood before him. Then he reached into his pocket. I was expecting him to pull out a prop gun. Instead, he drew out a modest-sized salami and shook it at his invisible opponent.

  “Clearly I have not studied the Van der Lynden jewel robbery closely enough,” I said. “I was unaware that the robbers were armed with cold cuts. I shall need to rethink my whole theory of the crime.”

  “Ragnar disapproves of waving guns, even fake ones, in front of so many impressionable children,” Roddy said. “So we’re making do.”

  He drew out his own weapon—a large and very green banana—and sighted along it at the spot where Evan appeared to be holding a prisoner at sausage point.

  “I do hope someone takes video,” he said, turning back to me.

  “Watch where you’re pointing that thing,” I said. “I’m going inside to see if Michael needs any help.”

  Roddy nodded, picked up his cigarette, and began blowing smoke rings in Evan’s direction.

  I braced myself for what strangeness I might find and headed into the house.

  Chapter 36

  My first thought was that I wished I’d brought some ear plugs. Since I hadn’t, I’d make it a priority to find the source of the music and turn down the speakers. “In the Mood” had given way to Frankie Laine singing “All of Me,” which might be pleasant if played at a normal volume instead of one that could drown out a jet engine.

  In the hallway I found Michael, Dad, Ragnar, and several formally clad party guests kneeling on the floor around the plans of the house. Several other guests stood behind them, flipping through thick wads of paper.

  “Transcripts from the 1988 trial,” said a familiar voice. I glanced up to see Fred Singer of the Clarion, armed with his trusty digital camera. “When I first heard about your dad’s reenactment notion, I thought it was ridiculous—but it is amazing how much information they’re able to recon
struct from all the testimony.”

  It was still going to look ridiculous when it appeared in the Clarion, I thought, as I watched Fred snap several pictures of the solemn group clustered around the plans.

  “They’d have been crazy to come in from the kitchen passage,” Michael said.

  “Yes.” Dad nodded vigorously. “The guests wouldn’t have seen them, but with at least twenty servants going back and forth constantly with trays of food and drink—not a good option.”

  “So I think they have to make their entrance from the loading dock.” Michael pulled out his cell phone, tapped on it, and spoke into it. “Roddy? Can you grab Evan and Jared and go out to the loading dock?”

  “I’m here.” Evan appeared in the doorway. “Michael, we have a problem. I need to know my motivation for committing this robbery.”

  “Ten million dollars in loot doesn’t motivate you?” Michael probably sounded calm enough to most people, but I could tell his patience was wearing thin. Probably not the first time they’d had this conversation.

  “I just don’t read Hempel as that mercenary.”

  I could have said that I’d seen Hempel and I had no trouble reading him that way. But if I did, Evan would want to stop the proceedings to question me, and it’d be a toss-up whether Michael or I finally broke down and strangled him.

  “He’s not mercenary,” I said. “He needs the ten million to ransom his brother, Aaron, who’s being held by a sinister international crime overlord. If he doesn’t turn over the ten million by daybreak, the evil overlord will kill Aaron.”

  Most of the people there looked at me as if I’d suddenly lost my mind. Evan looked thoughtful.

  “Yes. I think I can work with that,” he said.

  “Come on, then,” Roddy said. “Let’s get ready for our entrance.”

  Evan, still lost in contemplation, allowed Roddy to lead him over to the elevator. To my relief, everybody managed to hold in their giggles until the elevator doors had closed behind them.