The Penguin Who Knew Too Much

by Donna Andrews

  I realized that Chief Burke was frowning at me.

  “How well did you know Lanahan?” he asked. He was holding his little notebook. And unlike my notebook, in which I tried to capture everything in the world I needed to remember, the chief scribbled in his notebook only when someone said something that might turn out to be evidence.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’ve met him, but I can’t say I know him. Though I had every reason for wanting to keep him alive.”

  “Why is that?” the chief asked.

  “With him gone, who knows how long we’ll be stuck with the penguins and llamas?”

  “Llamas?” Dad said. “How exciting!”

  He scurried toward the backyard, presumably to commune with the llamas.

  “And camels,” I called after him.

  “Send Smoot down when he gets here,” the Chief said again, and disappeared back into the house.

  A minute later, just as I was lifting my pen to scribble in the notebook, Michael drove up in our truck. I could see my twelve-year-old nephew Eric in the passenger seat, holding Spike, our furball of a dog. A small clutch of cousins sat in the truck bed. Cousin Horace leaped out before Michael had completely stopped, and sprinted for the house.

  “You think the chief can use me?” he shouted. “Probably. Down in the basement.” He waved and continued on into the house. Michael was close on his heels, but instead of dashing into the house, he enveloped me in a reassuring hug. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “More exasperated than anything else. The chief hasn’t said we need to stop the move.”

  “But odds are he will, as soon as he thinks about it.”

  The other three cousins who’d been helping load the truck followed him.

  “Anything useful we can do?” one asked.

  “Not at the moment,” I said.

  “You okay?” another asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Maybe you could go in and see about Mother and Dad, though.”

  “Roger.” They all hastened inside. No doubt they realized that Dad could tell them all about the body, and that if Mother was around, she’d have coerced someone into fixing refreshments.

  “So just how did your father find this body?” Michael asked, taking a seat beside me.

  “He was digging a hole in the basement—the dirt floor part under the future library. To put in a pond for the penguins.”

  “Why was he putting the penguins in our basement?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “He was—wait. You knew about the penguins?”

  “I knew he had them over at the farm,” Michael said, looking slightly sheepish.

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it was all that important. Especially since I told him there was absolutely no way we could take care of any animals. What with the move and all.”

  “He seems to have forgotten that part. People are starting to drop by and leave animals here.”

  “Perhaps he misinterpreted me,” Michael said with a sigh, “and assumed that as soon as we’d moved in, we’d be happy to have animals.”

  “Even so, he's jumping the gun, letting people bring them today,” I said. “And already—where's Eric?” “Putting Spike in his pen.”

  “He can’t do that!” I said, jumping up and racing toward the backyard. “It's full of llamas.”

  I could hear Spike barking somewhere in the backyard as I ran, and I feared the worst. Fortunately, when I turned the corner, I saw that Eric was still gazing at the llamas in rapture while Spike, predictably, was straining at the end of the leash in his attempt to attack them. Dad, of course, had disappeared.

  The llamas were humming. It was a curiously soothing sound, but not being a llama expert, I had no idea if they found Spike's antics cute, or if the humming was a battle cry that indicated they planned to knock down the fence and trample him.

  “Why don’t you take Spike into the barn,” I suggested. “He can stay there until we move the llamas into the pasture.”

  “Cool,” Eric said. He began tugging Spike toward the barn, still looking back at the llamas.

  “Fascinating,” Michael said. He, too, was staring at the llamas.

  “They’d be just as fascinating and a lot happier if someone took them to the pasture,” I suggested.

  “Okay,” Michael said. Still staring. Damn.

  “The Shiffleys are checking the fence to make sure there are no holes in it, but I can’t imagine it's gotten too bad. It's only been a few weeks since their uncle Fred moved his cattle out.”

  “I’ll get your dad to help.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I thought he was back here, but perhaps he's gone inside to tell Mother about the llamas.”

  “I bet he knows what they like to eat,” Michael said while gazing at the llamas. “That could be useful—it would help us keep them toward this end of the pasture till the Shiffleys have finished inspecting the fence.”

  I watched as he strode off to the kitchen, still glancing back. The fact that he was already thinking about treats for the llamas was something I’d worry about later.

  “Excuse me.”

  I turned to see someone peering around the corner of the house. Probably in his thirties, average size, with rather ordinary features.completely unremarkable, in fact, except that his suit appeared to be several sizes too large for him. His hands were all but hidden in the overlong sleeves. The pants cuffs were turned up slightly to keep him from stepping on the bottoms, and from the mud stains and fraying on the cuffs, he hadn’t always remembered to do so.

  He was carrying something—holding it behind his back. Not another animal, I hoped. Then he came all the way around the corner, and I realized that it was a black doctor's bag. Aha! No doubt here was the overdue medical examiner.

  Chapter 7

  “Dr. Smoot,” I said. “Welcome.

  ” He shook my offered hand shyly.

  “Where is the...?”

  “In the basement. I’ll show you.”

  I led him to the entrance, pulled up one metal door, and ostentatiously stood aside, to show that I knew my place, and wasn’t even interested in peeking into the basement. Nice try, but I should have saved my efforts.

  “Down there?” Dr. Smoot whispered.

  “That's where we keep the basement.”

  “It's very dark.”

  I noticed he was edging slightly away from the door. “Yes, unfortunately that end of the basement's not electrified yet,” I said. “I could get you a flashlight.” “And very small.” “It gets bigger inside.”

  “I’m not sure that helps,” Dr. Smoot said. “Great empty echoing caverns of blackness.”

  “It doesn’t echo,” I said. “And it's not empty—Chief Burke is down there, and Sammy, and my cousin Horace, and I forget how many other officers.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, starting to back away. “I just can’t do it. Tell Burke I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t tell me: you have claustrophobia.” “They didn’t tell me the body was down in a basement!” “Why don’t you come up to the kitchen and have some coffee?” “No! Not indoors!” Smoot shouted.

  Probably better to stay outside anyway. If Dad found out Dr. Smoot was too claustrophobic to descend to the scene of the crime, he’d volunteer again to fill in at the crime scene, which would only annoy the chief more.

  “Or just sit and rest here for a bit,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

  “You can’t make me go through that door!” he said, backing away faster.

  “No, of course not.” I grabbed his elbow and led him away, toward some lawn chairs. “Do basements in general bother you, or just dark ones?”

  “It's the doors mostly,” he said. He sat down in one of the chairs and mopped the sweat off his face with one voluminous sleeve. “Those damned ominous outside doors.”

  They didn’t look particularly ominous to me. I certainly didn’t like them—they were covered wit
h flaking green paint, and whenever I saw them I remembered that one item in my notebook was to assess whether we should strip the old paint, sand off the rust, and repaint them or just put in new doors. Annoying, yes, and doubtless expensive, but ominous? Still, who was I to criticize someone else's phobia?

  “Would a normal stairway work better?” I asked aloud.

  “You have a stairway to the basement?” he snapped. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “This way's shorter. But if you’d rather do the stairs...”

  “Show me.”

  I showed Dr. Smoot in through the back door. To my relief, we passed Dad and Michael on their way out.

  “Off to move the llamas,” Dad said, waving gaily. “Llamas?” Dr. Smoot echoed.

  “They’re outside,” I said, quickly, in case he had a phobia about them as well, and led the way to the kitchen. It was empty, except for Rob sitting in one corner reading a comic book. He glanced up with a faint frown on his face, as if we were interrupting some important bit of work. For all I knew, it was work. After three decades of cruising through life on his charm and the blond good looks he had inherited from Mother, Rob had finally found his vocation. These days he made an obscenely good living coming up with bizarre ideas that his staff of programmers could turn into computer games.compared to some of his sources of inspiration, comic books were pretty normal.

  “Mother and the rest went over to the farm,” he said, burying his nose back in the comic book. “They’ll be over later with lunch.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Basement's this way,” I added to Dr. Smoot, throwing open the door.

  He glanced through the opening. I was relieved to see that he didn’t panic, but he seemed to be waiting for me to lead the way.

  Chief Burke would have to put up with me, apparently. I grabbed a flashlight and obliged.

  Dr. Smoot nearly lost his nerve when I opened the door from the finished part of the basement into the unfinished part, with its maze of small rooms. I eventually cajoled him into moving again, but only after he grabbed my arm with both hands, and from the unsteadiness of his steps, he probably had his eyes closed.

  “It's only a few more steps,” I repeated. I tried to say it loudly enough that Chief Burke would hear me and relieve me of my recalcitrant charge, but apparently the chief was arguing with Sammy. I could hear their voices, the chief's mellow baritone alternating with Sammy's nervous tenor, and occasionally I saw sudden flashes of light.

  When I got closer, I saw that the light came from Horace, who was slowly and methodically laboring with a small trowel to uncover the rest of the body, pausing every few minutes to wield his digital camera.

  “I’ve brought Dr. Smoot,” I said.

  “You could have sent him,” the chief said. “We can take it from here.”

  “Don’t desert me!” Smoot wailed, tightening his grip on my arm until I was worried that he’d cut off the blood circulation.

  “Dr. Smoot was a little worried about the...um...footing down here,” I said.

  “You didn’t tell me the body was in a basement,” Smoot moaned.

  I heard whispering.

  “That's all right then,” the chief said, in a falsely hearty voice. “Sammy, why don’t you go help the doctor?”

  Smoot welcomed Sammy's help—I breathed more easily when one of Dr. Smoot's hands detached itself from my bruised forearm. But it took both of us to coax him over to the side of the hole, and he stood there for the longest time with his eyes pressed tightly shut, breathing deeply.

  Since I was standing there anyway, I leaned over to peek into the excavation Horace was making. If I hadn’t known it was Lanahan, I might not have recognized him at first. Alive, he had been handsome in a beefy, football-player way. Now, his features looked pale and puffy, and the faint, rather dashing scar on one cheek stood out more. But it was Lanahan. My eyes drifted down to his chest. For a moment, I couldn’t quite decipher what I was seeing, and then it all fell into place.

  “Good grief,” I said. “Is that an arrow in his chest?” “You’re not supposed to see that,” the chief snapped. “Fine,” I said. “Am I not seeing what I think I’m not seeing?” “Horrible,” Smoot muttered. “Great dark echoing caverns of blackness.”

  Since he still had his eyes closed, I didn’t think he was referring to the arrow.

  “Technically it's a crossbow bolt,” Horace said.

  “Is he going to be all right?” the chief asked.

  “I thought you said he was dead,” Smoot said. “Why did you bring me down here? If he's alive, any old doctor would do.”

  Sammy and I looked at each other. Sammy shrugged.

  “He looks pretty dead to me,” I said, in my most soothing voice. “Dr. Smoot, why don’t you just open your eyes and pronounce him officially.”

  “And then Meg will lead you right out,” the chief added.

  “Isn’t he supposed to do some investigating?” I asked. “I mean—”

  “We can worry about that down at the morgue,” the chief said. “Let's just get him to pronounce so we can move the body.”

  Smoot pried one eye open, gazed down at the body, and moaned. “Yes, he's dead,” he said, screwing his eyes shut again. “What a horrible place to die!”

  “Don’t worry, he didn’t die here,” I said as Sammy and I began to lead Smoot away from the excavation.

  “How do you know that?” the chief demanded.

  “I think we’d have noticed if someone was down here playing bows and arrows in the middle of the night,” I called over my shoulder. “And it would have to have been the middle of the night—after Dad knocked off digging for the evening, which couldn’t have been that long before Flugleman's closed, and before we all got up to begin the move, which was maybe five this morning.”

  “Hmph,” the chief said.

  “I’ll get the door,” Sammy said. We’d been leading Smoot toward the cellar doors he hated so much—my plan was not to let him open his eyes till he was nearly outside. It worked—he took one look at the open doors, uttered a squeak, and ran outside.

  A second later, we heard a crash, a scream, and what sounded like peals of maniacal laughter.

  “What the hell was that?” the chief snapped.

  I followed Smoot up the cellar steps and looked around.

  “Ah,” I said. “The hyenas have arrived.”

  Chapter 8

  “Were you expecting hyenas?” the chief asked. “Evidently.”

  There were three of them, in a cage so large that I doubted whoever had delivered them could possibly have gotten it into a pickup truck. Which meant I could probably figure out who the hyenas’ previous hosts had been by checking the list of local residents with access to a flatbed truck.

  The hyenas were pacing up and down in their cage, snarling at one another occasionally, their eyes glued to Dr. Smoot, who was lying facedown on the lawn, panting and whimpering.

  “Good Lord,” the chief said. “You’d better get him inside before the buzzards show up.”

  “I’ll ask Dad to look after him,” I said, stepping out of the basement.

  “Good idea,” the chief said.

  “How long has Dr. Smoot been medical examiner?”

  “Acting medical examiner,” the chief corrected. “About two weeks. We needed someone in a hurry when old Doc Hartman died.”

  From his frown, I suspected Dr. Smoot's tenure as acting medical examiner would be a short one.

  “When your father's finished with Smoot, ask if he’d mindstepping down here for a minute,” he said finally. “There might be one or two medical details Smoot didn’t catch.” “Roger,” I said.

  From the chief's scowl, I could tell how painful the request had been—at a guess, somewhere between having a root canal and being bitten by fire ants. Dad's desire to be involved in a real, live murder investigation had annoyed the chief more than one time already.

  Chief Burke backed down the stairway and slammed the cellar doors shut behind
him.

  I started toward the pasture to look for Dad, but as I was passing the back door, the front doorbell rang.

  “What now?” I muttered, but I trudged up the back steps, through the kitchen, and down the hall to answer it.

  On my way, I ran into Rose Noire, heading upstairs.

  “Meg, if it's okay, I’m going to borrow some of your clothes to wear while I take care of the animals.”

  I glanced up. No, the ankle-length India print skirt wasn’t practical for chasing after camels, and if I owned anything as beautiful as her turquoise blouse, I wouldn’t take it within a mile of the penguins.

  Of course, the skirt and blouse weren’t exactly suitable for helping us move in, either, but I’d already decided that last night's herb-smudging ceremony was Rose Noire's major contribution to our move. If she was busy with the animals, she wouldn’t be trying to fix the house's feng shui in the middle of the move—for that, I’d happily sacrifice any number of clothes.

  “Plenty of old T-shirts and sweats in the closet,” I said. “But I have no idea what box my nicer clothes are packed in, so if you’re not careful, I might steal your blouse and skirt for the party.”

  “It's a deal!”

  But the skirt would probably be too short on me, so I still needed to find the box soon to have something other than jeans and a T-shirt to wear for my own wedding.

  Not something I needed to worry about just yet.

  I put on my polite hostess face before opening the door. After all, maybe it wasn’t another Friend of the Caerphilly Zoo looking to foist yet another animal on us. Maybe this time it would be someone dropping by to help with the animals. Take a few home.

  Not that I was holding my breath.

  I swung open the door and saw a tall, slightly stooped elderly man standing on the doorstep with his back to me. He looked as if he had dressed for a safari—olive green cargo pants, muddy hiking boots, a brown shirt, and a khaki fishing vest, its dozen pockets bulging with unidentified bits of gear. He had a pith helmet tucked under his left hand, and had probably just taken it off—his untidy white mane had a bad case of hat hair. He kept looking down at something he was shuffling in his hands, and then glancing up at the landscape. An odd figure, but he didn’t seem to be carrying or leading any stray animals, so my welcoming expression grew a bit more sincere. I cleared my throat, in case he hadn’t noticed the door opening.