The Penguin Who Knew Too Much

by Donna Andrews

  And then he turned around and my jaw dropped. I’d seen that craggy, deeply tanned face before. Of course, so had anyone who had habitually watched National Geographic specials over the last four decades, to say nothing of the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet. What possible reason could a world-famous zoologist and conservationist have for showing up on our doorstep?

  “Montgomery Blake,” he said, sticking out a gnarled, weather-beaten hand. “You must be Meg Langslow.”

  So it really was him, or a damned good impersonator. Still tongue-tied with surprise, I shook the offered hand, and my star-struck awe gave way to irritation as I realized that Blake was one of those men who saw shaking hands as a contact sport. I reacted the way I usually do. Blacksmithing has made my hands a good deal stronger than most women's, so I returned his death grip, with interest. I noted with some satisfaction the wince he couldn’t entirely hide, and then immediately felt guilty. Blake must be at least ninety. I should be marveling that he still had so much strength, not getting sucked into some macho competition.

  “You have a firm grip for a woman,” he said.

  Considering what I’d tried to do to his hand, that was a little like saying that King Kong was tall for a chimp. And what was I supposed to answer: “Thanks—you’re pretty strong yourself for a senior citizen”?

  I settled for “Thanks.”

  “I like that in a woman,” he said. “Must be the blacksmithing.”

  I suppose some people would have been flattered at the notion that someone so famous was taking an interest in them. It only made me nervous.

  “Here,” he said, shoving forward the wad of papers he was now holding in his left hand. A bunch of envelopes and flyers. I took them and glanced at them, puzzled, until I realized that he’d just handed me our mail. Which he’d apparently been studying while waiting for me to answer the doorbell.

  “How come that jerk's got you on his mailing list?” he asked, his finger stabbing at one of the flyers. “Surely you’re not even thinking of voting for him. His environmental record's unspeakable.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when I have a chance to study our mail,” I said. The nerve of the man! If I’d been caught going through someone's mailbox, I’d have been mortally embarrassed— and here Blake was hectoring me about the contents of mine. I took a deep breath and kept my voice neutral. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Is Dr. Langslow here?” he asked. “They told me over at the farmhouse that he might be.”

  “He's in the backyard with the hyenas.”

  “You have pet hyenas?” he asked.

  “I hope not,” I said, and led the way through the house.

  Chapter 9

  We found Dad and Eric in the kitchen. Dad was wringing out a damp cloth. Evidently he’d already met our new guest—he greeted Dr. Blake with enthusiasm.

  “Blake!” he exclaimed. “Come to help with the animals? Splendid! You can see to the hyenas while I take care of my patient.”

  To Blake's credit, he didn’t balk—just followed Dad out into the yard and strode over to the hyena cage while Dad helped Dr. Smoot into a nearby lawn chair and applied the hot compress he’d brought from the kitchen.

  “Ah!” Blake said, with satisfaction, circling the cage to inspect its occupants. “Crocuta crocuta!”

  “What's that?” Eric asked. Ever alert to sources of entertainment, he had tagged along at Blake's heels.

  “The spotted hyena,” Blake said, in his best on-camera voice. “Their scientific name is Crocuta crocuta. Three reasonably good specimens here. A trifle underweight, but we’ll soon have them back on a proper nutritional program.”

  “Stand back from the cage, Eric!” I said. “We don’t want you becoming part of the hyenas’ nutritional program.”

  “Would they really eat me?” Eric asked. He sounded a bit nervous—perhaps because all three hyenas were staring intently at him.

  “Oh, yes!” Blake exclaimed. “They’re quite efficient predators.”

  “There now,” Dad was saying to Dr. Smoot. “What's the trouble?”

  “In the wild, of course, they prey mostly on the larger herd animals,” Blake went on. “But they’re opportunistic feeders.” “Vampires,” Dr. Smoot said.

  “Nonsense!” Blake exclaimed. “Hyenas aren’t vampires, or even pure scavengers. True predators. Intelligent ones.”

  “I meant in the basement,” Dr. Smoot said.

  “Are there vampires in the basement?” Eric echoed.

  “There are no vampires in our basement,” I said. “Only police.”

  “Yes, why are the police in your—,” Blake began.

  “That's where my claustrophobia started,” Dr. Smoot broke in, sounding rather cross at having his confession interrupted. “With my big brothers doing their vampire thing in the basement.”

  “Their what?” Blake asked, frowning.

  I didn’t say anything, since I was busy banishing the image that had appeared in my mind: a cluster of Smoots dangling upside down from the rafters of our basement, their oversized suits hanging down in soft, pendulous folds.

  “Their vampire thing?” Dad echoed.

  “For Halloween,” Smoot said. “They would dress up in long black capes with bloody fangs, and hide in the cellar, and when they heard smaller kids walking by, they’d burst through the cellar doors shrieking, to terrify them. Doors just like that!” he added, pointing to our harmlessly rusting cellar doors.

  “Wow,” Eric said, in that uncertain voice he often used when even he could tell that grown-ups were behaving weirdly.

  “Why are the police in your basement?” Blake asked, after a moment.

  “Horrible,” Smoot muttered.

  “We’ve had a murder there,” Dad said.

  “No we haven’t,” I said. “Someone buried the body there, but I’m sure he was murdered someplace else. Which reminds me— Dad, Chief Burke wondered if you could give him the benefit of your medical knowledge. Since, um... “

  I glanced at Dr. Smoot, who was still sitting in our lawn chair muttering “Horrible! Horrible!” at random intervals.

  “Oh, right!” Dad said. “No problem. Someone keep an eye on Smoot while I’m gone.”

  The hyenas, true to their reputation as efficient, intelligent predators, had already given up watching Eric to concentrate on Smoot. Fortunately he had his back to them and didn’t seem bothered.

  “So whose body is buried in your basement?” Blake asked.

  “They haven’t finished digging him up yet,” I replied, and then I cast around for a way to change the subject. “So is it true that hyenas have an instinct for spotting the weakest members of a herd and targeting them?”

  “All predators do,” he said, glancing at Smoot. “Even the human ones. Especially the human ones. We should probably move them someplace quieter,” he added, looking back at the hyenas. “Having people around is apt to upset them.”

  “And vice versa,” I said. “Maybe we could put them at the far end of the yard, behind some of the outbuildings.”

  “I’ll need some help moving them,” he said.

  “Michael's down at the pasture with the llamas,” I offered, pointing out the direction.

  “That would be Professor Waterston?” Blake asked. “Your fiance?”

  My suspicions came back full force. It wasn’t that I wondered how he knew these details—if he and Dad had both been spending a lot of time at the Caerphilly Zoo, Dad had probably told him all about us. But most people just nod, smile, and forget details like that. Why had he remembered them?

  “That's right,” I said aloud. “Why don’t you take the camels down there, and I’ll look for the Shiffleys.” “The what?”

  “Shiffleys,” I said. “Two-legged predators of the genus Contractor.”

  Blake chuckled, and went to collect the camels. Eric came out of the kitchen with a glass of lemonade and handed it to Dr. Smoot. Thoughtful of him—lemonade or hot tea, depending on the season, was Mo
ther's remedy for anything that might be upsetting us, so even members of my family who didn’t like either beverage instinctively tried to pour them into anyone around us who seemed upset.

  “Keep an eye on Dr. Smoot,” I told him. “I’m going to find the Shiffleys.”

  I strolled around to the front of the house to look for the Shif-fleys’ truck. I found Randall Shiffley squatting beside a cage that had appeared on our front lawn.

  “What's in this one?” I asked as I squatted to check it out.

  “Some kind of short-tailed rats,” he said, with mild distaste.

  “Well, rodents of some kind,” I said, peering at the occupants of the cage. To me, they looked more like overgrown hamsters with slightly mold-tinged fur, and they were peacefully nibbling on some peaches. “Did you see who left them?”

  “Nope,” Randall said. “ ‘Nother hit-and-run animal dump.”

  “Speaking of which, could you and Vern help us move the hyenas?”

  Randall did a brief double take, then resumed his usual look of imperturbability.

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Soon as Vern gets back.”

  “Where's he gone?” I asked. Not, I hoped, to Flugleman's just yet, since we might not have come to the end of the animal arrivals.

  “Walking off a fit of temper. He’ll be fine when he gets back. Leastways I hope so.” “What's he mad at?”

  “Me,” Randall said. “I said something he took the wrong way. He's touchy these days.”

  I stared at him in astonishment. What could possibly have happened to undermine both Randall's normally calm manner and the Shiffleys’ impenetrable facade of family unity?

  “Yikes,” I said. “What's he so touchy about? I wouldn’t want to put my foot in my mouth.”

  Normally Randall wouldn’t have told me. Of course, normally he wouldn’t even have said as much as he already had. And even now, he frowned for a few moments before speaking.

  “You heard about Charlie's problem?” he asked.

  I pondered that for a moment. Like my family, the Shiffleys were a large and colorful clan, so I wasn’t at all sure who Charlie was, much less what medical, moral, legal, psychiatric, or other woes had befallen him.

  “Which one is Charlie?” I asked finally.

  “Vern's middle boy. If you haven’t heard anything about it—”

  “Then you’re in luck; you can tell me the real story, before I hear any unfair and distorted rumors.”

  Randall chuckled as if to say that he knew exactly what I was doing, but he launched into his story.

  “That Lanahan fellow from the zoo has filed charges against Charlie. For supposedly shooting one of his fancy gazelles.”

  “And Charlie didn’t shoot it?”

  “Well, yeah, he did, but it wasn’t his fault. Damned thing had gotten out of the zoo and was just wandering around the woods like an ordinary deer.”

  “I see.”

  “It wasn’t Charlie's fault!” Randall said, almost shouting. “It was hunting season—crossbow season—and Charlie had a permit, and he was hunting on his daddy's land, and it's not like he was careless.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Did you say crossbow?”

  Chapter 10

  “Yes, Charlie's good with a crossbow,” Randall said, with a touch of pride. “Takes more skill than hunting with a rifle.”

  “I’m sure it does.” I was trying to push away the memory of Patrick Lanahan's body, still half buried in our basement, with a crossbow bolt sticking out of the chest.

  “He could see it was a deer,” Randall went on. “He didn’t know till he shot it that it was one of Lanahan's fancy imported ones. Little bitty thing about fifteen, sixteen inches tall.”

  And Charlie had mistaken it for a full-grown deer? Maybe Lanahan was right to be suspicious.

  “What did he do?” I asked aloud.

  “Came and told his daddy and me, and we took the carcass over to Lanahan. Tried to apologize and make restitution, even though the confounded thing was trespassing at the time. Lanahan behaved like a total jackass.”

  “He didn’t understand that it was an accident?”

  “Lanahan insisted it wasn’t—he said Charlie must have made a hole in the fence and lured it out. Which was pretty damned stupid. Why would he deliberately shoot a scrawny runt like that? We’re not trophy hunters. We hunt to put meat on the table.”

  “And there wasn’t much meat on the gazelle?”

  “That evil little dog of yours would have a hard time making a meal of it,” Randall said. “But try telling Lanahan that. He's filed charges. Won’t listen to reason. That's why we’d appreciate it if you let us know if he shows up here—he's got to sooner or later, right? To do something about the animals.”

  I opened my mouth to explain how unlikely it was that Patrick Lanahan would show up to reclaim his animals, and then thought better of it. Chief Burke wouldn’t appreciate me spilling the beans. Especially not to someone who might be a suspect. Or at least the brother of one suspect and the uncle of another.

  “I hate to think of that miserable bastard ruining Charlie's future,” Randall said.

  “Surely once Chief Burke investigates the charges it will be all right? Charlie will be cleared.”

  “We can’t count on that,” Randall said. “And we sure as hell can’t count on it happening in time.”

  “In time for what?” I asked. But just then Vern appeared, and Randall frowned and shook his head, as if to warn me against continuing the conversation in front of Vern. Since Vern seemed his usual calm, unflappable self, I didn’t want to rock the boat. Randall and I both pretended to be keenly interested in the cage of rodents.

  “Pasture fence is fine,” Vern said. “Anything else we should do before we head off to Flugleman's?”

  “She's got some hyenas she wants moved,” Randall said. “You want us to take these rats out back, too?”

  By the time we reached the backyard, Montgomery Blake had rounded up Michael and several of Chief Blake's officers and cajoled them into hoisting the hyenas’ cage onto some kind of wheeled chassis—probably another piece of leftover farm equipment from one of the sheds. He greeted us with enthusiasm.

  “More new arrivals!” he exclaimed, and strode over to look at the cage with an energy that belied his age. “Aha! Acouchis!”

  “Geshundheit,” Randall said.

  “No, that's their name,” Blake said, peering into the cage. “The acouchi. South American rodent. Note the greenish sheen of their fur.”

  “It's supposed to look like that?” Randall said, crouching down beside Blake. “I just thought they had mange or something.”

  I sat down on the back steps, leaving Blake to enthuse about the acouchis to his new audience. Before too long, he’d recruited the Shiffleys to his moving crew, and the hyena cage went slowly rumbling off toward a more distant part of the yard.

  The chief joined me on the back steps to watch it go.

  “You tell anyone whose body we have down there and what happened to him?” he asked.

  “No, not even the Shiffleys, who appear to be quite knowledgeable about crossbows.”

  “Lot of people around here are.”

  “I had no idea it was legal to hunt with a crossbow.”

  “Used to be illegal unless you were disabled,” the chief said. “General Assembly opened it up to everyone in 2005. Makes for a longer season—there's an early bow season before the regular hunting season begins. And they say crossbows are easier than regular bows. Lot of people taking up crossbow hunting these days.”

  “Lanahan file charges against many other crossbow hunters?”

  The chief didn’t answer, and from the expression on his face, I decided not to push it.

  “You expecting any more animals?” he asked.

  “I hope not. Why?”

  “Truck just pulled up by the pasture,” he said, and went inside.

  He didn’t have to sound so smug about it. I decided to stroll down t
o the pasture. Maybe give the latest animal dumper a piece of my mind.

  Chapter 11

  Since there was still a murderer on the loose, I looked over the lanky, jeans-clad new arrival carefully before I got close. He didn’t appear to be carrying any animals, or, for that matter, a crossbow. He had parked his pickup truck by the fence and had gotten out to look at the llamas. He had propped his forearms on the top rail of the fence and was leaning on them, shoulders and head drooping dispiritedly. The llamas were humming softly at him. “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Probably not,” he said. He turned around, revealing a face so lugubrious it made his body language seem upbeat. “I’m Jason Savage. Caerphilly Animal Welfare.”

  He stuck his drooping right hand in my direction diffidently, as if most people turned up their noses at the thought of touching it.

  “Great to see you,” I said. I grabbed the hand and shook it briskly. The Animal Welfare Department! Why hadn’t I thought of calling them already?

  “Um...thanks,” he said, frowning at his hand as if I’d done something to it—which was ridiculous; I hadn’t been trying to imitate the Montgomery Blake death grip.

  “You’ve come to take away the animals, I presume,” I went on, trying for a tone of businesslike regret.

  “People aren’t usually that glad to see me,” he said. Oops— perhaps I’d sounded too eager.

  “Well, most people probably aren’t putting the welfare of the animals above their own selfish interests. I understand that you’re only doing your job. We’ve got the rest of them up at the house.”