reptilian interest, as if trying to determine if he was edible. Or perhaps he was recognizing a soul mate.
A sudden wave of nostalgia hit me. Many of my fondest childhood memories were of Dad strolling into the kitchen or the living room holding a wild creature, dead or alive, to give us an impromptu biology lesson. Mice, voles, shrews, snakes, snapping turtles, rabbits, and bats from the backyard or the nearby woods, and an apparently endless supply of slightly flattened possums plucked from the highway. Most of the live animals would be trying to escape or to bite Dad—sometimes both at once—and invariably, if Mother was home, Dad's lectures would be punctuated by shrieks of “Get it out! Get that thing out of my house! Now!”
Once Dad had rounded up the largest possible audience— preferably all three kids plus any stray cousins or neighbors visiting that day—he’d adjourn to the backyard to continue his lesson, which invariably ended with someone taking a picture of Dad with his catch, followed by a trek to the woods to bury the dead animals or release the wild animals at a safe distance from any busy roads.
Apparently Montgomery Blake enjoyed similar amusements with the far more varied and exotic creatures he found in his travels, with the added advantage of a full-time professional camera crew.
But as I clicked and moused my way through Blake's Web site, I couldn’t see any indication that he’d previously taken an interest in any small-town zoos.
Perhaps Patrick Lanahan had acquired an unusual specimen— some rare exotic or endangered animal hiding in plain sight among the more ordinary llamas and penguins. Once I finally got an inventory of the zoo's animals, I’d try to find out.
I was about to leave the site when, near the bottom of one page, I noticed a link to the Anthony Blake Memorial Fellowship. His father, perhaps? At any rate, it seemed like the first bit of personal information on the site, so I clicked the link.
“Checking up on our distinguished visitor?”
Chapter 30
I started, and turned to find Ellie Draper, the librarian, looking over my shoulder. As usual, her ensemble combined formality and practicality. She wore a conservative gray suit with a long, pleated skirt. A purple silk scarf tied around her neck added a note of color, as did her purple running shoes.
“Trying to see if he's really a suitable associate for Dad,” I said. “Am I the only one who finds it a little strange for a world-famous naturalist to show up here in Caerphilly, worrying about the problems of a dinky little private zoo?”
“No, I have a suspicious nature too, but I think we’re in the minority,” she said. “Most proud Caerphilly residents are probably wondering what took him so long.”
“So what do you think he's up to?”
She pondered for a few moments.
“Securing his legacy, perhaps?”
“He's got his foundation for that.”
“Maybe he's decided he wants a more tangible legacy,” she said.
“He could endow a building someplace,” I suggested. “The college is always looking for people willing to buy it a building.”
“Yes, but so many people have buildings. He's a big name— maybe he wants something bigger. The Montgomery Blake Zoological Park. The existing zoo isn’t that large, of course, but he could be hoping to buy up some of the surrounding land and expand it.”
“Yeah, that sounds like his style,” I agreed. “Of course, that's assuming Patrick Lanahan was cool with turning his creation into Blake's legacy. What if he wasn’t?”
“That might be something Chief Burke would find interesting,” she said, with her usual enigmatic smile. Then she glanced at the screen and frowned slightly. “Then again, you do have to feel sorry for Blake. Losing his only son to cancer, and then his only grandson to that tragic accident.”
I glanced back at the screen myself. The Anthony Blake Memorial Fellowship was given each year to the most deserving graduate student in zoology, conservation, or wildlife studies at Virginia Tech, where Blake himself had received his doctorate. Okay, so maybe he really was a zoologist, though I wouldn’t take it as gospel till I’d checked with someone at Virginia Tech.
I skimmed the paragraphs on eligibility for his scholarship and how to apply, but the last paragraph seemed more relevant. Blake had created the scholarship after Anthony, the grandson, died in a car accident a few days before he was due to receive his Ph.D. in wildlife management from Virginia Tech.
“Only grandson or only grandchild?” I asked aloud. “Blake could be the old-fashioned kind of guy who wouldn’t care nearly as much about descendants who can’t perpetuate the family name.”
“Possibly,” Ms. Ellie said, chuckling. “But apparently the boy was his only grandchild as well.”
“And how do you happen to know so much about Montgomery Blake?” I asked, raising one eyebrow at her.
“I have a suspicious nature, remember?” she said, returning my raised eyebrow. “I did my homework. Looked him up when he came to town.”
Was she implying I had been remiss in not doing the same?
“I only found out yesterday he was here, when he showed up on our doorstep,” I said, trying not to sound too defensive. “The move and all. How long has he been around?”
“About a week, that I know of. He's installed down at the Caerphilly Inn.”
“Damn,” I said. “If he’d just given Patrick what he's been spending on his hotel, the zoo would probably be out of debt by now.”
“Are you finished with that?” Ms. Ellie said, gesturing at the computer.
“I will be after I see what I can find about Anthony Blake's tragic death.”
“You won’t find anything about that online,” she told me. “It was fifteen years ago. I’ve got printouts from the microfilm. Why not come look at them, and give poor Mr. Hughes a chance to track his stock portfolio?”
I collected my printouts, yielded my seat to the impatient senior citizen, and followed Ms. Ellie through the door marked “Staff Only.”
Her office was a stark contrast to the serene order that reigned out in the public areas of the library, and also a testament to the amount of work needed to create that order. The shelves were overflowing with books, catalogs, magazines, and stacks of paper, all bulging with bookmarks and paper clips. I removed a stack of magazines from her guest chair—recent issues of Booklist and Library Journal—and sat down. Ms. Ellie studied the chaos on her desk for a few moments, then unerringly pulled a manila folder out of one stack of papers and handed it to me.
I flipped the folder open. At the front, I found printouts of many of the pages I’d just scanned on Blake's Web site, followed by printouts or photocopies of a number of articles about him. ATime magazine profile. A Wall Street Journal feature. Several OpEd pieces on environmental issues that he’d had published in the Washington Post. Nothing particularly new or enlightening.
Toward the back, I found two printouts that were obviously taken from microfilm. Both were from the Collegiate Times, Virginia Tech's student-run newspaper. The first was a short news article about the tragic accident in which the driver, Anthony M. Blake, had died at the scene. Two other students, passengers in Blake's car, had been seriously injured. Henry C. Carfield and James P. Lanahan.
“James P. Lanahan?” I said aloud. “That's Patrick, isn’t it? That's the year he graduated from Virginia Tech.”
“Yes,” Ms. Ellie said. “Goes by J. Patrick these days, but it's him. Makes you wonder how likely it was that Blake would be helping him out now.”
I flipped to the next article. This one had pictures. Blake's grandson had been a good-looking kid. Lanahan's picture was minus the interesting scar, so I assumed he’d acquired that in the accident.
“It says Blake's grandson was driving,” I said, perusing the article. “Maybe the crash was his fault, and the other two were lucky to have escaped with their lives, and Blake wants to help them out.”
“If that was the case, he could have helped Lanahan find a better job anytime over the last fiftee
n years,” Ms. Ellie said. “I think he's up to something.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head.
“And Dad thinks Blake's going to rescue the zoo.” “Maybe,” Ms. Ellie said. “But I wouldn’t count on it.” I brooded on this for a few moments. I found I was more upset over the prospect of Blake disappointing Dad than I was over
the possibility that he’d killed Lanahan. Shallow of me, perhaps, but that was how I felt.
“Should be interesting to see how long he keeps up the pretense, then,” I said. “If he has a clean conscience over Lanahan's death, he’ll probably pack up and leave immediately. But if he stays around—”
“Could mean he's guilty,” Ms. Ellie said. “Or just that he's afraid someone will suspect him.”
“Mind if I make copies of these articles?” I asked, holding up the folder.
“You can borrow the whole file if you like,” Ms. Ellie said. “Just promise you’ll make good use of it.” “I will,” I said.
I’d planned on going home, but as I drew near the road to the Caerphilly Zoo, it occurred to me that if I took it and kept on past the zoo, I’d eventually come to Clay Hill, the county seat of Clay County. In fact, Clay Hill was the only place in Clay County that even vaguely resembled a town. And if the mapping site I’d consulted at the library was correct, a mile or so before I came to Clay Hill, I’d find the Clay County Zoo.
Maybe it was time I checked up on Ray Hamlin.
Chapter 31
No protesters outside the Caerphilly Zoo. No hostile Clay County natives patrolling the borders. The peaceful rural vistas of Caerphilly County blended seamlessly into the peaceful rural vistas of Clay County. All very soothing until about two miles outside town, where what Michael and I called the seamy industrial district of Clay County began—a series of sprawling rural businesses. Most of them looked unprosperous, and all of them would have been on my target list for demolition if someone had put me in charge of the “Keep Clay County Beautiful” campaign. The Clay County Farmers’ Market—converted at some point from a drive-in theater—didn’t have much produce on sale. But from the number of pickups in its parking lot, the nearby Clay County Bait and Ammo shop across the street was thriving. It also seemed to serve as the headquarters for the nearby Clay County Gun and Archery Range. The Clay County Antique and Junque Market seemed to focus more on the junk side of the business, judging from the sprawling delta of merchandise strewn over the brown grass in front of it. In smaller letters at the bottom of the sign I saw the words “R. Hamlin, Prop.” Ray Hamlin, the owner of the Clay County Zoo, or a relative?
Next to the antique and junk store was a small off-brand filling station and mini-mart—no sign, but I deduced this was probably the Clay County Service Station and quite possibly the Clay County Supermarket. Between the gas station and Ham-lin's Used Autos was a small dirt road with a sign pointing the way to the Clay County Zoo.
About half a mile along, the road dead-ended at a gate with a barbed-wire fence. On the left side of the gate was a small wooden shack, looking rather like the temporary fireworks shacks that spring up by the side of the roads throughout Virginia in the weeks leading up to the Fourth of July. To the right was an unpaved parking lot, its muddy, rutted expanse nearly empty. I stowed my car in a spot where I thought I could escape the mud without a tow and went to the ticket shack, where a bored young woman in a NASCAR T-shirt took my five-dollar admission fee and handed me a ticket, all without looking up from the supermarket tabloid she was reading.
I was tucking the ticket and my wallet back into my purse when a pickup careened up the road. I recognized the driver— Ray Hamlin.
“Well, hello there!” he called as he pulled up beside the ticket shack. From his tone, you’d think my visit was the most exciting thing that had happened in the history of the zoo. “What brings you to our neck of the woods? Checking out whether we’re fit to take on your animals?”
“And curious about what your zoo is like,” I said.
“You give her back her money,” he said to the ticket seller, in a tone that implied that she should have known better than to charge me in the first place. The girl rolled her eyes and then glued them back on her magazine while she opened her cash box and extracted my five-dollar bill.
“There's no need—” I began.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Professional courtesy—one zookeeper to another, right?”
He wheezed with laughter at this, and I chuckled politely.
“Let me show you around,” he said.
“Sid wants to see you over at the range,” the ticket seller said.
Range? I tried not to show how interesting I found the word.
“Right, right,” Hamlin said. “If he calls again, tell him I’ll drop by later. My brother, Sid,” he said to me. “You see the shooting range on your way in? Sid runs it.”
I nodded, and followed him into the zoo. Interesting. Maybe I hadn’t kept my face as deadpan as I’d thought when I heard the word “range.” Or maybe, if he was as much of an animal lover as he claimed, he was sensitive about any kind of association with the gun-toting hunters who probably did their out-of-season target practice at the range. Or just maybe, if he was one of the few people who knew how Lanahan had died, his tie to the archery range, not the gun range, made him anxious. I’d have to keep my eye on Ray.
But for now, I concentrated on seeing the sights at the Clay County Zoo. What few there were. Sheila Flugleman had been right—it wasn’t much more than a petting zoo. Hamlin had a scattering of native animals that most of us could spot in our backyards for free—half a dozen Virginia white-tailed deer, some opossums, and a mixed collection of pheasant, wild turkeys, and grouse. But most of the inhabitants were familiar barnyard creatures, housed in easily accessible pens just inside the gate. Hamlin grabbed a small container of gray-brown pellets and handed another to me, and we strolled up and down the pens dispensing handfuls to the animals. Generic zoo kibble of some kind. The stuff didn’t look particularly appetizing, but it must have tasted all right. When they saw us, the animals all crowded against the fence, sticking their heads over it if they were tall enough, and baahed, bleated, oinked, mooed, or whatevered for a taste of the stuff.
“Like I said, we don’t have the range of animals Patrick had,” Hamlin said, rattling his kibble container at a Shetland pony.
“Still interesting for city kids,” I said. I held out a handful of kibble to the pony, which snuffled it up with velvety lips and then turned to Hamlin and whickered softly.
“Yeah,” Hamlin said as he fed the pony. “Too bad there's a shortage of those in Clay County. Most of the kids here raise some kind of animals for 4-H.”
“So Patrick's zoo was probably pretty tough competition,” I said as we moved on to the next pen. The llamas who occupied it seemed just as eager for kibble as the pony.
“Not really,” Hamlin said as we fed the llamas. “We get most of our business off tourists who follow the signs to the antique mart. Mom shops, Dad brings the kids here to keep them busy. Caerphilly's too far away to be competition for that.”
“But if you had more exotic animals, you might get some people coming here primarily for the zoo,” I suggested. “And—yikes!”
The smaller of the two llamas, not contented with his handful of kibble, had grabbed my purse strap with his teeth and was trying to drag me back. Hamlin had to distract him with a heaping handful of kibble to get him to let go.
“Sorry about that,” he said when we’d gotten safely out of range. “Sneaky, those llamas. Try the goats.”
The goats were evidently too eager to be sneaky. There were about a dozen of them, in various sizes and colors, and most of them were standing on their hind legs, their front feet propped up on the fence of their pen, bleating. They reminded me oddly of a painting by Manet, the one in which a sad-faced barmaid leans on the bar with both arms, her pose reflected by the mirror behind her. The goats, with their oddly glum faces, could have
been competing to see who got to pose for a new, more rural version. By contrast, the few too short to follow their example were wriggling through the forest of legs to stick their heads out between the top and second rails.
“If I did start taking on Patrick's more exotic animals on a permanent basis, we’d probably sell the range,” Hamlin said.
We? So he wasn’t just related to the owner. He was the owner. Or at least the co-owner.
He chucked a handful of kibble into the goats’ pen and watched most of them abandon the fence to fight over it.
“No sense asking for trouble,” he said as he dusted the remaining fragments of kibble off his hand.
“What kind of trouble? Animals wandering over by mistake from the zoo to the range?”
“What?” Hamlin said, startled. “Hell no. That's Patrick's game. No, I meant trouble from those animal-rights activists.”
“Oh, right.”
“ ‘Cause you don’t want to get those SOBs from the SOB mad at you,” Hamlin said, wheezing again at his own joke. “ ‘Specially not that Che guy who leads them.”
“Shea,” I corrected.
“Yeah. Human pit bull, that guy.”
“But he only cares about the rights of exotic animals?”
“Dunno. Maybe he cares about animals like mine, but he's smart enough to know he can’t get much publicity out of them. They’re not rare, they’re not cute, they’re obviously not starving, and most of them are animals people are too used to seeing on their dinner plates. No one wants a story like that. So they picket the Caerphilly Zoo and leave me alone.”
“That makes sense.”
“But it would all be different if I had a bunch of cute animals—those leemings of Lanahan's, for example.
“Leemings?” I said. “Oh—you mean lemmings. He had lemmings?”
We didn’t have any lemmings yet, and I found myself visualizing a vast quantity of them swarming inexorably toward our house.
The Penguin Who Knew Too Much Page 15
