The Penguin Who Knew Too Much

by Donna Andrews

  “So there's no point in testing them?”

  “We’re still going to test them, yes,” Horace said. “The gun shop's lending us half a dozen brand-new crossbows that couldn’t possibly have been used for the murder, and we’re going to take them over to the Clay County bow range and test-shoot them and see what we can learn. And if we find out that shooting leaves some kind of markings on the bolt that we can tie back to a particular crossbow, then maybe there will be some point in seizing every crossbow in the county.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “And explains why Charlie Shiffley still has his crossbow to use for target practice, instead of having to turn it over to Chief Burke.”

  “When we find Charlie Shiffley, I think we’ll be seizing his crossbow even if we don’t yet know what to do with it,” Horace said.

  “You haven’t found him yet?”

  “No—and what's this about target practice? Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, he was—”

  “We’ve got to tell the chief.”

  He put down his plate and practically dragged me into the house. The chief was now sharing his makeshift office in the dining room with three overhead sloths and a cage full of exotic rabbits. He didn’t seem particularly pleased with the company. Or, for that matter, particularly grateful to hear my news.

  “Why the devil didn’t you come straight back and tell us?” he snapped.

  “Because I had no idea you were still looking for Charlie,” I said. “He lives only a couple of miles from here, and his uncle and his father have been hanging around here most of the last day or so, and they knew you were looking for him. I assumed you’d already talked to him.”

  “Where exactly did you see him?” the chief asked.

  I described the dirt road and the place where the tree had fallen over the fence. The chief turned down my offer to show them, which was just as well. If I went along, once I got to the place where I’d parked, the only thing I could do was wander around in the woods, hoping to hit on the clearing where Charlie had been doing his target practice, and they could do that much for themselves.

  So as the chief and most of his officers drove off, sirens blaring, I watched from the front porch.

  “Cool,” Rob said from the rocking chair where he was lounging. “Something up?”

  The thought of explaining my day made me feel suddenly tired.

  “Who knows?” I said, sitting down on the top step.

  I heard a gruff bark and looked down to see Spike, tethered to the porch railings.

  “Here, Spike,” Rob said. “Have another squames de chats.”

  He tossed something off the porch onto the ground beside Spike, who pounced on it and devoured it in a single gulp. I leaned against the railing and closed my eyes, enjoying the relative peace and quiet of the front yard.

  “Where are they going in such an all-fired hurry?”

  I looked around to see Vern Shiffley frowning at the departing police convoy.

  “They’re off to find Charlie,” I said. “I’m afraid I let it slip that I’d seen him in the woods.”

  “Damn fool kid,” Vern muttered. “Don’t know what he thinks he's doing.”

  I could see a curious range of emotions on his face—not just the usual exasperation and protectiveness of a parent who sees his child doing something stupid, but a faint hint of fear.

  “Does he even know the police are after him?” I asked.

  “Course he knows,” Vern said. “Chief Burke said he wanted to see the boy, so I told him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course! What kind of—”

  “What exactly did you say?”

  Vern thought about it for a second.

  “He came in a couple of minutes after his curfew last night,” he said. “He has a ten p.m. curfew on a school night, and midnight on weekends, and lately, more often than not, he's been careless about it, so I was a little short with him, maybe. I asked if he’d heard the news about Patrick Lanahan, and he said he had. And then I said that the chief wanted to talk to him, on account of the bad blood between us and Lanahan, and did he want me to go down to the station with him tomorrow. And he said no.”

  “Just no?”

  “He said ‘No, sir,’ “ Vern said. “I raised my boys to have manners. And I asked if he was sure, and he said ‘Yes, sir.’ I figured that was it.”

  “You were just going to let him go down to the police station by himself?” I asked.

  “He's not a child anymore—he's eighteen. Old enough to make his own decisions, even if they’re stupid ones.”

  I considered suggesting that maybe Charlie was old enough to do without a curfew, but I didn’t want to get into an argument.

  “No one should ever talk to the cops without a lawyer,” Rob said, shaking his head. I was glad to know that Rob had absorbed that much wisdom from his time at law school. Given Rob's ability to get into trouble, it was probably worth the whole three years he’d spent learning it, even though he’d never gotten around to taking the bar exam so he could practice law.

  “I can’t believe he hasn’t gone down there yet,” Vern said.

  “I can,” I said.

  “The hell you can,” Vern snapped. “He didn’t kill Lanahan. He's a decent kid.”

  “A decent kid, yes,” I said. “But he's also a teenage boy. Based on my close observation of the species—”

  “She means me, obviously,” Rob said, nodding.

  “And several of our nephews who actually are teenagers,” I said. “Unless we’re talking mental age, in which case you still qualify—”

  Rob stuck out his tongue at me.

  “Anyway, based on my observation of the species, you blew it. Left him an out.”

  “How do you see that?” Vern asked.

  “You told him the chief wanted to see him,” I said. “And you asked him if he wanted you to go down with him. But you didn’t say to get himself down there today or else. So he's been procrastinating.”

  “She's got a point,” Rob said. “When I was his age, that's exactly the kind of stupid thing I’d do.”

  Actually, I thought it was more than an even chance that Charlie was dodging Chief Burke, but I wasn’t about to say that to his father.

  “You could be right,” Vern admitted. “Eighteen or not, I just might tan his hide when I catch up with him. Of all the stupid—”

  “Maybe you can help make up for it,” I suggested. “If you find him before the chief does, and convince him to turn himself in—”

  “Right,” Vern said. “I’ll set the whole family on him.”

  He strode out, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he went. I sat down on the top step, leaned against one of the railings, and closed my eyes. Peace. Quiet. Bliss.

  “Poor kid,” Rob said after a moment.

  “You mean the poor kid who still might be a murderer, no matter what his doting father thinks?”

  “Typical,” Rob said. “Just because—whoa! Where’d he come from?”

  I opened my eyes to see a wolf standing at the bottom of the porch steps, staring at me.

  Chapter 34

  I might have mistaken him for a large dog if not for the eyes. They were bright yellow and unsettlingly alien. Not like a dog's at all.

  “Aren’t they supposed to be in cages?” Rob whispered.

  “Yes,” I said. “But they’re not completely vicious. Remember, Rose Noire and Horace were taking them for a walk this morning.”

  Of course, I suspected the wolves’ outing had taken place immediately after they’d been fed, and with close supervision from Dad and Dr. Blake. And I didn’t have Rose Noire's ability to coexist with all creatures, great and small.

  I remembered, suddenly, something I’d read about wolves— that they interpreted staring as a form of aggression. So maybe it wasn’t quite the smartest thing in the world to be sitting here, exchanging stares with an unfettered wolf.

  Except he wasn’t really star
ing at me, but at something near my feet.

  Spike chose that moment to utter a low, threatening growl. Absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. The wolf lowered its head slightly.

  I reached behind me and scrambled for something to use as a weapon. The wolf flicked its eyes at me, decided I wasn’t a threat, and focused back on Spike. My hands found something— Mrs. Fenniman had left her enormous black umbrella on the porch. It was three feet long and had a pointy end—it would have to do.

  I grabbed the umbrella and whipped it around in front of me, leaping to my feet as I did so. “Go away!” I shouted.

  Then I jumped down between Spike and the wolf. I’m not sure the umbrella would have worked all that well as a weapon, but while I was jumping and waving it around, I accidentally hit the button to unfurl it. The black fabric expanded with a whoosh and a thump, startling the wolf. Startling me and Spike, too. He began barking, and thanks to the umbrella, I had no idea what the wolf was up to. I bent down and snatched Spike up. He tried to bite me, but was too busy barking at the umbrella to aim well. I shoved him behind me.

  “Take Spike inside and get help!” I shouted. Rob grabbed Spike, yelped—which probably meant Spike's aim had improved—and fled inside. I shook the umbrella menacingly at the wolf, and then peered over the top to see if it was doing any good.

  The wolf had retreated to the edge of the yard. Or maybe it wasn’t a retreat—just a change in plans. I saw two other wolves join him, and the three of them loped toward the break in the hedge that led to the road.

  The road that separated us from Mr. Early's sheep pasture.

  I reached in my pocket for my cell phone and dialed 911. Debbie Anne, the dispatcher, answered on the second ring.

  “Meg, is this really an emergency? Because the chief is—”

  “The wolves are loose,” I said. “And for all I know, the hyenas could be next.”

  “I’ll put it out to all cars,” Debbie Anne said, her tone suddenly businesslike. She hung up.

  I was torn. Should I follow the wolves? Or run to the backyard to recruit help and see what else was happening?

  Screaming erupted from the backyard, making the decision for me. I furled the umbrella and ran through the hall toward the kitchen.

  When I flung open the back door, it smacked a wolf in the rump. He snarled, dropped the turkey carcass he’d been holding, and whirled to face me. I shoved the point of the umbrella at him, pressing the button to open it as I did. I heard a yelp of surprise, and when I peered over the umbrella again, I saw the wolf fleeing across the yard.

  Toward the llama pasture. Great.

  Of course the llamas weren’t in their pasture anymore. Two of them were at the far end of the yard, standing protectively in front of a small cluster of Mr. Early's sheep. The rest were wandering about as if enjoying the commotion, except for the smallest one, who was standing about halfway between the house and the pasture, digging in his heels and refusing to move while a man in an SOB T-shirt tugged at a rope tied to his halter. Foolhardy man: as I watched, the llama spat a large wad of green goop at him.

  “Eeeeuuwww!” the man shrieked. “Gross.”

  The llama curled his lip and wrinkled his nose, as if not all that happy with the smell, either. The man dropped the rope and abandoned his efforts to move the llama. Instead, he ripped off his T-shirt and scrubbed at his face with it.

  A lot of the animals were loose. The lemurs had retreated up to the top of one of the sheds and were looking anxious and sorrowful, but then lemurs’ faces always did to me. Perhaps if I read lemur expressions better I would have known that they were inwardly laughing.

  I saw a troop of spider monkeys running up and down the picnic tables, snatching food and throwing it at each other and anyone who came near. One of the stouter aunts was shouting,

  “Bad monkey!” and trying to whack them with a plastic spatula, but they were a lot more agile than she was.

  The camels were pacing slowly across the yard, grumbling to themselves and snapping at anyone who came near.

  Several family dogs who’d been brought along to enjoy the party were either running around barking furiously or dragging their owners off their feet in their eagerness to join the party.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see small animals fleeing into various hiding places from which we’d have the devil's own time extricating them later.

  “Meg! One of the wolves is loose!” Dad shouted, running up to me. “He's heading for the penguin pen!”

  “They’re all four loose!” I shouted back. “And the other three are heading for Mr. Early's sheep pasture.”

  Dr. Blake appeared.

  “You see to the sheep!” he shouted to Dad. “I’ll rescue the penguins.”

  They dashed off in opposite directions, each recruiting volunteers as he went.

  I realized there was one animal group I hadn’t seen yet. The hyenas. But I could hear their sinister faux laughter coming from the barn. I ran that way.

  I dashed into the barn just as Shea Bailey clicked open the padlock that kept the latch to the hyenas’ cage secure.

  “Don’t you dare!” I shouted, running toward him.

  He smirked, stuck his own screwdriver and dental pick in his pocket, and reached for the latch.

  I tackled him.

  He was a big guy—five or six inches taller than me and solidly built—but I had momentum and surprise on my side. We landed in a heap on the barn floor.

  “Don’t you dare let them out, you moron!” I shouted. “You’ll only—”

  He punched me in the face. Hard.

  And then he leaped up and ran over to the hyena's cage.

  After a couple of seconds of lying on the barn floor, stunned with pain and anger, I jumped up with a scream of pure fury and went for Shea. Luckily Michael and Sammy ran in just as I got my hands around his throat. Michael dragged me away, and Sammy restrained Shea—which didn’t take much of an effort. I suspected he wasn’t trying to break away from Sammy so much as hide behind him.

  “Get that harpy away from me!” Shea shouted.

  “Are you all right?” Michael asked.

  “He punched me in the face,” I said. I was mopping my bloody nose with the bottom of my shirt and blinking back involuntary tears.

  “He what?” Michael whirled and took a step toward Shea.

  “She started it!” Shea whined, backing slightly. I didn’t blame him. Michael didn’t often lose his temper, but when he did, watch out.

  “Never mind that now,” I said. “He was trying to set the hyenas loose. Let's make sure he doesn’t succeed. Someone check to make sure their cage door is securely closed.”

  Sammy hurried to do so. Shea backed away, glancing from me to Michael, as if not sure which of us was more likely to strike.

  “Wow, a little push and they’d have been loose!” Sammy said. He pushed the latch more securely closed. Then he bent over to retrieve the padlock.

  Shea kicked him in the rear, and sprinted for the barn door. Sammy fell against the cage, to the great delight of the hyenas, and then landed on the ground with the padlock still in his hand.

  “Damn!” Michael exclaimed. With a visible effort, he turned away from the door through which Shea was fleeing, and restored the padlock to the hyenas’ cage. I raced to the barn door, pulling out my cell phone as I ran.

  “Just let him go!” Sammy said.

  “I’m not chasing him,” I said. “But I’m checking out which way he's heading, so I can tell the chief when I report that Shea was trespassing and turned the animals loose.”

  “Good idea,” Michael said. “I’m sure the chief can think of all sorts of other interesting things to charge him with.”

  “Assault and battery, maybe,” Sammy suggested. “Doesn’t look as if the nose is broken, but you’re going to have a really impressive black eye.”

  “And maybe the chief should take a close look at what Shea was up to Friday night,” I said. “Because as an an
imal-rights protest gesture, letting the animals go seems pretty stupid. But it would make a pretty good diversionary tactic, wouldn’t it?”

  “I guess,” Michael said. “But I’m not sure I see what he's diverting our attention from.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “That's why I said it was a pretty good diversionary tactic. As soon as we get all the animals back— hello, Debbie Anne? Sorry to bother you again so soon.... “

  Chapter 35

  It took several hours to round up the fugitive animals.

  The wolves were our first priority. Fortunately, none of them seemed to be alpha wolves, or even particularly bloodthirsty— though when they suddenly appeared out on the road, where the protesters were still diligently marching and singing, they made quite an impression. About half of the protesters fled, screaming, while the other half valiantly leaped to the rescue of the sheep that they assumed the wolves were after. Not that the sheep were in immediate danger. Some of them were loitering in our backyard, under the protective eyes of the llamas. The few still in the pasture spotted the wolves within seconds and fled in the direction of their barn. Any ambition the wolves might have had to nibble on the fleeing sheep or the protesters vanished after they’d been whacked a few times with a “Let My Creatures Go” placard. They seemed almost happy to see Dr. Blake when he showed up with crates to ferry them back to their enclosure. Especially the lone wolf who’d been dashing about in the backyard. After escaping from my attack umbrella, he’d spent the rest of his brief spell of freedom dodging kicks from the two largest llamas.

  Mrs. Fenniman gathered up most of the meat that had been on the picnic tables during the monkeys’ rampage and slung it into the wolves’ cage.

  “They’re on carefully controlled diets!” Dr. Blake protested.

  “Time they had some fun, then,” Mrs. Fenniman muttered as she tossed a monkey-gnawed roast of beef into the cage.

  Once the wolves were locked up and happily devouring Mrs. Fenniman's bounty, many of the mild-mannered animals appeared almost immediately out of whatever hiding places they’d found, as if eager to return to the safety of captivity. The main exceptions were the monkeys and the llamas. The monkeys retreated from the buffet tables to the trees and led squads of my relatives a merry chase for hours.