The Penguin Who Knew Too Much
Page 23
So much for my resolution.
“We should stop tiring you out,” Randall Shiffley said. “But we just wanted to say thanks again.”
“I’ve got a whole passel of criminals down in the jail,” the chief said. “I should be getting back.”
Was it something I said? Not that I minded the idea of some peace and quiet, but I’d been trying to get it all day without success.
“Meg, dear.” Mother stood in the doorway, smiling at me and pointedly ignoring everyone else. Clearly they were all in her bad graces today.
Everyone murmured greetings and good-byes except for Dad and Michael. Not surprising—I hadn’t been awake for it, but I heard that when Mother showed up at the house last night, a few minutes after Chief Burke, she had given him and everyone else in the immediate vicinity an uncharacteristically frank piece of her mind about abandoning me to the mercies of a killer. If even tough-minded people like Dr. Blake, Randall Shiffley, and the chief were still giving her a wide berth, I was probably never going to forgive myself for passing out and missing the whole thing.
“How are things back at the house?” I asked. “Everyone's asking about you,” she said. “And there was such a nice article about the whole thing in the paper.”
“The paper? You mean the Clarion? It only comes out on Wednesdays.”
“They put out a special edition,” Mother said. “Isn’t that nice?”
I winced at the headline—”Clay County Businessman Arrested for Caerphilly Zookeeper's Murder.” So much for good relations between the two rival counties. And I wasn’t thrilled with the picture of me, either—waving Mrs. Fenniman's umbrella at a cowering wolf. The good thing was that they’d taken it before I acquired my black eye, but I still looked rather demented. In fact, the whole article made us look like a pack of utter loons. I couldn’t figure out why Mother was so cheerful until I spotted the photo of Sheila D. Flugleman. According to the Clarion, last night's foray into the sheep pasture wasn’t her first, and Seth Early was charging her with trespassing and petit larceny.
“The creator of ZooperPoop! caught trespassing in a common sheep pasture,” I said. “Considering what she was taking, I think even petit larceny is stretching it, but I bet it will really hurt ZooperPoop! sales if it gets out.”
“Yes, and imagine what would happen if Martha Stewart got a copy of that article,” Mother said.
Considering that Mother had probably been strolling around saying that for hours now, I felt sure that within a few days, at least a dozen of her friends and relatives would be sending copies of the Clarion to Martha Stewart. So much for Sheila D.'s chances of appearing on the show.
“Anyway, I brought some clothes for you to wear. To the party,” she said, handing me a tote bag. “Though if you don’t feel up to coming, I’ll understand completely.”
I frowned. Normally, Mother would never consider a black eye, a bloody nose, a lacerated cheek, several sets of bobcat claw marks on my body, a possible concussion, and a broken leg as grounds for failing to meet a social obligation. Was this really my mother, or a clever impersonator? I peered into the tote bag.
“That's Rose Noire's blouse,” I said, removing a puff of turquoise silk from its depths.
“Yes, dear, but all your own nice things are still packed away somewhere, and she's perfectly happy to let you borrow it.”
“This isn’t mine either,” I said, pulling out a butter-soft honey-colored suede skirt. “And don’t tell me it's Rose Noire's. She wouldn’t wear suede. She won’t even eat fruit leather because of the name.”
“It's a present,” she said. “I thought you deserved one after all you’ve been through.”
At the bottom of the bag was a shoe—one of a well-broken-in pair I wore when I wanted to be both comfortable and presentable.
“Before you ask, the other shoe's back in your closet. You’ll be in the cast for the next few weeks, so you won’t need it today.”
“That's great,” Michael said. From the relief in his voice, I could tell that even if the wardrobe he’d packed for the honeymoon was perfect, he hadn’t anticipated the need to hunt down something presentable so I wouldn’t have to wear a hospital gown to our wedding.
“I should be getting back to your guests,” Mother said. “I’ll see you there if you feel up to it. But I’ll tell everyone that we should expect to see you when we see you. Whatever the doctor says goes!”
She kissed both of us on the cheek, beamed at us for a few moments, and then sailed out along with Dad.
“Okay, the coast is clear,” Michael said, handing me the tote. “And your mother solved the last thing that could slow us down. I’ll go let Dr. Waldron know we’re going.”
It didn’t hit me until I’d put on the clothes.
“She knows,” I muttered.
“All clear,” Michael said, bouncing back into the room. “Let's make tracks.”
“He can make tracks,” Dr. Waldron said as she pushed a wheelchair into the room. “You have to ride till you’re out of the building. Hospital policy.”
“Can I wheel her out?” Michael asked.
“No problem,” the doctor said. She turned to me. “Keep the cast dry, take the painkillers if the leg bothers you, and call me if you have any problems.”
“Roger,” I said. She strode out again.
“She knows,” I said.
“Dr. Waldron? If she does, she won’t tell anyone.” “Mother,” I said. “She knows.”
“She knows we might not make the party. I got that much.” He was bustling around the room, gathering the rest of my belongings and stuffing them into the tote bag. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you might not be in the mood for a family party.”
“She knows,” I said. “Look what clothes she brought.”
“Nice,” Michael said, with an appreciative smile. “But not exactly white satin.”
“Something old—my shoe. Something new—the skirt. Something borrowed, something blue—Rose Noire's blouse. And look what I found in the skirt pocket.”
I held up a shiny, brand-new dime.
“I thought it was ‘And a sixpence for your shoe,’ “ he quoted. “It's not a sixpence, and it was in the pocket. Maybe it was just left there.”
“A dime's the modern American equivalent of a sixpence, and it's a brand-new skirt—who could possibly have left a dime in it? Inspector number seven bribing me to overlook any flaws in the stitching? She knows.”
“Maybe she suspects, but she can hardly know.”
“What if she's down at the Clay County courthouse, waiting for us?” I said. “Crashing our elopement? What if they’re all down there?”
“If they’re down at the courthouse, they’re in for a shock. Courthouse is closed. It's Memorial Day, remember?” My mouth fell open.
“If the courthouse is closed, how are we going to—”
“We have an open appointment with a justice of the peace in Prince William County,” Michael said. “Which is right on the way to Dulles Airport. As long as we drop by her house sometime before dark, she’ll interrupt her family picnic long enough to perform the ceremony. Now have a seat and let me wheel you down to the car. The JP doesn’t care when we get there, but the airline might not be as accommodating.”
I hobbled over to the wheelchair and sat down.
“I still say Mother knows. I wouldn’t put it past her to follow us.”
“If she figures it out, she's welcome to come to the wedding. They’re all welcome to come. There's only one thing I insist on.” “What's that?” I asked.
“Just the two of us on the honeymoon. If I spot a single relative when we get to our destination, we’re leaving.” “Just the two of us,” I echoed.
Even finding the tin cans tied to the back of Michael's convertible didn’t spoil my good mood.
Table of Contents
Cover
Front page
Title
Copyright page
Acknowledgeme
nts
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42