Owl Be Home for Christmas

by Donna Andrews

  “If you throw enough mud, some of it will stick,” I said.

  “Yes.” She took another gulp of her Arnold Palmer. “It scared them off. So there I was, thirty years old, still trying to make a dent in a student loan debt bigger than most people’s mortgages, and positive I’d never get another job in the profession I loved. I was feeling … well, to be blunt, suicidal. I’d actually started thinking about ways and means. And then I got the call from your grandfather. I wouldn’t be here now—not just at Owl Fest but on this earth—if it wasn’t for him.”

  “He helped you get another job?”

  “He browbeat every biology department chair he knew to interview me, and made sure they got the scoop on just why I was in the job market. It helped that, even back then, Frogmore’s reputation was starting to get around. Helped even more to have Dr. J. Montgomery Blake tell them I was brilliant and they were idiots if they didn’t hire me. Wish I could have seen Frogmore’s face when I landed the post at Cornell.”

  Her smile radiated pride, triumph, and maybe just a smidgen of completely understandable malice. I could relate. She’d probably gotten a belated start on her career, thanks to Frogmore, but she’d made good. Buckthorn College had a decent reputation in the biological sciences, but it wasn’t in the top echelon, like Cornell.

  “And all these years later, Buckthorn’s still in the dark ages when it comes to diversity of any stripe,” she said. “Not that the rest of the academic world is going great guns. Nationwide, almost half of all graduate biology students are women, but we make up only a third of the assistant professors and less than a fifth of the full professors. Pardon my soapbox—”

  “Preach it,” I said. “Because it’s true.”

  “And Buckthorn College makes everyone else look enlightened. Only twenty percent of their graduate students are women, and last time I looked they had only three women on the faculty, one assistant professor and two adjuncts. And don’t even get me started on their abysmal record on minority hiring. All Frogmore’s doing.”

  “Lovely,” I said. “He just took what is probably an unbeatable lead in my award judging.” I explained about the Most Annoying Conference Participant Award.

  “Frogmore’s a shoo-in, no question,” she said with a laugh. “Czerny’s merely the acolyte. Anything you say to him, you can be sure he’ll go running to tell Frogmore—and put the worst possible spin on it. But he’s merely weak, not malicious. If Frogmore dropped dead during one of his epic temper tantrums, it might be the saving of poor Ned Czerny. He might find a better mentor, some decent soul who’d turn all that energy and loyalty to good use instead of bad. He wasn’t nearly as useless before Frogmore got hold of him.”

  “I wish I’d talked to you a couple of months ago,” I said. “I could so easily have managed to lose both of their registration forms.”

  “Ha!” She slapped her thigh and threw back her head with another hoot of laughter. “I like the way you think. But you know the one good thing about Frogmore?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve never been at an event with him without taking home at least a couple of new stories about outrageous things he’s done,” she said. “You survive Frogmore, you get bragging rights.”

  “As Grandfather says, even hissing cockroaches and naked mole rats have their place in the great scheme of things. And that reminds me—I should go.” I stood and made a quick gesture to Eduardo, who nodded. “Right now my place in the scheme of things is keeping Grandfather and the conference on track, and he completely revised the program for tonight’s banquet. I won’t have time to get him to approve it and then have it photocopied if I don’t get the changes done before lunch. No, don’t bother leaving money. Eduardo’s already got your Arnold Palmer on my tab.”

  “I owe you one, then.” We ducked out of the Mount Vernon Grill and headed across the lobby. “And I need to get back to the conference, anyway. Dr. Arai and Dr. Kelner are going to argue about whether the flammulated owl belongs in the genus Otus, or whether they should be moved over into Megascops with the screech owls. Better than a circus when those two get going.”

  “Just tip off whoever’s at the information desk if anyone starts throwing punches,” I said. “They’ll have a walkie-talkie and can summon hotel security. And—what’s wrong?” I’d noticed she was staring out a window—not the huge wall of glass that showed only snow, but a smaller window on the other side of the lobby.

  “Someone should go drag Ben back inside before he gets frostbite,” Dr. Craine said, strolling over to the window and peering out.

  Ben, I realized, was Dr. Benjamin Green, another of the ornithologists. One of the nicer ones, if a little weird. He’d spent almost an hour Friday morning talking to Rose Noire, exchanging views on the owl’s role in folklore and mythology. He got points for that in my book. But now he was standing a few feet outside the door leading into the President’s Garden, which was the Inn’s fancy name for the small open-air courtyard between the main body of the Inn and the three cottages normally reserved for important guests. The snow made it hard to see well, but he seemed to be just standing and looking around as if lost.

  “What’s he doing out there?” I asked.

  “I’m sure even he doesn’t know,” Dr. Craine said. “He’s the original absent-minded professor. Rumor has it he showed up for his morning class in pajamas one time, holding his toothbrush. Even tried to write on the whiteboard with it.”

  I usually suspected such extreme absent-mindedness was exaggerated for effect. But regardless of whether he knew what he was doing, Dr. Green was definitely standing outside in twenty-degree weather wearing only a windbreaker. No heavy coat, no hat, no scarf, no gloves—and clearly no common sense.

  “I’ll go see what he’s up to.” I grabbed my coat, which I’d left in the lobby behind the reception desk for just such occasions, and went outside. The staff had been shoveling recently, which meant the quaint cobblestone paths leading to the cottages were merely slick and treacherous, not downright impassable.

  “Dr. Green?” I called as I drew near his tall, bearlike figure.

  He started and whirled around, with what almost looked like a guilty expression on his face.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “You should come back inside,” I said. “You’d be surprised how fast frostbite can happen in conditions like these.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Only…”

  He frowned, and studied the cobblestones at his feet.

  “Were you going somewhere?” I asked.

  “Outside.”

  “Why outside?”

  He sighed, looked up at the sky, blinked as the snowflakes landed on his eyelashes, and finally spoke.

  “I found a … um … a bug in my room,” he said. “I was going to do what I usually do in such cases—take it outside, ask it politely not to come back in, and release it into the wild.”

  I wasn’t sure the well-manicured grounds of the Caerphilly Inn bore the slightest resemblance to anything you could call “the wild.” And for that matter, I had no idea what to think of a scientist who held conversations with bugs. I simply nodded.

  “I hadn’t been out,” he said. “I’d heard it was snowing—seen it occasionally from the windows, of course—but I had no idea it was this bad. I’m from California, you know.”

  I could probably have guessed that.

  Another cold blast of wind drove clouds of snow through the narrow little courtyard and we both braced against it for a few seconds.

  “I’m not an entomologist,” he said. “I have no idea whether the poor creature could even survive out here. And frankly, unless I took it rather far from any of the buildings, I’m sure it would just come back inside.”

  I was getting cold. And annoyed. If I’d known I’d be having a lengthy heart-to-heart with Dr. Green, I’d have put on more than my coat to come outside. And the fact that we were standing here in the blizzard discussing the fate of a bug didn’t improve my
mood. I drew on the stores of patience I usually saved for dealing with Grandfather and Dad.

  “Maybe you could release it near one of the outbuildings,” I suggested. “The garden shed, perhaps. I could get one of the staff to guide you there. Or the gazebo. Both would offer some shelter from the cold, and I’m sure they find plenty of bugs in them.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “That would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.”

  I was going to ask why but it was getting hard to keep my teeth from chattering.

  “Why don’t we step inside and discuss this?” I said instead.

  He frowned, and looked over his shoulder at the hotel.

  “Let’s go into one of the cottages,” I said. “There’s a rehearsal going on in the Jefferson Cottage—that’s where Grandfather’s staying—but Michael and the boys and I are in the Madison. We can talk privately there.”

  He nodded, and followed me down the path. We passed by the Jefferson Cottage, which was a smaller-scale reproduction of Monticello—the central portion, at least. Evergreen garlands woven with strands of fairy lights lit up the sheltered space under the portico, and electric candelabra gleamed behind the multi-paned front windows. It looked festive, warm and welcoming, especially since, even above the wind, we could hear laughter and the strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  Dr. Green stopped and stared at the Jefferson Cottage with a puzzled expression.

  “Rehearsal.” I took his arm and set him in motion again. “The entertainment for tonight’s banquet.”

  A little farther down the path was the Madison Cottage, a faithful half-sized replica of Montpelier, James Madison’s home. We took shelter on the diminutive white-pillared portico that sported its own collection of evergreens, fairy lights, and candelabra. I slid my key card through the door lock to let us in. As soon as we entered I heard voices coming down the hall from the cottage’s living room.

  “No! Not more sheep!”

  “Aha! Soon I will own all the sheep in the world!”

  “How about trading me a sheep for two rocks?”

  Dr. Green’s face wore a puzzled frown.

  “You have sheep here?” he asked, looking around warily.

  I restrained the impulse to ask why someone who regularly rescued bugs would have a problem with a few sheep.

  “My husband, Michael, and our twins are playing Settlers of Catan.” Seeing his look of incomprehension, I added “It’s a strategy board game—no live sheep involved. They’d love to show it to you if you’re interested, but first let’s talk in the study.”

  Yes, the Madison Cottage had a study—although since two of the mahogany bookshelves lining its walls actually slid aside to reveal Murphy beds, it could also serve as a second bedroom when needed. The boys were sleeping in it this weekend—at least I hoped they would be sleeping tonight instead of once more spending half the night trying to fold each other up in the Murphy beds. I waved at Michael and the boys before following Dr. Green into the study.

  He sighed with what I assumed was contentment at being warm again—warm, and in the presence of books. Then with a guilty start he tore his eyes from the shelves and retrieved a small jar from one of his pockets before sprawling on the nearest leather couch. A jar with tiny holes punched in its lid. Clearly he was serious about this bug-rescuing gig. I hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a cockroach. Or worse, a bedbug. Ekaterina would be furious.

  “I think it’s lovely that you’re so concerned about protecting all creatures, even insects.” Actually, I didn’t think it was lovely at all. Probably a character flaw, but my sympathy for living creatures didn’t extend much beyond birds and mammals. With a few exceptions, like butterflies, the invertebrates left me cold. “If you think conditions outside are unsuitable and you don’t want to turn it loose in one of the outbuildings, how about leaving it in its jar until the weather improves?”

  “Could be a while.” He glanced at the window. “I wouldn’t want the poor thing to starve.”

  “There are nearly two hundred biologists here,” I said. “I’m sure some of them are knowledgeable about things other than birds. Grandfather, for instance. If he doesn’t know what your bug eats, I’m sure he’d know how to find out. Why don’t we show him your—oh, my God! It’s a black widow spider!”

  Chapter 4

  I’d jumped back on seeing the spider. I hadn’t actually shrieked, but my voice had gone up almost an octave and become noticeably louder. Evidently Michael and the boys heard me and were on their way to the study, to judge by the thundering footsteps now approaching. The study door opened about a foot, and two tousled heads peered around the corner.

  “Mom? You okay?” Jamie asked.

  “Who is this guy?” Josh demanded.

  Michael appeared behind them, pushed the door all the way open, and stepped inside, frowning slightly.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Dr. Green was showing me the unusual bug he found in his room.”

  “A black widow spider.” Dr. Green held up the jar, looking very pleased with himself. The boys descended on him.

  “Whoa! Look at that monster!” Josh’s nose was almost touching the jar.

  “Awesome!” Jamie had joined his twin. “He’s a big one.”

  “Probably she,” I said. “Only females have that distinctive red hourglass marking. Males have much less memorable markings of various colors.”

  “So the male could sneak up on us and bite us without our even realizing it was a black widow?” Josh asked. “Cooool!”

  “He could, but since only the female’s bite is dangerous, the male can sneak up on us and bite us all he likes,” I said. “What do we care?”

  “But this one’s a female,” Jamie said. “She could kill us.”

  “Unlikely,” I said. “They aren’t really that poisonous. A bite would be painful, but unlikely to be fatal.”

  “Too bad.” Clearly the spider was losing a little of its cachet in the boys’ eyes.

  “You know a lot about black widow spiders.” Dr. Green sounded impressed.

  “Just a few bits and pieces I’ve picked up from my grandfather,” I said. “He’s very knowledgeable—you know how fond he is of predators of any size. Which is why I suggest we let him handle your find. He can figure out someone qualified to care for her, and when the storm’s over we can take her out to his zoo and give her a new home in the insect exhibit.”

  “Perfect,” he said. “I leave her in your care.”

  He stood and held out the jar to me with both hands, bowing slightly. I’d seen a very similar ritual done with a katana in at least one of the samurai movies my brother loved to watch with the boys. I had to steel myself to receive the jar with something resembling dignity. At least I managed not to flinch.

  “Oh, while I’m thinking about it—where did you find her?” I asked.

  “In my bathroom,” he said. “In with the towels on the rack under the sink. Well, I should be getting back. I think I have a panel soon.”

  He looked much more cheerful at having handed over his charge. He struggled into his windbreaker, realized he had it on inside out, corrected the error with much help from Michael and Josh, and hurried off.

  I waited until he was out of sight before testing to make sure the lid of the jar was on tight. And peering at the holes to make sure they were much too small for the spider.

  “Mom, why don’t you let us take care of him?” Jamie tried to sound disinterested and helpful.

  “Her,” Josh said.

  “No,” Michael and I said in unison.

  “But—”

  “I’m going to find Grandfather and make him deal with this,” I said. “You get back to your game.”

  “I’m sure Great will let you visit the spider,” Michael said, using the boys’ favorite nickname for Grandfather. “Now go back to the game, or I’ll declare a special tax and confiscate all your sheep.”

  “You can’t,” Josh said. “It’s not in the rules.”


  But they hurried back to the living room anyway, only casting a few longing glances over their shoulders at the jar I was holding.

  “They are not visiting the spider,” I said. “And I hope Dr. Green doesn’t suspect anything when he comes back to his room and finds it smelling of bug spray. I’m going to deliver this spider to Grandfather, because Dr. Green might care enough to check on her, but if she has any brothers and sisters or—ick!—offspring, I think Ekaterina will want to put them out of their misery soon.”

  “At least it wasn’t bedbugs,” Michael said.

  “Not much chance of that,” I said. “Ekaterina has Dagmar Shiffley out every week with one of her bedbug-sniffing dogs.”

  “Nice to know,” he said. “I’ll get back to the game. Courage!”

  I found a small paper bag from the hotel coffee shop to hide the jar in, since I didn’t think walking around the hotel with a visible black widow spider was a good idea. Then I grabbed my walkie-talkie and buzzed Ekaterina.

  “Yes, Meg?”

  “We have a problem,” I said. “Can you meet me someplace?”

  “The lobby?”

  “Someplace more private.”

  “Oh, dear. My office, then,” she said. “I will go there as soon as I finish talking to your grandfather.”

  “Bring him with you,” I said. “He could be useful in solving the latest problem.”

  “I will try.” Her voice suggested she expected to fail.

  “Tell him I have something he’s going to want to see right away,” I said. “Mention the word ‘predator.’”